an archive.

You didn’t answer right away. Mostly because you were trying to calculate the odds of getting away with a perfectly executed slap, but also because your brain had short-circuited for point-three seconds trying not to stare at his mouth. "What are you doing here, Riki?" You roll your eyes as you toss your pen onto the notebook, letting out a light plop at it hit the thick paper. 

The guy shrugged with a smirk on his face. "Just printing out some things. I should be asking you, little one. Don’t you have a speed bump to climb?" He pouted his lips mockingly as he reached his hand out to pat your head. 

You swat his hand off, jaw tight. "Don’t touch me."

He laughs—low, unbothered, amused. "You always say that, but your eyes say otherwise."

"My eyes say ‘I wish you were dead,’" you snap, narrowing them.

Riki pulls out the chair across from you without asking. Of course. Because asking would require basic manners. "You know," he says, lounging like he owns this library, "your notes are cute. All that rainbow color-coding and tiny handwriting. Adorable. Almost makes me forget you’re my competition."

You stare him down. "You can’t compete where you don’t compare, Riki."

He clicks his tongue. "There it is." He shook his finger. "That little bite." He nodded with a sarcastic smile as he took one of your pens—your orange pen—and pointed it at you. Almost as if he was warning you of something. "It could almost make me think you want me."

At this point, your entire mood was ruined. The cute little setup you had curated for yourself wasn’t even cutting it anymore. You stood up with a frustrated sigh, gathering your things to put away. "I’d rather shit in my hands and clap than ever give you that impression." You snatched your pen from his grasp.

Riki blinked, taken aback for half a second. Then he started laughing. Full-bodied, head-thrown-back kind of laugh.

"You’re seriously unhinged," he said, grinning as he watched you shove your notebook into your bag. "Like, clinically."

"And you’re seriously delusional if you thought this was a bonding moment," you shot back, slinging your tote over your shoulder. He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms behind his head like he was settling in for a show. "Aw, c’mon. Don’t be like that, you looked so cozy before I got here."

"I was until you got here."

He furrowed his brows, feigning pity and sympathy. "Sorry,"

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly hit the back of your skull. "I swear to God, I would genuinely pay to never see your face again."

"Well…" a new voice cut in smoothly from behind you. Low, warm, like melted honey and clean-cut authority.

You froze.

"…you won’t see much of anything if you two don’t get some sleep soon."

You turned slowly, and sure enough—standing in the moonlight like a poetic warning—was Dr. Yang. Dressed in all black, button-down rolled at the sleeves, coffee in hand, and an unreadable look in his eyes.

"Professor," you breathed, your voice unintentionally softer.

"Didn’t expect to find two of my brightest students sparring after hours," he said, gaze flicking briefly to Riki and then back to you. "You alright?"

Riki, still in the chair like a parasite, answered for you. "She’s fine. We were just chatting."

You gave him a hard side-eye. "Yeah…chatting."

Dr. Yang smiled faintly. It was subtle, but something about it made your stomach dip—like he already knew more than he let on. "Hm. You should head to your dorms. It’s late."

You opened your mouth to respond, but Riki beat you to it again. "She likes the quiet at night. Says it helps her focus."

The way Dr. Yang’s brows lifted just slightly made your ears burn. Riki grinned, clearly enjoying himself.

"I’ll walk you out," your professor said, voice gentle but final.

And for once, Riki had no snarky comeback. He just watched you collect yourself, his smirk softening into something unreadable.

You followed the professor toward the exit, not looking back at all. Though Riki was still there, watching. Watching you follow him like a moth to a flame, dog on a leash. With wide eyes and a gentleness that he felt he could never get out of you. And he watched.

Eyes narrowed. Jaw tight.

And for the first time since the beginning of this interaction, he wasn’t smiling.

—

Riki and you had this unrelenting rivalry going since the beginning of your first year at university. Sharing the same major, it started off as a slight nod of respect. A silent acknowledgment of the hard work you had both put into every assignment. The competition was friendly, nothing intense until you both found that your GPAs were entirely too close. Then the casual ‘hey, how’d you do on the socio exam?’ stopped being out of curiosity and started to be firmly interrogative.

When he showed you his A over your A-, you decided it was war.

To say you were envious of him was an understatement, severely understated. In some strange way, you wanted to be him. You wanted to be attractive. You wanted to be well-liked by your peers. You wanted to get the invites to the parties and have a boatload of friends. You wished that you could study for like thirty minutes a day then just ace everything.

But fortunately, you weren’t ugly at all. But every part of you felt so. You didn’t wear amazing clothes, usually opting for the hoodie and jeans or shorts. A cute, form-fitting long sleeve on a good day. Guys never looked at you. Not that you equated your worth to the attention you got from men. But sometimes you wouldn’t mind if a guy stopped you, if you got a double-take even. You wore light makeup, finding it cute but far too lazy to commit to a full beat. You idolized and respected the people that did though because you never thought you could. Feeling like a fish out of water when you would look in the mirror. So blush, mascara, and some lip gloss is your go-to! 

You had no friends. With all—if not most—of your time spent locked in the library or dorm. The social life that you promised yourself upon high school graduation just hadn’t found you yet. You hated crowds and your social battery depleted quickly, still you tried and tried to make friends. Going to club fairs and following classmates on social media didn’t help—they never followed back. Going out to bars that your classmates frequented in hopes of befriending someone all fell through as well. Every random person you approached looked at you like you were something on the bottom of their shoe. Like you were crazy for even trying to talk to them. But of course, Riki didn’t have any of these issues. He commanded every room he walked into with minimal effort. Riki was bewitching. Guys and girls either wanted to be with him or be him—shit, maybe both. Nonetheless, he was funny, outgoing, ingenious, and just such an interesting person. 

To everyone else. 

He made fun of you, picked on you, patronized you, ensured that no matter what he never let you win. He never gave you the one-up nor did he let you live it down when something of his turned out better than whatever you did.  You resented him and hoped that with every part of you that he would either drop dead or fail at something entirely so you could finally rub it in his face. Just once. Even with that, you hated that he was the only person you interacted with on this campus. Yet somehow you didn’t want to let it go considering that he was the closest, yet furthest thing you had to a friend here.

Riki was all you had.

—

Every Monday and Thursday, you had your Theology 101 class with Professor Jungwon Yang. You didn’t care for Religious Studies that much but your school required it for some reason. Something about them wanting its students to be well-rounded which, fair enough? You show up to class early like usual, around twenty minutes. It gives you time to settle in and make some progress on some miscellaneous things for other classes. But just as you were typing up an outline for your Media Ethics paper, a sudden voice broke through the silence.

"Oh—you’re early!"

You startled so hard your laptop nearly slid off the desk. Looking up, your eyes locked with said Professor.

"Jesus—" you hissed, then immediately regretted the blasphemy. "Sorry. I mean. Not literally."

He laughed—an easy, bright sound that didn’t feel professorly at all. "You’re fine. Though I should dock your participation points for that." He jokes.

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched.

Dr. Yang was young—too young to be teaching undergrad theology without causing minor distractions every lecture. Word on campus was he’d graduated with a doctorate at twenty-five and took up this adjunct position "just for the experience," like it was a part-time internship. He always dressed sharp but casual—sweaters layered over button-downs, wire-framed glasses that somehow made him more intimidating, not less. He had the kind of face that belonged in a student catalog. 

Unfair.

"Anyway," he continued, setting his bag on the desk. "What are you working on?"

You paused. "A paper for my media class."

"You’re a comms major, right?"

You blinked. "You…remember that?"

"I remember most things," he replied, like it was no big deal. "Your essays always have a strong tone. Confident. A little sarcastic. I like that."

Your face went warm. Not blushing, obviously—you were way too emotionally detached for that. But warm.

He leaned back against the podium, arms crossed. "If you ever want to do your final paper on religious media or spiritual commodification, let me know. It’d be an interesting lens. And I think you’d kill it."

You blinked. Twice.

"Thanks," you said, suddenly feeling like you forgot how to blink altogether.

He smiled as he nodded gently, "Class starts in fifteen. Don’t let me keep you." He circles his desk as he takes a seat, soaking in the silence and tapping of your keyboard echoing throughout the room. 

It was nice actually, the quiet of the room. Never in your life have you ever really felt fully comfortable in the presence of another person. Not even your own mother. 

He’s calm, quiet, knows when to shut up (thankfully), and Dr. Yang being around…doesn’t bother you. You don’t feel antsy, squeamish, repulsed, or irritated at him being in the same room as you. 

But of course, you never know peace for long. Go figure!

"Dr. Yang! I brought your favorite," Riki’s voice rang out like a curse echoing through a cathedral as he strutted into the room holding iced coffees both hands.

You didn’t even look up. You already knew. Of course he was holding your favorite drink.

Dr. Yang looked up, slightly amused. "You remembered my order?"

"Nah, I guessed," Riki grinned. "But if it’s right, then I’m just that good."

Yang raised a brow. "I don’t usually take bribes before midterms."

"No bribe." Riki shook his head with a gentle smile.

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or throw your laptop at his face, if we’re being honest.

"Also," Riki added, walking right past you to the row behind and tapping your chair with his foot, "they were out of your basic vanilla syrup, so I made an executive decision and got you hazelnut."

Your eye twitched. "I didn’t ask for anything."

"I know. That’s what makes me so generous." He plopped down in the chair behind you and leaned forward, resting his chin on his folded arms. "You still mad about the pen thing?"

You didn’t respond.

Dr. Yang quickly spoke up, trying to fill the silence as he sensed your discomfort. "Mr. Nishimura, I’m happy you’re joining us a little early." He smiled as he stood and started to write the date on the whiteboard in preparation for the lecture.

"Good habits," Riki said, tossing his bag down just next to his feet. "Gotta keep up with the competition, y’know?"

You didn’t look at him, but you knew he was staring. That smug grin practically burned itself into your peripheral vision.

Dr. Yang smiled, oblivious to the landmine he just stepped over. "I didn’t know you two were competitive."

You both answered at the same time.

"She’s obsessed with winning."

 "He’s annoying on purpose."

There was a beat of silence before Jungwon let out a small laugh. "Right. Well, maybe a little healthy rivalry will do you both good."

You rolled your eyes. Riki just smirked.

He leaned back in his chair, the picture of smug comfort. "Some people work well under pressure. Others…get snippy."

You finally turned to glance at him, just for a second. "And some people mistake being tolerated for being wanted."

He mock-gasped. "That was a little rude. Professor, are we allowed to verbally assault each other before class starts?"

Jungwon didn’t even look up from the notes he was scribbling. "Only if it’s educational."

You pressed your lips together, suppressing a smile. Damn him for being witty.

Riki, still unfazed, leaned forward again and lowered his voice just for you. "I also told the barista your name was ‘raging nuisance.’ She wrote it on the cup and everything."

You turned slightly in your seat, expression flat. "I hope they spelled ‘annoying narcissist’ instead."

"Oh, they didn’t have enough room." He shook his head as he pursed his lips to keep himself from laughing.

You hated how easily he made you want to laugh. It was infuriating. You hated it even more that Jungwon was watching now, with that little curious crease between his brows like he was trying to figure out if this was flirting or warfare.

—

Class had ended five minutes ago, but you were still in the lecture hall, hovering awkwardly at the front while Dr. Yang packed up his laptop and notes.

He glanced up, surprised but not unkind. "Everything okay?"

You cleared your throat. "Yeah. I just…I wanted to ask if I could take you up on that religious media idea? For the final."

He perked up a little. "You serious?"

You nodded, arms crossed tight over your chest like you were keeping your organs from spilling out. "Yeah. I think it’d be interesting to look into faith-based marketing, especially in, like, TV or influencer culture. Plus, you said it’d be a strong angle. So…"

He smiled—just a little, enough to make your stomach twist in that annoying way. "Well, I stand by that. You’d do it justice."

You bit the inside of your cheek, hesitating. "Also…is there any extra credit I can do?"

That made him pause. "Extra credit? You’re stellar as is."

You nodded. "Not because I’m failing or anything," you added quickly, waving your hands. "I just want to buffer my grade. Just in case. You know. If something crazy happens. Like if, I don’t know, the guy who ruins my life recreationally decides to make me fail through psychic sabotage."

Dr. Yang blinked. "You want an assignment…to help you prepare for another assignment that’s not for two months?"

You hesitated. "…Yes?"

He huffed a laugh under his breath, rubbing his forehead. "You really are a comms major."

You shake your head, tasting the self-deprecation. "No, I’m just me."

"You’re just anxious," he corrected gently, though not unkindly. "But alright. How about this—bring me three examples of religious commodification in media by next class. Ads, shows, music videos, whatever. Annotate them briefly. If you do that, I’ll knock off your lowest quiz grade."

Your heart sank. "My lowest grade is an A."

He blinked. "...Okay?"

"So that doesn’t help me."

Dr. Yang looked at you for a second, then slowly set down his coffee. "Are you asking for extra credit on top of your already perfect grade?"

You hesitated. "No?"

He stared.

"…Yes."

There was a long pause. You stared at each other, the air thick with silent judgment—most of it coming from him.

"I’m gonna say something, and I need you to promise you won’t take it personally," he said finally.

You braced yourself.

"You’re insufferable."

You frowned a little, clutching your chest but still trying to stifle a laugh. "That’s not very nice of a Theology professor."

He smiles, "God forgives." He points at you, "I, however, am still working on it."

"So what do I do in the meantime?"

He smirks, folding his arms. "Do the assignment. Consider it a bonus...for your own amusement."

You raise an eyebrow. "So, like extra credit...but with zero reward?"

He shrugs. "Exactly. Just the satisfaction of knowing you could win at everything, if you wanted to."

Oh, this lit a fire in the pit of your stomach. "Thanks, Dr. Yang." You stood with a smile. "Hopefully this will be as enriching as you say."

"It should," he sighed. "I think it’s fun. Y’know? Something people your age should be having?"

You roll your eyes, "I should’ve taken the philosophy requirement instead." Walking away with a small laugh, you wave at him.

He calls out after you, "Then you’d be anxious and confused." 

He’s absolutely correct.

But you don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that, just for the fun. To humor him. You leave the room with a smile, glad that he gave you something fun to think about. 

—

You turned the corner out of the lecture hall with that small smile on your lips and that funny feeling in your stomach.

Your fun little banter with Dr. Yang was always enjoyable, fun, super casual and it was nice to have an interaction with someone other than your stuffed animals and the beanpole that likes to nag you every chance he gets. 

It’s fucked up really, everytime you think about him, he just pops up. 

You make a right out of this hallway and suddenly clash into a lean figure. Your bag hits the wall closely on your right. Like a pinball hitting the walls in the machine. But lucky you, Riki huffs out a small laugh as he moves his hands up, holding your biceps as he walks you to stability against the wall. "Mmm…" He hummed, "let’s watch where we’re going." As if he wasn’t waiting there for you, hoping you ran into him. 

You nudged him off of you, "You did that on purpose, Riki." You sighed as you brush the residue of his hands off of you. 

He smiled down at you, then held up a brown paper bag. The same one he had earlier from the café that he either just got for himself or never gave to you. "Muffin for my muffin?"

Any other time, this would be cute. This is cute. This honestly just felt like another instance of him just being weird. He never took anything seriously, not your time, patience, or anything. And you don’t expect him to.

"Kick rocks," You scoff as you start walking toward the exit. 

"You’re welcome," Riki calls after you, jogging a few steps to catch up, the paper bag still in hand like he’s delivering a peace treaty.

You ignore him, pushing open the exit door with enough force that it slaps the frame behind you. You should’ve kept walking. You wanted to keep walking. But of course, he follows.

"It’s banana walnut," he says, a little sing-songy. "That’s your favorite, right? Or is it just the one you pretend to like when you’re trying to seem quirky and approachable to baristas?"

You stop walking.

He bumps into you again.

This time, you don’t shove him. You turn—slowly, dramatically, and with the kind of death-glare that could reduce lesser men to ashes. Fortunately, Riki doesn’t waver. "You were smiling on your way from class. Why?"

Your brows furrow, "I wasn’t smiling and if I was, it has nothing to do with you. Just like I want nothing to do with you." You throw your hands up flippantly. 

The same smile stays on his face as he shoves the bagged muffin into your hand. "Yeah, I don’t actually care." His tone mellows out to one more straight-foward and blunt. "But I did find you to make you aware that I will be applying for the summer internship. You know, the same one you’re applying for? The one that now that you have no chance of getting as long as I’m alive?" He tilts his head as the smile settles into the patronizing one you were oh-so-familiar with.

Your university had an internship promise for all students due to its very strong programs and alumni network. With this, business students (like yourself and Riki) were already a shoo-in for solid jobs and careers upon graduation. 

But this is the thing, there are always internship opportunities because there are thousands of students. Meaning that there are hundreds to thousands of internships. 

Yet, of course, Riki just wants to take this one. 

"I’m not applying for an internship this summer," you crossed your arms as you feigned indifference. Maybe having him think you didn’t would somehow wane his unshakeable tenacity. 

He saw through you though, "You are." He nodded, "The consulting group one. You don’t have to lie, I overheard you talking to your mommy about it last week." 

Every summer, your school works closely with consulting groups where they choose one student from each business college within the university (there only being three separate colleges) to fly to a major city to work on real-world business cases for Fortune 500 companies.

While like any other internship, it’s a great way to gain experience and network—however it is extremely competitive. Out of the thousands of students in this pool, only three are chosen. You had been super excited about this opportunity considering you are a Communications major—ironically enough given that you don’t know how to communicate with anyone—and you truly do want to have this chance to get your name out there. To dip your toes into this career path. 

But naturally, Riki didn’t find appeal in those. He wanted yours. Because really, why not?

"Can’t you just apply for all of the other dozens?" You turn, trying to get ahead to the dining hall for your lunch. A nice, greasy batch of french fries really sounded up your alley today. "It’s not like you’d lose them."

He followed in step with you. "So by that logic, I should apply for this one. Because I wouldn’t lose." He smiled, biting his lip dreamily as he looked up in the air at the trees. "I mean, really think about it. What’s the score now? Riki, a million and one. You, zero?"

You hadn’t looked at him since you started walking and you definitely weren’t going to look at him now. That familiar twist in your stomach, the burning sensation right at the bottom. You had known it all too well and you didn’t miss it.

"Now that I think of it, you’re not good at anything, really." He shook his head thoughtfully. "Though you were right about one thing. You can’t compete where you don’t compare." Riki grabbed your arm to stop you forcefully, ensuring you looked him dead in the eye. "But you weren’t talking about me." 

"I don’t know when you’ll learn, sweetheart. But in case those books you read hadn’t exactly informed you well enough, then I will." The smile he once had is now extinct. "Quit while you’re ahead. Wait—" he stopped for a beat as he looked down, feigning thought. "You’re not even ahead!" He let out a semblance of a laugh. "And you never will be. So just save yourself the heartache, go hole back up in that dorm. Bury yourself into those cute little romance books just wishing for the love you’ll never have and forget about it." The distance between you two had gotten smaller than you could comprehend. And conveniently barely anyone was around either. Everyone either in the classroom buildings or somewhere else. Some stragglers running amok, most likely late for classes.

But in this position, it didn’t even matter. You could be in a sea of people and still feel as vulnerable as if you were in the wilderness. Riki’s eyes weren’t teasing, weren’t funny, weren’t cool. 

His eyes held pure venom. Just disgust and repugnance, and that had no place on a face like his.

You blink, once, slowly. Like your brain’s buffering because surely he didn’t just say all that to your face.

But he did. And now he’s looking at you like he’s proud of it. Like he’s already won.

For a second, you wonder if he has.

Because yeah, maybe your confidence is stitched together by duct tape and quiet desperation. Maybe your hands are clammy, your throat’s tight, and your eyes are starting to sting like they always do when you’re angry but can’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him.You looked over his shoulder, at the bark of a tree because you simply couldn’t dare to look at him without so much as bursting into tears. Because you know it just like he does, you’re not confident. You don’t measure up to him. In anything. And in a perfect story where you’re supposed to be the badass that has this amazing comeback and he sits there, gobsmacked and ready to tongue you down, this just isn’t the case. 

You are weak. You froze.

Smart people like you are a dime a dozen.

Intelligent, brilliant people like him are once in a lifetime.

So you do nothing.

You don’t shove him. You don’t scream. You don’t drop a monologue that sends the birds scattering.

You just stand there. Breathing too hard, blinking too fast.

And Riki knows it. Of course he does. That’s why he’s still staring at you with that smug little expression, like this is just another check on his running list of victories. Like he already knows how this ends. He walks away, you crumble, and the world spins on its axis. Business as usual.

But the thing is—you’re not mad at him. Not really.

You’re mad at yourself.

Because even after everything, some traitorous part of you still wanted him to be wrong. Still wanted him to look at you like you were a challenge. A threat. Like you were someone worth worrying about.

Instead, he looks at you like you’re predictable.

And maybe that’s worse than hate. Maybe it’s worse than anything.

You swallow around the lump in your throat. Try to breathe through your nose, like the therapist you stopped seeing after two sessions told you. It doesn’t work. Nothing works.

Because Riki’s right.

And you hate that. God, you hate it. The way he always seems to know what he’s doing, what he wants, who he is. And the worst part is? He’s probably not even trying. He’s probably not even thinking about you anymore.

You tighten your grip around the muffin, its paper wrap crinkling beneath your fingers like your composure.

So he smiles gently, sadistically at your now cowered demeanor. He snatched the muffin out of your hand. "You weren’t gonna eat it anyway, right?"

Your eyes finally moved, looking down at the concrete you stood on just as he let you go. 

He noticed your expression, how defeated and distant your irises were beyond what he could see. So he crouched a little, still as patronizing as ever. "I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings." Pouting as he gently moved your face to look at him. Thumb caressing the flesh of your scorching hot cheek. So delicate, like if he put even the smallest bit more pressure he would put a dent in you. "Someone’s gotta tell you the truth. It’s not like you have anyone else to do it…"

Oh, fuck him. You thought.

"I’m just looking out for you, hm?" He let go just as easily. "Same time tomorrow?" He waved as he rubbed your shoulder, wandering off to God knows where as you stood there. Burning, aching, and barely able to stand the sight of yourself.

—

Dr. Yang’s office is warm. On the fourth floor, tucked in at the very end of the hallway. The type of offices you see in movies or create in your imagination from books. His desk was in the middle, right behind it was an expansive recessed bookshelf with media from 1984 to Cold War textbooks to Wuthering Heights. For some reason it was very earthy, everything was made of strong, sturdy wood and he always got just the right amount of sunlight.

You knock, just lightly enough not to scare him. 

He’s leaning over a stack of papers, glasses slipped to the tip of his nose. "Office hours miracle?" he asks, smiling when he sees you. "Come in."

You slid in and closed the door back behind you. "Hey, sorry to bother y—"

Dr. Yang immediately shook his head. "You’re not bothering me. You’ve never even been here before. Sit, sit." He nodded to the chair in front of the desk encouragingly. "What’s up?" Sitting down smoothly, you pull out a notebook, flipping it open to a page cluttered with highlighter scribbles and sideways questions. "It’s about the assignment," you say, tapping the corner of the page. "The first paper? I swear I read the prompt like…six times. And I’m still not sure I’m doing it right."

Dr. Yang smiles, easy. "That’s a promising start. Confusion means you’re thinking."

You raise a brow. "That sounds like something people say right before you fail."

He laughs—warm, unbothered. "Maybe. But it also means you’re trying to find the right angle, not just the easy one. Let me see."

You pass him your notebook and he scans it, nodding slowly. "You’re writing about digital spaces and moral identity?"

You nod. "Yeah. Like, how people perform goodness online. But it’s so abstract that every time I try to put it into a thesis, it feels fake-deep or pretentious."

"Fake-deep," he repeats, amused. "I should make that a grading category."

You smirk faintly, despite yourself.

He leans back in his chair, setting the notebook on the desk. "Here’s the thing—you’re asking big questions. That’s not a flaw at all. It’s direction, if anything. The key is narrowing it without dumbing your words down."

You shift in your seat, chewing your bottom lip. "I just don’t want it to sound like I’m pointing fingers. Or worse, like I don’t even know what I’m talking about."

He tilts his head, considering you. "May I ask something?"

"Sure."

"What made you afraid of sounding unsure?"

You blink. The question hangs in the air, soft but weighted.

"I don’t know," you lie. Instinctively. Because saying his name out loud makes your skin crawl. And you’re not ready—not here, not yet.

Dr. Yang doesn’t push. He just nods, like he heard what you didn’t say. "Well. You’re allowed to sound unsure in a draft. That’s where you figure things out. It’s part of the process."

You look down at your hands, fingers still curled around the edge of the notebook. "Okay."

"Also," he adds gently, "I hope you know it’s okay to be a little lost. That’s kind of the point of college…and life itself."

You let out a shaky laugh. "You sound like a fortune cookie."

"A well-read one," he says. "Want help outlining it? Or would that ruin the illusion of academic suffering?"

You smile, a little crooked. "Honestly? I could use the help."

He grabs a pen. "Great. Let’s de-suffer this together."

And just like that, it’s easier to breathe. The weight on your chest isn’t gone, not by a long shot—but it shifts. Just enough to remind you: there are still places in the world that feel soft. That don’t ask you to be clever or composed. Just you.

And maybe, slowly, that’s where you’ll start.

—

After a solid hour of brainstorming and bouncing off of each other, you and Dr. Yang had actually slowly let go of the outline. At this point, you had finished it seeing as you had quickly begun to understand the topic. The young professor was actually great at explaining things without making you feel like an idiot or silly for being confused. Now, you two were chatting about everything and nothing, mild debates over books. Movies. Who knew that he actually enjoyed hate-watching fanfic movies?

"Okay wait no, The QB and Me wasn’t even that bad, though." You smiled as you pointed at him, chewing on the snacks that he offered you. Gladly, he munched on some with you to not make you feel lonely while eating. Which is always fun.

He smiles, amused. "Just hearing the ‘I’m so sick of your main character energy’ line from the best friend was enough to make me want to off myself." 

You’re currently sitting on the brown leather couch that smelled of cologne. The material was slightly worn but for some reason, couches like this always felt the best. You could tell he definitely slept on this couch more often than not. "No, I won’t lie, the best friend did piss me off at some points. Like girl, we get that you got denied from Princeton but your friend also broke up with a guy she really liked. Sorry she didn’t just jump to your aid when she was already hurting?" You ranted, and honestly, this was the most you’ve ever spoken to someone about something this niche in a very long time.

"It’s not even that," he waved his hand as he tried to muffle his laugh. "The fact that at the party they went to, she left Dallas there knowing she was drinking. Then!" He sighed dramatically. "Hear me out, she left with the main guy’s brother. My thing is, you knew she was drinking so why didn’t you at least make sure she was good before you left?" He shrugged with irritation in his eyes. "Could’ve dropped her at home on the way to wherever y’all were going. Or could’ve had the main guy keep an eye on her and ensure he took her home, like this is your best friend!" 

You’re giggling into the sleeve of your hoodie now, half from the sugar rush and half from how serious he sounds about this plot hole. "Bro, she did not care. At all."

"I was actually rooting for their friendship more than the romance," he says with a thoughtful look. "Because I love a meaningful friendship arc. But when she just started to be weird then she lost me. And I’m usually forgiving. That’s a work in progress."

You laugh into your sleeve again, the sound bubbling out of you without resistance. It’s strange—how natural this feels. Like the conversation has been happening for years instead of just an hour. No pressure, no grades, no expectations. Just two nerds slandering messy fictional girls.

Eventually, your laughter fades into a smile. The room settles into something softer, more open.

Jungwon leans back on the couch, tilting his head toward you. "I’m really glad you came today," he says, voice quiet but clear. "I hope I was able to help you with what you needed."

You nod, returning the smile. "Yeah. I feel a lot better about the outline. And…everything."

A beat passes. He glances at you again.

"You can call me Jungwon, by the way," he says, casual but intentional. "If you want."

You blink, surprised for a second—but then something settles in your chest. It feels like a trust fall you didn’t know you were invited to. "Jungwon?"

He nods, waving you off with a casual expression. "Yeah, I mean—I’m not really one for formalities."

"…Okay. Jungwon." You say it slowly, like tasting something new. "Thanks."

He looks like he might say something else—but instead just gives a soft, content nod.

—

When you’re standing up to leave, hoodie sleeves pulled over your wrists and your bag hanging off one shoulder, you pause near the door.

"Thanks for walking me out that night," you say, voice gentler than you intend. "At the library. I know it was late."

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly remembering. "Of course. You looked like you needed an out."

You hum. "Yeah. Riki was…being Riki."

He eyes you carefully now. "What’s going on between you two, anyway?" he asks, lightly. "You a thing? Like slow-burn enemies-to-lovers or something?"

You scrunch your nose immediately. "What? No. Definitely not. I think you’re the one who reads too many books."

He smirks. "Didn’t even hesitate."

You shrug, trying not to reveal too much. "Riki’s not…a very nice person?" You adjust your bag on your shoulder. "I don’t know, he just…can be very weird sometimes."

Jungwon furrows his brows as he crosses his arms, leaning against his desk. Something he tends to do but you noticed this is his analytical stance. "Weird, how?"

"Like…" you look up in thought as you tilt your head, trying to turn those cogs in your brain. "Riki and I aren’t friends. He thoroughly enjoys making my life even more difficult than it is. But I think he knows the power he has over me and really isn’t afraid to make me aware of it." 

Jungwon’s brows lift slightly, arms still crossed. "That’s…a lot," he says carefully. "The ‘power he has over you’ part—what does that mean?"

You blink, suddenly aware of how much you just gave away. The words had spilled out too fast, too unfiltered, like a truth you didn’t mean to say out loud.

You let out a dry laugh, trying to wave it off. "I mean, not like…real power. He’s just annoying. Egocentric. He knows how to get under my skin, that’s all."

Jungwon doesn’t look convinced. "Still sounds like someone who’s in your head a lot."

You glance toward the floor. "Unfortunately."

There’s a quiet pause. Not awkward, but a bit tense rather. He watches you a second longer, eyes thoughtful but not judging. Just trying to understand. "Just—be careful with people like that, okay?" he says softly. "Competition can go south very quickly. I’d hate for you to lose yourself in something like that." He stops himself. Doesn’t want to overstep.

You nod slowly. "I know."

Jungwon pushes off the desk and walks over to the door, opening it again for you. "You don’t deserve that type of worry," he says casually, almost like a passing thought. "Friend or foe. But if it ever gets to be too much, my email and office are at your disposal always."

You manage a small smile. "Thanks, Jungwon."

He gives a half-smile back. "Anytime." He nods, his smile now expanding. "And tell Dallas we deserved better."

You snort, shaking your head as you step into the hallway. "You’re never letting that go, huh?"

He shrugs, still grinning. "I’d sooner die."

The door shuts behind you with a soft click, but the words—and the warmth of them—linger. You tuck that somewhere deep, somewhere safe.

And for the first time in a while, you don’t feel like you’re walking away from something heavy. You feel like you might’ve left a little of it behind.

—

Since you and Jungwon’s fun ‘office hours-turned-hangout’ last week, he’s been thinking. 

Like really thinking. 

He prides himself on being very observant and someone that can truly read people. So as he stepped into class today, he was going to do that. He was going to do more of that. He was going to really try to understand what you meant exactly by weird. Because somehow it felt like every answer you gave was something that you couldn’t exactly describe. Something you had to just see for yourself. "Hey guys," he smiled as he entered the lecture hall. You and your fellow classmates all chorused some greetings. ‘Hi’ ‘Good morning’ ‘Hello’ all heard from throughout the room. 

Jungwon surveyed the room after he set his stuff down. Acting as if he was noting attendance but he was really trying to find you and the guy whose name seemed to send you over the edge—not in a good way. You were always easy to spot because you always occupied the same seat. Or at least a seat in the general area so he never had to look too far. And low and behold, there was Riki. Sat directly behind. He never seemed to be far from you. 

Jungwon’s gaze lingered just a moment longer than necessary before your shy little smile caught his attention. A barely-there wave, hand lifting just off the desk, like it was meant for no one to notice. A soft Hi mouthed across the room.

He smiled back.

Jungwon kept his expression casual as he started the lecture. But his brain? Fully elsewhere. Yet his subconscious just knew the material. It was like he was on auto-pilot. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting to see—but this? This dance? The barely-there glances and stilted body language? It wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t hate either. It was…something uncomfortable. Intimate. Sharp like a paper cut.

Throughout the lecture, Jungwon would make a joke or pose a question, and you’d smile or laugh—and Riki would react. Not directly. Not outwardly. But there was a flicker of something behind his eyes every time you were pulled into someone else’s orbit.

Possessiveness? No. Not quite.

Awareness. He could work with awareness.

At one point, Jungwon asked a discussion question. The room went silent. You didn’t raise your hand, but Riki did. Voice calm, confident, and direct.

Jungwon watched you react to that. A blink. A shift. The faintest look toward him like you were waiting for a punchline.

But Riki didn’t look at you. Not even once. Which almost made it worse. Like he didn’t have to.

By the time class ended, Jungwon had filled three mental pages with observations he wasn’t sure what to do with. He wasn’t trying to meddle. Wasn’t even sure if he could. But he’d seen enough to know something wasn’t sitting right.

So as students packed up, he walked to his desk and clicked his pen closed. Then, for no reason at all, his gaze flicked back to Riki. And Riki was already looking at him.

—

The last backpack zips, chatter fades, doors clap shut. Jungwon closes his laptop but keeps his eyes on the tall kid who’s still lounging like the room’s a private suite. "Mr. Nishimura—got a sec?"

Riki pauses mid-scroll, thumb hovering over whatever meme he’s pretending to be enthralled in. "Sure, Professor."

The casual swagger is turned up to eleven, but Jungwon’s already perceived the tension hiding in his shoulders. He motions to the front row. "Sit."

Riki drops into the seat, a smirk ready-made. "What’s up? You wanna roast my paper, too?"

"Your paper’s fine. This is…different." Jungwon folds his arms, leaning on the desk. "I’ve noticed you and her have a lively…dynamic."

Riki’s grin wobbles one millimeter. "Dynamic. Nice word."

"Of course," Jungwon deadpans. "Listen, healthy competition is great. But when one person looks ready to bolt every time the other walks in? That’s not just rivalry."

Riki shrugs—classic slow roll of broad shoulders. "She and I mess with each other. It’s mutual."

"Is it mutual when she’s gripping the edge of her desk like a life preserver?"

Silence. A muscle jumps in Riki’s jaw.

Jungwon softens his voice. "I’m not here to police friendships. But I am responsible for how my students treat each other in my space. And I care about her well-being. I hope you know the same would apply if it was the other way around."

Something flickers in Riki’s eyes—gone before Jungwon can name it. Guilt? Offense? Both? "She’s tough," Riki says finally, quieter than before. "She’s fine."

"Maybe. It still doesn’t hurt to be considerate."

Riki exhales through his nose, gaze sliding to the classroom door. "You done, sir?"

"For now." Jungwon straightens, giving him an out. "Just think about what I said."

Riki stands, slings his bag over one shoulder. "Thinking’s dangerous."

Jungwon smiles slightly. "I’ll take my chances."

Riki huffs a laugh—more breath than sound—then heads for the exit. Jungwon watches, filing away every micro-expression for later. He isn’t sure he got through, but at least a seed’s been planted.

— Later that day—

You knocked on Jungwon’s door, waiting for his permission to enter. As you heard it, you poked your head through the door. "Hi," you smiled. "Are you busy?"

Jungwon slightly closed his laptop as a way to let you know you had his attention. "No, what’s up?" For some reason, seeing your face warmed him. He couldn’t explain the feeling.

"Nothing, I was just wondering if I could chill here? I still have a ton of things to do and I don’t wanna go to the library beca—" You ranted frantically but he held up his hand to interrupt you. "Please, you don’t need an excuse to come here. It’s okay, you’re my friend." He nodded as he eyed you warmly. "Make yourself comfortable."

Somehow, hearing the word ‘friend’ sent something warm through you too. Stepping through the door and closing it behind you, you sat down on that brown leather couch. "Thanks, um…so do you have any classes or are you done for the day?" You took your laptop out of your bag and opened it, waiting for it to power on. 

"With classes, yeah. But I have a meeting in like ten minutes." He said, eyes locked in on his own stuff. 

You frowned, feeling like you were in the way. "Wait—then I can just go or come back later—"

He laughed a little, "If I didn’t want you here I would’ve said so. It’s just a department meeting." Again, waving you off.

"I don’t wanna be an impudence, you know? I can just go then come back after."

Jungwon tilted his head as he looked at you. "Are you gonna steal or break anything?" He muffled a laugh as he asked baseless questions.

Your brows furrowed, "No,"

He shrugged, "Okay, I trust you. It’s not a big deal."

You nodded silently, ultimately deciding not to fight him on this as you retreated back to your laptop. Working on some assignments and today’s Wordle.

Though as things fell into a silence, you looked up to see him gathering his things. 

He slipped on his adorable blue sweater-vest and tossed a couple of papers into a folder before sliding it into his bag. 

"You sure you don’t mind me being here?" you asked again, quieter this time.

Jungwon looked over his shoulder at you as he adjusted the strap on his bag. "It’s no sweat,"

You shrugged, sheepish. "I just don’t wanna overstep."

He walked toward the door but paused before opening it. "You won’t. Seriously."

You offered a small smile, and he smiled back before pointing at you like he was making a very official declaration. "Don’t burn the place down. You know where the snacks are. There’s a blanket in the cabinet. Water is in the fridge but you can have whatever. And if anyone asks, I did not leave you unattended."

You snorted. "What kind of things do you think I get up to?"

"I’ve seen the way you rage at your laptop," he teased. "I don’t trust that thing’s lifespan."

You opened your mouth, offended. "Wordle betrayed me the last time!"

"Mhm," he hummed, already opening the door. "If my office’s on fire when I get back, I’m blaming Wordle."

"Tell your department it was worth it," you called after him, watching as he disappeared down the hall.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed wasn’t heavy or awkward. Just peaceful. You took a deep breath, leaning back against the couch, the glow of your laptop illuminating your face.

But you closed it, figuring that you just weren’t in the mood for your history assignment. It wasn’t due for another three weeks anyway. You slipped it back into your bag and stood up, as now you could finally get a feel for Jungwon’s space now that he was absent. You started with the walls, inspecting them but not touching anything out of fear that a sudden clumsiness would overcome you. Like any other professor, he had his degrees on display. Bachelor of Arts and Master of Arts, then Doctor of Philosophy. All under thirty, how did he do it? You wonder. Or maybe it may very well be possible, you didn’t know the first thing about graduate school at this juncture.

But none of the things on the wall seemed entirely too personal. Besides the degrees, there were cute paintings—one he had done himself and another one that he seemed to have bought. But the real magic was in the bookshelf. The enormous recessed bookshelf that took up the entire wall was made of media spanning a myriad of genres, authors, topics. From Hughes, Dickinson, Orwell, to Vonnegut. To sci-fi, horror, nonfiction, romance, contemporary, etc. He even had textbooks with the sticky tabs and annotation stickers in them. Multiple to one page. 

To which it wasn’t like any of this didn’t make sense. As established, Jungwon was an academic and the thing about academics is that they don’t like to be wrong in anything. That if they find that there is something they don’t know then they do everything in their power to know everything there is to know about that topic. That seemed to be the case here. It was either that or they’re especially skilled in a subject matter and fall short in literally everything else.

Out of curiosity, your eyes fell on The Souls of Black Folk and you plucked it off the shelf. With a content sigh, you go back to the couch and make yourself comfortable. Lying down on the cushion, the leather rubbing together and giving way beneath your weight—you rested your head on a soft throw pillow and opened the book to sink your teeth into it. Of Our Spiritual Strivings. For the next twenty minutes you flipped through the pages, digesting the heavy content but nonetheless—enjoying the serenity that comes with Jungwon’s space. 

Everything about him was just so calming and forgiving. Whether he was here or not, Jungwon ensured that you were safe no matter what. Not just physically but emotionally and really it felt nice to finally have someone in a place where you felt like you didn’t belong. You heard fidgeting at the doorknob and sat up with a slight smile, gosh—you felt like a fucking dog. You put the book down in your lap and quickly…fixed your hair?

But on the other side of the door, came in a slightly taller guy. The feline, the panther you were all too familiar with and you had never felt your mood deflate so hastily. "Hey, Dr. Yang, I was won—oh…"

Riki stood in the doorway, hand still on the knob, blinking at the sight of you curled up on Jungwon’s couch like you belonged there. His brows lifted, and something unreadable flickered across his face—like he had walked into a room expecting applause and got dead silence instead. "Oh," he repeated, stepping inside anyway. He didn’t bother masking the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips. "Didn’t know this was a friends-only zone now."

You sat up straighter, subtly sliding the book off your lap like it hadn’t just become your emotional support paperback. "He’s not here," you said simply. Riki’s gaze dropped to the book as he walked in further. "Yeah, no shit." He tilted his head, surveying the space like he owned stock in it. "Didn’t think I’d find you here though. What’s this? Weekly playdate with your fave professor?"

You narrowed your eyes. "I’m studying."

He glanced at the lax body language, you were sitting up now but clearly from the dent—you were comfortable. Then at the open book. Then back to you, all amusement. "Yeah. Real intense study session you got going on. You highlight with your eyes, huh?" You rolled your eyes, grabbing the throw pillow behind you and tossing it lightly at him. "You’re so annoying."

He caught it easily, holding it against his chest with a mock expression of betrayal. "You wound me. I come in here, innocent, curious, seeking intellectual growth—"

"You were looking for Jungwon."

"Jungwon?" He tilted his head with a shock behind his smile. Laughing—almost maniacally through it. "You’re on a first name basis?" You shrugged, "There’s nothing wrong with making friends with a professor or getting to know people." Playing with the sleeves of your knitted sweater as you avoided his eye contact. But Riki was anything—but he wasn’t stupid. A beat of silence.

"You like him."

Your eyes snapped up, and for a split second, your mouth opened like you were about to fire back something clever—something—but nothing came out.

Riki was already smirking slightly.

"I don’t like him," you said finally, a little too fast, a little too sharp.

He held your gaze like he was testing it for cracks. "Yeah? ‘Cause you look real comfortable for someone who’s just friends with their professor. Got your little pillow fort going, reading Du Bois like you’re about to rock yourself to sleep."

You scoffed. "You act like I broke into his office."

"I wouldn’t put it past you," he said, stepping closer, tossing the pillow gently back onto the couch—your couch now, apparently. "We all know how much of a weird freak you are. You probably write about him in your diary. Sniff his seat. Snort his eraser shavings."

"I don’t like him," you said again, this time slower. Firmer. "He’s nice. That’s it."

Riki nodded, almost like he was accepting that. Almost. "I don’t blame you if you did. He’s good-looking, mature, stable, and kind. Accepting. Which is something you really need more than ever." He snickered toward the end of his statement. "But I think it’s best if you told your boyfriend that I’m no bully." He said, tilting his head as he tried to muffle his frustration. "Sending your new bestie to press me about our friendly little ‘dynamic’ is a fucking cop-out and you know it." He crosses his arms as he peers down at you.

Again, as confused as ever, you shook your head as if it would somehow let loose anything that you may have forgotten. "What are you—I never—"

"Stop fucking lying to me." Riki said firmly as edged closer to the couch. "If me and you have our spats that’s one thing, but siccing a professor on me is low. And I’m sure that you know that by now I can go lower."

This was classic Riki. Conversations with him always started as teasing, maybe a little lighthearted but he never failed to remind you of who he was and who you were. He always flipped the script—started with a smirk, ended with a knife. You stood up slowly from the couch, the book in your lap forgotten, still open on your last page. "I didn’t send anyone after you," you said, voice steady, though your hands were starting to feel too warm. "I don’t even know what you’re talking about."

"Don’t play dumb," Riki snapped, tone just shy of venom. "Yang cornered me after class. Real casual, real calm. Asking me what’s up with you, how I treat you, what our history is. Sounded like a concerned boyfriend trying not to sound like one."

You blinked. "And that automatically means I sent him?"

"Yes," he snapped again, "who else?"

You paused, because…okay, fine. He had a point there. But still.

"I didn’t tell him to do anything," you repeated. "He just—cares. People can care, Riki. Not everyone is out to get you."

"Right," he scoffed. "But I’m the manipulative one, right?"

You didn’t answer. Mostly because you weren’t sure what answer would even matter to him right now. There was silence. A thick, electric kind that made the small office suddenly feel like it had no oxygen.

Then: Riki exhaled through his nose and looked away. "You know what pisses me off?" he muttered. "You say I have power over you, like I’m holding something over your head. But you let me get to you. And I don’t know if it’s because you want me to or because you think I deserve to." He looked at you again, softer this time, but somehow that made it worse. "But either way, you always pretend like I’m the only problem. And you don’t even see how much of a liar that makes you. It’s almost like you get off on it. On me, ‘making your life miserable’ when you invite this."

It was a quiet kind of blow. The kind you don’t dodge because it didn’t come with fire—it came with fact. And the worst part was that you didn’t have a defense. "Look," he put his hands up in concession. "All I’m saying is be careful. We wouldn’t want Dean Park to find out just in case this camaraderie teetered just over the edge of Bible study." He smiles, but like always there was nothing behind it.

"You wouldn’t." You mumbled in disbelief. 

"You don’t know what I would do." He smiled as he tilted his head. "Right?" Riki scans your body language: defensive, slightly worried. Much to his shame—which he doesn’t know if he has any—something horrid, deep-seated loves to see you squirm.

Just the power he exercises over you and stirs something in the pit of his stomach. Something about you cowering under the weight of his gaze ignites a flame somewhere inside of him. He doesn’t even know if he likes you, he just likes the reactions you give him because he knows you don’t have the gumption to really stand up for yourself. 

Huh, so maybe it was improper to blame you.

Your throat tightened, but you didn’t speak. You couldn’t. Because he was right—at least about some of it. Maybe most of it. You didn’t know anymore. It was like every word from his mouth rewrote the rules of the game you didn’t even realize you were playing. Riki took a slow step forward, like a predator testing the limits of a snare he’d already set. "See," he said, voice low, almost sweet, "it’s not that I want to make your life hell. I don’t wake up thinking, ‘how do I ruin her day today?’" He paused. "Most days."

That grin again. Wolfish.

"But you let me. And I think you like being the victim more than you’d admit. It’s easier, right? To play helpless? To act like you don’t have choices. Like I’m the one who pulls every string when half the time, you hand me the scissors."

You hated that his words sank deep enough to sting. Hated even more that part of you wasn’t sure if it was guilt, or just shame for being so easily read.

"I’m not helpless," you muttered, quiet but firm.

He nodded slowly, eyes glinting. "Prove it."

The challenge hung between you like smoke. But you didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you didn’t know what proving it even meant anymore. So Riki just gave a short, dismissive exhale and backed away again, straightening his hoodie as he nodded in acceptance. "That’s what I thought."

He didn’t look at you when he opened the door this time. Didn’t give you another smirk or threat. Just paused, hand on the knob, and said, "you and your ‘friend’ better keep my name out of your mouth." 

Then he walked right out—closing the door softly in his wake.

—

Not even five minutes later, the door clicked open again.

"Meeting ended early," Jungwon said brightly as he stepped in, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up and his messenger bag slung casually over one shoulder. "Thank God, too. I think if one more person said the word ‘interdisciplinary’ I was gonna—"

He stopped short when he saw you.

Your posture was stiff. Book in your lap, but your hands weren’t turning the pages anymore. You weren’t even looking at it. You were just…sitting. Quiet. Still. Something about the air shifted. Jungwon’s smile dipped, just a little. "Hey," he said more gently now. "You okay?"

You blinked like you’d been underwater. "Huh? Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine."

"Are you sure?" He moved toward you slowly, setting his bag down. "You look kinda out of it."

You shook your head, trying to wave it off, forcing a laugh. "Just tired. My bad. I think your couch tricked me into feeling too cozy. I think I’m gonna call it a night."

Jungwon didn’t look convinced, but he nodded anyway. He didn’t argue. Didn’t laugh it off or try to fill the space too quickly. He just studied you for a beat, then walked over—slowly—and crouched by the couch so you were eye-level.

"You sure?" he asked, gently.

Your throat tightened. You didn’t mean to look away, but you did.

Then, quieter: "You don’t have to say what happened. But you don’t have to leave either. Not unless you want to."

You finally looked at him. There was no pressure in his gaze, no pity. Just that same calm, open patience that always felt like an invitation. And maybe it was stupid, maybe it was weak—but you didn’t want to go. You didn’t want to be alone.

So instead of grabbing your bag, you let out a breath and nodded. "Okay," you whispered.

Jungwon offered a small smile—barely there. "Good." He stood and moved to the small kettle tucked in the corner. "Chamomile or lemon?"

You closed your eyes for a second. Let your body sink into the couch again.

"Lemon," you said. "Please."

—

He brought two mismatched mugs to you, handing you one like it was sacred. That if you even touched it with the wrong finger it’d burn you. Which is true, it could’ve.

"Okay, okay," he said. "Wanna hear something truly embarrassing?"

You glanced at him, suspicious. "More embarrassing than pretending to be an expert in garbage rom-coms?"

"Tragically, yes."

You gestured grandly. "By all means."

He exhaled, already laughing at himself. "Alright. When I was like thirteen, I went through this huge Greek mythology phase. Like, read every book, watched every documentary, made a family tree of the gods...I was in deep."

You squinted. "That’s not embarrassing. That’s just being a gifted kid with a hyperfixation."

"Wait for it." He held up a hand. "So one day, I decided I wanted to live like a demigod. I carried a plastic sword around the house. Made my mom call me ‘Son of Athena.’ Tried to sneak ambrosia—which was just honey and Gatorade—into my lunchbox."

You choked on your tea. "Stop."

"I even made a Camp Half-Blood bead necklace out of macaroni." His voice cracked from the shame. "And wore it. To school."

You leaned forward, wheezing. "Oh my God, you LARPed?!"

"I trained," he said, dead serious. "In the backyard. My neighbors thought I was a sword-obsessed theater kid."

"Were they wrong?"

He shrugged. "Honestly? They weren’t too far off."

The two of you dissolved into quiet laughter again, and for a second, the tension that had been clawing at your ribs all afternoon just...let go.But when the giggles subsided and your tea had cooled, you finally glanced at him sideways. "Jungwon…"

He looked at you over the rim of his mug. "Hm?"

"I know you pulled Riki aside after class."

A beat. "What…? No."

You didn’t answer. Just raised an eyebrow to communicate that he already knew how. Jungwon sighed, looking almost bashful. "Yeah. I did."

"Please don’t do that again." You sigh as you put the mug on the couch-side table and turn to him with a slight frown.

His eyes snapped to you, surprised.

You tucked your legs up on the couch and turned to face him. "I appreciate you looking out, really. I do. But I don’t need you to defend me. I’m a big girl."

There was a pause. Then a quiet, almost guilty: "I get that. I just…I’m your friend. And—"

"You are my friend," you interrupted softly. "But you’re also our professor."

You saw it in the way the glint in his eyes dimmed, just slightly. Like he hadn’t thought about it that way until right now. He quickly suppressed these feelings. Because after hearing that and the way it made him feel, he started to panic. Just a bit though, he didn’t want to think too much into it.

So he nods curtly, "Yeah. No, yeah. Totally. You’re right, I overstepped. I’m sorry."

You shook your head fervently, "No, you’re good." You put your hand out to rest onto his instantaneously. And neither one of you moved. "You didn’t have any ill intentions at all and that’s fine, I’m not upset. I just didn’t think you would say something to him." Laughing awkwardly, you look down at your lap. Jungwon looked down at your warm hand that covered his own, and it wasn’t until he looked at them that he felt some tingling in his stomach. "I know…I just—you’re genuinely so compassionate…and lovely. No one deserves to be treated the way you are. And I may not have seen exactly what he’s done but I see the way you look around him. Like…your body shrivels up, you feel threatened or something. So I figured that if I’m in the position where I could stop it then…" He sighed as he nodded in understanding. "I wanted to…I just wanted to advocate for you."

You smiled faintly at his words. Small, but sincere. Because even if it stung before, hearing it from him now—so earnestly—it softened something in you.

"I get that," you murmured. "And…thank you. Really. You didn’t have to, but you did."

He let out a breath through his nose, some tension loosening in his shoulders. "It just didn’t sit right with me. The way he talks to you, like he’s always trying to win something. It’s on the cusp of bullying. He’s weaponizing his own strengths against someone he perceives to be inferior. I think it’s improper to not call it what it is."

You didn’t respond to that. Mostly because he wasn’t wrong.

Jungwon caught your silence and added gently, "I’m sorry if I made it worse. I wasn’t trying to step in for you, I just…I wanted him to know someone was paying attention. That somebody cares."

You nodded slowly, thumb brushing absentmindedly against the back of his hand. "I think I needed to hear that more than I realized."

He looked at you then—really looked at you—and it made your heart skip. Not because it was romantic, but because it felt like he saw you. Like he’d been seeing you this whole time, even when you tried so hard to disappear into the background.

For a second, you sat in the quiet, hand in his, both of you absorbing the moment. Then you said, more to yourself than to him, "It’s...hard to accept help when you’re used to feeling like a burden."

He didn’t try to offer some corny fix-it response. Didn’t say "you’re not a burden" or "you should talk to someone." He just gave your hand the lightest squeeze. "Whatever it is, I got you. I won’t do that again unless I feel that there’s serious danger. Mental, physical…you know." Jungwon pursed his lips, showcasing his small dimples. Took everything in you not to poke them.

But you sighed of relief, "Thank you,"

He smiled at you—soft and genuine, the kind of smile that didn’t ask for anything in return. "Of course."

You let your eyes fall to your intertwined hands again, then gave his a gentle squeeze back before slowly pulling away. Not because you wanted to, but because any longer and you were scared of what it might start to mean. Thus, you just started to fill the silence. "You know, I actually had a Greek mythology phase too." 

Jungwon’s brows perked up, "Really?" He leaned back on the couch as he grabbed your mug to pass it to you as he grabbed his. 

Smiling, "Yeah, I watched this entire video on the history of Greek mythology. It was like…from the very beginning with the sun, the moon, all that. Then to like the stories of Arachne and the achilles heel thing." You looked down at your mug, your finger slowly circled the rim of it. "Basically the chronology of it." You sipped the tea, letting it warm your insides.

He smiles, "Arachne? I don’t quite remember that one—"

You perked up, "Oh my gosh, I get to teach the brilliant professor something?" 

Jungwon laughed gently, eyes not leaving you. "I guess so," he sipped his chamomile. "Do tell," 

You adjusted on the couch and put the mug down again. Sitting in the butterfly position on the couch and you hugged one of the throw pillows to your chest. "Okay, so basically Arachne was a very skilled weaver. By the way, there are a few different tellings but I’m just going by Ovid’s—the Roman poet’s—account. Okay wait," You smiled brightly as you started, getting excited as you love to show off your knowledge. But you also felt some sort of catharsis of having someone to listen to you.

"So yes, Arachne was so boastful of her skills as a weaver that she challenged Athena—we all know Athena—to see who could weave the best. So they did and whatever," you waved your hands around as you rambled. "So get this, Athena weaved a tapestry that showcased idiotic mortals like Arachne that dared to challenge the gods. Arachne depicted gods—specifically Zeus, Athena’s dad—abusing mortal women. And she did so beyond well—are you following?" You put your hand out to make sure he was listening.

Jungwon grinned as he leaned in a little, eyes warm with amusement and interest. "Yes ma’am."

You beamed, encouraged. "So Athena was pissed because she saw that for one: Arachne not only outdid her—but also disrespected her and the gods with her tapestry. So she breaks Arachne’s loom, tears her tapestry, and beats her. Arachne—so humiliated—tries to hang herself but Athena stops her. Cursing her and turning her into the first spider."

Jungwon blinked. "Wow…"

"Mhm," You nodded, "This is where people say ‘arachnid’ and ‘arachnophobia’ originate. But in a way, it’s an onus probandi of how those in power treat others that just aren’t on their level. Just the overall politics behind it…"  

He hummed thoughtfully, letting the silence fill with your excitement. "So it wasn’t about arrogance?" Jungwon smiled gently, enjoying your tirade. And while the story itself was dark—seeing you feel fulfilled at getting to recount something you knew felt good enough.

"Actually no," you shook your head, pursing your lips as you tried to mentally unravel. "It’s just more so about the discomfort. Like the dissonance of it. Athena knew what was wrong, but seeing yourself in the mirror isn’t always nice."

He already knew that—all of it. You spotted Metamorphoses tucked between a collection of Yeats and some worn poetry journals on the shelf behind him. But you didn’t call him out. Didn’t ruin the game. Instead, you just let yourself enjoy the way he looked at you like every word out of your mouth was brand new.

It hit you then, quietly, how carefully he was listening. Not out of obligation, or boredom disguised as politeness. He was fully tuned in—not just to the story, but to you. And maybe it was the tea, or the late hour, or the way your hand had still not quite forgotten the shape of his—but the realization made your chest feel a little too full.

So you smiled, softer this time, letting your eyes drop from his face to the spine of that familiar book. You said nothing.

But a part of you—traitorous and stupidly hopeful—filed it away anyway.

—

Riki walked back to his dorm as he’s never felt so sick to his stomach in his life.

Seriously, you like Dr. Yang? Even if you denied it, he could tell. How you were just left unattended in his office, laid up on his couch, a random book on your lap? He saw the tenderness in your eyes, how protective you already were of him. The way you said his name like if you did then all of your prayers would be answered. A part of Riki knew that he had nothing to worry about, you were the student and he was the professor, the educator. As young as he is and as much as he’s accomplished thus far, there’s no way he’d throw all of that away for you. Someone like you.

You were awkward, had low self-esteem, anxious, and only mildly neurotic. Okay, maybe a little more than mild but it was sort of endearing. At least to Riki. Actually, what did that fucking dork do to deserve you? Riki’s been here all along. Doing his best to be a friend, he hasn’t been the best but that’s okay! At least you have someone beside yourself.

Sure, Jungwon was cool. Funny, warm, radiant, irritatingly handsome, and everything that anyone could swoon over. He was accomplished and considerate. 

All of the things that Riki was or could be. He just so desperately wished you could see it. 

Yes, he sort of bullied you. He did call you pathetic and frequently belittled you, but it was all in good fun. He got off on seeing you cower, see that fear in your eyes when he even looked at you for more than three seconds. Riki entered his dorm, slamming the heavy metal door behind him as he slid out of his sneakers. Stepping out of them by leaning his weight on the back of them, then recklessly throwing his sweater down on the floor. Pacing the space between his bed and the desk, he ran his hand through his hair as he felt himself slightly tugging at the roots of it. His breath was labored, stomach burning and twisting, hands shaking, sweat building on his forehead. Riki was losing himself, falling short of the cool façade that he had always been so good at maintaining. 

He was unraveling.

And for what? A girl who flinched when he raised his voice? Who could barely hold eye contact when he leaned in too close?

But still—you were his. Not officially, not romantically, maybe not even in any real way that held weight in the world outside his head. But in his gut, deep in that dark, corrosive part of him, Riki knew: you belonged to him. Not in the healthy, reasonable way. In the ‘you get under my skin and I don’t know how to live without it’ kind of way. The kind of way that made him feel both powerful and powerless all at once. He clenched his fists and sat down on the edge of the bed, bouncing his knee, shaking. He couldn’t get your face out of his head—the way you smiled at Jungwon, that stupid, soft, precious smile like you trusted him.

It made Riki’s stomach churn. Because he knew what that trust looked like on you. How rare it was. And how quickly it could be broken.

"Fuck," he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. His voice was hoarse with resentment, like the emotion had been smoking cigarettes in his chest all night. "No, no, no."

He couldn’t stop thinking: did Jungwon touch you?

Not like that. No—God, he hoped not like that. But like...did he touch your hand? Your arm? Did you let him? Did you lean into it?

Riki leaned forward though, elbows on his knees, eyes dark as they burned into the floor.

You wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

But what if you already did?

What if you looked at Jungwon the way you used to look at him?

Before all of this, you used to look at him shyly. That at the beginning, the little banter and wit used to be fun. Beneath the little competition was some sort of lightness. But even before that, Riki could tell that you had thought he was cute at least, a little crush. Which he’s used to from people. Lingering glances, how your posture shifted talking to him, you could never look him in the eye as you laughed softly at his jokes even when he wasn’t trying. But he saw you struggling to make friends, struggling to get on with your peers. Getting rejected left and right by others and a part of him wanted to step in to defend you. To tell them that you weren’t weird or a loser. But he never did, he just agreed with them. He conformed and followed along with them because he’d rather be accepted by all than just you. Someone miniscule that was easily forgotten to most. 

But not him, never him.

You were never forgettable to Riki. You were the first one to laugh at his jokes before you even really knew him. The one who always showed up on time, even when nobody else did. Who had a weird way of tapping your fingers when you were anxious and tried to act like it was just fidgeting. You were so easy to read and so damn hard to shake. So yeah, maybe he liked when you looked at him like he could ruin you. Maybe he leaned into it. Maybe he said things that made you flinch—watched you crumble just a little, because it meant you were still his. Still reacting to him.

He didn’t even care what he said to you, he just cared that this beautiful girl that didn’t comprehend her beauty—was reacting to him. He had gotten used to your attention and affections and hated how dependent he was on you for that high every single time. Jungwon didn’t understand it, at least not from his perspective. And he never would, he’d never understand what you and Riki had. 

But he was going to make him understand.

—

Do you ever get a sense of impending doom?

Like you wake up with a pit in your stomach and you can’t explain why. Nothing has happened yet, but something feels…off. Like the day has already decided it’s going to go badly and you’re just the last one to find out.

Those are the kinds of days where everything starts slightly wrong.

Your phone dies overnight even though you swear you plugged it in. The sky outside is gray and heavy, but you convince yourself it’s fine—until you step outside and realize it’s way colder than it looked from the window. Too late to go back for a jacket now, because your class is all the way across campus and you’ve already been late twice this week.

So you suck it up. It’s fine. You’ll deal with it. Maybe eat some ginger later so you don’t catch a cold.

Just this cloud looming over your head as it dampened a side of you that tried to mask. But that’s all you could do right now, nothing bizarre happened. Nothing that could start to have you misaligned. At least not now anyway.

—

Across campus, Jungwon was being called into the dean’s office.

He hadn’t thought much of the email at first. It had come in early that morning while he was reviewing lecture notes, subject line simple and clinical: Please stop by my office when you have a moment.Not unusual. Professors were called in all the time for scheduling issues, department updates, student concerns.

Still, something about the wording had been…oddly stiff.

Jungwon adjusted the strap of his bag as he walked down the administrative hallway, the quiet there always a little heavier than the rest of campus. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, and the carpet swallowed the sound of his footsteps.

When he reached the door, he knocked twice.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

Jungwon stepped in with a polite smile already prepared. "Good morning, Dean Park. You wanted to see—"

He stopped when he noticed the expression on the Dean’s face. Not cavalier, not angry. Just stern. Too serious for a routine check-in. "Please," Dean Park said, gesturing to the chair across from his desk.

Jungwon sat. And that was when the pit started forming in his stomach too.

"So…Mr. Yang—it’s been brought to my attention that you’ve been spending a considerable amount of time with one of your students outside of class." He straightens, folding his hands on the mahogany desk. The only noise being the pendulum on the other end of it. 

Jungwon blinked. "I’m sorry?"

"A report was filed this morning." 

"I…" Jungwon shook his head in disbelief, silence insisting as he tried to formulate a semblance of a word. His mind was scrambling to catch up with what he’d just heard. "I’m not sure what you mean by ‘outside of class,’ sir. And what report?"

Dean Park studied him for a moment, expression unreadable.

"A student has expressed concern," he said carefully. "Specifically regarding the nature of your interactions with them in your office."

Jungwon’s stomach dropped. Your face flashed across his mind before he could stop it. He sat up a little straighter in the chair. "With respect, Dean Park," he said, voice steadier than he felt, "my office hours are open to any student who needs help. If someone came to speak with me about coursework or academic concerns, that’s well within university policy."

The dean didn’t immediately respond. Instead, he opened a folder sitting on his desk. "That may be," he said slowly. "However, the report suggests the interactions may have gone beyond that."

"Again, sir. I’m not sure what you—"

"Mr. Yang."

Dean Park’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was firm enough to cut cleanly through the room. "This is a serious allegation."

He folded his hands again, fingers steepled now as he regarded Jungwon across the desk.

"I am not making any conclusions about your guilt at this time," he continued evenly. "But if the claims outlined in this report are accurate, the repercussions would be…significant."

Jungwon felt his stomach twist. Significant. That word alone carried enough weight to sink a career.

"Which is why," Dean Park said, tapping the folder lightly with one finger, "I need you to be completely honest with me."

A beat passed.

"Have you been meeting privately with this or any student outside of your scheduled office hours?"

Jungwon’s heart was beating in his ears, drowning out of the click-clacking of the pendulum on the desk. For the first time in a very long time could he finally identify what it felt like to be a fucking hypocrite.

He has a PhD in Theology. 

Years of his life were spent studying moral philosophy, religious ethics, the long, complicated history of human temptation and restraint. He had written entire papers about the responsibility people carried when placed in positions of power. About the dangers of blurred boundaries. About the quiet arrogance of believing you were the exception to the rule.

If Jungwon knew anything besides Greek mythology, it was that people rarely believed they were doing something wrong while they were doing it.

It always started smaller than that. A conversation that lasted a little longer than it should. A door left closed instead of open. A student lingering on the couch while he pretended not to notice how comfortable the moment had become.

None of it had felt inappropriate at the time. But sitting here now, under the weight of Dean Park’s gaze, it suddenly looked very different. Jungwon swallowed.

"No." He shook his head. "No. I’ve never spent time with any student outside of my office hours."

—

You got up to your usual routine. Despite the nagging feeling—you had deadlines. The agitating, fluorescent lights above hummed in the quiet library. 

In the small nook that you were in, there weren’t many people in your line of sight. All you could see where the metal shelves were starting to collect dust. The setting sun that shone through the stained glass window reminded you of just how old this building was. The table you sat at, so small—but just enough space for you and your laptop. Which was all you needed right now. 

You typed, typed, and typed away but felt you weren’t getting anywhere. The cogs in your brain were useless without some sort of direction. You kept typing, then deleting, typing half sentences—then rearranging them. Writing things that really had no meaning. 

Fuck…this is pointless.

With a grunt, you closed the lid of your laptop. Sighing, as you pout—leaning against the back of your chair—and hold your head. Eyes looking down as they trace every last detail of the wooden table—you could practically feel your head throbbing from the outside. You were hard pressed for these deadlines and you had the motivation. But nothing to help you to actually conceptualize it and put your words to text. Not a single coherent thought to put on the page. 

But fortunately, you had as much luck as a broken mirror.

It happened in a flash. You closed your eyes, blinking as you started to carefully massage your temples. Then the moment you opened them again—a strong hand was played firmly on the table. Right before your eyes.

Only then did you flinch, placing your hand on your heart as you gasped. "Oh shit!" 

A slow chuckle followed. "Relax," Riki said, pulling the chair across from you without asking. "So jumpy…"

He leaned his elbows on the table, eyes flicking over your laptop.

"Still stuck on that paper?" he asked lightly. "You’ve been staring at that screen for, what…twenty minutes now?"

Your eyes flit to the side, "you’ve been watching me for twenty minutes…?" You didn’t think your instincts were so inconsistent.

He interlocked his fingers together, setting his chin on them as he shrugged. A small smirk playing on his face. His eyes glinted, like there was a fun little secret that he just couldn’t wait to share. 

"What do you want, Riki?" You huffed, rubbing your eyes as they burned from staring into the bright screen. 

For once, he smiled. Genuinely. A small flutter in his stomach as he finds that his mood lifts. "Nothing. I just…wanted to see what you had planned this weekend."

You blinked at him, that wasn’t the answer you expected. Your brows knit together slightly. "Why?"

Riki shrugged, leaning back in the chair like he had all the time in the world. One ankle crossed over his knee, posture loose, relaxed. "I was thinking," he said, tapping his fingers once against the table, "maybe we could hang out."

You couldn’t remember the last time Riki had asked to spend time with you without it sounding like a challenge or a joke at your expense. If anything, he was the one daring other people to talk to you. He was seconds from putting a ‘kick me’ sign on your back.

Your gaze drifted down to the table. "That’s…random," you murmured.

"Is it?" His tone was light.

When you didn’t immediately answer, Riki tilted his head slightly, watching you the way someone watches a puzzle they’ve already solved. "You look tired," he added.

Your shoulders stiffened a little. "I’m just stressed about this paper."

"Ah." His gaze flicked to your laptop again. "For Dr. Yang’s class, right?"

Your fingers paused against the edge of the table. "…Yeah."

"Well, I’m sure he’s in his office now." Riki nods to the exit. "I can walk you over—"

"What’s wrong with you? We’re not friends. Nor do you actually give a fuck about me, Riki." You squint, shaking your head in disbelief. 

He hums out a small laugh. "On the contrary, sweetheart. I actually care more than you think." He lets his hands go, rolling up his sleeves as he extends his long arms across the table. Flashing his strong arms and even flashier, silver watch. Without another word, he carefully grabs your hands. Tracing your knuckles with his thumbs as he feels himself start to feel a sense of vindication. He’s close. So close to you and he can feel it. Physically and in any other sense.  Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him across the small table, the faint scent of his cologne, the steady pressure of his hands holding yours in place. For a moment, he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

And something in his expression shifted—subtle, but unmistakable. Like a tension finally easing beneath the surface.

Like something had just fallen into place.Riki’s thumbs were still tracing slow circles over your knuckles. "You know," he said lightly, like he was commenting on the weather, "people talk a lot on this campus."

Your brows pulled together. "What are you—"

A phone buzzed somewhere behind you.

Then another.

And another.

The quiet corner of the library shifted almost instantly. A couple of students near the shelves lifted their heads, glancing down at their screens. Someone whispered something under their breath. You barely noticed at first. Your attention was still caught on the strange look in Riki’s eyes. "Especially about professors," he added.

That made you pause. "…What?"

Riki didn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze drifted past your shoulder, watching the room like he was waiting for something to happen.

Another phone buzzed on the table behind you.

"Did you see this?" someone whispered.

"No way…"

"Wait—is that the same guy from the theology department?"

Your stomach tightened. Slowly, you pulled one of your hands free from Riki’s grip and reached for your phone beside the laptop.

The screen lit up with a flood of notifications.

Department announcements. A campus forum thread climbing rapidly with new replies. Your chest felt suddenly tight as you opened the first message.

Campus Notice – Department of Religious Studies

Professor Jungwon Yang has been placed under temporary administrative review following allegations of inappropriate conduct with a student. Until further notice, all classes and office hours under his supervision are suspended.

For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.

You read them again.

And again.

Your heartbeat slammed against your ribs. "That’s…" you whispered.

Your vision flickered across the screen as more messages poured in.

Didn’t he just start teaching here? I heard it was with a student from one of his level one classes. Apparently someone reported seeing them alone in his office.

The air around you suddenly felt too thin. "That’s not—" Your voice cracked.

Across the table, Riki finally leaned back in his chair—letting your hand go. He looked almost relaxed now. Like someone who had just finished something difficult.

Or satisfying. "You okay?" he asked casually.

You looked up at him, eyes wide.

And for the first time that day, the pit in your stomach dropped all the way to the bottom. Because Riki wasn’t surprised. Not even a little. "Did…did you do this?" Your voice gave a little, heart thumping loudly in your ears that even if he were to answer—you may not even hear him. 

Riki didn’t immediately respond.

Your chair scraped loudly against the floor as you pushed back from the table. "Oh my god," you whispered. Your hands moved on instinct—shoving the laptop into the sleeve, fumbling as you tried to force it into your backpack. Your fingers wouldn’t cooperate, trembling so badly you nearly dropped the zipper. "God, no. No, no, no." Your vision blurred suddenly, the shelves and tables melting into indistinct shapes as your eyes burned. "This isn’t real," you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

Across the table, Riki finally stood. "Hey," he said quietly.

The sound of his voice made something inside you snap.

You shook your head, stepping back from the table like distance might somehow fix this. "Don’t," you choked. "Don’t talk to me right now." Your chest felt tight, like you couldn’t pull in enough air. "Don’t talk to me ever."

You brush past him, throwing your backpack over your shoulder as you hurried to the exit. Speedwalking to your—rather, someone else’s—demise. 

Riki didn’t follow.

He just stood there for a moment, the faint warmth of where you’d been still lingering in the air between the table and his chest.

Slowly, he inhaled. Your perfume clung faintly to the fabric of his sleeve where your shoulder had brushed past him. His eyes closed.

For a second, the chaos of the library—the whispers, the buzzing phones, the shifting chairs—faded into background noise. All that remained was the echo of you leaving.

Riki opened his eyes again, staring at the empty doorway. Then, almost absently, he dragged his thumb across his knuckles—the same place he’d been tracing yours minutes ago.

—

Oxygen didn’t matter. Nothing mattered to you anymore as you ran halfway across campus—haphazardly knocking into people, you wouldn’t be surprised if your laptop had a dent in it the way that it hit a lightpost. 

The elevator was too slow. So you took the stairs. 

By the third flight your lungs burned, breath scraping your throat like sandpaper. 

When the top of the stairs came on the horizon, your legs felt like Jell-O, threatening to buckle beneath you. You caught yourself on the rusted handrail, fingers slipping against the cold metal. The stairwell reeked faintly of bleach and something salty—old sweat soaked into concrete. Your lungs burned, each breath scraping painfully through your chest until your vision blurred at the edges.

But you couldn’t stop moving.

Your footsteps echoed too loudly in the concrete shaft and finally, you opened the door to look side-to-side—scanning the hallway only to find it empty. Almost ghostly.

But the fluorescent lights sang above your head as you ran down the hall. 

When you’d make your way down this hall, you used to associate it with excitement. Comfort. A slight feeling in your stomach that you didn’t know how to put your finger on.  It was the hallway where you’d first knocked nervously on his door.

Where he’d opened it with that warm, patient smile—like he had nowhere else to be, like your questions actually mattered.

Where conversations that were supposed to last ten minutes stretched into an hour without either of you noticing.

You used to slow down when you got close to his office.

Now you were sprinting.

Your shoes squeaked sharply against the polished floor as you turned the final corner—

—and stopped.

The door to his office stood closed. 

And through the small window in the door, you saw Jungwon’s back turned. He reached for various books on the shelf behind his desk as he tossed them haphazardly into a cardboard box. Like it didn’t matter anymore. For a moment, you didn’t move. You just stared.

The familiar office looked wrong somehow. Half the shelves were already empty, papers stacked in uneven piles across the desk. The couch where you’d spent so many afternoons sat untouched in the corner, a forgotten book still resting on the armrest.

Your throat tightened.

He picked up another book.

Paused.

Then set it down harder than necessary inside the box. The sound carried faintly through the door.

Something in your chest twisted painfully. You lifted your hand before you even realized you were doing it.

Your knuckles hovered inches from the wood. For a second, you hesitated.

Then you knocked.

Jungwon froze.

His shoulders went rigid, hand still resting on the edge of the box. Slowly, he turned toward the door—and when his eyes met yours through the small window the color drained from his face. The springs in the door handle creaked as you slowly opened the door. 

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Jungwon stood behind his desk, one hand still resting on the edge of the cardboard box. A few books were stacked unevenly inside—some of them you recognized instantly from the shelves you’d spent so much time staring at while pretending not to be nervous.

The room felt smaller now.

Too quiet.

Your chest heaved as you tried to catch your breath from the run up the stairs, but it still felt like there wasn’t enough air in the world.

"Jungwon—" Your voice cracked, as you slowly shut the door with a click.

"It’s Dr. Yang." He said immediately. "And I’d rather you left the door open, thank you."

The words landed like a slap as your hand froze on the handle.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, stiffly, you pulled the door back open. The hallway outside hummed faintly with distant footsteps and muffled voices—proof that anyone could walk past and look inside.

You swallowed hard. "…Right."

Jungwon turned back to the box on his desk, picking up another book like the conversation was already over.

But his movements weren’t steady.

The book slipped slightly in his grip before he forced it into the box. "You shouldn’t be here," he repeated, quieter this time.

"Look, I didn’t report you." You sniffled, wiping your eyes as you wrapped your arms around yourself. That was the only form of self-soothing that you knew. "I wouldn’t do that."

"Well it doesn’t matter what you would and wouldn’t do. Because I’m out of here." He huffed, brushing his hair back and out of his face.

"What…?" Your eyes widened.

"I’ve been suspended." The words hung in the air. "Indefinitely."

"Ju—Dr. Yang," your voice shook as you tried to stifle your tears. "I’m so sorry—"

"Don’t bother," he smiled bitterly, the small dimples of his hardly showing were your surefire sign that he wasn’t as fine as he says. "This was my fault."

You shook your head frantically, "it’s not. Riki. It was him!" Your eyes stung with tears again as your breath started to thin. "It’s him! Always!" Letting out a sob as you gestured around the room. Not even caring, you shut the door to his dismay.

Jungwon’s hands froze mid-motion, a stack of papers trembling slightly in his grip. He took a sharp breath, forcing his voice to remain calm, but it carried a weight you could feel. "Riki?" His eyes searched yours, dark and unblinking. "He…did this?"

You nodded, hiccuping between sobs. "He always does! I didn’t even—he just—he…" You broke off, shoving your hands into your hair as if you could pull the chaos out of your head. "I’m telling you—I told you! He’s sick. He’s a sadistic asshole and that’s why I didn’t want you to say anything to him because he does…this!" You gesture to him. His cluttered desk. His nearly empty bookshelf. The plaques with his degrees and certifications that could mean absolutely nothing if things went even more left.

Jungwon’s eyes darkened, the dimples in his cheeks vanishing as his jaw tightened. He took a step closer, the office suddenly feeling smaller, tighter, suffocating even. "I…I had no idea it was this bad," he murmured, voice low, almost hoarse. "I thought…I thought it was just typical college rivalry nonsense. But this—"

You hiccuped again, trembling, and buried your face in your hands. "It’s not just nonsense! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He manipulates, bullies…he—he makes people fear him, including me. I—I shouldn’t have let him…I shouldn’t—" You sat down on the worn couch, burying your head in your lap as you locked your hands over your head. "I shouldn’t have dragged you into my shit. I’m so sorry." Your chest felt like an elephant sat on top of it, lurching as you wept into your jeans. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry—"

Jungwon crouched down in front of the couch, careful not to loom over you too much. "Hey," he said softly, one hand hovering near yours before settling gently on your shoulder. "Stop apologizing. You didn’t drag me into anything. I…I wanted to help. That’s what friends do."

You shook your head violently, muffled sobs wracking your body. "No, you don’t understand. He—he’s…he’s not someone you deal with." Your words cracked and failed you, a choked gasp escaping instead. "He’s just—pure evil. He hates me. And he’s taking it out on you now."

Jungwon’s jaw tightened, a flash of anger flaring in his eyes, but he kept his voice low and steady. "I don’t care what he is. I care about you. And I’m not going anywhere."

You sniffled, trying to pull your hands from your face, but his presence made it harder to look away. "You can’t. You won’t be around and nearly everything in your life is about to crumble. E-everything you worked so hard for—" Shaking your head as tears come down in sheets.

"Look…if it gives you any consolation—" He sighed, closing his eyes as he felt the emotion build up further in his chest. "Gosh…" Turning his gaze away, dabbing his eyes with the pads of his fingers. 

Until he turned back to you with a small smile, huffing as he steadied himself. "If it gives you any consolation…" He carefully grabs your dampened, sweaty hands. Any other time he’d be repulsed, but he couldn’t help but overlook it all. "I’m not your professor anymore. So…I can be here for you." He nods slowly, patiently. "I can be here for you like I should. Like…like I’ve wanted to all along."

"Was my name on the report?" you barely choked out. "Was there—"

"To protect the identities of everyone involved, they won’t tell me who filed it," he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped.

"But," he continued, squeezing your hands once, gently, "they also won’t tell me who the student is supposed to be."

Your brows knitted together, confused.

"They’re treating it like a formal complaint," he explained. "Anonymous. Third-party report. Which means someone claimed they witnessed something."

Your breath caught. The name didn’t even need to be spoken. Jungwon watched the realization move across your face and his jaw tightened slightly.

"Hey," he said softly, grounding your hands again. "Look at me."

You forced your eyes up.

"This is important," he continued. "You were not named. And as long as you stay out of it, there’s a good chance they won’t drag you into the investigation."

"But they will drag you," you whispered.

A flicker of something tired crossed his face. "Yes," he admitted. "But that’s my problem to deal with," he added. "Not yours."

Your eyes filled again. "But it is mine," you insisted hoarsely. "Because he did this to hurt me. And now you’re—" Your voice cracked. "—paying for it."

For a moment Jungwon didn’t say anything. Then he shook his head slowly. "No," he said. His grip on your hands tightened just a little. "I made my own choices."

Your chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his voice.

"I let you stay here longer than I should have," he admitted softly. "I closed the door sometimes. I blurred lines that were supposed to stay very clear."

He exhaled through his nose. "So if someone decided to twist that into something else…" His shoulders lifted in a tired shrug. "…then I suppose I gave them the thread."

"Why—how is it that bad? It wasn’t like we were…inappropriate or anything?" You scoot over on the couch, making space for him to sit beside you.

Jungwon hesitated for a second before lowering himself down next to you. The cushions dipped slightly under his weight. "A bit," he said quietly. "But inappropriate isn’t just physical." He rested his forearms on his knees, staring down at the floor. "But universities don’t really wait for something to happen," he continued. "They step in when something looks like it could."

Your stomach twisted.

"They said it was a ‘boundary concern,’" he added with a dry huff. "A professor spending extended time alone with a student. Door closed. Personal conversations outside coursework. Allowing you to stay here in my absence." His fingers rubbed together absentmindedly, like he was still processing it. "To them, that’s enough. And realistically that is unethical. But again, that’s on me."

"But that’s ridiculous," you whispered.

"Maybe," he shrugged slightly. "But you have to understand, it’s not like this is high school where you’re a kid and I’m this age. That’s illegal and unethical and immoral and all of the other disgusting things. You and I are both adults and it’s not immoral and illegal. It’s simply unethical due to perceived power imbalances. Things like that could make one believe that I took advantage of you, coerced you, among other things."

You heard him. Understood him in full totality. But being a part of it was a very different feeling. Jungwon was three years older than you; it doesn’t sound crazy but you just hated that this was the reality of the situation. You wanted to refute it. To say that that’s incorrect because there was no coercion, mild flirting—maybe—but these rules are in place to protect others. And you were smart enough to know that. “I’d just hate for you to be angry at me.”

Jungwon leaned back slightly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "I’m not angry at you," he said gently. "I could never be. No matter how much I could even think to try—I couldn’t."

Your throat tightened. "I know," you murmured, even though the guilt still sat heavy in your chest.

For a moment neither of you spoke. 

Then his voice softened a little more. "And for what it’s worth…" he said, looking at you fully now, "I don’t regret the time we spent together."

Your eyes flickered to his. "You don’t?"

"No." He smiles softly, lifting his hand to place it on your hair, stroking it gently. "Not for a second." His voice broke as tears built up. Rather than his chest hurting, his stomach did.

Right as he looked you in the eye. In your red, swollen eyes. He saw everything that he worked for. Every accolade, every all-nighter, every program and research opportunity he took—Jungwon saw all of it crumbling before his eyes right before him. Every fellowship application he rewrote six times before submitting. Every professor that told him that he was brilliant, promising, the future of academia as they knew it.

And he was easy, just like every other young man his age—hearing such praise made him feel some sort of satisfaction. His chest puffed from the battery in his back.

Up until now, he could only remember as far back as his lover phase. 

His father was his best friend. Seeing him go to work, come home to him and his mother to support and care for them. Taking him to baseball and hockey games at one point. And Jungwon didn’t even care for sports—just seeing his dad cheer and fist pump whenever his favorite team scored made him feel a sense of pride. Getting to sit on his shoulders because he was too small to see over the adults in front of him. The roar of the stadium. His father fist-pumping when their team scored. The way his mom laughed every time Jungwon tried to mimic him.

And the day a ball sailed over the fence—

Right into his hands.

He could still remember the shock of it. The weight of it in his palm. Like the whole stadium had turned and looked at him for a moment. 

And he didn’t even care, he clapped. And cheered and smiled wide, kid teeth missing and all as he ruminated in the feeling of accomplishment.

Jungwon blinked. The office came rushing back into focus. The half-empty bookshelves. The cardboard box. And you sitting beside him on the couch.

He almost forgot that his hand was in your hair. Skimming his hand over and carefully tangling in your curls. "It’s okay if you do," you said, clearing your throat. Your face felt tight, sticky with dried tears. "It’s okay if you regret it. Me."

Jungwon went still. For a second he just looked at you, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. Then his brows drew together. "Regret you?" he repeated quietly.

Your gaze dropped to your hands. "Well…yeah." Your voice shrank a little. "You lost everything because of me."

A small breath left him—half disbelief, half something softer. "That’s not what happened."

You shook your head, stubborn even through the exhaustion. "It is."

He shifted slightly on the couch so he was facing you more fully now.

When you didn’t look up, his hand moved from your hair to your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. "I didn’t lose everything. The investigation is still ongoing and once they realize that I’m innocent and it didn’t go any further than me just providing sanctuary for you—then I’m still gonna be out of here anyway."

"No—out? Why—"

"It’s nothing for me to get another position," he said gently, shaking his head as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "My reputation would be cleared. I have a PhD. I could go anywhere. Do anything." His hand slipped from your chin to your cheek, cupping it lightly. "Research. Teaching somewhere else. Maybe even traveling."

The pad of his thumb brushed slowly across your cheekbone, wiping away the dampness there. "No rules," he murmured, eyes wide with hope.

"What about me?"

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Jungwon’s thumb paused against your cheek. For a moment he didn’t answer. His eyes searched your face, like he was trying to figure out whether you realized what you’d just asked. "What about you?" he echoed softly.

Your stomach twisted. "If you leave," you said quietly, "then…that’s it, right?"

The room felt smaller somehow. Jungwon exhaled slowly through his nose. "No," he said after a moment.

Your eyes lifted to his again.

"It doesn’t have to be." His thumb resumed its slow, absentminded movement against your cheek, brushing away the last traces of tears. "I’m not your professor anymore," he reminded you gently. "Which means there aren’t any rules about where you and I stand."

Your heart gave a small, startled thump.

"I don’t expect anything from you," he added quickly. "Especially not right now. You’ve been through enough today." His hand finally dropped from your cheek, resting loosely on the couch between you.

"But if you’re asking whether I’d disappear from your life…" A faint, tired smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Just make sure you have your passport, okay?"

For the first time today, a small—extremely minute—hint of sunshine appeared over your cloudy mind. A sense of warmth lit up in your stomach now that your vision started to clear. You no longer saw blue and gray. 

Letting out a small laugh, "okay." 

"Okay?" he repeated, a little amused. His grin widened just slightly, dimples finally showing again as he leaned back into the couch. "That’s a pretty big commitment," he teased gently. "You didn’t even ask where we’d go."

You sniffled, wiping under your nose with the sleeve of your sweater. "Anywhere," you murmured. "I’d go anywhere."

Jungwon’s smile faltered a bit, his spine straightening as he perceived you. As if he could see the cloud above you lifting. "Can I hug you?" The question came out quieter than he probably intended.

For a second you just looked at him, like the idea hadn’t even crossed your mind until he said it out loud. Then you nodded. "Of course."

It wasn’t dramatic. You didn’t hesitate. You just leaned toward him.

Jungwon opened his arms immediately, pulling you into him as gently as if you might break. Your forehead pressed against the side of his neck, curls brushing his jaw as his arms wrapped around your back.

He held you carefully at first. Then a little tighter.

Your shoulders shook once as the last of the day’s tension finally slipped out of you, but it wasn’t the kind of crying from earlier. It was quieter. Softer.

Jungwon’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, steady and warm. "We're gonna be okay," he murmured into your hair. "Everything will work itself out."

For a while neither of you said anything.

The office was still half empty. The cardboard box still sat on the desk. The future was still uncertain. But sitting there on the couch, wrapped up in each other, the world felt a little less like it was falling apart.

—

Every step you took down the hall and to the elevator felt like there were thirty pound weights on your ankles. Leaving that office felt like leaving behind a piece of your heart and you didn’t know what you’d do for the next weeks knowing that you couldn’t go back there. Regardless, looking Jungwon in the eye, seeing him reassure you despite how much even being in association with him screwed him over—you couldn’t help but feel a sense of indebtedness. On paper, yes, he should’ve known better. Yes, he should’ve ensured—as a professional that there were boundaries set in place. But when boundaries become blurry, you never know the line until you cross it. 

It wasn’t like you guys had sex. Kissed. Any of it.  But you couldn’t lie and say that there wasn’t intimacy. Talking about your interests. From the most surface level things to deep childhood lore.  Leaving you alone in his space, trusting you alone in his sanctuary. Letting you eat his snacks, touch his books and read them, nap on his couch. Spending hours talking about everything and nothing. 

It wasn’t romance. Not technically. But it also wasn’t nothing.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding. You stepped inside, pressing the button for the ground floor as the doors shut again with a soft thud. Your reflection stared back at you from the metal panels—eyes still puffy, curls slightly frizzed from where Jungwon’s fingers had been combing through them.

Your chest tightened again. Leaving that office felt wrong. Like abandoning something warm in the middle of winter. The elevator jerked softly as it reached the bottom floor.

Ding.

The doors slid open as cool air rushed in from the lobby as you stepped out, your mind still tangled in everything Jungwon had said. You pushed through the front doors to step outside and immediately stopped.

Riki was leaning against the metal railing at the bottom of the steps. Like he’d been there for a while. His eyes lifted the second the doors shut behind you. A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. "Wow," he said lazily.

His gaze dragged over your face—your swollen eyes, your flushed cheeks. "Looks like someone had a really productive meeting." Slowly, that hurt veered further along the spectrum of anger. But you were tired, exhausted. Worn down and ready to hit the transfer portal.

Seeing Riki wasn’t just bothersome anymore. Nor was it just inconveniencing. To put it simply, seeing him was like seeing a silhouette with flames around it. 

Your jaw tightened. For a moment you just stood there at the top of the steps, staring down at him.

Riki didn’t move. Didn’t even straighten up from where he leaned against the railing. He just watched you the same way someone watches a show they’ve already seen before. Waiting for their favorite part.

You descended the steps slowly. Each one felt deliberate. Heavy; and by the time you reached the bottom, you stopped a few feet away from him. Up close, the smugness in his expression was even worse. "What did you do?"

Riki tilts his head, almost amused. "That’s a pretty loaded question. I do a lot of things."

"What did you do to Dr. Yang?" You say slowly, each word dripping with venom.

"You’re so stupid." He shook his head, a repulsive smirk still insisting. "Thinking that he could ever actually care. Or give a fuck about you."

Your chest tightened. You swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise to your face. "Stop—"

"I'm not done."

Not a snap nor a threat. Just a fact, delivered the way you deliver something and finally decided to put it down. "I didn’t want this," Riki said. "Any of it. I actually liked him." His jaw shifted. "But I like you more."

"Don't—"

"You were going to get hurt." Still calm and speaking as if he was fully rational. "By him or someone else eventually. Someone was going to come along and see how easy you are to hold and just—" he exhaled through his nose, "—take advantage of that."

"So you did it first," you said. Your voice came out quieter than you wanted it to.

Something moved across his face. Something as simple as recognition. "Yeah," he said simply. "I did."

You laughed, and it came out broken. "You think that makes it okay."

"No." He said it without hesitation. "I think it makes you mine."

And there it was. The thing underneath the thing. Not an apology. Not a justification. Just ownership, plain and honest and completely terrifying.

"You have been making my life miserable," you said, and your voice cracked down the middle of it. "Since the day we got here. You made me scared to get out of bed. You made me cry myself to sleep. You made me feel like I was—" you shook your head, pressing your lips together because your eyes were burning and you refused, you absolutely refused, "—like I was nothing. Like I would always be nothing."

Riki looked at you. Just looked at you. "I know," he said quietly. And that was worse than any excuse he could've made.

"You don't get to just—" you started.

"You reorganize your pens when you’re anxious." His voice was different now. Lower. Almost careful, like he was handling something fragile. "Smallest to largest. Rainbow order. You do it without realizing." His eyes stayed on yours. "I’ve watched you do it a hundred times."

Your mouth closed.

"You eat the same thing when you’re stressed. You go to the quietest corner of the library when you need to think, not the closest one." Something shifted in his expression—so briefly, so terribly briefly—that it almost looked like tenderness. "Banana walnut. Not because it's your favorite. Because it's the one thing that tastes the same everywhere."

The world went very still. Because he was right. You'd never told anyone that. You'd never even said it out loud.

And for one second—just one—you saw him. Not the smirk or the cruelty or the years of damage he’d carved into you without apology. Just a boy who had been paying attention. Quietly, desperately, completely. A boy who knows you in a particular way you can only know someone you've been watching from a distance for far too long.

The boy who could have just been your friend.

It lasted exactly one second.

"I wanted to know everything," he said. And just like that the tenderness was gone, replaced by something rawer and more honest and so much worse. "I’m still dying to. Every single thing about you." His eyes darkened. "And I ruined it. I know I ruined it." A short, humorless breath. "But I couldn't just watch you walk around this campus like you were invisible and do nothing."

"So you made me scared of my own shadow." you whispered. "You made me afraid of you instead."

"I made you feel me." His voice dropped. "There's a difference."

"There isn't—"

"You felt everything." He stepped closer and you stepped back and the back of your heel caught the edge of the curb and you caught yourself and he watched all of it and kept coming anyway. "Every single day. Even now, you’re alive with it." His eyes burned into yours. "You’re not sleepwalking anymore."

"Don't come near me," you choked out, hand flying up between you. "I swear to God, don't you dare come near me."

He stopped.

Hands at his sides. Chest rising and falling. Eyes completely steady. "I love you," he said.

Not whispered. Not performed. Not offered with trembling hands or a breaking voice or any of the softness that would've made it easier to dismiss.

Just said. The way you say something you stopped needing anyone to validate a long time ago. And the worst part—the part that would keep you up at night long after all of this was over—was the ghost of that one second. The boy with the muffin and the quiet observations and the dying need to know more.

That boy loved you too. And he was the same person.

That was the thing you couldn't untangle. That was the thing that made your eyes sting and your hands shake and your heart do something awful and complicated in your chest. You understood him. God help you, for just one second, you understood him completely.

"I could never love you," you said. And you meant it entirely. And it cost you something anyway.

His jaw flexed once, fingers curling tighter at his sides until the knuckles blanched white. The street light caught the sheen in his eyes, but he blinked it away quickly, like even that small crack in his composure irritated him. "Fine. Be that way."

Riki shakes his head, brushing past you but stopping just short of being by your side. "But when he leaves…and he will," he said quietly.

He didn’t look at you when he said it. His shoulder brushed the air beside yours as he stopped just short of passing you completely. Close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, but not touching. "When he leaves," he continued, voice low and steady, "don’t pretend you didn’t know it was coming."

Your chest tightened. "He’s not leaving me," you snapped, even though the words sounded thinner than you wanted them to.

Riki gave a short, humorless laugh. "He’s leaving the entire campus."

"That’s not the same thing."

"It’s exactly the same thing."

Now he turned his head slightly, finally looking at you from the corner of his eye. "You think he’s going to build his life around you?" he asked. He continued. "You think when his reputation clears he’s going to stay here for the girl who got tangled up in the scandal that almost destroyed him?"

Your throat tightened. "He said—"

"He said a lot of things, didn’t he?" Riki cut in softly. His gaze flicked up toward Jungwon’s office window again.

"Men say a lot when the moment is right," he murmured. "Especially when someone’s crying in front of them. Believe me, I’d know."

Your stomach twisted. "Shut up." But your voice didn’t have much strength behind it anymore.

Riki watched you for a second longer. But right as he passed your shoulder, he leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to a near whisper.

"And when he’s gone," he said, "when the office is empty and he’s halfway across the world chasing the next thing…"

Your breath caught.

"…you’ll finally understand what I’ve been trying to tell you."

He straightened again and kept walking down the pathway. "You don’t belong in someone’s temporary life." His footsteps echoed against the concrete as he moved farther away. "You belong with someone who refuses to leave.”

—

The parking lot was almost empty by the time he stepped outside.

Most of the faculty had already gone home, the last bands of orange daylight long gone behind the buildings. The lamps along the lot buzzed faintly overhead, casting long pale cones of light across the asphalt. Jungwon walked slowly, the cardboard box balanced against his hip. The edges of the flaps had started to soften where his fingers had been gripping them all afternoon. Inside were the small things he hadn’t bothered leaving behind in the office—books he’d bought with his own money, a framed photo of his parents from a few years ago, a notebook full of half-finished research ideas.

His car sat alone near the far end of the row.

For a moment he just stood there, looking at it.

The silence of the campus at night felt different now. Emptier. Like something had already ended even though the official words hadn’t been spoken yet.

He popped the trunk. The lid lifted with a quiet metallic click.

Jungwon set the box down carefully inside, adjusting it so it wouldn’t slide when he drove. One of the books tipped sideways and he righted it automatically, pressing it back into place.

When he lowered the trunk again, the sound echoed softly through the lot. He exhaled, fiddling with the keyfob to unlock the driver’s seat.

Footsteps.

Fast. Thumping rapidly into the concrete.

Before his brain could even register the direction, a hand seized the front of his coat and slammed him backward against the car.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

Metal rang sharply behind his shoulders as Jungwon’s head snapped slightly to the side before he steadied himself, one hand instinctively coming up against the hood to keep his balance.

Riki’s grip tightened in his jacket, twisting his fist as he gathered his collar. "So. You figured it out. Congratulations."

For a second he said nothing. No struggle. No attempt to shove Riki off him.

He just huffed. Then, quietly: "I didn’t have to figure anything out."

Riki’s mouth twitched. "Oh?" His grip twisted tighter in the fabric of Jungwon’s coat. "So you’re saying you always knew?"

Jungwon didn’t answer right away. The parking lot lights flickered overhead, pale against the dark.

Finally—

"Yes."

That seemed to take a little wind out of Riki’s sails. His brows pulled together, like he’d expected anger. Or accusations. Something louder. But he could feel it. He could if he just kept pushing. "You’re not even going to ask why?" Riki said.

Jungwon studied him for a moment.

Up close, Riki looked worse than he had any other time he’d seen him—eyes bright in a way that didn’t look like excitement so much as exhaustion stretched too tight. "I’ve gotten all the information that I needed." The elder’s eyes veered off, refusing to look the manic person before him in the eye. Jungwon swipes the younger’s hand off of him. "Let me make something clear. I am an adult. I don’t play kid games, Mr. Nishimura."

Riki’s hand hung in the air for a second after Jungwon brushed it off. Then a slow smile crept onto his face. "There’s nothing kid-like about me."

Jungwon’s gaze slid back to him slowly. For a moment he didn’t speak, like he was deciding whether the comment deserved a response at all. Then his eyes drifted down Riki’s rumpled jacket, the tight set of his shoulders, the barely-contained agitation vibrating through him. "I’m aware," Jungwon said evenly. He reached up, smoothing the crease Riki had left in his collar. "There’s nothing childish about impulsivity, entitlement, or obsession. Adults display those traits every day."

Riki’s smile sharpened. "You’re talking about yourself now?"

Jungwon gave a faint breath through his nose that almost resembled a laugh. "No." His voice stayed calm, controlled. "I’m talking about you."

That landed squarely. Riki’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t interrupt.

Jungwon continued like he was explaining something in a lecture hall. "As if proximity is intimacy?" His eyes lifted, finally meeting Riki’s again. “Me being there for her doesn’t mean that anything transpired.”

Riki scoffed, but there was an edge to it now. "You think you’re better than me or something?"

Jungwon tilted his head slightly, brows furrowing in confusion.

"See?" Riki shrugs, gesturing to him. "This is exactly it. You pride yourself on being so articulate. A-and well read and knowledgeable but you don’t know the first thing about her—"

"You don’t know the first thing about me." Jungwon says sharply, his voice not daring to touch a higher decibel. 

"But I know that you aren’t as aware as you think." Riki’s face twisted in disgust. "There was no intimacy, are you serious?"

Jungwon’s eyes hardened slightly.

Riki let out a humorless laugh, pacing once in front of the car before turning back to him again. "Oh, right," he said, nodding slowly. "You’re going to pretend it was—what? Academic mentorship? Professional concern?" His hands spread in a mocking gesture. "You’re not any better than me. You’re just nice to her."

Jungwon didn’t move.

"You let her cry to you," Riki continued. "Let her nap on your couch like it was her living room."

His eyes burned now, sharp and restless. "You thought about her when she wasn’t around. Huh? Probably thought about how she tasted."

Jungwon’s jaw shifted slightly. "Careful," he said quietly.

Riki kept on. "Didn’t open the windows after she left your office. Wanting her scent to linger in the room."

The elder’s brows furrowed at the extremity. He wasn't this obsessive.

"Her laugh rang like a song that’s been stuck in your head for hours. Days." He pushed. "That look in her eye when she gets so excited about whatever she’s rambling about just makes you feel so…complete. Whole." Riki’s eyes darkened. "Yeah well I never got to look her in the eye. I always had to experience it through the lens of someone else!" His hand comes down on the top of Jungwon’s sedan.

The sound of his palm against the metal rang out and then dissolved into the quiet of the lot. Jungwon didn’t flinch.

"And you just—what? See I knew you were gonna be a problem. Thinking you could step to me like some knight in shining armor—well let me tell you something, Professor, she doesn’t need saving. She needs someone who’s gonna stay."

The elder man’s head tilted though his voice remained calm and gentle. "Why?"

Riki blinked. "What?"

"Why does she need someone who stays?" Jungwon’s voice was the same temperature it always was. Like he had nowhere else to be. "Why is that the thing you keep coming back to?"

"Because—" Riki started, then stopped.

The lot hummed quietly around them.

"Because everyone leaves her," he said finally. Quieter. Like the anger had found a hole somewhere and started draining out of it. "Everyone always has. No friends after high school, terrible relationship with her family. And she acts like it doesn’t bother her but it does. It—" He exhaled hard through his nose. "She puts up with it because she thinks that's just how it goes for her."

Jungwon said nothing.

"And you’re just gonna be another one," Riki continued, but the certainty in it had gone soft at the edges. "Another person that made her feel like she mattered and then disappeared."

"Maybe," Jungwon said again. Simply.

Riki’s eyes snapped up. "That doesn’t bother you?"

"It bothers me deeply." He held Riki's gaze. "Which is why I’m not disappearing."

Riki stared at him. Looking away and clenching his fists in a feeble attempt at masking his tornado of emotions. 

"So…what’s making you treat her this way? Since you seem to care so much, why hinder her from making friends? Why try to steal any and every chance of opportunity from beneath her?"

Riki’s laugh came out thin and hollow. "I don’t—that’s not what I was doing."

Jungwon just waited, leaning against the car. And that was just the thing about him that Riki hated. He never filled silences with noise. Simply gave you all the space in the world and let you meet him where he was. 

But the silence was insisting. Insisting on letting Riki marinate in his own wrongdoings. Not mistakes. Wrongdoings.

"I was…" He shakes his head slowly, in partial disbelief. "I loved her the best way I knew how." Letting his hands down by his sides in defeat. "Fuck…" He covered his eyes with his hands as he inhaled sharply. "I tried. I really…I loved her the best way I—" Riki’s breath came out uneven, shoulders curling forward like his body was trying to protect something it had already lost. His hands hung at his sides, useless. Eyes wet and jaw tight and nowhere to put any of it.

Jungwon looked at him for a long moment. Taking in the state of him not from the perspective of a student—a human being rather. Head hung, fists clenched as the younger man stood there with what seemed to be the world on his shoulders. Like his brain was cut right in half and both sides were processing different things. Different emotions. 

Shame, embarrassment, especially when you felt you were at a point of no return. Riki knew now more than ever that it was over. His time, his reign over your heart and mind was now over. No more. The empire has collapsed.

Jungwon shook his head, pitying him but it wasn’t like he’d let Riki know that. He was just as prideful as the next man. Fragile; and even then, finally coming to a realization. So he closed the distance and put his arms around him.

It wasn’t soft or comforting in any way. A hand pressed firmly between Riki’s shoulder blades. Reminding him to stay in his body. Even if it felt like it was all over. Riki went rigid for a half second, every instinct in him rearing up against it.

But then something just...gave. His forehead dropped to Jungwon’s shoulder and he exhaled—this long, wrecked, shuddering thing that had probably been living in his chest for years. His fingers curled into the fabric of the older man’s coat and he didn’t say anything because there was nothing left to say.

Jungwon didn’t say anything either. Just held him. One hand steady on his back, the other still at his shoulder. It lasted maybe thirty seconds.

Then Jungwon stepped back. Straightened his coat. Looked at Riki the same way he always looked at him—clear, unhurried, without judgment. Got in the car and drove away.

Riki stood there in the empty lot for a long time after the tail lights disappeared. The cold had gotten sharper without him noticing. His face felt tight and his chest felt scraped out and somewhere across campus you were probably in your dorm not thinking about him at all.

He put his hands in his pockets. Turning around to start walking. Unsure where, just…toward something. Somewhere.

— Months later —

May always smelled like cut grass and sunscreen and the particular anxiety of people who had procrastinated and waited until the last minute to move with urgency to pack their shit and get out of the dorms.

The hallway was chaotic. Cardboard boxes stacked against walls, someone’s entire closet spilled out onto the floor three doors down, the elevator perpetually occupied by carts piled so high you couldn’t see the person pushing them.

You sat cross-legged on your bare mattress and looked at your room.

It looked nothing like yours anymore. The fairy lights down. The pictures off the corkboard, leaving little ghost-holes where the thumbtacks had been. Your rainbow gel pens in a ziplock bag inside a box instead of lined up by the window where they belonged. It looked like a room that was ready to forget you.

You reached for your phone.

The texts had been sparse. Purposeful. You’d send him a question about the paper you were finishing for his replacement, something academic and safe, and he’d answer it and then ask how you were holding up and you’d say fine and mean mostly and he seemed to understand the difference.

But his last message, sent three days ago, was still sitting unanswered at the bottom of the thread.

Jungwon: Cleared officially. As of this morning.

And then, after a few minutes:

Thought you should know.

You’d read it approximately forty times. Then typed now, sitting on your bare mattress surrounded by your boxed-up life:

You: I know this is late. I’m really glad.

You stared at it. Then added:

I'm moving out today.

Sent it before you could think too hard about why you wanted him to know that.

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

Jungwon: Where are you going for the summer?

You smiled despite yourself. Small and private, just for the empty room.

You: Home. Unfortunately.

Jungwon: How unfortunate are we talking…

You: On a scale of one to ten. Probably an eight.

Jungwon: That bad?

You: My mom will ask me within the first hour if I’ve been eating enough. And my dad will ask me within the first day what my plan is and I have neither an appetite nor a plan so…

A longer pause this time. You could almost feel him smiling somewhere.

Jungwon: I might be in the city. Early June so…About two weeks from now.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen.

You: Which city?

Jungwon: Whichever city you’re in.

You set the phone down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a second. The same water stain you’d been looking at for months, shaped vaguely like a misshapen star.

Outside in the hallway someone dropped something heavy and swore loudly and someone else laughed.

Then you picked the phone back up.

You: Good to know. Let me know, of course.

Jungwon: I will.

You locked your phone and sat there for a moment in the quiet of your almost-empty room. No Riki appearing in doorways. No dread pooling in your stomach at the sound of footsteps you recognized. Just May pouring through the window and the distant sound of campus slowly exhaling.

But the envelope was plain. Just your name on the front in his handwriting, which you recognized immediately because it was annoyingly neat for someone who acted like the world’s rules didn’t apply to him.

You stood in your doorway for a second just looking at it.

Then you picked it up, went inside, and sat down atop your desk—ignoring the chair and just sitting on the wooden surface itself. Then opened it to see a solid three pages:

I don’t know how many times I started this. Enough that I have a small graveyard of crumpled paper in my trash can and my roommate thinks I’ve lost my mind. Maybe I have.

I’m not going to open with an excuse. I had a lot of them prepared and I threw those drafts away too because you deserve better than my reasons. You’ve been listening to my reasons for three years and they never added up to anything good so I’m going to try something different.

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the muffin. I know that sounds small but I think about it more than I should—the way you looked when I took it back. Like you’d expected it. Like you were already braced for it. And I did that. I contributed to your lack of trust in people and I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for the internship. I didn’t actually want it. I think you knew that. I just couldn’t stand the idea of you having something I didn’t give you.

I’m sorry for the report. That one I’ll carry for a long time. He’s a good person and he didn’t deserve it and neither did you and I did it anyway because I was scared and jealous and I told myself it was protection when really it was just—me. Being exactly what I always accused everyone else of being.

I’m sorry for bullying you. Not the watered down version of that word—I mean I was cruel to you consistently and on purpose and I knew exactly what I was doing every time. I made your life harder than it already was and I did it because I could and that’s the truth of it.

I saw you and was done for. I need you to know that even if it doesn’t mean anything now. On the first day of orientation you were sitting in the third row and you had your pens lined up on the desk and you were so focused and so completely unbothered by the fact that no one was talking to you and I thought—she’s going to be someone. She already is.

And then I spent three years making sure you doubted that.

I think I loved you the best way I knew how and my best was genuinely terrible and that’s not your problem to carry, it’s mine. 

But if it gives you any closure, as part of my disciplinary action—I’m on formal academic probation. I’ve been suspended from all of my leadership roles. And even better for the world (and myself, one may think) I was mandated to attend counseling. Though I’m in Cognitive Behavioral Therapy now.

I may not have a reasonable explanation for my past behavior. But I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder and Depression. So yes, there is a reason. A why and how. But I'm sorry you had to suffer at the hands of that.

I put in for a transfer. I leave after the end of my probation which is in December—the end of first semester. And even if I see you, I wouldn’t approach you. Not because I don’t want to but I just don’t think I earned the right. I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel guilty or reach out or anything like that. I just thought you should know that I’m not going to be something you have to navigate anymore. You get to have this campus back. You always should have. It was always your world and however much I envy anyone that gets to be in it—you should have the best one. The happiest one.

I hope you get the internship. I hope you get everything you’ve ever wanted. Everything you see when you close your eyes.

I hope he’s good to you. He will be. I think that’s what made me the angriest—knowing that he actually would be.

You don’t have to forgive me. I’m not asking you to. I just needed you to know that I know. All of it. I know exactly what I did. But I hope that there can be a day where we run into each other by chance ten years from now and can chat over a coffee. About any and everything. I’ll hold onto that hope tightly in the meantime.

Happy Holidays, Happy Birthday, Happy Halloween, Congraduations, Congratulations on the engagement, and everything else for your future. Hopefully I’ll be lucky enough to say ‘I knew her when…’

Love,

— Riki

— Two weeks later —

You walked down the street with a heavy heart. But another part of you felt a sense of freedom. A lightness that you haven’t been able to taste in a very long time. Everything felt different. Waking up and looking in the mirror wasn’t as hard as it was. Eating a piece of cake didn’t make you feel guilty anymore. You actually dared to do your makeup this morning. Even though those worries didn’t just magically disappear—you still ended up crying when you saw the letter R—you didn’t feel bad for existing anymore like you used to.

The last you heard of Riki was when that letter was slid under your door. In some way, you wondered who delivered it. Maybe one of his friends. Maybe him. And even that hurts knowing that he wasn’t man enough to look you in the eye. But after everything, you took it for what it was. Grateful for the closure that he could give you anyway. So you moved on. At least as best as you could, that is.

Jungwon and you have been in constant communication, though. From sporadic texts, to late night calls when he made it home after a long day. Since leaving your university, Jungwon’s signed on to be an independent researcher. Loosely affiliated with other universities enough to gain resources such as funding and whatnot. The person who gets commissioned to write books, contribute to academic journals, speak at conferences internationally. But lately, he’s been at his home base before he goes off to whatever else he wants to do. You’re not sure—by the time you both speak, you like to focus on the moment.

But today, you both have arranged to meet at a cafe that you enjoy going to every now and then. It’s a decently popular spot and you don’t expect him to know about it. It’s not like he knows anything about your hometown. You both agreed to meet at one PM—you open the door to the cafe, letting the little bell on the door jingle as it opens and closes. It was about twenty minutes until your coordinated time but you were nothing if not punctual. Or at least you tried to be for him. Like always, you scanned the place to see if any spots were open. Fortunately, there was a perfect two-seater right in the corner of the cafe. Quiet, a bit dark though. There was nothing there but a small painting that the owners placed just for the sake of filling the space. Then there was another space, another two-seater. Right in front of the windows. Both metal seats glinted and reflected off the glass. A small pot of daffodils hung over the center of the table from a chain that was connected to the ceiling. You tilted your head with a slight smile—a warm feeling rose in your chest as you carefully approached the table. Unsure of what seat to take, you just stare for a moment before you just sit at any one. Maybe Jungwon will remind you of which seat he wanted when he got here.

For a while, you debate ordering anything just yet. Wanting to revel in how fun it’d be to stand in line with him. Chatting as you both browsed the menu knowing that you’d probably just order the same thing you’d order at any other cafe that you’ve been to. The door jingles as it opens suddenly, drawing you out of the fantasy. Subconsciously, you sit up—fixing yourself and your hair as you are about to turn around. But before you could, pale hands cover your eyes—ultimately submerging your world in darkness.

“Guess who?” They sing softly, Your smile gave you away before you could even pretend to think about it.

“Took you long enough,” you said.

His hands dropped from your eyes and then he was there–sliding into the seat across from you like he’d been doing it for years, unwinding a scarf from around his neck even though it was the tail end of spring and entirely too warm for a scarf. Very him, somehow. He looked good. That was the first thought, arriving before you could be polite about it. Rested in a way he hadn’t looked the last time you’d seen him, which had been the office, which had been the worst day the both of you shared. His glasses were slightly different—new frames, a little thinner. His sweater was cream colored and soft looking and he had the sleeves pushed up already like he was ready to settle in. “You’re early,” he said.

“I love punctuality, Dr. Yang. You know this.” You bite your lip, trying to suppress a small laugh. 

He smiled at that—the real one, dimples and everything. “Well maybe be late, you know? I wanted to be here first.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, picking up the little menu card from the center of the table like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Wanted to see you walk in first. It’s what I’m used to.” The warm feeling in your chest expanded so suddenly you had to look down at the table for a second just to collect yourself.

The daffodils hung gently overhead, swaying from some draft you couldn’t locate.

“So,” he said, setting the menu down and folding his hands. Looking at you the same way he always had—like you were the most interesting thing in whatever room you both happened to be in. “How does it feel? How do you feel?”

“How does what feel?”

“Being done.” He tilted his head. “Just…turning over a new leaf.”

You thought about the almost-empty room. The letter in your nightstand drawer. The mirror that had gotten a little easier to look into. “Weird,” you said honestly. “Good-weird, though.”

He nodded slowly. “Good-weird is underrated.” The door jingled behind you somewhere. The espresso machine hissed. Outside the window the street moved at its usual indifferent pace, completely unbothered by the fact that something inside you had quietly, finally, come to rest.

“You look different,” Jungwon said. Not analyzing, just noticing.

“Different how?” For a moment, you forgot you even had makeup on. Which was something you almost never did.

He considered you for a moment, chin tilting slightly. “Just…” For once Jungwon searches for words, which for someone like him was almost a rare occurrence. “Beautiful.” He says it, blurting it out and exhaling over it like the elephant was finally coming off of his chest. Like he was allowed to breathe now. “You look so beautiful. You always have. But…there’s an equanimity. Repose—about you now. And I’m grateful—lucky—to see it.”

Your eyes widened slightly as your hand rose to your chest. Rubbing your chest over your flowy, linen shirt where your heart was. “Uh–I…thank you, Jungwon.”

He smiled. Reached over and straightened the small pot of daffodils that had drifted slightly off center. “Good,” he said simply. “Now. Tell me what’s good here. I drove forty minutes and I refuse to order the wrong thing.”

—

The both of you were buzzing. 

Spending the rest of the afternoon and evening in the same seats. Behinds aching as you both constantly adjust in the stiff, metal seats. Stomachs bloated and aching slightly from copious caffeine consumption. But neither of you cared. Neither of you could help but reach over the table as you held yourself as if either of you laughed—then your guts would spill out. Time doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore because whatever it is, you have all of it with him. The cafe soon closes, the employees quietly starting to do inventory and wiping tables. And you’re not dense, you both made your way out. Leaving a hefty tip for them in the jar by the register. And before the both of you knew it, you ended up on a bridge at one of the local parks. Nothing too far nor close to his car but it wasn’t like that was on either of your minds. Still, the golden hour was slowly tipping to blue. The water beneath your feet was neither loud or quiet. 

You both find a worn, wooden bench to sit on. Though surprisingly enough, it didn’t groan under both of your combined weight. So that was clearly a great sign. The bench had seen more than it should’ve but it wasn’t one to complain. The both of you stare ahead. Letting the silence build between the both of you but it wasn’t awkward. It felt earned more than anything. Finally you were looking at something outside of yourself without feeling the burden of doubt. Even though you enjoyed his company, it kills you to not hear his voice now. Him being this close to you makes you want him in any way. The sole hit of dopamine that you get when he says your name or laughs at one of your terrible jokes is enough to make you want this forever. Always.

You muster the courage to look to your left, only slightly do you turn your head to see him fully turned to you. Legs crossed over the other and hands folded over his stomach. And the moment your eyes meet, the two of you burst into a small fit of laughter. Jungwon threw his head back as his laugh was now more obnoxious than when he was in the cafe. Which you admired, you loved his mindfulness. How he minded everywhere he was and that he knew when to turn it on and off.

You’re still laughing but it’s going to fade into something softer any second now. And you’re positively anticipating it. That moment when the laughter dies down and leaves something unguarded in its place. So when it does, you’re fully turned to him with your back straightened—almost at attention—until you catch yourself. You didn’t need to perform or pretend. So you take a second to just…sink into the bench. Jungwon’s the first to speak. “When do you have to be home?” He asks softly, now the ebb and flow of the water below crashing a bit—but it was white noise. His voice was louder than anything you’ve ever heard. At the front of your mind.

“Uh…” You shrug, twisting your bracelet. “I don’t have to be anywhere. It’s not like I have a curfew. I am a grown woman, fun fact.” He reaches over, lightly pushing your shoulder. “Hush.” He laughs again. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

Your brows furrowed as you playfully swatted him. “Clarify for me, please.”

“I mean…” He brings his arm to rest on the back of the bench. “I’m coming through on my promise.”

Your hand stills on your bracelet. You’d thought about this moment more than you’d ever admit to anyone including yourself. Lying in your almost empty dorm room, then later in your childhood bed staring at the same ceiling you'd stared at for eighteen years before you left. Turning his words over in the dark like something you weren't sure was real.

Just make sure you have your passport, okay?

You’d told yourself it was just something people say. Something kind and warm that exists only in the moment it’s spoken and dissolves after. Like steam. Like the way people say we should catch up and never mean it. But here he is.

“Which promise?” you ask quietly. Not because you don’t know. But because you need to hear him say it.

Jungwon looks at you for a moment. That same unhurried way he looks at everything—like he has nowhere else to be and intends to stay exactly where he is. “Well, more like I need you to come through on yours.” He smiles softly, then it widens by the second.

And the blue hour settles around you both. And the water does whatever it wants below. And you think—oh. It was always going to be this. So you stop twisting the bracelet. And you lean into the arm behind you. “What did I say?” Again, you knew. You just wanted to hear him say it. “That you’d go anywhere.” His smile softens a bit. The hand by your shoulder, brushing the exposed skin where the sleeve ended. Sending jolts through your skin. You didn’t realize how you longed for touch. Affection of any kind. Platonic, familial, romantic. Even then, you didn’t realize until now that one of those boxes was being checked. “With me.” “Where’s anywhere?” You clear your throat, gulping down literally nothing. You wanted to look down and see his hand brush against your warm skin—just to make sure that it was real. But he may think that you didn’t enjoy it. You were still unfamiliar with these dynamics. Do you acknowledge it or not? 

“Brazil.” He says.

The word sits between you both for a moment. Just breathing there.

You look at him. He’s already looking at you. Has been, you realize. Probably since before you turned. The hand on your shoulder isn’t moving anymore—just resting there, warm and certain against your skin like it belongs and is only now admitting it. So you turn toward him fully. And the last of the golden hour catches the new frames of his glasses and the particular way he’s looking at you like you are the most inevitable thing that has ever happened to him. And you bring your hand up. It finds his jaw before you’ve finished deciding to do it. Your thumb barely grazes the place where his dimple lives. You feel him exhale—slow and quiet—and underneath your palm he isn’t quite as controlled as usual. His eyes drop to your mouth. Just once; and that’s enough for you to close the distance. It’s soft at first. Just the reality of it. And then his hand moves—slow, deliberate—finding your face and holding you there like you are something worth holding carefully. His other hand finds your waist and draws you in. Not urgent. Just yes. You kiss him like you have nowhere else to be. Because you don't.

When you pull back you don’t go far. His forehead finds yours. Eyes still closed. Breath slightly uneven which does something to you that you’ll think about later. 

Then—

“So that’s a yes?” Quieter than usual. And when you open your eyes he’s already smiling. Dimples and everything. Like he can’t help it.

You laugh softly. “Ten times, yes.”

He takes your hand from his jaw and holds it instead. Pressing a kiss to your palm before pulling you into the warmth of his chest. And you both sit there above the water saying nothing at all. 

The bench holds.

— epilogue

The sun had been up for hours but you’d only been awake for twenty minutes and already you’d decided this was the best decision you’d ever made.

The kind of heat that didn’t ask anything of you. Just settled over your skin like permission. The ocean was doing what oceans do—completely indifferent and endlessly moving and so blue it almost didn’t look real.

You shifted on the beach chair and didn’t pull at your swimsuit. Didn’t even think about pulling at it. That was new.

You’d bought it a week before the trip in a fitting room under fluorescent lights that were nobody’s friend and you’d stood there for a long time just looking at yourself. Waiting for the familiar voice that always showed up in those moments—the one that catalogued everything, measured everything, found everything wanting. But most importantly, reminded you that you were beautiful even in a trash bag. And now here you are. Somewhere warm and far from home with salt drying on your shoulders and your hair doing whatever it wanted because you’d stopped fighting it two days ago.

You turned your head. Jungwon was exactly where he’d been when you dozed off—stretched out on the chair beside yours, laptop balanced on a little lap desk, glasses on, expression set to that particular focused calm that meant he was either deep in thought or had been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes. 

"You’re supposed to be on vacation," you said.

He didn’t look up immediately. "I am on vacation. But also not—technically."

"You have your laptop."

"I have my laptop on vacation." He turned a page of something beside him without looking at it. "It’s called balance."

You laughed, the sound coming out easy and unhurried, swallowed up by the ocean breeze. He looked over then. Just briefly, over the rim of his glasses. Something in his expression shifted—soft and unguarded in that way he never tried to hide anymore. Like he’d given up pretending he wasn’t exactly as gone on you as he was. "I love seeing you happy," he said.

"I love that you love seeing me happy."

He held your gaze for a second like he was making sure. Then he closed the laptop and set it on the small table beside him. And stood up.

You tilted your face up as he stepped over to your chair, this man who had kept every quiet promise he’d ever made to you, who had shown up in late June on a Thursday and never left after that. Who had said no rules in a half empty office once while packing up his life and meant it in a way that turned out to be true.

He leaned down slowly. One hand braced on the back of your chair, the other coming up to cup your face like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.

The sun was warm on your shoulders. The ocean kept moving. He kissed you soft and unhurried, the way he did most things—like there was nowhere else to be. Like this had been decided a long time ago and he was simply glad they’d finally gotten here.

When he pulled back he didn’t go far. Just pressed small kisses to your cheek, then neck, and collarbone. Inhaling your sweet, salty scent before smiling once he looked you in the eye. Lightly pressing his nose to yours. And you thought about Riki’s letter sitting in your nightstand drawer back home. For the smallest unit of time possibly—like a nanosecond. About the happiest one. About coffee ten years from now and Happy Halloween and a small crumpled graveyard of false starts.

You hoped he was okay. You genuinely did. But laying here on a beach chair in Brazil, looking above. Seeing the sun cast a halo around the body of your angel—the man that saved you.

You knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

Copyright: © zorange13. 2026. All rights reserved. Do not repost, copy, or distribute without permission.

you never realised that something was wrong with how your family lived. after seventeen whole years, you never once came to the realisation that everything about this community was wrong. you never could've imagined that your parents, your family could lie about this place; especially not messiah yang.

living in a closed society inside the forest was normal, that's what you always thought. it was safe, normal and the only right way to live. the messiah ruled everything, he was like the big father to everyone - a real father to some. your parents were here before your birth, throughout all of your five younger sibling's lives too. you never knew anything else, you never imagined that there could be something other than this. other than living in white clothes, listening to preaching for hours, doing community work and praying to messiah yang. in the midst of your houses stood a tall, huge chapel - a holy place where the messiah, the 'god' of your community proclaimed the holy truths and his sacredness. everything was common, accessible to everyone in the community as long as they preached to messiah yang and listened to him. everything of need was there in the community - library with messiah's words of truth and wisdom, stalls with food, of course it was all free and shared. seamstresses sew all of the clothes for everyone and people were expected to take care of the animals, orchards and fields. kids had their own games and played with each other, every toy was available for them and whenever one of the members brought something new like an inflatable pool in the summer or a ball, everyone partake in it.

last sunday of the month was the time when when messiah would gather the crowd in his chapel and start his prayer, say a few wise words, make the community chant a few worships and then came the big moment for young adults. — wedding announcements. each time, messiah yang would pick two pairs to get married the following month, that's just how it always was. you'd sit there and listen to your friends, cousins get picked for marriage. sometimes the couple were two strangers that never even talked with each other before. but they accepted it nonetheless, move in together and start a family. there was no other way, that's just how it was and everyone took it easy, because everyone believed that that was right; this was a step closer to heaven.

this sunday was no different. you got dressed in your white, loose dress that the community gave out - everyone had the same clothes, because equality was holiness. your long hair was done in a braid by your younger sister and you prepared breakfast for your family before you headed out to the chapel. you sat in the same middle bench on the right side as every other time you came for the teachings. the prayer went by like usual, all of you chanted until your knees got bruised from kneeling on the cold, hard tiles.

"i had a vision, a very clear and delightful one. the holy spirit gave me the power to unite two people from this very crowd, to bring them together as one. my own, first born son; my pride and joy," — heeseung. he was the oldest son of messiah yang; because older sisters he had many. but the man seemed to really like heeseung the most out of all his kids for he was always so obedient, smart, knew everything about the religion his father created. "and the daughter of (your parents' names), y/n y/l/n."

you swore you thought you misheard. that maybe the echo of that big, open chapel brought the name wrong. but no, everyone turned to look at you with wide smiles and congratulations. your mother pushed you out of your seat to the front, where messiah yang invited both you and heeseung to stand before the crowd. your parents must've been proud beyond belief to see their daughter standing there, promised to marry the most important person's child; to be the wide of a holy man's son. you just felt ... weird. it was so sudden, but maybe the messiah's vision was correct. maybe you really were destined to be together with heeseung.

heeseung held your hand tightly, smiling at you softly. "it'll be okay."

and you smiled too. messiah yang kept saying something, prayers to your new marriage; some holy words of encouragement and wisdom. you were barely listening, your hand warm in heeseung's bigger palm and your eyes zeroed on your mother's happy face. you could do it, you saw every person in the community go through this exact thing with huge smiles and bigger faith - it was just marriage. you'd move in with heeseung and live a happy life, because his family was the most important one, the most holy and sacred. of course it would be okay.

you attended premarital teachings, or whatever messiah yang called it. just you, heeseung and the older man in the big, dark chapel. you had never seen it look that empty inside, the echo of his teachings ringing loudly through the walls and heavy benches. you and heeseung sat in the front, you on the right bench, he on the left one. his father stood between the rows, speaking loudly about purity, good family life, how you should behave and how many kids you should have and when. he said that your wedding would take place next week on a saturday, all necessary preparations had been already taken care of and you should just wait for this new chapter of your life. it was almost scary, listening to the preacher rant all about good and bad things; speaking, chanting, shouting at times just to get the right point across to your brain. you nodded gently, heeseung listened, nodding and praying vehemently to please his father the best he could.

he always kept distance. he needed to, because even looking at each other wrong before marriage was sinful between kids older than fifteen. and he didn't want you to get on the messiah's bad side by his fault, that would put you in danger and you'd look bad in the community's eyes. you were far too trusting, innocent to know the whole truth. you just believed what you were told by your parents. but since you had already been 'destined' to marry him, the least he could do was keep you safe as best as he knew how. he learned about his father's behaviours from very early age. how much he dismissed his sisters, his mother - she died because of the lack of real medicine; because messiah yang thought of himself as the ultimate healer. but she passed and in the next preaching, messiah yang said something that made heeseung physically ache inside "my wife had passed for she had lost her faith a long time ago. i believed that she was one of us, that she could be saved by me. i shall remind you not to doubt me or the power of the holy spirit speaking through me to you all. she died a sinner and in the day of final judgment, she will speak for her sins in hell." not a week later and he found a new wife, had another bunch of kids with her and made heeseung call her 'mother'.

heeseung could barely count or remember the amount of siblings he really had, and that was the first time after his mother's passing that he began doubting his father's whole 'holy' act. what could be so spiritual about not letting your own wife get real help? about bashing her in front of the whole community, after her passing? anytime heeseung was forced to pray, he would think about his mother and beg her to save him somehow. he wanted to read about something else than whatever his father produced on paper. upon studying the papers further, spending hours slumped over the various pages - none of it made sense. some sentences were the opposites of others, things were executed without any real reason given other than making people think only to obey the one and only messiah yang. heeseung knew that this was wrong. that there was something else behind the stone walls guarding the closed off community.

he knew that his father and all his most trusted members of the community were doing everything in their power not to let anyone in. only the ones who repented their sins and got baptised on the outside could be worthy of entering into this community. not any stranger, no one that could cause havoc or unfaithfulness in the members. but one day, maybe two years ago; half a year ago - he didn't really know, because no one was allowed to keep count of the days, years or hours inside the community. calendars, clocks or diaries weren't allowed for anyone other than messiah yang. but heeseung was sneaky. he knew how to keep a good facade in front of his father but what he really did was study all the flaws, problems and analyse. he kept a small stack of books in his room, one particularly important, because inside was shoved a calendar. he'd note the dates whenever he was sure that his father wouldn't look or the other kids wouldn't tell on him. he'd note wrote about his doubts, the unclear stuff in his father's teachings, how none of it was adding up in the end. and he made a note about the time when his father made him clean something in the attic of the chapel. he was just moving boxes and stacks around, searching for a cloth or something when he heard a commotion outside.

the members had long gone way to the orchards or fields, tended to the animals away from the chapel. he heard some voices - one definitely his father's, a few other that he didn't really recognise. creeping down the stairs, he stayed hidden while having a pretty clear view to the conversation happening downstairs. his father and his members stood there, accompanied by three strangers. the men were dressed in clothes different to the one's community members had - way more casual, dark colours and weird materials. they were arguing about something with heeseung's father, calling him names. they said something about a nearby city, and that moment stayed with heeseung.

there definitely was something other than this closed community. he never told anyone about his thoughts, notes or doubts. he couldn't. he would probably get hung on a cross if his father even sniffed him thinking incorrectly. he was the 'god's son, he needed to be as indoctrinated as a stupid lamb could be. exactly how you were.

the day of your wedding went by really fast. your wedding attire was loose and white too, it just resembled the everyday clothes all members wore. because tight clothes were sinful. your hair was tied into two long braids, both your heads were covered by flower crowns as you stood in front of everyone and prayed and promised everything messiah yang said. heeseung could barely say the words with straight face, because it was all so weird and kind of disgusting.

"no intimacy for reasons other than to bring more lives to this world and this community."

"keep each other's faith strong and unwavering."

"pray every day to thank god for bringing you two together."

"listen to your husband as he is to become your master to obey."

the way you just repeated the words with no problem whatsoever, your eyes trusting and full of faith was making heeseung feel bad for you. you really were a pretty girl, he had noticed you a few times before in passing; in the church or just around the community, but he never was allowed to interact with the opposite gender. now you were going to be his wife and all he could think about was not becoming like his father. you reminded him of his mother, the way she trusted that messiah yang would cure her illness because he was a god only to end up passing away in pain and being replaced, remember as a sinner by everyone. heeseung wanted to save himself from this hell, but now he had you to think about too.

they didn't even give you two any rings, just cut your long braids after the ceremony, leaving the hair unevenly falling over your shoulder blades. a symbol of your marital status changing. every married girl went through this in the community, because they couldn't afford to buy rings, so they made up stupid rules instead that would control the women. the men told him that he'd need to keep your hair and your free will short, whatever that meant. it wasn't funny to him at all, but he shot them a smile and a polite nod to keep the face in front of everyone. the food for the ceremony was prepared by the older women, with things that the community harvested and some people played instruments. after everything was said and done, came time for the real marriage stuff. your new house was too big for two people, probably given to you because heeseung's father told the others to move out 'to prove their faith' - as he always preached to justify his own selfish decisions and desires. and giving his son and his new wife a big house was one of them. besides, he thought that it would get filled with little kids in no time.

only heeseung didn't want to. upon moving in, he kept his distance from you for the first few days until you got comfortable enough with the new situation to reach out to him first. he'd sleep in another room and tell you to lie if anyone asked about your intimacy. he just didn't want to cause you any discomfort about sharing a bed and needed to take on the responsibilities of a wife at only seventeen. not that he was any older, but his life was way worse compared to yours and maybe that made him more mature early on. he was mostly busy helping his father like always, but on the times whenever you two were nearby or even alone, he always kept you close and in his eyesight. for safety. he thought that you were pretty, of course, and really enjoyed the times whenever he would get to hold your hands or kiss your forehead or your pink cheeks. he was fond of you the same way kids cared for cute animals; he needed to make you trust him for now. lakeside walks and saving you fruits from dinner seemed to do the job just fine.

you were his woman now, his wife to protect. so whenever all the people were supposed to work on the fields: watering, weeding out, harvesting in the scorching sun, heeseung would always double his work just to make it easier on you. you didn't need to get your hands too dirty or get tired from working. he also never let you climb up the higher ladder to pick up fruits. he knew that the other men weren't looking at him with respect, but they really disapprove of his behaviour towards you. you were his wife and needed to obey him; not be treated too nicely. but they way you smiled whenever he brought you tea or helped with cleaning dishes after dinner, was hard to dislike. he wanted to earn your trust and friendship, because you were delicate and precious to heeseung in a way. he saw that everything about messiah yang's old, strict rules and boundaries about marriage was wrong and he didn't want to participate in things like that. he needed your understanding and mutual respect to save you from this place.

then one night, he decided that it was time. heeseung sat you on the bed once he confirmed to himself that no one was nearby to lurk or overhear the things he wanted to confess. he closed the tall door and locked it securely. "can i tell you something? we're married and i want to be honest with you."

you looked quite spooked, that much as evident by how rigid your posture was and the way your eyes followed his every move closely. "yes, of course you can tell me."

"don't be scared, it's not like ... hm," he wondered on how to word this sore topic. he couldn't just say 'my father's lying' and expect you not to tell on him, because you seemed to be really deep in your faithfulness and beliefs in messiah yang's power. "i've always believed everything my father said, like everyone else here. but after my mother died ... she wasn't a sinner, she believed that my father could heal her. but what i'm saying is that he can't heal people. she died in pain and he told everyone that she lost faith, that wasn't the truth. and honestly, i don't think we're safe here, y/n." heeseung said it all really carefully, still a little scared of your reaction. you were his wife, but he wasn't sure if he could trust you fully with how brain-washed you had been for the past years.

"what do you mean? but—" you looked genuinely troubled, confused as your wide eyes roamed over his face in search of answers. he just said something so ... unexpected.

he didn't know any other way to explain than to simply show you all the notes he made, the dates and stuff he had gathered in secret. all laid out on the floor of your bedroom in the middle of the night, were flaws of his father's religion, mistakes he had made while creating the masterpiece of his life, the lies he said. all evidence was there, thorough analysis of the words, whole sentences or pages that weren't adding up at all. you spent until dusk looking at everything, reading the notes heeseung made and trying to wrap your head around the fact that messiah yang's own son was doubting his religion. by the time you finally looked up to heeseung, also sitting on the floor by now, it was already light outside again. "i don't understand."

"i know— i know that it's hard to understand. i know that it may seem hard to accept, but please, y/n. think about it. don't just blindly go and tell on me in the chapel, they'll send me for death in an instant. i believe that i am right in this, that there could be something more outside for us." he nearly pleaded, holding your hands tightly in his. he could very well just try to make you obey him like every man in the church would do to their wives, but he truly wanted you to understand and believe him. you were married now and he needed to save you from this place. he was always so gentle and soft-spoken towards you, respected you more than any man ever would.

so why would heeseung lie? but then, why would messiah yang lie? you were so confused that you felt like crying, because he was your husband and he was making you doubt your faith right now, which could potentially send you both straight to hell. heeseung saw the moment you started getting overwhelmed and gently moved over to hold you. his warm, long arms wrapped around your shaky form on the floor and he tried to calm you down. "don't cry. i know that you're overwhelmed and confused, but it's okay. we don't have to do anything about it, you just can't tell anyone. it'll be our secret, okay? i won't bring it up again."

you only quieted down when he helped you match your breathing to his long, stable one. he didn't expect the first talk about this to go over smoothly, but you seemed really untrusting of him, so he hid away the notes for the time being. the next time he tried to talk to you about the stuff happening inside the community, about some really messed up things like polygamy, people having no personal belongings and doing everything in their power to please the messiah's desires, you seemed a little more thoughtful, actually considering his words and trying to take everything in. still, you went to the chapel the next day. of course he went with you. not going would be a sin. but he saw the change happening in your eyes and felt hopeful.

"can i sleep in your room?" it was already dark outside, the two of you had gone to beds a long time ago; to your rooms on the opposite sides of the house. you stood in the doorway, the floorboards creaking underneath your bare feet when you dared to walk inside. you couldn't stop thinking about the things heeseung said lately and going to the chapel now, chanting prayers and listening to messiah yang's words left you feeling unsettled and uncomfortable. you couldn't sleep alone tonight.

"of course, come in." your husband sat up immediately, moving to the right side of the bed. he helped you get underneath the covers and held you close, his big arms enveloping your shaky silhouette gently. "don't think about it tonight, you're always safe with me."

"thank you."

having your own house, a locked room away from his father's watchful eye and having earned your trust, or at least your silence: heeseung could start gathering things. some clothes his father took away from new members and hid away - old jackets, some worn out boots or sweaters. he stored a backpack and grabbed a few leftover stuff from dinners or breakfasts to have just in case. his body was in a constant fight or flight mode, because he felt like he was being watched; like your lives were being monitored too closely and it was making him feel weird. he needed to be careful with his suspicions, his plans, so he only told you the most important things to open your eyes a little. but he didn't push you into taking on his beliefs, into rejecting messiah yang's words instantly, just let you figure it out for yourself for now. well, until he couldn't let you stay there for any longer. he knew well enough to by protecting you, he was only putting you in more danger, but he couldn't help himself.

since it had been three weeks after your wedding already and there were no signs of pregnancy in you - all the men and his father called heeseung in a meeting. no women allowed. because what they did was give him a long talk about bringing fresh souls to the community; giving life to new generations; the joys of fatherhood and how it kept wives in line. they talked and talked, prayed and prayed until the sun had set down a long time ago. while the chapel got darker and only the candle lights flickered, messiah yang spoke up. "i had a vision, my son. for the heavens have made a grave mistake in choosing your wife; she is a sinner. bring her to me tomorrow, i shall deal with her the right way and we ought to find you another wife, one full of faith and ready to bless us all with her ripeness."

heeseung's blood ran cold. what did he mean 'bring her to me'? a 'grave mistake'? that could only mean one thing, and not a good one. "father—"

"no!" the messiah cut heeseung off as soon as he could with a loud hiss. there was no questioning his words, ever, because he was speaking through god or something like that. "you ought to bring that dishonourable girl to me tomorrow and i'll repent for ever allowing her into my chapel, into my son's life!"

heeseung could only nod helplessly. he nodded through everything else too, putting on the front he had been holding for the last few years. a good, faithful and obedient son to the holy preacher of god's word. only the messiah was a self proclaimed 'god' that brain washed everyone into repeating his words until the end of their miserable lives. he knew exactly what would happen to you in the closed doors of the chapel if he brought you there to his father and all the men. he didn't even want to think about letting anyone harm you like that, you were too precious and dear to him now. which was why the moment the night fell and all doors were closed, candles blown and put away, when the community members were locked inside their houses, heeseung grabbed your arms with his shaky hands and spoke as clearly as he could. "listen to me now. we need to run."

"run?" you questioned instantly, because you had just been baking bread and your husband was telling you to run. his eyes were wide and serious, almost bloodshot with worry. the hold he had on your arms was painfully tight, shaky fingers digging into your skin. that alone should've told you how serious he was.

"yes. my father said that he had a vision, that you were a sinner. they're going to kill you, y/n. do you understand me? we need to run right now." he was nearly shaking your silhouette now, trying to make you understand the importance of the situation that you had fallen victim too .

"what? kill me? heeseung—" you wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his words, but couldn't. he wouldn't lie, not about this. maybe he wasn't lying about anything. maybe his father really was the one lying instead. but the thought of having lived your whole life in a lie was a hard pill to swallow, one you didn't want to accept. it could be easier to pretend that your father had gone insane and was rebelling against his father, bringing you onto the dark side of doubting messiah yang.

"let's go! they're gonna be here first thing in the morning and we need to get out somehow. i won't let them harm you, but you need to believe me, y/n." he sounded more panicked than you were feeling, because he understood the full gravity of this situation. he had heard about things like that happening before, but the kids were always kept out of the loop of what was really happening in this community. he wasn't blaming you for behaving like you were, he couldn't, but he really needed you to listen. "you see the huge cross they put above the pond where he baptises members? they're probably gonna hang you there, because they think that you're a sinner. please—"

"okay. okay, i believe you. i really believe you, i don't wanna die." there were tears in your eyes and you started shaking too; shivers of fear spreading through your whole body at the horror of his words. you weren't sure if he was being a hundred perfect serious, but you could clearly see the huge cross from your window - and you didn't want to bleed out on that thing like some sacrifice for christ. you saw the signs your husband had been bringing to your attention lately; about how every member that couldn't be saved by messiah yang had been deemed a sinner, to have lost their faith which brought death over them.

"hey, hey, but don't cry. please. we need to be quiet about everything." heeseung could only take so much of your scared demeanour. he made sure to hug you long and tight enough that you would calm down enough for his plan to work out flawlessly.

"okay, okay." the second you agreed, heeseung moved in silence, but very quickly and efficiently. he put a long, dark jacket over his shoulders and shoved a sweater onto you; packed some foods and water into a small bag then grabbed your hand tightly in his and lead you out of the house. you were careful not to make any sounds in the night air. you only took the most important things, your clothes weren't yours, just loose pieces of white material sewn together to fit everyone the same but heeseung brought the colourful outerwear out of somewhere to shield you both from the cold. your legs were shaking like they were made out of gelatine, you held onto your husband's warm hand like it could save you from whatever harm was preying on you. you were scared, trying not to whimper loudly from holding in your cries of horror. you couldn't believe that you were running away from everything you knew, because your husband told you that your own community wanted to kill you now. he kept looking behind you two, tried to stay low in places where someone could possibly see the two runaways, but everything was empty and clearly. there was no real exit to simply walk out of this closed-off community, no way out of there that was accessible and wouldn't involve at least five men and very loud shuffling - which was out of the question entirely. but there was a place where the stone wall got worn down a little, and some community members stored their big barrels, crates there. when placed correctly, it was a staircase to the top. heeseung figured it out months ago.

"i'm gonna go first and you'll hold my hand. then i'll catch you, okay?" you didn't trust him at all right now. not when the stone wall was at least two metres high and you needed to climb some uneven, old crates to get to the top. and jump. but heeseung did it all so flawlessly, held out a hand to help you step on the barrels securely. you closed your eyes when jumping down the top, only to feel heeseung trying to relieve your fall ... you felt weirdly free, the cold air of the night breezing through your short hair and loose clothes. "i got you, i got you—" but then reality manifested itself on you and the two of you ended up falling to the grass, the nearby bushes amortised the fall only a little.

you were officially a sinner now. there was no way back there now. you were running away back from everything you knew, your home and family. you chose to believe heeseung, to bet everything on him being right about his father being a liar, about the religion being a sham full of evil intentions. if anything could bring you salvation and peace, it was running away from this place once and for all.

"let's go." once on the other side, heeseung didn't even give you any time to think or breathe. he just grabbed your hand again and started running through the woods, dragging you along. the boots he gave you were too big and made you stumble every other few steps, but at least they kept your feet from getting scratched by rocks or thorns underneath. your veins were pumping full of adrenaline, the rush and fear causing your legs to move faster, your hold on his hand to remain tight and you weren't losing breath nearly as fast as you usually did. the woods were dark and mysterious, but you two were set on running. no sounds even registered in your mind, not a snap of a twig, not the howls of some animals. you needed to run for your lives - especially now. once everyone found out that you two had left, they would probably look for you. so you needed to get as far away as you could before the sun rose again and his father would figure everything out. if someone found you both now, you'd be good as dead. it was crazy, how despite not being able to see anything clearly, having no real clue about what direction you were running to - none of you even caught a root or slammed into a tree, because the pure rush of horror kept you energised and focused enough to swiftly avoid any obstacle on the way. heeseung was practically dragging you after him, making sure to hold your fingers through his almost painfully tight and lead you somewhere safe. but where was 'safe'? you were in the middle of the woods, an unknown hectare of woods, bushes and wild animals. he was just desperate to never be found by those people again.

when your lungs were on the verge of giving out, you were just dragging your legs and there were tears in your eyes, heeseung stopped. "i think we're far enough. we can just walk now and find someplace to sleep." he looked at you with soft eyes, noticing how flushed your face looked and the way you panted heavily. of course he felt bad for making you run for who knows how many kilometres, but he couldn't just let them harm you. you were married; you were all he had now and letting you stay in the fucked up, closed community under messiah yang's dictatorship was not an option. running a hand through his messed up, sweaty hair, he dared to look back in the direction where the stone wall should be. it was long gone now, but the shrill of fear was still inside him, keeping him on edge.

you both sat down nearby a small stream of shallow water, side by side on a big fallen tree trunk. it was covered in moss by now, a little wet from the cold air of the night. after catching your breaths and regaining the feel in your legs, heeseung started making a fire to somehow get you to warm up. there weren't any fishes in the water to catch for food, so old, stale bread was it - you couldn't exactly be mad about it. at least he thought of bringing some food and getting you shoes and a chunky sweater beforehand. "i'm scared to sleep here. what if a bear eats us?"

heeseung looked up with a smile from where he kept trying to lit up a fire, the dull sound of rubbing twigs against each other the only sound between nature's echoes; hooting owls, rustle of leaves and footsteps of wild animals in distance. "that's why i'm trying to start a fire. animals stay away from that. and it'll keep us warm."

"oh, right." you nodded, smiling a little despite everything. it was strange, but at least you felt safer out here. with him. you didn't even know when exactly you felt asleep, the two of you cuddled up in a small open field between huge trees. but heeseung couldn't close his eyes or rest for long. he just kept you close to him, watching you doze off peacefully on his chest. he felt on edge, like he was still waiting on someone to come and try to find you. he needed to keep you safe and you were the safest in his arms, your head tucked into his jacket gently. he brought danger on you the moment his father married you two: his schemes, disloyalty to his father's religion, inability to force the schemes of an obedient wife and master husband on you from day one: it all became the reason why you got targeted. so he needed to shield you from all harm of messiah yang's made up religion. but what if he was dead wrong? what if he became your sin and you'd get hurt in the process?

after you woke up, he peeled some oranges he stored earlier for breakfast, and just kept handing you the small pieces as you two walked hand in hand. the forest was different when it was actually light - it was kind of peaceful actually. no rules, no weird rituals or sharing goods with everyone; you two were free now. "promise me you'll never believe in any religion ever. just believe in yourself."

"and us. i promise." he still had no idea where he was going he was leading you, but he was sure that they'd stumble upon a town eventually. that there was someone that could help you two. but you must've walked for two or three days straight now, with no sight of anything other than trees, fields or small streams. you agreed on following the water uphill, because maybe it would actually lead you somewhere. but the moment you were left with no food to suffice your all day long walks, you two obviously started getting weaker and less hopeful. your once pristine white clothes were stained with dirt of the forest, ragged at the bottoms and you definitely looked awful.

"i can't walk anymore, heeseung." you sighed, breathing deeply after having walked up half the way up some gigantic hill. your muscles were killing you and heeseung was just dragging you like some ragged doll. you had no strength left in you and it was beginning to get dark.

"come on, y/n. please, we'll have a clear view of everything on the top," the moment you saw his pleading expression, his steady hands helping you walk at a slower pace now. he was almost sure that if there wasn't a town on the top, at least you could probably see more of the forest to know where you should head now.

you really wanted to lay down and cry. you were starving and tired, you felt dirty and you were still scared of getting eaten by wolves in the dark woods. you didn't find a whole town, but a small wooden house. the doors were loose, but it was empty. you stormed inside, looking for some candles to lit up and food to eat. you made sure not to eat all the foods that were there; some canned soups, stale bread, pickled vegetables. "we should sleep here."

"mhm, it looks abandoned." heeseung found blankets and sheets for the small bed in the corner. you two sat huddled up underneath the heavy materials, enjoying pickled vegetables on the hard bread you found. it was still better than nothing. and there was a bed.

you were overwhelmed after eating, your empty stomaches finally getting something inside. it honestly felt like heaven, to eat something and sleep in a soft, warm bed, cuddled up to heeseung. you didn't realise that this could be classified as stealing someone's food and breaking in, because you truly lacked social skills and awareness that normal people had. it just felt good to finally have some sense of independence, to do whatever you wanted. even if it involved sleeping in a forest some days and eating someone else's old food. if that's what sin felt like, you didn't want to get into heaven at all. no prayer or sacrament ever brought heeseung as much peace and happiness as having you here did. he could finally sleep through the night without being on edge and worrying. your warm weight on his chest was comforting, he wanted to feel like that always. to make you feel secure and happy. he really didn't mean to drag you through the cold woods for days on end without food, he was simply really desperate to shield you from harm; to get you away from that community as soon as possible before they could kill you.

morning light streamed through the window and woke you two up. you were tangled in the sheets together, sweaty from dealing with sleeping in that small bed together and sharing warmth. "i don't wanna move." you shifted more into his arms, craving the peacefulness.

"i know. but we have to." he smiled at you, his lips finding your forehead on their own to plant a soft kiss there. he would've stayed with you anywhere you asked, just as long as you were content and taken care of. but he couldn't let you two stay here for long, not when this wasn't what he imagined for you. you needed real help, to get in contact with normal people, with a proper society that would free everyone from messiah yang's community. and staying here could potentially lead them to find you, which heeseung couldn't have. "let's eat breakfast, grab the food and one blanket. then we should go."

the next few days of walking were quite nice. you had pickled vegetables, matches, gathered berries on the way and even made friends with some small animals like a hedgehog and a young fawn. this part of the woods was less crowded by huge trees, it had more light and wasn't as scary. you held onto heeseung's hand tightly as you strolled between the nature's habitat. there were no expectations, no set times for chanting prayers on your knees for hours, no weird rituals and disappearances of members that were deemed unfaithful. it was just you and heeseung. you'd call this romantic, if you knew more vocabulary than what was written in books only approved by messiah yang. sleeping underneath the stars with one thick blanket and a faint bonfire lit up close by. just simple intimacy of being together, being safe and loving each other. maybe you didn't actually want to be found.

however, living in a forest like wild kids was a bad idea in the long run. no running water, no actually soft and comfortable bed to sleep on, no sufficient food supplies. it was nice, because you were together. but heeseung really needed to find the nearest town and tell everyone about the abuse, the lies and horrifying things that were going on at the closed off community in the middle of the woods. and thankfully, not long after, you two stumbled upon a forester, an older guy just roaming the woods to make sure that everything was in order. the confusion and utter horror he felt when he saw you two - clothes alone already signaling that you had came from a cult community, now all dirty and ragged from stumbling through the forest for days. two kids with nothing but a small bag of stolen food, blanket and you in boots too big.

"what happened to you, kids?" the man asked carefully, extending a hand in a declaration of peace.

"we need help." was all heeseung managed to say, shaking his hand tentatively while you stood behind him like a scaredy cat. the two of you looked exhausted and anxious, like some wild forest animals.

the forester man immediately brought you two to the sheriff in town. heeseung was scared of being fooled, of putting you in more danger, so he kept an arm around you for safety. you were his wife, he needed to protect you at all costs. he got you this far already, maybe people outside of the cult of messiah yang truly were different. everyone looked at you, worn out and dirty, like you were some sort of an attraction in town. they whispered, but still lead you to the office with the town's sheriff and got you some tissues and clean clothes. they weren't anything like what you were used to. instead of loose, thing white material you were put into jeans one size too big that were kinda stiff and a big shirt. heeseung got pretty much the same outfit, because it was all from the lost and found or whatever people donated to victims. anything was better than the dirty, wet clothes from before.

the two of you sat in a small room with warm tea refills and donuts, blankets pulled over your shoulders. heeseung took the time to explain everything thoroughly. the closed off community, all the lies, secrets, deceits, dictatorship and self-proclaimed spirituality. all the teenage marriages, multiple child brides and grooms, polygamy, murders, incests, schemes: everything came to light about the off-grid community that messiah yang operated. the sheriff wrote everything down and promised to take action as quickly as possible to uncover everything and free the people, to bring justice for messiah yang's victims.

"we think it's best that we place you in a shelter housing for now. it's especially made for victims of abuse, escapees from places like yours. would that be okay with you two?" one of the social services workers talked to the two of you in a gentle voice, trying to get you all the necessary help. you couldn't just live at a normal housing for teenagers, because you had gone through abnormal conditions and you didn't have any further education or social skills necessary to be a normal part of the society. "and i'm really sorry to inform you, but i'm gonna need to tell you that your marriage isn't valid. you got married unrightfully as kids, it wasn't registered anywhere. do you understand?"

"what? no, but we— that can't be right." you couldn't understand what she was saying, your grasp on heeseung's - your husband's arm tightening. what did she mean? you were together for so long, been through so much and you didn't trust anyone other than him.

"i'm sorry. but you two are just kids, we can't respect minors getting married."

and they decided that it would be best to separate you and heeseung. that your relationship would harm you more than help in getting used to living in a normal environment; your marriage wasn't valid, because you were seventeen. so they ended up moving you two to different towns after two weeks of you two sharing the same housing. once the whole cult community got exposed and they evacuated all the victims of messiah yang's abuse, they moved you two to different therapy and socialisation programs to help the progress.

"i'm just glad that you're finally safe. we'll meet again," heeseung walked into your room on the last night of your stay in the same place together. he grew really fond of you, cared about your wellbeing and he honestly got used to having you by his side by the time. you invited him to sleep with you, because he made you feel safe. you didn't want to leave him at all, you wanted to stay with him forever. he got you out of the hell you were stuck in and you really felt something for him. that night he kissed your forehead gently as a goodbye and promised that you'd be safe now, no matter what. even if he wasn't near to keep an eye on you - as long as you weren't in the vicinity of messiah yang, because he was serving life in jail, you would live a happy life.

"i ... don't know what it is, but you make me very safe and i don't want to leave. i think i love you."

"i love you too." you kissed him. your lips touched his just briefly, very gently. it was about the need of closeness, the shared warmth and safety. you didn't even know how to kiss, it was awkward and too soft to be considered as needy or sexual. you just wanted to kiss him, because it might be the last time that you were this close to him. you were really married in your heads. no matter how wrong it was to normal people, he was your husband. you remembered walking through the woods hand in hand, him holding you tightly all night long underneath the bright stars above. you had never felt anything like that, and probably never would again.

you cried all night in each other's embrace. if it was hard for you, it felt hundred times worse for heeseung. he never loved anyone other than his mother, he never even felt loved by anyone. his father was proud of him, but he wouldn't have called it love. it wasn't ever unconditional or certain, anything came with a price in the community you two were raised in. the more you prayed and obeyed, the more messiah yang would vouch for you in the day of god's final judgement. but you were so innocent and trusting, your relationship wasn't ever built on the rules of obedience or sexuality. you got close because he cared for you, he wanted to save you from the hell of his father's made up cult community, because he cared for you. because he was a good human. and you also cared for him, because he was so good to you. because you gave him the last piece of the orange when nothing else was left to eat. you trusted him with your life; let him take you away from all you knew, from your family and community.

maybe it was just some trauma bond that brought you two so close together in such a short amount of time. maybe the therapists were right to pull you two apart, to prohibit any contact between two very lost and traumatised kids that got put through some very mentally damaging practices of a deranged man that believed himself to be some holy spirit. heeseung never saw any of his other siblings, let alone you. it hurt really bad, but got dulled down with time passing, hours of therapy and socialisation. by the time he was twenty five, he was a normal person in a normal town. he moved a lot. to escape from the nightmares that still haunted him. he blamed himself for his father's actions. for all the innocent lives he took - his mother's especially. and he blamed himself for not putting a stop to it sooner; for not getting help earlier when he could. he knew about his father's lies from an early age, but only found it in himself to escape when your life got threatened. but what if you got married to another man? then you would've probably lived your whole life there, in the community, had kids and died like everyone else. he was still glad that he helped you escape. that he could be the reason that you felt safe, that you knew how it really felt to have someone take care of you. and you gave him that same feeling too, even if you didn't realise it at the time.

it was lonely, carrying the entire baggage by himself. the memories and nightmares kept him awake and in a constant state of anxiety. whenever he thought of you - his y/n, his wife, his chest would ache so deeply that it made him feel sick. he missed you so much that he wanted to pray, but there was nothing to pray to - he couldn't let himself believe in any artificial gods. you promised each other that you wouldn't ever start professing a faith in anything other than yourselves, that you would find each other someday eventually. he didn't know if you missed him, if you would even want to see him ever again in your life, but he needed to find you somehow. you were the reason he felt brave enough to run away and help everyone in the community; you were really the woman he loved. even if your marriage was too soon and too much, because you were expected to have kids at seventeen yet didn't even have a ring. the what if's were killing him, the unknown, uncertainty about how you were doing, what you were feeling, how you coped with the real world and your trauma. he needed to see you again, he sincerely regretted letting the people separate you back then. they didn't know anything.

the moment he finally saw you again, at a train station where you agreed to meet the week prior when he reached out to you, he nearly fell to his knees. you still looked like the girl he 'married' at seventeen; the one he run away with. your once bluntly cut hair have grown longer now, falling prettily over your back and you were definitely a woman now. you matured, grew up beautifully. seeing you now, at twenty five, he grasped just how little you were back then; thrown into marriage at seventeen by his own father. it was traumatic and he felt unsettled at the thought of possibly being intimate with you before like everyone wanted him to - good thing he respected you, kept boundaries. he would never have forgiven himself for being cruel to you previously when you were still so young and indoctrinated. "y/n!"

"heeseung—" you gasped in shock, running up to the man that stood before you. no longer a lanky teenager that made you break your faith and run away. he was taller, sharper, but his dark eyes still held the same softness when looking at you. you were wrapped up in each other's arms in no time, nothing else mattered now other than holding him. "i missed you."

"i missed you so much." he held the back of your head tightly, his hold almost shaky with emotion. he was whispering into your ear, his words blending into one as he started tearing up. "i thought you hated me— i'm so sorry about everything that happened, i should've done something"

"i could never hate you. i missed you so much, i wanted to see you again so bad. i love you, i still love you. it wasn't your fault." your words were spoken into his sweater, your fingers fisting the material over his back. you probably looked like two idiots, crying on a train's platform and declaring love without any social awareness.

"i love you, i love you so much. i missed my wife—" it wasn't heeseung's or yours fault that you got married as kids back then, you didn't blame him. you couldn't blame him for that, it wasn't his decision to make. but he made the decision to protect you, to get you out of the living hell safely and not to cross any weird boundaries that were established by the men in your community. you missed him too, missed having him by your side as your husband.

the authorities, therapists said that seeing each other would probably worsen your traumas, that it would deepen your post traumatic disorders, it could potentially send you into depression or some manic episodes. you grew into believing that when you'd see heeseung, if you ever would - all the nightmares would come back again with more power. that you would remember all the things you had to do in the community, all the times messiah yang would make you pray on your knees and chant his name in the chapel until everyone was stupidly indoctrinated to stop thinking and just start repeating. they said that if you ever heard heeseung's voice, you would be hit with the memories of when he begged you to run away, when he said that the people you trusted wanted to take your life.

but no. you and heeseung were just glad to see each other, to finally reunite as free people. you knew that you loved each other, despite how horrifying your whole lives were, how messed up your childhood was by messiah yang's delusions. he actually slept nicely for once when he was holding you again in his arms, like the time when you got married so young. it shouldn't have been a surprise that moved in together eventually and brought rightful wedding rings for the two of you. you didn't need any papers or a church wedding to love each other unconditionally. you still only believed in yourselves and the loved you shared; maybe in destiny too. not in anything else, never in the power of anything other than what brought you two together again. you didn't have much, because you never really went to normal schools, but you were happy. happiest you could feel, just because you two reunited again despite how your relationship had started.

beyond the latticed screen, the priest listens, his fingers loosely intertwined over his lap.

“it has been… um, nine years since my last confession.”

a pause. followed with an exhale of breath. there’s an unspoken weight presses against the confessional wood. “...i have done something atrocious.”

the priest shifts slightly on his chair, his cassock brushes against the seat. the rain patters against the window of the church outside—incense lingers in the air, curling in the candlelight inside. 

“go on, my son.”

the silence that follows is thick which is to be expected—he remains still, accustomed to the hesitant silence that often accompanies the words. the act of confessing is not easy. sometimes, sins cling too tightly to the tongue.

a distance echo of footsteps and doors creaking in the nave can be heard from inside the confessional. the weight of sinning is like having a wet cloth covering the face and the breathing passage—waterboarding. it’s torture, heavy, clinging, suffocating. if one is not strong enough, they might as well face death. 

some hesitate out of shame, others out of fear. and some… out of something else entirely. it is a moment where one wrestles between shame and salvation, between judgement and absolution. 

the priest does not rush him.

whatever it is, what happens between the penitent and the priest—stays between the penitent and the priest. no matter how awful the sins are.

“i took something that was not mine,” the voice from the other side of the screen continues. slightly wavering, quieter, contrition. the priest only exhales, nodding slightly to himself. he has heard a lot throughout his 39 years of being a priest—all seven deadly sins, theft, dishonesty, murder. 

“i took her life.”

the words fall like a stone into deep water. sinking, then disappearing into nothing. the priest’s breath catches for the slightest briefest second, but he remains still on his chair. he nods, brushing his thumb against his crucifix. 

he is merely a servant of god. it is not his place to react—only to listen. he’s bound by the seal of confession. 

but something feels wrong. something in the way the confessioner talks and about the way the words settle in the quiet. 

something about the confession itself. 

something familiar. 

——

“yn! what did i say about coming home before it rains?” 

you stood by the doorstep, fingers hooked on your skirt, lifting it up slightly as the ends were dipped in mud and dirt. the drizzle outside had turned the dirt roads slick, your shoes coated in earth. 

“sorry… i lost track of time,” you mumbled, lips pursed out of guilt, shifting your weight between your feet. 

your father only exhaled through his nose, shaking his head in disappointment—somewhere between exasperation and amusement. he wasn’t strict, not particularly, but there was always a softness in his scolding. like he didn’t have it in him to be harsh with you. not his only daughter and child.

“come in before you catch a cold.” he stepped aside, letting you pass as he glanced toward the darkening sky. you nodded with a smile, kicking off your filthy shoes by the entrance. the scent of rain clung to you like a perfume. “you didn’t bring an umbrella either?”

you grinned sheepishly, shrugging as you took off your cardigan and socks. “it wasn’t raining when i left.”

he sighed again, but there was a hint of a smile as he closed the door behind him. “obviously not. rain doesn’t come announced.” 

you only hummed in response—biting your tongue back from saying something like, ‘but it’ll be colder and the clouds will look darker and heavy and and—’, only stepping onto the wooden floors barefoot. 

the house was quiet—just as it always was ever since the passing of your mother five years ago. it wasn’t as lonely anymore, not exactly at least. not on the days where it hits close to the bones. 

your father disappeared into the kitchen to put the kettle on. you heard him humming something from his nose. most likely to brew warm tea to increase your body temperature. 

you turned slightly, peeking out the small window near the door. the street outside was empty, the rain falling against the cobblestone path. “dad?” you called out, shutting the curtains. 

he hummed in response, not looking your way. you unlatched your watch, along with your mother’s bracelet, and your crucifix before placing them neatly on the console table. you made your way towards the dining table where it oversees the kitchen. from here, you could see him stirring the sugar in the tea, his back facing you.  “um, did…” you spoke out, darting your tongue out to lick your lips. 

“did jaeyun come by?” 

for a moment, there was only silence before he turned his head, looking at you over his shoulder. his eyebrows raised slightly in curiosity and confusion. “no, why?” he asked. you were quick to shake your head, a smile formed on your lips. “nothing,” you replied, turning around to head upstairs.

“i’m going to shower!” 

——

jake stood outside of your house. it’s a friday morning, school day. school day and you hadn’t shown up.

he knew because he had waited for you. jake sat in his usual spot—by the bike racks—waiting for the familiar sound of your tires against the pavement. initially he told himself you were just running late and if he waited a couple of minutes more, he’d see you parking half-heartedly and sprinting to class. then the first period passed. and jake too, was running late.

by the third period, an uneasy curl creeped in his stomach. 

and so, here he was, standing just outside the little gate of your house, hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. 

through the window, he could see the faint flicker of movement as he called your name out. then, he saw from the very corner of the curtain, your eye peeking—then the curtain fell back into place. 

his brows furrowed together in confusion and annoyance. why weren’t you answering him? he knew you were inside of the house because he just saw you! his fingers curled around the wooden gate. “yn!” 

no answer. 

“yn!”

still nothing. 

his eyebrows furrowed, a gust of betrayal and hurt splashed across his face. 

——

your father placed the rotisserie chicken in the middle of the dining table, the scent of garlic and rosemary thick in the warm air. the chicken skin was golden and crisp—your grandma’s recipe—it was a meal meant to comfort.

but you weren’t really hungry.

you sat stiffly, hands folded in your lap as you stared at the flickering candlelight. your father’s eyebrow raised as he took off the oven mitts and set it aside, pulling back his chair and taking a seat across you. 

“what’s wrong?” he asked, nodding toward your untouched plate. “i made your favourite today, sweetheart.” he continued as he scooped a spoonful of buttered peas onto your plate. 

you purse your lips, hunching your shoulders slightly. “i’m… just not hungry…” you murmured, shaking your head. your father’s brows knitted, concern flickering behind his eyes. he set the spoon down gently, soft clink of metal against the ceramic plate. 

he sighed, watching you for a long moment before turning back to his plate. “...alright,” he relented. there’s no use in forcing a daughter to speak out if she doesn’t feel like it, he thought. he knew you, if something was bothering, he’d be the first to know. “you know you can tell me, right?” 

he poked at the cooling rice, appetite drifting. five years—and the chair across from his still felt too empty some nights. he knew he’d never be her—never have her soft voice or the way she could scare monsters under the bed—but he’d been trying. 

god, he’d been trying.

so your father learned to braid your hair on school mornings even though his thick fingers fumbled the strands and the parts came out crooked. he kept purchasing and using the same laundry smelling like his wife’s favourite fabric softener because you once said it made the house feel less scary.

he asked about cramps when you got that sour look, left chocolate and marshmallows and a heating pad on your bed without a word, pretended it was stuff all houses had—even though he bought it just for you.

there’s nothing that could ever replace your mother. he wasn’t trying to. your father just wanted to be the one who didn’t let the house turn cold just because she was gone.

you nodded automatically, flashing him a smile. “of course.” 

but you didn’t say anything else. 

you kept your gaze lowered and fork pushing the peas around your plate. you couldn’t bring yourself to tell your father anything about jaeyun. even the thought of the boy who you used to be comfortable with, now not so anymore made your throat tight, and stomach twist. 

it’s these moments that you missed your mother a little bit more than the rest of the days.

“...i’ll wrap up your plate,” your father said, breaking the silence and your thoughts. “you can eat later when you feel like it.” he continued, standing up to pick your plate up to put it in the fridge. 

you’re met with the sight of the windows, half-concealed by the sheer curtains. outside, you could see the streetlamps flickering and people walking home from their jobs. 

“make sure to eat, okay?” 

you nodded. but you didn’t say anything else.

——

“you need to stop it! leave me alone!” 

your voice came out sharper than intended, but you couldn’t care less anymore. the evening air was cold against your skin, but the fear curling in your stomach burned hotter. 

jake stood just a few steps away from you, his hands in his jacket pockets. his expression was unreadable. “you don’t mean that,” he said quietly. 

your heart pounded against your ribs; you took a step back, gripping the strap of your bag tighter. the street stretched empty and dark. there was no passing car nor people around, not even the squirrels or the rabbits.

“i do,” you shot back, eyebrows pulled closer in annoyance and anger. “i don’t want you waiting for me. i don’t want you outside of my house. i don’t want—” 

“you don’t want me?”

what? you were taken aback slightly. that was what he got? your breath hitched slightly as your steps came to a stop. 

“i—”

jake took a step forward, and instinctively, you moved back. his lips twitched—not quite a frown, nor a smile. “but you used to like me,” he murmured, cocking his head to the side slightly.

you clenched your jaw, swallowing the lump in your throat. “i never—”

he cuts you off. “i used to walk you home.” he replied, shifting on his weight. “you never told me to stop then.”

“...that was different,”

“how?”

his voice was almost soft, like he was genuinely curious. like he really didn’t understand—or grasp it—why everything had changed. 

you shook your head, turning away. “just—just stay away from me.” you murmured quickly, your breathing uneven, 

you barely took two steps before jake’s hand shot out, fingers closing around your wrist. just enough to make you freeze on your tracks. “jake—”

“why did you stop talking to me?” he asked, grip tightening ever so slightly. “why did you hide from me? i saw you peeking through your curtains the other day, but you never opened the door.” 

your pulse hammered against your skin. “i—i just need some space,” you forced out, voice started shaking. jake was quiet for a moment, but his grip didn’t loosen around the curve of your wrist. the two of you simply stared at each other. 

the sun was slowly setting behind him, casting golden streaks against the ground as his shadow stretched—that you could barely see him.

“space?” jake repeated, his voice so soft you thought it’d get carried away with the wind. you parted your lips to say something, but no words came out. his fingers remained firm around your wrist, still. 

above, the dark clouds rolled in, swallowing the remaining little light left behind. you felt the temperature drop, if you could pay attention, you’d smell petrichor—but no, you were too occupied trying to calm your breathing and your heart beat hammering against your ribcage.

it’s going to rain and you need to get back home.

it’s going to rain and you don’t have an umbrella with you—

it’s going to rain and dad is going to get really really mad—and he’ll say something like, didn’t i tell you to bring an umbrella before going out?

you need to go home but jake wasn’t letting go. 

“i don’t like it when you avoid me,”

you need to go home.

——

“yn?” 

your father had just woken from his nap.

the house was too quiet for his liking. he didn’t hear the soft murmur of the television or the plates clanking in the kitchen—in fact, the dinner he had prepared for you was still left untouched and covered on the dining table. only the soft ticking of the clock accompanied the heavy patter of rain against the window. downstairs was only lit up by the dim candlelight he left ignited. 

he rubbed a hand over his tired face. he hadn’t meant to doze off. glancing up on the second floor, he thought you had fallen asleep as well but when called you down, there was no response. so you weren’t upstairs either.

you weren’t in the bathroom, nor in the laundry room folding clothes. matter of fact, you weren’t anywhere in the house. 

his brows furrowed. he glanced at the clock—21:48.

stepping towards the doorway, your father glanced at the console table by the entrance. your watch, his wife’s bracelet that she had given to you, and your crucifix—none of them were there. 

call it a father’s instinct, but an uneasy feeling settled in his chest.

he walked towards the window, parting the curtains slightly in hopes that he’d see you napping or taking cover on the porch—maybe you’d left your keys before going out. 

but no, you weren’t outside either.

the trees swayed with the wind and the rain had picked up. he noticed your umbrella resting against the rocking chair outside. his finger gripped the voile. you should’ve been home by now. 

hours ago. 

a sigh left his lips as he turned towards the telephone, dialing your number. the first ring echoed through the house. then came the second, followed by the third. each tone stretched longer than it should’ve been for you to pick up. he closed his eyes as his grip on the receiver tightened. please pick up, sweetheart, the fourth and the fifth ring passed before the call was disconnected. 

with each unanswered tone, his breath grew a little bit tighter, his pulse just a little bit heavier. 

he tried again for the second and the third time, but it was all the same. voicemail, voicemail, voicemail. 

it was unlike his daughter to do so—you had always been good about checking in and letting him know your whereabouts. maybe you lost track of time again, and decided to stay at your friend’s house while waiting for the rain to subside. 

your father clicked his tongue before shaking his head as he dialed in your friend’s house number. just checking in—making sure. just to ease his heart. it took about four rings before the call was picked up. 

“hello?”

your father let out a sigh of relief—not yet, but at least… “hi, uh this is giselle, right?” 

“oh, yn’s dad! yeah, what’s wrong?” she answered, her voice light and slightly confused.

“sorry to call so late. yn said she was at your house earlier, and i just wanted to check if she’s still there.” 

a pause. then, a short almost imperceptible silence. 

“oh uhm,” giselle filled, pausing. “she left a while ago.. like…at 5, i think…? she said she was heading straight home when she noticed the skies were getting dark.” her voice slowly went quieter and softer. there was hesitation and uncertainty in her voice.

something cold crawled up in his spine. he glanced at the clock hanging on the wall—21:57

that was almost five hours ago. five hours ago since you should’ve been home.

there was a slight rustling on the other end, like giselle was shifting the phone against her ear. “did… did she not make it home yet?” she asked.

he didn’t answer right away, glancing at the door instinctively like he’d find you swinging open the door, drenched in rain and immediately running to him to apologise for not bringing your umbrella and that you’ll never do it again.

but the house was still empty. 

“she’s… not home yet,” he admitted, his voice coming out softer than he’d intended. he didn’t want to make your poor friend concerned. “oh… do you want me to try calling her?” 

your father had to force a small chuckle out of him that didn’t reach his chest. “that’s alright. i’ll try again. maybe she stopped somewhere to wait out the rain.” he rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, trying to ignore the feeling stirring in his stomach.

“that’s okay, father. i’ll try calling her—maybe she’s afraid you’ll scold her.” giselle let out a small laugh in hopes it’d ease the tension. the corner of his mouth twitching in something that might’ve been a smile on a better day. just not today. not now. maybe when you’re home; he’ll tell you what giselle said earlier and the two of you will share a laugh together. 

but not now.

now you were unreachable and weren’t home.

“...thank you, giselle.” he said, though the unease in his chest remained. the call ended shortly after that. your father let the receiver rest against his palm for a second too long, his thumb absentmindedly tracing the spiral cord. 

he blinked before dialing your number one last time—please pick up, yn.

it went straight to voicemail again. 

without a second thought, he grabbed his coat and his umbrella before stepping outside, the rain was coming down in heavy sheets. he brought your umbrella along too—just incase he found you sheltering under the bus stop or something. 

your father prayed you’re fine.

——

“is it yn’s birthday today?” 

a voice, soft and cautious, spoke from behind. 

your father exhaled, letting his fingers tighten briefly around the rosary between his hands. “yes,” he murmured, eyes still shut. he was kneeling at the front pew, fingers interlaced together in silent prayer. his lips moved in quiet reverence meant only for god to listen.

he had prayed like this every year.

seven years now.

seven birthdays without you. 

“would she have been twenty-six now?”

“twenty-five,” he fluttered his eyes open, his gaze fixed on the altar. his voice held distant—the numbers being your age felt foreign on his tongue. it belonged to a life that never came to be. 

there was no grave to visit. no headstones to kneel before and cry on. no place to leave flowers except here, at the feet of the cross, where your father found himself more often than not. no body buried six-feet underneath. 

your father wasn’t sure which would he prefer—a body, although lifeless and cold, but yours nonetheless. something he could hold, bury, and grieve over properly. if there was a body, there was at least you. there was at least a place for him to visit and pray over. a grave would mean an ending. a painful one sure, one where he knows he would never get over—but an ending, still.

or—nothing. an absence that stretched across the years and gnawing at his faith and sanity. no body meant no closure. nothing to hold, no confirmation. it meant waking up every morning to the same unanswered question, the same torment of thoughts. but it also meant a possibility. however faint and irrational—what if you were still out there? just a little bit older and mature, maybe taller and wiser too. but still your father’s little girl. 

what if you were still alive? somewhere, walking this earth, watching the same stars? 

would things be different if he hadn’t dozed off that night? or had it always been written that you would go through it?

“you’re a strong man, father. she will be very proud of you.” 

there were rumours circulating after your disappearance was made public—your father has heard it himself. although no one was ever bold enough to come up and ask him for corroboration. stories floated around the small town that you had left with a lover—one that your father didn’t approve of—. that you had grown tired of the life of being a priest’s daughter where your freedom was restricted. 

some even whispered that you had followed your mother to heaven—not by chance, but by choice.

a softer, kinder way to call it a suicide.

he never once entertained or acknowledged the silent murmurs slithering. your father had made sure that you were always happy being his daughter—he always kept his ears open to hear your rants and gossips despite it being a sin and destructive. 

as for the lover—no, the rumour was ridiculous, laughable almost. you would never. secrecy could only go so far, and he believed you would never hide something as crucial as a secret lover.

but when he heard that his own daughter had gone over his wife. that—he couldn’t help but to wonder if it was true. before your disappearance, he noticed your gaze lingering a few minutes too long on your mother’s portrait. sometimes you’d tell him that you missed mom, and that if she was here, things would’ve been different. he shrugged it off thinking it was just grief visiting on a random tuesday, but now, he wished he had paid more attention to it.

“yeah,” he murmured, shoulders relaxing, thumb absentmindedly brushing over the rosary. “i have to be strong for her.” 

faith did not erase grief. it only softened its edges and made it bearable for him to live another day for you. slowly, he started praying not only for answers, but peace. 

——

“i really didn’t mean to kill her,”

the priest says nothing. a silence gesture for continuation. 

“it just… happened. we were young, i was angry, she was… stubborn,” the penitent continues. there’s something about the way it’s said that it’s almost thoughtful and regretful. but not quite. the priest wonders who—and what happened—and when…?

“i was angry,” he admits. “she—” he then pauses. “she shouldn’t have done that to me.” 

the priest exhales through his nose. the topic of death, murder, youngsters—they don’t sit right on his chest for what he was put through. but he was ordained—and so, here he is. like it or not, he’s doing this for god. this has nothing to do with himself.

“i just wanted to teach her a little bit but she got—,” the penitent’s breath hitched, and the priest hears him shifting against the wooden bench. “she started gasping—like she couldn’t breathe. she started clawing at her throat, searching for something—her inhaler, i believe, but she couldn’t find it. and then i saw—”

the priest’s fingers curl over the stole in his lap. couldn’t breathe—? inhaler? the victim had asthma or some sort? if it was asthma then you too—

“—a light. a torch or something. someone was coming.” 

the priest’s heart begins to pound. so loud he hopes it doesn’t echo in the small room. he wills to stay quiet, stay still, and listens.

“she was making too much noise, she cried for her dad and then her mom, and then god, and then her dad again,” the voice on the other side of the screen continues, lower now, as if he’s speaking to himself. “if they saw us… if they saw me…” a ragged exhale. 

the priest’s adam’s apple bob with a swallow, but he says nothing. he’s a dad too. 

a silence stretches between them. 

dad. she cried for her dad.

he was a father before he was a priest. 

before he was a shepherd, before he was communicated, he had cradled the precious gift from god—you, kissed your scraped knees and combed through your tangled hair. before anything, he was your father before anyone else’s. 

this girl—the victim—had called for her dad too.

in one of his sleepless nights, he wonders—what happened to you that rainy night. were you afraid? called his name like this girl did to her dad? 

he prayed for your safety throughout these seven years of your disappearance—yet, sitting just infront of him, divided by a screen…

“i covered her mouth, just for a second. just until they passed and then i was going to let her go,” 

the weight of the past sits heavy on his chest. the priest has to swallow the ache rising in his throat. the grief swelling is beginning to enter his lungs—and turn it into tears. 

“but she was already gasping and struggling,” the penitent murmurs. “i thought she’d calm down because she stopped moving. i really thought—” a shaky inhale. “when i removed my hands, she just stopped. like entirely. stopped.” 

the candle in the priest’s side of the room flickers and casts shifting shadows through the lattice screen. “...and what is it that you seek, child?” he steadies his voice as hard as he can. in the seal of confession, he cannot ask the penitent to turn himself in. 

“absolution,”

the priest closes his eyes for a moment. the word feels like it’s directed more to himself rather than god—but he might be overthinking it. how many times had trembling voices sought the mercy of god through him?

he’s not a god, he’s merely a servant. a representative. he absolves sins—god forgives.

“god’s mercy is endless. so long you restitute.” 

..

“even if i rape?” 

not the first he had ever heard, but still.

“...the lord welcomes all who truly repent,” he answers carefully. “if you are willing to make amends and to seek justice.” his thumb shakily brushes over his rosary on his lap. he does not know this man. he does not know the suffering he has caused and to whom. he does not know the name of the unfortunate girl who fell to his crime. 

he is not one to judge.

“yes. there’s always restitution if you believe that that's what's best for you.” the priest exhales slowly. he has reassured, guided, and believed in redemption. glancing at the small window in his room, the sky has transitioned to orange and red hues as the sun dips below the horizon—what time is it now?

“even if i murder?” 

there is a pause and a heavy weight lingers in the air between them as the penitent remains silent. the priest hears a shuffling, shifting of weight coming from the sinner. by the seal of the confessional he isn’t allowed to snitch, or anonymously tips the police about the identity of a murderer (not like he knows), but if he can get this man to turn himself in—he’d be doing a favour for the victim’s family.

“i’m sorry, father,” the penitent murmurs. so soft and so apologetic that it doesn’t sound like he’s seeking forgiveness or repentance from god. it sounds more like a farewell. 

personal.

the priest’s breath falters, his thumb stops brushing over his rosary. something cold curls around his ribs and it’s squeezing him tight. 

he’s not allowed to do this— “wait.” the word barely left his lips before he allows himself to. he hears the creak of shifting weight as the penitent moves to leave. the candle flickers wildly beside him as it casts the man’s shadow getting up on the other side of the latticed screen. 

“who are—” he reaches forward instinctively, not knowing why but hopes to grasp onto something. like a name of the victim that was murdered, when, a presence—is it his child? 

the priest’s fingers tightens around the wooden partition as he pushes the door to his side of the confessional, stepping into the dim chapel. the penitent’s door was already ajar and empty. gone. nothing that could even give the slightest hint for the priest to identify who was sitting across him just a few seconds ago.

everything’s empty, aside from a bracelet and white crucifix laying on the bench. 

one that belongs to you.

——

“jaeyun? where are you bringing me?” you asked, breath hitching as your shoes skidded over the damp forest floor. 

you tried to pull your hand back, but his grip around your wrist unwavered—if not only tightened— his nails digging into your skin like a warning. jake didn’t answer you as he just kept walking, dragging you deeper into the trees, where the light barely touched and the air grew colder. above, the sky darkened. 

your voice cracked, you felt your heartbeat picking up its pace. “jaeyun, please,”

then, he stopped.

he stopped abruptly that the sudden halt made you stumble slightly on your feet, your shoulder knocking against his back. for a second, there was only the sound of wind through the branches, and the distant rumble of thunder rolling in.

“somewhere no one will find us,” he said, his voice soft as silk, soft as the gathering mist. “just for a little while, i need to tell you somethin’,” he murmured like a secret before turning to face you slowly. his eyes dark—much like the sky, heavy, waiting—under his locks. you blinked, not breaking eye contact despite your heart hammering in growing fear. “i—i need to go home. my dad—he’s going to be—”

he cuts you off, yanking you towards him. “don’t use your dad as an excuse, yn.” his voice was still low, but the softness was gone—replaced with something fraying at the edges. “you said you wanted space, i gave you space. i didn’t bother you and where did that get me? where did that get us?” he said through clenched teeth and tightened grip.

you opened your mouth but nothing came out. your throat tightened, tongue thickened and heavy.

the rain came heavier down, warm against your skin. you blinked once, twice—the water trailed down your rosy cheeks, catched on your chin. 

only when your breath stuttered that you realised it’s not the rain.

“i… i didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, words barely audible over the thumping in your ears and the rustle of the wind and leaves, but jake heard them. for a second, his expression flickered into something uncertain. then it’s gone again.

“over and over. every time you ignored me like i was nothing,” he murmured, his grip unyielded, enough to make your pulse leap. “you’re going to have to repay me, yn.” jake’s eyes glinted under the gloomy sky. darker stirred behind them, colder than the wind and the damp air.

“doesn’t your dad teach you about replaying what’s owed?” he continued. his thumb brushed your wrist, almost tender, but nothing gentle at all. “do you think god’s mercy is just for you? because you’re a priest’s daughter?” 

his breath was shallow like he was talking to himself now, the words slipping out of his mouth without him realising how they were creeping into the air between the two of you, 

“you’ve got a debt to pay, yn. and if you won’t pay it willingly,” he paused, tilting his head to the side. “i guess i’ll just have to force the price out of you.”

despite your loud cries and waterworks, the thunder only rumbled louder and the rain kept falling. dread pooling at your feet. the chill had nothing to do with the weather.

god truly didn’t give you any mercy that night.

Dani’s turning her head too fast, Sakura’s already moving on to a new story. It’s not their fault. They love you. They try; they always do. But in places like this, where charisma is currency and the loudest person wins, you always come up short. You’re the comma in their sentence. The pause between moments.

Eventually, Dani hooks her arm through yours and grins. “Come on. Let’s get some air.” You let them lead you outside, where the music softens behind glass doors and the cool night air brushes against your skin. The wooden deck is lit by string lights and scented faintly of smoke and expensive cologne. And that’s when you see them; The it boys on campus, Leaning against the railing like some untouchable constellation: Heeseung, Beomgyu, Sunghoon, Jay, and Jake. Each one a caricature of cool in different flavors. Beomgyu’s laughing with his head thrown back. Jake is draped over the deck chair like he owns it. Sunghoon and Jay are mid-story. And then there’s Heeseung, casual arrogance wrapped in black denim and a hoodie pushed halfway up his forearms. 

The moment the girls approach, everyone shifts to accommodate them, the circle expanding like ripples on water. You find yourself next to Heeseung, who throws you a brief glance that feels like an assessment. His gaze dips for a second to your glasses and lingers. You know that look. You’ve seen it before in classrooms and locker-lined hallways. The look that decides exactly who you are in the span of two seconds and four syllables: nerd. Unworthy of any and all social interaction beside incandescent teasing. How comical that was. “You guys,” Heeseung says, in that smooth, drawling voice that makes everything he says sound vaguely amused, “Mr. Yoon was on my ass today. Said if I bomb this next lit paper, he’s yanking my scholarship. Like, sorry I don’t care about symbolism in 18th-century poetry, man.” 

Sakura perks up, turning to look at you. “Wait She’s amazing at lit! Like, scary good.” 

“She tutors people all the time,” Dani adds, nudging you playfully. You blink, caught mid-sip of something lukewarm in a red cup, and find five pairs of curious eyes settling on you. Including his.

Heeseung’s lip quirks. “Oh, I’m sure she is.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He gestures loosely toward your face, vaguely circling your glasses. “Nothing. Just, you’ve got that whole bookish prodigy vibe. You know. Brainiac chic.” 

“Brainiac chic?” You raise an eyebrow. “That’s your insult? Do you even have a GPA?” His friends snicker. Jake lets out a low “oooh,” and Beomgyu slaps Heeseung on the back like he’s just taken a hit.

Heeseung, unfazed, smiles lazily. “Touché. Though, I’m not the one who just quoted my GPA like it’s a flex.” You can’t help the way your lip twitches. You shouldn’t enjoy this. You do. Heeseung is irritating. Arrogant. Infuriatingly pretty. But he’s listening. He’s bantering back. In this weird, warped little moment, you almost feel like you matter. 

And then he walks up. Soobin. You spot him from the corner of your eye, tall and soft around the edges, dressed in an oversized hoodie that somehow still makes him look like a dream. His hair’s a little messy like he ran his hands through it too many times, and his smile; God, his smile, curls up slow when he sees your group. He says something to Jake, who waves him over, and then he’s standing in your circle, next to you, and your brain short-circuits. You try to say hi, but it comes out as a hiccuped squeak. Your voice cracks in three different places, and as if fate hadn’t humiliated you enough, you flinch backward and knock your elbow straight into the flimsy drink table behind you. The cup in your hand slips, spins midair, and splashes all over your shirt in one mortifying arc. 

Soobin blinks. Heeseung stares. You feel the heat crawl up your neck like a flame eating paper. Someone offers you a napkin, Dani, maybe — but it doesn’t matter. You’re already backing away. “I—I’m gonna go,” you mumble. “I’ll see you guys later.” You turn before anyone can say anything else, your heartbeat thudding in your ears, the deck already blurry with shame. Behind you, the laughter starts again, soft, harmless, not mean, not really; but it doesn't matter. You’re already gone. And you have no idea how this mess is only just beginning. 

The next morning arrives not like a promise, but like a punishment. The sun is too bright, the sky too smugly blue, like even the weather knows what happened last night. You drag yourself across campus wrapped in oversized layers, hoodie strings pulled tight around your face like armor. You haven't checked your phone since the party. Not because it hasn’t lit up — it has, but because you can’t bear to face the missed calls and texts blinking like tiny sirens across the screen. Dani: “hey, are you okay?” Sakura: “babe, call us pls.” A voicemail you didn’t dare open. It’s all waiting for you like unopened letters from a version of yourself that doesn’t exist anymore. 

Because last night, you crumbled in front of Soobin. You keep replaying it like a cursed tape in your head: the way your voice cracked, the look of gentle confusion on his face, the splash of cheap punch soaking through your shirt like a scarlet stamp of shame. You can still feel the sting of it; hot, sticky, humiliating. You picture the exact moment his eyes met yours and how quickly you broke, like a window catching a stone at the wrong angle. You didn’t even say goodbye to Dani or Sakura. Just ran. Just let the night swallow you whole. And now, in the cruel light of day, everything feels worse. 

Your footsteps echo a little too loudly on the concrete path through campus. You keep your head down, gaze locked on your shoes as the crowds blur around you in streaks of motion and color. But you feel them; eyes. Not direct. Not obvious. Just there. Flicking toward you. Lingering. Someone lets out a muffled laugh as you pass. You tell yourself it has nothing to do with you, but the way your stomach clenches betrays you. It’s a peculiar kind of spotlight, being noticed for all the wrong reasons. You’re used to being invisible, not mocked. You never asked for attention, never needed a stage. But now you’re walking through campus like a meme brought to life, like the punchline of a joke you didn’t know you were telling. You pass a group of students lounging on the lawn. One nudges the other. Another whispers something behind a hand. Laughter. It could be about anything. It could be nothing. But you flinch like it’s a slap to the face. So you keep walking, keep shrinking.

Your classroom isn’t far, but the distance feels endless. Like the stretch of hallway in a nightmare where your legs move but you never get anywhere. When you finally reach the door, your hands tremble as you pull it open, slipping inside with all the urgency of someone trying to outrun their own shadow. The air inside is still and cold, the hum of fluorescents a dull buzz in your ears. You’re too wrapped in your own spiral to notice where your feet take you. The room is already half full, students murmuring over open laptops, pens clicking like insects in early spring. You move on autopilot, slipping into the first empty seat you see near the back, hoping the distance from the front will buy you some much-needed invisibility.

But the moment you set your bag down and glance to your left, the universe decides to play its favorite game, humiliation, round two. Because there he is. Lee Heeseung. Slouched in his chair with all the grace of someone who’s never had to try too hard, hoodie sleeves pushed up again like it’s a personal brand, one knee bouncing lazily. His arm’s draped over the back of the chair, dangerously close to yours, and he’s already looking at you when you meet his eyes, eyebrow raised, lips curled in that signature smirk that could make a mirror blush. “Well, well,” he says, low and smug. “Couldn’t get enough of me, could you?” You blink, brain short-circuiting for half a second before the sarcasm kicks in like muscle memory.

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, your voice dry as dust. “I just had to sit next to the guy who thinks MLA formatting is a type of sandwich.” Heeseung whistles through his teeth, hand pressed to his heart like you wounded him. “Wow. Vicious. No wonder you’re single.”

Without missing a beat, you smile sweetly, and flip him off. And that’s what does it. Heeseung bursts out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a half-chuckle. A full-bodied, belly-deep laugh that shakes his shoulders and lights up his whole stupidly handsome face. It’s loud, too; sharp enough to draw a few curious glances from the rows in front of you. Someone turns around. Another student raises an eyebrow. But Heeseung just throws his head back and laughs, like you’re the funniest thing to ever happen to 9 a.m. lit. And somehow, against your will, a laugh bubbles out of you, too. 

Just a snort at first, barely more than breath. But it grows, because you can’t help it, because it was kind of funny, because maybe you’re so bone-tired from crying that anything even slightly absurd feels like a lifeline. You laugh into your palm, trying to hide it, but that only makes Heeseung grin wider. “See?” he says, nudging your arm with his elbow. “I knew you liked me.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet,” he hums, “here you are.”You shake your head, biting back another smile—and for a second, just a second, you don’t care that people are still glancing at the two of you. You don’t care that your shirt from last night is crumpled in your laundry basket or that the video of you spilling punch may or may not be circling the group chat. You don’t care that your friends probably think you’re ghosting them. Because for this one moment, there’s no spotlight. No pressure.

The rest of the class unfolds in a quiet, uninterrupted hum. The professor drones on about motifs and metaphor, and your pen finally scratches to life again. Heeseung doesn’t speak after that, not really, but you can feel the lingering heat of his presence beside you, like a low flame that won’t go out. You catch yourself glancing his way more than once. He catches you every time. 

Class ends in a quiet unraveling. You gather your things slowly, letting the rows of students trickle out ahead of you like a stream smoothing stone. Heeseung’s already up, stretching his arms over his head in that effortless way that shouldn't be allowed this early in the day. He tosses you a wink as he moves toward the door, and you pretend to roll your eyes, even as something traitorous inside you flutters like a curtain caught in wind. You follow the flow of students into the hallway, hoping to blend in. Hoping, maybe foolishly, that today might end on a quieter note.

But fate has sharp teeth. 

A manicured hand taps your shoulder just as you pass beneath the atrium light, and when you turn, you’re met with a smile so sugar-slick and venom-laced it makes your spine stiffen on instinct. Jang Wonyoung. She’s standing in front of you like a statue carved from polished ambition, long legs, glossy hair, not a flaw in sight. Her clothes are designer without needing to scream it, her lip gloss a shade too pink to be innocent. She oozes confidence, curated and sharpened to a point. And you know who she is — everyone does. She’s not just the most popular girl on campus, she’s the one people orbit around. She’s the center of gravity in every room she enters. You’ve never spoken to her before. 

“You’re friends with Dani and Sakura, right?” she says sweetly, voice as light as powdered sugar.

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh… yeah,” you answer, nodding a little too quickly, nerves flaring. “I am.” Her smile doesn’t change, but something behind her eyes hardens. Shifts. It’s like watching a rose bloom only to realize the thorns are still sharper than the petals. She tilts her head slightly, and for a moment, you almost wonder if this is some kind of polite small talk. But then she leans in just enough for her perfume to ghost past your cheek; something expensive and calculated, and her voice drops to a murmur, low and cruel. 

“Don’t think for one second you have a chance with Heeseung.” She blinks, lashes fluttering like knives. “DUF.” You freeze. The letters don’t click at first. They hang there in the air between you, meaningless and jagged. You open your mouth, confusion spilling out in a quiet stammer. “Wait — what’s a DUF?” 

Wonyoung’s smile stretches wider, and it’s not a smile at all now. It’s the curve of something about to cut. “DUF isn’t a name. It’s what you are,” she purrs. “Designated Ugly Friend.” You stare, the words crashing into you like sleet against glass. You don’t even flinch; not yet. You’re too stunned, too caught between disbelief and dawning horror to react. Your throat tightens. Her words burrow under your skin, cold and gleaming. “You’re always with Dani and Sakura,” she continues, still smiling like this is all just a casual observation, like she’s not peeling your dignity apart with her manicured fingers. “They’re hot. Like, objectively. You’re just… there. To make them look better. That’s your role. Know your place.” 

You open your mouth again, breath hitching in protest. “My name is—” But she cuts you off, voice turning sharper, all pretense abandoned.

“DUF,” she repeats, slow and deliberate. “And Heeseung? He’s out of your league. So do everyone a favor, babe, and stay away from him.” She gives you one last look; final, dismissive, like you were never really worth seeing at all, and then she’s turning on her heel, walking away like she just dropped a bomb and is already bored of the smoke. And you — you just stand there. Your heartbeat thuds in your ears like a drum played out of rhythm. Your feet feel rooted to the tile, your hands limp at your sides, notebook barely clutched in your grip. It’s as if the world has narrowed to a single hallway, a single moment, and Wonyoung’s words are etched on the walls around you. DUF. 

You’ve never heard it before. Not like that. Not named. But now that it’s been said, now that it’s out in the open, it echoes. It colors everything. It twists last night into a sick joke, replays every photo you’ve stood in between Dani and Sakura, every party where you stood off to the side. You see yourself through Wonyoung’s eyes, and the reflection stings. You don’t cry. Not yet. The tears are waiting, crouched behind your ribs, but you won’t let them win. Not in this hallway. Not here. You just swallow hard, lower your head, and walk, each step heavier than the last, as if you’re trying to carry the weight of someone else’s cruelty on your shoulders. And all the while, her words stay with you like a brand: Know your place.

You don’t remember how you got there. One moment you were frozen in that hallway, still tasting Wonyoung’s words on the back of your tongue like something spoiled and sour. The next, you’re seated at the farthest computer in the campus lab, shoulders hunched, the too-bright monitor casting a cold glow across your face. Around you, students move in hushed clicks and muted coughs, the clatter of keyboards filling the silence like light rain. No one looks your way. No one ever does. It’s what you wanted, right? To disappear? To be invisible? But not like this. Your fingers tremble as they hover over the keyboard, uncertain, like they already know what you’re about to unearth. You type DUF first, because that’s what she said. That’s what she called you. The letters feel clunky and unfamiliar, like a language you were never meant to understand. When nothing pops up, you frown, your pulse quickening. 

And then, like the knife finally finding skin, it hits you. And the world splits open. The page fills with links, slang dictionaries, gossip forums, teen advice articles, old Reddit threads dissecting high school hierarchies like scientific taxonomy. You click the first video out of instinct, and a girl on the screen, barely older than you, leans into the camera with a sad smile and says, “The DUF is the Designated Ugly Friend. You’re the least attractive in your friend group, the approachable one, the funny one, the one guys talk to only to get to your prettier friends.” You freeze. Her voice continues, but it becomes background noise to the storm inside your chest. Your heartbeat hammers against your ribs like it wants to escape, and suddenly your body feels far too small for what you’re carrying.

Your fingers move on their own, clicking through link after link like each one might offer a different definition, something softer, something kind. But they don’t. They all echo the same gutting truth. The DUF is the one who fills the empty space. The background character in her own life. The girl who exists not for herself, but as contrast, to make her friends shine brighter by comparison. You feel it like a bruise blooming across your entire being. Memories rise unbidden, like film reels unspooling behind your eyes. The nights out where you stood at the edge of a circle, holding jackets and drinks while Dani and Sakura danced with boys who barely spared you a glance. The time a guy asked you for Sakura’s number while you were still in the middle of a sentence. The photos you’d be cropped out of, the stories you weren’t included in, the parties where you stood on the periphery like a shadow no one noticed. 

You thought it was just how things were. You thought maybe you were just quieter. Shyer. Less hungry for attention. But now the pieces fit. Too well. And what guts you, what truly guts you, is the realization that maybe — just maybe — they knew. Dani and Sakura. Your best friends. Did they know what DUF meant? Had they heard it tossed around and just… never told you? Had they laughed about it with others, let it live in whispers while you smiled beside them, oblivious? Were you some inside joke dressed in loyalty? Did they ever look at you and feel sorry? Or worse, did they agree? 

The nausea coils in your stomach like a slow-moving wave, threatening to rise. You press your palm to your chest, as if you can keep yourself from unraveling entirely. Your vision swims. The sterile blue of the lab feels too bright, too loud, too full of all the wrong kinds of silence. You’re still staring at the glowing screen, that same sentence blinking back at you like a taunt: “The DUFF is the one nobody notices until they need something.” Your throat tightens. You don’t want to be in this body. In this moment. In this story.

You slam the laptop shut without ceremony. The sharp clap of it draws a glance from a boy a few chairs down, but you don’t care. You’re already yanking your bag from the floor, stuffing your notebook inside with shaking hands. Your fingers are clumsy, rushed, like you’re trying to outrun a tidal wave that’s already crashing through you. You need air. You need to move. You need to not be here, not be seen. The walk out of the lab is a blur of cold tiles and humming machines. Your steps echo like betrayal. Like every footfall might draw more eyes, more whispers, more invisible hands pointing in your direction. You don’t even realize you’re crying until you taste salt.

Not the loud, sobbing kind of cry. No, this is something quieter. A leak in the dam. A silent surrender. The kind of crying that happens when the weight of the world doesn’t come crashing down in one dramatic moment; but seeps in, slow and steady, drop by drop, until you’re drowning. You step outside, wind slicing at your face, the sky too wide, too open. You feel small in a way you can’t describe. Not just physically, existentially. Like someone cracked your reflection and you’re left staring at the pieces wondering if any of it was ever real. And in the back of your mind, like a cruel echo still clinging to the walls of your skull, her voice repeats: Know your place, DUF. 

The first thing you do after leaving the computer lab is search. You needed to see Dani and Sakura. You find them exactly where you knew they’d be. The C building’s hallway is packed, echoing with the end-of-period rush. Footsteps slap against the floors in every direction. Lockers clang open and shut, laughter weaves in and out of the noise like a skipping stone. The scent of dry erase markers, mint gum, and cheap coffee lingers in the air. But it all feels distant to you, muted, irrelevant. Like you’re underwater, moving through the crowd on instinct, not thought. And then, through the blur of motion and sound, you see them. Dani and Sakura.

The two girls you’ve called your best friends since freshman year. The ones who’ve seen you through breakups, panic attacks, late-night cramming sessions and slow, sleepy Sunday brunches. The ones who claimed to love you. They’re standing outside their chemistry lecture, laughing at something; Sakura’s head thrown back, Dani’s hip nudging hers. It’s such a familiar picture that for a split second, you hesitate. For a split second, your brain lies to you.  Maybe they don’t know. Maybe Wonyoung was wrong. Maybe everything was just some cruel misunderstanding. But your heart knows better.  You push through the crowd with the desperation of someone chasing the truth, and the second your voice cuts through the air, they turn to you, your hair wild from the wind, breath ragged from running, eyes rimmed with something between fury and heartbreak. “Did you guys know?”

The words tumble out too fast, ragged at the edges, raw like a wound. They both blink at you, confusion washing over their faces like clouds across sunlight. “Know what?” Sakura asks slowly, brow furrowing. Dani’s already stepping forward, hand brushing your arm gently, like she’s afraid you might shatter on contact. “What are you talking about?”

And then you say it; louder than you meant to, louder than you ever thought you’d say anything in public. “Did you know I’m your fucking DUF?” The hallway doesn’t go silent, but it feels like it does. Their faces freeze, and you see it instantly, the flicker of recognition in Sakura’s eyes, the tightness in Dani’s jaw. It’s not confusion now. It’s not disbelief. It’s guilt. Guilt. They look at each other. It’s barely a glance, half a heartbeat, but it’s all the confirmation you need. Something in your chest gives, a sickening drop that feels like the floor vanishing beneath your feet. 

Your voice splinters when you speak again. “What? Are you just friends with me because you feel bad for me?” Your words hang in the air like smoke, heavy and choking. Dani’s eyes widen, her mouth opening like she’s about to say something, anything but you see the panic settle across her face. She wasn’t ready for this. They never expected you to find out. They never thought you’d ask.

“That’s not—” Sakura starts, then stops.

Dani shakes her head fast, her voice stumbling over itself. “That’s not true. Don’t say that.”

“Then why?” you ask, louder now, pain bubbling up from somewhere deep and long-buried. “Why did you always brush me off when I said I liked Soobin? Why did you laugh when I said I thought he might like me back? Why did you look at me like I was crazy?” They don't answer. Not really. They just look at you with wide eyes and silence thick between them.

“You didn’t think I was pretty enough,” you say, and your voice cracks right down the middle. Dani swallows. Her hands are wringing the strap of her backpack like she doesn’t know what to do with them. She steps closer again, gentler this time, quieter. “We don’t think you’re ugly,” she says, the words coming slowly, like they hurt her to say. “It’s just… you could try a little harder, you know? Like, you don’t really… put effort in.” The air leaves your lungs in a rush.

You feel it physically, like someone just knocked the wind out of you, punched a hole in your chest and left it gaping open for everyone to see. The people around you are still moving, still living their lives, but all you can hear is the echo of those words: try harder. As if your entire existence hasn’t been one long effort to be enough. And before you can respond, Sakura adds, “You’re just… not Soobin’s type, that’s all.” You blink. Your mind blanks. Your heart is already in pieces, but that line cracks the rest of you open. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you ask, your voice trembling, not with fear, but with something deeper, more dangerous. Rage wrapped in heartbreak. Sakura falters. She opens her mouth, but no answer comes out. Dani shifts uncomfortably beside her. Their faces are pale now, eyes darting around, noticing for the first time how many people are starting to look. How many are pretending not to listen. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to undo every moment of vulnerability you ever gave them. But more than anything, you want to run. Because staying here, standing in this hallway, heart bared like a wound while the people you loved carve you apart, hurts more than anything you’ve ever felt. You shake your head slowly, backing away from them as the tears begin to fall in earnest. “I thought you were my friends,” you whisper, and then louder, “I trusted you.” Dani reaches out again, but this time you pull back. You don’t want her comfort. You don’t want her pity. You don’t want to hear another word. So you turn. And you walk.

You don’t care that people are watching. You don’t care that your shoulders are shaking, that your tears are spilling freely now, or that your bag keeps slipping down your arm. You walk faster, pushing through the crowd until the voices blur behind you, until the memory of their faces fades into the roar of everything breaking apart. And as you go, the thought haunts you, echoing over and over in your skull: They knew. They knew. They knew. And they never told you. 

The doors to the C building groan shut behind you, sealing away the voices, the stares, the wreckage. But the damage doesn’t stay inside. It clings to you, stitched into your skin like frostbite; cold, deep, and invisible to everyone else. The sting of betrayal coils inside your chest, twisting tighter with every step you take. Your breathing’s uneven. Not quite sobbing, but close. That awful in-between sound, caught in your throat like a scream that refuses to come out. The air outside is biting, too cold for early fall, but you hardly notice. It brushes your cheeks like ghost hands, cuts through your sweater, lifts the ends of your hair, nothing reaches you. Not really. You're numb in a way that feels permanent, like someone turned the volume of the world all the way down and you forgot how to turn it back up.

People pass by, some look, some don’t. A few recognize you, eyes flickering with half-curiosity, half-concern, but no one says anything. And thank god for that, because if anyone did, if even one person tried to ask if you were okay, you think you'd crumble. Right there on the sidewalk. Crumple like paper and never get back up again. The walk from the C building to your dorm stretches impossibly long. Every step is heavier than the last, as if the weight of Dani and Sakura’s words is dragging behind you, chained to your ankles. You replay it all, the glances, the hesitations, the way Dani looked away when you asked if they knew, the way Sakura's voice sounded too rehearsed, like she’d already decided what version of the truth you were allowed to hear.

“You could try harder.”

“You’re just not his type.”

Those words circle you like vultures. You can’t outrun them. You can’t out-walk what’s inside your chest. By the time you reach the dorm building, you’re shaking. Not from the cold, but from everything else. Rage. Shame. Heartbreak. All of it, bottled and clinking against your ribs like glass ready to shatter. Your key slips once in the door before you finally shove it in and turn, stumbling down the hall to your room like you’ve just escaped a storm only to find another waiting inside. You push the door open and don’t bother turning on the lights. You don’t take your shoes off. You don’t put your bag down. You don’t think. You just collapse.

Straight onto your bed, face-first, like gravity’s been waiting all day for you to break. The mattress groans under the weight of your body, the quiet rustle of blankets the only sound in the room. But even that silence feels loud. And then — finally — you scream. It’s muffled into your pillow, soaked into the cotton and foam, but it rips through you like it’s been building for years. A scream made of all the things you couldn’t say in that hallway. All the pain you swallowed down so no one would see you break. All the confusion, all the loneliness, all the self-doubt bubbling up into one long, raw, aching sound.

You scream because you thought they were your people. You scream because you believed, deeply, that you were loved. You scream because you didn’t know you were being pitied.

And when your voice finally gives out, when your throat goes raw and your breathing hitches in the dark, you don’t move. You just lie there, curled into yourself like something wounded, like you could shrink so small the world might forget you were ever here. Your pillow is damp now, tears soaking through it, hot and angry. You clutch it tighter like it might hold you together. For the first time in a long time, you feel completely and utterly alone. And the scariest part? You're not even sure who you can talk to anymore. Who’s left. Who actually sees you. Because the people you trusted the most already proved they never did.

The morning light is a pale, washed-out gray, soft and dull like an old photograph, like something that’s been wrung out of color and left to dry. You move through campus like a ghost, every step stiff and heavy, your limbs still echoing with the ache of yesterday’s unraveling. Sleep had barely kissed you the night before. It lingered at the edges of your consciousness but never quite arrived, chased away by looping memories, sharp-edged phrases, and the hollow ache in your chest where trust used to live. You’ve walked this path to Literature 204 a hundred times, maybe more. But today it feels different. The air around you feels thicker somehow, like it knows what happened, like the whole campus has been whispering about you while your back was turned. You keep your head low, hands shoved deep into the sleeves of your hoodie, as if retreating into yourself will make you smaller, less visible, less whatever-the-hell-you-are-now. The DUF. The outcast. The joke.

When you finally step into the lecture hall, it’s mostly empty, the way it always is ten minutes before class starts. The lights are half-dimmed, flickering in patches as if still waking up themselves. A few early birds have already staked their seats, nose-deep in books, airpods in, sipping lukewarm coffee out of dented thermoses. And then, of course, there’s him. Heeseung. You spot him near the front, standing beside Mr. Yoon’s desk. They’re speaking in hushed tones, but the words carry in this room where the ceilings are too high and silence feels sacred. You hadn’t meant to listen, you weren’t trying to eavesdrop, but your ears catch on the tension in their voices, the frustration curling at the edges of Heeseung’s sentences. You hear fragments. Tutor. Flunk. Drop out. Phrases that sound too final, too heavy for someone who always seemed so effortless. 

You tell yourself not to care. You’ve got your own storm to navigate. You slide into your usual seat halfway up the rows, far enough to disappear, close enough to hear, and drop your bag beside you with a sigh. Your heart still feels raw, your stomach still tied in knots. You’re exhausted in a way that no amount of sleep can fix. And then you hear his footsteps. Heeseung doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t scan the room for alternatives. He just makes a beeline straight for you and drops into the seat beside yours like it’s his god-given right. His presence is large, like it always is, broad shoulders draped in a hoodie two sizes too big, the scent of citrus cologne and coffee trailing behind him like something you could trip on. Usually, there’s a quip on his lips, something smug and irritating and just a little too charming. But today he’s quiet. And so are you.

For a long moment, nothing passes between you but breath. The quiet around you folds in like a cocoon, the only sounds the low murmur of Mr. Yoon gathering his notes and the soft click of someone’s mechanical pencil two rows back. And then, Heeseung leans back with a sigh and says, “Quite the spectacle you had going for you yesterday.”

You groan before you can stop yourself, dragging a hand over your face like you could scrub the memory out of existence. Your eyes narrow as you turn to him, voice sharp with lingering humiliation. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He’s already grinning, his mouth tilted up in that signature way that makes you want to slap him and kiss him at the same time, not that you’d ever admit that out loud. “Relax,” he says, stretching his arms lazily over his head. “I just mean, you, Sakura, and Dani? Everyone’s talking about it. It was, like, the hallway soap opera of the year.”

Your cheeks burn. You can feel the blood rising in your face like fire licking at your skin. Of course people were talking. Of course the entire goddamn campus probably had a front-row seat to your implosion. “Great,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “exactly what I needed, public humiliation on top of personal betrayal.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like it isn’t your entire world unraveling. But then, out of nowhere, he asks, “How long have you had a thing for Soobin?”

Your heart skips. Not in a cute, rom-com way. In a fuck, how does he know that kind of way. You blink, caught off guard, mouth fumbling for a denial that won’t sound like a lie. “I don’t, what are you even talking about?” He just smirks, eyes glinting with quiet mischief. “Come on. I’m not an idiot. The way you looked at him at that party? Like he was your last meal. It was kinda cute.” 

Your stomach turns, part mortification, part defensiveness. “Why do you even care?” Heeseung shrugs again, but this time there’s something more calculated behind his gaze. “Because I think I can help you.”

You raise a brow. “Help me?” 

“You like Soobin. Soobin doesn’t even know your name. I know what guys like him want, hell, I am guys like him,” he says, voice dipped in arrogance that somehow still doesn’t feel entirely cruel. “I could get you there. Make him see you. Want you.” You let out a sharp laugh, humorless and jagged. “Yeah, no thanks. I’m not really in the mood to turn myself into a Barbie doll just to impress a guy.”

“Suit yourself,” Heeseung says easily, turning back toward the front of the room like he couldn’t care less. “But when Soobin’s off making out with someone like Yunjin behind the gym, don’t come crying to me.” That line strikes like lightning, quick, bright, and unmistakably true. Because you have seen Soobin talking to Yunjin lately. Smiling. Laughing. He held the door open for her last week and you felt like your heart was trying to crawl out of your throat. And now the thought of him kissing her, or anyone, while you’re still sitting on the sidelines hoping for a miracle? It makes something sharp twist in your chest. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, arms crossed tighter now, and Heeseung must sense your hesitation because he glances sideways again. “I’m just saying,” he murmurs, this time softer. “You help me pass lit, I help you not be invisible. Easy.” It’s insane. It’s humiliating. It’s kind of insulting, if you think about it long enough. But it’s also… tempting. Because what other option do you have? Soobin doesn’t know you exist. Your friends, the ones who were supposed to build you up, have already torn you down. And Heeseung, for all his cockiness, sees you. Maybe not the way you want to be seen. But still. 

Slowly, you turn your palm upward between you. He grins, all teeth and trouble, and slides his hand into yours. You shake. And just like that, the deal is struck. 

The evening sun sinks past the dorm window like a sigh, casting the whole room in the soft gold of a day exhaling. You’re curled up on your bed in an oversized hoodie, legs crossed, a nearly-empty takeout container of bulgogi balanced dangerously on your thigh. The smell of garlic and soy sauce clings to the air like a second blanket, and you don’t care. You’ve earned this. You’ve survived this week, barely, and now you’re self-soothing with salty meat and zero regrets. Your phone buzzes once against the sheets beside you. You ignore it at first. Probably Dani or Sakura again. Their texts have been coming in slow waves all day; apologies, explanations, questions that aren’t really questions. You’ve left them on read, unread, ignored altogether. You’re not ready. You don’t know when you will be. But the phone buzzes again. And then again. Finally, with a huff, you set your chopsticks down and snatch the device up. It’s not a contact you recognize, just a random number. But the message?

[Unknown Number]

what are you doing tomorrow?

You blink. Narrow your eyes. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, halfway to typing who is this when another text lands: 

[ heeseung ]

it’s heeseung

Duh. 

And wow. Of course he wouldn’t lead with an introduction. Or an ounce of normal human decorum. You don’t even remember giving him your number; maybe it was one of those group projects last semester or maybe he’s just unsettlingly resourceful. Either way, you're already rolling your eyes. You type back, begrudgingly.

[ you ] 

nothing. why? 

There’s barely a pause before the dots start dancing again. 

[ heeseung ] 

i’m taking you shopping and then we’re going to a party, you’ll wear what we buy and pretend to be hot for once. You nearly drop your phone into your bulgogi. You stare at the screen for a second too long, as if the sheer arrogance of his words might combust it in your hands. Shopping? Party? Pretend to be hot?

[ you ] 

what the hell does “pretend to be hot” mean???

[ heeseung ] 

it means we’re working with what we got. you’ll be fine. trust the process. 

You audibly groan and collapse backwards onto your pillow, phone pressed against your forehead as if it might somehow absorb the stress and return with divine wisdom. This was the deal, you remind yourself. You help him pass lit, he helps you with... what? Popularity? Style? Winning Soobin's attention through sorcery and strategic eyeliner? 

[ you ] 

i’m not “pretending” to be hot just to impress soobin. i have standards , and pride and a favorite hoodie that smells like detergent and self pity

[ heeseung ] 

noted. wear something that’s easy to take off tomorrow.

[ you ] 

HEY. phrasing.

[ heeseung ] 

relax. for the fitting room, nerd. I’ll be at your dorm at 1. and yes, soobin’s going to be at the party ;)

You stare at that last line for a beat too long. Something flutters, just faintly, in your stomach, uninvited.

[ you ] 

Fine. but if this party ends with me throwing up in a bush i’m holding you personally responsible.

[ heeseung ] 

deal. i’ll even hold your hair back. I'm generous like that.

You throw your phone onto the bed, face-down, like it’s suddenly on fire. You don’t know why you agreed. Maybe it’s the part of you that still wants Soobin to notice. Maybe it’s pride, or maybe it’s just the sheer inevitability of Heeseung’s energy, like trying to argue with a hurricane wearing a smug smirk. Whatever the reason, you’re already mentally preparing for tomorrow. Shopping. With Heeseung.  A party. With Soobin.  A new outfit. A new you. A new mistake waiting to happen. You look down at your empty bulgogi container, sigh, and mutter to no one: “…this is gonna be a disaster.”

The knock on your door comes precisely at 1PM. Not a second early, not a second late. You open it with one shoe half-on, your hoodie sleeve caught in the zipper of your jacket, and your face still half-moisturized. Heeseung is standing there, leaned casually against the doorframe like a page out of a campus fashion catalogue, black jeans, leather jacket, sunglasses perched on his head like he’s just so effortlessly cool it hurts. His hair is slightly tousled, like he either woke up like this or spent an hour pretending he did. “Took you long enough,” he says, not bothering to hide his smirk. 

You scowl and step out, slamming the door behind you. “I said ‘one second’ in the text.”

“Yeah, and I translated that from Girl to Human Time. So twenty minutes.” You roll your eyes, but you follow him anyway, because the deal has officially begun. Operation: Get Soobin to Notice You is in motion. Your dignity is already halfway out the window. Heeseung’s car is just what you expect, black, sleek, a little too clean, and filled with the faint scent of cologne, mint gum, and chaos. You barely get your seatbelt clicked in before he revs the engine and peels out of the dorm parking lot like he's in a race you didn’t know you entered. 

“Oh my god, slow down!” you yelp, clutching the side handle like it might keep your soul tethered to your body.

“Relax,” he says, one hand lazily gripping the wheel, the other already reaching for the radio. “You’re acting like I don’t drive this road every day.” 

“You drive it like you’re being chased, Heeseung.” He only grins in response, eyes still on the road, the picture of reckless confidence. “Maybe I like living on the edge.”

You’re about to fire back another sarcastic quip when the car fills, suddenly, gloriously, with the unmistakable sound of Taylor Swift. Specifically: Cruel Summer. And not the background kind of playing. The volume is up. Way up. Your eyes immediately dart to Heeseung, whose mouth is already moving, quietly at first, almost unconsciously, as he taps the steering wheel to the beat. “I’m drunk in the back of the car… and I cried like a baby coming home from the bar…” Your jaw drops slightly. Because he’s not just mouthing the words. He’s singing. And not in a “ha-ha this song is funny” way. In a felt that in his soul, this is on his heartbreak playlist, probably posted a breakup selfie to this in 2021 kind of way. You try. You really try to stifle the laugh bubbling in your throat. You press your lips together, you bite the inside of your cheek, you turn to the window in dramatic fashion. But it slips out anyway, a full, helpless giggle, light and sudden. 

Heeseung cuts his eyes toward you, still softly singing, and raises a brow. “What’s so funny?”

You blink at him innocently. “You like Taylor Swift?” There’s a moment, a beautiful, brief, perfectly humiliating pause, where Heeseung seems to glitch. His mouth opens, then closes, then he looks back at the road like he’s searching for an exit from this conversation. 

“I — well, I mean —” he clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “She’s… I mean, it’s just a good song, alright?”

Your laugh doubles, slipping out like sunlight through cracked blinds. “Cruel Summer, though?”

“She’s a lyrical genius,” he mutters, half-defensive, half-sincere. “That bridge? That’s literature.” 

You raise your brows, lips twitching. “Quoting T-Swift now? Is this what my tutoring is doing to you?” Heeseung flips you off with absolutely no hesitation, but there’s no heat behind it. He’s laughing now too, eyes squinting as he turns into the mall parking lot with a slightly-too-aggressive swerve.

“Fuck off,” he grins. “You wish you had taste this good.” You hold up your hands in surrender, still giggling. “Okay, okay. I’m not judging.”

“You are judging,” he says, putting the car in park. “But I’ll allow it. Because you’re clearly not emotionally evolved enough to appreciate her catalog yet.”

“Oh my god. Shut up.”

“Nope. We’re listening to Lover next. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” 

The mall greets you with its usual blend of too-loud pop music, screaming children, and the sweet, seductive scent of cinnamon pretzels. It’s packed with people, mothers pushing strollers, bored teenagers clinging to oversized shopping bags, couples holding hands like it’s an Olympic sport. You trail behind Heeseung, your feet already regretting your choice of shoes and your soul regretting this entire arrangement. “So what’s first?” you ask, trying not to bump into a mannequin dressed in denim overalls and heartbreak.

Heeseung doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps walking, purposeful, smug, like he’s on a mission from god. Then he abruptly turns left into a store that is suspiciously sleek and minimal. You blink. “Wait—this is…”

“An eyeglass store,” Heeseung finishes for you, already heading toward the back. “But more importantly, contact central.” You halt, crossing your arms. “Excuse me?”

“You’re getting contacts,” he says, matter-of-fact. “The glasses gotta go.”

You look genuinely scandalized. “Hey! I’ll have you know — I love my glasses.” He stops mid-step and slowly turns to face you, one brow arched so high it’s practically touching heaven. “Yes,” he says, voice dry. “Very librarian core. Sexy in a please return your books on time or I’ll gently scold you in a whisper kind of way.” 

You roll your eyes so hard you practically see your ancestors. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are. Following me into Lens & Style like it’s the promised land.” You’re about to argue more, but the woman behind the counter greets you both with a professional smile, and suddenly you’re being ushered into a little fitting room with sterile lighting and a mirror that shows way too much. A few minutes later, you’re handed a trial pair of contacts and instructed, gently, but firmly, to put them in. It’s harder than it looks. “What do you mean I can’t blink? My entire personality is blinking under pressure!” 

Outside the door, Heeseung snorts. “You’re being dramatic.”

“You’re being annoying,” you grumble, poking yourself in the eye again.

After a full five minutes of internal screaming, finger fumbling, and probably some divine intervention, you finally get them in. You blink a few times, adjusting. The world sharpens around the edges. For the first time in forever, you can actually see without the weight of frames perched on your nose. You step out slowly, unsure, blinking into the bright lights of the shop. Heeseung looks up from his phone, his gaze flicking to yours. And then — He freezes. His smirk falters for the briefest of seconds. You see it. You feel it. 

“Huh,” he says, slower now. “They… actually look good.”

You raise a brow, tentative. “Yeah?” He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in his expression now, something softer, quieter. “They make your eyes stand out more.” He pauses, then adds with zero fanfare: “You’ve got nice eyes.” It lands like a piano dropped from ten stories. Simple, direct, and impossible to ignore. You blink, stunned; not just by the words, but by the way he said them. Like it wasn’t a joke. Like he meant it. Before you can formulate an actual response, Heeseung clears his throat and looks away. “Alright, let’s go,” he says, already walking toward the exit. “You can thank me later when Soobin gets whiplash tonight.” 

It takes you a beat to follow. Just one. But it’s enough to register that your cheeks are suddenly warm. That your stomach did a weird, traitorous flip. That you hate how a single compliment from Lee freaking Heeseung just turned your brain into a puddle. You push the thought aside and jog to catch up, voice light. “You know, for someone who thinks I look like a librarian, you sure stare a lot.”

He doesn’t look at you, but his mouth twitches into a grin. “You wish.” You do not dignify that with an answer. Mostly because your brain is still back at You’ve got nice eyes. And just like that, with one step out of the eyeglass store and into the fluorescent madness of the mall, the first layer of the old you is left behind.

You’ve barely had time to blink, or process the fact that you’re now navigating the mall with 20/20 vision and a slightly compromised emotional state, when Heeseung is dragging you again. His grip on your wrist is light, but determined, like he’s got an agenda and you’re just a reluctant passenger in the Heeseung Express. You stumble to keep up. “Where are we going now? I need emotional closure before the next attack on my personality.”

He doesn’t even turn around. “Hair.”

“Hair what?”

“Hair cut. Hair styling. Hair lesson. Hair magic. Come on, keep up.” You dig your heels into the tile floor and jerk your arm back. “Heeseung, wait — I did not agree to this. My hair is fine!” 

He finally turns, a single amused brow arched in classic Heeseung fashion. “Fine,” he echoes flatly. “That’s the bar now? Fine?”

You cross your arms. “It’s my head.” He takes a step closer, voice dipping into that maddening blend of mockery and charm. He laughs — laughs, the audacity of him, and says, “Relax. It’s just a trim. Maybe some layers. She’s gonna show you how to actually style it too. You know, so it doesn’t look like you were electrocuted every morning before class.”

You gasp in betrayal. “I’m sorry?!”

“Respectfully,” he adds, as if that softens the blow, then gestures for you to follow. “Come on. She doesn’t bite.” You eye the interior of the salon like you’re being led to an altar, but against your better judgment, and possibly because you’re too tired to argue anymore, you follow him. 

The girl waiting for you is already at her station, brushing her long, glossy black hair behind one ear. She’s tall, unfairly pretty, and wearing jeans that should be illegal. Her name tag reads “Yuri” in bubble-letter cursive. She sees Heeseung and her entire face lights up like a rom-com montage in reverse. “Heeseung!” she squeals, standing to give him a hug. It’s the kind of hug that lasts exactly one second too long to be casual. “You didn’t say you were coming in today!”

“I didn’t,” he says coolly, his hand barely grazing her back. “Brought a friend.”

You watch the interaction with narrowed eyes. It doesn’t take a genius, or even a whole brain cell, to figure out that these two have history. Whether it was a one-night stand, a few steamy study sessions, or something more dangerous like feelings, you’re not sure. But based on the way Yuri’s eyes immediately slide past you and lock on Heeseung like you’re the invisible girl in the background of her fantasy novel? Yeah. They’ve definitely seen each other naked. 

“She’s gonna need a trim and a crash course in how not to commit hair crimes.” Heeseung says, throwing a smirk her way. You open your mouth to protest, again but suddenly Yuri’s hands are in your hair and you’re being guided toward a chair like it’s your fate and destiny. “Don’t worry,” she hums. “I’ll take care of her.” 

“She’s fragile,” Heeseung calls after her with a smirk as he saunters toward the waiting bench. “Mentally and emotionally.”

“I will throw a brush at you!” you yell back as he flops onto the bench with his phone. Yuri laughs under her breath and begins to run her fingers through your hair. Her nails are long, her movements graceful, and despite your stubbornness, something about the way she works is oddly calming. For the next half hour, you sit there as she snips and styles and explains how to curl and blow out and not look like you just woke up five minutes ago. 

“You’ve got good hair,” she says at one point, combing through a section with reverence. “You just don’t do anything with it.” You shrug in the mirror. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Yuri gets to work with practiced ease, fingers threading through your hair, sectioning, snipping. She hums to herself as she teaches you how to twist certain pieces, how to round-brush volume into your roots, how to flick the straightener just so to create an effortless bend. It’s overwhelming, but oddly empowering. Like you’re being handed the controls to your own spaceship. And somewhere beneath all the bitchy undertones, Yuri’s… actually pretty good at this. You glance toward the waiting bench. Heeseung is slouched with his legs sprawled out, scrolling on his phone like he’s not the reason this spiral of makeovers and feelings is happening at all. Every few minutes he glances up; quick, unassuming, but you catch him watching.

Finally, Yuri steps back. “Alright,” she says, tugging off the cape with a flourish. “Moment of truth.” You turn slowly toward the mirror. And okay, fine. You look… kind of amazing. Your hair isn’t drastically different, just sleeker. Softer around the edges. Effortlessly polished in that “I woke up like this but with money and a personal stylist” kind of way. It frames your face, brings out your eyes, makes you look like someone who chose to be seen instead of hiding behind glass and sarcasm. You stand, still a little dazed, and make your way over to Heeseung. He looks up just as you reach him, and something flickers in his eyes. He doesn’t say anything right away. 

But then — He grins. That slow, crooked, effortlessly smug grin. “She’s a miracle worker,” he says to Yuri, standing and pulling out his wallet. “Put it on my card.”

Yuri takes it with a wink. “You’re welcome.”

“Thanks, Yuri. I’ll call you.” He says, with the offer a wink in her direction. 

She swoons. “You better.”

Once you’re outside, you finally say it, because someone has to. “You’re not going to call her.”

“Nope,” he replies, the ‘p’ popping off his lips like punctuation. 

You shake your head in disbelief. “You are such a menace.”

“I prefer charming rascal,” he says, holding the door open for you like a true gentleman-shaped disaster. “Besides, she’s into guys who ghost her. Keeps the fantasy alive.”

You groan. “You’re actually insane.” He only shrugs, hands in his pockets, strolling beside you with the ease of someone who has never questioned his place in the world. 

The moment your feet hit the tile floor of the clothing store, you know this is going to be a disaster. The air is thick with overpriced perfume and the walls are lined with mannequins posed like they’re judging you. Bright lights buzz overhead, harsh and clinical, and the racks seem to stretch into infinity, each one more chaotic than the last. There are sequin jackets tangled with pastel blouses, jeans with more holes than fabric, and crop tops that look like they were designed for dolls, not human beings. You glance around, disoriented. “There is… absolutely nothing here I’d wear.” 

Heeseung, of course, looks completely in his element. He’s already moving through the racks like a man on a mission, pulling shirts and skirts and things that glitter ominously. “That’s the point,” he says over his shoulder, tossing a fringed jacket onto the growing pile in his arms. “You’re not supposed to wear what you’d wear. We’re evolving.”

“Into what? A disco ball?” 

“No,” he replies seriously, “into the kind of girl Soobin stares at across the room and forgets how to blink.” You roll your eyes and reach for a flannel shirt, your comfort zone. Heeseung is there in half a second, gently slapping your hand away. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

He points toward the dressing room. “Try these first. And don’t come out until you’ve mentally committed to the bit.” You sigh, arms loaded with fabrics you didn’t even know existed. The dressing room is small and slightly claustrophobic, and the first outfit you try on feels like something a pop star would wear to confuse the paparazzi. You step out hesitantly, tugging at the edges of the bright green top that’s two sizes too tight. Heeseung blinks.

Then he bursts out laughing. “You look like a glow stick in crisis.”

You snort, your face burning. “Okay, rude.” The next outfit is worse: a ruffled floral monstrosity that looks like it belongs in an 1800s romance novel, if that novel had a comedic twist.

Heeseung cackles. “You’re one bonnet away from becoming Pride and Prejudice’s chaotic cousin.” You both descend into full-blown laughter, the kind that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. It's ridiculous, how quickly the walls fall between you when you're in this bubble of absurdity, trying on outfits and exchanging insults like secrets. He calls you a fashion war crime. You call him a menace with too much confidence. He claims he’s got the eye of a stylist. You tell him that eye is clearly blind. But somewhere along the way, the laughter shifts. It softens. Somewhere in the middle of the chaos, he starts watching you differently.

You don’t notice it at first, not until you slip into the last dress. It’s simple. No sequins, no plunging neckline, no look-at-me theatrics. Just soft black silk that clings gently to your frame, the neckline a graceful square that highlights your collarbones, the hem brushing just above your knees. You stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment, surprised. It’s not flashy. It’s not dramatic. But it feels like you, the version of you that’s always been hiding underneath. You take a breath, then step out of the dressing room.

Heeseung is on the bench, scrolling through his phone, completely unprepared. He glances up, probably ready with another quip, but the second he sees you, he stops. His phone lowers slowly in his hand. His mouth parts. And he just… stares. For the first time since this entire makeover madness began, Lee Heeseung is speechless. You shift awkwardly under his gaze, tugging at the hem of the dress. “Is it—do I look weird? Be honest.” He doesn’t answer.

You take a hesitant step forward, heart thudding. “Heeseung?”

He blinks, like you pulled him from a dream, and then, because he’s Heeseung, he smirks and shrugs. “That’ll do for tonight, I suppose.” 

You scoff and roll your eyes, but the flush on your cheeks betrays you. “Wow. High praise. I’m overwhelmed.” He grins, leaning back and resting one arm behind his head. “Don’t let it get to your head. We’re going for hot, not heart attack-inducing.”

You disappear back into the dressing room before he can see the stupid smile tugging at your lips. Your heart feels like it’s doing somersaults, and not because of Soobin. You shake the thought from your head, firmly, stubbornly, and change back into your jeans and hoodie. A few minutes later, you’re at the register, watching the cashier ring up the pile of clothes that feel like pieces of someone new. Someone a little braver. A little shinier. A little less invisible. Heeseung stands beside you, smug and satisfied, like he just built you in a lab. 

The cashier announces the total, and before you can even reach for your wallet, Heeseung slides his card across the counter. “On me.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Heeseung, what?”

He just winks. “Don’t worry. I’ll bill you in character development. The cashier bags the clothes, and you step back into the mall with your arms full of potential and your brain full of questions. 

After the last store spits you out, bags in hand, Heeseung’s wallet lighter, your soul slightly transformed, Heeseung glances at the clock on his phone and says, “Okay. Next stop: food court. I need carbs before I collapse.” 

You blink at him, momentarily stunned. “You eat pizza like the rest of us?”

He shoots you a look. “ I don’t just eat pizza. I inhale it. Come on.” Your stomach growls before your feet can move, and suddenly you realize that in all the chaos, makeup, mirrors, the emotionally unsettling event of someone finding you attractive, you forgot to eat. Now that he’s mentioned it, you’re starving. Practically feral. You follow him past vendors and kiosks, the scent of fried food and cinnamon sugar swirling through the air. The food court is loud and crowded, but there’s something strangely comforting about it, the normalcy of it, the fluorescent lights and orange booths, the chatter of families and teenagers and friends grabbing greasy comfort.

Heeseung gets in line beside you at the pizza place, his arms still casually swinging at his sides like this is just another day. “What’s your poison?”

You glance at the menu. “Uh… pepperoni. And a soda.” He nods and orders for you both, without asking, like he’s already memorized the way you talk, the things you like. You’re about to protest, but then he’s paying with that same black card he flashed earlier and nudging you toward a table like it’s no big deal. You settle into a booth across from him, the tray between you bearing two steaming slices and a pair of plastic cups filled to the brim with soda. The first bite is practically a religious experience, greasy, cheesy, absolutely glorious.

Heeseung watches you with mild amusement. “You eat like you’ve just returned from war.”

“I have,” you say, voice muffled around a bite. “Battlefield: retail.”

He snorts and takes a sip of his drink. Then, after a pause, his expression shifts. “So… have you ever actually spoken to Soobin?”

You freeze mid-bite, the cheese stretching between your lips and the slice. You blink. “Define spoken.”

He raises a brow. “Words. Sentences. Preferably involving two-way communication.”

You swallow and clear your throat. “I, uh, once held the computer lab door open for him.” He’s already laughing. You roll your eyes, cheeks flaming. “He said thank you!” 

Heeseung grins, eyes crinkling. “Wow. A whole conversation. Do you guys have an anniversary for that?”

You smack his arm lightly across the table. “Shut up.”

He rubs the spot like you wounded him. “Abuse. I’m calling my lawyer.” You giggle despite yourself, hiding it behind your soda. There’s something so stupidly easy about sitting here with him. You forget you’re supposed to be awkward and invisible. You forget that you’re the DUF. You’re just… you. Which is why the next thing he says nearly gives you whiplash. “Alright,” he declares, brushing crumbs off his hands. “I dare you to flirt with that guy and get his number.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Excuse me?” He gestures with a nod to a guy sitting alone across the food court, mid-twenties, dark hair, nose in his phone, clearly minding his own business.

“No way,” you say immediately. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh, come on. This is training. You want Soobin, don’t you?” 

“Yes, but—”

“Then get off the bench and into the game.”

You narrow your eyes. “Easy for you to say. You flirt like it’s breathing.”

He smirks. “Because it is.”

And then — he stands up. Before you can even form a sentence, Heeseung is already strolling toward a girl seated at a table nearby, casual and charming, like this is something he does between errands. You watch, jaw slack, as he leans in and says something that makes her smile, tilt her head, laugh. He gestures to his phone, and she takes it without hesitation, tapping her number in and handing it back with a wink. Heeseung returns, smug as a cat, holding his phone out to you like a trophy. “See?” he says, displaying the fresh new contact with flourish. “Easy peasy.”

You stare at him like he’s grown a second head. “I hate you.”

He just shrugs. “Hate me from over there,” he says, pointing again at the guy with the phone. “Go on. Play dumb, but not that dumb. Guys love that shit.”

“I am dumb,” you hiss. “There is no playing.” 

“Perfect. Just be your beautiful, awkward self.” Muttering every curse you know, you stand up and start toward the guy. It’s awful. You clear your throat. He doesn’t look up.

You fidget, then say, “Hi!”

He blinks, surprised. “Um. Hi.”

You force a smile. “I like your… phone.” He blinks again. You want to die. “I mean — I like your case! It’s… very rectangular. Classic. Minimalist.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Thanks?” You attempt a laugh that comes out sounding like a cough. “Sooo, um, are you… single?”

His eyes dart nervously around. “I… I have a boyfriend.”

“OH!” you blurt. “Oh, my bad. I totally support that. I’m not… you know. Homophobic. Or anything.” You want to crawl into a vent and disappear. He offers a small, polite smile. “Have a good day.” And he’s gone, up and out, food tray abandoned. You turn slowly, walking back to the table where Heeseung is laughing so hard he’s red in the face, wheezing into his pizza slice like it’s keeping him alive.

You slump into the seat. “That was a hate crime.”

“That,” he says between snorts, “was the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.”

You glare at him. “I hope your soda spills on your lap.” Still grinning, he slides your tray toward you and raises his cup. “To improvement.” You clink your soda against his without smiling. But your heart’s laughing anyway. 

When Heeseung pulls up to your dorm, it’s with a dramatic screech of tires and the kind of recklessly confident parking job that screams I’ve never paid a meter in my life. He leans over the center console, smirking at you as you gather your bags of shopping and your still-wobbly self-esteem from the floor of his car. “Alright,” he says, eyes scanning the bags. “You have everything you need to socially destroy the night.”

You roll your eyes. “Thanks, fairy godmother.”

He winks. “I’m hotter than a fairy godmother. And taller.” You snort, slamming the car door behind you and flipping him off over your shoulder. He cackles, the sound following you up the stairs of your dorm and into the echoing silence of your room. Once you’re inside, the weight of the next few hours settles in your stomach like a boulder. You place the shopping bags carefully on your bed, smoothing the edges of the tissue paper like they might calm your nerves. Heeseung said he’d be back at 9 p.m. sharp to pick you up, which gives you a little over three hours to get ready. Three hours to transform. Three hours to convince yourself that you’re not the DUF anymore.

You spend the first half-hour just staring at yourself in the mirror. No makeup, hair messy, hoodie baggy and beloved. You look… like you. Regular. Quiet. Familiar.

You text Heeseung: “Okay so do I have to wear the mini skirt???”

His reply is instant. “Yes. And send pics. I’m the boss, remember?” You grumble, but slip into the skirt anyway and pair it with a halter top he claimed made your arms look “objectively illegal.” You take a mirror selfie, looking reluctant, and send it off. Within seconds, he replies: “Too ‘I work at a bar and hate my life.’”

You snort, throw the top across the room, and try again. Next outfit: jeans and a crop top. You pose. Click. Send “Cute. But it’s giving ‘we’re just friends.’” You flip him off through text “Try the dress. You know the one.”

You hesitate. That dress. The black silk one, the one that made his words stutter and his eyes flicker. The one that didn’t feel like you were trying to be anyone else, just a bolder version of yourself. You pull it out carefully, fingers gliding across the fabric like it might whisper back. Slowly, you slip it on. It fits like it did in the store. Soft, secure, like a secret. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and for a second… you see it. You see her. The girl who could walk into a party and turn heads. The girl who could maybe, just maybe, make Soobin notice. You send the picture. 

Heeseung replies: “Jesus.” Then, seconds later: “That’s the one.”

No teasing. No jokes. Just those three words that knock your heart off-balance. You set your phone down, exhale slowly. Then, the routine begins. You do your makeup with trembling hands, lashes curled, liner precise, lips tinted a soft rose. Your hair falls the way Yuri taught you, soft waves that frame your face and catch the light. You spray perfume on your wrists, your collarbones, the backs of your knees. A whisper of vanilla and hope. You put on your jewelry, simple earrings, the necklace that sits perfectly in the hollow of your throat. You take one last look in the mirror. You don’t recognize her, but you like her.

Then, your phone rings. The name “Heeseung 💀” flashes on the screen. You answer, voice caught somewhere between a smile and a scream. “Hello?”

“Hey,” he says, casual and breezy like this isn’t the first time he’s hearing your voice dressed like this. “I’m outside.” Your stomach flips.

You grab your bag, give yourself one more desperate glance in the mirror, and whisper to your reflection, “Don’t trip. Don’t choke. Don’t die.” Then you’re out the door, the echo of your footsteps ringing down the hall, your heart doing somersaults in your chest.

The car is sleek and stupidly shiny, purring low like it knows it’s hot. You spot it the moment you step outside your dorm building, standing at the edge of the sidewalk like you’re on the brink of a red carpet. And standing against it, leaning like he was born to be the poster child for a Calvin Klein fragrance, is Heeseung. He looks up as you approach, and even in the dim lighting of campus streetlamps, his smile flickers into something that nearly knocks you over. He’s wearing all black, ripped jeans, a bomber jacket, his signature messy hair that probably took way too long to make look that effortless. You don’t want to say he looks good, because that feels too generous. He looks... unfair. Rude. And worse? He knows it. He gives you a once-over, slow and obvious. “Damn,” he says, like he’s complimenting you and mocking you in the same breath. “You clean up alright.” 

You roll your eyes, clutching your purse a little tighter. “You’re not so bad yourself. For a menace.”

He smirks and pops open the passenger door for you with an exaggerated flourish. “M’lady.” You roll your eyes again, but your heart skips a beat anyway as you slide into the seat, the cool leather against your thighs making you realize just how very real this is. You’re on your way to the party. With Lee Heeseung. In a black silk dress and mascara that took you 45 minutes to get right. Breathe. The drive is short, just a few blocks away in one of those off-campus houses you’ve only ever seen through the haze of Instagram stories and hearsay. But your nerves are anything but short. They’ve curled into your stomach, wound tight around your ribs, pressed against the back of your throat. You grip the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

You’ve been to parties before, sure. But never without Dani and Sakura. Without their protective, familiar presence to anchor you in the sea of bodies and music and beer breath. Without their shared eye-rolls and whispered commentary and midnight giggles on the walk home. And now… now you don’t even know if they’ll be there. Scratch that. You know they will. You just don’t want to see them. Not tonight. Not when you're dressed like this. Not when you're trying so hard to become someone new.

You barely realize the car’s stopped until Heeseung throws it into park. You’re frozen, staring out the window at the glittering string lights draped across the porch, the thump of bass already vibrating through the concrete. There are people everywhere, laughing, shouting, spilling out onto the lawn like they’ve never had a quiet thought in their lives. You’re going to puke. Heeseung glances over, and; because he’s Heeseung, he notices immediately. “You good?” he asks, casual but careful. “You look like you’re about to get drafted into war.”

You force a laugh, but it’s brittle. “I’m fine.”

“Liar.” You glance at him, cheeks hot. “Okay, I’m just… nervous.”

He nods like he gets it, and maybe he does. Maybe he doesn’t. But his voice is soft when he says, “Hey. Look at me.” You do. “Everything’s gonna be cool,” he says, with a cocky grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You look insane, by the way. Like, criminal levels of hot. If Soobin doesn’t fold tonight, he’s legally blind.”

That earns a weak laugh from you, and he nudges your shoulder gently. “Just remember who got you here when you’re famous on campus by Monday.”

You snort. “You mean when they put me in GroupMe memes for tripping over my heels and knocking over a keg?”

Heeseung grins. “Even better. Instant legend status.” You breathe out, shaky but a little more stable now. “Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s do this.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

He laughs, throwing open the door. “That’s the spirit.”

You step out onto the curb, your heels clicking against the pavement like you’re a contestant on America’s Next Nervous Breakdown. But still, you stand up straighter. Shoulders back. Head high. You smooth the hem of your dress and tell yourself this is what you came here for. To show them. To show yourself. Heeseung falls into step beside you, his hand brushing against yours, not quite touching, but close enough to anchor you. Together, you walk toward the house, the music growing louder with every step. Somewhere behind the front door, the party waits. Soobin waits. They might be waiting too. But for now; it’s just you. And Heeseung. And the version of you that’s ready to finally be seen.

The moment the front door swings open, you’re hit with a wall of noise and heat, thick and heady like you’ve just stepped into the center of a beating heart. The bass is thudding through the floorboards, lights pulsing with every drop of the music, and bodies are everywhere, moving, swaying, tangled up in each other, laughter and shouting and the occasional high-pitched squeal blending together like some chaotic symphony of college nightlife. It’s not your first party, not technically, but it’s your first this kind of party, this kind of entrance. Not as a background extra or the girl carrying everyone’s phones. No hoodie, no glasses, no fading into the wallpaper. 

Tonight, you’re a main character. And Heeseung is your entrance music. He walks in first, easy and smooth, like the world shifts to make room for him. His presence is magnetic, and it pulls eyes toward the doorway like gravity. The second you step through behind him, heels tapping softly, dress swishing around your thighs like smoke, there’s a ripple. You feel it. Heads turning. Conversations pausing. The hush of recognition so subtle you might miss it, if your nerves weren’t already on fire. 

You try not to look around too much. You try to look confident. Poised. Detached, even. You tilt your chin up like you belong, even though your hands are clammy and your stomach is doing Olympic-level gymnastics. You’re hyper-aware of everything: the way the strap of your dress slides against your shoulder, the way your perfume clings to the heat of your skin, the soft creak of your heels on the hardwood floor. You catch flashes of recognition from familiar faces, faces that used to glance right through you, now blinking, staring, mouths parted, whispering behind their solo cups. And you? You just keep walking. Heeseung’s friends spot him in the far corner of the room, near a low couch littered with bags of chips and someone’s half-eaten box of pizza. The greetings are instant, shoulder claps, finger guns, head nods and booming “Yo!”s that feel like something out of a movie. Sunghoon practically lunges forward, clapping Heeseung on the back like he’s just returned from war. Beomgyu pulls him into one of those half-hugs that somehow involve three back slaps and an awkward shoulder bump. Jay and Jake both pipe up at once about someone from class asking for him earlier, their voices fighting over the music. And for a second, you’re forgotten. 

You stand a little off to the side, hands awkwardly clasped in front of you, smile hovering uncertainly on your lips. You’re not mad, they haven’t seen each other in a bit, and the reunion energy is real, but the awkward ache settles in your chest anyway, that old too-familiar feeling of being adjacent to the fun but not quite in it. Until Sunghoon finally turns toward you, and freezes. His eyebrows shoot up so far they practically disappear into his hairline. His eyes flick over you, slow and not particularly subtle, dragging from the hem of your dress to the curve of your collarbone to your lips like he’s trying to solve a riddle with his eyeballs. “Uh… who’s this?” 

Beomgyu leans in, squinting in your direction like he’s staring directly into the sun. “Wait. Are you new? Like, transfer student new? Heeseung, bro, you didn’t say you were bringing someone.” Heeseung, who is somehow already sipping a drink he didn’t have two seconds ago, sighs and smacks Beomgyu lightly on the back of the head.

“She’s not new,” Heeseung says casually. “You guys know her.”

Jay looks genuinely confused. “We do?”

ake leans sideways to get a better look at you. “Hold on…” Heeseung glances at you, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Then, with perfect comedic timing and just enough pride to make your knees wobble, he says your name like it was obvious. To them, it was not and for some reason that twisted you up inside. 

There is a silence. Then, chaos. “NO FREAKING WAY.” Sunghoon’s voice actually cracks. “Shut up. Shut UP.” Beomgyu’s mouth falls open. “You’re lying. This is not hoodie-and-sweatpants Y/N. This is, like — TikTok viral-level hot girl Y/N. You’re telling me it’s the same person?” You’re half-laughing, half-dying inside. You glance away, cheeks burning, unsure what to do with your hands or your face or your entire existence. This wasn’t supposed to feel like a scene from a teen makeover movie, but, well. Here you are.

“She’s always looked like this,” Heeseung says coolly, giving them a look that says don’t push it. “You just never paid attention.” The group stumbles over themselves with backpedaling compliments, Sunghoon muttering something about your eyes, Jake saying you look “like a star,” and Beomgyu still acting like he just saw a unicorn. You’re saved from having to respond by Heeseung, who, clearly reading your overwhelmed expression, tosses out casually, “You guys seen Soobin?” 

Jay shakes his head. “Not yet. Might be outside?” Heeseung nods, and without another word, he reaches down and grabs your hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t. Either way, the contact is sudden and warm and firm, and you don’t even think, you just let him pull you through the crowd, dodging plastic cups and tangled limbs as he weaves toward the kitchen. Your hand stays in his the whole way. You don’t ask why. You don’t let yourself hope. When you reach the drink table, he finally lets go, only to pour you something in a red cup and hand it to you like a bartender with a mission. 

“You alive?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

You take the cup, roll your eyes, and murmur, “Barely.”

Heeseung clinks his cup against yours, grin widening. “You’re killing it.”

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks, voice just loud enough to cut through the bass thumping behind you. It’s gentler than you expect, free of teasing or sarcasm.

You nod automatically. “Yeah, I’m—”

“Y/N?!” The sound of your name rips through the music like a siren. You freeze. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. You’d know those voices anywhere. They’re carved into your memory, every syllable, every cadence, familiar and aching in the way only ex-best friends can be. Still, you turn.

Dani and Sakura are standing there, half in disbelief, half in judgment. Their eyes rake down your body, from the sleek dress hugging your frame to the careful curls in your hair. Their mouths are parted like they can’t decide whether to gasp or laugh. Sakura tilts her head. “What… are you doing here?”

Dani crosses her arms. “And with him?” 

You glance back at Heeseung for half a second, who hasn’t said a word yet, just watching them with a slight furrow between his brows. Your stomach flips. You force a breath out of your nose and turn back to the girls, your grip tightening around your drink. You let out a laugh. It’s sharp and hollow and lined with every quiet insult they’ve ever made sound like a joke. “What?” you say, voice laced in dry amusement. “Surprised someone like Heeseung would want to hang out with me?” They flinch, barely, but you catch it. Dani opens her mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You don’t wait.

You take a step closer, letting your voice drop, cold and brittle like breaking glass. “Why do you guys even care? Huh? You didn’t seem to care when you were calling me the DUF behind my back.”

Sakura’s expression twists. “We never—”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Dani cuts in, voice brittle. “The dress. The makeup. Hanging out with Heeseung? This isn’t who you are.” Your jaw clenches. The words burn, not because they’re true, but because they’re not. Because they’re laced with that same tired condescension, the same kind of backhanded care that always kept you two steps behind, like they wanted you close but never quite caught up. But before you can speak, a sudden warmth settles across your shoulders. Heeseung. His arm slips over you with ease, casual but claiming, protective but not possessive. His fingers brush the edge of your shoulder, and his voice is laced with syrupy sarcasm. 

“We’d love to stay and chit-chat,” he drawls, flashing the girls a lazy grin, “but we’ve got somewhere to be.” And just like that, he doesn’t give them another second. He tugs you away gently, steering you through the party with surprising precision, hand resting firmly on your upper back as he guides you toward the back of the house. You don’t look back. You don’t want to see their faces. You’re too stunned, too angry, too relieved. Your heart is racing and your pulse is pounding and your vision is a little too bright. He opens the back door, and the cooler night air hits you like a blessing. You step out onto the porch, the noise of the party muffled behind the closed door. Fairy lights are strung across the railing, casting a soft gold glow over the wooden planks and the few potted plants half-dead in their corners. It’s quieter here. Private. 

You suck in a breath and finally speak. “Thank you.”

Heeseung leans against the porch railing, glancing sideways at you. “For what?”

You give him a look. “For that. For getting me out of there.”

He shrugs, eyes flicking away. “It’s no big deal.”

You watch him for a moment, heart still unsteady. “It is, though.” He finally meets your gaze again, and for a moment, the cocky smile slips away. His eyes are dark and unreadable, but his voice is soft when he says, “They don’t get to make you feel like that. No one does.” You feel something twist in your chest. Something warm. Something dangerous. For a second, the two of you just… stand there. The silence stretches out, thick and humming with unspoken things. Heeseung’s hand is still in his pocket, but his shoulder is just barely touching yours now. Not quite close enough to be a statement, but close enough to feel like a promise.

The quiet of the back porch doesn’t last long. It breaks like glass, sharp and immediate, at the sound of stilettos clacking against the wood. You feel the shift before you see it. A cool draft. A wrongness. And then, the syrupy sweet voice that makes your spine stiffen and your heart drop. “Well, isn’t this cozy?” 

Wonyoung stood there, draped in a skin-tight red dress that clings like a threat, hair curled into perfect waves, and lips painted a venomous shade of cherry. She walks like the world’s her stage, and you’re just an extra lucky to be in the background. Her smile is the kind that cuts, sharp and gleaming, like she knows something you don’t. Your heart sinks because you remember. You remember her words last time: “Stay away from Heeseung.” You didn’t listen. Maybe you thought she wouldn’t notice. Maybe a part of you hoped she didn’t mean it. But she’s here now, and she’s looking at you like a hunter cornering something helpless. Heeseung straightens beside you, his entire body going taut like a wire pulled too tight. “What do you want, Wonyoung?” he says, voice clipped. 

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she saunters closer and, without warning, nudges you aside with the ease of someone who’s always taken up too much space. Her hand slides onto Heeseung’s shoulder like she owns it, like she’s done it a thousand times before. But Heeseung jerks away instantly, his jaw clenching as he shrugs her off like her touch burned. Still, Wonyoung smiles. “Hee… I miss you.” He doesn’t answer. Not at first. He just glances at you. And the look in his eyes, God, it’s something between apology and warning and please just trust me. But you don’t know how to read it, not really. Not when your stomach is twisting in knots and your voice is caught in your throat. 

“Hey, Wonyoung…” you manage, your tone so high and squeaky you want to slap yourself. Wonyoung turns, slow as a villain in a teen drama, and actually groans, like your existence is somehow the inconvenience of the century. She eyes you up and down with obvious disdain before deadpanning, “What do you want?” 

You blink, caught off guard. “Uh—I was just—” But she’s already looking away, like you don’t matter. Like you’re nothing more than a gnat buzzing in her ear. It’s humiliating. It’s infuriating. But you don’t say anything. You just shrink a little smaller.

She turns back to Heeseung, pressing forward again like she hasn’t just made you feel two inches tall. “We’re playing spin the bottle,” she says brightly, batting her lashes. “Wanna join?”

Heeseung lets out a dry laugh. “What are we, high schoolers?” His voice is full of disbelief. “Isn’t that a kids game?”

Wonyoung just shrugs, undeterred. “Still works.”

Before he can argue again, she latches her fingers around his wrist and tugs. You don’t know if it’s the surprise or the fact that he’s clearly outnumbered, but he lets her drag him halfway across the porch. You don’t even realize you’re following until you’re inside again, the noise swallowing you whole. The crowd’s shifted, coalescing into a rough circle on the living room floor. The center of attention now: an empty bottle spinning slowly on the wood, the air buzzing with half-drunken laughter and anticipation. You spot Dani and Sakura immediately. They’re sitting between Jake and Sunghoon, giggling, whispering, stealing glances at you. But there’s something different now. Not amusement. Not judgment. Pity. It glimmers on their faces like a sheen of sweat, and it makes something cold spark in your chest. You hate it. You’d rather be ignored than pitied. You tear your gaze away. 

“Finally you’re here! Join us!” Wonyoung’s voice rings out, shrill and triumphant. Soobin. He was here, oh god. Your heart lurches at the sight of him. He’s dressed in a white tee and a leather jacket, hair falling perfectly across his forehead, the picture of cool detachment. He smiles slightly as he joins the circle, settling next to Beomgyu without much fanfare. He hasn’t even seen you yet. But suddenly the air in the room is thinner. The lights are harsher. Every breath feels like an effort. This is what you came for, isn’t it? The moment you’ve been chasing. The whole reason you let Heeseung drag you to the mall, to the salon, through an identity transformation that’s still barely settled on your shoulders. You should be thrilled. But instead, all you can feel is this strange, gnawing pressure. You glance at Heeseung, who’s already watching Soobin, something unreadable flickering across his features. Then his gaze shifts to you. There’s tension there. Tight. Heavy. Loaded. And it hits you: the game has started. And you’re no longer sure whose rules you’re playing by.

You watch as people had their turns with the bottle, watching as the glass spun round and round giving someone their fate for the night and finally after countless spins — it was your turn. The bottle spun with a nervous flick of your fingers, clinking softly against the scratched wood floor as it twirled, and you felt your stomach turn with it. Around you, drunken laughter swirled like smoke, the heat of the crowded living room pressing in from all sides. Someone let out a whistle, another person shouted encouragement, and Wonyoung was watching you with narrowed eyes, her arms crossed like she was waiting for you to fall flat on your face. But none of that mattered right now. None of it mattered because that damned bottle had chosen a direction, and it was pointing straight at Soobin. You could barely breathe.

Soobin tilted his head, the corners of his mouth tugging up into a soft, almost apologetic smile, the kind that made your lungs feel like they were filled with helium. His gaze was kind, nonjudgmental. Gentle, even. As if to say “It’s okay if you say no. I won’t be mad.” And God, did that make it worse. Because now the ball was in your court. Your palms were sweating. Your heart pounded so loudly you couldn’t hear the party anymore. Just the roar of blood in your ears. You’d dreamed of this. Fantasized about this exact moment for years. The idea of kissing Soobin had always seemed like something that belonged to a different version of you, a cooler, prettier, worthier version. And yet here you were. Inches from it. One lean forward and you'd touch lips. And still, panic dug into you like claws. 

Your mind spiraled in frantic loops. What if I mess it up? What if I bump noses with him? What if my breath smells like the pizza from earlier? What if my lipstick smudges? What if I suck at it and he tells everyone? And more than anything; do I even want my first kiss to be like this? In front of Wonyoung, Dani, Sakura, and twenty semi-drunk strangers? But before you could finish the spiral, Heeseung’s hand gently curled around your wrist. His fingers were warm, grounding. You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in, his voice brushing against the shell of your ear, low and sincere. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured. “We can leave. Right now.” 

You paused. That offer, so casual, so safe, it nearly undid you. You looked at him, and for a brief second the noise of the party dropped away. Just Heeseung and his eyes, steady and unreadable. Ready to walk you out of this chaos with zero judgment. But then your gaze flicked across the circle and found Wonyoung, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable but unmistakably sharp. You couldn’t back down. Not now. Not in front of her. “I’m fine,” you whispered, offering Heeseung the tiniest smile, even if it felt wobbly and weak. “I got this.” Reluctantly, he let your wrist go. And so, heart pounding like a drumline, you leaned in. Soobin did too.

Your faces were so close now you could feel the warmth of his breath, smell the faint citrus of his cologne. You were trying not to close your eyes too soon, but you didn’t know the rules. Were there rules? Were you supposed to count to three? Tilt your head? Your brain screamed at you to stop, to run, to — “COPS!” The word cracked through the house like a gunshot.

In an instant, the entire room exploded. Screams. Shouting. Feet slamming against hardwood. Red solo cups hitting the floor and rolling away. Someone knocked over a lamp, plunging half the room into shadow. The panic was immediate and real, like someone had hit a switch that turned this party into a stampede. You didn’t even get a second to blink before Heeseung was yanking you to your feet. “Come on!” he yelled, wrapping his fingers around yours and hauling you after him through the chaos.

You barely had time to register what was happening before you were stumbling through the living room, dodging people vaulting over furniture and crawling through open windows. The entire party had turned feral. Shouting echoed off the walls, red and blue lights flickered from the front yard, and someone shouted something about hiding in the attic. Heeseung didn’t slow. His hand tightened on yours as he dragged you through the kitchen, shouldering past people, and out the back door. The backyard was even more chaotic. Students were climbing fences, squeezing through hedges, and ducking behind trash cans. You stared at the wooden fence in front of you, at least six feet high, and made a sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp. 

“You want me to jump that?” you cried.

“Unless you want your mugshot posted in tomorrow’s student newsletter — yes!” With an ungraceful huff, you hiked up your dress and clambered over the fence, scraping your knee on the way down and landing hard in someone’s overgrown backyard. Heeseung followed right after, barely phased, landing beside you with an effortless thud.

“This way!” so you ran. Breath tearing out of your lungs, dress flapping around your legs, adrenaline pounding through your veins, you ran like your life depended on it. You didn’t stop until Heeseung’s car was in view, parked two blocks down. You practically dove into the passenger seat as he slid behind the wheel and slammed the door shut. He turned the key, the engine roared to life, and the tires screamed against the pavement as he peeled off into the street like a getaway driver in a movie.

You didn’t even speak for the first few seconds, just sat there panting, adrenaline still racing through your bloodstream, chest heaving as the lights and shouting faded behind you. Then, you looked at each other. And burst out laughing. Full, uncontrollable, hysterical laughter. The kind that curled your stomach and left tears in your eyes. You laughed until your lungs hurt. Heeseung clutched the steering wheel with one hand, his other wiping tears from his face. “I almost kissed Soobin,” you gasped out between wheezes.

“And then almost got arrested,” he choked out. “Honestly? 10/10 night.”

You threw your head back, still laughing. “That was insane.”

He grinned at you, cheeks flushed, hair a mess from the mad dash. “You’re kinda fun when you’re not busy hating me, you know that?”

You smiled, your heart slowing in your chest. Outside, the streets blurred past your window. Inside, something was starting to settle. Shift. Change. “I don’t hate you.” You whisper.  You were supposed to kiss Soobin tonight. Instead… you ran away with Heeseung. The laughter between you and Heeseung had started to quiet, settling into the thick silence that sometimes follows a shared moment, like the tide pulling back after a crash of waves. It lingered in the air, warm and easy, the kind of laughter that left your chest aching in the best way. You wiped at the corners of your eyes, breath still uneven from giggling so hard, and turned to look at Heeseung.

He was already watching you. His eyes sparkled under the dim glow of the car’s interior lights, lips curled into a half-smile, like he was still amused by the chaos you both narrowly escaped. Then, he tilted his head, that boyish grin deepening. “You were really going to kiss Soobin just now,” he said, like he still couldn’t believe it. You tried to smile back, to laugh it off, but something in your chest twisted unexpectedly. The corners of your mouth dipped, your gaze fell to your lap, and your fingers began nervously toying with your fingers.

Heeseung noticed immediately. The smile on his face slipped, eyes narrowing just slightly—not in annoyance, but concern. “Hey,” he said softly, leaning just a bit closer. “What’s wrong? I thought this is what you wanted?” You swallowed. The words caught in your throat, all scrambled and fragile. You didn’t want to say it. You hadn’t said it out loud to anyone. It was too revealing, too… vulnerable. But something about Heeseung, the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet way he was looking at you now like you mattered, made you trust him in a way that startled you. So you said it. 

“I’ve never kissed anyone before.” It came out softer than you intended. Barely above a whisper. But it landed between you with the weight of something unspoken for too long. Heeseung didn’t react right away. He didn’t laugh or make a teasing comment. Instead, he just looked at you. His eyes searched yours for something, you weren’t sure what, maybe the why of it, or maybe just the simple truth. But whatever it was, he found it, because after a moment, he nodded, his voice quiet and sincere. “I can teach you.”

You blinked. “What?” 

He nodded again, slower this time. No smirk. No hint of mischief. Just quiet seriousness. “I can teach you,” he repeated, “so you’re not inexperienced when you finally get Soobin.” The words felt… strange. Like something cold and sharp and warm all at once. You weren’t sure what to say, your heart skipping beats like it couldn’t keep up. “You’d really do that?” you asked, voice barely audible.

Heeseung leaned back just enough to look at you fully. “Yeah,” he said. “If you want.” And you did. You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what it meant. But you wanted to. So you nodded. “Okay.” He leaned over the center console, his arm brushing against yours, and suddenly the space between you shrank to something small and intimate. You felt the electricity buzz in the air like static clinging to skin, your pulse racing louder than your thoughts.

You swallowed. “What if I’m bad at it?”

He smiled softly, not in a mocking way but like someone offering reassurance. “That’s why I’m teaching you,” he said. Then, his hand lifted, slow and steady, brushing your hair away from your face and tucking it behind your ear. His touch was featherlight, the pad of his thumb just grazing your cheek. “You want to set the tone,” he murmured. “Don’t just dive right in.” You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your chest and lips, and then — He kissed you. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rough or overwhelming. It was soft. Intentional. Like he was holding the moment between his hands and molding it into something gentle. His lips were warm, firm but cautious, and he kissed you like he was afraid to scare you off. Like you were something rare. Precious. Fragile.

Your eyes fluttered shut, your hand lifting without thinking to rest gently against his arm. You melted, leaned into him. The world slowed down. The roar in your head dulled to a soft hum. The nervous energy in your chest unwound, slowly replaced by a kind of comfort that made your skin hum. When he pulled away, it was only by inches. His forehead almost rested against yours. His breathing matched yours, shaky and a little uneven. His voice was barely a whisper. “Did you learn anything?”

You blinked at him, dazed, lips still tingling. “I  —I think I need another lesson.” He grinned, something sparking behind his eyes, and then nodded. “I think so too.” The second kiss was different. Gone was the careful, tentative pace. This time, his mouth found yours with a hunger that startled you, like he’d been waiting for permission and now that he had it, he wasn’t going to waste a second. His hand slid to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. Your hands, unsure at first, found their way to his shoulders, gripping lightly as your lips moved against his. It was fire and silk and all-consuming. His mouth moved with confidence, coaxing you, guiding you, his kiss deeper now, filled with something unspoken. You kissed him back with everything you had, wanting, needing, trying to remember everything, to feel everything.

When he finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. The windows were fogged, your hearts thundering. He looked at you with wide eyes and a half-laugh in his voice. “Let’s get you back to the dorms before I forget this is supposed to be educational.” You blinked at him, flustered and floating somewhere between disbelief and bliss. You nodded, cheeks burning, and didn’t say a word.

The morning sun crept in through the slats of your blinds like a quiet promise, painting golden stripes across your sheets and the cluttered floor of your dorm. You stirred slowly, a little dazed, blinking against the light and the memory of last night that came flooding back all at once. Lee Heeseung kissed you. Correction: you kissed Lee Heeseung. Twice, you never thought you would see the day. Your cheeks burned as you sat up, the remnants of sleep falling off your body like petals, replaced with a rush of electricity that made you want to scream into your pillow. It wasn’t just that it was your first kiss, it was the way it happened. Soft. Gentle. Focused. Like he’d been waiting to kiss you and didn’t know it until the moment your lips touched. You padded across the dorm floor, slipping into your morning routine with a weird sort of buzz in your chest. Toothbrush. Face wash. Outfit. Breakfast bar you didn’t feel like eating. But everything felt brighter. Softer around the edges. You were still you, but something inside of you had shifted just a little to the left. Your phone buzzed.

[ heeseung ] 

Studying tonight? Meet me at the campus cafe. 6pm sharp.

Your breath caught, and for the briefest second you just stared at the screen, heart kicking up a beat like it remembered the feeling of his mouth on yours.

[ You: ] 

Is this a date or is Mr. Yoon threatening your scholarship again?

Three dots danced on your screen before his reply popped up: 

[ heeseung ] 

Can’t it be both? 😏

You let out a snort and shook your head, fingers tapping against the glass.

[ You ] 

Fine. But I’m only coming for the lattes. And the pity.

 [ Heeseung ]  

You love me for my academic desperation.

The audacity of how quickly your fingers typed out “maybe I do” and how fast you deleted it made your heart skip. You settled on a safer: 

[ You ] 

6pm sharp. Don’t be late, loser.

He didn’t respond right away, and that was probably for the best. Your head was still spinning with thoughts you didn’t know what to do with. Because despite the fact that this whole arrangement started as a carefully crafted plan to get Soobin to notice you, Heeseung had crept under your skin in a way you hadn’t expected. You were supposed to tutor him, he was supposed to help you get a makeover and gain confidence. You were not supposed to like the way he looked at you. Or the way he laughed at your jokes, like they were the funniest thing he’d heard all day. Or the way he kissed you like kissing you was something he’d been waiting to do forever. And yet…You shook your head and tried to push the thoughts down as you threw your backpack over your shoulder. There wasn’t time to obsess. You had a class to get to and a very smug, stupidly attractive boy to study with tonight. Still, as you stepped out into the cool morning breeze, you caught yourself smiling. That soft, barely-there kind of smile that made your cheeks warm and your chest float.

The clock on the café wall ticked toward six with the dramatics of a heartbeat, each second heavier than the last. You stood outside the door for a moment longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. It was just a study session. Nothing more. Just like it had been every time you’d met with him to talk about literature, syntax, metaphor, only now, every word he spoke felt double-edged. Heeseung had kissed you. Twice. You had kissed him back. And now here you were, stepping into the soft glow of the campus café, with your heart tucked somewhere beneath your collarbone and trying desperately not to show itself. Heeseung was already there, lounging in the corner booth like it was made for him. One long leg stretched out in front of him, a cup of iced coffee sweating on the table beside a half-opened notebook. His face lit up when he saw you, that easy grin sliding onto his lips as if it belonged there. You hated how your stomach flipped.

“You’re late,” he teased, gesturing at the seat across from him.

You scoffed, sliding into the booth and unzipping your bag. “It’s 5:59. Maybe your watch is just as bad as your syntax.”

He let out a sharp laugh, eyes crinkling in the corners. “Touché.” You started with the basics, flipping through your annotated copy of Frankenstein, pointing out literary devices with the kind of precision you were proud of. Heeseung listened. Really listened. His brow furrowed when he was concentrating, and his eyes flicked back and forth between you and the book like he was trying to stitch your words to the page in real time. He asked questions, good ones, and when he got something right, his grin was so smug you almost threw your pencil at him. But then, somewhere between explaining tragic irony and discussing the gothic atmosphere, his focus started to slip. You were mid-sentence when you felt it, his fingers poking at your side, soft and quick like a spark.

You jumped, letting out a startled laugh. “What the hell?”

Heeseung smirked, clearly proud of himself. “You were monologuing. I had to bring you back to earth.”

“You’re such a child.” You quip. 

“A cute child,” he said, wiggling his brows. You rolled your eyes, shoving him lightly with your foot under the table, but there was no bite behind it. There never was anymore. Then, he leaned back in the booth, his voice lowering just enough to signal a shift. “I have an idea, by the way. About how you can actually talk to Soobin.”

You blinked, momentarily derailed. “You mean… like a conversation that doesn’t involve holding a door open and whispering thanks?”

He smirked. “Exactly like that.”

 “Well? I’m listening.” Heeseung’s gaze flicked over your face before he continued. “Sunghoon’s hosting a get-together tomorrow night. It’s not a huge thing, more like a casual hangout. Pizza, soda, football on the TV, the works. Soobin’s gonna be there.”

You hesitated, twirling your pen between your fingers. “I mean, yeah, that sounds okay but…” You tilted your head. “Is it going to be weird if I’m the only girl there?” Heeseung paused. That pause said more than he probably meant it to. He scratched the back of his neck, like he was bracing himself. 

You narrowed your eyes. “What? What is it?”

He sighed. “Sakura, Dani, and… Wonyoung are going to be there too.” Your heart dropped straight to your feet. You leaned back against the booth, head tilted toward the ceiling in a dramatic groan. “Of course they are.”

“I get it if you don’t want to come,” he said quickly. “I wouldn’t blame you.”

But you shook your head, jaw tightening with something that tasted like defiance. “No. I’m going.”

Heeseung blinked. “Really?” his shock, palpable. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharper than you meant it to be. “I’m not going to let them ruin this. I’m not going to let her ruin this.” You didn’t have to say her name. He knew. Still, you couldn’t help yourself from asking, quieter now. “Why is Wonyoung even going to something like that? I thought you two were… done.”

“We are,” he said. “But she’s still friends with the guys. She shows up to stuff. It’s… whatever.” It wasn’t whatever to you, but you nodded anyway. Because you knew if you let your thoughts go too far, you’d unravel right there over your half-drunk latte. Heeseung shifted again, this time leaning in closer. “Hey. If anything happens, if anyone says something, or makes you uncomfortable, I’ve got you. Okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and for a moment the din of the café faded behind the weight of that promise. “Okay,” you said. And just like that, it was settled. Tomorrow night, you’d walk into a room where your ex-best friends and your accidental nemesis would be seated on one side, your crush would be on the other, and Heeseung would be somewhere in between. You had no idea what would happen. But you weren’t going to back down.

It was barely past six when you heard the knock on your dorm doo, three quick raps followed by a familiar “Let’s go, loser” muffled through the wood. You smoothed down your shirt, did a quick breath check (because you were just being cautious, not because you were thinking about kissing him again), and opened the door. Heeseung stood there, smug as ever, but there was something different in his eyes, an excitement that made him bounce a little on the balls of his feet. “You’re early,” you said, raising a brow.

“I’m prompt,” he corrected with a wink. “Besides, I couldn’t wait to show you this.”

He brought his hands out from behind his back, and there, held like a treasure map or some kind of sacred scroll, was a single sheet of paper. You blinked, confused, until your eyes scanned the header and the bold black print across the middle. Literature 206 – Midterm Grade: 85% Your gasp was dramatic, theatrical, the kind of sound that would’ve made someone down the hall poke their head out in concern if it hadn’t immediately been followed by your delighted squeal.

“Shut. Up!” you shouted, grabbing the paper from his hands and spinning to look at it closer. “Heeseung, you passed! You didn’t just pass; you did amazing!” He grinned like a fool, the kind of smile that made your chest feel too tight, and before you could even think about it, you launched yourself forward and hugged him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, and his arms instinctively caught you around the waist, the paper crushed between your bodies. He laughed, that soft, deep sound you were starting to crave more than you should. And when you pulled back, just barely, your faces were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

“Told you I was a genius,” he murmured. You rolled your eyes, still beaming. “No. I’m the genius. You’re just the pretty face riding my coattails.”

He shrugged, smug. “Well, now that I’m officially a scholar,” he plucked the paper from your hand, “it’s time to cash in on your prize.”

You tilted your head. “Prize?” He held the door open for you, gesturing dramatically. “Tonight, you talk to Soobin. It’s finally your moment, superstar.” Your smile faltered, just a hair. Because somewhere, buried beneath all your excited nerves and fresh lip gloss, there it was. That voice. Small. Soft. Inconvenient. What if I don’t want Soobin anymore? You blinked, shoved it down. Laughed, even, like it wasn’t true. But it was. Or at least…it was becoming true. Every second you spent with Heeseung, that voice got louder. The boy who was once just a cocky annoyance was now a constant in your thoughts. He made you laugh. Made you feel seen. Kissed you like you were the only girl in the universe.

But you didn’t say any of that. Instead, you slipped past him into the hallway and said, “Well, let’s not keep my prize waiting.” The drive to Sunghoon’s house was familiar now, the same twisty roads and flashing streetlights. Heeseung’s music was loud, upbeat, something with too much bass and a beat that rattled your bones, but you didn’t mind. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, occasionally tapping along to lyrics, and every so often he’d glance at you out of the corner of his eye and smirk like he knew something you didn’t.

Maybe he did. You watched the world blur outside the window, trying not to think too hard about anything. Not the party. Not Soobin. Not the fact that Heeseung’s cologne was now recognizable by scent alone, or the way your hands had fit so naturally around the nape of his neck just moments ago. When he pulled into Sunghoon’s driveway, the house was already glowing, warm lights, windows open, the soft buzz of voices filtering out to the street. You took a breath.

“Ready?” he asked, not moving to get out just yet. You turned to look at him, heart thudding somewhere between nervous and expectant. “Let’s do it,” you said.

You weren’t sure when your heart had started beating so hard, only that you could feel it in the soles of your feet and the tips of your ears. From the moment you stepped out of Heeseung’s car and followed him to Sunghoon’s front door, your nerves had been steadily building, like pressure in a shaken soda can. The lights inside were warm, the sounds of chatter and clinking glasses casual, but nothing about this night felt easy. You stepped through the threshold like you owned the place, chin high, spine straight, masking your spiraling thoughts with the practiced poise of someone who’d watched one too many confidence tutorials on YouTube. Heeseung’s hand hovered protectively at the small of your back, just barely touching, but grounding you all the same. That slight pressure said, I’m here, and for a moment, you could almost breathe.

The living room was full already. Jake sat cross-legged on the floor, waving a slice of pizza around mid-story, while Jay and Beomgyu were in the middle of a mock argument about what toppings were superior. Sunghoon looked up from where he was grabbing drinks and offered a casual grin. And then, your eyes caught them. Dani and Sakura, tucked on one side of the couch, their laughter too forced, their eyes on you too long. But, Wonyoung. She didn’t say anything at first. Just stared. Her gaze zeroed in on Heeseung’s hand still lingering on your back like it was a personal offense, her perfectly glossed lips curling into something sour. “What is she doing here?” she said finally, her voice louder than it needed to be, slicing through the room like a knife dressed in perfume. You froze, but Heeseung didn’t. 

“She’s here because I want her here,” he said smoothly, not even looking at her. His tone was so offhand it made Wonyoung’s eye twitch. She scoffed, turning back to Jay with an exaggerated sigh, tossing her hair like she hadn’t just tried to publicly shame you. You swallowed hard. The room shifted again, the center of gravity pulling you straight toward the boy you hadn’t seen since the party. Soobin. He was seated on the couch, drink in hand, wearing a simple hoodie and jeans, his soft smile as warm as you remembered. He looked up when you approached, a flash of recognition lighting his expression. 

“Hey — Y/N, right?” he asked, voice gentle.

You nodded, tucking hair behind your ear. “Yeah, that’s me.” He patted the cushion next to him, and you sat, acutely aware of the way Dani and Sakura were watching, and more intensely, the weight of Heeseung’s eyes on the side of your face. But for a moment, none of that mattered. You and Soobin fell into conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked about your classes, your major, if you were enjoying campus life. His smile never left his face, and yours slowly returned to yours. You laughed at something he said, something dorky and sweet about how he got locked out of his dorm last week, and your hand brushed his arm without thinking. And then your eyes darted up, Heeseung, across the room, sprawled in a chair like he wasn’t watching. But you could feel his attention. Like it was tethered to your pulse.

Before you could dwell too long, a sharp clink of a glass brought everyone’s attention back to the group. Wonyoung, placing her drink with a flourish, said, “We should definitely play Never Have I Ever.” Heeseung groaned immediately. “Are we really doing every high school game in the book this week?”

She shrugged, all innocent smile and lethal intentions. “Come on, it’ll be fun.” A chorus of agreement echoed around the room, and you knew, there was no getting out of this one. Someone dimmed the lights slightly as everyone started moving toward the center of the room, sitting in a loose circle with half-finished pizza slices and soda cans in hand. You sat between Soobin and Heeseung, though the space between you and the latter felt a little too electric, like if you moved even an inch, you might get burned. The game began light, as they always do.

The circle had started off innocent enough, plastic soda bottles sweating on the table, crusted pizza boxes pushed aside, the living room heavy with the low hum of music and the occasional pop of laughter. Someone asked something dumb about stealing candy from a gas station. Another person confessed to cheating on a test in tenth grade. It was stupid, harmless, the kind of thing you could brush off with a smirk and a sip of your drink. But there was something in Wonyoung’s gaze that made the back of your neck prickle before she even opened her mouth. She was perched on the edge of the couch like a queen on her throne, manicured fingers curled delicately around her cup, eyes glittering with something sharp and venomous. She turned her head slowly, deliberately, and locked her eyes on you with a smile that didn’t touch her lips.

“Never have I ever…” she began, the silence prickling around her, “been a loser virgin that no man wants to touch.” The room froze. The words landed like shrapnel, hot and slicing through whatever warmth had existed just moments before. Your chest constricted instantly, the oxygen leaving your lungs in one swift rush. You could feel every pair of eyes in the room shift to you, some wide with shock, others downcast, uncomfortable. You sat rigid, your cup trembling in your fingers, your pulse thudding like thunder in your ears. And then Wonyoung, as if to twist the knife, tilted her head and said, sweetly venomous, “Y/N, that means you have to put your hand up.” Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. You blinked quickly, trying to swallow it down, trying to pretend you hadn’t heard her right. But Heeseung stood up then, voice sharp and cold in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Knock it off, Wonyoung.”

She gave a lighthearted shrug, still smiling like this was all some twisted joke. “I mean…it’s just a game, Heeseung. No need to get snappy.”

Dani scoffed, disgust heavy in her voice. “You know exactly what you’re doing. Cut it out.”

But the damage had already been done. Your vision blurred as a tear slipped down your cheek without permission, hot with embarrassment, with shame, with the kind of humiliation that clings to your skin like ash. The silence was worse than the laughter could’ve been, everyone staring, no one speaking. Just the sound of your shaky breath and the trembling rattle of your heart in your chest. You couldn’t stay. You wouldn’t. Without a word, you stood up on wobbly legs, grabbing your bag with clumsy fingers and bolting for the front door. You didn’t hear who called your name, didn’t wait to see who stood or who stayed behind. You just ran, your face burning and your lungs struggling to catch up to your heartbreak. Outside, the air was cold and biting, but not cold enough to numb the pain in your chest. You didn’t get far before you felt a hand gently catch your wrist, not rough, not demanding. Just there. Just him.

“Hey; hey, look at me,” Heeseung said softly, turning you to face him. The night was quiet except for your breaths, short and uneven. He reached up, brushing your tear-streaked cheek with his thumb, the gesture so tender you nearly fell apart all over again. “Don’t listen to her,” he whispered. “She’s miserable and she wanted to take it out on someone. That’s all this is.”

“I’m fine,” you choked out, even though you weren’t.

“No, you’re not.” His voice cracked slightly, and he gave a soft shake of his head. “And I should’ve never brought you here. I knew she was going to be here. That’s on me.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you whispered, your voice raw. “You’re not the one who humiliated me.” Still, his face was drawn with guilt, his brow furrowed. He opened the car door for you and you slid in, heart still pounding, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. He got in after you, but didn’t start the engine right away. The silence filled the cabin again, but this time it wasn’t awkward, it was heavy. Dense with something unspoken.

You stared at your lap, thinking of Wonyoung’s words again. Loser virgin. No man wants to touch you. It echoed in your head, bouncing around until it started to stick. Was she right? Was that why Soobin had never looked at you twice? Why you were always the girl just outside the circle? Before you could overthink it, before the voice of doubt could talk you down, you turned to Heeseung.  “I want you to take my virginity.”

He blinked like he hadn’t heard you. “What?” You met his eyes this time, steady despite the tremble in your chest. “I want you to take my virginity.” The silence was immediate. Then sharp. His eyes widened, lips parting, trying to find something to say, some script, some defense. But nothing came. Just silence and the sound of your breath coming quicker than before. “I just…” you began, fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “What Wonyoung said. Maybe she’s right. Maybe Soobin wouldn’t want someone like me. Someone who’s never—” 

“That’s not true—”

“Please.” Your voice cracked then, raw and soft, but full of something else too. Desperation, maybe. Maybe hope. Heeseung looked at you then, really looked. And something shifted in his gaze, his expression folding into something more serious, more solemn. There wasn’t any cocky grin, no teasing smirk. Just… sincerity.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.” Relief washed over you slowly, curling around the fear that had taken root in your belly. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, something like gratitude spilling from your chest.

“Tonight?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t hesitate. “Tonight.”

And then he turned the key in the ignition, the engine humming to life as the two of you slipped into the dark, quiet night, no longer running away, but heading toward something that neither of you could quite name yet. But you could feel it, in the beat of your heart, the warmth in your chest, and the hand that rested gently over yours on the console.

The streets outside were washed in amber, the streetlights spilling honey-colored light onto the hood of Heeseung’s car as he pulled up to the quiet curb outside a low-rise campus apartment building. You recognized it, vaguely,  though you’d never had a reason to be this far from your dorm before. He eased the car into park, the soft click of the gear shift cutting through the otherwise silent cabin. For a moment, neither of you moved. You were both suspended in this fragile, private space, like the world outside had hit pause just to give you this breath of stillness. He turned to you, one hand still on the steering wheel, the other reaching across the console like he might take your hand but thinking better of it. His gaze flickered to your face, warm and searching, not demanding. Not expectant. Just careful. Just him.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice low but steady. And you nodded. Without hesitation. Without the voice of Wonyoung echoing in your ears. Without thinking about Soobin or the plan or the stupid game that led you here. You nodded because it was Heeseung and somehow, in the softest, strangest way, you’d never been more certain about anything in your life.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sure.” That was all it took. Heeseung stepped out of the car, jogged around to your side, and opened the door for you, offering a hand as you slid out. The air between you pulsed with unspoken tension, not the bad kind, not the kind that makes you want to flee, but the kind that hums beneath your skin like a quiet, rising tide. Neither of you spoke on the short walk to the building. You could feel the beat of your own pulse in your throat, your palms, your knees. Every footstep up the stairwell echoed like a question you were still answering with every breath. When he unlocked the door to the apartment, you stepped into a place that somehow felt like him , even if it wasn’t entirely his. The living room was tidy but lived-in: a half-empty water bottle on the counter, a sweatshirt slung over the back of the couch, a flickering neon sign in the shape of a guitar hanging above the TV. There was a faint scent of cologne and fabric softener in the air , something warm and clean and utterly disarming.

You glanced around, instinctively nervous. “Are you sure no one’s—?”

“I live with Jake,” Heeseung said, gently tugging you further inside. “But he’s out for the weekend. Swear.” Jake was obviously still at Sunghoon’s house. So, you nodded, cheeks warm as he guided you toward the hallway. Every step felt louder now, your heartbeat echoing in your ears. You could feel the shift happening between you,  something solemn, something sacred as he led you into his bedroom. The door clicked shut behind you. His room was dimly lit, the overhead light off, only the glow from a desk lamp in the corner casting soft shadows along the walls. Posters of concerts and bands you half-recognized were pinned above his bed. His guitar leaned against the corner, pick still nestled in the strings. The bed was made, barely and a hoodie lay crumpled on the chair by his desk. You turned to him again, breath caught somewhere in your chest. Heeseung was standing just a few feet away now, hands at his sides, gaze never leaving yours.

“Are you still sure?” he asked again, quiet and reverent. And again, you said yes. The word had barely left your mouth before he was stepping toward you, not fast, never fast , just sure, just gentle. His hand reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek like he couldn’t believe you were real. Then he was kissing you, slow and careful, lips warm and familiar now. The kiss wasn’t like the one in the car, not teasing, not frantic. This one was patient, intentional. Like he was asking permission with every soft press of his mouth, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your yes. 

The rest happened slowly. Clothes were shed like old skins, your nerves still there, still fluttering like moths in your stomach, but softened by the way he touched you. Every brush of his fingers was careful, every motion deliberate. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t teasing. He just was warm and present, grounding you with the weight of his hands and the way he whispered your name like it was something sacred. He kissed your shoulder. Your collarbone. The hollow behind your ear. He held you like you were something breakable and beautiful. When it finally happened, he was looking into your eyes, his hand laced with yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles to calm you. It hurt at first, of course it did, but it wasn’t scary. Not with him. And eventually the pain faded into something else entirely, something you couldn’t name, only feel.

His hands caressed your body like you were made of porcelain. His breathing hard groans falling from his lips with the severance of a melody you’d never want to forget. “Fuck” He grunted, his hips meetings yours. His forehead sheen with sweat fell against your naked shoulder, lining the skin with searing hot kisses. 

“You feel so good.” His grip on your hips tightened as he allowed himself to go faster, rougher. The sound of skin, mixing with your breathy moans and Heeseung groans were the only sound in the room. 

“Harder.” You choked, letting your head fall against the pillow, your hair creating a halo on the satin pillow case. “Please, Heeseung, harder.” You were begging, pleading for me. It felt too good, better than anything you’ve ever experienced and you just couldn’t get enough. 

Heeseung groaned, a low groan that rumbled deep within his belly all the way up his throat. “You want it harder?” He asks, His eyes locked onto yours as you send him a frantic nod. 

“Yes!” Your voice was almost shrill. “Please.” Your hands found his back, racking your nails up and down the skin — certainly leaving red marks in their wake. Heeseung’s hips pushed harder, the force of his thirst sending your body jerking upwards. 

“Oh my god.” You hissed. “Oh my fucking–” Your voice was cut off with his lips falling to yours, his mouth swallowing the sound of your pleasure. He broke away from the kiss with a low moan and a shaky breath. Your breath caught as you tilted your head back, overwhelmed and undone in the best way. Heeseung murmured quiet things into your skin, not jokes, not one-liners, just your name. Just reassurance. Just closeness. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fireworks. It was better than that. It was real. 

When it was over, he didn’t roll away or laugh or ask how it was. He just stayed there beside you, your bodies tangled beneath his sheets, his thumb brushing lazy circles against your hipbone. You rested your cheek on his shoulder, skin still tingling, your heart finally slowing. And for a long time, neither of you said a word. You didn’t need to. Soon, you got up — put your clothing back on and thank Heeseung for all he did that night. You went to your dorm with an even bigger smile on your face. 

Morning sunlight seeps through the cracks in your dorm blinds, painting golden stripes across your duvet and the delicate curve of your shoulder. You stir slowly, not with the usual groggy resistance of a school day, but with something like ease, something light. Your limbs feel loose beneath your sheets, your chest warm, your lips tingling with memories. Last night plays on a soft reel behind your eyelids: Heeseung’s hands, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing worth seeing, the way his voice trembled when he asked if you were sure. You smile before your eyes are even open. It wasn’t just physical , it was something else entirely. Something safe. Something soft. You don’t know what it means yet, or what it should mean,  but right now, that doesn’t matter. What matters is the way you feel in this moment. Like maybe, for once, you’re not the DUF. Maybe, for once, you’re the girl someone actually wanted.

You get dressed slowly, pulling on your favorite jeans and a simple top that fits you right, a new confidence buzzing just beneath your skin. Your fingers hover over your phone more than once, tempted to text him, something casual, something teasing, but you stop yourself. You’ll see him in Lit anyway. And God, you can’t even begin to guess what that’s going to be like now. The walk to class is a blur of humming thoughts and overplayed memories, your heart skipping each time you think about him. You wonder if he’ll say something. You wonder if you should. You wonder if this is the start of something... more.

When you arrive at the building, the usual crowd of students loiters by the lecture hall, but your eyes find him immediately. Heeseung is leaning against the wall near the door, black hoodie pulled over his head despite the early morning sun, hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. He’s looking down at his shoes, but as if sensing you, his head lifts, and there it is. That smile. Soft and crooked and just for you. “Look who finally made it,” you call as you approach, your tone light and teasing, the banter slipping into place like a well-worn jacket. “Didn’t think I’d see your face again after last night.”

Heeseung chuckles, pushing off the wall and falling into step beside you. “Please. You think you’d get rid of me that easy?” 

You roll your eyes, a grin curling at your mouth. “You’re relentless.”

“Persistent,” he corrects with a grin of his own. “There’s a difference.” The air between you hums with something more than your usual back-and-forth, a soft awareness, a shared secret, the ghost of his hands still lingering on your waist. Heeseung’s eyes flick over your face for a moment longer than they usually would, like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, as you’re about to reach for the classroom door, he says your name, softly, tentatively. You pause, looking up at him. His expression has shifted, and it’s not teasing now. It’s serious. Vulnerable, almost. Like there’s a weight on his chest and he’s finally ready to let it tumble out.

“Hey, I—” Heeseung starts, but he doesn’t get far.

“HEESEUNG!” Beomgyu’s voice barrels down the hallway like a wrecking ball, all volume and chaos, and before either of you can react, an arm is slung around Heeseung’s shoulder. “Dude! Party tonight. Sunghoon’s place again. It’s gonna be chill this time, no cops, I swear. You’re coming, right? And you,” Beomgyu points to you with a grin, “you better come too. You’re the new fan favorite.” You let out a laugh, caught off guard, but Heeseung just gives Beomgyu a playful shove. “Yeah, alright. We’ll be there.”

“We?” Beomgyu raises an eyebrow, smirking as he wiggles his brows. “Noted.”

And just like that, Beomgyu is disappearing down the hallway, already off to deliver his invite to the next unsuspecting soul. You glance back at Heeseung, your brows furrowed just slightly. “What were you gonna say? Before Beomgyu... you know.”

Heeseung looks at you for a beat, quiet. And in that silence, something shifts again, but this time it doesn’t rise to the surface. Instead, he just shrugs, sliding his hands back into his pockets. “Nothing,” he says casually, a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Forgot what I was gonna say.”

You want to press,  there’s something in the way he says it, the way his eyes flick away from yours for half a second too long, but you don’t. Not here, not now. So instead, you just nod, falling into step beside him as you both walk into the lecture hall. You’re still smiling. But this time, your heart is wrapped a little tighter in wonder. 

The air tonight feels heavier, not unpleasant, just weightier, charged in a way that isn’t quite like the other parties. The crowd buzzes with the usual electricity, the low thump of bass vibrating through the floorboards, bodies weaving and pressing in rhythm to a beat no one truly hears. But you do. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, in the skin of your arms where goosebumps rise as you and Heeseung step through the doorway into Sunghoon’s house. He walks beside you, shoulder brushing yours, laughter spilling from his lips as he says something teasing about your outfit. It’s familiar, the way he leans in a little closer than necessary, the way he always seems to find something to comment on, from the way you wear your hair to how your drink tastes like battery acid. He’s still the same. But you’re not. Not exactly. 

Because now you know what his breath sounds like when it trembles. You know how he looks when he’s above you, eyes full of questions and reverence like you were a poem he wasn’t sure he was allowed to read. You know what it’s like to be wanted,  not by anyone, but by him. And that knowledge sits in your chest like a small fire, curling smoke and heat into your thoughts as you walk beside him. You make your way to the drink table where Beomgyu and Jay are pouring vodka into plastic cups with reckless enthusiasm, laughing at something Jake said. It’s all easy, the familiar chaos of a college party,  but something inside you feels less swayed by the glitter of it now. Like you’ve seen what matters more, in the quiet hush of a dorm room when all the noise falls away and someone holds you like you're worth the wait. 

You glance toward Heeseung, catching sight of him joining in a game of beer pong with Sunghoon. His laugh is loud, tilted back in his throat, his hair flopping into his eyes as he lines up a shot. He’s magnetic like this, full of life, a little too much, and always just enough. You don’t even notice the tap on your shoulder until you feel it. You turn around to see Soobin. Your stomach doesn’t flutter. Your pulse doesn’t spike. You don’t feel weak in the knees or dizzy in the way you once imagined you would. All you feel is... calm.

His smile is soft, almost sheepish, like he’s approaching a wounded animal. “Hey,” he says, voice raised slightly over the music. “I wanted to say… I’m sorry. For what happened the other night. Wonyoung was out of line, and honestly? Everyone knew it.” You blink at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. He rubs the back of his neck, eyes dipping away as if afraid to meet yours fully.

“That… that does make me feel better,” you say after a pause, offering him a genuine smile. It’s small but sincere, the kind of smile you give someone when you’ve outgrown the pedestal they used to stand on. He brightens at that. “Good. You didn’t deserve that.” The conversation unfolds easily, light, harmless. He asks about class, about your professor’s weird rant last week, and you laugh with him, grateful that it’s not awkward or strange. For a few minutes, it’s like nothing ever changed. But every now and then, your gaze slides across the room, to where Heeseung is, to the way his hand gestures wildly in the air after making a perfect shot, the way his eyes scan the crowd and catch on you. You feel it each time, that invisible thread tugging between you both, fragile but undeniable.

Soobin leans closer, tipping his head toward you. “Hey, the music’s kind of loud down here. Do you wanna go upstairs to talk?” You hesitate, only for a moment. This is what you’d wanted, wasn’t it? Alone time with Soobin. This moment; the intimacy, the possibility of something real with him, it used to be the end goal. It was the prize at the finish line. You look back toward the beer pong table. Heeseung isn’t there anymore. You swallow, forcing a smile as you nod. “Sure. Upstairs sounds good.” Soobin leads the way, and you follow,  but there’s a hollow tug in your chest, a low ache that whispers: something’s different now. Something’s shifted. And you can’t quite tell if you’re walking toward what you want… or away from it.

The upstairs hall is quieter, hushed like a cathedral built out of creaking floorboards and dim lighting. Soobin’s footsteps are steady ahead of you, confident, calm. You follow him down the hallway, the thump of bass from the party below now muffled by layers of drywall and closed doors. He opens one at the end, someone’s bedroom, likely Sunghoon’s spare guest room and steps inside without hesitation. You enter, arms crossing over your chest instinctively. The room is sparsely decorated: a bed, a desk, a dresser with a dusty mirror. A single lamp glows faintly in the corner, casting everything in warm amber light. The kind of soft hue that makes everything feel a little too intimate. 

You sit down on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting in your lap. Soobin stands near the dresser, one hand running through his hair like he’s searching for the right words, the right entry point into something he’s been building toward. You try not to think about how your heartbeat doesn’t pick up like it used to. How your stomach doesn’t flutter. How the moment you used to dream about, you and Soobin alone in a room, about to have that talk, feels just a little off-center now. He turns to you, expression unreadable. “Can I ask you something?” You nod.

He gives a breathy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck again. “Do you… have a crush on me?”

The question hits you like cold water to the face. You blink. “What?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “you’re here with me. Alone. Talking like this. And I’ve noticed you kind of… watching me sometimes. Not in a bad way, I just — I figured maybe you liked me.”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out right away. You weren’t expecting this — not so directly, not right now. But wasn’t this the whole plan? The makeover, the party, the studying with Heeseung, the kiss that didn’t happen, wasn’t this what you’d wanted from the beginning? So you say it. Quietly, like you’re repeating a line in a play. “Yes. I think I do.” Soobin smiles softly, like that was the answer he expected. He walks over, taking the spot next to you on the bed. There’s a small silence, not quite awkward but definitely unsure. Then, without another word, he leans in. And kisses you. It’s gentle. Thoughtful. His lips press to yours with an easy kind of care. But instead of feeling sparks or butterflies or that dizzy, swept-away sensation you thought would come,  all you feel is stillness. Like kissing someone underwater. The moment suspended. Weightless. Hollow.

You don’t know how long it lasts, but eventually, your hand moves to his chest and you pull away, slow and apologetic. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, eyes avoiding his. Your heart pounds for all the wrong reasons. “I… I don’t think I feel what I thought I felt.”

Soobin tilts his head slightly, studying your face. “What do you mean?” You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers in your lap. “I thought I liked you. I really did. But it doesn’t feel… right. Not like I thought it would. Not like…” You trail off, not daring to finish the sentence. Soobin hums thoughtfully, like he’s already solved the puzzle. 

“Ah,” he says, nodding once. “I get it.”

Your eyes lift, hopeful. “You do?”

A soft chuckle escapes him. “You like Heeseung.” It’s not a question. It’s a truth laid bare between you. You pause, breath catching in your throat. Then you nod. Slowly. “I think I’m in love with him.” There’s a moment of quiet. Not heavy. Not tense. Just the shared acknowledgment of something that’s been true for a while now,  you just hadn’t let yourself name it. 

To your surprise, Soobin smiles. Not bitter or wounded, just warm. Maybe even relieved. “I think you should tell him,” he says.

You swallow. “You think I should?” He nods, leaning back on his hands. “I think you’d regret it if you didn’t.”

Your heart flutters with something different this time,  not nerves, not fear. Hope. You stand up, legs shaky beneath you, but your decision anchors you. As you move toward the door, Soobin calls out softly, just before your hand touches the knob. “He loves you back, you know.”

You turn your head, eyes wide. “You think so?”

“I know so,” he says, simple and sure. You nod once, lips parting just slightly. “I hope you’re right.” And then you step into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you. The music is still thudding below. The party still rages. But you’ve never felt more clear. Never more certain of who, or what, you want. It’s not about proving anything anymore. Not about being experienced or wanted by anyone. It’s about him. And tonight, you’re going to tell him.

You step down the creaky stairs, the bass from the party still thumping like a distant pulse beneath your skin. Your breath catches, a subtle panic fluttering in your chest as you scan the crowded living room for Heeseung’s familiar face. Your eyes dart past groups of laughing friends, clusters of conversations, and neon lights that blur faces into hazy outlines. But he’s nowhere to be found. Heart pounding in your throat, you veer toward the kitchen, hoping for some sign, a whisper, a clue. There, leaning casually against the counter, is Jake. His usual smirk falters when he notices your searching gaze. “Hey,” you say, voice barely steady. “Have you seen Heeseung?”

Jake shrugs, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Last I saw, he was in the living room with a bunch of people. Why? You looking for him?” You nod and push past him, a fragile thread of hope knitting itself between your ribs. The living room comes into view, and your steps slow, the air thickening in your lungs like smoke. And then you see him. There, framed by a cluster of familiar faces, is Heeseung. But he isn’t alone. Wonyoung stands close beside him, her body pressed against his in a way that twists something cold and sharp through your heart. His arm snakes possessively around her waist, fingers resting lightly but surely on the curve of her hip. She leans in, lips ghosting across his neck and jaw, a soft, intoxicating murmur escaping her mouth as he whispers back.

The scene unfolds like a cruel play, one you wish you could close your eyes to, but you can’t look away. Your chest caves inward, a hollow ache blossoming beneath your ribs. Your stomach churns, bile rising bitterly as you struggle to breathe through the sudden swell of nausea and heartbreak. You try to wrench your gaze away, but the sight sears into your vision, branding itself onto your soul. You can’t watch. Turning on your heel, you stumble toward the door, desperate to escape the cruel tableau. The room blurs around you, faces, laughter, music,  all fading behind the tight clamour of your ragged breaths and pounding heartbeat. Tears spill unbidden from your eyes, tracing warm, salty rivers down your cheeks. Each step away from the party feels heavier than the last, like you’re sinking deeper into a pool of your own shattered dreams.

You reach the night air, the cold biting at your skin but failing to soothe the ache inside. Pulling your phone from your pocket with trembling fingers, you summon an Uber. The glow of the screen feels alien in your hands, like a lifeline thrown across an endless chasm. Inside the car, the world outside dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadows, but your tears keep falling, a steady cascade that no driver’s small talk or cityscape can interrupt. Your hands grip the seat, knuckles white, as the distance between you and the party grows with every passing mile. You are utterly broken. Stupid, you think bitterly. Stupid for believing, even for a moment, that someone like Lee Heeseung, with his easy charm and dazzling smile, could fall for someone like you. The DUF. The girl who blends into the background. The girl no one notices, the girl no one wants. You were chasing a dream painted in stardust and whispered promises, but it was always just that, a dream. And now, all that’s left is the ache of reality settling cold and hard in your chest.

The days bleed into each other like a slow, endless ache. You find yourself cocooned in your dorm, wrapped in the faded threads of your favorite hoodie, the one that swallows you whole and carries the scent of safety and solitude. The glasses sit perched on your nose, a barrier between the world and the girl who once believed she could be someone else. The weight of silence presses down, heavier than the thick blankets you pull up to your chin. Your phone lies discarded across the bed, buzzing and blinking with countless unanswered texts and missed calls from Heeseung, each one a fresh pang of regret and confusion you’re too scared to confront. You don’t know how to face him. How to face the truth that your heart still aches for the boy who chose someone else, who wrapped his arms around Wonyoung like you were a ghost in the room. You feel like you’ve been stripped bare, every hope unraveling thread by fragile thread. The girl who dreamed of being seen, of being wanted, it’s hard to find her beneath the rubble of broken promises and whispered lies.

Night falls again, the shadows gathering in the corners of your room as if to hold you close in your loneliness. The quiet hum of the city outside is distant and indifferent. You lie there, heart heavy, tears tracing silent rivers down your cheeks, when suddenly there’s a knock at your door. Sharp. Insistent. You don’t want to move, but something in the rhythm of that knock stirs you, a fragile hope tangled with dread. With aching limbs, you pull yourself from the bed, the cold floor a harsh reminder of the world beyond your blankets. You open the door slowly, and there he is, Heeseung. His presence fills the doorway, that familiar, impossible beauty that twists your heart in the best and worst ways. It makes your head spin, your breath catch in your throat.

His eyes search yours, deep pools filled with worry and something you can’t quite name. “Why haven’t you been answering?” he asks softly, voice low, as if afraid to break the fragile silence. “I saw you go upstairs with Soobin the night of the party…” Your throat tightens, the words choking you before you can even think. You take a shaky breath, then whisper, “The deal’s off. You don’t need to worry about making me ‘hot and popular’ anymore.”

His brow furrows, concern deepening. “What happened? Did Soobin hurt you?”

You shake your head, voice trembling but firm. “No. Just… go, Heeseung. Please.”

You reach out, beginning to close the door, but before it shuts, his foot slides gently into the frame, stopping it with quiet insistence. The space between you is charged, a fragile tension stretched thin. His voice is almost a plea. “What’s going on?” The walls you’ve built so carefully around your heart begin to crumble. You swallow hard, biting back the tears that burn your eyes, and say the words you’ve been holding in for too long. “I’m tired. Tired of pretending to be someone I’m not. Tired of playing a role, like I can be that girl, the one everyone notices, the one guys actually want.”

Your voice falters, breaking with raw, aching honesty. “Guys don’t want me. Not really. Not like I am. This was an experiment... and it worked for you, but it didn’t work for me. So… can you just go?” The silence hangs between you like a thick fog. You hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, loud and ragged. This time, your hand moves with quiet finality, closing the door with a definitive click. The sound echoes in the sudden, crushing emptiness of your room. And then, the floodgates break.

You lean back against the door, knees buckling as the tears you held back spill free. The sobs come unbidden, shaking your body, hot and wrenching and real. Each tear a silent confession of heartbreak, loneliness, and the aching desire to be seen, not as a mask, but as the fragile, imperfect soul beneath. In this moment, the girl you tried so hard to hide is raw and vulnerable and fiercely alive. And though it hurts more than words can say, it’s the first step toward something real, toward healing, toward finding the strength to be exactly who you are.

The morning light feels colder somehow, less forgiving as you step out of your dorm room and into the brisk hum of campus life. Today, you wear your armor: a soft, oversized hoodie pulled low over your frame, the familiar weight of your glasses perched on your nose, and leggings that carry no pretense, no flash, no glamour, just you. The girl who sought to dazzle and command attention has quietly slipped away, replaced by someone quieter, more raw, but undeniably real. As you make your way across campus, the chatter and footsteps of other students blur into a dull roar, a soundtrack to your internal storm. The air is thick with the ghosts of last night’s heartache, the sting of broken trust still simmering just beneath your skin. You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re okay. You’ve got this.

The lecture hall door creaks open, and you slip inside, hoping to be invisible, hoping to blend into the shadowy back rows where no one will notice your retreat from the world. But no one really goes unnoticed, especially not in a room charged with unspoken tensions. And then, just as your foot finds the seat furthest from the usual spot beside Heeseung, you hear it, a snide, low comment slicing through the hum of settling students Wonyoung’s voice, sharp and dripping with that familiar edge, echoes just enough for you to catch it. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s aimed right at you. But this time, something’s different. The bite of her words doesn’t sting. The heat of embarrassment doesn’t flush your cheeks. You simply keep walking, your stride steady and unyielding, heart quietly defiant beneath the soft fabric of your hoodie. 

You settle into your seat at the very back, far away from the usual orbit of Heeseung’s presence. And yet, even from there, you feel the weight of his gaze, like a hawk circling above, watching, waiting. His eyes flicker toward you in stolen moments, cautious and curious, as if trying to read the new lines etched into your silence. But you refuse to meet his gaze. You bury yourself deeper into your solitude, the words of the lecture washing over you like distant thunder, barely registered by a mind that’s a million miles away. Minutes stretch on, the clock ticking with relentless indifference. You notice the way Heeseung’s fingers tap lightly against the notebook in his lap, his eyes darting toward you in quick, nervous glances. It’s as if he’s searching for a way back in, a crack in the armor you’ve so carefully constructed. But today, you are a fortress, quiet and impenetrable.

When the final bell rings, a sharp and liberating sound, you rise without hesitation, stuffing your books into your bag with brisk efficiency. Heeseung’s voice trails behind you, soft, hopeful, “Hey, wait—Y/n!” but you don’t stop. You don’t turn. The hall swallows your footsteps as you push through the doors, leaving the echoes of his call behind you.

The evening wrapped itself around your dorm room like a velvet shroud, the dim light casting soft shadows over your tangled sheets and the quiet ache that clung to your chest. You lay there, cocooned in your own solitude, the weight of recent nights pressing down like a relentless tide. The world felt heavy and distant, and the thought of moving, speaking, or facing anything at all felt like a mountain too steep to climb. Then, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, jolting you from your quiet reverie. “Please go away, Heeseung,” you mutter, voice thick with exhaustion and guarded pain, already bracing yourself for the storm you didn’t want to weather again.

But the voice that answered wasn’t his. Soft, hesitant, and tinged with something almost vulnerable, Dani’s words floated through the door: “It’s not Heeseung… please, just open up.” Your heart stutters, surprise and a flicker of warmth breaking through the cold shell you’d built. With a weary sigh, you push yourself up, the weight of days pressing down on your limbs, and unlock the door. There, standing in the dim hallway, were Dani and Sakura, faces soft, eyes sincere, their usual confident air replaced with something tender and remorseful. They step inside without hesitation, their presence gentle like a balm, the space between you shrinking as they settle beside your bed.

“We’re so sorry,” Dani begins, voice low and earnest. “For everything. For not being better friends, for not being there when you needed us.” Sakura nods, her eyes shimmering with an unspoken apology. “We love you, Y/n. We do. And we’re sorry for making you feel anything less than amazing.”

Their words settle over you like a gentle rain, the unexpected kindness dissolving some of the walls you didn’t even realize you’d built so high. They smile, shy but genuine, and Dani confesses, “Sometimes, we’re even jealous of you. You make everything seem so effortless, being smart, funny, just... you. We try so hard, but you just shine naturally.” A quiet laugh escapes you, the sound rusty but honest. You joke back, teasing them for their dramatic flattery, and in the warmth of shared laughter, the tension unravels. The three of you fold into a comforting embrace, a hug woven with forgiveness and the promise of mended bonds.

After the moment lingers, Sakura’s voice breaks through, gentle but curious. “So, what about Heeseung? What’s really going on?” Your chest tightens as you recount the complicated arrangement, the late-night talks, and then, the confession that trembles on your lips. “I lost my virginity to him,” you say quietly, the words both heavy and liberating. “And in all of that... I fell in love with him.”

Their faces flicker between surprise and understanding. Sakura’s eyes soften as she speaks, “The way he looks at you... he loves you too, Y/n.” You shake your head, doubt gnawing at you like a silent ache. “But Wonyoung—”

Dani cuts in gently, firm and unwavering. “He doesn’t care about her anymore. And he never looked at Wonyoung the way he looks at you.” For the first time in what feels like forever, you want to believe them. You nod slowly, the weight of hope settling lightly in your chest. They urge you to hear Heeseung out, to let him speak and show you what’s truly there. But before the conversation can spiral further, they shift the mood, inviting you to a get-together at Sunghoon’s happening just minutes away.

At first, you hesitate, the memory of Heeseung and Wonyoung still stinging fresh. “Heeseung and Wonyoung—” you begin. Sakura cuts you off with a firm shake of her head. “They won’t be there. We promise.” That promise, fragile and shimmering with possibility, nudges you forward. You breathe in, steadying your heart, and then you say yes. Together, the three of you leave your room, stepping out into the night with tentative smiles and the fragile threads of renewed friendship and maybe, just maybe, a second chance at love waiting to bloom.

When you pull up to Sunghoon’s house that night, you’re half-expecting the pit in your stomach to grow teeth and chew you alive. But instead, you’re met with the warm, familiar glow of porch lights, the echo of laughter spilling from inside, and the voices of boys you’ve somehow come to know like brothers. Sunghoon, Jake, Jay, and Beomgyu greet you at the door like you’re royalty, like nothing in the world is out of place. They offer you sodas and cheesy jokes, Beomgyu pulling you into a dramatic bow while Jake salutes like you're being welcomed home from war. And for a flicker of a second, you forget it all, the ache, the shame, the heartbreak. You laugh. You actually laugh. You let your shoulders drop. You exist again.

Sakura appears at your side like she’s always belonged there and gives you a little nudge. “Hey,” she says, smiling with all her teeth, “Can you go grab the extra cooler outside? It’s on the deck.”

You squint at her. “You have legs.”

“Yes,” she says sweetly, “but you have main character energy tonight. So scoot.” You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, pushing through the backdoor into the backyard. And that’s when it happens.

Twinkling fairy lights string above you like constellations pulled down from the sky, wrapped through the branches of Sunghoon’s backyard trees. They blink softly around the bonfire, flames low and lazy, casting shadows across the grass. And there, seated on a log bench near the fire, is Heeseung. His head is bowed, fingers locked together like he’s praying or maybe bracing himself from falling apart. The moment he hears your footsteps, his head jerks up. His eyes meet yours, wide and uncertain. Time hiccups. You stare. He stares. And then, slowly, shakily, he stands.

“I’ve been trying to figure out what I was going to say to you when I saw you again,” he says, voice low but trembling with everything he’s been holding in. “And now… now that you’re actually here, looking like that…”

You blink. “Looking like what? Like a girl who’s no longer hot?” He shakes his head so fast and so fiercely that a laugh escapes your throat without permission. 

“No,” he says, stepping toward you. “Looking like you. Just — you. Glasses, hoodie, stubborn scowl and all. You're beautiful.” Your breath stutters. The world sways. You try to speak, to make a joke, to do anything, but your lips don’t work. He fills the silence. “You’re so beautiful,” he says again, his voice stronger now. “And I love you.” You open your mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. You’re too stunned. Too overwhelmed. So he continues, and thank God he does.

“When I saw you go upstairs with Soobin that night… I thought I was gonna be sick. I’ve never felt anything like that. Not anger. Not sadness. Jealousy. Like I was losing something that wasn’t even mine to lose.” Your chest aches. You take a step closer, barely breathing. “Wonyoung came up to me after that,” he says, voice rougher now. “Told me she heard you and Soobin hooking up. She tried to kiss me. Said I should get over it. But I didn’t care what she said. Even if you were with Soobin, I didn’t want her. I wanted you. I’ve always wanted you.” 

You want to cry. You want to melt. But mostly, you want to run to him.

“I was never going to get in the way of you and him if that’s what you really wanted,” Heeseung continues. “But then, when you told me outside your dorm that it wasn’t going to work out… I knew. I had to tell you how I felt.” His eyes lock on yours with full, unwavering honesty.

“I love you. Just the way you are. And I think I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you at Sunghoon’s party. When you insulted my G.P.A and spilled that drink all over yourself.”  He laughs, almost breathless. “That’s when I knew I was doomed.”

A laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it, wet and cracked but real. You take one step closer, then another, until the distance is gone. “I kissed Soobin,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “Upstairs, that night. And it was... fine. But while it was happening, all I could think about was you. That stupid smile of yours, your dumb little jokes, the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand like you're in an action movie... I realized something.” 

Heeseung holds his breath.

“I realized that I love you. Your charm, your goofiness, the way you never let me walk on the outside of the sidewalk. I love you, even the parts I think I hate, because it’s you. And I want you.” His mouth opens like he might say something witty, but he doesn't. He just crashes forward and kisses you, fierce, certain, heart-shaking. His hands come to your face, cradling you like you’re something sacred. It’s not gentle, not this time. It’s messy and passionate and breathless, like a whole novel written in one kiss. Like everything unspoken finally found its voice.

When you finally part, foreheads touching, breath mingling, he murmurs, “You’re it for me, Y/n.” You smile, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“And you’re the dumbest genius I’ve ever met,” you say softly, kissing him again.

Somewhere behind you, from the house, you hear Beomgyu shout, “ARE THEY FINALLY MAKING OUT?!” And then Jake yells, “SUNGHOON OWES ME FIFTY BUCKS!”

You both break apart laughing, and Heeseung groans. “God, they’re never gonna let us live this down.” 

You grin, cheeks flushed. “Worth it.” Because it is. It always was.

Your friends expected it. Your parents braced for it. But when your long-term boyfriend of nearly five years packed his bags, left your shared apartment, and walked out of your life with nothing but a muttered apology and a shadow of regret in his voice, you didn’t shed a single tear.

Instead, you stood by the door, fingers curled around your sleeves, heart thudding like a dull drum inside your ribs as you watched him go. The soft click of the latch felt louder than thunder. And yet, the silence that followed was even louder.

That was the worst part.

Not the betrayal. Not the abandonment. Not even the mess of memories he left behind, the cracked photo frame he bought you in second year, the shared playlist you couldn’t bring yourself to delete, the faint scent of his cologne in your closet.

No. The worst part was how quiet you became afterward.

You, who once painted the world with laughter, you, who danced barefoot in the rain and burned cupcakes on purpose just to see how far disaster could stretch, you, who used to fill empty rooms with your presence before even speaking.

You disappeared slowly. Like fog rolling into the ocean.

It took months before you left your childhood room again. You’d returned home after graduation, saying it was temporary. That you needed to "rethink things.” Your parents didn’t push. Not when they saw the dark circles under your eyes or the way you flinched when the phone rang. You still hadn’t told them the full story. You couldn’t. How do you explain to your mother that the man you were ready to marry simply changed his mind? That he said you were “too much” one day and “not enough” the next?

That he left without a proper reason. Just a goodbye.

You had just curled up with a blanket and an old journal when your mother knocked on your door.

“Y/n-ah,” she called softly. “Come downstairs.”

You didn’t move. “Why?”

“There’s someone we want you to meet.”

You let out a quiet sigh. “Not today.”

“It’s important.”

You sat up slowly, fingers tracing the corner of your blanket. “Who is it?”

“Lee Heeseung.”

Your breath caught.

The name felt familiar in a distant, foggy kind of way, like a song you once heard in the background of someone else’s life.

Heeseung. The boy with perfect grades, perfect posture, perfect life. The son of your father’s business friend. You remembered vague stories about him growing up, the golden heir. Always abroad. Always busy.

Why would he be here now?

Before you could ask, your mother added, “Just for a few minutes.” And for some reason, you listened.

You expected a stiff man in a starched shirt, radiating cold ambition and forced smiles. What you didn’t expect was a man standing awkwardly in your living room, holding a mug of tea like it was a fragile artifact, and looking more nervous than you felt.

He turned when you walked in and paused. You saw the subtle shift in his breathing pattern.

His eyes met yours, and for a brief second, time bent around the space between you. You noticed the way his gaze softened, then darted away quickly, almost embarrassed. The tips of his ears flushed faintly pink.

You blinked. Interesting.

He bowed slightly. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

You gave a polite nod, sitting across from him. “You too.”

You didn’t speak much after that. Your parents carried the conversation, polite chatter about the market, mutual friends, old memories. Heeseung answered like a proper gentleman, straight laced and careful with his words. You watched him more than you listened. There was something oddly... stiff about him. Like he hadn’t been in a room with a stranger in years.

He caught you watching once and looked away quickly, clearing his throat leaving a warmth pooling in your stomach as you directed your eyes at your palms resting on your stomach.

They dropped the bomb after dinner. An Arranged marriage. With Lee Heeseung, the heir and future CEO of Lee Corporation.

“Just think about it,” your father had said, his tone soft, his eyes more so. There was hope in them, but it was cautious, almost tentative, like he wasn’t quite sure whether it deserved to be there. Next to him, your mother looked everywhere but at you. She twisted her wedding ring around her finger as if it were a question she couldn’t answer.

And across from you, Heeseung sat.

Tall. Composed. The collar of his button-down crisp, the sleeves of his dark blazer pushed back just enough to show a silver watch that gleamed under the dining room light.

He didn’t look surprised.

He didn’t look anything.

Only when he spoke did something shift “You don’t have to decide now,” he said gently, voice as even as his expression. “We can meet a few more times. Talk. See if it’s something you’re open to.”

You stared at him.

Not because of what he said, but because of how he said it like he already knew how this story ended. Like he’d already accepted whatever answer you might give, even if it was a no. He didn’t plead. He didn’t push. He wasn’t playing the role of the desperate suitor or the charming stranger trying to win your favor.

If anything, he seemed… resigned.

And you?

You were so damn tired.

Tired of grieving a love that had left you in pieces. Tired of pretending you were still the same girl who once believed in fairytales. Tired of hearing your friends get engaged, move abroad, fall in love again while your life stood still, wrapped in a fog you couldn't shake off.

So you nodded. Not because it made sense. Not because it felt right. But because, in that moment, anything was better than standing still.

The wedding was simple.

Elegant in the way a gentle breeze was elegant, soft, intentional, and fleeting. There were no loud colors, no over-the-top displays of affection, no extravagant celebrations. Just muted tones of white and beige draping every corner of the small private hall. Golden hour light filtered in through sheer curtains, making everything seem like a daydream. A few strings of fairy lights hung above your heads like stars that had descended for just this moment. The music was soft, almost distant, like a memory trying not to disturb anyone.

Only family and a few close friends were invited. That was the way you both preferred it — quiet, contained. No crowd to force a smile in front of. No strangers to pretend for.

You stood at the entrance, your hand gently clutching the silk of your ivory dress. It clung to your frame delicately, elegant in its simplicity. Your hair was pulled back, and gold earrings brushed against your neck every time you moved. They had once belonged to your mother.

And across the aisle, waiting....was him.

Heeseung.

He wore a slate grey suit that fit him too well, paired with a navy tie that brought out the deeper shades in his usually unreadable eyes. His posture was rigid, but not from arrogance. From nerves. His fingers twitched at his sides. His lips parted slightly when he saw you.

And he didn’t stop staring.

You walked toward him slowly, trying to ignore the way your heart thudded against your chest like it didn’t remember this wasn’t a love marriage. This wasn’t the fairytale. It was an arrangement. Something practical.

But then why did he look at you like that?

As though something about you had caught him off guard.

His gaze didn’t lower or flicker away, even when you stood right before him. Even when the officiant cleared his throat and began the short ceremonial script. Even when you reached out your hand. His hand met yours with a tremble.

Just a flicker. Barely there. But you felt it. Both of you felt it actually.

When the rings were exchanged and the final blessing was offered, the photographer gestured gently, asking for a hug for the photos. A staged embrace, a brief moment of closeness for the sake of memory.

You hesitated, and so did he. But you stepped forward anyway, lifting your arms with quiet grace and sliding them around his waist. His body stiffened instantly under your touch, like he hadn’t prepared himself to be held. Like he didn’t think you would do it.

But then slowly you felt him breathe. His shoulders softened.

His arms came up, unsure, before settling loosely around your back. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t passionate. But it wasn’t cold either. It felt… human. And when you pulled away, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, you saw it.

The faintest blush spreading softly across his cheekbones, like the sun peeking over the edge of dawn.

You bit your lip, amused. A giggle slipped out before you could stop it. It was light, airy, and very real. The kind of laugh you hadn’t heard from yourself in a long time. Heeseung’s eyes widened slightly, clearly not expecting it. But then, something shifted in his expression. Not quite a smile but something close. His lips twitched at the corners, and he looked down, embarrassed.

You didn’t know why, but your chest warmed.

The first night in your shared apartment was quiet. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. A silence that allowed space to exist between two people without demanding they fill it. You both stood in the living room for a moment, bags still at your feet, before silently choosing opposite doors. You unpacked in your rooms. No drama. No awkward hovering.

Well you didn’t expect to be comfortable anytime soon.

But it wasn’t as strange as you thought it would be.

Heeseung knocked softly after a while, standing at your doorway like he didn’t want to intrude. “Are you hungry?” he asked, voice tentative.

“I was thinking of making something,” you replied, brushing off your hands from folding clothes. “Do you want to help?”

He seemed surprised. “I—I mean, I can. If you don’t mind.”

You didn’t.

So you both ended up in the kitchen.

It wasn’t big, but it was clean. Minimalist, like the rest of the apartment. The kind of space that hadn’t yet been lived in. You gave him the task of slicing the vegetables while you heated the oil. It was an ordinary moment. Too ordinary. But he tried his best to keep up. He worked in silence, furrowed brow, bottom lip tugged between his teeth.

And then

“Ow.”

You turned immediately. “What happened?” He lifted his thumb sheepishly, where a thin line of red had appeared. “It’s not bad.”

A spurge of panick rose as you stammered to find anything you can, fortunately heeseung had his emergency bix ready for moments like this. You grabbed a tissue and dabbed it with alcohol immediately, clicking your tongue. “You’re hopeless,” you muttered, gently pressing it to the cut.

He winced.

“You ever held a knife before?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked genuinely guilty. “Not often.”

That made you laugh almost. The corners of your mouth twitched, but you suppressed it. Barely.

Dinner turned out decent. Slightly over-salted, but edible. You both sat at the table across from each other, clinking spoons occasionally. Heeseung ate slowly, carefully, complimenting the food like he was afraid of insulting you otherwise. When the dishes were cleared and the clock ticked past ten, you curled up on the living room couch with a light blanket, journal in your lap. Random dates, random events, random thoughts. Writing helped. It always had. It made you feel like your thoughts were being listened to.

Heeseung settled into the chair across from you, laptop open, fingers dancing over the keyboard. A pair of glasses slid down the bridge of his nose, making him look softer, more academic than corporate. His brows furrowed again as he read something on the screen. You watched him for a moment. The way he adjusted his posture every few minutes. The way he chewed the inside of his cheek when something didn’t make sense. The way he pushed his glasses up with his knuckle.

He was handsome, yes. Way too much handsome from what you've seen till now.

But he was also strange.

Like a puzzle you didn’t know you were supposed to solve. You tore your gaze away and focused back on your journal until the question slipped out of your mouth.

“You always this serious?”

Heeseung paused mid keystroke. His eyes slowly flicked toward you, clearly startled. “Huh?” You leaned back, head tilting playfully. “Or are you just pretending to impress your very pretty wife?”

A beat of silence.

Then he blinked.

And blinked again.

His face flushed. Not pink. Red. An unmistakable crimson that painted his ears, cheeks, even the base of his neck.

You watched it spread with fascination.

He looked away quickly, clearly flustered. “I, uh—I’m not pretending.”

You grinned, unable to help it. Gotcha

And then you laughed. Finally

Not the soft, polite kind. But a laugh that shook your shoulders. A laugh that sounded far too much like your old self. One that tasted like freedom. Like lightness.

Heeseung stared at you wide eyed, confused, but not unhappy. And in that moment, something inside you cracked open.

Not completely.

But enough to let a little light in.

Enough to remember that this whatever this was didn’t have to be cold or lonely. Maybe it could be… different.

Maybe. Just maybe.

After dinner you followed him, heart awkward in your chest. “We’re married,” you said quietly.

He looked at you. Eyes crinkling a bit “We are.”

You bit your lip. “How does it feel?”

“Like I’m going to pass out.”

You laughed. So did he. And just like that, the room warmed.

You both fell asleep that night, not in each other’s arms, but in the same room. Two souls still cautious. But not strangers anymore. Somewhere between the silk sheets and the soft rustling of fabric, you felt his fingers brush yours again. This time, neither of you pulled away.

The days that followed weren’t perfect but they were real. You cooked breakfast. He cleaned the dishes. You danced alone in the living room. He watched, pretending not to smile.

You fought over the last slice of toast but he shared it anyway.

One evening, he returned early and found you on the balcony, feet up, journal in hand.

He stood there, watching you, quiet.

You glanced over. “You know, for someone who likes his space, you hover a lot.” He gave a small smile. “You’re easy to hover around.” Your heart thumped against chest your walls as you closed the journal.

Heeseung walked closer, placing a cup of tea beside you.

You turned to him, a silly expression playing on your lips “You know...I do notice how much you blush every time I touch you.”

He froze. “No I don’t.” You raised a brow. “You just did.”

His ears flamed. “I’m—That’s not—You’re very—” pretty. He stopped. “Never mind.”

You giggled. “You’re cute when you malfunction.” He groaned into his hands. “I’m regretting this marriage already.”

You reached over, gently flicking his forehead. “Liar.”

You were quiet. Not shy. Not submissive. Just... still. And Heeseung had thought, Perfect. No dramatics. No chaos. No endless talking that led nowhere. You seemed like someone who wouldn’t get in the way of his routine. Obedient. Low-maintenance. Easy to manage.

But stillness, he would later learn, was not the same as simplicity.

You weren’t “easy” in the way he first assumed. You were surviving. He just didn’t see it yet.

The first time you touched him, it was nothing. Really, it was nothing. Just a brief adjustment to the collar of his shirt before a family photo. The fabric was crooked, and you, dutiful, distant, fixed it with all the care of someone folding a stranger’s laundry.

But his throat closed.

And later that night, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he found himself staring at the spot your fingers had grazed. Like it had left a burn.

Heeseung loved that. He loved that he was starting to notice things.

The way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were nervous. The way your voice softened when talking to plants, like they were old friends. The way your eyes darted around the room when you were overwhelmed but trying not to show it. He hated how easily his heartbeat betrayed him.

Once, you fell asleep on the couch wearing his hoodie. He had walked into the room to ask if you wanted tea. Stopped. Stared.

And nearly had a cardiac arrest.

You looked smaller somehow, curled into the armrest, face turned into the fabric that used to smell like him. The hoodie dwarfed you, sleeves swallowed your hands, and you breathed so softly he thought you might disappear if he blinked.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t dare. Just stood there and watched you sleep like an idiot, pretending it meant nothing that you’d chosen his hoodie over the dozens in your wardrobe. He told himself it was fine.

Until it wasn’t.

Because one evening, you hummed while watering the plants near the window, barefoot in your pajamas, and something twisted painfully in his chest.

You looked… light.

Like whatever darkness you were dragging around had loosened for a second.

And he thought, She still has it. That light. It’s just buried.

But then someone flirted with you at a company party. Some friend of a friend with too many teeth and not enough respect. The guy leaned in too close when he spoke to you, smiling like he knew you, fingers brushing your elbow as he laughed.

And Heeseung saw red.

He was across the room, drink untouched, shoulders tense. The man’s hand hovered near your lower back, and Heeseung didn’t even remember moving, just that he was suddenly there, standing beside you, one hand on your waist, his tone calm but sharp enough to bleed.

“She’s taken.”

The man backed off. Quickly. You glanced up at him, startled. “I was handling it.” But inside you were going absolute nuts. THAT WAS SO FUCKING HOT WTF.

“I know,” he said, eyes never leaving yours. “Didn’t like watching.”

You fell in love with Lee Heeseung. You weren’t sure if it was real, if your brain was just weaving comfort into romance. But the way he looked at you made you feel real. Grounded. Heeseung didn’t flirt. He didn’t chase. But he remembered. He remembered the one time you said you hated sleeping with the door closed. He remembered your favourite scent was lavender, not rose like everyone assumed.

He remembered the time you offhandedly said you always wanted to stargaze, but no one ever took you.

And he remembered you. Even on the days when you couldn’t remember you.

You sat at the breakfast table, spooning cereal into your mouth, pretending not to notice how Heeseung kept glancing at you over the rim of his coffee mug. You were wearing his hoodie, not for sentiment, but because it was soft and smelled like cedarwood and something vaguely comforting.

He cleared his throat. Loudly.

You blinked at him. “Yes?”

He tensed. “What? Nothing.”

“You’ve been staring for five minutes.”

“I wasn’t—” He cut himself off. “You just have milk on your lip.”

You wiped your mouth while giggling “That’s your excuse today?”

He went red. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m imagining you blushing every time I breathe?"

He said nothing. Just took a long, slow sip of his coffee and looked away. You leaned your chin on your hand. “It’s okay, you know.”

“What is?”

“Liking your wife.”

He choked on his coffee. You handed him a napkin, laughing, and Heeseung groaned into his palm. “Why are you like this?”

You smiled. “Because you like it," and god.... poor Heeseung swore if his gorgeous wife doesn't stop terrorising him anytime soon.

The day began like any other. Soft sunlight filtered through the lace curtains as you flipped the page of your journal, pen poised above the paper. A list of dates stared back at you. Appointments, grocery items, a friend’s birthday next week. There were tiny corrections in the margins, crossed out reminders, swapped days and scribbles you didn’t remember making.

You blinked at them, brow furrowed.

You always kept your journal close. It wasn’t just a habit anymore, it was a lifeline. Your memory had been slipping, barely noticeable at first. A word forgotten. A date misremembered. But lately, the fog had thickened.

You tapped the pen against your palm, trying to recall what you’d written five minutes ago.

“Y/n?” Heeseung’s voice came from the hallway, sleepy and warm. He peeked into the room, his hair tousled from bed. His tie hung loose around his neck. “Did you see my cufflinks?”

You pointed to the dresser. Heeseung stepped in, brushing a kiss over your temple without a second thought. You smiled, heart tugging. His affection had changed. He’d become gentler, softer. He didn’t look at you like he was tolerating a contract anymore, he looked like he was slowly learning how to love.

And you… you were starting to believe in it.

“I’ll make us coffee,” you said, standing a little too fast.

The world tilted sharply and you didn’t even register the fall.

You woke up to beeping machines and Heeseung’s panicked voice floating somewhere near your ear. His hand gripped yours like a lifeline, tight and trembling.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, over and over. “You’re okay, you’re okay.”

Doctors ran tests. Your blood pressure, blood sugar was normal. Heart rate was stable. CT scan was clear. They told you it might’ve been a stress induced fainting spell. Nothing serious.

But it felt serious. You could see it in Heeseung’s eyes. The quiet way he watched you that night, tucking you into bed, fingers ghosting against your forehead. You felt it in your bones too. Something had shifted inside you. And it wasn’t just fatigue.

That night, as you lay beside him in bed, your voice broke the silence “I used to think love was something safe.” He turned his head to you, still half-awake, droopy eyes slowly meeting yours. “But it’s not,” you whispered. “Not always. Sometimes… it just leaves you.”

Heeseung didn’t say anything. But his fingers found yours beneath the covers and squeezed, tender.

“It left me once. Completely. And I’m scared if I ever feel it again, it’ll do the same.”

Your throat closed, you didn’t tell him you were in love with him. But your eyes did. They searched his, trembled with quiet confession, and Heeseung… oh, he was unraveling from the inside. He said nothing. He only gathered you into his arms and held you so tightly, so fiercely, that your breath caught.

And then he kissed your forehead like a promise.

Like he’d never leave.

The warmth didn’t last forever. A shadow crept in slowly, just as your memories began to slip through your fingers like grains of sand.

You fainted again three days later.

This time, it wasn’t dramatic or alarming in the way most people imagined fainting would be. There was no dizziness or shortness of breath. Just silence. Just a quiet, mundane moment, laundry on your lap, socks in your hand, sunlight spilling through the windows like everything was perfectly normal, and then…

Black.

A blink later, you were waking up to the sound of footsteps thundering down the hallway. Heeseung’s voice, frantic and cracking at the edges, shouted something unintelligible into his phone. There was desperation in his tone, something close to begging, and when you opened your eyes, the first thing you saw was his silhouette pacing like a man unraveling thread by thread.

You groaned faintly, and the sound jolted him. “Y/n!” The phone clattered to the floor as he dropped beside you, his knees hitting the hardwood. His hands hovered over your shoulders, afraid to shake you too hard, afraid to touch you too softly.

You tried to speak, but only a croaky sound came out.

“Jesus, don’t do that again,” he breathed, brushing a stray hair away from your face with trembling fingers. “You scared the hell out of me.” You blinked at him, mind still foggy, body weak. And then perhaps to deflect the weight in his gaze, perhaps to avoid your own rising dread, you smiled faintly and said,

“Maybe I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like they didn’t belong there. Heeseung stilled.

“Preg—what?!”

You blinked again, suddenly aware of what you’d just said. “I was joking—obviously—I mean, we haven’t even—oh my god—”

His entire face flushed crimson. He scrambled upright, running a hand through his hair like the heat on his cheeks could be shaken off. “Why would you even say that?!”

“I don’t know!” you blurted, still breathless. “I was just—I don’t know—it slipped out!”

“I—okay, well—” He turned away for a second, then turned back just as fast, blurting out, “Would you… want to?”

Silence.

You blinked again, a faint blush creeping on your cheeks this time “What?” you asked softly. He cleared his throat, swallowed, tried again. “I mean not now—not like this, I just–if we ever did...you know like if we were ready—would you want to have a kid with me?”

You just stared at him. Eyes round, heart skipping, stare that peeled you open from the inside and left every thought exposed.

He panicked. “Shit–I didn’t mean it like that. I just–God, I sound like a lunatic. I’m sorry—”

“No,” you interrupted, and your voice, though small, was steady now. “You don’t.”

Heeseung’s breath caught.

You reached forward, hand brushing over his where it hung awkwardly by his side. Slowly, you entwined your fingers, tugging gently until he let himself sit beside you on the couch. He didn’t speak, neither did you.

The silence felt soft this time, tender, warm in its own way.

“I see a future,” you murmured. “And you’re in it.”

He inhaled sharply, chest rising like he’d just been given permission to breathe again. His hand tightened around yours instinctively, and then without another word he pulled you into him. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, and his around your waist. He held you like you were something fragile and precious. His chin dropped to your shoulder, and you felt his lips press into the crook of your neck, featherlight. Then the top of your head. Then again and again.

The crown of your skull. Your temple. Your hair. Tiny kisses, barely there, like he couldn’t help himself.

His hands moved up and down your back, long strokes, slow and careful like he was trying to memorize every inch of you. Like he wanted to trace your shape into his memory forever. You leaned into him, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, listening to the way his heart thudded so loud it echoed through his chest.

“Heeseung,” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

“You don’t have to be scared.”

He said nothing for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’re the only thing I’m scared of losing.” That’s when you knew...he meant it. Every trembling, terrifying word. It wasn’t just affection. It wasn’t just comfort. He loved you. Quietly, desperately, in the way only someone who’s afraid of not being enough ever could.

But you couldn’t say it back.

Because something in your chest twisted whenever the words reached your throat. You wanted to. God, you did. But how could you, when a part of you knew you might forget the weight of those words one day?

So instead, you just pulled him closer.

Let his warmth anchor you. Let your silence be love. And he accepted it like it was all he needed.

For now.

You weren’t supposed to forget things like this.

It started with little slips. You misplaced your favorite pen, the one you always kept clipped to your journal. You put milk in the pantry instead of the fridge. Called Heeseung’s PA by the wrong name, twice.

You told yourself it was stress.

But you started writing everything down. Grocery lists. Things to do. Things you’ve done. Just in case. You didn’t tell Heeseung. Not yet. He’d been watching you more carefully lately, even after the hospital said you were fine. Normal vitals. Normal bloodwork. Just a little fainting from low blood sugar, they said.

You smiled at Heeseung when he brought you tea in the mornings. Laughed when he’d forget his tie and you’d fix it for him before he left for the day. Kissed his knuckles goodbye.

And then, at night, when he was asleep next to you, you wrote.

Remember: His coffee is black with half a sugar. He hums when brushing his teeth. He hates losing control. He loves order. But he loves you, even when you’re chaos.

Your handwriting trembled some days.

You couldn’t afford to forget him.

Until something happened which shook your whole world. You were out for a small grocery run, just around the corner of your cozy apartment.That afternoon, the sky had been unusually dull for mid spring, kind of gray that made everything feel quieter. You were reaching for a carton of oat milk when someone said your name.

A voice you hadn’t heard in years, soft, hesitant. Drenched in familiarity

“Y/n?”

You froze mid-motion. Hand halfway to the shelf. The fluorescent lights above flickered like they always did in that dingy corner aisle. You didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Jongseong.

There he stood. Your ex. Five years of history packed into one lean frame and a stupidly familiar jawline, he hadn’t changed much, still wore that same brand of denim, still had his hair pushed back like he hadn’t really tried but somehow looked effortlessly put together. Still had that look in his eyes, like he was constantly on the verge of saying something meaningful. You wished you could’ve walked away, wished your feet moved. But your body betrayed you. You stood rooted, staring at the man who had left you broken on the bathroom floor that night so many years ago.

“Hi,” he said, cautiously, as if testing the waters.

You let out a shaky breathe, recovering. “What the hell are you doing here? ”

His lips curved into that apologetic smile, the one that once made you forgive things you never should have. “Shopping. Just moved back last month.”

Of course he did. A painful silence settled between you, thick like humidity before a storm. You hated how your heart still reacted, a strange, erratic beat that had nothing to do with affection and everything to do with trauma. You glanced down at your cart. Laundry detergent, a bag of oranges, ice cream you knew Heeseung would pretend not to like but eat anyway.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he said, voice low. “You look…”

“Don’t.”

That shut him up. He nodded, eyes darting around. “I heard you got married.”

You responded by muttering a quiet 'hm' and stepping back. “I—I wanted to say I’m sorry,” he said finally, breath hitching. “For how I left. For all of it. I was a coward. I know that now.” You closed your eyes for a second. Let the words wash over you like cold water. They didn’t heal anything. Didn’t change the nights you’d spent alone wondering what you did wrong.

“I don’t need your apology,” you said, quiet but firm.

He took a step forward, then another. You didn’t move. You should have, but it was too late. He pulled you into a hug before you could protest. His arms wrapped around you like old muscle memory. You felt nothing.

No heat. No pain. Just a dull ache — like pressing on a bruise that had already begun to fade.

You let it happen.

Maybe out of shock. Maybe because you needed to feel nothing for a moment. Then you pushed him back.

“Don’t do that,” you said, voice sharp.“I just—” He looked desperate now. “I miss you, Y/N.”

“I don’t.”

He recoiled like you’d struck him. And maybe you had.

Your hands were still trembling when you stepped out of the grocery store. The air outside was thick with city noise, buses hissing past, horns blaring somewhere in the distance but everything around you felt strangely muted. As if the world had taken a step back, blurred its edges, dulled its colors.

He had touched you.

He had hugged you.

And you had frozen. Stiff, shocked, disgusted. You didn’t even know what scared you more, the fact that he dared to wrap his arms around you, or the fact that, for a split second, you didn’t pull away fast enough. You could still feel the ghost of that hug clinging to your skin like grease. You wiped your arms with your sleeves again and again as you walked, as if scrubbing the moment off could make it disappear.

It didn't.

Halfway back to your apartment, your vision started to blur. The world tilted to one side. Your legs stumbled, heart racing in your chest, a noise ringing faintly in your ears.

And then nothing.

You woke up under hospital lights, too white, too sharp, sterile brightness. A cold breeze hummed from the AC. Your wrist had a hospital band. Your head throbbed.

“Miss?” the voice of a young nurse stirred beside you. You nodded.

It was third time in one month. And the last two times you’d brushed it off, too little sleep, maybe low blood sugar, maybe stress. But this time felt different. Your limbs still felt heavy. Your memory hazy. You sat up slowly as the doctor entered, young, calm, and professional, with a clipboard in his hand and a thoughtful expression behind his glasses.

“We ran some tests while you were unconscious. Vitals look stable, but I want to ask a few questions.”

You nodded absently, already reaching for your journal. The leather cover had softened from overuse. You opened it and began jotting something down under the last entry, the date, the name of the hospital, a reminder to track symptoms.

The doctor noticed.

“You carry that with you often?” he asked.

“Always,” you replied, not looking up. “It helps me keep track of things. Sometimes… I forget details. Or what day it is.”

He tilted his head. “How long have you been doing that?”

“For months....more than half a year to be exact...”

“And before that?”

“I....don't remember ” you said simply.

The next ten minutes passed in quiet tension as he asked you a series of questions. Your age, your name, your address.

Easy enough.

Then what day it was, the current year, who the president was.

You fumbled. You knew it. You did. But in that moment, it slipped away like mist through your fingers. You blinked hard, tried again. But your mouth stayed still.

The doctor’s voice was gentle. “Y/N… I’m going to be honest with you. Some of the signs you’re displaying memory lapses, spatial confusion, fainting episodes they’re consistent with early onset Alzheimer’s disease.”

You stared at him. What?

The words didn't make sense. Not at first.

That was something older people got. Grandparents. Not someone in her twenties. Not someone like you.

“That's not possible,” you murmured. “That’s not—people my age don’t get that.”

“It’s rare,” he agreed, “but not impossible. Especially when there’s a genetic predisposition or trauma involved. We’ll need to run more scans, cognitive assessments, but... I’d advise preparing for the possibility.”

The room closed in.

You were still holding your pen. You hadn’t even finished your sentence in the journal “What happens now?” you asked, your voice brittle.

“You be careful,” he said quietly. “You start documenting everything. You let someone close to you know. And… you prepare. Because things might start getting messy from now on.”

You nodded.

You didn’t cry. Not yet. There was a storm going inside you. What happens now? Instead, you turned to your journal and wrote everything down.

Because if your brain was going to fail you…you needed your words to remember.

Heeseung noticed the emotional shift before anything else. You became quieter, guarded again. It reminded him of how you were when he first met you, polite, careful, full of silences that hurt more than shouting.

He didn’t understand why.

You weren’t pulling away physically. You still reached for his hand, still leaned into his chest on the couch. Still smiled at his stupid jokes. But something behind your eyes had dimmed.

Heeseung didn’t press. At first. Then, one afternoon, he caught you staring blankly at the laundry machine. You’d loaded it three times and hadn’t turned it on.

You didn’t even notice him standing behind you until he touched your arm.

“Are you okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just... zoned out.” He didn’t believe you but he nodded anyway. That night, you sat on the balcony with your journal in your lap. The stars were faint, the city always swallowed most of them. Still, you looked up and whispered to yourself

“I hope I remember what the sky looks like.”

Heeseung’s promotion came two weeks later.

CEO.

The letters barely held any weight in your mind, but they meant everything to the company and to him. It was the culmination of years of dedication, late nights, near flawless discipline. He had been groomed for this position since the day he stepped into his father’s office, and now he finally stood at the top. There was a celebration, of course. Lavish, gleaming, all sharp suits and champagne glasses. You were expected to be there, not just as his wife, but as his partner, the quiet, polished figure beside the man of the hour. A photograph for the headlines. A name in the caption.

And so, you helped him get ready.

He stood in front of the mirror while you adjusted the lapels of his charcoal suit, the one you had picked for this night months ago, long before the diagnosis, long before your world started folding in on itself. It had a clean cut, regal structure, and a dark sheen under warm lighting. He looked like a leader. Like someone people would follow.

Like someone who deserved everything good in this life.

You moved closer, fingers brushing over his shoulders as you smoothed down the fabric. Then the tie — a deep navy silk one that complimented his skin. You looped it slowly, methodically, the way you’d done a hundred times before, but today your hands were a little shakier. When you finished tightening the knot, you adjusted the collar, folding it just right.

And then… you met his gaze.

He was looking at you the way he always did when he was proud of something. Eyes full of stars. That small boyish smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. The kind of smile that made your heart ache because he still saw you not the version that was slowly slipping through cracks, but the version that had once walked into his life like a spark.

“You’re really good at this,” he said, lifting an eyebrow. “Should I be worried? You might have a secret career as a stylist.”

You chuckled weakly “Only for you.”

Heeseung grinned, a hint of pink on his ears as he lowered his head shyly. He had always been like this, confident in the boardroom, decisive in crisis, but hopelessly soft around you. “When are you getting ready?” he asked “I mean, not that I want to rush you, but… should I help you with your dress too?” It was teasing, yes. But the sincerity in his tone turned it fragile. Tender. As if he wanted nothing more than to make you feel cared for.

You couldn't meet his eyes anymore.

Your smile felt forced, stretched across your face like something stitched on. You leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his lips quick, light, almost mechanical then pulled back and murmured, “I’ll go change now.”

You walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind you.

Locked it.

The moment you turned around, the first sob escaped before you could stop it. Your back slid against the door, and you dropped to the floor, your knees folding beneath you.

You cried.

Not the loud, guttural cries of heartbreak. These were quieter. More dangerous. Cry that hollowed you out from the inside. The kind that didn’t shake the walls but carved themselves into your ribcage like scratches from within. Because how could you stand beside him tonight? How could you wear a smile and pose for photographs next to someone so perfect, so capable, so destined while you were falling apart in silence?

You didn’t deserve to be in those frames. You didn’t deserve the warmth in his voice or the light in his eyes. Heeseung wasn’t just beautiful, he was good. A man who’d carry the weight of the world and still ask how you were doing. He deserved someone strong. Someone helpful. Someone who would hold his hand and not forget the reason why she loved him.

Not someone who would make his life harder. You pulled your knees to your chest, pressing your forehead against them, biting back the next wave of sobs. Tears soaked through the fabric of your dress before you even realized.

And then came a knock. Gentle, hesitant.

“Y/N?” His voice. Muffled through the door, but heavy with concern. “Are you okay?” You panicked for a moment. Could he hear you crying? Could he feel it through the wood? You scrambled to your feet, wiping your face with trembling hands. “I’m fine,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just… changing. I’ll be out in a minute.”

A beat of silence.

“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. You heard his footsteps retreat, but slowly. Like he was still half-listening. You turned to the mirror.

Your eyes were red. Your lips were trembling. Your heart was still fractured in your chest.

But you smiled. You forced it. You fixed your face, did your makeup, washed your cheeks with cold water. You put on your dress, the one he loved and stepped into the role you needed to play tonight.

His wife, His person. And maybe a ticking clock he hadn’t heard yet.

Everyone at the office practically worshipped him that day. Heeseung stood on the stage like he was born for it, tall, composed, every line of his suit sharp, every word he spoke deliberate. The perfect heir, finally crowned. You watched him from the back of the room, fingers loosely threaded in front of your dress, the heels you wore pressing too hard against your ankles. He scanned the crowd with those piercing eyes of his, unreadable as ever, until they landed on yours. His gaze softened. Just a flicker a small, private moment no one else caught.

You smiled. Clapped along with everyone else. Even mouthed a “congratulations” later, when he walked off stage and found you again.

But it ached.

The pride did. The smile. The applause. The knowledge that this moment belonged to him, but not fully to you.

Because you’d seen it all evening.

That woman Heejin, his PA hovering just a little too close. Laughing at his jokes like she’d memorized the rhythm of his humor. Knowing the stats, the reports, the number of interviews scheduled, the name of the board member’s wife who just had a baby. She touched his arm like she had every right. Whispered in his ear and was so dangerously close to adjust his tie like it was second nature.

You told yourself it didn’t matter.

Heeseung was with you throughout the whole event. When he wasn’t being pulled away to speak with department heads or board directors, he returned to your side. He introduced you formally. Called you his wife. Smiled that same smile that always softened at the edges when it was just the two of you. Still, it felt like a storm was swelling beneath the chandeliers.

The whispers began slowly, it curled around your ankles and trailed up your spine like a chill. Faces half turned. Brows raised. Smirks too subtle to name. For a moment you thought you were imagining it.

Until Heejin, heels clicking, ponytail high made her way to Heeseung and whispered something in his ear while holding her phone to his face. His jaw tensed. The sharp intake of his breath wasn’t loud, but you felt it like a slap.

He didn’t say anything. Just handed the phone back, eyes suddenly blank. You took a step forward, concern prickling in your chest, but before you could reach him

Your own phone buzzed.

One notification. Then another. Then another.

You froze as the screen lit up with a forwarded image and a text chain that had clearly been passed from one employee to another.

A picture.

Of you and Jongseong.

Your arms around each other in the middle of a grocery store aisle. His head tilted, mouth close to your ear. The caption was cruel —

"The new CEO’s wife already bored? Guess Heeseung’s cold heart wasn’t enough to keep her warm."

The room spun for a second. You gripped your clutch tighter, your breath lodged in your throat. You remembered that day. Every nauseating second of it. How you’d walked out of the store in shock and disgust that you’d let your ex touch you. How the encounter made your stomach churn. How you’d fainted halfway to your apartment the third time in a month. How you woke up in the hospital, and how that day changed everything for you.

But none of that was in the photo.

Just a snapshot. A second. A cruelly timed frame that looked like you were holding someone you still loved.

You barely made it through the rest of the event.

when you returned home, Heeseung was quiet.

Too quiet.

He removed his tie slowly, hands shaking in the low light of your shared bedroom. You stood by the dresser, unsure whether to speak first. The silence between you throbbed, thick and pulsing like a bruise.

“I didn’t know about the picture,” you breathed out, finally. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

He didn’t look at you. Just nodded. “Okay.” But that okay was hollow. A placeholder. You stepped closer. “I didn’t know someone took it. It wasn’t a… moment. It was nothing. I told him to stay away.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, still not meeting your eyes. “Did you?”

You blinked. “Yes.”

He licked his lips, exhaled. His voice cracked when he spoke. “Do you still love him?”

The question hit you like a punch.

“No,” you said too quickly. His eyes finally lifted to yours. Red rimmed. Vulnerable in a way he rarely showed. “Then why did you look like you did?”

You hesitated. “I didn’t. That photo—”

“No,” he interrupted gently, almost apologetically. “I’m not blaming you. I just… I don’t know how to ask this without sounding like I’m accusing you, but… was I not enough? Am I… not enough for you?” It broke your heart to hear him ask that. To hear that insecurity come from someone who had always seemed so sure of himself so composed, so precise. “You’re more than enough,” you said. “God, Heeseung, you’re everything. That day… I was in shock. I didn’t want him to touch me. I felt disgusted the second he did. And after that— I—" you stopped, more like the words abruptly run out of your brain. What exactly happened after that? You wanted to reach out to your journal but at this moment it felt like a foreign subject in that room.

He stared, breath caught in his throat “after that what?”

You opened your mouth. But nothing came out.

So instead, you reached for him. Sat beside him. Took his hand in yours “I felt like I didn’t deserve you,” you said honestly. “You’re… perfect. And I’m not. I’m going to ruin your life.”

He shook his head, eyes stinging. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” you whispered.“No.” He squeezed your hand. “I’ve ruined every relationship I’ve been in because I’m quiet. Closed off. I tried to do better with you. I tried to laugh more, talk more, open up. I don’t know if that scared you. Maybe I overwhelmed you—”

You didn’t let him finish. You pressed your mouth to his.

Soft at first. Like reassurance. Like apology.

But it didn’t stay soft. Your lips opened. His hands found your waist. Yours slid to the nape of his neck. He pulled you into his lap, clutching you like he didn’t want you to vanish. It was desperate. Heated. His mouth moved against yours with all the frustration and confusion he couldn’t put into words. His tongue tasted of hurt, of longing, of too much and not enough all at once. Your hands explored his jaw, his chest, the familiar planes of his body.

You gasped into his mouth when he gripped your thigh, and he caught the sound with his own lips, like he couldn’t stand to be away from you for even a second.

Clothes shifted. Hands wandered. You both chased each other’s warmth, each other’s breath, each other’s forgiveness. Your bodies tangled, your mouths pressed again and again, as if trying to remember what this meant what you meant.

When it was over, you lay against his chest, both of you breathless.

He held you like you were something breakable. You clutched the fabric of his shirt in your fist like he was your anchor.

Neither of you spoke.

Because sometimes, silence wasn’t emptines.....sometimes it was healing.

You stayed like that until sleep found you, nestled in the wreckage of that night, hearts still beating wildly but at least for now still together.

The next morning, he woke up alone.

Your pillow was cold.

Your phone was gone.

So were you.

Heeseung tore the apartment apart. Every room, every drawer, every closet. He called everyone. Checked hospitals. Airports. Police stations.

Nothing.

It was like you’d never existed.

Except for one thing

Your journal.

You’d hidden it behind the books on the shelf. It fell when he yanked the entire stack down in a frenzy. He opened it with shaking hands. Inside, he found pages pf him. Notes, memories, doodles of his face, stupid jokes, coffee orders, days he looked happiest, days he looked tired, the way he kissed your temple after work, the time he asked if you wanted kids and you couldn’t stop laughing.

But nothing about you.

No fears. No timeline. No diagnosis.

Until the last page.

Your last entry....probably

If you’re reading this, I probably forgot to tell you...I didn’t mean to leave like this. But I was so scared, Heeseung. I’m still scared. Alzheimer’s, That’s what they said. I’ll forget my name. My home. Maybe one day… even you. But I wrote you down so I wouldn’t. Because how could I forget the only place I ever felt safe?

He found the prescriptions next, right in between the pages, crumbled hard truth. His hands were shaking and he dropped the journal.

You weren’t in any of the places that made sense. Not your mother’s. Not your childhood home, the hospital where they gave you that impossible diagnosis, not even that quiet little beachside cafe you loved as a teenager, the one you once told Heeseung you’d run away to if life ever got too loud.

Heeseung checked them all. He didn’t stop looking. His PA begged him to rest and his board of directors hinted at taking a leave. Tabloids started speculating that you had disappeared because of him but that was not enough to make him stop looking for you. He ignored it all.

You were gone.

And all he had left was a journal where you remembered everything about him… but not a single word about yourself.

It destroyed him.

Every scribbled sentence felt like a goodbye in slow motion.

You wrote down his allergies, his favorite tie, the way he bit his lip when he was nervous. You even wrote down the first time he ever said your name like it meant something. But nothing — nothing — about when you first forgot your keys. Or when you got your test results. Or when you decided that loving him meant leaving.

Heeseung knew you did it to protect him.

But he didn’t want protection.

He wanted you.

At nights, Heeseung found himself on the beach. The sky quiet, no stars and too much cloud. Just the sound of waves, soft and endless. He remembered what you said once about wanting to see stars

“I feel like I belong to the sea. It forgets everything and still keeps going.”

He stared at the ocean for a long time. Then whispered, “I won’t forget you. Even if you forget me.”

Back in Seoul, your disappearance became public. Someone leaked the hospital records. Someone else found the journal. It was only a matter of time. Suddenly, the narrative changed. You weren’t the runaway wife anymore.

You were tragically sick. Young. Beautiful. Doomed.

The world grieved you like a ghost while you were still breathing somewhere. Heeseung hated it.

He hated that they mourned your memory while he still clung to your toothbrush. Hated that your name became a headline when it used to be a whisper only he was allowed to say that gently. And through all of it, the noise, the press, the pity he kept looking.

Weeks passed.

The world moved on.

He didn’t.

It was almost six months later when the knock came. A strange, hesitant rhythm, three soft raps, then silence. It wasn’t the knock you get from someone delivering mail or asking for a favor. It was the kind that came burdened with weight. With grief. With something you weren’t ready to hear. Heeseung opened the door, expecting a stranger. And he was though somehow, not entirely.

The man looked about his age. Disheveled, eyes filled with exhaustion and rimless glasses around them, lips trembling like he’d rehearsed this moment too many times only to still not be ready.

“Are you… Heeseung?” he asked, voice rough, tight. Heeseung blinked. “Yes. Can I help you?”

The man swallowed, then took a deep breath like it hurt to say her name. “I’m Jake. I—

I’ve been taking care of Y/N.”

Heeseung didn’t register it at first. But then the words unfurled inside his chest like shrapnel.

“I found her,” Jake continued, “about six months ago. On the street. She had fainted. Hit her head pretty bad.”

Everything around Heeseung went still. His fingers gripped the door tighter.

“You what?”

Jake nodded, frantic now. “I tried to help her. I brought her to the hospital. I wanted to call you—believe me, I did. But she… she begged me not to. Said you’d worry. Said she just needed a moment away.”

Heeseung felt his world turn inside out. “So she’s with you?” Jake’s expression shattered. “Yes...but I can't do this anymore. ” He stepped forward, desperate now. “Please, can I come in?”

They sat in silence for a moment on opposite ends of the couch. Jake’s fingers trembled around the cup of water Heeseung handed him. “I’m sorry,” Jake murmured, voice cracking. “I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t know if there’s a right way to explain any of this.”

Heeseung nodded stiffly, not trusting himself to speak. Jake looked down. “She didn’t remember much that day. Just bits and pieces. She kept asking for directions to a bakery that closed years ago. She was mumbling about… socks, a couch, stars. It didn’t make sense at first.” He paused to take a breathe “But there was something about her. Something… delicate. She didn’t want to be seen as fragile, but she was. She had this quiet kind of sadness. Like she was running from her own mind.”

Heeseung’s throat felt like sandpaper.

“I brought her to my place,” Jake continued, wiping his eyes. “It was closer than the hospital. She stayed for a few days. Then… weeks. And I just… let her.”

There was guilt in every syllable.

“I should’ve called you. I know that. But I—she asked me not to. She said she wasn’t ready to go back. That she needed time. And after everything she told me—or tried to tell me—I didn’t want to force her.”

Heeseung finally found his voice, low and raw. “Told you?”

Jake let out a weak laugh. “Pieces. Fragments. She kept scribbling on papers. I read one by accident one night when she forgot where she hid it.” That hit Heeseung in the chest. “She still wrote?”

“Obsessively,” Jake whispered. “Dates. Events. What you wore. The first time you laughed during breakfast. The time you hugged her when she thought no one would.” He looked up at Heeseung with a hollow sort of respect. “She didn’t write about herself. Just you.”

The silence that followed was cruel.

Then Jake broke it, voice cracking open. “I didn’t plan on falling for her. But it happened.”

Heeseung’s fingers curled into fists.

“I think… I think I fell in love the moment she offered to fold my laundry. She said she couldn’t sleep unless the room was organized, so she started arranging things, my books, labeled my kitchen spices.” He gave a humorless laugh. “She even asked me one night what tie I’d be wearing the next day. I told her I was a kindergarten teacher—I don’t wear ties. I don’t even own one.”

Heeseung looked at him, and something inside him twisted.

Jake’s next words came with a crack.

“She said she loved me once. Looked me straight in the eye and said it. But I knew—God, I knew—she didn’t mean me.”

Heeseung's chest ached.

“She looked at me like she loved someone. But there was no warmth in it. No spark. Just muscle memory.” Jake’s hands trembled harder. “Every day, she did things I knew weren’t meant for me. She’d ask me if I remembered the constellation we saw last December. I’ve never gone stargazing with her. She made tea the way you liked it. She even called me 'Seung' once.”

Heeseung felt the blood drain from his face.“I tried to be enough,” Jake whispered. “I told myself if I loved her hard enough, it wouldn’t matter that she was forgetting. That I wasn’t the one she loved. But I’m not strong enough. I can’t keep lying to myself. I’m going crazy.”

His voice finally broke. “She’s still in love with you.”

Heeseung sat frozen, pain slicing through every nerve. Jake covered his face. “I didn’t come here to fight. Or to beg. I came because I can’t hold this anymore. She’s slipping, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to keep her grounded.”

He looked up, red-eyed. “But maybe you do.”

Heeseung didn’t sleep that night. Jake left after an hour. Not because he wanted to, but because he said staying longer would feel like he was asking for permission.

Heeseung wandered back into the old room you used together. It still smelled like you. The scent hadn’t left, even though you had. He sat at your desk and opened one of the drawers.

And there it was.

Your journal. The one with the frayed corner and ink blot on the back. His hands shook as he turned the pages.

February 3rd – Heeseung laughed today. Actually laughed. I think it was because I burnt the toast and blamed the toaster, but I want to believe it’s because he’s starting to feel safe around me.

March 19th – He looked at me like I was someone worth choosing.

May 1st – I told a joke. He didn’t laugh. I think I messed up. I think I’m slipping again. Heeseung, if you’re reading this, I’m sorry. I wanted to remember. I wanted to stay.

Heeseung pressed the pages to his chest and let himself cry.

Because you didn’t run away. You simply… forgot your way back. And now he had to find you before the memory of him disappeared too.

The storm had passed, but the ruin it left behind still trembled beneath Heeseung’s ribs. The next morning, sunlight spilled pale and cold over his apartment floor, but there was no warmth in it. Just silence. Thick. Suffocating. Jake had left the address on a wrinkled piece of paper, scrawled in shaky handwriting like his hands were trying to outrun guilt. Heeseung held it tight as he stood in front of the door now, frozen not from fear, but something worse.

What if you look at him and see nothing? He didn’t knock. He just stood there for a second. Then another. Then the door opened from the inside. You stood barefoot, hair pulled back loosely, wearing a familiar oversized cardigan. His cardigan.

But the eyes that met his weren’t familiar at all.

You frowned.

“Who are you…” your head tilted, voice uncertain. “Why do you look so sad?”

It wasn’t a joke anymore. It wasn’t teasing. Your voice was too sincere, too puzzled. Heeseung’s heart dropped into a bottomless void.

He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even breathe. So he stepped forward and hugged you. He didn’t ask. Didn’t wait. He just pulled you into his arms, holding you so tightly it nearly broke both of you.

“I missed you,” he whispered, voice trembling against your ear. “I missed you so goddamn much.”

For a beat, you didn’t move. Then your fingers clutched his shirt. And you began to cry.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” you said, voice cracking. “But you… you feel familiar.” He nodded into your shoulder, gripping you like an anchor in a storm.“You’re warm... but so familiar ” you mumbled, cheek pressed against his collarbone now. "Heeseung...why are you sad?”

His tears spilled freely now.

Behind them, Jake watched from the hallway, shoulders stiff, arms crossed, mouth quivering.

When you turned slightly and met Jake's eyes

You blinked. Shifting suddenly,Then asked, “Who are you?”

Silence.

Jake’s lips parted. But no sound came.

A second passed. Then another. He blinked once, twice, swallowed the storm threatening to choke him.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

Heeseung didn’t speak. Didn’t turn.

Jake’s eyes glistened. But he smiled anyway, as if giving you up was the easiest thing he’d ever done. He turned away and went into the other room. A silent retreat.

That night, Heeseung stayed. He didn’t sleep. Neither did you. You curled against him on the couch, wrapped in past like a quilt. He tucked you into his side like he had never lost you. Your hand rested on his chest, fingers twitching every so often like you were trying to remember something with touch alone.

In the silence, you whispered, “I want to go.”

He turned to look at you, brushing your hair behind your ear. “Where?”

You shook your head, confused. “I don’t know. Just… away.”

“Away from what?”

“I don’t know that either,” you said. “But I want to go. With you.” Heeseung kissed your forehead, gently. “Okay.”

Jake woke up to an empty house. No voices. No breathing. No you. He called out once. Twice. Silence answered.

His heart seized.

Then he saw it, on the dining table. A phone. No, not a phone. A voice recorder. The kind Heeseung used sometimes when working through business proposals aloud.

He pressed play. And heard Heeseung’s voice. Soft. Tired. But steady.

“Jake…I know you probably hate me right now. Maybe you should. But I need to say this before I go.

Thank you.

Thank you for finding her when I lost her. For caring for her when I didn’t know how. For loving her in the quiet ways that kept her alive.

I read the journal.

I know now that she didn’t leave because she wanted to forget me. She left because she was scared I’d forget her. Or worse, that I’d watch her forget me. But Jake… she remembers something. Somewhere deep down, in the part of her soul untouched by time or illness or fear...she remembers love.

And I’m going to remind her. Every day. Until the stars go out. I’m taking her away. Just the two of us.

She wanted to go. So I’m taking her where the sky’s clear and quiet. Where the world slows down.

I’m going to show her the stars.”

The recording stopped. Jake stood there for a long, long time. He didn’t cry right away. Instead, he sat down at the kitchen table. Fingers trembling, he reached for the cross that hung from his necklace.

Clutched it. Pressed it to his lips. And closed his eyes.

“Take care of them,” he whispered. “Please.”

And then he cried. For you. For Heeseung. For himself. For the cruel poetry of loving someone who never truly belonged to you.

THE END

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're late."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Empty.

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

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

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

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

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

Your mouth goes dry.

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

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blink. "You read my last submission?"

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

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

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

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

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

The sunshine doesn't feel quite so cold.

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

You answer.

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

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

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

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

You frown. "A freak?"

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

Your throat dries.

"How many days?"

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

You really, really do.

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

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

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

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

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

Figures.

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

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

Your phone buzzes again just before the elevator doors open.

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

You stare at the screen.

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

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

You step out.

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

Unlocked.

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

Just clean and leave. Do not go upstairs.

You hold your breath and step inside.

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

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

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

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

Don't go upstairs.

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

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

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

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

You pause in front of it.

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

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

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

So you sit.

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

You click your pen open and start writing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you're broke. So you move

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

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

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

This is job number two.

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

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

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

Jesus.

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

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

You wonder what he sounds like.

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

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

You stop typing.

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

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

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

The apartment is clean. Spotless even.

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

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

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

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

You stare. "You what?"

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

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

Just different.

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

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

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

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

"I'm sorry."

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

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

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

And the bathroom is yours again.

*•*•*

The next morning wakes you gently.

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

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

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

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

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

And it tastes like actual heaven.

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

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

"I missed this."

You glance up.

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

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

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

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

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

Cee: Well done. Keep it up.

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

You show her the screen.

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

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

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

"It's not—!"

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

You snort.

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

"Us?"

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

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

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

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

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

Penthouse access. Floor 45.

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

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

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

A man is walking out.

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

Okay.

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

Movement. Light.

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

So, not Heeseung.

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

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

There's a note.

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

You folded the towels wrong.

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

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

And then you catch yourself.

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

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

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

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

And like last time, you finish early.

3:26.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then... it happens again.

Your eyes flick to the closet door.

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

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

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

You exhale, slow, and turn the knob.

The door creaks open.

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

Not bodies. Not bones.

Photos.

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

You blink, stepping in cautiously.

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

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

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

Heeseung.

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

LEE HEESEUNG

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

You stare at it for a long moment.

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

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

He must've been a concert pianist.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Old man, then."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up."

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

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

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

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

Her jaw drops.

"And?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smack her arm. "Focus."

She scrolls again—and then pauses.

You feel her go still beside you.

Her thumb hovers over the next headline.

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

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

"Holy shit," she whispers.

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

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

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

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

A violent slam of the keys.

The audience flinches.

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

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

"That's why," you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The quiet hits fast.

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

You freeze.

Your fingers reach the bottom of the bag.

You check again.

Then again.

Your journal's not there.

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

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

Your breath quickens. Your pulse starts to speed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

Faded.

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

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

The door opens.

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

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

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

There.

On the counter.

Your journal.

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

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

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

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

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

you have no idea.

Your throat goes dry.

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

He read it. He read it.

And not just read it—responded.

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

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

"You have no idea."

You don't.

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

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

You don't sign it.

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

Shirtless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't flinch either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He's still watching you, expression still unreadable.

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

"I figured."

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

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

That makes your stomach turn.

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

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

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

That word again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He blinks.

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

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

He doesn't answer right away.

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

It's almost clipped, controlled.

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

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

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

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

Your throat feels a little dry.

"You mean the doctor?" you ask carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He looks at you.

Really looks at you.

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

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

And you believe him.

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

You don't answer.

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

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

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

But you hear it.

And it feels like your ribcage cracks clean in half.

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

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

You barely nod, fully facing him now, bewildered.

"Then you should go."

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

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

He just watches you go.

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

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

Then she turns. She sees you.

And she freezes.

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

You blink. "What?"

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

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

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

"I saw him."

She doesn't need clarification. "Him?"

You nod.

"Lee Heeseung?"

You nod again.

She gasps so loud the spoon hits the floor.

You don't laugh. You can't.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod. "Yes."

"What did you say?"

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

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

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

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

"You love that class."

"I know."

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

*•*•*

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

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

You start with the mirrors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe him.

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

Footsteps that make you freeze. And there he is.

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

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

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

"I missed my favorite class."

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

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

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

"What are you making?" you ask.

He shrugs. "Something edible. Hopefully."

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

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

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

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

That's insane."

Heeseung chuckles, taking a bite of his own.

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

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

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

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

And then you ask, "Why every day?"

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

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

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

You inhale, slow and careful.

"And then I read your journal."

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

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

You stare at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whisper the final two lines without thinking.

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

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

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

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

"I know."

"I didn't write it for anyone to—"

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

The room is suddenly very still.

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

His brow creases. "Do you what?"

"Do I look at you that way?"

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

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

You blink. "What?"

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

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

He hums, smiling faintly. "Used to?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it happens.

Your eyes meet.

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

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

And then he pulls back, all too quick and 

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

You flinch at the sound.

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

Your stomach drops.

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

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

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

He doesn't say anything else.

You leave quietly.

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

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

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

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

"Hello?"

"Hey. Where are you right now?"

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

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

You stop walking. "What?"

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

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

"Welcome to my fucking week."

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

He said it like a kindness. Like a favor.

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

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

"Hey. Is everything okay over there?"

Your breath catches.

"What do you mean?"

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

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

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

"You sure?"

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

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

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

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

He hangs up.

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

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

Was he testing you?

Did he think you wouldn't come back?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You keep walking.

"Did he—?"

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

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

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

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

Your face goes hot.

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

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

You shut the door in her face.

Lock it.

Lean back against it.

Your heart is still thudding too loud in your ears.

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

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

Just breathing.

You write, He said I write beautifully.

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

And then, He pulled away.

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

About the poem.

How he remembered every word.

How you finished it together.

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

You close your journal.

And press it to your chest.

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

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

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

And then your eyelids get heavy.

You blink hard.

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

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

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

You're so screwed.

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

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

You tell yourself it's only for a second.

Just one.

Just—

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

You blink, brain empty.

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

You almost turn around.

Almost.

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

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

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

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

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

"She's not just cleaning."

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

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

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

And then—

"Didn't think you'd come."

You turn back around.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quiet. Barely a whisper.

"You didn't have to stop either."

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

And maybe you didn't.

But you did.

And there's no taking it back.

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

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

Then you say it again. Softer this time.

"You didn't have to stop."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence is incredibly deafening.

Your hands are still trembling.

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

And he never came back down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you think that's the end of it.

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

You freeze.

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

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

You hesitate.

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

But your feet are already moving.

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

You can't read his expression.

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

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

There's a beat.

"I don't want that."

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

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

He doesn't move.

So you do.

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

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

Nothing.

He doesn't move.

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

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

That's all it takes.

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

And this time, he answers the question

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

That's all he needs.

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

Every time you whimper, he presses closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intimately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

"Rina," he breathes.

You freeze for half a second.

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

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

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

But the next second, he's pushing in.

And everything else disappears.

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

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

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

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

"Heeseung—move. Please—"

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

Maybe he has.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're both trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*•*•*

You wake up before Heeseung does.

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

Panic grips you first.

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

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

You freeze. Your breath catches in your throat.

What did I do?

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

"Why are you sneaking out?"

You squeak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You sigh.

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

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

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

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

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

"Ji—"

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

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

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

"Jiyoon."

"What?"

"Bye."

You hang up.

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lee Heeseung Rina

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze.

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

Rina's not a person.

Rina's a piano.

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

Rina is his piano.

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Locked.

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

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

Once. Twice—

CRACK.

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

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

Him. Heeseung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don't flinch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"My nurse".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*•*•*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Hm?"

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

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

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

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

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©️ nephynes 2025

You wake up with a pounding head and an unquenchable thirst, groaning at the awful sensations you knew you wouldn’t be able to get rid of for the whole day. But worse than the dry mouth and the ringing in your ears, you had a broken heart, and to your disappointment, the alcohol hadn’t managed to glue it back together. If anything, it had only deepened the cracks and made you drown in self-pity. You felt terrible physically but you also felt sorry for yourself: what had made you think drinking four bottles of soju to yourself and probably double as many cans of beer would help you get over your asshole of a now ex-boyfriend Park Sunghoon?

You manage to sit up on your bed, eyes half-open from the bright sunlight that your thin curtains failed to keep from entering the room. You realize you’re completely naked, which doesn’t surprise you as you have a habit of completely undressing and collapsing in bed after a night out, never bothered enough to put on some pajamas or take your makeup off. Your room looks the same as always, but there’s a scent in your bed which you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s familiar, yet it feels odd, smelling it here. You turn your head towards your bedside table and notice a watch that clearly isn’t yours lying there. You pick it up and examine it more closely: you’ve definitely seen it before, but on who?

You manage to sit up on your bed, eyes half-open from the bright sunlight that your thin curtains failed to keep from entering the room. You realize you’re completely naked, which doesn’t surprise you as you have a habit of completely undressing and collapsing in bed after a night out, never bothered enough to put on some pajamas or take your makeup off. Your room looks the same as always, but there’s a scent in your bed which you can’t quite put your finger on. It’s familiar, yet it feels odd, smelling it here. You turn your head towards your bedside table and notice a watch that clearly isn’t yours lying there. You pick it up and examine it more closely: you’ve definitely seen it before, but on who?

The small clockarms of the watch let you know it’s 7:46 a.m. - you have no time to give any more thought to who might be the owner of this watch. You scramble out of bed, not wanting to be any more late for work than you already are. As you wash your face and brush your teeth, you curse yourself for drinking yourself into oblivion on a Tuesday, of all nights. Now you were going to have to face the whole office with one of the worst hangovers you’d ever had in your seven years of legal drinking.

As you enter the office and walk to your desk, you feel your colleagues’ stares and pitiful looks. You check the time on your phone: you weren’t late, had somehow gotten lucky enough to arrive at 8:30 on the dot, so why were they looking at you like that? Was it the sunglasses? You’d worn them in hopes of hiding your tired, puffy eyes, but they were probably just making you more noticeable.

You sit down at your desk and hold your head in your hands for a few seconds, catching your breath from having run all the way from the bus stop to your office building, and mentally preparing yourself for the day ahead. When you raise your head, two of your colleagues are standing next to you, looking at you with sympathy in their eyes. Your eyebrows perk at the sight of them, and you’re wary of what they might be about to say.

One of them, Miyeon, sighs, and starts speaking first. “Y/N…” she sighs again. “We just wanted to let you know that we’re here for you. We’ve heard about… you know,” she says. You slowly nod and turn your head away from them. The realization that everyone knows about your breakup with Sunghoon hits you, and no matter how nice your coworkers are, right now, you just want to get as far away from them and their unwelcome pity as possible.

“What he did,” the other one, Yuqi, picks up, “is really terrible. You know how rumors travel fast here, and, well, we’ve all decided we wouldn’t talk to him unless it was work-related,” she says, and you try not to scoff. As if work wasn’t the only thing they talked to him about anyway. Still, you know it’s coming from a good place, so you muster a smile and thank them, saying you appreciate it. You hope they’re done and will leave, but they hover around your desk, so you turn your gaze back to them with a questioning look.

Miyeon puts her hand on your shoulder. “You know… this happened to me too, a few years back. I know how shit it feels, to have someone you love and you thought loved you cheat on you. If you ever need anything, I’m here,” she says, and you give her a small but genuine smile this time.

“Yeah, anything,” Yuqi chimes. “Whether you wanna talk about it, or get drunk,” and you try not to visibly cringe at the idea of alcohol, “or punch him, just call Miyeon or me. Or both of us. We’re menaces together,” she says, and the three of you laugh.

“Thanks, guys. I’m glad you’re here.”

As you watch them head back to their respective desks, you feel somebody else staring at you. When you meet eyes with Heeseung, his face perks up and he gives you a shy wave. You’ve known Heeseung for ages, having joined the company as interns and getting promoted to full-time employees at around the same time. You’ve seen that face and that smile almost everyday for the past four years now, yet today it feels different. He’s never waved shyly at you, as if he was excited yet embarrassed to see you. You don’t mean to frown at him, but you’re so confused about the sudden change in how you see him that you can’t help it. His hand drops and he awkwardly turns his gaze back to his computer. You keep staring at him, trying to recall something that might explain this shift in his behavior. It was fine yesterday at the office… Could it have happened after work?

You try to go through the events of the previous day one-by-one in your head. Wanting to prepare something special for your four-year anniversary with Sunghoon, you’d gotten off work a bit early, a skip in your step. But when you came face-to-face with him kissing another woman in one of the stairwells, you halted straight in your tracks. You’d just stared at each other for thirty seconds, one surprised they’d been caught, the other trying to figure out whether their eyes were deceiving them or not. Sure, your relationship with Sunghoon wasn’t always perfect, but you hadn’t thought it was so bad he’d need to go stuff his tongue down somebody’s else throat - and that at your shared workplace, too. It’s like he wasn’t even trying to hide it, like he wanted you to find out. The embarrassment and humiliation were almost worst than the pain and betrayal.

“Y/N…” he started, making you snap out of it and realize that yes, this was your boyfriend of four years you had just seen kissing another woman. You took a step back as he moved towards you, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Y/N,” he repeats, “I’m- Listen, this isn’t- Let me just explain-” he scrambled for an excuse, but nothing came out. There was no justification for this.

“Save it, Sunghoon,” you spat. “Whatever you have to say for yourself, I don’t wanna hear it.” You continued past him down the stairwell, ignoring his pleas for you to stay and hear him out.

“Y/N, please, just give me a minute to-”

“No, Sunghoon!” you almost screamed out, turning around to face him. “You can go fuck yourself.” You hadn’t let yourself cry in front of him, not wanting to appear more pitiful than you already felt. As soon as you got in your car, you burst into tears, gripping the steering wheel as you sobbed like a baby.

You shake your head at the fresh and painful memory, not wanting to dwell on it any further. You’ll probably feel like shit for the upcoming weeks or months, so you’ll have plenty of time to rehash the painful memory later on.

After that, everything is a bit of a blur. You remember managing to get yourself home without crashing your car despite your tear-induced fuzzy vision, then throwing your bag and coat somewhere on the floor and immediately opening a bottle of wine, gulping most of it down in a pathetically short amount of time. And that’s about it.

The overwhelming emotions you were feeling along with the fact that you hadn’t eaten anything since lunch that day made the alcohol go straight to your head, and you were drunk very quickly. Foggy bits of your night flash in your mind: picking up your stuff and heading out, sitting at the counter at the nearby bar, chatting animatedly with someone else. The memories are hazy and nothing is coming back to you precisely, no matter how hard you try to focus.

You realize you had been frowning at Heeseung the whole time you were recalling the evening’s events. He looks up at you and returns your frown, seemingly upset at the look you were giving him. You suddenly see his face in your mind, except the Heeseung you picture then is different from the one you see everyday. He’s still in his work clothes, but the tie has been discarded and the top buttons have been opened. He’s smiling lopsidedly at you, as if he too has a few drinks in his system.

That’s when it hits you: you were with Heeseung yesterday night. Your frown turns into a suspicious gaze, which he imitates, tilting his head to the side as he peers at you. You text him to meet you in the break room in five, hoping he could fill in the blanks. You desperately needed a coffee anyway.

In the break room, you gulp down a bottle of water while you wait for the coffee to be ready. Heeseung struts in a minute later, a smirk you’ve never seen before on his face. He’s heading straight towards you, and your eyes widen when he doesn’t stop at an appropriate distance from you, just keeps walking until he’s towering over you. He’s definitely acting weird today.

“Miss me already?” he says as he leans in close to you, making the small of your back hit the counter behind you. The sudden proximity with your friend makes your eyes go even wider. He’d never been so close before and you could smell his cologne on him, an oddly familiar scent.

“W-what?” you stutter out. Registering your confused face, Heeseung takes a quick step back and starts fiddling with his thumbs, avoiding your gaze. His demeanor is a total 180 from the one just a second ago, and the change gives you whiplash.

“Sorry, I just- I thought since last night, you know, you would maybe want me to, I don’t know- I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me…” he trips over his words, still not looking at you. You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out, trying to make sense of the situation. You look down at his nervous hands and notice he’s not wearing the watch he usually has on everyday.

The watch, his scent, his strange awkward yet flirty behavior, the fact that you’d remembered seeing him last night… Everything is starting to piece together. You gesture between the two of you. “Last night… did we…?” you ask tentatively, hoping he’d get the message.

He looks up at you. “Do you not- do you not remember?” he says, disappointment in his voice.

You cover your mouth with both of your hands as you gasp in shock. How could you have hooked up with your friend and colleague of five years and not even remember it?

Heeseung’s head drops and he lets out a dejected scoff. “Guess you don’t.”

You take a step towards him as you raise your hands, trying to defend yourself. “No, no, I do, a little bit. It’s just all… very fuzzy,” you say, hoping it’ll make things a bit better. You clear your throat. “Could you, um, tell me what happened exactly last night? Might help me fill in the gaps.” You smile at him but he doesn’t return it; he just sighs.

“Sure,” he says, and you breathe out a sigh of relief. “You know Jake and Jay?” he asks, and you nod. You’d met Heeseung’s friends at a few parties he’d hosted. “Well, we were out drinking last night ‘cause Jay got promoted. When we got to this bar, I saw you drinking by yourself at the counter so I invited you to come and sit with us, and you said yes. You looked really upset, but you got so excited as soon as you saw us.”

A scene suddenly flashes in your mind. You were losing yourself in your thoughts as you sat alone at the bar, two empty bottles of soju in front of you. Your head that had been resting in your palm was about to slip and hit the counter when you felt a hand clasp your shoulder.

“Y/N!” a familiar voice shouted excitedly, and you turned your head to find Heeseung grinning at you. The sight of him brought an immediate smile to your face, and you got up to engulf him in a hug.

“Hey!” he called out again, and you said ‘hey’ back, your voice muffled from having your face buried in his neck. Had he always smelled this good?

You took a step back and greeted Jay and Jake, who waved back at you, smiling. “What are you doing here all alone?” Heeseung asked, and the alcohol stopped you from coming up with a lie.

“Sunghoon cheated on me,” you answered, pouting. Now that you weren’t sitting and didn’t have Heeseung to lean on, you were swaying a bit. The three boys looked between each other with shocked expressions on their faces, not expecting this to be the reason you were solo-drinking.

Jay and Jake looked at you with sad smiles, saying they were sorry you had to go through that. Heeseung, on the other hand, looked angry. A deep frown made his eyebrows crease as he shook his head. “What an asshole! He has no idea what he just lost,” he exclaimed. Then, putting his arm around you and leading you to another table, he added, “Let’s go, Y/N! Come and drink with us.”

You look at Heeseung standing in front of you in the break room and nod slowly. “Okay, I remember that. Then what?”

“Then we just talked and drank. Jay and Jake left around midnight, but we stayed until the bar closed. I don’t remember myself that well what we talked about, but we definitely talked about Sunghoon, that jerk.”

You cringe at the mention of your ex. “God,” you sigh, “I hope I didn’t cry or wallow or something embarrassing like that.”

“Nothing like that,” Heeseung says, a smile teasing his lips. “If anything, you were cursing his name. You told me about all the shit he did that annoyed you, like how he would always forget to buy the milk or how he got overly mad at you for putting the pots back in the wrong cupboard. You were absolutely enraged. And so was I, to be honest. Look,” he says, pulling out his phone, “we made a list of ways to get back at him.”

He hands you his phone, the Notes app open. You read it out loud.

“How to get back at Y/N’s ex, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Disclaimer: none of this can back-fire against Y/N, so they must be small things that will mess up his everyday life but can’t be traced back to her, i.e. no keying his car or TPing his place, as satisfying as those things would be.”

You let out a chuckle. “We really thought this through, didn’t we?”

Heeseung laughs as well. “Yeah, I’m not sure how we did that considering how drunk we were.”

You start reading the list, all of its boxes left unticked. “Go into his office and mess up his paperwork. Buy a bunch of keys on Amazon, write his phone number on them and lose them all over town. Change the labels on his shower products and hide his TV remote when Y/N hands him back his stuff. Make him regret what he did.”

You look up at Heeseung. “These are pretty good ideas, actually. He always needs everything to be super organized, so he would definitely freak out at some of these. And the keys one would just make anyone go insane,” you say with a chuckle.

Heeseung smiles at you. “I know we were drunk when we made this list, but I promised you I would help you get revenge on him. So, if you still want to do it, I’m down. I can’t lie, I really want to see him suffer the consequences for what he did.” You stare at Heeseung for a bit, grateful that he’s willing to help but perplexed as to why he would do it. What would he get from getting back at Sunghoon?

He watches as you stare at him, the left corner of his mouth lifting into a small smirk. The action is simple, but it makes your stomach flip. You blame it on the hangover.

“Let’s do it,” you say, trying to make the tension in the air dissipate. “Let’s make his life hell. For a short while at least. Just until I feel better.”

“Yeah?” Heeseung asks, raising his eyebrows in an amused manner.

“Yeah.” You guys high-five, laughing at the childishness of your plan.

His eyes don’t leave yours for a second and you don't think Heeseung’s ever held eye contact with you for such a long time - the way it makes you feel is too unfamiliar and you have to look away. After a small pause, you timidly ask, “By the way, did we- last night, did we actually, you know…”

“We didn’t,” he says, making you look up at him. “We almost did, but we were both so drunk that we kinda just… fell asleep mid-way.” You slowly nod your head, memories slowly coming back to you for what feels like the hundredth time today. “We made out. Naked. But we didn’t actually have sex,” he finishes, finally averting his gaze from yours.

You remember kissing Heeseung in front of the bar and then running with him to your building, laughing like teenagers, and heatedly making out in the elevator all the way to your apartment, then to your bedroom. You remember bursting into fits of laughter every now and then, the both of you so drunk that you couldn’t take what you were doing seriously. Everything made you laugh: the lipstick stain on his lips because of you, your mismatched underwear, how either of you could barely walk straight and fell on top of each other on your bed. You remember falling asleep, your face buried in the crook of his neck, both of his arms protectively wrapped around your waist.

“How come you weren’t there when I woke up?” you suddenly ask, remembering your empty bed that morning.

“I woke up really early, but you were sleeping so peacefully, I didn’t want to wake you up. I would’ve left a note but I couldn’t find a pen anywhere, so I just… left. Sorry about that,” he apologizes, his hand coming up to the nape of his neck.

“That’s alright,” you say, but you couldn’t help wondering what it would’ve felt like to wake up next to Heeseung. Probably better than what you woke up to this morning, you think.

You’re about to say something when you hear the door open, and Heeseung’s piercing gaze towards the person who just entered tells who it is before you’d even seen him. You turn around to find Sunghoon staring right at you, his eyes already pleading with you.

“Y/N,” he starts, but you cut him off immediately.

“I’ve already told you I don’t want to hear it, Sunghoon. You can save your breath.”

“Can you at least let me apologize, please?” he asks. You look at him, and you’d be lying if you said this didn’t hurt like a thousand little papercuts. You hadn’t let yourself feel anything since last night, preemptively drowning your emotions in alcohol. Now that your ex stands in front of you, trying to apologize, his betrayal and the end of your relationship hits you like a ton of bricks. And it doesn’t feel very nice.

“Did you not hear her? She said she doesn’t wanna hear it,” Heeseung steps in, but you take his wrist, not wanting the two of them to get into a fight at the office. Heeseung and Sunghoon had never liked each other, your friend deeming Sunghoon wasn’t good enough for you, and your boyfriend judging Heeseung and you were too close for friends.

“It’s alright, Heeseung. Just go back to work, I’ll see you later.” He stares at Sunghoon for another second and turns to you, clearly not wanting to leave you alone with him. You mouth a ‘please’, and he reluctantly walks away. Before he can leave the room, though, he turns back around and says, “Oh, by the way, I think I left my watch at your place. Could you give it to me tomorrow?”

You pivot towards him with wide eyes, cursing him for mentioning it in front of Sunghoon, but he’s not even looking at you. He’s staring right at your ex-boyfriend, clearly having said this just to rile him up. You stutter out a ‘yes’ and Sunghoon starts towards him but you stop him before he can get to Heeseung. The latter finally leaves, a victorious smirk on his face.

Sunghoon’s eyes, who were apologetic just a minute ago, are now burning with anger. “What the hell, Y/N?! Is this your way of getting back at me or something? Getting into bed with the first guy who throws himself at you?”

You glare at Sunghoon, in absolute disbelief at his words. You want to scream, pull out his hair, kick him in the shins, but above all that, you want him to apologize - even though you have no intention of accepting his apology whatsoever. So you close your eyes, breathe out through your nose, and say, “I thought you were here to apologize, Sunghoon.” You open your eyes to see him still visibly angry but trying to stay calm like you. When he doesn’t say anything for a few moments, you add, “For your information, Heeseung and I did not have sex. And even if we did, you lost the right to get mad at me when you slept with somebody else while in a relationship with me. Just say you’re sorry, and leave me the hell alone.”

Sunghoon looks at you, appearing somewhat baffled by how calmly you’re taking things. You were usually sensitive and reacted emotionally and your serenity was throwing him off. He had always been the cool and collected one in your relationship, not you. He doesn’t like this sudden shift in your attitude, and he doesn’t like the fact that Heeseung thinks he can have you now. “You know what? I was going to apologize, because I know what I did was wrong, but I don’t want to anymore. I guess Heeseung was glad you were rid of me so he could finally fuck you, huh?” You flinched at his loud voice and prayed no one else could hear your conversation.

“I just told you we didn’t have sex!” you whisper-shout back. Thankfully, he takes on the same volume as you.

“Then why is his fucking watch at your place?”

“That’s none of your fucking business anymore!”

Sunghoon and you just stare at each other for a few moments, and you fight back the tears pooling in your eyes. You’ve cried a hundred times in front of Sunghoon, and you want him to feel bad for how much he hurt you, but for some reason, it feels like crying in front of him would be giving in. It would be saying, You wanted to hurt me and you did. You wanted me to hate you and now I do.

“Just leave, Sunghoon, please,” you say, voice weak. It takes all you have not to fall to your knees and bawl your eyes out in this break room. Sunghoon calls out your name, and his voice is much softer than it was seconds ago, as if he finally realised just how much he’d fucked up.

You look up at him and a single tear rolls down your cheek. “Please, Sunghoon. Leave.” He opens his mouth and closes it again twice, lost as to what to say anymore. Finally, he just leaves silently, and you’re immensely disappointed but not in the least surprised. You’d always fought for your relationship, fixed things when they had gone wrong, apologized first after a fight even when it wasn’t your fault, and Sunghoonhad never returned your commitment more than half-heartedly. You’d foolishly hoped that maybe, this time, after such a big mess, he’d want to make things better.

You watch him walk away, taking a moment to gather yourself in the break room. When you finally muster the courage to leave the room and go back to your desk, you almost walk past Heeseung who had been waiting right outside the room this entire time. A worried look in his eyes, he asks if you’re okay.

“Let’s ruin this asshole’s life,” you say, and Heeseung grins at you.

—

That day at lunch, you and Heeseung start scheming. Hunched over your pasta salad, you discuss the first step of your evil plan, namely, ‘go into his office and mess up his paperwork.’

“Easy. We sneak in there when everybody’s left, and we fuck his shit up,” Heeseung says, stealing some of your lunch.

“What if somebody is working late?” you ask, nudging his fork away with your own.

“Well we’re not gonna barge in there. We’ll check that the room is empty.”

You hum. “Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

Heeseung looks up at you, registering your hesitant expression. “What? Already deflating?” he asks, a grin on his face. “C’mon, Y/N. It’ll be harmless fun… mainly.”

You meet his eyes and let yourself be convinced again. You lean in a bit closer, and he mirrors your action. “If we do this, we have to be subtle about it. We can’t just throw his papers all over the place, that’ll be too obvious and he’ll probably figure out I did it.” Heeseung nods his head, urging you to go on. “We need to put some files in the wrong folders, hide his color-coded post-its, exchange the lids on his pens, that kind of stuff. It’ll make him go crazy.” You bite down on your lip, trying to suppress your excited grin, but you can’t help it. All these years, you’d been subjected to Sunghoon’s obsession with having things neat and in order, no matter how tedious it was. The idea of him freaking out over a stapler in the bottom drawer instead of the top one brings a smile to your face, even though you know how petty such a prank was.

Some colleagues join you at the table, and you spend the rest of lunch chatting about work and making small talk. All throughout the afternoon, Heeseung and you exchange sneaky glances and giggle at the eye contact, both filled with childish excitement for your evening plans.

Eventually, your colleagues start trickling out, and by 7 p.m., only you and Heeseung are left. He joins you at your desk and tries to distract you from your work for half an hour, making stupid jokes and pointing at non-existent faults in your files. You think he must be starting to be bored out of his mind when he starts humming to ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’, so you pack away your stuff, shut your computer and announce it is time for the prank. He jumps up from his seat with a huge grin, shouting out, ‘Let’s go!’ before marching out of the office. You watch him go with an endeared smile, shaking your head at his antics.

You walk side by side towards Sunghoon’s office, looking around to make sure you don’t walk past anyone on your way there. The whole floor seems to be empty, and you get there without being noticed. You enter his office, the both of you tip-toeing to Sunghoon’s desk for dramatic effect, but quickly burst into a fit of giggles when you realize how stupid you must look. Lucky for you, everybody’s already left: every seat is empty and the lights are off, the whole office basking in the glow of the moon.

Heeseung lets out a low whistle upon seeing Sunghoon’s desk. As you’d described, it is very neatly arranged, to a point that it seems almost obsessive. Every load of paper is stacked so perfectly into place that if you peered at it from above it would look like there was only one sheet of paper, each pencil has been freshly sharpened, and he’s got three to-do lists (a daily one, a weekly one and a monthly one) on color-coded post-its. There isn’t a thing out of place.

“God, was he as much of a control freak in your relationship as he is at work?” Heeseung muses, peering in horror at your ex’s desk.

You can’t help but laugh at the comment, even though the truth behind it almost makes you wince. “Yeah, he kinda was. He would decide on every little thing we did, whether it was what we ate that night or how I should organize the cutlery drawer in my apartment.”

Without missing a beat, he deadpans, “How could he. Everyone knows you should never mess with someone’s cutlery drawer.”

You look at each other for a second, and you weren’t sure whether he was being serious or not; but when you see a small smile appearing on his face, the both of you dissolve into laughter at his stupid joke. Maybe the adrenaline of what you’re doing is also part of the reason why it takes you a few moments to calm down, but when you do, it hits you that you haven't laughed so much in a long time. Heeseung and you have been good friends for a while, and you’ve always known he was funny; but spending more time with him makes you realize just how giggly he makes you.

The realization fills your heart with warmth but you don’t want him to notice the growing blush on your cheeks, so you turn towards the desk, pretending to analyze its contents some more. You take a long look at it and decide where you should start.

You pick up the sheet of paper at the top of the neat stack on the desk and place it randomly somewhere in the pile. Heeseung snorts at the seemingly insignificant action and you can’t help but think it’s ridiculous as well, but you know it’ll strike a nerve in Sunghoon.

He joins you closer to the desk and starts picking up random objects only to move them by an inch or placing them in one of the drawers. You do all the things you said you would: exchange the pen lids so that he’d take a red pen thinking it was a black one, stick his post-its underneath the desk like schoolkids do with used chewing-gums, and slightly mess up his files. Neither of you can stop laughing at how ridiculous you’re both being; you thought you had this great idea for a prank, but here you are, hiding a pencil sharpener. When Heeseung simply flips over Sunghoon’s pencils so that they are eraser-up rather than tip-up, you hit your limit of stupid things you could do. You burst out laughing, bent over and clutching your stomach. Heeseung can’t help but follow you in your laughter, loving how much you’re enjoying this prank.

You’re barely catching your breath when you see the light from a flashlight appear at the door and you hurriedly grab Heeseung’s wrists, bringing him down with you to hide underneath the desk. You hear footsteps approaching, soon followed by a booming voice: “Hello? Is anyone here?”

It’s the security guard - either he’s doing his regular night rounds, or he’s heard the ruckus you and Heeseung are causing. You hear him mutter something under his breath, but quickly enough, he walks away. When you hear the door close behind him, you release a breath you’d been holding for way too long, and the feeling of your nervousness dissipating all at once makes you let out a laugh. You meet Heeseung’s eyes only to find him staring back at you with wide eyes, and that’s when the reality of the position you’re currently in hits you.

You’ve still got a tight grasp on his wrists and you’re holding them up to your chest, so that the two of you are sitting face-to-face, crammed close together under the desk. You realize just how close he is when he releases a shaky breath and you can feel it fan on your lips. Your heart starts to pound at the proximity, and with how close he is you’re scared he might hear it. His eyes drift down to your lips and you feel panic bubbling inside of you: what if he actually tried to kiss you?

You hastily release his wrists and try to get up from under the desk, but you’re so distraught that your head hits it, making you yelp out in pain.

“Y/N! Are you okay?” Heeseung asks, emergency in his tone, and he immediately wraps his arms around your shoulders to stabilize you.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, it was just a small whack,” you say, even though you feel a bit dizzy, which you prefer to think is because you hit your head rather than because of Heeseung’s gaze mere moments ago.

“That sounded like more than a small whack. C’mon, let’s go get something cold for that, you’ll get a bump on your head otherwise.” He gets up and extends his hand out to you to help you do the same, and you stupidly stare at it for a few seconds before finally taking it. He guides you to the elevator, and there he lets go of your hand to put an arm around you. You don’t have the heart to tell him you can stand up on your own. You garner a few weird looks from the security staff as you leave the office building, but ignore them and hurriedly walk to the convenience store across the street.

“Sit down here, I’ll go get something for your head.” He sits you down on the little stairs in front of the store and puts his jacket over your shoulders, heading inside before you can protest. He’s back in less than five minutes, a pack of frozen peas and two ice cream cones in his hand.

“I saw these next to the peas and I couldn’t help myself,” he says with a sheepish smile. “Chocolate or vanilla?”

He was holding up the two cones in front of his face, waiting for you to choose. Your heart skips a beat at the simple but sweet gesture; when buying food, Sunghoon would never ask for your preferences, assuming you’d want the same as him.

You take the frozen peas and the vanilla ice cream, thanking him in a small voice. The cold of the peas immediately appeases the pain and the ice cream tastes sweeter than usual. The two of you sit in silence for a while, occasionally humming and swinging in rhythm to the music playing in the convenience store. In this moment, you feel oddly peaceful.

From your side view, you notice Heeseung turning his head to look at you. You mirror his action and find an amused glint in his eyes. “Are you satisfied with our work?” he asks.

You look ahead of you, thinking for a small moment. The adrenaline of doing the prank has worn off, and you try to see how you feel now that it’s over. “Yeah. I think I am,” you say, turning to look at him again. You’re no stranger to Heeseung’s features: you’ve seen him almost everyday for the past four years of your life. When you close your eyes, you can easily picture his face, his eyes, his smile in your mind. Not that you’ve made particular notes of his habits, but you know how his eyes crease at the corners when he laughs really hard and how he seems to unconsciously raise one of his eyebrows when he talks about something he’s interested in.

But tonight, he looks different. You don’t know if it’s because of the way he’s looking at you or if it’s how the LED lights of the store sign are hitting him perfectly, making him look like he comes straight from a rom-com, but somehow, right now, you’re not looking at your colleague Heeseung. You’re looking at your friend Heeseung, the one who agreed to help you get revenge on your ex, the one who got you a pack of frozen peas for your insignificant injury, the one who shivered at your touch and looked at your lips not fifteen minutes ago. You find yourself wondering what it would’ve been like if he’d actually leaned in to kiss you. Would his lips be as soft as they look?

You shake your head, trying to rid your mind of such thoughts: your break-up was not even a week ago and you were in no state to get back into a relationship so quickly. It wouldn’t end well for either of you. So you turned away from him, escaping his gaze that made you feel too many things you didn’t have the strength to understand.

Heeseung nudges your shoulder with his. “I hope it makes you feel better knowing that he’ll get to the office with an unorganized desk tomorrow morning.”

You chuckle, but the mention of Sunghoon still makes your heart sting. Nothing you do will ever be enough to hurt him like he hurt you, but you don’t see much point trying to do that, anyway. Making his life a bit worse for a while will have to do. “It does,” you simply say, not wanting to dive into complicated emotional territory. You were thankful enough that Heeseung had helped you out tonight, you didn’t want to put your baggage on his shoulders as well.

When you’re both done with your ice creams and your head feels better, you decide to call it a night and head to the building parking lot together. Your cars aren’t parked on the same level, but Heeseung insists on walking you to yours first. You hug him goodbye, and you intend it to be a short hug, but he snakes his arms around your waist, bringing you close to him. You’re a bit taken aback at first, but his scent is comforting and you wrap your arms around his neck, grateful for the warm hug.

“Thanks for tonight, Heeseung. Really,” you say, voice a bit muffled from having your face buried in his shoulder.

“Of course, Y/N, anytime.” You don’t really want to pull away, but you also don’t want things to get awkward if the hug lasts too long, so you lean back, hiding your disappointment at the loss of warmth. You fumble around your bag for your keys and hold them up with an embarrassed chuckle when you finally find them. Heeseung is looking at you with a sweet smile and you curse your damn heart for pounding so foolishly, body and brain at odds with each other. With a last quick ‘bye’, you get into your car, wave him goodbye, and drive away, releasing a shaky breath.

You see Heeseung in your rearview mirror, hands in his pockets, looking at his feet as he kicks a pebble on the ground, and you think you even see a grin on his face.

You smile the whole way home.

—

Heeseung pours himself a cold, well-deserved beer as soon as he gets home. He flops down on an armchair in his living room, not even bothering to turn the lights on; the faint glow of the streetlights outside will have to suffice. He unbuttons the top of his shirt and undoes his belt, getting himself more comfortable.

You haven’t been off his mind for a second since you parted ways half an hour ago. To be fair, you haven’t been off his mind much since you too met way back when. He can still picture you, four years ago, as a fellow fresh intern, your curious eyes and polite manners he’d found so endearing. The both of you were often tasked to work on projects together, and he’d admired your drive, hard work and attention to detail since the beginning. But then he’d started to notice other things than your professionalism, like how you’d frown when you really liked the food you were eating or how your lips would form a straight line when you tried to not laugh at his stupid jokes. He’d quickly started to make those jokes just in hopes of seeing your cute attempt at hiding a smile or, even better, hearing your laugh. He’d ignored the swelling in his heart and the sweat in his palms every time he saw you as long as he could, until he realized he shouldn’t have ignored them. He’d convinced himself he wasn’t jealous of the way your whole face perked up whenever Sunghoon entered the room, but when you told him you were officially dating that asshole, and how completely smitten with him you looked, he couldn’t deny it anymore. Heeseung had the stupidest, fattest, most unachievable crush on you.

He’d had to see you experience your highest highs and your lowest lows with Sunghoon, even though he knew you always tried to keep your relationship problems at home and not bring them in the office. He’d tried to be as good a friend as he could, never letting onto his feelings for you. If he couldn’t have you the way he wanted, he’d settle for being what you wanted him to be.

When he found out what Sunghoon had done, he was angry beyond words. He wanted to punch that jerk, but more than that, he wanted to make you feel better. So that night, he let you drink as much as you needed, he made you laugh as hard as he could, he agreed to your revenge plan, and when, outside of the bar, you drunkenly pressed your lips to his, he let you. He let you take him home, and take off his shirt, and he’d be lying if he said he was only doing it for you; he has dreamt of your hands on him for the longest time now, but he didn’t want for it to happen like this. So he easily got you to stop and fall asleep before you could do anything you’d regret the next morning.

When he woke up next to you, he felt his heart longing for something that is so close and yet so far out of reach. He softly tucked a few strands of hair behind your ear, making you whimper in your sleep, and it took everything in him not to hold you in his arms as hard as he could right there and then. But he didn’t want to wake you up, and he didn’t think he wanted to be there when you woke up either; he wouldn't know what to say, how to explain his presence. He wanted a few hours to think and talk to you in the office later.

We all know what happened after that.

Now, he doesn’t know whether he’s inching towards his goal or he’s fucked everything up. He can tell you’re behaving differently around him; he’s noted everything about you, so of course he’d notice as soon as something changes with you. He hoped it wasn't creepy that he complimented your haircuts every time you got one without you telling him first.

He thought everything between you might have been ruined when you banged your head on the desk in shock when he looked at your lips, but your little moment in front of the convenience store and in the parking lot made him hopeful that your friendship might shift into something more. He knows you’ve too recently broken up with Sunghoon to be ready for a new relationship, and he’s waited four years, so he can wait a few months more; but he also wants to make sure you won’t go anywhere else now that he has a chance. He doesn’t think he could forgive himself if he let you go again.

—

The next day at work, you hear gossip going around the office about an apparent ‘tantrum’ that Sunghoon threw upon arriving at his desk. He was going on and on about his post-its being gone, his pens and pencils being all messed up and his files being disorganized. Everybody thought he was crazy, though, because his desk looked just as neat as usual. You and Heeseung exchange a knowing look, and you’re quite proud that it had the effect you had hoped for.

You don’t talk about doing another prank until the next Friday; you do want to do another one, but you think it’s best to not have them too close together, and you’re not sure if Heeseung wants to help you with it. You make a note to mention it to him after the weekend.