🌙 mo

FIRST COMES THE SILENCE. It's your only warning as the world peels away from you, the murmur of the court fading to the background until even the sound of voices are lost to the stillness. The warmth leeches from you next, a cold tingle blooming through you like spreading frost in winter, your arms getting heavy. You sit abruptly as the world shifts and the throne room fades to something else, something wet and freezing cold.

Rain.

Rain is falling in relentless sheets that are so cold it hurts, even through the vision. In front of you is a battledfield churned to a sea of black mud, cut up by boots and the hooves of war horses and the deep wheels of the machines of war. Broken wagons lie half-stuck in the mud, their splintered wheels jutting up from the chaos, some still spinning. Banners in colors lost to the black mud with symbols you can't make out in the rain hang in sodden ribbons, snapped from their poles.

The smell chokes you. Wet earth. Wood smoke. Blood. So much blood that it fills your mouth, warm and metallic. You cough, falling forward into the vision so that your knees hit the mud with a wet squelch. Your hand catches on metal and when you look down, the broken body of a soldier is beneath you. His throat is a scarlet gash, opened up from a sword, his eyes vacant and staring at the rainy sky.

You recoil, snatching your hand away as you fall backward into the rain, ass sinking into the mud. Somewhere to your left, a horse screams, high and shrill until the sound is abruptly cut off. A man a few yards away crawls through the mud with a single arm, the other several yards behind him where the fingers are still curled around the hilt of a broken sword. He drags himself toward you as though he's asking for help, and you scream and look away.

The world tilts and your vision changes abruptly, each image overlapping the other in flashes of light and sound. Thousands of bodies. A river choked with them. A bridge with the banners of the northern king. The emperor - your emperor- on his war chariot, the wheels turning as he crosses the bridge.

Suddenly, the vision releases you. You crash forward, wood striking your knees hard enough that you cry out as your hands shoot out. Your palms skid across the ground, stinging as skin tears open. Bile burns at the back of your throat and you taste the blood before you realize you've bitten your tongue again, the iron taste in your mouth real. You feel the wet warmth of blood as it trickles from your nose, splattering too brightly against the dark wood beneath you.

The wooden floor is cold beneath you as your vision swims and the throne room reassembles itself. You look up to see the wooden pillars that vanish into a vaulted ceiling with incense burning in their holders. Torches and braziers fill the room with heat, the orange flames licking along the twisted metal and casting long shadows across the waiting courtiers. Everything feels too bright and too sharp and you wince, the headache behind your eyes hammering you as soon as the vision fades in full.

Someone kneels beside you and you know without looking that it's Junhui, the smell of vetiver and cedar comforting with the taste of blood and salt in your mouth. His hands find you first, fingers calloused from sword work as they wrap around your hands, steadying you. The touch grounds you and pulls you back from the battlefield that's turned to the headache stabbing in your skull.

When you don't pull away from him, Junhui slides one arm behind your shoulders and the other beneath your knees, hauling you up and into his arms as though you weigh nothing at all. He's careful when he sets you on your feet, hands braced on your biceps as you sway a little. You're vaguely aware of how close he is, lashes fluttering as you look up at him.

"You okay?" He asks, voice soft.

Before you can answer, the emperor demands, "What did you see?"

You don't look at him. Looking at him only makes things worse. Instead, you stare in the distance as you taste the copper dripping from your nose.

"The north," you murmur. Each word costs you, your head throbbing, vision blurry as the headache grows. "The northern kingdom."

Beside you, Junhui presses his hand to the small of your back. It's barely there, but it's something, your heart fluttering as his thumb moves in small circles, grounding. You don't know if anyone else notices, but you notice, and that's all that matters.

"You'll invade at the height of the rainy season," you continue as your ears begin to ring. "When the rivers are high and the roads turn to mud from the rains. You'll win."

The throne room erupts into applause and cheers as the courtiers shout in triumph. Soldiers pound their fists against their armor, and the emperor rises in your peripheral vision, spreading his arms as he laughs, the sound booming across the room. The firelight from the braziers seems to brighten with their glee, the shadows dancing across the pillars as smoke drifts in the rafters from the incense.

You want to vomit as the nausea rises sharply and suddenly. You press a hand to your mouth and Junhui notices immediately - of course he does. He always notices. His hand slides around your waist and pulls you toward him, steadying you as he angles you so that his body shields you from the worst of the light and sound.

"Your Imperial Majesty," Junhui says, bowing deeply. The emperor turns to stare at him, cheeks ruddy and red from the heat of the hall and the glee. "If I may, the Sacred needs to rest. The vision has taken much from her. Might I escort her to her chambers?"

Sacred. You hate the title. Hate that it chains you to the emperor you've just predicted another victory for, so long as he attacks at the precise time that you've instructed. You've been his sword and shield since you were a little girl gifted to him and his growing empire, helping him knock his opponents off the board one by one.

You hate him. You hate him more than you hate yourself for being useful to him, but you have no other options. He hates you too, you think. Beyond being a cruel man, he's as shrewd as they come. You don't think any of your glares go unnoticed, and though you think he'd love to revel in your misery, he's careful with you, too afraid to break you and lose access to the future you promise.

He waves a hand dismissively, turning back to the crowd. "Yes, yes, take her. We have plans to make. The rainy season is coming soon and we have to make preparations immediately."

Junhui doesn't hesitate, his hand urging you toward the great doors at the far end of the throne room. You lean into him more than you mean to, your legs unsteady beneath you as the smell of the hinoki incense cling to your robes.

Behind you, the celebration continues, growing louder as the emperor orders courtesans and entertainment. You're grateful when the doors close behind you with a heavy thud to muffle the noise, leaving only the muffled quiet and the cool winds of winter rustling the trees in the imperial courtyard.

Junhui's thumb traces small circles against your side, another one of those small gestures that's just for you. They are few and far between, so you hoard them like a gluttonous child hiding mooncakes in their pockets, determined to keep them for your darkest days. You know it means nothing - not the way you want it to. He's kind to you because it's his duty and because someone must be. Because perhaps he pities the broken oracle who bleeds for an emperor who doesn't deserve victory.

Still, you let yourself cling to these moments anyway, your small fantasies of romance and being stolen away keeping you from going mad.

The cold air hits your face, sharp and biting. It does nothing for the pounding in your skull and if anything, the headache splits deeper, a white-hot spike driving through bone with each step you take. Your stomach lurches as bile floods the back of your throat, bitter and burning. The courtyard tilts, the bare branches of the plum trees blurring into dark streaks against winter grey as you start to tip over.

Junhui catches you before you lose your footing in full, arms sliding beneath your knees and around your back to haul you up and against his chest. You want to protest as he cradles you against him, but another wave of nausea hits you and all you can do is press your face against the cool leather of his armor and hope you don't retch all over him and embarrass yourself forever.

"I've got you," he murmurs, voice low and right against your ear. "Just hold on."

He moves quickly through the courtyard. You're aware of his footsteps and the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of his breathing. The world narrows and becomes only the warmth of his body and the steady beating of his heart against your cheek.

Your chambers are in the eastern wing, far enough from the celebration that it fades to nothing as he walks. He shoulders open the red lacquer door to your room and carries you inside to the smell of sandalwood and jasmine.

The chambers provided to you are modest, silk screens painted with cranes and willows, a low platform bed draped in pale green silk and piled high with soft blankets and pillows. The latticed window let the winter sun filter, the delicate shadows dappled across the polished wooden floor. It's the only space in the palace that is entirely yours, and you crave it, spending most of the days in the dark as the pain in your head recedes.

Junhui lowers you onto your bed like your spun of glass before he arranges the cushions behind your back, propping you up so you're half-reclined. His hands linger at your shoulders for half a second before pulling away, and you miss his warmth immediately.

"Wait here," he instructs.

"As if I could do anything else."

He huffs, amused as he crosses to the small table near the window. He opens a porcelain pitcher and pours it into a wooden basin. You let your eyes close, the sound of his hands in the water the only sound. He crosses back toward you and when you open your eyes, he's kneeling at your bedside and reaching out with a cool, damp cloth to press against your head.

You can't stop the small sound that escapes you. The relief is immediate. It isn't enough, of course, but it's something and something is better than nothing.

When he puts it down, he gestures to your robe. "Your outer robe is making you overheart. Maybe I?"

You nod, too exhausted to care about prosperity or about rules. Junhui has seen you more vulnerable than anyone else has the right to, and you know it means nothing untoward as his fingers work on the clasps and ties with practiced efficiency, never lingering where he shouldn't.

He eases the heavy brocade from your shoulders, leaving the lighter inner layers. You can breathe again, feeling the winter air that slips through the cracks kiss your overheated skin. You sigh in relief, leaning back onto the pillows as he folds the robe and sets it aside before turning his attention back to you.

Taking the cloth up again, he leans forward and wipes at the dried blood under your nose and on your chin, his touch so gentle it makes your heart squeeze, the feeling inside of you that you refuse to name cracking open a little more. When he's satisfied, he leans back on his heels, watching you.

"You don't have to do this," you mutter, head falling back on the pillows as you stare up at the ceiling. Your head still hurts, thoughts swimming. "The emperor didn't assign you to nursemaid duty."

"My duty is to you," he says sharply. "Not to the emperor or court or anything else. It's to keep you safe and keep you well. That's all that matters to me. This counts."

You love that he says it. You hate that he says it. His words are both burden and balm, and he has no idea how much you want to believe them, how much you want to let yourself imagine that this devotion means what your foolish heart wishes it could mean. That you wish that when he touches you with tenderness, it's because he wants to and not because he must.

But you know better - you always have. The ancient scrolls about oracles - the Sacreds - have always been clean that oracles should remain untouched and unspoiled, pure in body and spirit. The moment an oracle is touched and spoiled by the intimacy only known between lovers or concubines, they become nothing more than ordinary women.

The emperor has no use for ordinary women. The moment you are anything less than the Sacred, he'll toss you out or worse - keep you as something to spoil and besot and remind you how far you've fallen from graze.

You accept Junhui's care because you're selfish enough to want it, even though it means nothing. You let him adjust the blanket around you and smooth the hair back from your damp forehead, and you let yourself pretend for a moment that this is a moment born of love rather than duty, and that you can have this. That you can have him.

"Thank you," you whisper, though you know he doesn't realize what for.

Your eyes close against the sting of the day, your headache taking over. His hand finds yourself beneath the blanket and his fingers thread through yours gently as he squeezes.

"Rest," he says softly. "I'll be here."

You nod and feel the weight of exhaustion pull you under, dreaming that his sweeping thumb across the back of your hand is because he loves you, and not because it's his duty.

-

Voices wake you. Junhui's voice is raised above them all, cutting through an argument like a blade. You open your eyes, the dark outside your window telling you that the sun has not yet risen. You sit up slowly and the room spins, the dull ache behind your eye and neck telling you that you're not yet free of your earlier vision's repercussions.

"She needs rest," Junhui snarls. "The visions are demanding and he has asked for them more and more. You will not-"

"The emperor has summoned her," someone else answers. "We have our orders."

"And I have mine. Yours can wait until morning."

"It is morning."

"It's barely beyond midnight!"

Your body still feels hollowed out, mouth dry and skin sweaty. You think you've only been asleep for a few hours, but you push yourself up onto your elbow, pausing as the room sways. When it stops, you get up and head to the door, opening it so that a sliver of the torchlight from the hallway falls across your room.

Junhui turns to you at once, his face twisted in anger. He blocks your doorway, his body a wall between you and the three imperial guards standing in the corridor beyond. Their armor gleams in the firelight, lacquered black and red, the emperor's colors. They don't care that you can barely walk or that your hands are shaking. They only care about their orders.

"You should be resting," Junhui growls. "I will handle-"

"It doesn't matter." You meet his eyes and see frustration burning there, a helplessness that you feel too. "If the emperor summons me, I go."

"You can barely stand."

"I must manage."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Can you help me dress properly?" You whisper the question for only him to hear, the other guards lingering.

For a moment, Junhui's eyes flash, something unreadable crossing his face so quickly it's there before you can understand. He nods tightly once and pushes inside, not letting the guards catch a glimpse of you before he shoulders the door shut.

Darkness swallows the room. You stand on unsteady feet as Junhui rummages around for a match before lighting a candle with a single strike. The orange glow makes him look haunting, sharp features sharper, eyes so dark they reflect the light of the candle back while he moves around the room.

He moves efficiently, retrieving a new robe from your wardrobe. It's deep blue silk embroidered with silver cranes, one of your favorites. He crosses the room toward you and you lift your arms a little as he settles it over your shoulders, helping you pull your arms through before he's tying off laces.

When he's finished, he grabs a single comb, gathering your hair low at your neck to twist it up and give you some breathing room. Cool air brushes against the back of your neck and you're grateful.

"There," he mutters, standing in front of you.

"I'm ready."

It's a lie. You feel like you're made of paper, like someone could blow you away or cut right through you. But you remain standing anyway, and Junhui sighs, hand sliding to the small of your back as he guides you in the candlelight toward the door and into the hallway.

Neither of the guards acknowledge you. They simply begin walking, expecting you to follow. You do, and Junhui stays close, his hand never leaving your back, his grip firm enough that you can lean into him whenever the room tilts and becomes unsteady again.

The walk to the throne room feels endless. Each step sends an unsteady feeling up through your legs, and though the sharp pain of earlier is gone from your skull, the dull ache that remains isn't much better.

Your stomach churns with anxiety as you walk through winding halls. You know that the emperor has summoned you for another vision. He's done it over and over more recently, each promised victory and small win making him hungry for more, making him addicted to the future, to moves and countermoves.

Winter air bites at you as you cross the courtyard. Junhui pulls you closer and you smell him, vetiver and cedar. His body blocks most of the cold, and you lean into him, seeking heat. He lets you as the guards lead you to the throne room doors, the massive panels of dark wood bound with iron looming ahead.

The guards push the doors open and the familiar scent of hinoki incense washes over you, mixing with the acrid smoke of the burning braziers in the hall. At the end of the hall, the emperor sits on his throne, leaning forward in his seat, fingers drumming against the carved armrest.

There is no court this time - just a small handful of advisors and generals standing in clusters along the pillars, which means this isn't spectacle. It's business. Nervousness settles sourly in your stomach as you approach, footsteps echoing on the polished wood floor. Junhui's hand stays at your back until you reach the proper distance where he steps aside - but not far. Never far, even in the presence of the emperor.

You lower yourself into a bow and your knees nearly give out. Junhui is there in an instant, his hands firmly on your waist to keep you from falling forward onto your face as the room spins. You grimace through it, hands clutching your sleeves as you take a few deep breaths to regain composure.

"Your Imperial Majesty," you manage. "I'm here."

"Finally. I've been waiting."

You straighten slowly with Junhui's help and meet the emperor's eyes. They're dark and calculating, fixed on where Junhui's hands remain for a moment before he steps a respectful distance away once more. A needle of fear stabs at the back of your neck, sharp and cool.

"I want to know about the Free Isles," the emperor says. "Can we take them immediately after the northern kingdom, when they think they're safe? With the resources from the north, they should be no match for me."

Your heart sinks. The Free Isles are a chain of islands far to the northeast, fiercely independent and protected by treacherous waters and storms that only northern ships are made to cut through. The emperor has wanted them for years, but has never had the ships to take them. Of course he wishes to take them as soon as he has ships, the greed and desire to plant his flag on free shores insatiable.

You lick your lips. "I may not be able to see right now, Your Imperial Majesty. Using the gift this close together-"

"I don't care about your discomfort." He waves a hand dismissively. "I care about the future of my empire. Now look. Tell me what you see."

Behind you, Junhui tenses. You stare at the emperor and see no room for argument, no mercy. You knew he was not a merciful man the way he conquered lands, but you hadn't expected him to risk damaging you like this.

Nodding, you close your eyes, taking a deep breath to calm yourself. You hate reaching for visions - oftentimes they come at random, seizing you when you're in a crowded room or alone in the bathing room. Sometimes they take you faster than you can summon them. But reaching for them feels like reaching into a wound every time, painful and sharp.

Pain explodes behind your eyes, white-hot and blinding as you dip into the well of your power. You feel your nose start to bleed again from the force, hot copper flooding your mouth. Your own heartbeat hammers too fast, too loud, thundering in your ears like the emperor's war drums.

The vision comes to you like a knife to the gut, stabbing and painful. You're on the deck of a ship - no. You are the ship, the wood of your body groaning, the spray from the sea cold and sharp. The sky above is storm-black, choked with clouds so dark they're almost green. Lightning splits the sky and for one blinding moment, you see dozens of ships bearing the emperor's colors, their red and black sails straining against wind that screams and tears at the sea.

In front of you, a wave rises ahead. It's impossibly tall, a mountain of water that climbs climbs climbs toward the sky until it comes crashing down. The world becomes water - cold, crushing. You can't breathe and salt water floods your mouth and nose, choking you. Your lungs scream and wood splinters, the sound like bones breaking. Men scream, but the sound is lost in the roar of the ocean.

When you surface, you're you again, not the ship. Another ship lets out a resonant crack as the mast falls, crashing through the deck. Some soldiers jump, some cling to the side. The sea takes them as the ship goes down, the water pulling them into the belly of its black depths. You feel terror like never before, but the storm doesn't stop.

Another wave. Then another. Ships splinter. Bodies vanish underneath the waves. So many bodies. The ocean swallows them whole, greedy and hungry, taking and taking and taking.

Through the ocean spray and chaos, you see land. The Free Isles rise from the sea like teeth, their rocky shores and cliff spread open like a mouth laughing to the sky. Warriors dot the cliffs, lit up only by the flash of lightning as they watch the storm do the work for them.

A wave crashes over you and drags you down to the bottom of the sea. In the flashes of light that shine through the murky ocean, you see pieces of ship floating, red and black banners sinking toward the depths of the sea, bodies thrashing as the undertow pulls them down down down.

The vision releases you and you're drowning in air instead of water, gasping, choking on nothing. Your knees buckle and you catch yourself on the floor, palms slapping against the polished wood as blood gushes from your knows. Junhui's hands are already on you, trying to stop you from collapsing into the red pooling on the floor beneath you. Voices swirl around you, but you can't make out anything they're saying, the roar of the sea - or your blood rushing in your ears - drowning out everything else.

Slowly, words come back to you. Your head lolls to the side as you look up at the emperor, his face furious and impatient as he slams his closed fist against the arm of his throne. "Well? What did you see?"

"Failure," you choke out, coughing on imaginary mouthfuls of water. "The Free Isles cannot be taken. The storms will do the work for them and the islands will not fall."

"Look again, then!" He booms. "Find a solution!"

"I cannot-"

You don't know when the emperor stood up, but he's in front of you suddenly, his hand moving faster than you can track. The blow catches you across the face, snapping your head to the side. Pain explodes along your cheekbone, bright and sharp and the throne room spins.

Junhui moves. One moment he's behind you, the next he's between you and the emperor, his body a wall of rage. His hand goes to his sword, fingers wrapping around the hilt to slide the blade free just enough that the ring of metal cuts through the room.

Every guard in the room tenses. Hands fly to weapons. You hear the whisper of steel, the creak of leather armor as soldiers shift their weight, ready to strike. The advisors along the pillars press themselves back against the wood, their faces pale that Junhui would dare to draw steel in front of the emperor.

The emperor goes very still. His eyes narrow, and for a moment you see something flicker there - surprise, maybe - before his face twists with rage at the affront. You look at Junhui, and though you can't see his face, his rigid shoulders say it all.

"You dare," the emperor hisses. "You dare to draw steel in my presence? You dare threaten your emperor?"

"My mandate is to protect her." Junhui doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. His shoulders are squared, his stance wide and grounded. "From any threat. Even you, Your Imperial Majesty."

The advisors go rigid. You can feel their shock radiating outward, a physical thing. This is treason. Open defiance. The kind of thing that ends with heads on spikes outside the palace gates. Your heart hammers against your ribs. The room swims, gaze blurry from the emperor's blow and the vision's aftermath and the realization that Junhui is signing his own death warrant for you.

You try to reach a hand up to tug on his sleeve but you can't move - you can barely think. You're broken on your knees, the taste of iron and salt in your mouth, looking up at Junhui as he remains in front of you.

"You forget yourself," the emperor snarls. "You forget who holds your life in his hands, who holds her life in his hands."

Junhui's grip tightens on his sword. "I forgot nothing, Your Imperial Majesty. I took an oath in front of you and this court to protect her from all, including the throne. This is my duty."

"Your duty is obedience. Your duty is to serve me. Everything in this palace - every guard, every servant, every Sacred - exists to serve me."

"I cannot break the oath I gave you, Your Imperial Majesty."

The emperor's face goes dark as silence permeates the room. Red creeps up into his neck and cheeks, his breathing labored as he works himself up, his rage choking the air in the throne room. Junhui stands in front of you anyway, his eyes forward, exterior calm.

You try to stand. Your legs don't cooperate, blood dripping from your nose and mouth, spattering beneath you. Your whole body trembles and you want to tell Junhui to stop, to save himself, but your voice doesn't work.

All you can do is watch. Watch him risk everything. Watch him stand between you and the most powerful man in the empire. Watch him choose you over his own life. Something cracks open in your chest. Something that feels like hope and terror and longing all tangled together. Something you can't afford to feel.

For a long moment, no one moves or breathes. The guards wait for the order to strike while the advisors stay out of the way, trying to become invisible in the pools of shadows between the pillars.

Finally, the emperor laughs. The sound is harsh and startling against the silence, echoing off the walls.

"Get out," his voice is ragged. "Both of you. Get out of my sight before I have you both executed."

Junhui doesn't wait for him to change his mind. He turns, hauling you to your feet with careful hands, and guides you toward the doors. Your legs barely work and your face throbs where the emperor struck you. You ignore the pain, instead focusing on the way Junhui's arm is around your waist, holding you up as you somehow make it across the throne room.

Outside, the world is bitter cold. The courtyard tilts on its axis, and you feel Junhui's arm tighten around your waist as he pulls you closer to him.

"Stay with me," he murmurs, breath hot against your ear.

"He'll kill you," you try to say. But your voice won't work. The words come out broken. Slurred. "Junhui, he'll-"

"Shh." His grip tightens. "Don't talk. Just breathe."

But breathing hurts. Everything hurts. The edges of your vision go dark and fuzzy, like looking through a tunnel. You can hear voices, but they sound distorted and echoing, like you're underwater again, drowning in that vision of ships and storms and mean screaming as the ocean devours them whole.

Your legs give out completely. You feel Junhui catch you. Feel his hands on your face.

Then nothing. Just silence.

-

The first thing you become aware of is warmth. It isn't the oppressive heat of the throne room, but it's the soft warmth of your room, the smell of sandalwood and jasmine comforting. The light comes second, soft and flickering, the orange glow soft behind your closed eyelids.

When your eyes flutter open, you see candles. Dozens of them burning in their holders, casting dancing shadows against the silk screens that divide your chambers. You're still in your bed, though the heavy outer layer of your robes are gone. Someone has covered you with a thick quilt embroidered with dragons - your favorite.

You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Pain lances through your skull - not the white-hot agony of a vision, but a deep, bone-weary ache that makes your stomach turn. You let out a small sound, barely more than a breath, and freeze when you realize Junhui is watching you from the side of your bed.

He's removed his armor, dressed only in the red and black robes of a palace guard. It catches you off guard - you've never seen him without his armor before. It makes him look unguarded, his dark hair disheveled and falling across his forehead slightly. His elbows rest on his knees, his head forward as his dark gaze pins you to the mattress.

"You're awake."

"I think so." Your voice comes out broken and harsh. "I hope so."

Junhui moves immediately. He reaches for a cup on the low table beside your bed and slides one hand behind your head carefully as he helps you lean forward to drink. The water is cool with a hint of medicinal herbs and you gulp, coughing a little.

"Careful," he murmurs. "Small sips, no gulping."

It soothes your throat and you manage three sips before pulling back, letting Junhui set the cup aside as he carefully sits back down beside you, pulling his chair closer.

"How long was I out?" You ask, sinking back down.

"Six hours. Maybe seven. I lost track."

Seven hours. You've been unconscious for seven hours. The weight of that settles over you like a stone. Seven hours of Junhui sitting here, watching over you, waiting for you to wake. Seven hours of not knowing if you would.

"The physician came," Junhui continues. "He said you need rest. That you can't keep doing this."

You close your eyes. The exhaustion is bone-deep. Soul-deep. It lives inside of you, in all of the spaces between your ribs and in the hollows of your chest, pumping through your blood, threaded with everything breath. You're tired of this, tired of being the Sacred, tired of having headaches, tired of being split open and rendered useless by visions you've never asked for, tired of serving a man you despise and resisting the man you want.

"I hate this," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "I hate this. I hate the visions. I hate being this, I hate-"

Your voice cracks down the middle like ice over a frozen lake, everything you've kept inside of you welling to the surface, rushing forward in an onslaught you cannot stop. You feel the tears spilling over as your hands fists the quilt and you cry.

"I wish I didn't have them. I wish I didn't live like this," you choke out. "I've lived like this since I was a little girl, unable to live how I want, to do what I want. It isn't fair Jun. It isn't fair! I want to be nothing, I want to be no one!"

Junhui says nothing at first. You can't look at him - can't bear to see what's written on his face. Pity, probably. You hate that the most, that he probably pities you, that he's nice and sweet and kind because no one else is.

He startles you when he moves. You look up to see him move from sitting on the chair to the bed, his weight on the mattress making you dip toward him as his hand slips beneath the quilt to find yours, his fingers lacing with yours. The touch is unexpected and gentle, palm warm against yours. Solid. Real. Calloused but comforting.

Junhui is looking at you. Not at the wall, not at his hands, not at some distant point beyond your shoulder like all the other courtiers when you're collapsing or bleeding or writhing in pain. He's looking at you, his dark eyes are steady on your face, and there's something in them that makes your heart hammer, something that looks almost like pain.

"If I could take them from you," he says quietly, "I would. In a heartbeat I would take them away."

You stare at him - really look at him for the first time since you woke to see exhaustion etched into every line of his face, dark circles beneath his eyes. You examine each part of him - the slight slump to his shoulders that he never allows when he's on duty. The way his hair falls across his forehead, disheveled and uncombed. He looks like he hasn't slept. Like he's been sitting here beside your bed for hours, watching over you, waiting for you to wake.

The worry hasn't left his gaze. You can see it there, sharp and clear in the way his eyes move over your face, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain. The way his jaw tightens when his gaze lands on the mark the emperor left on your cheek.

There's something else there too, something you've seen before but didn't know how to name, something you never let yourself hope for, but only dreamed about. Something in the way he holds your hand - not like a guard on duty, but like you mean something to him beyond being his charge.

Your heart pounds. This is dangerous. Forbidden. But you're so tired of being careful. So tired of denying yourself the one thing you want. So tired of pretending that his kindness is just duty, that his gentleness means nothing, that you don't feel the way you do.

"There is a way," you hear yourself say.

Junhui's brow furrows. His thumb stops its gentle movement across your knuckles. "What?"

Your mouth goes dry. This is it. The precipice. You could pull back now. Laugh it off. Pretend you meant something else. Say you were talking about running away, or finding some mythical cure, or anything other than what you're actually suggesting, but you're so tired of pretending.

"The visions," you say slowly. Each word feels like pulling teeth. Like dragging something heavy and sharp up from the depths of your chest. "They're tied to - um - purity."

Heat floods your cheeks. You can feel it spreading down your neck, across your chest. Can feel the way your skin burns with shame and something else. Something that might be hope or fear or both tangled together until you can't tell them apart.

You can't look at him anymore. Can't bear to see his reaction. So you stare at the quilt instead, studying the neat stitching and the way the gold thread weaves through the red fabric. At the way the dragons dance.

The silence stretches. You count your own heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. By the sixth, you want the ocean from your vision to swallow you whole so you can escape this embarrassment, realizing that you've misstepped

"They would go away?" His voice is hoarse. Halting. "The visions?

"Yes."

Another silence. This one longer. Heavier. You can feel it pressing down on you like a physical weight. Can feel the way the air in the room has changed, like all the air has been sucked out and replaced with pure pressure. When you risk a glance up at him, he's not looking at you. His gaze is fixed on the blanket, jaw tight and lips pressed together in a thin line. You can see the way his chest rises and falls with each careful breath, can see the tension in his shoulders.

"Are you asking me to take them from you?"

The question lands in silence between you. You say nothing, and when Junhui looks up at you, his gaze is more intense than you remember it, his eyes dark and pupils blown. You swallow thickly, and when he squeezes your hand to push for an answer, you can't speak. You give a tiny, imperceptible nod, nearly shaking as you admit to the unspoken question.

For a moment, nothing happens. Junhui just sits there, his hand in yours, his breathing careful and controlled. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves. Can see the way his jaw works, like he's trying to force out words that won't come. Can see the conflict written across every line of his face.

Then he pulls his hand away.

Devastation crashes through you, the loss of his touch immediately. He stands and turns away from you, shoulders rigid as he takes two steps toward the door before stopping, his back to you, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

"No."

The word comes out hard. Final like a door slamming shut, like the last nail in a coffin.The rejection lands harder than the emperor's slap, and you feel the shame hit you like a physical thing because why would he? Of course he doesn't want you like that, of course he wouldn't abandon his duty. And you are his duty, his burden, a Sacred he's wrong to protect and nothing more.

The shame is crushing. Suffocating. Heat floods your face, your throat, your chest. You can feel it burning through you like fever, like fire, like the aftermath of a vision but worse. So much worse because this pain is your own fault- your own stupid, foolish, desperate mistake.

You want to disappear. To sink into the bed and never emerge. To pull the quilt over your head and suffocate yourself with it. To take back the last five minutes and pretend this conversation never happened. To go back to before, when you could at least pretend that his kindness meant something. That you meant something to him beyond duty.

"I'm sorry," you say quickly. "I shouldn't have, I didn't mean-

"It would be an abuse of my power." Junhui still doesn't turn around. His voice is carefully controlled, but you can hear something underneath it. Something that sounds almost like anguish, maybe. "I'm your guard. You're vulnerable and desperate and I will not take advantage of that."

The words should make you feel better, should reassure you that he's honorable, that he's thinking of your wellbeing, that he's protecting you even from yourself. But all you feel is shame - the kind that is all-consuming and that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin. The kind that makes you want to claw at your face until the heat and the humiliation and the desperate, aching want are all gone.

"No, sorry," you rasp. "It's an abuse of my power. I'm the one asking. I'm the one - I'm sorry, Jun. That was awful of me."

Your voice breaks on the words. Cracks down the middle like everything else inside you.

"I'm so sorry. Forget I said anything. Please."

The embarrassment is crushing. Suffocating. You've never felt so small. So foolish. So utterly, completely exposed. You want to disappear and to take back everything you just said and pretend this conversation never happened.

Silence stretches so long that you can hear your own ragged breathing and can feel the tears leaking between your fingers as you press your hands to your face, trying to hide the same and agony there.

Footsteps draw your attention, but you don't lower your hands. You can't even look at him, can't bear to see the pity or disgust on his face. But then his hands are on your wrists, pulling gently.

"Look at me," he murmurs.

You shake your head. Keep your eyes squeezed shut. The tears are flowing freely now, hot tracks down your cheeks, and you've never felt more humiliated in your entire life.

"Please," Junhui whispers. "Look at me."

Something in his voice makes you obey. You open your eyes and find him kneeling beside your bed. His face is level with yours, close enough that you can see the gold flecks in his dark eyes. Close enough that you can see the way his own hands are trembling slightly where they hold your wrists.

"Do you have feelings for me?" The question comes out low and soft, his dark eyes searching yours with an urgency that makes your heart skip. "Please be honest."

Your heart hammers against your ribs. This is it. The moment where you could lie. Could protect yourself. Could pretend that this was only ever about the visions, about freedom, about anything other than what it really is.

"Of course I do," you whisper, heart hammering. "You're the only one who sees me as a person. Who treats me like I'm not a tool. I know I'm just your assignment and that you don't care for me that way, but you always-"

Junhui's mouth crashes against yours and the world stops. One hand cups the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair while the other frames your jaw gently, careful not to touch the bruise where the emperor struck you.

You gasp against his lips and he takes advantage, deepening the kiss, tasting you like he's been starving for it. Like he's been holding himself back for so long and finally, finally, he can let go.

You've never been kissed before, never been touched like this. It turns you to molten, your hands finding his shoulders to brush up toward his neck, your fingers threading though his hair as you kiss him back with everything you have. He tastes like tea and something spicey, something that makes heat pool low in your belly and makes you want more.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged gasps that match your own.

"I've wanted to do that," he murmurs against your lips. "For so long."

He doesn't pull away. He stays close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath on your face, can count each individual eyelash, can see the way his pupils have blown wide with want. His hand is still cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. The other still frames your jaw with that same careful tenderness, his thumb resting just below the bruise the emperor left.

Your heart is racing. Thundering so hard you're certain he can feel it. Your whole body is trembling, and you can still feel the ghost of his mouth on yours, the pressure and heat of it.

"Then why did you pull away before?" You pant. "Why did you say no?"

"Because I was afraid." He says it so quietly you almost don't hear him. His thumb moves against your jaw, soft and soothing. "I was afraid that if I touched you - that if I gave into the want - that I wouldn't be able to stop and that I would ruin you. That I'd take something from you that you couldn't get back, that I would spoil you and it would be the worst abuse of power I could imagine."

"You wouldn't-"

"I'm a man who wants something he shouldn't have." His eyes burn. "A man who is supposed to protect you, not have you. I could stand feeling for you and resisting - but if you felt the same…"

"I do."

His eyes close briefly, like hearing you say it causes him pain or relief. You cannot tell which. When they open again, there's something raw in them. Something desperate and hopeful and terrified all at once.

And then he kisses you again, softer and slower this time, like he's trying to memorize the taste of you. This kiss is different from the first. Less desperate. More deliberate. He takes his time, exploring your mouth with a patience that makes your whole body flush with heat. His hand slides from your hair down to the nape of your neck, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that make you shiver.

When he finally pulls back, you're both breathing hard again. But this time, there's no fear in his eyes. No hesitation. Just want, pure and undisguised for once. His thumb traces your lower lip, and the way he's looking at your mouth is like it wants to kiss you again and again and again.

"If we do this," he says quietly, "there's no going back. You'll lose the visions. The emperor will have no use for you, and you'll be-"

"Free," you cut him off. "I will be free."

You catch the hand that's been tracing your lip and press it against your cheek, turning your face into his palm. His skin is warm against yours, rough with calluses. It's real and solid and everything you've ever wanted - everything you've ever dreamed about.

"I want to be free," you say again. "But I also want you. I've dreamed about it for so long - thought it could only ever be a dream. Nothing more."

Something shifts in his expression. His pupils dilate further until there's barely any brown left behind the want, behind the desire. He looks at you now like you're something to devour, not protect, like you're the only thing in the world that matters. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold runs down your spine as his hand moves from your cheek to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, feeling the way your pulse thunders under his thumb.

"Are you sure?" His voice is rough and strained. "There's no undoing this. You need to be certain."

"I've never been more certain. Please."

Junhui nods, leaning forward to capture your mouth in a soft, sweet kiss. "Okay," he murmurs against your lips. "Okay."

He stands slowly, and for a moment you think he's leaving and that he's changed his mind. But then he shrugs out of his outer robe, letting it pool on the floor. His hands go to the ties of his inner robe, and you watch, entirely transfixed as he undresses. His body is all lean muscle and old scars, beautiful in the candlelight. Beautiful in a way that makes your mouth go dry and your heart race even faster.

Then he's on the bed with you, carefully moving the quilt aside, his hands finding the ties of your robes. He pauses and looks up at you, his eyes serious. "Tell me if you want me to stop. At any point. Promise me."

"I promise."

He nods and undresses you slowly, peeling back layers of silk with careful attention, his fingers brushing your skin gently. When you're finally bare before him, you expect to feel exposed and vulnerable, but he looks at you like you're something otherworldly, like he cannot imagine what he's seeing.

"You're beautiful," he murmurs. His hand traces the curve of your waist, your hip. "So beautiful."

Junhui leans down and kisses you again, slower and deeper this time, his mouth moving against yours with deliberate intent, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him. The taste of him floods your senses as he cups the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, angling your face so he can kiss you deeper.

A soft moan escapes you and he swallows it, his other hand sliding down your side to trace the curve of your waist and your hip, dropping to your thigh. Each touch leaves fire in its wake. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, like you might combust from the inside out.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. His pupils are blown wide, his lips swollen and wet. He looks at you like he wants to devour you and it lights you up inside. You push closer to him, hands shaking as your fingers trace his forearms, feeling the veins and muscles beneath his warm skin.

"I want to taste every inch of you," he murmurs against your lips. His voice is rough. Raw. "I want to learn what makes you gasp. What makes you beg. Can I do that?"

You can barely form words. Can only nod, your heart thundering so hard you're certain he can hear it.

"Use your words," he says softly. His thumb traces your lower lip. "I need to hear you say it."

"Yes." Your voice comes out breathless. Desperate. "Yes, please."

The smile that curves his lips is devastating. "Good."

Then his mouth is on your throat, hot and wet and perfect. He kisses the hollow beneath your jaw, the sensitive spot behind your ear that makes you shiver. His teeth graze your earlobe and you gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. The muscles there are hard beneath your palms, flexing as he moves.

He works his way down, kissing and licking, occasionally biting just hard enough to make you gasp. When he reaches your collarbone, he pauses, his tongue tracing the delicate bone before his teeth close over it gently. The sensation shoots straight between your thighs, and you feel yourself getting wetter.

"Jun-"

"Shh." His breath is hot against your skin. "Let me take care of you."

His mouth moves lower to the swell of your breast, and he kisses the soft skin there, his hand coming up to cup you, his thumb brushing over your nipple. His touch is feather-light but it makes you arch into him, a whine escaping your mouth as you beg for more.

He gives it to you, his mouth closing over a nipple as he sucks gently. You arch into him, the sensation overwhelming as his tongue circles the sensitive peak, flicking over it before his teeth graze it gently. You almost come apart right there, melting.

"That feels- oh Gods-"

"Tell me." His voice is muffled against your breast. "Tell me how it feels."

You can barely think. Can barely form coherent thoughts. "So good. Please don't stop."

He doesn't. He lavishes attention to your chest - sucking, licking, biting - until you're trembling beneath him. You're so wet now you can feel it, the slickness between your thighs and the ache there driving you mad. As if reading your mind, his hand slides down your stomach, fingers tracing patterns on your skin. When he reaches where your thighs are shut tight, he pauses.

"Open for me," he murmurs against your breast.

You do. Spreading your legs, letting him see how wet you are, how much you want him.

"Gods," he growls. "Look at you."

His fingers brush through your folds, his touch light and barely there, but enough to make you gasp. He brings them to his mouth, maintaining eye contact as he licks them clean and the sight is so hypnotic that you find yourself staring, face flushing with heat as he grins.

"Taste like the Heavens," he murmurs. "Need more."

Before you can process what he means, he's moving down your body, kissing his way down your stomach, your hip bones, the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. When his mouth presses to your core, you nearly scream, his tongue licking through you slowly, parting your wet folds. The pleasure is unlike anything you've ever felt, sharp and overwhelming, and your hands fly into his hair, gripping the dark strands, unsure if you're pulling him closer or away.

"Oh," you gasp. "I can't-"

"Yes, you can." His breath is hot against you. "Just feel it."

His tongue circles your clit gently and your hips twitch to meet his mouth, thighs shaking as your eyes squeeze shut. It feels maddeningly good, and when his tongue starts flicking over your clit directly, you feel the way your breath catches, the way you twitch under him. He holds your hips down to keep you skill, humming lightly as he devours.

And Junhui devours, alternating between broad strokes of his tongue and focused attention on that sensitive spot. Sometimes he sucks on it gently, and the sensation makes you cry out. Sometimes he flicks it rapidly with the tip of his tongue, building the pleasure higher and higher until you think you might die from it. And just when you think you can't take anymore, he slides a finger into your heat and you feel yourself clench hard.

"So tight," he groans. "So perfect. You're going to feel so good around my cock."

The crude words make you clench around his finger. Make more wetness flood between your thighs. He notices, and you can feel him smile against you.

"You like that?" His voice is teasing. Knowing. "You like when I talk dirty to you?"

"Yes." The admission comes out breathy. "Yes, please."

"Please what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the burn is delicious. "Tell me what you want. I'll give you everything."

His fingers curl inside you, finding a spot that makes you see stars. He works you patiently, fingers stroking inside of you, pressing against that spot over and over and over while he sucks gently on your clit, driving you higher and higher.

You're trembling. Shaking. Your hands are fisted in his hair, your hips moving against his mouth despite his attempts to hold you still. The pleasure is so intense it's almost frightening. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the abyss.

The tension that's been building inside you finally snaps and you fall over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you. Your body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and you cry out his name as pleasure floods through you. It's overwhelming. All-consuming. Wave after wave of sensation that makes your vision go white, makes your whole body shake with the force of it.

Junhui works you through it, his fingers still moving inside you, his mouth still on you, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure until you're boneless and gasping beneath him.

When you finally come back to yourself, he's kissing his way back up your body. His lips are wet with you, and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. It should be embarrassing - should be shameful - but you don't care, licking into his mouth hungrily, pulling him as close as you can.

Junhui's hand slides between your thighs again, and despite the orgasm you just had, your body responds. Arching into his touch. Seeking more. He positions himself between your thighs, the hard length of him pressing against your entrance, and even through the haze of pleasure, you feel a flutter of nervousness. He's big. Bigger than his fingers. And you're not sure-

"Look at me." You do. His eyes are dark and intense, but soft and entirely focused on you. "We'll go slow. If it's too much, if you need me to stop, you tell me, understand?"

You nod. "Yes. I understand."

"Good." He kisses you again, soft and reassuring. "I've got you."

Then he's pushing in slowly - so slowly - the stretch is immediate and intense. More than his fingers, more than you expected and you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, fingers sliding against his sweaty skin as your nails dig in.

He stops immediately. "Breathe. Just breathe."

You do. Deep breaths that help your body relax, help you adjust to the intrusion. After a moment, the burn eases slightly, and you nod. He pushes in another inch. Then another. The stretch intensifies, bordering on painful, and you whimper.

"I know." His forehead rests against yours. His whole body is trembling with the effort of holding still, of going slow. "I know it hurts. But you're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly."

The praise helps. Makes you want to be good for him, makes you want to take all of him. You breathe through the burn, through the stretch, and slowly your body adjusts. He steals another kiss from you as he sinks to the hilt, distracting you with his tongue and the way he groans into your mouth.

When he breaks the kiss, he's pressed as deep as he can go, the feeling so full and so good you can barely breathe. Junhui is just as affected, panting and shivering as he drops his head to gaze where you're joined, letting out a curse.

"You feel so good," he pants. "Like you were made for me."

You clench around him experimentally, and he groans, his hips jerking involuntarily. It feels good to squeeze down, a sensation you'd never imagined, and you do it again, a small little sound leaving your lips as he groans again.

"Don't," he rasps. "Don't do that or I won't last."

"I want you to feel good too," you whisper. Your hands slide down his back, feeling the hard muscles there, the way they flex and shift as he holds himself still. "I want to make you feel the way you made me feel."

"You do." He kisses you, tongues tangling briefly before he breaks the kiss to press his lips against your jawline. "You have no idea what you do to me. How long I've wanted this. Wanted you."

"Then have me."

Junhui lets out a desperate sound but nods, his hips starting to move slowly. It makes you gasp, the friction intense and the drag of his cock inside you so good. The pain has faded completely now, replaced by pleasure that builds faster than you can keep up with.

You wrap your legs around his waist, taking him deeper, and he groans into your shoulder. The angle changes and suddenly he's hitting something inside you, that same spot that makes the world spin and the pleasure spark right behind your eyelids.

"There," you gasp. "Right there, please."

"I know." His voice is rough. Strained. "I can feel you clenching around me. So tight. So perfect."

He picks up the pace, still careful but full of urgency now, thrusting deeper until you can feel yourself climbing toward another peak. His hand slides between your bodies and finds your clit again, circling it in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is overwhelming, both too much and not enough and too everything.

The pleasure crests until it breaks and your second orgasm hits you harder than the first, your body clenching and spasming as you cry out his name. It's more intense than before, more overwhelming, like every nerve ending in your body is firing at once.

Seeing you lose it is all it takes for him. He buries himself deep as he can do and you feel the pulse of him inside of you as he comes, his entire body going rigid, every muscle locked tight as he whimpers a broken sound in the shape of your name.

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and for a long moment neither of you moves. You just hold each other, breathing hard, hearts pounding in sync. You can feel him still pulsing inside you, can feel the warmth of his release, and the realization that it's real and not a fantasy anymore makes your eyes sting with unshed tears.

Carefully, he pulls out. You both wince at the sensation but he's gentle, rolling to the side and pulling you against his chest, his arms wrapping around you tightly. You can feel his heart racing, and his lips press against your brow, soft and sweet while his fingers trace patterns on your spine.

"I'm taking you away from here," Junhui says eventually.

You lift your head to look at him. "What?"

"Tonight, if possible. Tomorrow at the latest. Somewhere the emperor can't reach you. Somewhere you can be free."

"Junhui, you can't - your position-"

"I don't care." He cups your face in both hands. "You are sacred to me. Not because of your visions or your gift. Because of who you are. And I'm not willing to share you anymore. Not with the emperor. Not with the court. Not with anyone."

Your breath catches. "You'd give up everything? For me?"

"I already have." He kisses you softly. "The moment I stepped between you and the emperor, I chose you. There's no going back from that. So we go forward. Together."

"Where will we go?"

"East to the river provinces. I have family there who owe me favors. They'll hide us until we can figure out something more permanent." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "You'll have a life beyond the throne room. Beyond the visions. I promise you that."

Tears spill over. For the first time in your life, you feel safe - not because of prophecy or position, but because someone has chosen you for you. Because Junhui has chosen you over everything else.

"You wanted to be no one," Junhui whispers. "You can be no one to everything else. But to me, you are everything. You are not the Sacred - you're just sacred to me."

You nod, throat tight. "I would like that."

SOONYOUNG IS AN EASY ALPHA TO READ. As someone who wears his heart on his sleeve and his emotions on his face, you rarely have a problem reading him now that you know him well enough. Plus, whatever isn't on his face or in his tone is usually coming directly from the source himself, never the one to shy away from communicating exactly what he thinks of something.

So it's unusual when you realize on a Friday afternoon that something is wrong with Soonyoung but you don't quite know what that something is.

The sun is slanting through the western windows of the house, turning the floors honey-warm and catching the dust motes floating lazily through the air. You're curled into the corner of the sectional - a spot that has become yours over the last few weeks - with a book in your lap. It's some novel that Wonwoo recommended and that you're half paying attention to because Mingyu keeps singing off-key in the kitchen where he's baking and because there's base thrumming from Jihoon's studio basement, vibrating up through the couch into your spine.

It's the kind of afternoon that's calm but doesn't exactly leave space for reading, especially when Chan flops down on the couch next to you, immediately pushing into your side to nuzzle close and lay his head in your lap.

"Hi," he sighs dreamily, tilting his head back to look up at you. "This okay?"

You grin, running your fingers through his hair. "Of course it is."

He nearly purrs under your touch, melting into your lap as he settles, his dark hair soft against your fingers as he gets comfortable with one arm draped over his stomach and the other hanging off the edge of the couch. He smells like the laundry detergent the pack uses, warm and clean and the distinct lavender and sea salt smell that is so him.

Putting the book down, you continue to stroke his hair, feeling him relax into your lap, heavy and solid. You smile. You like this - you're glad that you finally have figured this out, the intimacy that's both physical and mental, both casual and sexual. Now that you've finally settled and figured them out, this kind of contact is easy. Welcome. Craved.

The afternoon light catches the side of Chan's face and you notice the faint freckles across his nose, the way his face is soft, eyes closed and content as he drifts. It's moments like this that make you understand why the pack works and why fourteen people in one house don't feel chaotic and feel like this instead.

Soonyoung's voice is what cuts through the silence, reminding you that the pack has its bad days too. You turn to look over the back of the couch the way his voice is coming, cutting through the ambient noise like a knife. Chan shifts too, the beta making an unhappy noise as he cracks an eye open.

"I said I would handle it, Seokmin," Soonyoung snaps somewhere. You straighten, the alpha's voice rigid and more severe than you're used to hearing. "So stop."

"I'm just trying to help." Seokmin's calmer voice barely reaches you, careful and placating. You can hear his confusion even without seeing his face. "If you'd just listen-"

"I don't need to listen."

Footsteps keep your attention pinned to the entryway from the hall. Soonyoung rounds the corner into the living room and the sight of him makes something in your chest clench. His jaw is tight, muscle twitching beneath the skin, and his shoulders are drawn up and rigid. There's something wild in his eyes that make your instincts prickle, a warning bell going off in the back of your head that's telling you there's an alpha in distress.

Seokmin trails behind him with his hands raised in a gesture of peace, his expression caught somewhere between apologetic and frustrated. He's still in his work clothes, dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and tie loosened around his neck, but the tension in his neck has nothing to do with Soonyoung.

Your book is long forgotten. Chan's head is turned in your lap, watching as Soonyoung storms into the room, Seokmin behind him. Seokmin looks at you before his eyes dart meaningfully between you and Chan, a silent request. You understand immediately and pat Chan gently. The beta stirs immediately, unfolding from your lap with a quick kiss to your forehead before he heads toward Seokmin.

"Help me with something in the kitchen?" Chan asks Seokmin, reaching for him.

"Sure," Seokmin sighs, moving toward the hallway. He shoots you one last look, mouthing thank you as he follows Chan out of the room, leaving you alone on the couch.

The moment they're gone, Soonyoung is moving toward you, his agitation evaporating. He falls onto the couch, settling against you instantly, head finding the curve where your shoulder meets your neck, his arms wrapping around you as he breathes you in.

"Hi," he says quietly, voice muffled as he presses in closer. "You smell good."

His scent washes over you as he burrows closer, deep teakwood with an undercurrent of warmth that you've come to associate with him, though there's something slightly off about it now. Something sharp and acidic underneath. It makes your nose wrinkle slightly even as your omega instincts purr at his proximity.

"Hi," you murmur, tugging him further into you.

"What are you reading?"

"Something Wonwoo recommended."

He hums, a low sound in the back of his throat, and leans even closer to peer at the cover. You can feel the heat of him along your side, can see the way his hair falls into his eyes as he tilts his head. "Is it good?"

"It's okay. It's a little slow."

"Do you want company? I can sit with you."

There's something almost desperate in the offer, something that makes your chest tight. You study his face, trying to understand what just happened, trying to reconcile the alpha who just snapped at Seokmin with the one who's looking at you now like he might die if you say no. You'd never say no, though, so you smile and nod.

"Always," you say softly, and watch the way relief floods his expression like sunrise breaking over water. “Just keep the teeth away, yeah?”

He nods and shifts, adjusting his position so he's lying more fully against you, his head pillowed on your thigh where Chan had been moments before. The weight of him is different, heavier and more solid, radiating a heat that seems to seep through the fabric of your leggings and into your skin. One of his arms wraps around your leg, holding on like you might disappear if he doesn't anchor himself to you.

Without thinking, you card your fingers through his hair, and the effect is immediate. He melts. There's no other word for it as the tension that had been coiled through his shoulders and jaw just dissolves under your touch, his whole body going soft and pliant against you. A sound escapes him, something between a sigh and a groan, and he presses his face harder against your thigh.

"That feels nice," he mumbles. "Don't stop doing that."

You smile, continuing the gentle motion, your fingers sliding through the dark strands. His hair is softer than you expected, still slightly mussed from where he'd been running his hands through it earlier, and you work through the tangles with careful attention. Each pass of your fingers seems to pull more tension from him, until he's practically boneless against you, his breathing evening out into something slow and deep.

The afternoon light has shifted, no longer streaming directly through the windows but casting everything in a softer, golden glow. That's when you notice it again. That off note in his scent. It's subtle, easy to miss if you weren't paying attention, but it's there, sharp and acidic beneath the familiar teakwood warmth, like something fermented or turned. It makes your nose wrinkle slightly, your omega instincts prickling with a vague sense of concern. You've never smelled him like this before. Usually his scent is all warmth and depth, grounding and steady, but this is different.

You frown slightly, your fingers pausing in his hair as you try to place what it reminds you of. Your first thought is rut, that sharp, aggressive edge that alphas get when their biology starts to take over, but you dismiss it almost immediately. You've been with the pack long enough now to know everyone's schedules, the careful tracking system they use to make sure no one's caught off guard. Soonyoung isn't due for a rut for at least another three weeks. You'd know. Seungcheol keeps a calendar, and you've seen it enough times to have most of the dates memorized.

So it's not that. Maybe he's just stressed? The thought settles uneasily in your chest. He has been more on edge lately, more irritable with the others, though you'd chalked it up to work or pack dynamics or any of the hundred other things that can make an alpha tense. Maybe it's manifesting in his scent, some kind of stress response you're not familiar with yet.

You let it go, resuming the gentle motion of your fingers through his hair. Whatever it is, he clearly needs this and you're not about to pull away because of some vague concern you can't even properly articulate. If it's serious, someone else will notice. Seungcheol will notice.

Soonyoung makes another one of those soft sounds and you feel your heart do something complicated in your chest. You smile, thinking about how much you like him. The realization isn't new - you like all of them. But it hits you fresh at this moment, with him soft and sleepy against you.

"You're really good at that," he murmurs, his voice drowsy and content. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed. "Like, unfairly good."

"Just scratching your head," you say, but you're smiling, your fingers finding that spot behind his ear that makes him practically purr.

"Mm, no. It's more than that." He shifts slightly, tilting his head to look up at you, and the expression on his face makes your breath catch. There's something raw in his eyes, something open and honest that he usually keeps hidden behind jokes and easy grins. "You make everything feel easier."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He reaches up, his hand finding yours where it's resting against his temple, and he threads your fingers together. His palm is warm, slightly rough, and the gesture feels impossibly intimate. "I really like being close to you. Is that okay? To say that?"

"Of course it is. I like being close to you too."

His smile is small but genuine, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Good. Because I don't think I could stop even if you told me to."

You laugh quietly, resuming the gentle motion through his hair with your free hand while he keeps the other one captive, his thumb tracing absent patterns against your knuckles. His touch is comforting and you can feel the way his body has gone completely relaxed against you as the house settles around you, the sound of pack life continuing in other rooms.

You don't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light to shift again, the golden glow deepening toward amber. Long enough for your legs to start going numb under his weight, though you don't mention it. Long enough for you to memorize the exact shade of his hair in this light, the pattern of freckles across his nose, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he closes his eyes.

"Thank you," he says eventually, so quiet you almost miss it.

"For what?"

"For not asking questions. For just letting me be here."

You want to tell him he never has to thank you for that, but the words feel too big, too revealing, so instead you just squeeze his hand and keep running your fingers through his hair, and hope he understands anyway.

He seems to. His eyes drift closed again, his breathing evening out. And despite that lingering concern about his scent, despite the confusion about what happened with Seokmin, despite everything, you let yourself have this, relaxing against the couch as Soonyoung dozes in your lap.

-

The second time you notice something off with Soonyoung is worse.

It's Saturday morning and the kitchen is alive with the weekend chaos you've come to expect now that you eat breakfast at more reasonable hours. Mingyu is at the stove making what smells like pancakes while Vernon sits at the island with his laptop and a cup of coffee that you think has gone cold. Joshua hums as he sets the table in the dining room while morning light streams through the windows, coffee and the scent of bodies filling the room.

You're standing at the counter making tea, watching the kettle when you hear the commotion start somewhere just outside the kitchen.

"I'm just saying," Junhui says, his voice measured and calm in a way that suggests he is trying very hard to be patient. "If you'd communicated better, it would-"

"I don't need you to tell me how to communicate, Jun." Soonyoung's voice cuts through the morning peace like a knife, sharp enough that you see Mingyu's shoulders tense at the stove, see Vernon's fingers still on his keyboard.

Your hands tighten on the edge of the counter, your whole body going alert. Not again. Please not again. You glance at Mingyu who winces and shrugs his shoulders before turning back to stare intensely at his pancakes, preferring to let the alphas argue it out.

"I'm not telling you how to do anything." Junhui's voice is still calm but you can hear the edge creeping in, can hear the alpha authority starting to bleed through. "I'm just saying that if you'd communicated better, we wouldn't have had the conflict with-"

"Right, so it's my fault."

"That isn't what I said-"

"It's what you meant!"

You turn your attention back to the kettle, listening with half an ear as the argument continues. It's not the first time you've heard pack members disagree, and it probably won't be the last. The whistle is building now, getting louder, and you're reaching for your mug when you hear a crash loud enough that you jerk your hand.

The kettle wobbles but you catch it, steadying it with both hands as you let out a breath. Your heart kicks up for a moment before settling back down. Just an argument. Just pack dynamics working themselves out.

Mingyu has turned from the stove, spatula still in hand, his expression somewhere between concerned and resigned. Vernon has closed his laptop, watching the doorway.

"Soonyoung." Junhui's voice is harder now, carrying that alpha command that says stand down. "You need to calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down."

There's a beat of tense silence, and then footsteps, quick and purposeful before Soonyoung appears in the kitchen doorway. He looks wound tight, his chest heavy slightly, his eyes bright and a flush high on his cheeks that tells you he's stressed. His hair is a mess like he's been running his hands through it, and his t-shirt is rumpled, twisted slightly to one side. For a second he just stands there, breathing hard, his gaze sweeping the kitchen like he's looking for something.

Then his eyes land on you, and everything changes.

The tension bleeds out of his shoulders and his expression softens immediately, the wild edge in his eyes gentling into something warm. He crosses the kitchen in a few long strides, and before you can say anything, he’s pressing into your side like he needs the physical contact to breathe.

"Hi," he says quietly, his voice rough but softer than it was seconds ago. One of his arms wraps around your waist, and he leans into you, his forehead coming to rest against your temple. "You making tea?"

"Yeah." You can feel the heat of him along your entire side, can smell that sharp acidic edge underneath his usual teakwood warmth. It's more pronounced than it was yesterday. "Want some?"

"No. Just want to be here."

"Alright."

You reach up to run your fingers through his hair, scraping the blunt edge of your nails against his scalp. He hums, chest vibrating against you as his eyes flutter, scent blooming warm and rich, the acidic note vanishing. The kettle is whistling properly now, so you pour the water one-handed, Soonyoung still plastered to your side like he has no intention of moving. He doesn't say anything, just stands there with his arm around you, his breathing evening out as you finish making your tea.

Behind you, you can hear Mingyu returning to the pancakes, the quiet sizzle of batter hitting the pan. Vernon has reopened his laptop but you can feel his attention still on the two of you. Joshua appears in the doorway, takes one look at Soonyoung wrapped around you, and just nods to himself before heading back to finish setting the table.

"Breakfast is almost ready," Mingyu says after a moment, his voice carefully neutral. "If you guys want to sit down."

Soonyoung makes a noncommittal sound against your hair but doesn't move. You smile, wrapping both hands around your mug now that it's ready, and lean back into him slightly.

"Come on," you murmur. "Let's go sit."

He follows you without question, his hand sliding from your waist to tangle with your free hand, keeping you connected as you move into the dining room. The table is set thanks to Joshua, who looks between you and Soonyoung before winking.

You choose a seat near the middle of the table and Soonyoung immediately claims the chair right next to you, close enough that his thigh presses against yours when he sits. His hand finds your knee under the table, his thumb rubbing small circles against the fabric of your leggings, and you can feel the way he's still wound tight despite the softness in his expression.

Junhui appears in the doorway a moment later, and you watch as his eyes land on Soonyoung pressed up against your side. Something complicated crosses his face - frustration, maybe, but also understanding, and what looks like relief. He lets out a long breath, his shoulders dropping slightly, and when he meets your eyes there's gratitude there.

Thanks, he mouths silently and you nod.

He takes a seat across the table, his posture still tense but no longer aggressive. The argument isn't resolved, the set of his jaw and the tension in his hands making that much obvious, but it's set aside for now for when Soonyoung isn't whatever this is right now.

Soon, the table fills out with the rest of the pack and loud conversation backtracked by the sound of silverware on plates. Soonyoung serves you first, putting pancakes on your plate before his own, his hand never leaving your knee. He eats one-handed, the other staying firmly on you like he needs the anchor despite Seungkwan poking fun at him.

Soonyoung gradually relaxes against your side. His scent is still off, but his breathing has evened out, and the tension in his shoulders has eased. He's not talking much, just listening to the conversation around him, but every so often he glances at you like he's checking that you're still there.

Across the table, Junhui catches your eye again and gives you a small nod. The message is clear: Whatever you're doing, keep doing it.

So you do. You finish your tea and eat your pancakes and let Soonyoung stay pressed against your side for as long as he needs, and you try not to think too hard about what it is that's bothering him, ready to wait him out and let him come to you.

-

By Sunday, Soonyoung's tension has been noticed by everyone.

It's the kind of afternoon where the house has that lazy, syrupy feeling of the weekend as people scatter across the estate with their routines. You can hear Seungkwan's laugh coming through an open window, backtracked by someone playing music.

Sun bakes down on the top of your head as you stretch, sweaty skin sticky against the cloth of the cabana seating. Mingyu is tucked next to you, the smell of his clean, floral musk and sunscreen soothing.

The afternoon sun turns the pool surface into liquid gold, the light dancing and refracting in patterns that shift with every ripple. The air smells like chlorine and sunscreen and the jasmine that grows wild along the fence line, music playing from the speaker next to Mingyu softly while the two of you lounge

He's stretched out next to you in swim shorts that are slung low on his hips, his long legs crossed at the ankle, a book open in his lap that he's been so called reading for the past twenty minutes despite the fact he hasn't turned a page in at least ten. His chest is bare, shoulders already warming to a golden tan, and there's a faint sheen of sunscreen on his skin that catches the light.

You are definitely not reading your book. Instead, you're acutely aware of the way Mingyu's chest rises and falls with each one of his breaths, every defined line of his abs, and the way his muscles in his shoulders flex when he shifts his position. Your eyes drift from his collarbones to his sternum to the dip of his waist where his swim shorts sit low on his hips, and you have to physically force your gaze back to your book.

When you glance sideways, you catch the faintest smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. He knows. Of course he knows. Mingyu always knows when you're looking.

Footsteps draw your attention on the pool deck. Soonyoung is approaching, jaw tight and shoulders tense. You frown and his scent hits you a moment later as the wind shifts, sharp and acrid. You shift and Mingyu notices, glancing at you from behind his sunglasses before he realizes Soonyoung is there.

"Mingyu," Soonyoung says, voice clipped. He stops at the edge of the cabana, his eyes locked on Mingyu with something that makes the beta tense. "You left the fridge door open this morning. Again."

Mingyu blinks. "What?"

"Yeah."

"Soonyoung, I made breakfast at seven. It's been hours." Mingyu shields his eyes, looking up at Soonyoung, his tone more bewildered than defensive. "What even is-"

"And yesterday," Soonyoung continues, "You left stuff all over the kitchen counter. It's rude and messy."

You watch as Mingyu's expression shifts from confusion to something closer to exasperation. "I cleaned that up. Wonwoo saw me clean it up."

"Not very well, apparently." Soonyoung's voice is sharp. "And you were making noise in the kitchen at like six in the morning. Some of us were trying to sleep."

"You were literally in the gym at six." Mingyu closes his book deliberately and sets it on the small table next to the cabana. When he looks up at Soonyoung, his expression is guarded, not angry. "What's your actual problem Soonyoung? Spit it out."

"I don't have a problem. I just think it would be nice if people actually thought about the shared spaces instead of just doing whatever they want."

"Nobody's doing whatever they want."

Mingyu stands now so he's facing Soonyoung directly. He's a beta, but he's not small. He towers over Soonyoung, imposing in a way that makes your instincts flare, feeling the shift of tension between the two.

"You're picking a fight," Mingyu says, softer than before.

"I'm not picking a fight."

"Soonyoung, you're-" Mingyu cuts himself off and sighs. You can see him trying to control his temper, trying to figure out what Soonyoung is actually mad about. "You know what, whatever. You're right."

He turns to leave, his movements sharp and frustrated, stepping away from the cabana toward the pool deck. The afternoon sun hits him full-force, turning his skin golden, and for a moment you think maybe that's it. But then Soonyoung's hand darts out, wrapping around Mingyu's arm just above the elbow, fingers digging in hard enough to dimple Mingyu's skin.

"Don't walk away from me," Soonyoung growls, teeth flashing.

"Okay, enough."

Your voice cuts through the tension, sharp and commanding in a way that surprises even you. You're on your feet before you've consciously decided to move, a frustrated growling rippling through you at their bickering and Soonyoung's obvious struggle with something.

The effect is immediate and absolute. Soonyoung's hand drops from Mingyu's arm like he's been burned, his eyes going wide as they snap to you. Mingyu takes a step back, his posture immediately shifting from defensive to something closer to chastened. They're both staring at you now, and you can see the moment they register your expression.

"I don't know what's going on with you," you say, your gaze locked on Soonyoung, "but I am tired of watching you pick fights with everyone in this house. And Mingyu, you know it sets him off when you walk away like that."

"I wasn't-" Mingyu starts, but you hold up a hand and he stops immediately, his mouth closing.

"I don't want to hear it. Not from either of you. Soonyoung, put the teeth away."

The afternoon sun is hot on your shoulders, the chlorine smell sharp in your nose as a beat of silence passes. Soonyoung looks like he's been slapped, his expression crumbling from aggressive to something that looks almost like shame. His shoulders drop, his hands unclenching, and you can see the way his whole body seems to deflate.

"I'm sorry," he says, voice smaller than you've ever heard it.

"I know, Soonyoung." Your voice softens a fraction. "But you need to figure out what's going on with you, because this isn't okay. Mingyu didn't deserve that."

Soonyoung glances at Mingyu. "I'm sorry."

Mingyu is rubbing his arm where Soonyoung grabbed him, and you can see the red marks already forming, can see the shape of fingers pressed into his skin. His expression is a mix of anger and hurt, and you can tell he's struggling to not let his temper flare again. He takes a deep breath and nods, the frustration melting out of him in the way that betas are always good at.

"You need to talk to Seungcheol," Mingyu says, his voice much calmer now. "Today."

"I know."

Mingyu doesn't seem convinced. "I'm serious."

"I know. I'm going to."

For a second, Mingyu hesitates. Then he nods and glances at you, tilting his head toward Soonyoung subtly. You nod and Mingyu backs up a few paces, keeping his eyes on you until he's sure that you'll be fine with Soonyoung before he turns, sulky and irritated but knowing that Soonyoung needs space and recently, you're the only one who can reason with him.

Soonyoung looks wrecked, his expression apologetic. He's trembling a little, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach for you but can't or won't, his scent a mess. His pupils are blown wide, somewhere between fighting whatever instinct is making him so cagey and panic that he's upset you - he hates upsetting anyone, but most of all he hates when you're mad.

"Can I…?" He drifts off and gestures vaguely in your direction.

He's asking permission, deferring to you completely, and you can see in his eyes that he'll accept whatever answer you give. That he knows he just got put in his place and he's not going to push.

You let out a breath, some of the tension leaving your shoulders. "Yeah. Come here.

He crosses the distance between you in two quick strides, but when he reaches you, he's careful, his arms coming around you slowly enough to give you time to pull away. You don't and instead let him pull you close so he can bury his face in your neck, breathing you in and scenting you enough to make you both dizzy and clinging to one another. Your lashes flutter, a rush going through you as he brushes his nose against the softness of your neck, blood turning molten.

"I'm sorry," he whispers against your skin, and his voice is broken. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry."

Your hands come up automatically, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his back. You can feel the knobs of his spine through his shirt, can feel the way his muscles are locked tight with tension.

"I know you are," you murmur. "But you need to figure out what's wrong. This isn't like you."

You can feel the way he's trying to calm himself down, trying to match his breathing to yours, trying to use your presence to anchor himself. You feel a pang in your chest, hugging him a little tighter. Soonyoung is always hard on himself - harder than he needs to be - and he hates fighting with anyone, especially Mingyu. Especially in front of you.

You guide him back to the loungers, settling onto one and pulling him down beside you. He goes willingly, curling into your side like he's trying to make himself smaller, his head resting on your shoulder. The afternoon sun has shifted, the shade of the cabana stretching longer across the pool deck, and the water has gone still and mirror-smooth in the absence of any breeze.

"You should talk to Cheol," you murmur.

Soonyoung nods against you. "Okay."

You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the way he relaxes incrementally with each pass, the tension in his shoulders easing degree by degree. The strands are soft, slightly damp from the heat and humidity, and you work your fingers through them slowly, deliberately, the way you know he likes. His scent is still sharp underneath, still carrying that acidic edge that speaks to whatever is happening inside his body, but it levels out now, teakwood baked under sun.

"Better?" you ask softly.

He makes a small sound of agreement, his arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah."

-

Someone knocking on your door pulls you from sleep. You squint at the clock on the nightstand, the blurry numbers telling you it's well past three am. Your bed is warm, blankets tangled around you and the faint smell of Jeonghan lingering from the hoodie of his you have shoved under your pillow. You sit up, rubbing your eyes as you get your bearings.

"Come in," you croak.

Before the door even opens, you know who it is. You can smell Soonyoung before the door fully opens, but when it does, it hits you like a physical force. It's his normal warm, woody smell but there's something new now, something hot and thick and almost overwhelming. It makes your mouth water, omega instincts kicking in, warmth pooling low in your belly.

Soonyoung steps into your room and closes the door behind him with a soft click, and in the dim light filtering through your curtains from the streetlamp outside, you can see that something is very, very wrong. Or right, by the smell of him.

He's shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose sleep pants that hang low on his hips, skin gleaming with a thin sheen of sweat despite how cold the house is at night. You can see the way his chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow. His hair is a mess like he's been pulling at it again, and when he looks at you, his eyes are dark and dilated, pupils blown so wide there's barely any iris left.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is rough, wrecked. "I know it's late."

You push the blankets aside and shift to the edge of your bed, feet finding the cool hardwood floor to stand. "What's wrong?"

His entire body reacts to the sound of your voice. He sways slightly toward you, nostril flaring as he scents you, a shiver rippling through him. You take a step toward him and he makes a pitiful sound, looking entirely at war with himself.

"I feel like I'm burning up," he mumbles. "Feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin if I don't see you."

"Come here."

It's a command - softly given, but a command none the less. He listens like it's instinctual, crossing the room to you in three strides. You feel the heat radiating off of him when he stops in front of you and you reach up without thinking, pressing your palm to his chest. He's fever-hot under your touch, his heart hammering in his chest.

"You're burning up," you say softly, frowning.

"I know." His hand comes up to cover yours, pressing your palm harder against his chest like he needs the contact, needs the pressure. His eyes close and he takes a shuddering breath. "You smell so good. You always smell good but right now it's maddening."

Something clicks into place in your mind. The aggression. The clinginess. The way his scent has been getting sharper and hotter for days. The fever. The way he's looking at you right now like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

"Soonyoung," you say slowly, carefully. "Are you in rut?"

His eyes snap open, meeting yours, and for a long moment he just stares at you. You can see him processing the question, see the moment the realization hits him. His expression shifts from confusion to understanding to something that looks almost like relief.

"Oh. Um. It does feel like that."

"But it's early, isn't it?" You keep your hand on his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heartbeat under your palm. "You're not supposed to go into a rut for another few weeks."

"Right." He seems to think about something and he makes a small sound, leaning into your touch. "I've never had an omega in the house though."

"Oh."

"I think having you here made my body kind of freak out and decide it was time even if it wasn't."

You can feel your own body responding to his proximity, to the thick, heady scent of him in rut. Your omega instincts are screaming at you to help, to soothe, to give him what he needs. But more than that, you want to. You want to pull him into your bed, want to feel his fever-hot skin against yours, want to take care of him the way every cell in your body is telling you to.

"Let me help you," you say, and your voice comes out softer than you intended, almost pleading.

His eyes go wide. "What?"

"Let me help you through it." You slide your hand up from his chest to cup his jaw, feeling the way he leans into your touch like he can't help himself. "You don't have to do this alone. You don't have to suffer through it."

"I can't ask you to do that. You haven't been here that long and haven't been through one…"

"It's pretty instinctual. I'll be okay."

He's trembling now, and you can't tell if it's from the fever or from nerves or from the effort of holding himself back. "What if I hurt you? What if I can't control myself?"

"Soonyoung, you won't hurt me."

"You don't know that." But even as he says it, he's leaning closer, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. His breath is hot against your lips, coming in short, uneven pants. "You don't know what it's like. What I'm feeling right now."

"Then take it," you whisper. "Take what you need."

He makes a sound low in his throat, something between a whimper and a growl, and his hands come up to grip your waist. His fingers dig in, not quite hard enough to hurt but firm enough that you can feel the desperation in his touch.

"But what if-"

You cut him off by kissing him.

It's soft at first, just a gentle press of your lips against his to turn off his spinning thoughts, but the moment you make contact, something in him breaks. He makes a desperate sound against your mouth and kisses you back like he's drowning and you're air. His lips are fever-hot and slightly chapped, and he tastes like mint toothpaste and something underneath that's purely him, purely alpha, purely Soonyoung.

His hands tighten on your waist and he pulls you closer, eliminating the last few inches of space between you. Your chest presses against his and you can feel the heat of him even through your thin sleep shirt, can feel the way his heart is racing, can feel the slight tremor in his muscles as he holds himself back from taking more than you're offering.

But you want him to take more. You want him to let go.

You part your lips and he groans, his tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes heat pool low in your belly. The kiss deepens, turns hungry, and you can feel the moment his control starts to slip. His hands slide from your waist to your hips to grip your ass, pulling you flush against him. You can feel him harden against your stomach, the way he's already straining against the low slung sweat pants.

Knowing he wants you this much makes your head spin. You omega preens and you shiver, sucking his tongue into your mouth greedily, driven by a more powerful want than you have ever felt in your life. He responds in kind, walking you backward toward the bed, feet tangling until you're falling backward and he's caging you in.

For a moment, he just hovers over you, his arms bracketing your head, his chest heaving as he stares down at you with those dark, dilated eyes. You reach up and trace his jawline and he leans into the touch, eyes fluttering. You've always thought he had the prettiest eyes, dark and hungry and so full of life. Right now they're burning with something hotter than you've ever seen and it makes you sing.

"You're so beautiful," he says, and his voice is wrecked. "I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long."

"Then have me," you whisper. "Take me."

"Okay," he whispers. "Okay."

He kisses you again, slower this time, his lips moving against you with gentle purpose like he's memorizing the shape of your mouth. His hands start to wander, sliding up your sides, pushing your sleep shirt up inch by inch until his palms are pressed against your bare skin.

The contact makes you both gasp. His hands are so hot they're almost burning, and everywhere he touches feels like it's on fire. He explores slowly, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, the dip of your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts.

"Can I?" He asks, twisting a fistfull of your shirt in his hand. You nod and he grins.

He sits back on his heels and helps you pull the shirt over your head, and the moment it's gone, his eyes go even darker. He stares at you like he's never seen anything more beautiful, his gaze tracking over every inch of exposed skin.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're perfect. You're so fucking perfect."

He leans down and presses a kiss to your collarbone, then another to the swell of your breast, then another to your stomach. His lips are hot and soft, and every place he kisses feels like it's been branded. He works his way down slowly, kissing and licking and occasionally scraping his teeth gently against your skin in a way that makes you arch up into him, his name broken and shaky on your lips.

Soonyoung's sounds are equally as needy, groaning low in his throat in a way that makes your thighs close around his waist, the ache between your legs growing despite the way his hips pin yours to the bed. Friction. You need friction but any thoughts of asking for it vanish from your head when he leans down and takes a nipple into his mouth, the heat and wet slide of his tongue making you cry out.

Your hands fly to his hair, threading through the messy strands, holding him against you as he sucks and licks and occasionally scrapes his teeth gently across the sensitive bud. The sensation is overwhelming, almost too much, and you can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass of his tongue.

"So responsive," he murmurs, almost to himself. "So perfect for me."

He gives the same attention to your other breast, his hand coming up to play with the one his mouth just left, and the dual sensation makes your head spin. You're panting now, your hips shifting restlessly against the mattress, seeking friction that you need so badly.

"Soonyoung," you gasp. "Please."

"Please what?" He lifts his head to look at you, and his lips are wet and swollen, his eyes dark with hunger. "Tell me what you need."

"Touch me. Please touch me."

His hand slides down your stomach, his fingers light and maddening. When he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he pauses again, waiting for permission. You lift your hips in answer, and he hooks his fingers into both your shorts and underwear, pulling them down your legs in one smooth motion.

Cool air hits your overheated pussy and you whine. Soonyoung growls in response, looking down where your thighs threaten to shut. He keeps you pressed open, his hands firm on your thighs as he makes an appreciative sound low in his chest, almost a purr.

"You're so wet," he says, his voice rough. "Is this all for me?"

"Yes," you breathe. "All for you."

He stays kneeled there on the bed, his hand tracing down your thigh until he’s sliding his fingers through your sticky, heated folds. He explores slowly, the drag of his fingers making you tremble, thighs twitching until he presses gently against your clit and you let out a high-pitched sound, the contact sending a bloom of warmth spreading through you.

"There?" He asks and you can hear the smile in his voice, smug.

"Yes. Please."

Soonyoung obeys, circling your clit slowly, increasing the pressure as you buck under him. You feel yourself dripping, a wet mess as he plays with you, making little appreciative sounds as his slick fingers work you higher until you're tangling your hands in the bed and writhing under him.

When he slides one finger inside you, you cry out, your hands fisting in the blankets beneath you. It feels good but you want more, immediately asking him for more, mumbling and messy and lightheaded and overwhelmed with the thick scent of him and the heat of his finger pressing against your front wall.

"Yeah?" He asks. "You can take another?"

"Yes. Please. More."

He adds a second finger and the stretch is delicious, perfect. He curls them inside you, searching, and when he finds that spot that makes you see stars, you nearly sob with relief.

"There," you gasp. "Right there. Oh god, Soonyoung, right there."

He works you with single-minded focus, his fingers curling and stroking while his thumb circles your clit, and you can feel yourself getting close, the pleasure building higher and higher until you're teetering right on the edge.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice low and rough. "Come for me. Let me see you come."

You turn your head to the side, pressing it into the mattress as your hips roll toward his hand, letting him fuck his fingers into you until you're coming around them, clamping down hard on his fingers. He moans with you, pumping his fingers through it as you squeeze and squeeze and squeeze, the pleasure so hot you stop breathing for a second.

"Too much," you gasp, and he immediately gentles, his fingers slipping out of you carefully.

He brings his hand to his mouth and sucks his fingers clean, his eyes closing as he hums in delight. You stare at him, panting and sweaty, sheets sticky against your skin as he opens his eyes, the moon reflecting off them.

"Taste so fucking good," he growls. "Bet you taste better from the source, but if I don't fuck you right now I might lose my mind."

"Please," you beg. "Want it so bad."

He makes a desperate sound and reaches for his sleep pants, shoving them down his hips. His cock springs free, hard and flushed and leaking, and the sight of it makes your mouth water. He's thick and throbbing, and you watch like you're hypnotized as he grips himself, stroking slowly a few times as he settles on the bed between your legs.

Soonyoung leans forward, one hand braced beside your head, the other guiding himself to your wet cunt where he pauses, swiping the head of his cock through your slick folds. You whine and he grins, clearly loving the effect he has on you.

"You sure?" He asks after a minute, the head of his cock notching on your entrance but not pushing in. "We can stop."

"I want you," you assure him, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Please, alpha."

Your words have an immediate effect. He shivers, a ripple going through him as he growls low in his throat and presses in. You're wet enough that he slides in smoothly, but you can still feel every inch of him, can feel the way your body has to adjust to accommodate his girth. The drag of him against your walls enough to make you gasp.

"Fuck," he breaths, pressing in until he bottoms out. "You feel incredible. So tight. So perfect." He rolls his hips experimentally, grinding deep, and the pressure against that spot inside you makes you cry out. "Yeah, there it is. I can feel you clenching around me already."

You can feel the fever-heat of his skin, the way his muscles are taut with restraint. His scent wraps around you, that deep teakwood gone sharp and heady with rut, overwhelming your senses until all you can smell is him. It makes your head spin, makes you want to pull him closer, to drown in it.

"Soonyoung," you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Move. Please move."

"Impatient," he says with a grin, but there's heat in his eyes.

He pulls out so slowly that you can feel every ridge and vein of his cock, all the way until just the head of him is inside of you before he snaps his hips forward, driving deep in one smooth thrust, and the sudden fullness makes you cry out. He doesn't give you time to adjust before he's pulling out and driving in again, setting a rhythm that's deep and steady and absolutely devastating. Each thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

"Oh fuck," you groan, going tight around him. "Fuck fuck fuck."

The sounds of the wet slide of him fucking into you fills the room backtracked by his breathing, ragged and uneven as he groans everytime you clench around him. You dig your nails in, scraping down his back to his waist where you urge him faster, your fingers sliding against his sweaty skin.

"That's fucking it," he pants. "Taking my cock so well, huh? Were you made to take it?"

You nod, his words making heat flood through you, making you clench around him involuntarily. He feels it and grins, that cocky, confident smile that makes your heart race.

"You like that?" he asks, his pace never faltering. "Like hearing how perfect you are? How good you feel wrapped around me?"

"Yes," you gasp as he thrusts hard, jostling you up the bed. "Fuck. Yes, Soonyoung."

He shifts the angle slightly, pressing deeper, and suddenly every thrust is dragging against your g-spot with devastating precision. The pleasure builds rapidly, a tight coil of heat low in your belly that winds tighter with each movement. He reaches between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with just the right speed.

"I can feel you getting close," he says, and there's satisfaction in his voice. "Can feel the way this perfect pussy is clenching. You gonna come for me?"

"Yes!"

You can feel yourself climbing higher, the pleasure building to an almost unbearable peak, your cunt clenching hard, breath hitching as you start to shake. He drives in harder, finger speeding up until you're standing on the edge of your orgasm, breath held, waiting to dive over.

"Come on," he murmurs, leaning down to nip your heard. "Come for me, baby."

You do, the orgasm hitting you hard. It steals your breath and your entire body locks up as you cry out his name, your pussy clamping down on him. His rhythm stutters immediately as he groans, but he doesn't stop, working you through it until you're shaking and feeling like you're going to come apart again, unsure if your orgasm has stopped or if it's another one starting.

"I can't-"

"You can," he urges, breath hot against your ear. "You're going to give me another one, baby."

He pulls out suddenly, and the loss makes you whimper. But before you can protest, he's flipping you over onto your stomach, his hands gripping your hips and pulling them up.

"On your knees," he commands, and the authority in his voice makes you obey without thinking.

When he slides in from behind, the new angle makes him feel deeper. You can feel him everywhere, the stretch, the fullness, the way he's pressed against every single spot inside of you. His hands grip your hips hard enough to dimple the skin, holding you exactly where he wants you as he fucks you in earnest, hips snapping and bed hitting the wall.

"Fuck, look at you," he groans. "Taking me so deep. You're perfect. So fucking perfect."

One of his hands slides up your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades, and you let yourself collapse forward onto your forearms. The change in angle makes him hit even deeper, makes you cry out with the intensity of it.

"Too much?" he asks, but there's a teasing edge to his voice. He knows it's not too much. He knows you can take it.

"No," you gasp. "More. Please, more."

"Greedy," he says with a laugh, but he gives you what you want.

His pace increases, his thrusts getting harder, faster, and you can feel another orgasm building already. It's different this time, deeper and more intense, starting low in your stomach and spreading outward like fire.

His hand slides around to find your clit again, and the added stimulation makes you sob with pleasure. You're so sensitive, so overwhelmed, but you don't want him to stop. You never want him to stop.

"Come on," he urges, his voice strained now. "Give me another one. Want to feel you come apart on my cock again."

The orgasm builds and builds, the pressure almost unbearable, and when it finally breaks you scream into the pillow. Your whole body shakes with it, your inner walls clenching around him so hard you can feel him groan, can feel the way his rhythm falters.

"Fuck," he gasps. "Fuck, you feel so good."

His hips stutter, his grip on your hips tightening almost painfully, and then he's coming with a groan that sounds like it's torn from his chest. You can feel the heat of him spilling inside you, can feel the pulse of his cock, and the sensation triggers another small aftershock that makes you whimper.

He collapses over you, his chest pressed against your back, his weight pressing you into the mattress. You can feel his heart racing against your spine, can feel the way he's trembling slightly, can feel his breath hot and uneven against your shoulder.

For a second, the two of you lay there like that, hearts pounding in sync, the messy slide of your bodies warm and comforting, his scent blooming around you as the mess between your thighs runs down your legs and onto the mattress. You don't care, going near catatonic as Soonyoung presses closer to your scent gland, his tongue darting out to taste you. It makes you moan and push back into him, wanting more and he laughs.

He shifts slightly, starting to pull out, but you make a sound of protest. "Not yet. Stay."

"I'm crushing you," he points out, but he doesn't move.

"Don't care," you say. "Want to feel you."

He makes a soft sound and settles more comfortably against you, his arms wrapping around your waist. He's still inside you, softening but not pulling out, and there's something intimate about it that makes your chest feel tight.

You lie there in the darkness, your bodies cooling, your breathing gradually evening out. You can feel the way his scent is already starting to shift, still hot and thick with rut, but not quite as sharp, not quite as overwhelming.

"How long do ruts usually last?" you ask quietly.

"Three days, usually. Sometimes four." He presses a kiss to your shoulder. "But I don't know if this one will be normal. Everything about it has been weird so far."

"We'll figure it out," you tell him.

He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is soft, vulnerable. "Thank you. For this. For helping me. For not being scared of me."

"I would never be afraid of you."

"Even after the past few days?"

"Especially after the past few days." You turn your head to look at him over your shoulder, and even in the dim light, you can see the uncertainty in his eyes. "You were in pre-rut and you were still gentle with me. You were still asking permission. You were still you. That tells me everything I need to know."

He closes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, and when he opens them again, they're suspiciously bright. "I don't deserve you."

"Shut up," you say, but there's no heat in it. "You deserve everything good. And I'm going to make sure you get it."

He kisses your shoulder, soft and sweet and perfect. When he pulls back, you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Round two?" he asks, and you can already feel him starting to harden again inside you.

You laugh, the sound surprised and delighted. "Already?"

"Rut," he says, rolling his hips experimentally and making you gasp. "Told you it was going to be intense. Think you can keep up?"

"Is that a challenge?"

"Maybe. Think you can handle it?"

"I can handle anything you give me," you tell him, and you mean it.

"Good," he says, his voice dropping to that low, commanding tone that makes heat pool in your belly. "Because I'm not done with you yet. Not even close."

"Prove it."

"Oh, I will," he promises. "We've got all night. And all day tomorrow. And the day after that."

"Good," you tell him, rolling your hips and feeling the way he's already fully hard again inside you. "Because I'm not letting you go."

- The knock comes around late morning, soft but insistent.

You're half-awake when you hear it, drifting in that comfortable space between sleep and consciousness where everything feels warm and syrupy. Soonyoung is sprawled across your chest, his head tucked under your chin, one arm thrown over your waist. His breathing is deep and even, his body finally relaxed after taking you four more times throughout the night on and off. There's an ache between your legs but it feels good, feels right. Like you're right where you should be, pressed against a member of your pack, scents twisted together.

The knock comes again, a little louder this time.

"Come in," you call quietly, not wanting to startle Soonyoung awake too abruptly.

The door opens and Jeonghan steps inside, cradling bottles of water and bowls of rice and chicken. You realize it's what you both need to sustain yourself through Soonyoung's rut and you're immediately grateful, shooting Jeonghan a tired smile. He smirks in response, trailing toward where you and Soonyoung are tangled on the bed.

Soonyoung senses Jeonghan's presence, eyes snapping open. He's up on his elbows in an instant, his body going rigid, and a low growl rumbles from deep in his chest. His lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl that's pure territorial aggression, his pupils dilating as he positions himself between you and Jeonghan like a shield.

Jeonghan doesn't even flinch. Instead, he sets the food and water down on the dresser and turns to Soonyoung, face calm and placid before his face shifts, lips pulling back to bare his teeth at Soonyoung in kind. There's no anger in it, but rather a reminder to Soonyoung that Jeonghan is number two in this pack and Soonyoung's senior and he is not intimidated.

Soonyoung's growl falters. You can feel the moment he recognizes the dynamic, the moment his rut-addled brain processes the hierarchy and accepts it. His teeth retract, his lips closing over them, and he settles back down slightly, though his arm never leaves your waist.

"Keep the teeth away," Jeonghan snorts, walking toward the door. "Congrats on finally figuring it out. You cannot imagine the relief I felt seeing you crawl up here last night."

He turns and exits the room without another word, closing the door quietly behind him.

For a moment, there's silence. You can feel Soonyoung's heart still racing, but his anger is immediately replaced with a sheepish laugh and him awkwardly scratching the back of his head, looking at you.

"Sorry," he laughs. "I've never done that before."

"It's okay," you tell him, reaching back to run your fingers through his hair. "It was cute."

"Cute?" He scoffs. "I'm not cute. I'm tough. I have teeth."

"Uh huh." You lay back on the bed, looking up at him, grinning. "Use those big teeth on me then."

"Yeah?" he asks, his voice dropping to something low and hungry. "You want me to?"

"Yes."

That's all the invitation he needs. He moves fast, rolling you onto your back and pinning you to the mattress in one fluid motion. His hands find your wrists, pressing them gently but firmly into the pillows on either side of your head. His body settles over yours, his weight pressing you down into the bed, and you can feel him already hardening against your thigh.

His teeth find the sensitive skin of your neck, just below your ear, and he bites down gently, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough that you feel it, hard enough that it sends a spike of heat straight through you. He works his way down your neck, marking you with his teeth, and every bite is followed by a soothing lick of his tongue.

"I'll show you teeth," he mutters, scraping them over the curve of your breast.

THE KITCHEN IS PAINTED IN SHADES OF BLUE AT 5:47 IN THE MORNING. As the only resident of said kitchen this early in the morning the past two weeks, you've learned that the pre-dawn light that spills through the wide windows above the sink turns everything soft and cool in the morning. The white subway tile back splash starts off a muted grey before the sun finally melts away the blue and turns it bright white each morning.

This morning, the honey-colored cabinets look muted, nearly colorless as the sun hides beyond the horizon. You take another bite of cereal, listening to the old house settle around you. The house has taken getting used to - not because it's ancient, but because it's old enough to feel lived in and have its own quirks of floorboards that squeak, doors that click shut because the hinges are a little loose, pipes that groan when one of the thirteen people upstairs showers late at night.

It's a big house. It has to be, to fit the pack of thirteen - fourteen now, including you. Six alphas, seven betas, and you. A single omega, new and a little out of your comfort zone as you try to figure the ins and outs of a pack who have been together so long, they don't even have to think about how to navigate one another. They just do, planets who have been in rotation of one another for so long that it's as easy as breathing.

Where they've had years together, you've only had two weeks. It still feels like you're learning an entire new language - not because any of them are difficult or unkind, but rather because there's a difference between being welcomed into a pack and belonging, and you're somewhere in the strange gap between the two.

Unfortunately, the omega part of your brain doesn't really understand the distinction between the two, even though you do. You get that it'll take time to integrate yourself fully and to fit in as intimately as the others do with one another, but your instincts don't have that nuance. All your omega knows is that you should be surrounded by a pack, that you should be scented and claimed and constantly near people who want you.

Instead, you're sitting by yourself in a kitchen that feels too big and your instincts are ramming against you to go knock on a door and ask for company. You can't, though. Not that they wouldn't let you in - they would. You know they would. But the small fraction of the what if keeps you rooted to your seat. What if they end up not liking you? What if this doesn't work out? What if they decide they don't need an omega after all?

You stare at the cereal in your bowl, now soggy. It's something honey-flavored and generic that you took out of the pack pantry without looking. Mingyu swore you could take anything out of the pantry and fridge - anything in the house. What’s theirs is yours until you start filling the house with your favorite things, but like the anxiety of asking one of them to spend time with you, you can't seem to figure out how to ask for cinnamon sugar cereal or sweet cream coffee creamer.

Another bite confirms your cereal is as soggy as it looks. You ignore it, watching the kitchen in the morning stillness. It still smells like cinnamon and brown sugar from something Mingyu baked yesterday. Dishes pile in the sink and you know Seungcheol is going to have a field day when he sees it, adamant about dishes being done each night.

Under the layers of the smell of the kitchen is them. You're still trying to pick out the strands of scents that belong to each member, but thirteen scents layered over the top of one another is dizzying and hard to get used to, each one blending into something that you recognize as almost pack. Pack but not.

There are a few you can pick out individually, at least. You know Seungcheol's cedar and smoke, the head alpha easier to scent than the others. Jeonghan's citrus and something that you can't put your finger on. Mingyu's clean laundry smell with a hint of something soft and woody. The others remain a bit of a mess, but you're determined to try, hoping that maybe untangling each scent will lead you to untangling them and finding a sense of belonging that you'd hoped to find here and that they said they'd wanted you to find.

You try not to think about what happens if you don't find a place here. Though it's actually entirely normal not to, you don't know if you could survive that kind of embarrassment. You had already been a bit wary of using omega placement services as it was, desperate to find a pack after years of living on your own and unwilling to go back to living with your all-beta family in your tiny town where nothing much ever happened.

Thirteen pack members is a lot after coming from something small, something lonely. You'd been thrilled at the idea, realizing that you'd never be alone again, that you'd always have someone to lean on. Now you're here, in a house full of thirteen people who are supposed to be your pack, and you're still eating breakfast alone. Still sitting on the outside of their easy familiarity. Still trying to figure out how to bridge the gap between being new and being home.

Creaking stairs catch your attention. You perk up, freezing as you listen to the soft steps of someone coming down the stairs and toward the kitchen. You smell the cedar and smoke before you see him, your brain getting a little foggy before Seungcheol ever steps into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

He pulls up short when he sees you. He's surprised, and you realize he hadn't smelled you before he walked in, unused to having an omega or an outsider in his house. He looks devastating this morning in sweatpants slung low on his hips and a t-shirt that's tight enough to show off the width of him and strength in his chest. An alpha not only built strong mentally but physically, someone who feels and looks dependable, someone who looks entirely too soft and swollen and pretty in the dawn light.

He blinks at you. His eyes are dark and a little unfocused, still soft with sleep, but there's something sharp underneath. It makes you sit up straighter, you body thrumming as he flicks on the light. You squint, but when your eyes adjust, he's still looking at you with an expression he doesn't understand.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?" He asks, voice rough with sleep. "Are you alright?"

"What? Oh." You lower your spoon to the bowl, hyperaware of him. "Sorry, I'm an early riser in new places. I can go if you need the kitchen, sorry-"

"No, stay."

It's not a command, but his voice is firm enough that you nod instantly, relaxing a little. He moves further into the room, carrying the heavy presence of a head alpha with him. You can feel it in the way he moves, the way he takes up space and the gravity around him that has nothing to do with physical mass and everything to do with him.

You grip the edge of the counter, trying to stay composed as your omega instincts kick in. The last thing you want is for him to think you're awkward or needy. You don't want him to know how much you're struggling with this transition more than you should be. You're supposed to be settling in and comfortable by now, but you're not.

It scares you.

"Coffee?" he asks, already turning it on.

"No, I'm okay."

He hums, opening the cabinet next to the coffee maker. You watch him scan the mugs until he finds a specific one and selects it. You wonder if they have assigned mugs, if there's a hierarchy in the cabinet beyond your understanding like so many other things here.

Silence hangs between you as he makes his coffee, turning to lean backward against the counter with the mug tucked between his hands. His gaze drifts back to you and he gives you a soft smile that you tentatively return. The attention makes you feel exposed, like he's looking at you and sees right through the core of you despite only having been in the same room for a few minutes.

"Couldn't sleep?" You ask, desperately trying to fill the silence.

"Something like that." He gestures toward you. "What about you? Do you do this a lot? Waking up early and sitting alone in the dark, I mean."

"I guess, yeah. I have a hard time sleeping in new places and I don't like to just lay there."

"Mmm." There's a pause, and you can feel him still watching you. Still assessing. "You eat breakfast alone a lot too?"

You glance down at the bowl. "Sometimes, I guess? I'm usually up before anyone else."

"How long have you been up?"

"Maybe an hour?"

"And you've just been sitting here by yourself."

It's not quite a question, but it feels like one. You glance up at him, trying to figure out where this is going, but his expression is unreadable. His scent shifts and you realize what it is. Protectiveness. He doesn't like that you're sitting here by yourself, and the realization makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"I don't mind," you murmur, looking down again to hide the sudden flush you feel.

He hums. "I'm hungry." You look up, confused at the statement. He points to your bowl. "What are you having?"

"Cereal. I think it's honey? I didn't want to wake anyone up by cooking."

"Cereal sounds good. Honey is Chan's. Good choice."

He moves with purpose then, crossing to the cabinets to pull down a bowl. Your eyes catch on the line of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under the cotton tee, the way it rides up just slightly as he reaches for the milk in the fridge, revealing a tiny strip of skin at his lower back that makes your mouth go dry. You look away quickly, back down at your soggy cereal, and try to get your breathing under control.

You watch as he fixes himself a bowl of cereal and strides over to you, dragging a stool up next to you. You blink in surprise. You expected him to sit across from you, but instead he plops down next to you close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off his skin and close enough that the cedar and smoke of him makes your eyes flutter. His knee brushes yours as he adjusts and you have to physically stop yourself from leaning into him, your nervous system lighting up at the proximity.

"So," he says, pulling you from the static of your thoughts. "Tell me about yourself."

You blink at him. "Like what?"

"Anything." He takes another bite of cereal like this is completely normal. Like he wakes up at five in the morning to eat with strangers all the time. "Where are you from again?"

"Small town." You stir your cereal. The milk swirls. "Really small. Everyone-knows-everyone small."

"And you left."

"For college. I came back for a few years after but it didn't feel like I fit in anymore so I moved to the city, got an apartment by myself. Thought I wanted independence and freedom to figure things out on my own terms." You take a bite of cereal just to have something to do with your hands. "Turns out being alone and being independent aren't the same thing. I was just lonely. Really lonely. Didn't even realize how bad it was until I started looking into pack placement programs and well… now I’m here trying it out, I guess."

Seungcheol goes quiet. When you glance over, his expression is soft. "How long were you alone?"

"Three years."

"That's a long time for anyone, not specifically an omega."

"Yeah." You swallow. "I didn't know what I was missing. I'm still trying to figure it out, I think and how I… fit in."

"You're doing fine," he says.

"I eat breakfast alone every morning."

"Not this morning, though."

The words are simple and direct. When you look up at him, he's watching you with something warm in his expression. Something that makes your chest tight.

"No," you say quietly. "Not this morning."

He gives you a small smile that transforms his face. Suddenly, he's not the intimidating pack alpha - he's soft and warm, more like a person than someone you have to impress or earn the trust of. You relax a little, stirring your milk aimlessly.

"What about you?" you ask. "What made you want to lead a pack this big?"

He huffs a quiet laugh. "Honestly? I didn't set out to. It just kind of happened. We all met in college, started spending time together, and it felt right. Natural. Then more people joined and suddenly I was the one everyone looked to when decisions needed to be made. Sometimes I wonder if I'm doing it right. If I'm taking care of everyone the way I should be."

"I think you're doing a good job," you say. "Everyone seems happy. Settled."

He looks at you and gives you a look, one brow raised. "Everyone except you."

His words make you wince. Not because they're accusatory, but because you didn't think he noticed. You realize it's a bit of an insult for you to have doubted him - Seungcheol's entire role as the head alpha is to understand his pack, to balance the personalities, to lead. That includes you, despite not feeling like it, and you realize that he's taken notice and doesn't intend to let it go.

"We don't eat alone unless we want to in my pack," he says simply.

My pack. The possessiveness in those two words makes something flutter in your chest and you bite the inside of your cheek, trying to stop yourself from grinning, to stop yourself from getting too hopeful.

"I didn't want to be a burden," you admit.

"You're not," he promises. "You're a part of our pack which means you're never a burden. We want you here. We wouldn't have gone through the trouble of the agency and placement if we didn't think there was something missing. You were missing and we're happy to gave you, even if it's a little awkward at first."

You can feel your heart beating too fast, the warmth of him making you dizzy. Seungcheol doesn't lean closer, but you feel him closer, the smell of him overwhelming and comforting. You realize he's doing it on purpose, pheromones comforting you like he should. You glance up and he has a knowing look on his face, a little smug and a little endeared and you find yourself smiling.

"Thank you," you manage. "For noticing."

"Always," he murmurs.

You finish your cereal together as the sky outside continues to lighten. For the first time since you moved into this house, you don't feel quite so alone.

-

It's Tuesday in the middle of the day when Seungcheol interrupts your next meal. You look up as he walks onto the back porch, the apple covered in peanut butter in your hand pausing as he sits down next to you at the table. He's got a full plate with him, rice, chicken and vegetables piled high as he sighs and settles in comfortably.

"Hey," he says casually, cracking open the can of soda he's brought along.

"Hi," you say slowly, eyeing him.

"I am starving. Wanted something sweet."

You look at his plate. Then back at him. Then back at the plate.

"Seungcheol, that is not sweet."

"What?"

"You said you wanted something sweet. That's chicken."

He blinks and looks down like he's just now noticing what's on it. You press your lips together as he scratches the side of his neck, nodding. "Right. I meant I wanted something sweet after this. You like ice cream?"

"I do."

"Great." He leans over, peering at your apple slices as his shoulders brush yours, sending a spark through you. "What are you having?"

"Apple and peanut butter."

"Hmmm. Classic." He starts cutting into his chicken as you watch him, eyes narrowed. "How's your day?"

You're still processing the fact that he claimed to be starving for something sweet while holding a savory meal, but you answer anyway, amused.

"Good. I've been reading."

"Yeah? What are you reading?"

Taking another bite of your apple, you tell him. Seungcheol is an engaged listener, nodding and asking follow up questions as he devours his plate. Somehow, time passes easily. Even after he's cleared his plate, he leans back into his chair, foot up on the seat as he tells you about one of his favorite books growing up, dimples appearing every time he smiles.

You love his dimples, watching them as he ducks his head and laughs, long hair falling in his eyes. You smile too, unable to help it around him. He's infectious like that, easily shifting the mood from something tense to warm or lonely to comfortable, like an alpha should.

Eventually, he sighs heavily, stretching. You try not to notice the way his shirt peels up, revealing the barest hint of soft stomach before he drops his arms back down and grins at you.

"I have to get back to work," he says. "But this was nice. We should do it again."

"That would be nice."

He smiles and gets up, clearing his plate and reaching to grab your empty one without much preamble. You watch him go inside, shaking your head when you realize that he never wanted something sweet in the first place.

-

You've been awake for three hours.

It's not insomnia, exactly. It's more like your brain won't shut off and you keep laying in bed replaying conversations, analyzing the way Seungcheol looked at you on Wednesday, wondering if you're reading too much into the fact that Mingyu sat close enough to scent you yesterday but didn't, if any of this means anything or if you're just desperate enough to convince yourself it does. As usual, your brain is doing laps, restless and unsettled, and the quiet of the house at midnight isn't helping. It's making you hyper-aware of how alone you are in your room, how easy it would be to just stay here without anyone noticing and how good you've gotten at it.

So you give up on sleep. Again.

The kitchen is dark when you pad downstairs in your pajamas, the hum of the refrigerator going as you open it up, squinting against the light. You don't bother to turn the overhead lights on, the moon filtering in through the big windows over the sink enough to get by. You steal the honey cereal - Chan's - again from the pantry, and fix a bowl before sitting at the counter, sighing as you take a bite.

Your phone buzzes on the counter, startling you. You flip it over, squinting in the dark as you frown when you read it.

SEUNGCHEOL [12:15 AM]: What are you doing?

Your stomach does something complicated.

YOU [12:15 AM]: Eating cereal… why?

SEUNGCHEOL [12:16 AM] Be right there

You set your phone down slowly, your heart doing something erratic in your chest. He heard you come downstairs. His room is above the kitchen - you know this now - and realize that he must have heard you snooping around down here like he did that first morning he found you eating in the kitchen at five in the morning.

A minute later, he appears in the kitchen doorway and your brain short circuits a little. He's in soft cotton pajama pants and a t-shirt that's clearly old and pulled tight across his chest. His hair is completely disheveled, sticking up in about fifteen different directions, and he's rumpled and sleepy enough to tell you that he absolutely was asleep until he heard you.

"Hey," he croaks.

"I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," he lies.

"You didn't have to come down, Seungcheol."

"I did. And you can call me Cheol, you know. Seungcheol makes it sound like I'm in trouble."

He moves to the cabinet, and grabs a bowl, making himself a matching snack before he sits down close enough that his thigh brushes yours. You shiver and if he notices, he has the decency not to point it out.

"Maybe you are in trouble," you mutter, taking a bite.

"Yeah? What for?"

"Being a liar who lies. You heard me and came down."

He grins and takes a bite of cereal. He chews thoughtfully for a few seconds, ignoring your stare. "So what if I did? I wanted to join you, so I did. Anyway, trouble sleeping again?"

"Kind of." You push cereal around your bowl, not quite meeting his eyes. "My brain won't shut off."

"Yeah?" He shifts slightly, and you're hyperaware of every point where his body is close to yours. "What's it doing?"

"Thinking."

"Pack stuff?"

"Maybe." You finally look at him. His eyes are soft in the moonlight. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

He doesn't ask what you mean. Doesn't pretend to be confused. Just smiles into his cereal, and the smile is so knowing that your face goes hot.

"Yep."

"Why?" Your voice is barely a whisper. "Why are you doing this?"

He sets his spoon down. Turns to face you fully, and there's something serious in his expression now, something that makes you sit up and pay attention to him.

"I told you already," he says softly. "We don't eat alone unless we want to. Do you want to?" You hesitate only a moment before shaking your head. "Exaclty. So until you feel confidence to ask someone - you can ask any of us, by the way - I'll make sure you're not eating alone."

It's something so simple and yet it devastates you to hear him say it. It isn't the words themselves exactly, but rather the way he says it, like it's a promise, like he's already decided that this doesn't require permission or gratitude or even for you to ask. It's just a fact that he's going to do this, no negotiation, no need to think about it.

You think about the last three years of your life of eating in your apartment along, of making meals for one, of not having to consider anyone else's schedule or preferences. Three years of being fine with it because fine was easier than admitting you were lonely. And now you have a pack you don't know what to do with, but this alpha - this head of a thirteen-person pack - is keen enough to pick up on what you need and come down to the kitchen at midnight to make sure you have what you need.

It's wonderful and terrifying all at once.

"Okay," you murmur, nodding.

You watch him in the moonlight filtering through the kitchen window. His hair is still a mess and his face is puffy with sleep, but he's soft. Warm. You notice a small scar on his collarbone you've never been close enough to notice before, and wonder where he got it from.

When he finishes his bowl of cereal, he looks at yours, raising his brows. "You finishing that?"

You shake your head and he grins, reaching over and brushing against you deliberately to steal your bowl. The contact is electric as his arm grazes your shoulder, his chest brushing your back for just a second, and your entire nervous system short-circuits. You nearly go catatonic at the contact, omega melting even when he pulls away, leaving you dizzy and touch starved and hungry for something not food. Your skin tingles where he touched you.

Seungcheol notices. This time, you see the way he grins, smug and content at your reaction. It hits you that he planned that, that he wanted you to feel it. The realization makes your chest tight in a way that's half panic, half something else entirely.

You can feel the heat crawling up your neck, your face, and it pisses you off - not at him, but at yourself for being so transparent, so easy to read. You huff and cross your arms over your chest, turning to him, temper flaring a little. You're not mad at all, but your omega instincts bristle in a way that feels playful and fun, something entirely unfamiliar to you. It's like your body knows something your brain hasn't caught up to yet.

"Well that's not fair," you huff. "You can't just do that."

"Do what?"

"Brush up against me and use your… alpha ways."

He laughs, full bellied and loud, echoing off the kitchen walls. "My alpha ways?"

"Yes!"

"That's how it works."

"Well!" You stomp your foot against the footrest on the stool. "I would like to file a complaint. Wait, who do I file a complaint with? You're head alpha."

Even as you say it, you know how ridiculous you sound. You're literally complaining to the person you're complaining about. It's absurd. But there's also a part of you that likes this game, this playful banter.

"You're cute when you panic."

The word lands like a punch. Cute. You're not cute. You're competent and sarcastic and you've survived three years alone in a city that didn't care about you. You're not cute. Except the way he says it makes you feel small in a way that isn't entirely bad. You like it, even.

"I'm not panicking," you say, which is a lie and you both know it.

"Sure."

"And for the record, I'm not cute. I am a very strong, very assertive omega." You stand up, trying to reclaim some dignity, trying to put distance between yourself and the way his presence makes your skin feel too tight. "I've even lived on my own. Very independent."

"Absolutely," he agrees, not sounding convinced at all.

Seungcheol stands with you and puts the bowls in the sink, leaving them unwashed for once. He grins at you and gestures to the door and you listen, because apparently you do that now. Your body just obeys him, no thought required, no decision made. You just move when he moves, follow when he leads. It should feel wrong, but it doesn't. It feels familiar in a way you've been craving and you finally have it.

He follows you up the stairs and you're hyperaware of him behind you, footsteps quiet and measured. . You can feel the warmth of him in the space between your bodies, close enough that you could lean back and touch him. Your omega is purring at his proximity, at the simple fact of him being there, and you hate how easy it's becoming to just accept it. To want it.

The hallway is dark except for the moonlight filtering through the window at the end, letting in enough light for you to walk to your room, third door to the left. When you reach it, you pause, your hand on the doorknob, suddenly unsure of the protocol. Do you just say goodnight? Do you invite him in? The uncertainty makes your stomach knot uncomfortably, panic spiking.

You turn to look at him and he's closer than you expected. Close enough that you have to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes. He's still soft from sleep, and he's looking at you like he looks at the other members of his pack, warm and soft and so gentle that it makes your omega nearly scream.

Seungcheol grins and leans down, pressing a kiss briefly to your head, soft and warm and over before you even know it's happening. Your throat tightens immediately, thoughts turning to static as he takes a step back, winking at you.

"Sleep, he murmurs. "Wake me up when you want breakfast. I mean it."

He dismisses himself then and you watch him walk back down the hallway, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness, and you don't move until you hear his door close softly upstairs.

Only then do you slip into your room and lean against the door, your heart still racing, your forehead still burning with the ghost of his kiss. You touch your fingers to the spot where he kissed you, like you can hold onto it somehow.

Crawling into bed, you do exactly what Seungcheol has asked and you sleep.

-

The next morning when you wake up, you don’t have to wake Seungcheol. You hear the noise downstairs, confusion drawing you down the steps and into the kitchen where breakfast is being made in full. You stand in the doorway, confused as you watch Mingyu and Joshua argue at the stove, the sound of eggs sizzling and the smell of bacon wafting toward you.

Seungkwan is at the coffee machine, staring lifelessly into the open air as his coffee brews while Chan stands on his tip toes to reach more coffee mugs out of the cabinet behind him. Seokmin is sitting on the counter swinging his legs, laughing animatedly at whatever Soonyoung and Jihoon are arguing about near the sink while Jeonghan lays across the counter, head in Seokmin’s lap as he dozes. 

Seungcheol walks in behind you, not missing at beat as he steers you by the waist toward the counter. Jeonghan peeks an eye open and grins, lifting himself from Seokmin’s lap to make room for you just as Seungcheol grip you by the waist and halls you up to sit on the counter next to Jeonghan, the citrus and jasmine smell of him placating your immediate irritation at being lifted. 

“Why is everyone in the kitchen?” You demand, turning to Jeonghan because Seungcheol is already leaving you and heading for the fridge. “The sun isn’t even up yet.”

“Rule number one,” Jeonghan yawns, scooting closer so that he’s pressed up against you. You hesitate for only a second before you let yourself relax and tentatively lean toward him. “The omega is never allowed to eat alone unless she asks to.”

Seokmin peers around him. “Do you want to?”

His question hangs in the air among the noise and chaos of the kitchen, scents hitting you from every angle, the sound of Minghao complaining about burnt bacon and Mingyu hollering as oil pops and burns his wrist. 

You grin, ducking your head a little as Seungcheol catches your eyes from across the kitchen and winks. 

A FOREST SHOULD NEVER BE SILENT.

The silence is the first thing you notice as you step beneath the canopy, the sound fading behind you like you've stepped through a veil. You glance up at the sunlight fracturing into narrow shafts of light that barely reach the forest floor, dissolving into motes of pollen and dust. The air is damp and heavy with the taste of loam and sap, a faint mineral scent of old stone drifting from somewhere.

It's unsettling. The quiet isn't the comfortable kind of a sleeping forest or the hushed stillness before dawn - this is the kind that's wrong and unnatural. The kind of silence that presses against your eardrums like water pressure, like the world itself is holding its breath. No birds, no insects, no rustle of small creatures fleeing through the underbrush or the distant call of something hunting. It's silence in totality, thick and suffocating.

You mind the trees as you begin to walk, looking up at the towering monstrous and twisted trunks, their bark ridged with age. Lichen blooms in pale patches across their sides, roots bulging and knotted, weaving through the forest floor. Above, the canopies stretch higher than any other forest you've walked through, the leaves and vines tangling together, light fighting to break through and reach you.

The air is heavier among the trees, the wet air sticking to your skin as you walk. You can smell the loam and sharp sap that drips from some of the ancient trees, amber hardened and crusted along dark bark like jewels. You think about climbing up one of the trees to collect the sap to sell to some idiot later with the lie that it comes from some mysterious source, but you're pressed for time and you have a long way to go.

Silence presses in as you navigate the trees. No birds sing. No insects hum. It unsettles you, your hand hovering near your dagger as you walk, fingers flexing. Silence has never bothered you before. In fact, you thrive in silence - excel at it, even. But this forest is one you don't know, and the vastness of it makes you feel exposed, the massive trees set too far apart and the protection of the hiding in the canopy too far above.

Massive does the trees a disservice. You've never seen trees like this, stretching upward for what feels like miles, so thick around the base that you could walk the pace of an entire ballroom thrice in the same time it would take you to walk around one of the green giants. It makes you wonder if this forest had been home to the giants once, but you're pretty sure that the giants lived further south near the mountains.

Until yesterday, you'd never heard of this forest. It's an unnamed swath of green on the map, unimportant and endless. You'd seen the rise of green as you neared Veris, the single village within dozens of miles of the dark green. You'd assumed it was just another part of the Vale, the massive stretch of northern land between Blackfrost and Aelia.

The deeper you walk, the darker it becomes. You pick through the trees carefully, following the map that you've memorized dozens of times before leaving the tavern and venturing off into the northern edge of the Vale. There are no official roads through this forest, no trade paths to cut through. It's just the towering trees and the interlocking canopy overhead, turning midday into muted twilight as you walk.

SURVIVAL CHECK | DC: 5 | MODIFER: +1 | ROLL ON DICE: 5 | RESULT: PASSED WITH 6

Vines loop between branches and ferns cluster waist high, their fronds slick with condensation. Sweat gathers at the nape of your neck and the small of your back, the forest unnaturally humid for the Vale.

You press onward, the ferns brushing against your leather pants. The silence presses in as you walk, thick and watchful. You'd heard of forests like this before, ancient groves where the world holds its breath, where the veil between realms thins to gossamer. You'd never expected to find yourself in one, but being a thief often brought you to places you never expected.

The job was worth the coin, to be sure. The offer from the wizards at the tavern in Veris had hummed with arcane energy, their gold real and solid. Half up front, the rest when you brought the relic deep within the temple back. In and out, no questions asked. It was the exact type of job you enjoyed, especially knowing you'd get to work alone. You don't feel nearly as alone as you'd like with the silent presence of the trees, but you press on.

Around you, the trees grow impossibly taller, their trunks wide enough that it takes time you don't have to walk around them, skirting their bases of peeling bark. It feels like hours pass, the eternal gloom of the canopy and the neverending trees making time slippery. You navigate northeast on instinct and memory, avoiding tangles of vines that snag at your cloak like greedy fingers.

The ground begins to slope upward, imperceptibly at first, then more noticeably, forcing you to lean into the incline. Roots bulge from the earth like the knuckles of buried giants, and you leap over them easily, a spring to your step as you go. You hum some raunchy tune you'd heard from a bard, the sound lost to the quiet of the trees around you.

A faint scent catches your nose and you pause, inhaling deep. You smell something acrid like charred wood and incense. It tugs at you, pulling you forward. A prickle of unease brushes along your spine as you walk, hyperaware of how you can't hear the sounds of your own steps or your own breathing.

In cities, silence means opportunity. It's what leads to an unguarded vault or a quick kill in the night. Here, the silence feels more like anticipation, like the forest is holding back something. With just your daggers, lockpicks and your own cunning, it makes the weight of your mortality feel heavier.

The slope steepens into a hill and you crest it with caution, dropping low to peer over the edge. Below, the forest opens up into a shallow valley, the canopy forming like a green dome above. You suck in a breath at the temple you see below - at least, what's left of it.

Nestled against the far rise and partially swallowed by the earth and overgrown vines is exactly the ancient temple the wizards had told you about. The sheer size of it makes your breath catch, its stone walls rising like ribs of an ancient god long decayed.

The ruins are carved from black obsidian rock veined with quartz that sparkles faintly though the sun doesn't pierce the green leaves above. The structure sprawls across the valley floor, towers crumbled like felled trees and arches collapsed into heaps of rubble. It's far larger than the sketch the wizards who hired you provided, icy and moss clinging to the towering bones of the building.

You study it from your vantage point, looking for signs of danger. You're sure there are wards and other spells here, but this place is old, and spells wear overtime, weakening as the years pass. Still, the silence unsettles you as you peer at the main entrance, a yawning archway flanked by statues weathered beyond recognition.

Flanking winds extend outward, their roofs caved in to expose interiors to the element. Runes etch the outer walls, faded but intricate, swirling patterns reminding you of symbols you've seen in forgotten tomes or on black-market artefacts from religious shrines across the realms.

RELIGION CHECK | DC: 20 | MODIFER: +2 | ROLL ON DICE: 8 | RESULT: FAILED WITH 10

The god is unfamiliar too. The wizards hadn't mentioned who or what the temple was for and you hadn't cared, fueled by the promise of a pouch of coins heavy enough to buy you an estate somewhere in the countryside, somewhere nice.

Now, start at the ruins, a knot forms in your gut. It's a weird feeling, not quite fear but some sort of primal wariness. You shake it off. Paranoia is not a rogue's tool of choice, and you have no intention of wandering back through the silent forest empty handed.

You descend the hill quietly, a shadow among shadows. The valley floor is uneven, littered with fallen stones and overgrown with brambles that you navigate with practiced ease. As you draw closer, the temple's details sharpen. Carvings on the walls depict scenes of worship, figures in robes prostrating before altars. The deity that looms over them is effaced, face and form chipped away as if by deliberate hands.

Near the temple, you don't go for the entrance, fearing traps. You go for a collapsed wall, reaching out with tentative hands to brush your fingers across the stone, probing for any sense of spellwork or ancient arcana. Cracks spiderweb the walls, wide enough in places to peer through, revealing glimpses of massive, empty halls with dust motes dancing in beams of light.

ARCANA CHECK | DC: 15 | MODIFER: +7 | ROLL ON DICE: 4 | RESULT: FAILED WITH 11

The stone is silent and cool, no immediate shock of magic, no humming current of power. You drop your hand, walking along the collapsed wall as the weird feeling intensifies. You can't help but feel as though the temple watches you, and ancient sentience stirring from eons of slumber.

Your heart beats a steady rhythm, adrenaline sharpening your senses. The scent of incense is stronger now, laced with something metallic, like blood. You flex your fingers, dagger now in hand, its balanced weight a comfort. Sneaking is your art - you've infiltrated dragon lairs and wizard towers with less preparation - but something about this place makes anxiety hum under your skin, your knuckles tightening on your dagger.

"This is just another ruin," you mutter, steeling yourself.

Stopping at a fallen archway, you stare at the gloom inside of the ruins. Vines frame the collapsed entry like curtains, thorns glinting in the green light. Beyond is a hallway filled with debris, no creature or living thing in sight. You creep forward carefully, holding your breath as you step under the arch's shadow. When nothing happens, you take another step in, and then another.

Nothing happens. No wards go off.

You exhale a little, gathering your bearings to navigate the intricate hallways the wizards had shown you on the map. The air in the temple is dry, the faint scent of incense following oyu as you drift further into the gloom, boots silent on the stone. You recall the pathway, trying to locate the sharp turns you need to follow to locate the stairs.

Turning north, you walk at a steady pace, eyes alert. Rooms open up on either side of you, revealing vast spaces with mostly intact ceilings. Some ceilings are caved in or the walls have given way in sections to roots that have clawed their way through stone and time. There is little in the rooms to tell you what this place is or what god it serves, no altars or statues to give you anymore hints.

Locating the correct hall, you take a sharp left and walk deeper into the heart of the temple, passing a chamber filled with mosaic flooring and an ivy ceiling. All of the rooms look different, some holding the remnants of iron braziers with twisted legs, others filled to the brim with broken pottery and rotted painting. You take it as a good sign that there are no skeletons or signs of human life, but the silence feels heavier than it should.

A set of stone stairs descending downward catches your attention. You nearly miss it in the dim, but the draft of cool, damp air draws your attention. You take the stairs down slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the darkness as you go. The air is cold as you vanish into the dark, pebbles of debris crunching lightly under your boots.

Your heart races as you near the bottom of the stairs, barely able to see a set of heavy stone doors at the base. Trepidation makes you slow, the silence so thick you can't hear anything else over the throb of the pulse in your neck. You stop on the last step, looking up at the doors. Like everything else in this temple, there are no runes or etchings claiming a god, no sign or sigil to give you and sort of warning what might linger beyond.

The door is carved from a slab of stone darker than the walls with no handles and no keyhole. You can barely make out the seam down the middle in the dark, and when you step closer, you see a faint depression the exact size of a palm. Licking your lips you lift your hand and hesitate.

Caution is a thief's best tool. You know that having a healthy amount of wariness has saved you more than once, and as you stand in front of the door, you can't help but feel like you should stop and turn back. You've never left something unstolen for the sake of fear though, and your pride makes you grind your teeth, thinking about the promise of gold and the thrill of the high once you complete a job.

INSIGHT CHECK | DC: 15 | MODIFIER: +1 | ROLL ON DICE: 1 | RESULT: CRITICAL FAILURE

"Fuck it," you whisper and press your palm to the depression in the stone.

At first, nothing happens. You stare at the wall, a little disappointed and put out. The stone is cool to the touch, a tingle working its way up your arm. Just as you're about to remove your hand, a soft click sounds - not from the door, but behind you. You spin, dagger out, but there's nothing there. Only shadows. Heart pounding, you hear a breath of air and the grinding of stone as the door opens behind you, prompting you to turn back around as the door yawns open, revealing the room beyond.

The chamber is massive, the ceiling gone entirely. A circle of daylight casts an eerie halo on the chamber's floor, green canopy and vines pouring in through the hole. The chamber is circular and spans what you can only guess is around two hundred feet across. At the north of the room, tiered steps lead up toward a dais, broken columns leaning awkwardly on either side. Chunks of masonry and stone litter the floor, and you're careful as you walk toward the dais, not wanting the roof or walls to cave in further or to catch yourself on a tripwire.

A prickle slithers down your neck as you see the tomb upon the dais. It's massive and carved from obsidian, the only thing in this temple that looks well-kept and unbroken. The sight of it makes you pause. You don't like that in a ruin of crumbling stone and broken ceilings, only the tomb looks undisturbed, just as pristine as it was the day it was carved.

From the corner of your eye, something moves. You turn your head, narrowing your eyes on the shadows across the room. Your eyes are sharp even in the dark, but something about the shadows seem darker, an unnatural drift of life that makes your fingers tighten on the dagger.

A shadow peels away from the wall and you tense, watching the shadow take shape. The shape is something like the suggestion of a human with limbs that are too long and blurring edges. It seems to drink up the light as it moves toward you, moving with a strange, crooked lurch. You palm your daggers, stepping backward as you put more distance between yourself and the lurking creatures, having heard tales of shadows whose touch could drain strength.

The shadow lunges, form rippling like spilled ink. It's faster than you expect, your instinct taking over as you wist to the side, an elongated limb cutting the air where you'd been a moment before. No sound comes from the creature as it moves, the silence eerie as it presses the attack. Your heart slams in your ribcage, adrenaline sharpening your senses as you bob and weave, remaining on the defensive as you try and feel the enemy out, to understand it.

Another shadow peels from a column and you curse, gritting your teeth as you dodge another swipe and look around the room to see more shadows. There are seven of them that you can see, but the pools of dimness in the corners of the room are thick, and you're unsure if there are more waiting to join the fight.

Your boots slide on the floor as you spin, raising a dagger to cut through the arm of the shadow closest to you. The blade meets resistance, but not solid flesh. You feel something vicious as the blade goes through, something cold and oily clinging to the steel as you flick the dagger and spin away. Black ichor sprays the column from the weapon and you make a face as the creature recoils, its arm blurring briefly like it's struggling to maintain cohesion.

Good. They're not exactly solid, but your weapons cause damage. The knowledge drives your confidence as you push forward, the halo of greenish light from above doing little to combat the gloom in the chamber. One of the largest shadows surges forward, splitting its arms into whipping tendrils of black. You drop low and roll, avoiding the silent strike as dust rises up around you. It lunges again and you meet it head-on, daggers crossing to block a lash.

A bright spark flares along the blade, the smallest spark of fire. It makes the shadow shrink back and you grin as you stand to your full height. The shadows arch out now, coming at you with more caution before now that they know you have fire. And you do have fire, the spark of magic tingling at your finger tips as you sheath the blades and lift your hands, feeling the familiar itch of magic as you summon the flames.

Fire is familiar to you - beloved, even. It's been the only warmth to save you on nights cold enough to kill you and the only light in the darkest parts of your life. You'd resented the fire once upon a time. There was so much magic in the world, and yet what could you do? Summon flames? Make them dance? It didn't feel fair that in a realm of faerie magic and knowledge hoarded in wizard's towers that your only gift should be something so insignificant.

Now, you know the power of fire. You know how to shape it and use it to defend yourself. What used to be a parlor trick has become a weapon after years of honing your craft, rudimentary but useful.

Flames materialize in your palms and the shadows halt. You grin, feeling the warmth of the fire but not the burn, the itch of magic stronger in your palms as you turn your hands to let the power surge. Bright streams of flames illuminate the chamber in an orange flash and hit the shadow closest to you. If it could make a sound, you think it might scream, the form convulsing as the flames eat through its body until it breaks into fading wisps of mist that drift.

The rest close in, deciding to overwhelm you rather than let you take them on one by one. You sidestep one and thrust your hand forward, unleashing a concentrated blast to its center, turning it into inky mist. You duck and slam a flaming palm into another, cringing at the hold feeling of its body - not solid, not gas, but something in between that is cold to the touch and almost there. Your flames weaken for a moment as the creature trashes and dies, leaving you to roll and dispose of the remaining wraiths.

Silence rushes back in as you stand, chest rising and falling. Cool air kisses the back of your neck as you look around the room, flames dancing between your fingers, waiting for another assault. No other shadows slink forward, but you remain tense, glancing toward the obsidian tomb on the dais. It remains unchanged, nothing emerging forward, nothing breathing. You stare at it for a moment longer before you extinguish the flames, hands held near the handles of your weapons at the ready.

You're not sure what the shadows had been, but it was obvious they were guardians of some sort. The wizards had warned you of the possibility of things in the ruins, but they hadn't the slightest idea what. It wouldn't have mattered if they did - a few vicious shadows weren't enough to deter you from a high-paying job. The job being the procurement of whatever the shadows had been guarding in the tomb up on the dais.

Placing your foot on the first step of the dais, you hesitate. Nothing happens. No more shadows appear. No traps are sprung. The step is solid beneath your boots, the dust sifting lightly from your foot. You take another step, followed by another, until you're walking up the dais.

The tomb looms in front of you, its surface gleaming faintly in the green-tinted light. Vines tangle motionless from the broken ceiling above, but it doesn't smell like greenery. It smells heavily of incense on the dais mixed with something metallic like blood. Your heart skips as you slide forward, feeling drawn to the thumb.

Cool air kisses your neck as you walk forward. The tomb itself is pristine, untouched by the decay that seems to have claimed everything else. Its black surface is polished to a mirror sheen, veined with quartz that catches the dim light and holds it, almost glowing faintly from within. There's no lid or seal - it's really just a rectangular basin carved from a single piece of stone, its interior lost to shadow despite the light pouring from above.

You should leave.

PERCEPTION CHECK | DC: 20 | MODIFER: +6 | ROLL ON DICE: 1 | RESULT: FAILED WITH CRITICAL FAILURE

The thought comes unbidden, sharp and clear. You should turn around, walk back through the chamber, climb those stairs, and never look back. The wizards can find someone else. Some other fool willing to crawl into the dark for coin.

But you don't move - you can't move, drawn toward the tomb, heart throbbing in time with something. Your feet carry you forward, one step after the other, all the way until you're standing at the very edge of the tomb, looking down into a pool of absolute darkness. The shadows inside don't behave like shadows should - they move, writhing and coiling like smoke or serpents or something in between the two, never quite settling into stillness.

Suspended in the darkness, something catches your eye. A blade. It hangs in the air above the tomb's base, pointing down as if thrust into something you cannot see. The weapon itself seems carved from shadow given form, black as the obsidian and yet somehow darker, drinking in the light rather than reflecting it. The hilt is wrapped in leather so old it should be crumbled to dust, but it looks fresh and supple, waiting.

Licking your lips, you reach out, fingers extending slowly toward the hilt. You know this is what you came here for, and though the wrongness of it pulls at you, there are no other roads. So you ignore the chill in the air around the blade, the way it feels wrong. Your fingers brush the leather and for a moment, nothing happens.

Then the world lurches.

Sound dies. The distant drip of water, the hush of the trees above, your own breathing - all of it snuffs out in an instant and the green light from above dims, shadows rushing in from every corner of the tide. In the sudden silence, you feel something wake up.

You feel it, but you don't understand what it is. There is a sudden presence, a vast and ancient and hungry thing pressed against the edges of your awareness like a hand against glass. The touch feels like its testing - searching - and your fingers automatically close around the hilt. It's like you cannot stop them, unable to pull your hand back or control your own hand. The blade comes free of its invisible sheath with a sound like searing silk and the presence blooms.

It slams into your mind with the force of a battering ram, not a physical blow but something far worse that bypasses flesh and bone to strike at the core of you. Your mind recoils, instinct screaming danger even as your body locks rigid, hand frozen around the hilt. The blade feels like ice and fire all at once, burning you like nothing you've ever touched before.

You think you're screaming, but in the heavy silence there is only the presence. Only the feeling of something beyond your understanding, pressing down on you until you feel liquid in your ears and realize it might be blood. Your head screams, your eyes ache, the pressure so intense that you think you might pop, body giving way to the immense weight of whatever is in the room with you.

Mine.

The word isn't spoken. It is. A declaration that resonates through your skull, through your chest, through every nerve and sinew. Not a voice but a knowing, absolute and undeniable. It is a terrifying voice - no, not a voice. More like a thought that presses against you, less voice and more alien sentience. You try to drop the blade, but your fingers won't obey. You try to step back, but it's like your legs have turned to stone.

Terror takes over. The presence presses deeper and you feel it now, the shape of something immense and terrible trying to find a way in. Fire erupts from your free hand without conscious thought, your instinct to defend yourself kicking in. Defense. The flames roar up in a column of orange and gold, casting wild shadows across the chamber walls. Heat washes over your face and the incense smells burns away, replaced by the smell of your fire. But the presence doesn't care - it only pushes harder.

Let me in.

"No." The word scrapes out of your throat, raw and desperate. "Get out."

The pressure increases. Your knees buckle. You catch yourself against the edge of the tomb with your free hand, obsidian cold against your palm. The blade remains locked in your other fist, impossible to release. Your head feels like it's splitting open. Like something is prying apart your skull from the inside, making room for itself in spaces that were never meant to hold anything but you.

You begin screaming like you've never screamed before, the sound echoing through the chamber, bouncing off stone. Fire explodes outward in a wave, a desperate, uncontrolled burst of power that scorches the air and sends smoke billowing toward the opening far above. For one moment, you feel the presence recoil.

Then it comes back twice as strong.

It crashes into you like a wave against a cliff, relentless and overwhelming. Your flames sputter and die, guttering out, leaving only smoke and the smell of burned air. You can't breathe. Cannot think. The presence is everywhere, filling every corner of your mind, drowning out your own thoughts with its vast, terrible awareness.

Cease your struggling. It only prolongs the inevitable.

"Fuck you," you hiss.

The words come out as barely a whisper. You try to summon fire again, try to pull at that well of heat, but the presence is there first, wrapping around your magic like a fist, squeezing. The heat flickers. Fades. You feel it slipping away from you, or maybe you're slipping away from it, you can't tell anymore, can't distinguish between yourself and the thing invading you.

You make a last ditch effort to resist.

GROUP ROLL REQUIRED TO PROCEED. INSTRUCTIONS: Congrats, Traveler! You've made it through the end of the first chapter. Now all that you have to do is roll the wheel and submit the symbol you rolled (just copy and paste it from the result pop up you get). Once submissions close, I will add up the rolls to see if our dear reader passes her wisdom saving through to resist being possessed by the ancient deity!

THE EVENING OF YOUR SISTER'S DEATH, YOU HAD DRAWN THE WORLD, REVERSED FROM YOUR TAROT DECK. You remember staring at it, unsettled, tracing the details as if the lines themselves could tell you what was coming.

It was one of those rare, hand-crafted decks, a fragment of the old world, tangible and delicate. In a world with so little physical art and so little understanding of the universe, you'd cherished the deck, a small luxury in a world where most people wouldn't have understood.

You remember knowing the card was a warning. The only trouble was you didn't know what for. You left the card face up on the desk and blew out your candles, your mother's voice calling through the estate's intercom again, impatient and angry because you were late.

Again.

To her, being late was a condition, not a habit. To you on that rainy November evening, it had been a kind of salvation, though perhaps salvation wasn't the right word. You didn't believe in gods or higher beings, but you did believe in the strange, quiet ways of the universe.

Strange, like how lingering over a single tarot reading could keep you from stepping into the restaurant when the gas explosion tore through the back of the block - when your sister, waiting at your usual table, became the first member of your family to die.

Gone in a moment, the entire direction of your life rearranged.

The world, reversed.

-

The rain over the Upper District is thin and metallic. It sheets off the glass buildings in vertical lines, turning each tower into a waterfall of neon and water. You watch the rain from the back of the car, forehead pressed to the cold window. The city slides past, a smudge of light.

Nexus Capital rises ahead of you, a monolith of glass punch through the low cloud ceiling. You stare at the building that's a feat of architecture with a list of awards and features in architectural magazines. You don't understand why a banking building needs to be an architectural work of art.

You don't find it to be very artistic anyway. Nexus Capital is one hundred and twelve floors of smoked glass and carbon fiber, no logos and no name, but a solid black tower threaded with light that everyone knows when they see it glow against the horizon.

Most nights, it turns invisible, like a trick of the light. If it weren't for the purple LEDs pulsing through the building's framework now, lighting it up to make air travel safe, you wouldn't even see it, though you know exactly where to look.

The car turns into the private ramp beneath the plaza, the security gates opening slowly. The car pauses as the driver cracks the window to state your business and clearance information. You wait, staring dully out the window as the scanners read the car for weapons and trace the plates. When it clears, the driver pulls through, continuing down the spiraling ramp toward the sub-level reserved for people who don't use the public lobby.

People like you.

You step out into a cold, concrete garage. Security guards are waiting on either side of the elevator for you, their charcoal suites pristine. They nod politely as you approach, heels clicking. One presses his palm to the panel, the lift doors opening with a soft hiss.

Your ride is eighty-nine floors, no stops. You breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Four counts in, hold for four, exhale eight. Even numbers. Good numbers. Your pulse steadies.

The reflection in the glass wall of the elevator is jarring: black dress, black blazer, hair tamed, heels, minimal jewelry. The girl who used to sneak out of charity galas to stare up at the moon and fill jars of water to collect its energy is nowhere in sight.

A chime indicates your arrival and you stiffen. The lift opens directly into an executive corridor of basalt floors and recessed lightly. It smells faintly of cedar in the hall, no doubt pumped in by an unseen air filtration system, meant to give the offices an old, serious feel.

The eighty-ninth floor is nothing but meeting rooms and executive spaces. You walk along the network of empty rooms now, knowing the way by heart - you'd practiced the route a million times. Normally, even after hours, the meeting rooms would be full of people. This evening's meeting is high profile though, so the entire floor has been reserved and dismissed.

Double doors greet you as you turn a corner. A security guard is outside, tipping his head to greet you before opening the door to let you in. Inside is a massive board room full of people.

One entire wall is made up of glass, Hyperion glittering on the other side: neon arteries, ribbons of traffic, the distant strobe of a casino in the Pearl District. The table in the center of the room is a massive rectangle of smoked quartz, lit from beneath so it looks frozen.

You go straight to your side of the table where your father and board members sit. There's a single, high-back chair for you next to your father - it used to be your mother's, but after she'd killed herself a few months ago, she bequeathed the chair to you.

Her ghost clings to you every time you sit in the chair, a coolness sticking to your skin. You grit your teeth. This room needs sage and perhaps some selenite. It has neither, so you ignore the way a shiver slides up your spine, phantom fingers reminding you of the heaviness of her absence. Ghosts don't like to be ignored, but no one else in this room can feel the way spirit lingers, the way memories have a way of clinging to a place.

Today is not a day for fear and superstition. Today is the kind of day where you have to ignore all of your instincts in favor of being practical and analytical - the kind of girl your sister would have been, instead of you, the strange one who believed in the energies of the universe and its strange higher powers.

Lifting your eyes, you peer across the table as your father clears his throat to settle the room. Xu Minghao is seated directly across from you, the polished surface of the crystal table stretching like eons between you. He's narrower than the file photos, dressed in a suit so dark that it seems to eat the light around him. His hair is longer too, styled neatly around his ears to rest against his collar bones. It suits him, you think.

He's prettier than you realized, too. His face is exquisitely balanced between sharp and soft, his eyes fierce and burning as he stares at you, his mouth soft and supple. His equally sharp jawline is offset by a gentle nose, a blend of contrasts that make him breathtaking to look at.

And extremely intimidating.

"Shall we begin?" Your father asks. He's using his calm voice, the one he likes to use to show he isn't intimidated.

The Xu side inclines heads in near-perfect synchrony. Minghao's father, Xu Jian, sits at the center opposite your father, his hair dark and long like his son, threading with silver at the temples. Odd, you think. In a world where showing age is so rare, you find it fascinating that the Xu family's patriarch has deliberately decided to show his age. A powerplay, perhaps, that he does not fear how fast the world around him is moving, nor is he influenced by the trends of appearing young.

Xu Luli is the opposite. Minghao's mother is a radiance of youth, dressed in immaculate dove silk with a single jade pendant the size of a small egg pinned to her blazer. Her face has no obvious lines, full and flushed with color like she's still in her twenties. It's unsettling, and when your eyes flick to Minghao, you realize how much he looks like her with his full lips and sharp eyes. He's nearly her mirror, save for his eyes are dark and near-black where hers are uncanny stormy grey.

Across the table, Minghao sits perfectly upright, his hands folded loosely on the table. No rings, no watch, no jewelry at all. There's just a faint scare across the first knuckle of his right hand, pale against otherwise flawless skin.

Your father gestures to the lead counsel on your side to begin. She taps the table and a holo screen blooms above the quartz, rotating for all to see. It's a splitting of proposed assets, tallied net and financial worth, assets both tangible and liquid, and everything else about you both true and not splayed for everyone to see.

"Xu Worldwide Logistics currently moves forty-three percent of all container freight through Hyperion's docks in the Civ District," the lead counsel begins. "Post-marraige, joint control of the merged entity will be split sixty-forty in favor of Xu Worldwide Logistics, with veto rights retained by Nexus Capital."

Xu Jian smiles. "Forty-three percent is a conservative assessment of our business. Perhaps seventy-thirty would be more appropriate."

"Sixty-five," your father answers, smiling. "Thirty-five. That feels more appropriate. Our assumptions of your capital are conservative, as you say."

Jian bows his head and agrees.

You watch in silence as your assets are debated for you - assets you didn't have until a year ago, when your sister had been blown apart in a freak accident. Your hands sweat looking at the figures and numbers that shouldn't belong to you, the endless amount of credits, properties, offshore accounts and liquid assets you don't even understand.

Swallowing past a dry patch in your throat, you glance at Minghao. He doesn't look at the rotating holograms of your entire net worth reflected for a room full of suits - he looks directly at you. He's not staring, exactly, but you fight the urge to shiver anyway. His gaze is intense and cataloging, like he's reading every tiny expression on your face.

In fact, he probably is. Minghao's family isn't from Hyperion, but they've clawed their way to the top with the money and empire they've built in Hyperion, which means they know how to play the game. After all, if they didn't know how to play, they wouldn't be sitting at this table negotiating a political marriage to gain access to the one of the city's most powerful Syndicates.

"Along with the marriage comes guarantees," your father says, catching your attention. "Of additional security for shipments."

No one says Choi Syndicate. No one has to. This entire marriage is for the Choi Syndicate, who are seeking an advantage in the Yong Syndicate-owned shipping yards in the Civ District. While the Xu family has remained neutral thus far, the fact that you're all sitting in a room discussing your legal marriage to the heir of their business is an aggressive move for the Xu family.

"Additionally," your father adds, as though sensing the unsaid danger in the room, "Nexus Capital is partnered with Aegis Security Corp. They're a long-standing client of ours, and are happy to provide additional support, both personal and professional to the Xu family and clients."

You can't help the way you start to roll your eyes. Aegis Security Corporation is a legitimate business portfolio pledged to Nexus Capital, but that certainly isn't the security your father is promising. He's promising the Xu family Choi Syndicate protection, a silent acknowledgement that by being here in this room, they are agreeing to the risk of being targeted by other Syndicates but will be offered the protections of guns, money and blood that the Choi Syndicate can offer.

The smile the Xu patriarch gives assures you that he is right where he wants to be, though his son remains expressionless, eyes unreadable.

Minghao's mother leans forward, her jade pendant catching the light. "And the personal union? We understand the principal heirs will co-own the new holding company directly. We would like the details of residence, public representation, and succession details clarified."

This time, you do cringe. You can't help it. The word succession details crawls inside of your ribcage and threatens to start corroding. She means where will you live, who gets to be the press's shining star, and who inherits if someone dies inconveniently.

Or conveniently, depending on if you die and all your assets default to the man across the table. Which is a real threat that you've talked about with your father, knowing that he could be signing you over for someone to assassinate you and claim rights to all that you own. It is exactly why the proposal keeps the shipping assets in favor of the Xu family and the banking assets in favor of your family, a shared split but a majority of both residing with the original shareholder.

Your father looks to you to answer Minghao's mother. The message is clear: you’re the woman of the family. Speak to your counterpart.

"Residence will be the penthouse at the Observatory," you answer. "It's at the edge of the Upper District near the Estate District."

"The Observatory?"

"A starter home for us to settle. When we decide to have a family, there is a private residence left to me in the Estate District as dictated by my mother's will." She leans back, pleased. Your eyes drift to Minghao. "I assume Mr. Xu has no objection to living above the clouds to start."

"Height has never bothered me," he answers. His voice is soft, but the way he says it makes the hair on your arms raise. "It's a generous gift."

You learn forward, resting your forearms on the cold table top. The sleeves of your dress ride up just enough to show the faint bruise on your left wrist, fingermarks from last week when your father decided punctuality required emphasis. You adjust the sleeve, but when you look up, you see Minghao's eyes latched to the spot.

"Public representation," you continue quickly, trying to keep him engaged, "will be joint. Galas, council meetings, the usual. We smile, we shake hands, we let the photographers snap pictures. Public image is a joint effort and a joint success."

Both of his parents nod, pleased. Minghao is still staring at your covered wrist. "As far as succession, if one of us dies, the surviving spouse inherits full voting control of the merged entity for a minimum of five years. After that, it reverts to the strongest board proxy. Standard widow's clause."

"What is your security like?"

Minghao's question catches you offguard. You're unsure if he means the traditional security you use as the heir to one of the city's richest families, or the Choi Syndicate security you use to ward people away from you. You're sure he doesn't mean the spell jars hidden in the drawers of your room or the spell oils you tinker with.

"Standard," you offer. It seems like a safe answer.

"Standard." He frowns. "I find that the standard rarely does the job."

His father starts to speak, but Minghao lifts a finger, barely a centimeter. You watch in shock as it silences his father. It's so subtle you're unsure if anyone else notices it. Strange, for a son to dictate what a father does. You file that bit of information away for later.

"Do you have a recommendation, then?" You ask. "Feel free to propose something less standard."

His mouth twitches, a ghost of amusement. "Security protocols should be put in place. Travel routes, choices of driver, general schedules, should all have a shared veto. If one of us believes a risk is unacceptable, the other yields. No appeal."

Your father makes an angry sound. "You're asking for the right to countermand my daughter's security detail? That's entirely too controlling and rather convenient if you wanted her assets."

The accusation ruffles the feathers on the other side of the table, but Minghao remains nonplussed, eyes flicking to your father. His expression has barely shifted, but there's something subtle there, something sharp.

"I'm asking," he corrects, voice soft, "That neither of us dies stupidly because the other was too proud to listen. I find that joint decisions on matters of travel and security are often best, especially considering that this marriage will be highly publicized."

"Fine," you answer before your father can object. "Shard veto, with the amendment that our security teams are jointly chosen. You may not employ any member of security who has not been vetted and agreed upon by me personally."

Minghao inclines his head. "Agreed."

Above the table, a redline version of the agreement drafts as you trade amendments. Your eyes drop down to the scar on his knuckle again. It's thin and precise, the kind of mark left by a wire garotte or a very sharp knife. Not the sort of scar you get from yachting around the world like you've been told he does frequently.

Strange. In just a short manner of time, the list of strange things about Minghao grows longer. Something about him tugs at your tuition, a feeling of premonition you can't place. 

When you look back up, Minghao is watching you. His mouth twitches and your skin burns like you've been caught. You try to work out the expression on his face, but as his mother brings up the section regarding children, it's like dunking your head into ice cold water.

"Two," she says smoothly, fixing you with a pointed stare. "Minimum. More is fine. Bloodline continuity is non-negotiable. Two is safe, should the other-"

She cuts herself off, face going white. No one speaks. Your father is stiff next to you - you don't even think he's even breathing. Luli looks like she doesn't know what to do, caught between needing to apologize and the terrible of making such a bad social faux pas.

It's a reminder that the Xu family isn't from here. Arkos isn't a city that far away, but it's foreign enough in social structure, political makeup and culture that you're reminded how hard the Xu family must have worked to adapt to Hyperion's complex pecking order and social norms, and Luli has just made a terrible mistake. Were she in a room of Hyperion socialites or Syndicate women, she'd probably never recover.

"Should the other die," you finish for her. "Yes, we're quite familiar with the concept. Two minimum makes sense. Do you have a preference on gender?"

The silence in the room is so complete you can hear the faint echo of the city outside. You wait, staring across the table, trying to do anything but think about how intimately familiar you are with parents needing an heir and a spare, especially in a city like Hyperion. Luli's lips part, then close, surprised at how quickly you've addressed her concern and moved on.

"So do you?" You ask again, eyes flicking between Minghao and his mother who glance at one another. "I'm only asking because some families still care about sons carrying the name. Saves awkward paperwork later."

"Gender is irrelevant," Minghao answers. "Healthy heirs are all that matters."

"Yes," his mother agrees. "Healthy. And timing?"

You lean back in a dead woman's chair. Not for the first time, you wonder if this is what your sister had to sit through. Though you were only a few years apart, your sister is alien to you. Unfamiliar. Did she have to sit through board rooms and negotiate terms and rights to her womb? She did have to pledge herself to a total stranger and promise to pop out heirs?"

Of course she did. You wonder if she was any good at it. You never asked her. You'd been too busy hiding away from your family in the gardens, watching butterflies land on the water lilies while the house keeper told you about craft and how certain herbs had metaphysical properties. You’d been fascinated by her and her practice, an ancient, earthy belief that most people thought was nonsense.

"Five years," you tell her. "Minimum. Our data shows that the city's current climate is not ideal for infants." You pause as the lead counsel shows the data in question. "After that, we can revisit timelines. Medical oversight may be split eighty-twenty, with my priorities and preferences emphasized."

"I would prefer-"

"Accepted," Minghao says softly, cutting off his mother. She leans back, pursing her lips. You don't know much about Xu Luli, but she looks like someone who would prefer far more control over the birth of her grandchildren. Minghao's eyes slide back to you. "A final item, if you will."

Your father gestures for him to continue. Minghao reaches inside of his pocket and produces a matte-black rectangle no larger than one of your tarot cards. There's no logo or text, so dark that it drinks the light in like his suit does. He sets it on the table and flicks it with a finger, sliding it across the table like oil slick.

You blink in surprise when you realize it's a comm device, thin enough to slice paper with the faintest holo-sheen on it. You've never seen its make before, and you look back up at him, questioning.

"A private channel," Minghao says, addressing you. "Encrypted. Off-grid. Not monitored by family, counsel, or security. For discussions that do not belong in the meeting minutes."

Next to you, your father's scoff is immediate and sharp. "She doesn't need-"

"Voluntary, of course," Minghao assures. "Either party may choose never to use it. It exists, though. Personal devices will be the main point of contact."

Xu Jian's smile is thin. "A gesture of good faith and a family tradition. The Xu family places emphasis on having direct contact with our partners in times of turmoil."

"And what turmoil do you predict to befall this city?"

Minghao's father spreads his hands. "The world is ever-changing. It is not a reactionary practice, but perhaps a proactive one."

Your father's fingers drum on the table. The rhythm is familiar - you've heard it in the back of cars, against the arm of the couch, on the top of a desk. It's the telltale sign of his increasing irritation, the need to do something with his fingers before he strikes.

After a long beat, your father nods. "Voluntary."

Minghao dips his head. "We have no other amendments."

The lead counsel taps the table. The contract above ripples, red lines bleeding into final black. A soft chime confirms transmission, and you look down to see the new draft appearing in the table's interface in front of you. Your name is already glowing in the signature line, waiting for your official sign off.

Swallowing hurts. Your throat is desert-dry as you pick up the stylus, hating the way it shakes in your hand. You grip it tighter, fighting off the tremor as you glance up instinctively.

Minghao is no longer watching you. His head is bowed, stylus moving in a single, fluid stroke that ends in a flourish. He sets the stylus down with deliberate care, aligning it parallel to the edge of the table before he looks up at you again, expectant.

You look down and sign, a nervous trickle of fear cutting through you. Once executed, the documents appear across the interface in rotation, allowing for the room to sign as witnesses. You keep your gaze fixed to the document rather than him, but you can feel the eight of his stare settle on you like a blade pressed to the hollow of your throat.

"Ajourned," your father says as soon as the final signature is to document.

Chairs roll back in a sudden rush of sound. Quiet chatter rises, the polite and rehearsed gratitude backtracking the soft shaking of hands. A side door you hadn't noticed opens and two white-gloved staff glide in with trays of chilled plum-infused water, coffee, and tiny plates of yuzu macarons dusted with gold leaf.

You cringe. The refreshments are small but you know they cost more per bite than most people in the Lower District make in a week, the display of wealth so suddenly unfamiliar to you that you feel your stomach flip.

People begin to mingle. Your father is already shaking Xu Jian's hand, voice pitched politely again. Luli is laughing at something one of the lead counsel members is saying bright and lilting.

You stand, knees shaking. The air feels a little too thick for you, your pulse a frantic bird trapped inside your ribcade. You don't bother excusing yourself verbally - no one in the room notices you. They never do. So no one stops you when you slip through the door into the corridor.

Outside the boardroom the air is cooler. You breathe in the cedar-scent, walking away from the room. Your heels are too loud and you soften your steps, making it feel like you're sneaking off. And you kind of are, honestly. You need a break, a breather from the formality and the cage of formality.

You find a smaller meeting room, windowless and lit only by a single strip of amber light along the ceiling. There's a narrow table with four chairs and nothing else. You lean back against the door for a moment, letting out the breath you'd been holding the entire meeting.

Reaching into the pocket of your blazer, you produce a silk-wrapped bundle. The cards are warm from your body heat, the silk falling away as you unwrap the tarot set. You walk toward the table, shuffling the cards. You feel your anxiety ease with the familiar weight of them in your hand, the soft schk as they shift in your fingers.

You don't even ask the deck a question. You just need the feel of them, need something familiar in this strange building with these strange people. The cards speak anyway, three cards slipping from the deck to clatter on the table, face-up.

The Tower, upright. The Moon, reversed. Death, upright.

It feels cold in the room. You stare at them, teeth working your bottom lip as you process, your eyes dragging over each guard. Lightning splitting stone. Lies and illusion dissolvering. And ending that's a beginning. It's the usual trio that's been haunting you since you drew the World, reversed a year ago.

You don't hear the door open as you look over them. It isn't until you see a shadow fall over them that you flinch, whirling around with your hand flying to your chest.

Minghao stands just inside the threshold, one hand still on the handle, the other loose at his side. He closes the door without a sound, tilting his head to peer around you at the table of cards. You step to block his line of sight, vision pounding.

"Oh, it's you-" You break off, unsure what to say. He probably has no concept of tarot cards anyway. "It's a… hobby of mine."

Minghao says nothing. He approaches with deliberate, lithe steps until he's standing next to you but with a respectable distance between you. You catch the faint scent of pine and cold air clinging to his jacket, refreshing.

"What do they mean?" He asks, voice soft. "When they fall like this? What do you see?"

"You know what they are?"

"I know it's strange that you have them. You don't strike me as a wicked woman." You frown at the term wicked woman. It's slang for the women who work backdoor craft and ritual practices - you're curious how someone of his status knows the word at all. He points to the cards on the table. "Tell me, please."

You step forward, fingers tightening around the deck. "The Tower means sudden change. The collapse of something that was supposed to be stable. Violence, sometimes."

"The Tower like the rulers of the Syndicates?"

"Yes."

He hums. "Keep going."

"The Moon reversed is lies coming undone. Secrets dragging into the light whether one wants them to or not."

"I see. And Death?"

"Death isn't always literal." You don't know why you feel the need to clarify, but you do. "It's transformation. The end of one thing so another can begin. You can fight it or you can walk through it, but you never stay the same."

Minghao is quiet for a long moment. The light bathes him half in shadow, half in light, like a dark angel. He's so beautiful it's hard to think straight for a moment, hard to realize this is the man you're going to marry.

"You're practiced at reading these, then?"

"Very. I trust very few things, but these have never lied to me."

"You're too honest," Minghao's gaze lingers on the Death card before he turns to leave, not sparing you a glance. "It will hurt you one day."

—

The night of your engagement part, the party planning committee led by Xu Luli outdoes itself. The Sky Venue at The Elysian is an architectural wonder - one hundred and thirty-three floors up, the entire top level has been gutted and rebuilt into a single floating garden suspended beneath a retractable dome of smart glass.

Tonight, the dome is open to the stars. The air is warm despite the cooling season, the climate controlled by tiny micro-drones flying around the open dome, naked to the eye. The air tastes faintly of night-blooming jasmine, and guests wander through the garden with glasses of champagne.

Waterfalls pour from above into man-made koi ponds, night lilies floating on the rippling surfaces. Servers in white silk glide past, careful to avoid the ponds as they serve golf leaf canapes and cocktails served in what you think might be diamonds. In the corner, a string quartet plays on a platform of transparent glass suspended thirty meters above the ground, music cascading down and over the crowd.

Spared no expense, someone mutters as you walk by. Of course you didn't. This is the night that your family alongside the Xu's are selling you to the city and showing off their wealth.

A statement night, really.

You stand near one of the koi pongs in a gown of liquid obsidian. There are thousands of microscopic diamonds hand-stitched into the dress, making it look like you bend the light the same way as your fiancée's suit. Your neckline plunges just enough to be daring, and the back is open to the base of your spine.

A single strand of black tourmaline beads is loped around your wrist. To anyone not paying attention, it looks like diamonds. To you, it's grounding, steadying you against the thousand eyes currently cataloguing you.

Minghao finds you before you find him. He appears at your left shoulder without a sound, a flute of champagne in his hand. You flinch when you see him - over the last two months, you've been entirely unable to adjust to the way he materializes out of thin air.

"You look like a dark priestess," he murmurs. "Very on-brand, wicked woman."

You turn to him, trying to control your pointed smile. "Call me that again and I'll make your mornings quite unpleasant. I will hide hex bags where you will never find them."

His mouth twitches. He doesn't look at you, his eyes scanning the crowd, sharp as ever. He hands you the glass and you take it, knowing better than to dismiss him in public.

"Threats already," he observes. "We're not even married yet."

"I'm not a wicked woman," you say. "It's rude to call me one. I'm a practitioner. Kind of. I wanted to be. I don't sell phony fixalls from behind a Rose Room in the Lower District."

"And what is it you practice?"

"None of your business."

He hums. "You smell of incense and herbs, wicked woman. It's nice."

"If you're trying to upset me-"

"I'm trying to distract you." He glances at you, dark eyes glittering. "You have an angry resting face. It makes people think you're unhappy to be here."

"I am unhappy."

He lets out a small sound. You realize it's amusement and you feel an odd twitch behind your ribs. "I told you already, you are too honest."

In the last two months since your engagement, your interactions with Minghao have been minimal. He is doggedly polite, formal, and stiff, saying all the right things and smiling at all the right times, but none of it is real. He's so practiced and rehearsed that at first, you thought it might be real. But the more you watch him, the more you realize that Minghao is the perfect imitator.

Except now. His poking and prodding seems in jest, though you know there's certainly something more to it, something important that you're missing. This light banter is new to you, and you dislike that he asks questions about your practice. The elite don't often take kindly to those who believe in powers beyond money and Syndicates, but Minghao seems more amused than disturbed.

You glance beyond Minghao, eyes settling on the Tower of the Choi Syndicate. You feel your mouth go dry at the sight of Choi Moojin. He stands a distance away with his wife, dressed in a bespoke midnight suit, the mountain emblem embroidered in a threat of silver at his cuff.

The Tower of the Syndicate is the single most powerful person in the room, if not the city. Though there are two other Syndicates in the city, the Choi Syndicate has been strong the last few years, gaining a slight power foothold both politically and economically.

Not territorially, though. Their loss of the Port of Hyperion being located in the Choi-dominated Warehouse District to the Yong family had been a blow, and was the entire reason that your wedding to Minghao was happening at all.

As long standing patrons dedicated to the Choi family, your union to Minghao guarantees better assurances for Choi-owned shipping freight and better sway and management with the shipping authority.

A smart match. A political one. All dictated because the Tower of the Choi Syndicate needed it. Strange, that your entire life has shifted at the command of a man you've never personally met because he needs something from you that he'll never pay you back for.

A little ways away from the Tower and his wife, their children argue. At least, that's what it looks like they're doing. Seungcheol leans against a pillar nearby, murmuring something to his sister, expression heated. She ignores him, staring out into the crowd as though she can't hear him at all.

The Choi heiress is the kind of beauty that commands the attention of the entire room, even now as her brother mutters urgently to her. Recently engaged herself, you're surprised you don't see her fiancée lurking about. You're sure that Kim Yijun was on the guest list. Instead, she ignores Seungcheol, a haunted look on her face, a beautiful dove with a broken wing. She'd looked like that the last time you'd seen her too, an empty shell of the girl you'd gone to etiquette school with.

"Strange," Minghao murmurs, drawing your attention back to him. "To see them in person."

"Why?"

"They seem normal."

"They are."

Minghao hums but doesn't answer. Perhaps he has a point - they do seem normal. But why shouldn't they? They're two of the most privileged people in the room, growing up under a banner of Syndicate peace and prosperity. Had he expected obvious criminality? Knives and guns, threats of violence?

The way he observes them with his mouth slightly downturned tells you he might have expected exactly that. He's unfamiliar with the Syndicates, and you think belatedly of the scar on his knuckles, the one you often wonder after.

You drain your champagne in one swallow. "They're here to make sure this is a union they support, not cause violence."

"The union was their idea." You cut a glance at Minghao. It's a truth that no one says outloud, least of all here. He returns your stare, his eyes inky and unreadable. "They wouldn't suggest it if they didn't support it."

"You told me being too honest would get me hurt one day. Maybe you should consider that as well."

"Should a husband not be honest with his wife?"

A passing server offers caviar on mother-of-pearl spoons. You ignore him, your eyes on the Choi heiress who turns to her brother and says something that shuts him up. Minghao gives the server a single look and sends him scurrying away, your fiancée sliding a step closer to you.

"You strike me as someone who uses truths to hide other truths," you note, looking him up and down. "You'll tell me one honest thing to make me confident while you hide six others."

Something flickers behind Minghao's eyes. It's that same flare of something like that first day you met him. Maybe surprise or recognition. You're not entirely sure, but it does something to you that you can't name, a little tug right behind your ribcage.

"Observant."

"I have to be."

"What have your cards told you about tonight?" You give Minghao a sharp look. He doesn't look at you but he sighs. "It wasn't a barb. I'm not sparring with you- not anymore, anyway. I’m trying to get to know you."

He laces his hands behind his back, waiting. Minghao is good at waiting, you've noticed. He doesn't ask for things twice, and he never clarifies himself - save for you. There is power in silence and waiting others out, and Minghao maneuvers that silence like a carefully sharpened blade that he's intimately familiar with.

"The same three cards," you tell him eventually. "The Tower. The Moon, reversed. Death."

Minghao hums. "Violent change. Illusions stripped away. Transformation."

"You don't have to pretend to believe in it for my sake."

"I don't know what I believe in. Perhaps there is some truth to your tarot and the spell jars you keep hidden in your pockets. Who is to say?"

Before you can answer, a ripple moves through the crowd. You watch as heads turn and you find the source. The Tower is moving, slow and inevitable toward you. Your heart lurches and you glance around, looking for your father, who should be here to receive this conversation, but he's nowhere to be found.

Minghao's hand settles at the small of your back, making you swallow thickly. The heat of his palm against your skin is an inferno, but it grounds you as the Tower approaches with his wife, children and Wisdom in tow.

You glance at Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. You hadn't noticed her at first, the woman a near imperceptible shadow lurking behind the Tower's wife. She's dressed in a blue so dark that it's almost black, hair pulled back and slick as oil. Her son is at her side, a twin shadow that you have heard is her image in more than just physical likeness.

Choi Moojin stops an arm's length away. Up close, he's larger than you remember, the kind of presence that fills up a room and makes you feel small. His eyes are fathomless, but surprisingly warm, a weird offset to the danger you know he poses.

"You look beautiful," he says, voice soft. "Congratulations on your engagement. Your families must be proud, you're an exquisite couple with good taste."

You dip at the knees and lower your head, bowing as deep as decorum for the moment demands. "Thank you, Tower. Your blessing is appreciated."

Seungcheol steps around his father, offering his hand to Minghao while his sister lingers behind him, a strange look on her face as she watches you, almost like panic. Her brother shakes Minghao's hand firmly before he takes yours and kisses the top politely. "Congratulations."

Minghao's fingers flex against your spine, the tiniest pressure before you drop Seungcheol's hand and the Choi's drift away. You feel yourself exhale as they do, relief flooding your system at their obvious approval. The Mountain will stand behind your marriage, which is as good as signing the paper and saying your vows.

The Wisdom goes with the Choi's, dipping her head toward you with a small smile that unsettles you, but her son lingers, drifting closer with a lazy grin.

Jeonghan offers a hand to Minghao. "A union of banking and shipping. Tell me, does love come standard with the merger, or is that an optional upgrade?

It's crass. From what you know of Yoon Jeonghan, it isn't surprising that he likes to see you squirm. Though he's next in line to be the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate when his mother steps down from the title, you're unsure if he's suited for it if he can't help but make inappropriate barbs at an engagement party.

You have half the mind to tell him so, but it's Minghao who answers, a sharp smile on his face as he shakes Jeonghan's hand. "We prefer equity over love."

Jeonghan laughs, delighted. "Enjoy the party. Congratulations on your union."

With a final wink, Jeonghan drifts away, chasing after Seungcheol who is arguing with his sister again. The Tower ignores his children, clapping someone on the back from Nexus Capital's board of directors.

Minghao's hand slides from your back to your wrist, thumb brushing the tourmaline bracelet once before he drops his hand entirely. You don't dare look at him. The touch is intimate and softer than you expect. It unsettles you that it’s the softest bit of warmth anyone has shown you in years.

Your fiancée waves to a group of people familiar to him but not to you. You expect him to lead you over and introduce you, but he doesn't, drifting away from you with a final look that you can't read. You watch him go, the place where his hand rested burning like a brand.

-

Your new penthouse is too large for two people. You knew that before you moved in, but with someone as quiet and absent as Minghao, it feels like you're on your own most days.

The penthouse occupies the entire crown of the residences at The Observatory in the northeast corner of the Upper District. Your new home is four thousand square feet of smoked glass, matte black steel, and pale ash wood that leaves the home cold.

The main living space is a single open expanse, the kitchen bleeding into the dining room and lounger. Floor to ceiling windows frame the open space on three sides, letting in the spill of city flights on a clear night. Tonight, it's cloudy, the fog on the glass pressing close and obscuring the world. It makes you feel like you're in your own dimension far away from Hyperion.

Your bedroom is in the east wing of the apartment, Minghao's is in the west. Two totally opposite ends of the space you're supposed to share together. Live in together. Be married in together. He'd requested your rooms remain separate, and though it hadn't bothered you at first, it does now.

It doesn't matter what bothers you, though. There's no one around to complain to. Your days have settled into a brittle sort of rhythm: you get up at seven to go to the gym to find him already gone. You never see him leave but when you make your mugwort and lemon tea, the kettle is always warm. He returns sometime between nine and noon, hair damp, expression icy. He gives you a polite nod, then vanishes to his wing of the apartment.

No words. Nothing.

You spend the hours alone learning the layout of your home. It's different from the rolling estate of your family. Smaller and bigger all at once, lacking the intricacies and oddities of a home that has been in a family for generations.

The windows never open - you suppose that makes sense, this high up. The air is triple-filtered and scent-neutralised, making the rooms feel dead and clinical. You decide to combat this every Wednesday after the cleaners have gone.

As soon as they're gone, you begin your work. The routine is simple, nothing extravagant. You take a small bundle of palo santo from the tin you keep with your tea and light one end, letting the sweet smoke rise. With the woody smoke drifting from the lit end, you walk the apartment slowly, clockwise while thinking on your intentions.

You trail the smoke along the windows, under the sofa, around the legs of the stools at the island. You grow hesitant when you near Minghao's room, but you let the smoke drift toward his door anyway. You don't open it, but your hands trace the doorframe, a small peace offering.

As you work, your mind empties save for your little intentions: peace, protection, harmony. You're kneeling in the middle of the living room, passing the palo santo beneath the low coffee table one last time when the front door opens without warning. You sit rod straight, turning to see Minghao come into the apartment. Your eyes flick to the clock and you frown. He's early today.

He's dressed in black workout clothes, hair damp, a bottle of water dangling in one hand. He stops the moment he sees you.

Smoke curls between you. He says nothing and neither do you. You half expect a question, a raised brow, anything. He looks at the palo santo in your hand, the thin ribbon of smoke, and then back to you. Something shifts in his expression that you can't place, but he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he steps carefully to the kitchen, giving you a wide berth despite the physical distance already between you, and opens the fridge. He takes out a second bottle of water, and sets it on the island counter top toward you.

"You look dehydrated," is all he says before he tips his head and walks back to his wing.

You remain on your knees, staring at him, lips parted a little. His bedroom door shuts with a distant click, leaving you in the silence and the curling smoke.

Eventually, you get up, knees cracking as you do. You feel a little dizzy and realize you are thirsty. You have no idea how he was able to clock that you're dehydrated by simply looking at you, but you file it away as one of Minghao's oddities, a neverending list that points to him not being the arrogant rich kid you expected.

Heading to the counter, you grab the water, the condensation on the bottle cold and exactly what you needed. As you drink it, Minghao surprises you by coming back out, a bag over his shoulder. You frown, eyes dropping to the bag.

"I'll be gone for three days," he tells you. "I'll see you on the morning of the third day."

"Where are you going?"

"Business." You don't like the ambiguity, but he's already halfway out the door. He hesitates and turns to you, mouth opening and closing as he chooses his next words carefully. "This is your home. Practice how you'd like."

"Pardon?"

"Your… practice. You don't need to hide it from me, Wicked."

You scowl. "I told you not to call me a wicked woman."

His mouth tilts. "I'm not. Simply wicked, is all. Not quite a wicked woman, not quite a practitioner, hmm?"

You glare through his logic and he shrugs, heading for the door and slipping through like smoke.

-

"Here," you say softly, shoving a bundle into Minghao's hand. He raises his brows, eyes skirting the crowd around you. "This is for you."

It's not the best time to give him the gift, but Minghao is never at the penthouse and keeps hours strange enough that you almost never see him despite living with him. The charity auction for the Archaeology Restoration Fund swells around you under the floating sky of the Lumina Tower, but as a moment of quiet opens up while you're standing next to the orchid walls, you take your change.

His dark eyes flick to your face, then back to the offering. He unwraps the silk with careful fingers, revealing the bracelet nestled inside. It is a deep blood-red cord, braided deliberately by your own hands over several quiet nights in the penthouse. Woven into the threads are three fine strands of your own hair, unmistakeable. At the center hangs a small, polished azabache charm, a piece of jet stone you sourced a few days ago. The stone is smooth and cool, carved with subtle protective sigils only visible under the right light.

He stares at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the braided cord and the jet stone. Something unreadable flickers across his features before he quickly schools it away.

“You made this?” His voice is low, almost cautious.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"The red is for strength and safety. The azabache is for warding off the evil eye. The hair binds my intention."

"It's not a curse?" You scowl and his mouth twitches. "You threatened to hex me, forgive my hesitation."

Minghao turns the bracelet slowly in his fingers, the azabache catching the soft light. He runs his thumb over the braided strands of your hair, expression softening by the smallest degree. "You continue to surprise me."

"Yeah, well. You don't have to wear it if you don't want to."

Minghao is quiet for another long beat. Then, without a word, he slips the red bracelet onto his right wrist. The contrast of the vivid red cord against his black suit and pale skin is striking. He flexes his hand once, as if testing how it feels, then looks back at you.

"Thank you." There's no mockery or deflection as he lowers his hand. "I'll wear it."

"Don't read too much into it."

"Hm. Too late. Thank you, Wicked."

For a moment, the nickname sounds fond instead of teasing, and the noise of the gala fades. The glowing orchids, the drifting lanterns, the murmur of high society - all of it recedes and leaves the two of you standing in this small pocket of quiet among the spectacle.

-

When you were a little girl, you always imagined that your wedding might be somewhere in a forest, somewhere where forests still legitimately existed. You'd be barefoot, feet planted firmly on a mossy ground, and your hands would be bound in red ribbon to your lover, covered binding oil distilled from flowers and herbs over your wrists until the ribbons were saturated and heavy with the smell of herbs.

This wedding is not that.

The air in the bridal suite is scented heavily with orchids and warm vanilla, the florals spilling over their vases and decorating every surface even here when no one can see them. You stand motionless before the towering mirror, the weight of your gown weighing you down as attendants move around you, adjusting the train of your dress and the butterfly-delicate gossamer of your veil.

Thankfully, the gown is a little like what you imagined. Forgoing the traditional white, it's made of layers of midnight silk, covered in thousands of hand-stitched obsidian beats and microscopic diamonds that fracture in the recessed lighting, turning it into layers of constellations. It spills dramatically into a trail of inky fabric.

You'd commissioned the dress six weeks ago, requesting the design to echo the deep, light-devouring suits Minghao favored. It was a deliberate statement of unity, power, and ultimately, ownership. You'd done it on purpose, and your father had approved when he'd seen it for the first time this morning.

A small win.

Your fingers drift beneath the long sleeve on your left wrist, tracing the black tourmaline and jasper cord hidden against your skin. The cord feels warm, a quiet tether to something older and more certain than the spectacle awaiting you. You breathe deliberately - four counts in, four out. It calms the frantic bird trapped behind your ribs, but only barely.

The reflection in the mirror is alien to you. You've never seen yourself look more elegant and composed, but inside you still feel like the little girl who collected moon water in jars and whispered secrets into manifestation journals.

Beyond the heavy double doors, the ceremony garden waits. The Garden of Eden is one of the city's finest venues, a floral dream suspended three hundred floors above Hyperion's rain-slicked streets. Real, living soil fills massive engineered beds through the space with towering tropical ferns planted, their glossy fronds glinting with dew. Multiple water falls cascade from tiered rock formations into koi ponds, the splash audible even from behind closed doors.

You'd chosen the venue because it was the closest thing you could get to the living earth in Hyperion. Minghao's mother had chosen it because it was the most luxurious venue she'd ever had access to up until now, a haven reserved for the elite. The commonfolk of Hyperion didn't have access to house plants, much less the night-blooming jasmine climbing up trellises and arches or the deep blood-red roses and exotic orchids dotting the aisles.

Hundreds of guests are already seated under the domed ceiling with an engineered twilight sky. Hidden audio systems weave strings and the resonant hum of crystal bowls through the space, frequencies chosen to evoke harmony and solemnity. You can hear the din of the crowd over the sounds, the Upper District elites shimmering in jewels and silks worth more than entire city blocks.

A soft knock interrupts your thoughts. Mina, your lead attendant, slips inside. She's only a few years older than you, but she's sharp-eyed and had years of service with your family, previously working with your sister. You don't mind her - she's not a friend, but she's also not unfriendly, which you'll take.

“It’s time, miss," she informs you. "The Tower and his family are seated and the Xu family is positioned. The garden is ready."

You nod once, throat tight and dry. There is no escape. The contracts were signed in that cold boardroom months ago. You'd known since the moment your sister died that this is what your life was now - the Tower upright, sudden change. The moon reversed, lies coming undone. Death, upright, great transformation. You'd been pulling the same cards for months, each the same thing.

It was the universe's way of telling you that this was your fate, as inescapable as any hard law or scientific rule.

Fragrant air greets you in the corridor. The staircase is full of flowers and dripping in vines, the steps covered in moss and trailing ivy that release sweet smells with every step. Swallowing, you walk down the stairs carefully, attendants behind you and ensuring you don't trip until you're at the bottom of the staircase behind a private screen, preparing to turn the corner and walk down the aisle.

Taking a breath, you turn the corner. Your heart pounds in rhythm with the distant music as the aisle comes into full view. The aisle stretches in front of you, a pathway edge with living white orchids. The ceremony cuts right through the heart of a lush garden, mist curling around the guests feet as they rise, hundreds of them moving in a wave of silk and murmurs.

Eyes track you from every angle - envy, calculation, hunger, approval, curiosity - but you keep your gaze fixed forward, suddenly latching to the man waiting beneath the grand arch of vines and cascading blooms.

Minghao is a shadow given form. He's dressed in black on black, the fabric so absolutely it seems to absorb the light and color from the greenery. His hair is styled longer, framing the exquisite balance of his face. His eyes find yours instantly, intense and unreadable, a stillness that calls to you.

Your pulse thunders as you start the walk. The train trails behind, gently managed by two young attendants as mist from the nearest waterfall kisses your skin, cooling the heat rising in your cheeks. Anxiety coils tight in your stomach, a living serpent, but you move with the trained grace of someone who has practiced this exact path in rehearsals. Future matriarch. Bride. Pawn in a larger game of shipping lanes, banking power, and Syndicate alliances. You wonder if your sister felt this same suffocating weight on her own path or if it was cut too short to ever consider it.

When you reach the altar platform, Minghao extends his hand. You offer him yours, hating the way your hands shake. He grips your hand firmly, and the contact sends a subtle spark up your arm, grounding amid the overwhelming sensory storm of the garden. For a single heartbeat, the hundreds of eyes, the cameras, and everything else recedes, leaving only you and Minghao.

His eyes are fathomless, easy to lose yourself in. His hand tightens a fraction around yours, his eyes only for you. "Temperance upright," he murmurs, only to you. "Patience. Balance. You embody those qualities. I appreciate them."

You blink in surprise when you realize he's talking about the tarot cards. You don't know what to say, the compliment stunning you, but Minghao doesn't wait for you to respond. His eyes flick to the officiant, a respected and neutral legal arbiter provided by Hyperion's council for this special occasion. She's dressed formally, her face perfect and impassive, making it impossible to tell how old she is.

Her voice is solemn but commanding as she urges the guests to sit, the ceremony beginning. Your hand remains in Minghao's, dropped between your waists as you stare ahead with unseeing eyes. You hear the officiant's voice, but you barely hear the words, your pulse loud in your ears as your heart hammers, each word spoken another piece of your sealed fate.

Ahead, the officiant speaks of alliance between houses and the merging of love and families. When you exchange rings, your hands are shaking again, stilled only by Minghao's gentle fingers as he clasps your hand to steady you, helping you slide the plain obsidian band onto his fingers, his sleeve pulling up just slightly to reveal his red bracelet.

Your ring is just as dark, inlaid with gold leaf and precious black stones that make it glimmer and flash dangerously. It feels heavy. Permanent. You watch as his nimble fingers slide it onto your hand, the single scar on his finger catching the light.

"Say the vows," the officiant instructs softly.

"I take you as my husband," you start, nearly whispering. You glance up at him and he nods a fraction, urging you to continue. You continue, voice clearer. "I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until this union is dissolved by law or by death."

Minghao doesn't miss a beat. "I take you as my wife. I vow to stand beside you in shadow and in light, in power and in duty, in prosperity and in peril, until death."

"It's-"

He cuts off the officiant's correction. "I know the words."

Your heart flutters, Minghao's choice to skip until this union is dissolved by law or by death a deliberate choice. Somehow it feels more powerful the way he's said it, like he's promising only death can tear you away from him. You think perhaps it's just the last bits of you clinging to the idea of romance, the idea of love that makes you feel that way.

The officiant pronounces you husband and wife and thunderous applause erupts, mixing with the hush of the waterfalls. Minghao lifts your face toward his with careful fingers, his touch lingering at your jaw, fingers gentle as they tilt your face upward. His eyes flicker with something so quickly you don't catch the emotion, and then he's leaning forward, pressing a brief, chaste kiss to your lips. He tastes faintly of wine, the touch lingering as he pulls away quickly.

Husband and wife. The words sink deep, heavy as the rings now on your fingers.

-

The reception is an ode to extravagance that most people cannot fathom. Spanning across three floors, each level opens into cascading terraces of real gardens with multi-tiered waterfalls feeding into glowing pools where rare bioluminescent koi swirl and swim. Walls of ferns, flowering vines, and fruit-bearing trees create alcoves with glass benches and trickling fountains. Each table is overflowing with food that won't be eaten, servers passing by with platters of rare chocolates dusted in edible gold and endless flutes of vintage wines and champagnes.

You navigate the crowd at Minghao’s side, his hand a near-constant presence at the small of your back. The contact is grounding for you but probably possessive in the eyes of your onlookers - and there are many. But only a single onlooker matters tonight, and as Choi Moojin approaches with his wife, you feel your spine go rigid until he offers his formal congratulations and blessing. As always, his daughter lingers nearby with that familiar haunted expression, her brother behind her like a shadowed gargoyle.

You smile until your cheeks ache. You exchange pleasantries with board members, accept compliments on the dress, the venue, the fabricated love story fed to the press. The floral scents grow heavier, the constant murmur of voices and music pressing against your temples. The bird in your chest flutters more desperately with every passing minute, and after nearly an hour and a half of relentless performance, you need a break.

"I need a moment," you murmur to him. "I'm just going to go to the upper powder room terrace. I'll be brief."

He studies your face carefully, then nods. “Take Mina and let security know where you're going."

You slip away with your attendant after telling security where you're going and getting their nod of affirmation before they mutter instructions into an earpiece. Mist from a nearby waterfall cools you off as you walk up the stairs, Mina helping with the heavy train. When you're finally alone on a private terrace, security just outside, you let yourself relax against a stone fountain, drawing in deep breaths of the mineral-rich air.

For the first time since the ceremony began, your practiced smile slips. Your feet hurt, your neck and shoulders ache, and you're starving, wishing you could stop the pleasantries for a moment to just eat. 

A small, wet gasp cuts through the peaceful trickle of the fountain and you spin around, startled. Time fractures as you try to put the pieces together of the image in front of you. A man dressed as a server with the lower half of his face obscured by a mask stands directly behind Mina, a gloved hand clamped over her mouth while she screams into his palm. He draws a sharp blade across the softness of her throat, scarlet spraying.

Mina's eyes widen in terror, locking onto yours for a single, agonizing heartbeat before they glaze over, her body convulsing once before she goes limp. Blood pours down the attacker's arm and down the front of her uniform, spilling red onto the terrace floor.

A scream rips from your throat, raw and primal, echoing off the stone walls. "Security!"

No footsteps thunder toward you. No shouts of alarm. The doors remain closed. The posted guards don't answer your call, and the music and laughter from the reception floors below continue uninterrupted, as if the universe itself has muted you.

Terror floods your system like ice water. Your heart slams against your ribs so violently you feel it in your throat. Adrenaline surges, sharpening every sense while simultaneously making your limbs feel distant and heavy.

Your right hand dives into the hidden slit of your gown, fingers closing around the small, discreet knife you've kept on your person since your sister's death. You yank it free, gripping the handle with enough force that your knuckles hurt as you pivot from the fountain, putting it at your back for a sliver of protection.

The attacker releases Mina’s collapsing body and he crumples to the ground in a heap of blood-soaked fabric, her eyes open and staring. The masked figure turns toward you with predatory calm.

"Security!" You scream again, the sound of your voice bouncing off the terrace walls.

No one answers, and a single, horrifying realization crashes over you - either the guards have been compromised or they're dead, and this attack was timed with terrifying precision.

There's no time to think as the attacker lunges.

You twist desperately to the side, the blade whistling past your ribs by inches. The movement throws you off balance on the wet stone, but you slash out wildly with your own knife, catching the attacker’s sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. He grunts angrily and pivots, his knife slashing at you again. You duck and stumble backward, the fountain’s stone foundation scraping painfully against your hip as you use it to keep distance.

Fear is a living thing inside you now, clawing at your lungs, making every breath sharp and ragged. I’m going to die here. On my wedding night. In front of a fucking fountain while people drink and celebrate without knowing. The thought fuels a desperate surge of fury and you lunge at him this time, catching him off guard as you stab upward.

You manage to nick him, but you don't know how to fight and his retaliation of your anger is brutal as his knife flashes against and slices across your forearm, cutting through silk and skin in a burning line of pure agony. Blood pours instantly, hot and slick down your wrist and hand, making your grip on your own knife slippery and you scream out in pain.

A second strike follows before you can recover, a deep gash opening up across your upper left arm as you turn away from him. The pain is white-hot and blinding, and you let out another choked, animal sound as your vision narrows, blood roaring in your ear.

Every heartbeat sends fresh agony through the gashes, but terror keeps you moving. You kick out hard, your heel connecting with the attacker’s knee and he staggers but recovers easily, closing the distance to kill.

And then Minghao is there, exploding onto the terrace like a force of nature. One moment he's at the door, the next he's a blur of controlled violence as the killer turns to face the more immediate threat. Minghao is fast, stepping inside the man's guard, hand shooting out to grip his wrist and twist with bone-cracking force. A sickening crunch echoes and the man screams, the blade clattering to the ground.

The man swings with his free hand, but Minghao ducks under the wild punch with fluid precision, driving his elbow upward into the man’s throat in a devastating strike. The sound is wet and choked, the cartilage shattering under Minghao's elbow.

You stumble backward against the fountain’s stone foundation, left arm hanging useless and burning, blood streaming down your fingers in hot rivulets. Your own small knife trembles in your right hand, slick with blood. Fear still claws at your throat, tight and awful as Minghao - your husband for less than two hours - moves like something trained for this exact kind of violence. The polished, soft-spoken heir from the boardroom is gone. In his place is something sharper, darker, and far more dangerous.

The attacker tries to recover, lashing out with a desperate kick, but Minghao catches the leg, yanks it forward, and slams his knee into the man’s inner thigh with brutal force, dropping him to one knee. Then Minghao is behind him, a single arm snaking around the attacker's neck. For a second, your eyes meet Minghao's, his gaze ice and fire all at once. Then, he snaps the man's neck hard, the crack loud and final.

The attacker’s body goes limp instantly, collapsing in a heap beside Mina’s body. Blood pools beneath both bodies, mixing with the water from the fountain and staining the delicate white orchids that edge the stone paving.

Minghao is heaving, catching his breath as he stares at you across the violent terrace. He takes a single step toward you before chaos erupts in the doorway, heavy footsteps thundering across the stone as members of the Choi Syndicate flood the space. Seungcheol is in the room first, face like thunder and gun in hand. Jeonghan is behind him, the lazy smirk gone and replaced with deadly focus, armed and gun raised over Seungcheol's shoulder.

Seeing Soonyoung surprises you - you hadn't realized the Sword of the Choi family was here. You'd heard he'd been unpredictable and unhinged as of late, but from what little you knew of him, he was Seungcheol's first line of defense and probably went everywhere the Tower's son did.

Behind him, you vaguely recognize another Sword of the Choi family speaking into a comm at his wrist. You've met Joshua several times at galas and parties, his family high up enough in the Choi Syndicate to run in the elite circles - you even remember them being disappointed he'd become a Sword instead of a socialite or something less violent.

More personnel pour in behind them, your father’s security, Nexus Capital executives, event staff in panicked disarray. The peaceful mist of the terrace turns thick with the metallic stench of blood and the overlapping shouts of orders while you lean against the fountain, light-headed and bleeding.

Your father’s voice cuts through the noise like a whip. “Shut it down! Shut the entire fucking wedding down! Seal the floors now!" He pushes through the growing crowd, face flushed with fury. “I want this building locked. Find out how the hell this happened under our security! Someone’s head will roll for this!”

The chaos swells. Guests from the lower levels begin to murmur and push upward as rumors spread like wildfire. Security teams from both families clash in their attempts to take control, voices rising in overlapping commands. Someone is already photographing the bodies. Another is calling for medical extraction.

Through it all, Minghao moves straight to you.

“Everyone back!” he barks, voice sharp as Nexus Capital security moves toward you. "I will handle my wife. Get away from her."

Minghao sits you on the edge of the fountain, the water spraying your back and soaking through your dress. He drops to his knees in front of you, shrugging off his jacket in one fluid motion and pressing the expensive fabric hard against the deep gashes on your left arm. The pressure sends fresh waves of white-hot pain radiating through your shoulder and chest, but you bite back a cry.

“Breathe," he instructs, voice soft. "In for four, out for four."

You look at him sharply. "How do you know that?"

"You did it the entire time we were at the altar, Wicked. Where are you hurt?"

"Cuts on my arms."

"Deep? Tell me ba-"

Your father pushes closer, still shouting as he interupts whatever Minghao was about to say. “Minghao, let my people handle this. We need to get her to a secure-"

“No,” Minghao snaps, rising to his full height while pulling you to his side, hands pressed against your wounds to staunch the bleeding. “No one touches her except me right now. This is my wife. My responsibility.”

The possessiveness in his tone sends a strange shiver through you, mixing with the adrenaline and pain. He begins guiding you slowly away from the fountain, toward the far side of the terrace where the chaos is slightly less suffocating, his hands never leaving the wounds, applying constant, firm pressure.

Joshua separates himself from the Syndicate group and approaches carefully, hands raised in a clear non-threatening gesture. Minghao pulls you away but you squeeze his arm and whisper, "Syndicate. High up. Don't offend him."

"I don't care-"

"I can help," Joshua cuts in, earnest and gentle. "My fiancée is here tonight. She’s an ER nurse and is always prepared because I'm a bit of a disaster. She has supplies in her bag. Let her patch your wife quickly and privately. We can move to the adjacent private lounge. It’s secure.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens and his eyes flick to you, assessing the amount of blood still soaking through his jacket and the way your legs are beginning to tremble. For a long second, he seems ready to refuse. Then he gives a single, curt nod. “Briefly. Privately. No one else comes near her.”

Joshua signals quickly. A moment later, a woman in an elegant deep emerald gown slips through the crowd, escorted by a man you don't know. Her expression is focused and professional, despite the surrounding chaos. She doesn't waste time with introductions, marching toward the small, adjoining private lounge just off the terrace.

Inside, the space is quiet, dimly lit with warm amber lighting, furnished with low couches and lush potted plants. She works with swift efficiency, focused on helping instead of introducing herself. She orders Minghao to keep pressure on your wounds while she cuts away parts of your dress to clean the gashes with antiseptic. The sting makes you hiss through your teeth, fresh tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Minghao’s free hand finds yours, squeezing gently, surprising you.

"Cuts are deep but clean," she says, voice clinical. "No major vessels hit. You’ll need proper stitches and antibiotics soon, but this will hold for now."

She applies quick-acting clotting powder, then wraps your forearm and upper arm in tight bandages. The pressure is firm, immediate relief against the constant bleeding. Throughout it all, Minghao stays close, one hand on your back, the other assisting where needed.

Your mind spins. Mina’s lifeless eyes flash behind your eyelids every time you blink. The wet sound of her gasp. The way the attacker moved, professional, silent, deadly. This wasn’t random. This was targeted. On your wedding night. In the middle of the most public spectacle Hyperion has seen in years with some of the heaviest security you've ever been around.

You glance up at Minghao. His face is a mask of controlled fury, but his touch on you remains careful, almost tender as the woman finishes securing the last bandage.

"That'll hold until you get her to her own private care."

“Thank you,” you manage, voice hoarse and shaky. The pain is still there, a deep, throbbing burn, but it is no longer actively bleeding you out.

Minghao helps you to your feet, keeping his arm securely around your waist. He nods once at Joshua and his fiancée. "We're leaving."

Joshua nods and opens the door, letting you back into the chaos.

Outside, your father is still shouting orders to shut everything down, demanding answers, threatening careers. Syndicate members move through the growing crowd like shadows, securing perimeters. Soonyoung and Seungcheol stand guard near the doors, expressions grim while Jeonghan leans against a wall, watching everything with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

Minghao keeps you tucked firmly against his side as he guides you out of the private lounge and through the swelling chaos of the upper terrace. His arm around your waist is unyielding, taking most of your weight while his other hand maintains relentless pressure on your bandaged left arm.

Every step sends fresh throbs of pain radiating through the deep gashes, but the clotting powder and tight wraps are holding. Still, warm blood seeps slowly through the bandages, staining the sleeve of your ruined obsidian gown. The once-beautiful dress now hangs heavy and ruined, torn silk clinging wetly to your skin.

“Clear a path,” Minghao growls, cutting through the crowd.

Syndicate members fall in around you without question, creating a protective bubble as he steers you toward a discreet service corridor hidden behind a wall of flowering vines. The lush greenery brushes against your shoulders, leaving faint pollen and the sweet scent of jasmine on your skin. Mist from the waterfalls still clings to the air, now carrying the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

Your head spins. The adrenaline that kept you upright during the fight is crashing hard, leaving your legs unsteady and your vision edged with black spots. You lean heavier into Minghao’s side, inhaling the faint pine and rain scent that always seems to cling to him. He doesn’t falter. His grip only tightens, steady and sure.

The private exit corridor is dimly lit with recessed amber lighting, two armed guards stationed at the end snapping to attention when they see Minghao, stepping aside instantly. A reinforced service elevator waits. Inside, the space feels claustrophobic, the mirrored walls reflecting your bloodied, disheveled appearance back to you.

Minghao says nothing. He simply helps you out when the elevator doors open directly into an underground private garage reserved for the highest tier of guests. . An armored black car idles, its engine humming. The driver steps out briefly to open the rear door and Minghao helps you inside first, easing you onto the leather seat with surprising care before sliding in beside you. The door seals with a heavy, reassuring thunk, and the car pulls away smoothly.

Minghao leans forward toward the driver and speaks in a fluid, melodic language you have never heard before, making you frown. It doesn’t sound like any of the common trade tongues used in Hyperion or Arkos, but the syllables roll off his tongue with effortless familiarity, carrying the weight of something old. One of the dead languages, you think. The driver responds in the same tongue, short and affirmative, before accelerating.

You stare at Minghao, startled. He settles back against the seat. His suit is ruined with your blood, the dark black of his shirt somehow darker. His hair is slightly disheveled for the first time since you met him, a few strands falling across his forehead. His eyes are sharp and unblinking, fixed entirely on you. He hasn’t relaxed. Not even slightly. His posture remains coiled, ready, one hand resting on his knee while the other occasionally flexes as if wanting to reach for a weapon.

You swallow hard, meeting his gaze head-on. “Was that your people? Did your family arrange this? To test me? To test the alliance?”

Minghao doesn’t look away. His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers behind his dark eyes. “I’m not sure."

The honesty lands like a stone in still water. No deflection. No smooth corporate reassurance. Just the stark truth that unsettles you more than any lie could have. In a world built on calculated performances and half-truths, his directness feels dangerous and alien.

You let out a shaky breath, leaning your head back against the cool leather. The city lights streak across his face in shifting patterns of neon violet and electric blue.

“Thank you,” you whisper after a long moment. “For saving me."

Minghao’s jaw tightens. "You’re no use to my family dead.”

The words aren't kind or romantic. They carry no warmth, no reassurance. Still, they're true. In this transactional marriage of power, your survival is an asset. The bluntness stings a little, and it unsettles you. He's repeatedly told you that honesty would get you killed, and hear he is being honest himself.

Well. Honest to hide other truths, you're sure, as is his way.

You study him in the shifting light. The scar on his right knuckle stands out pale against the dried blood on his hands and you're reminded of the way he dismantled the attacker. It wasn't a survival reflex like your clumsy attempt had been - it was the training of someone who practiced and who fought efficiently, someone professional.

"Who are you?" You ask, narrowing your eyes. The car glides through a tunnel, plunging you both into momentary shadow before neon lights wash over you again. “You’re not who my family was led to believe. That wasn’t the fighting style of a logistics prince. You killed him like you’ve done it before.”

Minghao’s gaze hardens. He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, watching you with that intense, cataloguing stare that makes your skin prickle. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

The warning hangs between you and you can feel the weight of his hidden truths again. None of it makes sense - the scar, the ancient-sounding language, the way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch in that boardroom. Something isn't right with Xu Minghao, but you don't know what.

"I think I deserve to know who I just married," you say evenly. You ignore the warning, the throbbing in your arm. "My family thought they were allying with a neutral shipping empire from Arkos but you fight like someone who was trained to kill. You played into being an idiot party boy. You are not."

Minghao exhales slowly through his nose. For the first time, you see a flicker of something almost like weariness cross his features. He leans back again, eyes never leaving yours.

“This marriage is transactional,” he says evenly. “You don’t need to know everything about me. You only need to know that you're my wife and I would go through great pains to keep you alive. It has to be enough.”

The finality in his tone closes the subject like a door slamming shut. You want to argue, to demand more, but the pain in your arm is sharpening as adrenaline fully ebbs, and exhaustion is pulling at the fraying edges of your patience.

Minghao continues watching you, tense and alert, as if expecting another threat to emerge from the shadows at any moment. His hands, still stained red, rest on his thighs as the armored car glides through the upper levels of Hyperion’s streets, the neon sprawl of the city reduced to blurred streaks of violet, crimson, and electric blue beyond the tinted windows.

The car eventually slows and turns into a private underground entrance beneath a sleek, unmarked residential spire in the Upper District. Not the Observatory penthouse you selected as your starter home, but something else. A contingency location, you realize. One of the secure safehouses that must have been part of the joint security protocols you both negotiated and approved during those long, tense meetings.

When the vehicle comes to a stop, Minghao exits first, then reaches in to help you out with careful hands. His arm slides around your waist again, supporting your weight as your legs threaten to buckle on the polished concrete. Two figures step forward immediately from the shadows of the garage, security personnel you recognize from the joint vetting process you and Minghao conducted weeks ago.

A woman named Elara with sharp eyes and a calm demeanor, and a man named Kai, broad-shouldered and quiet. They were among the handful both of you had personally approved after rigorous background checks and interviews. Neutral. Capable. Unaligned with either family’s deeper entanglements.

“Status?” Minghao asks them.

“All clear, sir,” Elara replies. “The building is locked down. Three additional teams on the perimeter. No unauthorized movement.”

Minghao nods once, satisfied, and guides you toward the private elevator. The ride upward is silent except for the soft hum of machinery. When the doors open, you step into a spacious, fortified apartment that is elegant but deliberately understated compared to the Observatory penthouse.

Minghao leads you straight to a wide, low couch in the main living area, easing you down with surprising gentleness. Elara and Kai take up positions near the entrance, professional and unobtrusive. A medical attendant has already been prepared in an adjoining room, but Minghao waves off immediate further treatment for now.

He kneels in front of you, his bloodstained hands resting lightly on your knees as he studies your face. For a long moment, the only sound is the soft hum of the building’s air filtration system and the distant murmur of the city far below.

“I need one of your little wicked jars,” he says quietly. “The one you’re still hiding on yourself.”

You blink, startled despite the fog of pain and exhaustion. "Why? And how do you even know I have one?”

Minghao’s mouth twitches, the faintest bit of amusement. “I’m observant.” He glances meaningfully at the torn sleeve of your gown where the bandages peek through, then back to your eyes. “And considering you’re still alive after what just happened, they must work. I would like to keep one with me for what I’m about to go do.”

"What are you about to go do?"

"Something very violent."

The request hangs between you and you hesitate before you lift your trembling fingers to reach into the hidden inner pocket sewn deep into the bodice of your dress. The small glass jar is still there, warm from your body heat. Black salt, rosemary, hematite, sealed with wax and a drop of your blood. You press it into his waiting palm. The glass looks small against his bloodstained fingers.

Minghao closes his hand around it carefully before tucking it into the inner pocket of his ruined suit jacket. "Thank you."

He rises to his feet, but doesn’t step away immediately. Instead, he looks down at you with that intense, unreadable gaze. “Do not leave this safehouse until I return. Elara and Kai have their orders and they answer to us both. Doctor Tzintzun is here - I understand she is your family doctor."

You nod. "Be careful. Please."

Minghao lingers one final second. His thumb brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead in a gesture so unexpectedly gentle it contrasts sharply with the violence you witnessed barely an hour ago. It makes your heart skip, the breath getting stuck in your lungs for a moment. Then the mask slips back into place, the familiar cool and controlled calm you know.

He lifts his wrist, flashing the bracelet you gave him. "You’re protecting me, right? I'll be fine. I’ll return before dawn. Rest. Let the doctor fix your arm, Wicked."

He turns and walks toward the entrance without another word. Elara and Kai acknowledge him with respectful nods as he passes, and the door seals behind him with a solid, final sound.

The silence that follows feels immense. You lean back against the couch, staring out the windows where the city’s distant lights glitter like cold stars. Your left arm pulses with deep, aching fire, but the bandages hold. Mina’s face flashes behind your eyes again, her wet gasp and spray of blood, the way her body crumbled. You swallow hard against the rising nausea.

Doctor Tzintzun sticks her head out of the adjoining room. "Ma'am? Whenever you're ready."

You nod and allow her to come out and help you to your feet. She guides you toward the adjoining room to clean, stitch and re-bandage you again. As she does, your mind drifts back to the car ride and specifically, your new husband.

None of it makes sense. The ancient language. The brutal efficiency with which Minghao ended the attacker. His unflinching honesty when you asked if it was his people. The blunt truth about your value to his family. And now, the small spell jar resting against his chest as he walks into whatever shadows he’s about to confront.

You close your eyes as fresh antiseptic stings the wounds, tourmaline cord still warm around your wrist. The universe had warned you with its cards. The Tower falling. Illusions stripped bare. Death and transformation. Tonight, it delivered all three in blood and violence, but a steady sense of foreboding had been building all night, like the cards aren't done with you yet.

You wonder, as the pain dulls under medication and exhaustion finally pulls you under, what exactly Minghao is doing out there and what background taught him to be this way. As you fall asleep, you hope the small jar of salt, herb and intention will be enough to bring him back so you can find out.

-

Minghao moves through the rain-slicked unverbelly of the Civ District like a shadow. The neon glow from distant shipping cranes reflects off puddles stained with oil and blood, turning the narrow alley into a fractured mirror of Hyperion’s endless hunger. He's swapped the ruined wedding suit out for something more form fitting and breathable - and more importantly, free of your blood.

He'd scrubbed his hands free of your blood a few hours ago, but now someone else taints his knuckles as he presses his hand to his chest, ensuring the small spell jar that is tucked there is undamaged. It's a strange talisman, this jar that you've given him. He doesn't think they work, exactly, but it's a fascinating little practice, this stuff of yours. He's since looked into practitioners and the culture of women who practice craft, but he still can't understand how or why you came to it.

Still, he likes to wear the bracelet you gave him, often looking at it before going into a room to add another body to his list or before he has to do something he needs strength for. He's never thought much about luck, fate, or the universe, but now he carries the jar and bracelet on him like personal tokens of faith and protection.

Of all the things that Minghao finds most surprising, how often he thinks of you now is number one on the list. This marriage between you is purely transactional, a bridge between Nexus Capital's banking power and the Xu family's growing logistics empire. A calculated move to secure favor with the Choi Syndicate as instructed by the Virate to expand foothold in Hyperion.

But, strangely enough, he is fascinated by you. He's not fascinated by much, but when he'd seen you in that board room hiding bruises beneath your sleeves and drawing your peculiar tarot cards in secret, he felt a slight crack in his plan to use you and push you to the side. You were not the sheltered, obedient heiress they described. You were something sharper. Something that watched the universe with quiet, stubborn belief.

And tonight, someone tried to kill you.

He'd been shocked to find you with a knife in your hand despite the terror in your face. He'd heard you scream - he still doesn't know how, considering how far he had to run to get to you. The universe, perhaps. It impressed him to see that you'd fought back despite how bad you were at it, and the steadiness in your voice when you asked him point-blank in the car, whether his people had tried to kill you had nearly cowed him.

Most heirs in this city would have crumbled. You fought. You pushed. You handed him the spell jar without fully understanding why he wanted it, just that he did. He doesn't know what he wanted either, but it's warm against his chest and it's nice to have. Perhaps if a little jar of rocks and dirt and blood can save you from an assassination attempt, it can save him from whatever plot is unraveling in the shadows.

Minghao’s jaw tightens as he reaches the service door of the nondescript warehouse. The man inside - Strakos - is a mid-level fixer who'd coordinated the attacker's movement tonight. He'd been sloppy, though, and Minghao was incredibly good at finding out information in a city that didn't understand the nuances of the Virate.

He slips inside without sound. The interior is dimly lit by hanging work lamps, the air thick with the smell of rust, seawater, and cheap synth-cigarettes. Strakos sits at table, back to the door, reviewing holo-feeds of some shitty porno that makes Minghao's blood boil. This man had helped plan your death, and he's sitting in the middle of a warehouse, fully clothed watching someone get fucked over a couch.

Minghao strikes before Strakos has time to react.

One hand clamps over Strakos's mouth, yanking his head back while the other loops a thin wire garrote around his throat. Strakos thrashes, hands scrabbling at the wire as Minghao gathers it in his hand and pulls, his mouth brushing against Strakos's ears.

"You ruined my wedding," he murmurs.

The wire cuts through flesh and blood wells instantly, hot and dark. Strakos bucks wildly, knocking over the table as he gurgles, hands clawing at his throat. Minghao holds firm, knees braced against the chair as he pulls, gritting his teeth. Strakos's struggle is ugly and desperate, his feet kicking as the chair legs scrape against concrete, wet chokes escaping despite the crushing pressure.

Minghao’s mind remains clear, detached. This is not rage. This is correction. The Virate taught him long ago that hesitation kills empires.

He thinks of your face in the car, exhausted but determined, eyes wide with pain as you demanded the truth anyway. He thinks of the way you pressed the spell jar into his palm without hesitation. Of the faint scent of incense and herbs that always clings to you, the quiet rebellion of your tarot cards and hidden rituals. You are not soft. You are not simple.

You are as unexpected to him as he is to you, he thinks. And he's been very sloppy around you, unguarded and far too honest in the way that he keeps thinking will get you killed.

The wire sinks deeper. Strakos's struggles weaken, then cease entirely. Minghao holds the tension a few seconds longer, ensuring Strakos is dead before he finally releases, the body slumping forward onto the table with a dull thud. Blood drips onto the concrete floor, and Minghao smashes the phone to stop the crude holo from playing.

Minghao wipes the garrote clean on the dead man’s sleeve and tucks it away. He scans the room quickly, deleting the holo-feeds and pocketing a small data chip that might contain further connections. Only then does he pull out his encrypted comm device - the same matte-black rectangle he gave you all those months ago - and dials his father.

Xu Jian answers on the second ring. "Son."

“It’s done,” Minghao says quietly. He stares at the corpse, expression impassive. "Now to trace the loose threads of the web to the spider."

A long exhale on the other end. “Be careful. Your little display at the reception has the Choi’ curious.”

Minghao’s mouth curves into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Let them wonder. The message is clear: she is under my protection now."

"They don't know we're Virate. You could have exposed us."

"I made a calculated decision and you'll say nothing more of it. The Choi Syndicate has other things to worry about than wondering if we're Virate. I want you to look into who hired these scum. If it was Virate, we have a problem."

"It will be done."

In Arkos, under the old laws of the Virate - a loose but iron-bound confederation of family lineages bound by blood oaths far older than the Syndicates - Minghao isn't the quiet heir he is in Hyperion. He's the patriarch, the lead of his family, raised from childhood within the Virate's hidden ranks and trained in their shadows, a hidden member loyal to the Triptych.

Jian might appear to be the head of the family in Hyperion, but Minghao's elevation through blood and merit in the Virate is where the Xu family truly gets their power. While his father played the public face of Xu Worldwide Logistics here in Hyperion, planting seeds and building legitimate fronts, Minghao had been the blade ensuring those seeds took root. The true power behind the throne.

Of course what he did tonight was a risk. He knows that. Honestly, if he was doing what the Virate asked of him, he would have let them kill you. You weren't actually a necessary piece to the puzzle, but he knows that with you alive, he has a better narrative with the Choi Syndicate and it's annoyingly perceptive Wisdom and her son.

Minghao grimaces at the thought of Jeonghan and his eyes that see far too much. He knows that tonight will be a grave error and that the Wisdom's son will dig his teeth into Minghao and ask questions and prod, but it can't be helped now. What's done is done and Minghao had taken a calculated risk that he could keep the Choi's away from the Virate ties in favor of saving your life.

His father sighs on the other end like he can hear Minghao's thoughts. "This marriage is already more complicated than we anticipated."

"She is not what we expected,” Minghao admits. "She fought tonight, though she doesn't know how. Most heirs would have just screamed and died."

"You sound fond."

Minghao exhales slowly. Fond. The word feels too small, which unsettles him. From the first boardroom meeting, something had shifted. What was meant to be a strategic union already matters more than it should, and just meeting you has complicated Minghao's world when Minghao has never had complications before.

He killed for you tonight without hesitation. Not just because you are a valuable asset, but because the sight of your blood on the terrace floor had ignited something cold and possessive in his chest. He's unused to the feeling.

"I protect what belongs to me," Minghao says eventually. "She is Virate now, though she doesn't know it. I'm committed to her safety as I would be for you or mother."

His father chuckles softly. “You always did prefer the old ways. Be careful, son. You cannot lean on the Virate. We're in the shadows.”

"I know the rules. I was forged by them.”

Minghao ends the call and slips the comm back into his pocket. For a long moment he stands over the body, rain drumming steadily against the warehouse roof. His thoughts return to you again and again, like a current he cannot escape.

You, sitting across from him in the car, shaken and unflinching as you asked whether his people had tried to kill you. The quiet strength in your voice when you thanked him even after his blunt reply. The way you fought with that small knife, desperate and untrained.

This marriage was never supposed to matter beyond its utility. Yet tonight, watching your blood spill, something fundamental had shifted. You're no longer simply the Nexus heiress - you're his wife, and in the old customs of the Virate, that bond carries weight far heavier than any corporate contract.

Minghao straightens his jacket and leaves the warehouse the same way he entered. The rain washes away the last traces of blood from his hands as he walks toward the car, ready to shower and sleep.

He'll return before dawn, as promised. And later, he'll find the remaining threads of tonight's violence and cut them clean. And perhaps, in the quiet of whatever time he finds, he'll decide how exactly he's going to be a husband to a woman who believes in tarot cards and moon water in a city that only worships power, violence and credit.

For now, the head of the Xu family has done his honor bound duty to his wife, and somewhere across the glowing city, you're probably sleeping. Bandaged but alive, carrying the barest hints and pieces of Minghao's secrets and your strange, annoying charm with you.

Minghao touches the small jar in his pocket once more, feeling its faint warmth against his chest, and allows himself the smallest ghost of a smile in the darkness.

-

Minghao steps out of the armored car into the private underground garage of the safehouse, the rain from the Civ District still clinging to him like second skin. The neon glow of the city filters down in muted streaks, casting long, fractured shadows across the concrete.

He moves on autopilot, muscles aching from the night's violence. His mind is still razor sharp though, cycling through every detail of the kill, every loose thread he'd severed tonight.

Elara and Kai materialize from their posts near the elevator, postures alert. They relax when they see Minghao and bow respectfully, straightening as he approaches. They're among the few personnel both you and Minghao jointly vetted, neutral enough to serve the new union without picking sides.

“Report,” he asks, walking into the kitchen.

“All secure, sir,” Elara replies immediately. "Doctor Tzintzun treated her and gave her something for the pain and to sleep. She’s resting in the east wing suite. She did ask about you."

Minghao’s chest tightens at the words. She asked about you. Of course you did. Even bleeding and exhausted, you pushed for answers, for truth. He nods once.

"No one comes in or out. Not even her father or anyone from Nexus Capital."

Kai inclines his head. “Understood. The Choi Syndicate has sent discreet inquiries. Mr. Kwon personally. They’re offering additional support.”

“Let them offer,” Minghao replies. “We accept the appearance of cooperation, nothing more."

Minghao dismisses them with a wave and heads toward the east wing, leaving them back at their posts. He finds you in the master suite, tucked beneath dark sheets. Your face is relaxed in sleep, but tension still lingers in between your brows and your jaw as you frown. The black tourmaline cord peeks from beneath the edge of the bandages on your wrist. Minghao stands in the doorway for a long time, simply watching the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Something unfamiliar and dangerous twists behind his ribs. He had not anticipated this complication. The scales feel tipped out of balance, like something new has taken root, and he doesn't know what to do about it.

Minghao finally turns away and moves to the bedroom across the hall to strip off his tactical gear with mechanical, practiced movements in the bathroom. He's careful with your little spell jar, setting it down gingerly on the counter where the low bathroom light catches the glass.

He lets the scalding water melt everything but his thoughts away. He stands under the spray, watching the water swirl around his fink and fade from pink to clear. The heat feels good, unwinding his muscles and burning him to the point that the only thing left are thoughts of you and this new predicament he's in.

When he can't take the heat anymore, he steps out and changes into something soft and comfortable before settling in the middle of his bed with his computer in front of him. With the tap of a key, the screen projects holograms around him in a circle, broken only by his arm as he inserts the data chip from Strakos' warehouse into the computer.

He finds limited information on it - remnants of someone referencing the union of Nexus Capital and Xu Worldwide Logistics. He taps his fingers on his knees. The enemies in Hyperion are endless, but few of them have killing power. Most of the people in the city who hate his family are business competitors, minor patrons of various Syndicates in Hyperion. None of them have the power to send a Syndicate-sanctioned attack on his wife, which means this hit is higher up than simple city corporations.

It could be Syndicate, he supposes. He's still learning about the nuances of the three powerhouses that sit at the top of the food chain in Hyperion, but he's not convinced the Kim or Yong family would be moved enough by the marriage to do something so public about it - especially not with Choi Moojin's daughter engaged to Kim Yijun as a sign of union.

A sour feeling settles in Minghao's stomach. The easiest conclusion to make is that the threat is from the Virate. A finger of dread traces his spine at the thought. In a way, families of the Virate were similar to families of the Syndicate - they vied for power, it was always at war, and the most powerful family was always the one that was ten steps ahead. Unlike the Syndicates of Hyperion though, the families of the Virate collectively answered to the three heads of the Virate, the Triptych.

Except members of the Virate didn't know the Xu families were members. Outside of the Triptych, the Virate didn't even know Minghao existed. To them, Xu Jian was a retired member who had moved to Hyperion when he was seventeen after being honorably discharged and given the blessing of the Virate. Even with their blessing, Jian had given up all ties, powers, assets and favors from the Virate for life. That was the way it worked. His wife Luli, who had tried to leave the Virate once before, had joined him.

They'd left a key part of them there, though. Their son. The Triptych was in need of a family with old ties to be removed and relocated elsewhere, someone they could trust and that could believably sever ties with the Virate. The Xu family had been just that, and they'd given their only son to the Triptych to raise in the shadows, nameless and unclaimed as a Shade, forged in the Triptych's perfect image of an assassin before sending him to do the single thing he'd been created for: win over a Syndicate in Hyperion.

He sighs. He's tired - he's always tired these days, even more so than when he was a teenager learning how to become a shadowed killer. The lying and scheming is often harder than the killing, and trying to uncover his enemy hiding in the dark without access to real Virate influence and pull is a challenge.

An email to his personal catches his attention. It's one of the Trustees of Nexus Capital with more of Minghao's access to his new assets - your assets that are now his. It's overwhelming. Nexus Capital’s vast banking networks, offshore accounts, silent partnerships, voting proxies. Pages of sensitive data scroll past full of liquidity reports, hidden holdings in Syndicate-adjacent ventures, influence maps.

Minghao swallows. It's exactly what he wanted. With this level of access, the family can begin weaving influence deeper into Hyperion's financial arteries, and through the Choi alliance, they can steer shipping lanes and capital flows without the Syndicates ever realizing a new, quieter power is embedding itself beneath their foundations. The Choi's believe this is nothing more than a political marriage for port advantages. They have no idea what the Virate is capable of.

Minghao should feel satisfied. This is entirely the reason he was given to the Triptych and raised as a Shade, a nameless member in the shadows, someone without influence and without a name, but one of the most valuable members of their society. Everything is proceeding according to plan, and yet for the first time in his life, he feels sharp, unwelcome conflict like the edge of an enemy's blade.

His gaze drifts again toward the door where you sleep just across the hall. You were never part of the equation. You were meant to be kept at a distance, polite and useful, a spoiled brat who would go to parties and be the socialite Minghao was told you were. Instead, you have lodged yourself under his skin and you haven't even done anything - you'd simply looked at him after he'd killed the attacker tonight not in fear, but wary recognition that Minghao was also not what he seemed.

Protecting you tonight had felt instinctive. Necessary. The thought of you lying dead beside Mina had ignited a cold fury he rarely permits himself. And that realization terrifies him.

Loyalty to the family and to the old ways has defined Minghao's entire life - every choice he has ever made. It gave him purpose when his father focused on building the legitimate Hyperion front, it forged him into steel when he was being wiped and cut and tested. Attachments were always meant to be managed, never indulged, and yet here he is sitting in a safehouse, conflicted over a wife he doesn't really know.

If future objectives ever require sacrificing your safety, or keeping truths from you that could destroy the fragile trust beginning to form - what then? A few months ago, Minghao would have said he'd cut you away no problem. Now, he thinks he might need to cut you out like cancer, nearly killing himself in the process to sever the tie.

How unsettling. He isn't sure how he's gotten here, but as always, it's up to him to figure it out. Right now is not the time, though, so he rolls his shoulders and continues working through the remaining hours of darkness, mapping pressure points within Nexus Capital, noting which Choi figures might be influenced over time. Every new door opened by the marriage is another step into Hyperion's core, his entire purpose.

The first hints of dawn begin to lighten the sky beyond the glass of the bedroom. He glances up and realizes his current work has no business being done in the light of day, so he powers down the computer, the cyan numbers and screens vanishing. He stands and shuffles across the hall to check on you, opening the door as quietly as he can.

You're still asleep, breathing steadily in the same position he left you in. Sighing, he sits down in one of the chairs, leaning so his elbows are on his knees and his chin rests in his elbows, staring at you as you sleep.

For the first time in his life, the sharp edge of his purpose feels negotiable. Not abandoned or broken, but rather complicated by the strange, stubborn woman sleeping in front of him.

Perhaps you are wicked, but rather for the things you do to him instead of your actual deeds.

-

The last place you want to be tonight is the Eternal Bloom Gala at the Celestial Atrium in the Pearl District. The atrium is a floating marvel suspended between three interconnected spirals, gardens far more exquisite than even your wedding dominating every space. Though it looks nothing like your wedding, it's close enough to make your stomach turn, your fingers brushing across the closed wounds, still healing since the attack three weeks prior.

Massive domed ceilings of smart glass reveal the night sky above Hyperion, projected stars mingling with the real ones when the clouds part. Tiered terraces overflow with tropical foliage and cascading waterfuls that tumble into artificially glowing pools full of night-blooming lilies the size of dinner plates.

Crystal lanterns drift lazily overhead like captive moons, casting warm golden light that softens every sharp edge of wealth on display as women glide through the gardens in gowns of liquid silk and embroidered starlight. Servants in white move like ghosts, offering flutes of shimmering vintage and tiny edible sculptures dusted with real gold leaf.

Tonight, you're playing the part of socialite perfectly despite the bone-deep exhaustion that clings to you even now. Your gown is a deep forest green this evening, chosen to complement the venue’s living opulence and because it has sleeves that high the healing scars on your arm. Minghao stands a few paces away, devastating in a green so dark that it's almost black, his presence a dark anchor amid the glittering crowd.

Your husband is a startlingly good date. He's attentive in public, close enough for appearances, but never quite warm. He speaks to you more than he used to, small observations about the room, quiet comments on people passing by, but the deeper questions you ask still meet that same polite, impenetrable wall.

Despite asking multiple times, he still won't tell you who trained him to kill with such clinical efficiency. Won't explain the ancient language he used with the drive that night. It doesn't matter how much he dances around your questions - you still probe, willing to chip away at his armor with every conversation if you have to.

You turn your attention back to the circle of high society ladies surrounding you. As much as you hate it, they're the gatekeepers of Hyperion's upper echelons, wives and daughters of banking dynasties, shipping magnates, and Syndicate families. Their gowns shimmer in jewel tones, their smiles sharp as broken glass.

Though exhausted, you have spent the last hour slowly weaving Minghao into their world, dropping careful mentions of his insights on logistics and neutral trade routes, painting him as a valuable new addition to the delicate balance of power.

Lin stands at the center, as she usually does. She's always been a ring-leader, now married to a mid-level Sword whose name you forget. She carries herself with the confidence of someone whose family has hovered near the inner circle for generations. You've known her since you were teens, your circles overlapping heavily enough that she feels almost like an old yet complicated acquaintance.

Tonight, she's in deep crimson silk that catches the lantern lights like fresh blood, her smile sweet on the surface but sharp underneath You don't miss the way her eyes linger on Yoon Jeonghan as he glides by, bowing politely to the women and giving them all his dashing smile. You don't think it's dashing at all, feeling your spine stiffen as the Wisdom's son winks at you and Minghao before vanishing into the crowd.

Suianne is next to her, and you're surprised to see her. She'd married into the Yong family and though the Syndicate's were currently at peace, the Yong family and the Choi family had been fighting at the docks which was the entire reason you got married to Minghao. Neither of you speak of business tonight, instead focusing on her pretty, navy gown that flowers like water.

Eva stands to Lin’s other side, beautiful and brittle in shimmering silver, still nursing the very public sting of being discarded by Kwon Soonyoung after she let him into her bed. From what you'd heard, he's not spoken to her since and as you watch her eyes flick around the gala, you can see the humiliation that still clings to her.

The three of them form a petty but influential ring, always watching and always trading secrets. They're not your favorite women to spend time with, but you don't have friends. Not really. Your sister had always been the one to establish the relationships, and you'd only started after she'd died, making for awkward conversations and learning social queues clumsily.

Lin leans in slightly, lowering her voice as a drift of jasmine-scented mist curls toward you. "You have to tell us - honestly. How are you really finding married life with your mysterious Xu heir? The whole city is still rumbling about your wedding. I'm so glad you're alright."

You offer a measured, slightly tired smile, letting them see the exhaustion beneath the polish to make the performance more authentic. "Minghao is quieter than most men, but there's a steadiness to him I enjoy. He remembers small details."

"He certainly watches you closely," Suianne notes, tilting her head. "A man in love, I suppose."

You glance across the garden where Minghao stands speaking with a small cluster of neutral businessmen. His dark eyes find yours almost instantly, holding for a heartbeat too long. He tilts his head as if to ask are you okay and you nod back. He seems appeased, eyes flicking back to the men he's speaking to.

The two of you have moved back into the Observatory penthouse full time. The space no longer feels quite so vast and empty now that he joins you for breakfast some mornings. He even is willing to sit in the living room while you light palo santo, watching you warily. He still deflects every real question about his past, but the silence between you has grown less brittle.

"He's attentative," you agree, turning back to them. "Last week he remembered I prefer lemon-mugwort tea in the mornings without me saying anything. We’ve settled back into the penthouse, just the two of us above the clouds. It’s peaceful. We're still learning."

Eva lets out a soft, bitter laugh, swirling the liquid in her glass. “At least he comes home to you. Kwon Soonyoung fucked me senseless for three weeks straight and now pretends I don’t exist when we’re in the same room. The man is a ghost after he gets what he wants.”

Lina's smile turns knowing. "That's what you get for fucking the mad dog and thinking you could mend him after she left him."

Eva looks put out by Lin's comment, but Suianne drops her voice to a whisper. "Speaking of her - no one has seen her in weeks. Not since her engagement party. You used to be close with her, weren't you Lin?"

"We're still close," Lin sniffs. "She's simply busy with her fiancée. Kim Yijun is a demanding man." She waves a hand and turns to you. "Enough about Baby. Tell us more about your husband. Is he as intense in the bedroom as he looks in public?"

Eva shouts Lin's name as the question lands like spark on dry tinder. Heat floods your face instantly and your mouth opens and closes. For a moment, all your carefully practiced poise deserts you and you're left staring at Lin who looks rather smug, like she's caught you in a lie.

"Um," you manage. The women burst into delighted laughter, clearly pleased to have cracked your composure. “He is considerate. But that's not something I'm going to discuss in detail."

A smooth voice interrupts from just behind you. “Oh, Lin, you terrible thing. Must you scandalize the poor girl in public?”

You turn, grateful for the interruption, as a woman you don’t recognize steps into the circle with effortless confidence. She's utterly striking, tall and elegant in midnight blue silk that pools around her like shadows, her dark hair swept up with silver pins.

“Minael,” Lin says warmly, reaching out to clasp the woman’s hand. “I didn’t know you were coming tonight. And with your husband, no less.”

Minael’s husband steps forward beside her, a tall, well-built man in impeccably cut black. His features are sharp, with cool grey eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

"Sato Ken," he introduces himself, offering his hand with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

You extend your hand to shake his, and the moment your palms meet, your gaze drops down involuntarily to his hand. There, across the first knuckle, is a thin, precise scar, nearly identical to the one on Minghao’s hand. Pale, deliberate, the kind left by wire or a very sharp blade. Not the sort of mark one expects on a society husband.

A chill slides down your spine. Ken's grip is firm, lingering just a fraction too long, and when you meet his eyes again, he's studying you with an intensity that feels uncomfortably familiar, As if he is cataloguing you the same way Minghao does.

Something in your gut turns rotten. A chill settles over you as you stare at Ken. Beyond him, something catches your eye. Near the top of the trees, a black bird lands, shuffling its wings. It's so black it's almost blue, oil-slick feathers shining in the light as it shuffles, craning its head until it blinks two beady eyes at you. You stare at it for a moment - you don't think you've ever seen a crow in the city before.

And then it flutters its wings and flies away through the open roof, vanishing into the inky sky like it was never there at all.

“Pleasure to finally meet you,” Ken says smoothly, bringing your attention back to him. “We’ve heard much about the new Xu-Nexus union.”

Minael laughs lightly, linking her arm with Lin’s. “Darling, you must tell me everything later. I’ve been dying to hear how the mysterious Arkos heir is settling into our little ecosystem.”

The conversation shifts around you, but you remain hyper-aware of Ken. He stands slightly behind his wife, eyes occasionally drifting back to you with that same probing focus. Something isn't right about Sato Ken. His wife seems perfectly well and good at socializing and you can tell Lira and the others are doting on her, but her husband is bad at this, his presence a palpable edge to the softness of his wife.

A tingle prods at the back of your neck, and instinct tells you to be wary of him. You engage with him little, ensuring that his wife is positioned between the two of you at all times. Your finger brushes against your bracelet, warm from your skin and grounding.

Thankfully, Minael and Ken don't linger long. After a few minutes of polite exchange, they drift away toward another group, the eerie man casting one final, lingering glance over his shoulder at you before disappearing into the foliage.

Moments later, Minghao appears at your side, moving with that silent grace you have come to expect. His hand settles lightly at the small of your back, warm through the silk. You suck in a breath, glancing at him, a little startled by his nearness.

“Are you ready to go home?” he asks quietly, voice pitched so the others can hear. “We were supposed to stay another hour, but you look exhausted.”

“Yes,” you murmur. “Please.”

He nods once and excuses you both from the group with polished grace, and guides you through the gardens toward a private exit. As you walk, you glance back one final time to see Ken watching you from across the atrium, half hidden behind a curtain of jasmine vines. An odd, unsettled feeling twists in your stomach and you turn away, leaning slightly into Minghao.

The armored car waits in the secure bay below. Once inside, the doors close behind you and the vehicle glides smoothly onto the road. You don't hesitate, getting onto your knees and reaching into your dress for the wrapped tarot deck you'd hidden in your pocket.

Minghao watches you from across the seat, eyebrow slightly raised. “Now?”

"Hush."

You shuffle the cards, the soft shck of the cards familiar. You don’t ask a specific question out loud. You rarely need to anymore. The deck knows, and three cards slip from the deck and fall face up onto the seat as you shuffle.

The Devil, upright. Ace of Swords, reversed. Nine of Wands, upright.

You stare at them, heart sinking. Chains and bondage. Blocked clarity. A wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant. The message feels heavy, layered with warning. Something binding. Something obscured. Something that requires continued vigilance despite deep fatigue.

Minghao leans forward slightly, studying the cards with open curiosity. “What do they mean?”

You don’t answer immediately, tracing the edges of The Devil with one fingertip. The image of chained figures stares back at you. Your mind drifts to Ken's scar, to the way he studied you.

"Well?" Minghao asks again.

You glance at him. "Do you know Sato Ken?"

"Who?"

You frown. "The man I just met at the party. He had a scar like yours, and grey eyes."

Minghao goes unnaturally still. "What scar?"

"You have a scar on your finger." You reach out and grab his hands. He lets you, frowning as you lift his hand to the light and point to the faint scar on his knuckle, thin as can be. His hands are warm in yours, the fingers rough against your skin. "This one."

Minghao stares at where your hands are linked. "That scar specifically?"

"Yes."

A vein in his temple twitches before he shrugs a shoulder. "I don't know a Sato Ken."

Not for the first time, it sounds like Minghao is telling the truth. But you think about the way he uses truth to hide other things, and as you drop his hands and look back to the cards, you wonder which card is Minghao. The man in chains or the wounded warrior still standing guard. Maybe both.

-

Being in the Lower District alone is a bad idea. You have no choice, though. Hours in the library in the Legal District have led you here, an impossible lead buried in nonsense files. It hadn't been easy to find - Sato Ken hadn't brought up any solid leads, nor had his wife. But your search had revealed a Sato Rhia who had died in a car crash a decade ago with her husband and adopted son, a young boy who was named Zhi Yuan, not Sato Ken, but who had the same uncanny grey eyes and the beginnings of a face like the man you remember from the gala.

Pulling your coat hood up against the drizzle, you begin walking toward the nearest transit hub that will take you down to the Lower District where your research indicated the shelter was. If Zhi Yuan passed through the system, someone might remember him. Someone might know how a boy with grey eyes and a future scar ended up.

You get lost twice trying to find the train to take you to the Lower District. You've never been there without security personnel, and when you finally board the train, you feel a sense of apprehension as the car rocks back and forth, neon smearing by on the windows before it shoots underground.

Sitting near the head of the car, you settle with your hand tucked inside your coat, finger brushing the hilt of your small knife. The other rests against the tiny vial of protective oil in your inner pocket, its glass warm and grounding.

Through the scratched windows, the city becomes visible briefly as the train dives in and out of subterranean tracks. People huddle under leaking overhangs, begging for credits or hovering near fires for warmth. When the train stops, you step out and cringe, the smell of too many bodies living close together hitting you all at once.

Climbing the stairs is dangerous, the grime and rain making the ascent slippery. You hesitate to touch the rail when you see the rusted filth, and instead ask the universe to keep you from busting your ass.

The streets here are narrow and chaotic, slick with oily rain that reflects stuttering neon signs in iridescent puddles. Real rain falls harder at this level, drumming against rusted metal awnings and corroded pipes. Gang tags in glowing spray-paint pulse on every wall, though above them are the looming symbols of the Syndicates.

Street vendors hawk bootleg data pads, hacked implants, and vials of questionable stims from flickering stalls. The air grows thicker, heavier, carrying the unmistakable smells of unfiltered rain, and fried street meat. You feel painfully exposed, your coat too clean and posture too refined for this district.

Eyes follow you - some curious, some calculating. You keep your head down but your sens sharp, hand never far from your knife as you navigate the rain-slicked streets.

The shelter squats at the end of a dimly lit side street, a squat brutalist building reinforced with bolted steel plates and outdated security cams that flicker with static. Faded holographic signage above the entrance flickers with the building name, though it's broken and half on so none of the letters seem to make sense.

Rain drips steadily from the overhang as you push open the reinforced door. Inside, the air is warm and stale. You curl your nose, immediately missing the freshness of recycled air. You hadn't realized what a privilege it was until now.

Rows of cramped cots line the main hall. A few residents glancing at you curiously. A man mopping the floor with water that doesn't look any cleaner than the sticky tile nods politely at you. You approach the front desk where a middle-aged woman in a worn uniform flicks through data on a tablet under the weak glow of a buzzing fluorescent bar.

“Excuse me,” you say, keeping your voice low. “I’m looking for information about someone who might have stayed here as a child. His name was Zhi Yuan. This would have been around twenty to twenty-five years ago. I think he was adopted by Sato Rhia and her husband Amar.”

The woman studies your face, noting how obviously out of place you are before she ignores you and goes back to reading whatever is on her tablet. You grit your teeth and pull out your phone, tapping the small tile on the desk to transfer credits.

"Try again," you say through your teeth.

She glances at the credits and stiffens, rolling her shoulders as she begins typing. "Zhi Yuan?" She repeats, voice raspy. "Might not have the records that far back."

"That far? It was only twenty something years ago."

She huffs. "Listen lady, we don't got fancy storage here. We delete shit."

"Are you going to do the search or not?"

She grumbles and hits a few keys. "All I've got is some random kid from Arkos here for a few weeks. That's it."

"That's it?"

"You can transfer me more credits, but it won't do shit."

You think about leaving a handful of rusty nails, but you force a sharp smile. "Thank you so much for your help."

As you reach the door, the older man in stained janitorial coveralls pauses his mopping. He's weathered with deep lines around his eyes and hands scarred from years of hard labor. He glances at you, then at the woman behind the desk.

"You shouldn't be chasing ghosts down, miss," he whispers. "Not that one."

You pause, turning back. “What do you mean?”

"The boy. Let him stay dead. Virate operates that way."

The word lands like cold steel against your spine. Virate.

It's an unfamiliar word to you, but it tugs at your gut, like something is telling you it's important. “What is the Virate?”

The man’s expression shutters immediately. He looks over his shoulder toward the back rooms, then back at you. For a moment, genuine concern flickers across his weathered face.

Better that you don’t know,” he says quietly, almost urgently. “Go home, miss. The Lower District isn't for you."

He returns to mopping without another word, the wet slap of the mop against cracked tile the only sound between you. You stand frozen for a long second, heart hammering, before pushing open the door and stepping back into the relentless rain.

-

Minghao sits across the table from his mother in the private tearoom of the Xu family residence in the Upper District. The space is deliberately designed, a copy of old Arkos interior design and architecture. Low tables of dark lacquered wood rest on mats woven from rare fibers imported at great expense, and the walls are paneled in warm cedar that release a faint, woody smell.

Soft paper lanterns hang at varying heights from the ceiling, their golden light diffused and flickering gently, mimicking the old-world illumination of ancestral estates back in Arkos. Outside the reinforced floor-to-ceiling windows, Hyperion sprawls in an endless, restless web of neon arteries, flickering holograms, and rain-streaked towers piercing the low cloud ceiling.

Rain taps steadily against the glass, a metallic percussion that Minghao has long since learned to tune out since moving here. Inside, the air is warm and fragrant with the steam rising from the teapot and the subtle notes of jasmine.

It should feel peaceful. Instead, it feels like the calm before a storm he himself is about to unleash.

Xu Luli pours the tea with the same graceful precision she has always possessed, her movements fluid, the delicate porcelain cup gliding silently across the surface of the table as she pushes it toward him. Her grey eyes catch the lantern light as she lifts her cup, sipping.

Luli looks eternally young. It's always unsettling to Minghao that his mother doesn't look like she ages, while his father lets himself age freely. He knows it's a status and power play, but he hates the way he looks at his mother and sees someone frozen in time, someone he will eventually surpass because augmentation and longevity is not for him.

Minghao watches her hands. Elegant. Steady. The same hands that once ran through his hair when he was a young boy, before the Virate claimed the rest of his childhood and turned him into a trained weapon, a blade at their beck and call.

He takes a slow sip of the tea, letting the rare Arkos blend warm his chest and ground him. The flavor is complex, floral and slightly bitter, with an underlying earthiness that reminds him of the herbs you roll into handles and distill into oils that you like to spray across doors and clothes and objects.

"You look well," Minghao offers, sipping his tea.

Luli smiles at him softly, the kind of smile she reserves only for him. "You look tired. The marriage has been… eventful."

“Eventful,” Minghao echoes, a dry note threading through his voice. He studies her face in the golden lantern light, noting every micro-expression. "My wife and I have not had an easy start."

"All marriages are complicated. Your father and I were not always easy, either."

“Now that you've mentioned it, I’ve been thinking about your life before Father. Before the Xu name became yours.”

Her fingers pause for the briefest moment on the teapot handle. Minghao catches it, the tiny tightening at the corner of her mouth, the way her stormy grey eyes flicker once toward the reinforced window overlooking the glowing, rain-streaked city below. The lanterns cast shifting golden patterns across her flawless face, highlighting the elegant line of her jaw.

“It was a difficult time,” she says lightly. "Your father and I found each other at the right time."

"You were out of the public eye for a while. Why was that?"

"Youthful rebellion," she snorts. "I thought I could escape the expectations placed on me. Your wife has done a better job at hers, I will admit."

"And yet you think she's wicked."

"I never said wicked. She's just strange."

Minghao tilts his head, watching her with the same intense, cataloguing focus he once used on targets in shadowed rooms. The lantern light plays across her features, softening nothing.

"Was there someone before my father?" The question catches her off guard and her cup clinks sharply against the plate when she sets it down. "I always wondered. I never could figure out what made you leave."

"Minghao-"

"The Triptych always told me you wanted to leave," Minghao continues, nodding. He puts his chin in his palm, watching his mother keenly. "And that's why they were willing to part ways publically, that you'd asked for it. But your first departure from the Virate wasn't after you received permission. So what was it?"

"Son…"

"I'm not angry. I'm just looking for some answers."

Luli is quiet for a long moment. She lifts her own cup, takes a slow sip as if buying time, and sets it down with deliberate grace. The soft clink of porcelain against lacquer sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet room. Outside, the rain intensifies, drumming harder against the glass.

“Yes,” she admits at last. “I ran away with a lover.”

The admission hangs heavy in the air between them. Minghao nods, mind racing ahead. His eyes drop down to the red bracelet you'd given him, the azabache charm cool against his skin.

"Who was he?" He asks.

"Someone unsuitable. From outside the Virate. He was very charismatic, brillitan in his own way. I thought I could disappear and live outside the rules."

“And then?” he prompts when his mother falls silent again.

“I became pregnant.”

The words land like a blade between his ribs. Minghao goes very still. The lantern light suddenly feels too warm, the cedar scent too heavy. His mother continues, her voice trembling only slightly now, each word pulled from somewhere deep and painful she has clearly tried to bury for decades.

“I carried the child to term. A boy. We lived happily for a year before he decided that the child and I were too much. So I went back." She swallows. "The child wasn't Virate, though. So they took him and offered to place him somewhere safe and give me a new start, a single offer of mercy.”

"A safe start," Minghao echoes. "They offered to let you part with the Virate publicly if you did favors for them privately, didn't they?"

She chews her lip and nods. "I married your father and then we had you. You know the rest from there. We had you until you were five. Then we moved and you were theirs."

Minghao’s mind races, pieces clicking together with brutal, crystalline clarity. Grey eyes. The thin, precise scar. The way Sato Ken had studied you at the gala. You'd been unsettled by Ken, though Minghao had neither seen the man nor heard of him. None of his contacts knew of the name Sato Ken, and a quick online search had simply told the story of a businessman who married into a wealthy family.

In any other circumstance, Minghao might have disregarded it. But you'd been unsettled more than usual, insisting that the man with grey eyes - a Lin family trait from his mother's side - had the same scar as him. He trusted your instincts.

It was the same scar the initiated members of the Virate had, one where a finger had been severed during interrogation only to be later surgically added back on. The scar was always a reminder that members had passed, that they'd like the Virate take a part of them during an interrogation that felt realer than anything else Minghao has ever gone through, and that they could take it just as easily again.

He rubs his finger now, fingers brushing over the scar, remembering the snap of the bone and the way he'd nearly bit through his tongue. He'd not given up the information, though, and that had been enough to pass and earn the digit back.

If you were unsettled by a man with grey eyes and the same scar… well, Minghao didn't believe coincidences. Not since he had started watching you read your tarot and scribble into dream journals when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

“Does father know?” he asks eventually, voice low and tightly controlled.

“No. No one does. Only the Triptych."

Minghao exhales slowly, mind already spinning through the implications. If this Sato Ken was Minghao's brother - either by blood or initiation - he existed only in the dark. Which meant he was a Shade, and no one but the Triptych knew he existed. It unsettles Minghao more than he would like, mind scrambling to find a motive. Jealousy? Resentment? A move within a move by the Virate? It could be anything.

As a Shade himself, Ken shouldn't know Minghao existed. Not even the most coveted of the assassins belonging to the Virate knew the identity of one another, which was why Minghao thought nothing of Ken at the gala - hadn't even seen him. It makes him feel shaken, a ghost slipping by him that Minghao was trained to find, to see.

Worse was that Ken had seen you. Approached you. Shaken your hand. He'd done all that and Minghao simply hadn't noticed him. Years of Virate training had failed him, and he'd let something as dangerous as a Shade get close to you. It not only wounds his pride, but it wounds him.

Minghao feels the red bracelet you gave him shift against his wrist again. The azabache charm feels heavier suddenly, a small weight of your strange faith pressing against his skin.

He stands abruptly, the low table creaking as his knees push against it. Rain continues to lash the windows, the sound growing louder as the storm intensifies outside.

"I have to handle this," he mutters.

"What?" She asks, slipping into Zhenwen, a language dead to the world for generations but kept alive by the oldest families of Arkos. "What's happening?"

"Your illegitimate son tried to kill my wife."

"No," Luli shakes her head. "He was adopted into a family, outside of the Virate."

Minghao tsks. "You think the Virate gave away your child without training him? The Shade is born in darkness and has no name. I would know."

Luli closes her eyes, a single tear slipping down her eternal face. Minghao turns away before the sight can soften him. He cannot afford softness right now. Not when the delicate balance he has spent years maintaining is suddenly threatening to shatter around him for a haphazardly protected secret.

"I will do what I must for my family," Minghao tells her, steeling himself. "Blood for blood."

"Blood for blood," she agrees.

As he walks out of the room, he touches the red bracelet on his wrist, thumb brushing over the braided strands of your hair woven into the cord. The small protective charm you made for him feels both absurd and strangely vital at this moment. He wonders what you would say if you knew the truth, that the man you married carries blood older and darker than anything you have imagined. That the secrets he keeps are not just his own.

Whatever game is being played either by this half-brother of his or by the Triptych, Minghao will end it.

But for the first time, the thought of collateral damage makes his stomach turn because now, the collateral has a name, and she sleeps in the east wing of his penthouse and sticks her nose where it doesn't belong because she's too smart for her own good.

-

Thick, metallic air swallows you the moment you step into the bar. Sweet smoke chokes the room, the neon bleed of alternate reality systems flickering from behind closed doors. A few patrons sit slumped over table tops, nursing drinks lazily as though they're half in a dream. Most of the doors are shut, the private alternate reality rooms cutting them off from the bar and everything else in the real world.

Energy shifts immediately. Your skin prickles, and you scan the room, sensing the way energy here is a vacuum, like these rooms that offer everything but reality suck the essence of the soul out of the body.

The rain from outside clings to your coat in silver beads, but the oppressive warmth in the bar immediately makes your back and neck start to sweat. You step into the bar further, letting the door shut close behind you, cutting off the sound from the Pearl District. Neon from the district streets leaks through frosted windows in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the high wooden beams in shifting colors.

A few figures who move with the careful grace of people who have stepped between realities one too many times. You scan them all without making it obvious, your fingers brushing the black tourmaline cord hidden beneath your sleeve. The small knife in the hidden slit of your coat presses reassuringly against your ribs as your gaze settles on the woman behind the bar.

She's pretty, pouring someone a drink as she laughs at something the customer says. A simple black tank top shows toned arms covered in faint tattoos that seem to shift when the light hits them at the right angle. Her features are difficult to hold onto, like she's someone you might forget the moment you turn away while being strangely magnetic.

You drive toward the bar, hyperaware of the way the bartender notices you. Based on the description, you think she's who the Tower's daughter told you to find.

Kero, she'd said, eyeing you warily. Kero is good at information. Are you okay, though? I can help if you're in danger, you know that, right?

It had been a kind offer whispered at a gala last week, a rare moment where the two of you had been in the powder room and you'd been insane enough to ask her for a good source of information in the Syndicate.

Your heart pounds thinking about it again, remember the way she'd raised her brows and urge you to tell her if there was something wrong. Her kindness was a rarity in the Syndicate, and though you were somewhat familiar with her, facing her full on had been nearly overwhelming.

The bartender turns toward you as you slide onto a stool, her lips curving into a grin as she leans one hip against the bar.

"Hi," he drawls, eyes flicking up and down as she drinks you in. "New face. You look very expensive, sweetheart. What can I pour you?"

“I’m not here for a drink,” you say evenly. “I’m looking for Kero.”

Her smile doesn’t falter, but something sharp flickers behind her eyes. She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now, as if reassessing the woman standing in front of her.

"Kero is around. What do you need?" She asks eventually, fingers tapping the top of the bar.

"The Tower's daughter told me Kero might be able to help me with some information."

The words land with weight. She straightens slightly, the playful curve of her mouth diminishing. Mentioning the Tower’s daughter commands absolute authority here, you realize. She gives you a long, measured look, dark eyes tracing over your face, your coat, the way you hold yourself, drinking in every detail.

"I'm nothing if not a humble servant to the Tower and his children," she says eventually. "I'm Kero. You can come with me, sweetheart. Keep your pretty hands where I can see them, yeah? Baby is a good friend of mine, but I don't know you."

She slips out from behind the bar fluidly, exchanging a quick, wordless nod with the burly bartender who steps in to cover her station seamlessly. You follow, weaving between tables. No one notices you as you walk by, each customer staring off into nothingness with a glazed over expression that makes you shiver.

Kero leads you to a narrow hallway, the walls covered in flickering frames of alternate reality landscapes. You glance at them as you walk by, looking into lush forests, empty beaches, and night skies. At the end of the hall, she stops and presses her balm to a hidden scanner, a heavy wooden door hissing open after her clearance passes. She gestures for you to enter first, grinning and winking as you pass by her.

The private room beyond is small but surprisingly comfortable, a storage space turned lounger. Dim amber sconces cast warm, flickering light across two worn leather armchairs and a low table. A plush couch sits against one wall, and shelves hold bottles of rare liquor, scattered data pads, and a few precious paper books.

Kero closes the door behind you, engages the lock with a soft click, then turns with that same half-smile. She gestures to one of the armchairs, leaning casually against the table’s edge. You sit gracefully, unwilling to let her know that she makes you feel off keel.

Something about her unsettles you. In the dimmer room, her features are even harder to latch on to, like her eyes change everytime you look away or her hair is a shade adjusted. She watches you like a cat watches a mouse as you sit, and though you know mentioning the Tower's daughter has awarded you some power, you're not sure it's given you immunity here.

“So,” she says lightly. "What kind of trouble are you in, hmm?"

"Who says I'm in trouble?"

"It's written all over your face. You're tense as shit."

You give a small, knowing smile. “I’m not used to the Pearl District. That doesn’t mean I’m lost.”

Kero cocks her head. “Damn, no VR for you, huh? You rich types don’t really need to escape reality. You have everything you could ever want.”

“Not everything.”

"Unless you're trying to escape that fancy marriage."

"So you know who I am?"

Kero pushes off the table and walks over to a chair, dropping into it unceremoniously before pivoting sideways to hook the backs of her knees over the arm.

“Of course I do,” she snorts, dropping into the opposite chair and hooking her knees over the arm. “Big wedding. I wasn’t invited. Not high enough up the ladder, you know what I mean?”

"No."

"You're very honest, Mrs. Xu."

You meet her eyes without hesitation. “I’m very honest, yes.”

The name Mrs. Xu still feels foreign, but you no longer flinch. You so rarely hear people use your new legal name - most people still often see you as the heiress to Nexus Capital, content to use your family name because in this city, Minghao has married into your family, not the other way around.

"I met a man a few days ago at a gala and he left me with questions," you start slowly. Kero raises her brows. "No one really seems to know who he is, which isn't common among the elite."

She snorts. "You came here because someone isn't as well known as you?"

You ignore the barb, continuing, "He gave me the name Sato Ken. He doesn't seem to be much - just a mid-level businessman who married the daughter of a Patron of the Choi Syndicate. I think he might have a second name, though. Do you know anyone by the name of Zhi Yuan?"

Kero shakes her head. "Should I?"

"I don't know. Do you know what the Virate is?”

Kero’s entire posture changes in an instant. The lazy sprawl vanishes. She unhooks her legs and plants her boots on the floor with a quiet thud, leaning forward sharply and the playful glint in her eyes hardens into something guarded and alert.

“Virate,” she repeats, voice low and sharp. “What are you doing with the Virate?”

"I don't know what the Virate is."

"Of course you don't." She stands in one fluid motion, pacing a tight circle behind her chair, one hand dragging through her hair. “Tell me how you came across the Virate. Explain in detail."

You do. You tell her about the man from the gala, how something about his energy felt misaligned, your instincts screaming. How your research led you to the foster home in the Lower District where the cleaner had given you the strange, ominous warning about the Virate. About how you think Sato Ken and Zhi Yuan might be the same person.

Kero stops pacing. She steps closer, extending her right hand under the nearest sconce, palm down. You're not sure what you're supposed to be looking at until your eyes catch the smallest little scar, silver and right over the knuckle. Just like Sato Ken. Just like Minghao.

"Did he have a scar like this? Do you know?" She asks.

"Yes."

Kero pulls her hand back, flexing it once before sinking into her chair with heavier grace. The leather creaks as she rubs her temple, staring at the low table for a long beat while distant bass throbs from the bar’s VR rooms and rain drums steadily against the outer walls.

“Alright,” she says at last, voice quieter. "The Virate isn’t some street gang or Syndicate. They're like the Syndicate's here in the city but the structure is very different and they're a lot more complex. Think generations of bloodlines that build a shadow confederation that works in the cracks most people never see. They pull kids through foster systems, adoptions, quiet placements. Forge them. Shades, they call the ones with no names. Ghosts trained from blood and bone to serve the Triptych - the three who sit at the top.”

"Okay," you say slowly. "So you're saying maybe Sato Ken was Zhi Yuan previously, and now he's Sato Ken and he's a member of the Virate."

She shows her hand again, the silver scar making you shiver. "Virate initiation. They take the same finger during interrogation to see if you break. If you don't, they give you the finger back. If you break, you die."

You sit frozen, the weight of her words pressing down like cold rain. Minghao has that scar. You think of Minghao’s brutal efficiency on the terrace, the dead language in the car, the way he always deflects with half-truths. Your heart beats hard, frantic.

"If Sato Ken isn't a real name, you might be dealing with a Shade. It's hard to say. Shades are hard to find and are usually found only if they want to be… being uncovered for them is like death. They're the hidden assassins the Triptych likes to raise. Not even standard members of the Virate know who they are." Kero leans back. "Did he make any threats or have you seen him before?"

"No," you tell her. Your mind is on Minghao and not Ken - Yuan, whatever his name is. "Just met him at a party. My gut tells me he's important."

"If your gut managed to find an assassin for the Virate, that's a pretty good stomach."

You hum, noncommittal. "So you're a member of the Virate?"

"Was," she corrects. "Left when I was thirteen."

Both of you sit in silence as your mind races through fragments that feel too sharp to ignore. The scar on Kero’s knuckle. The identical mark on Sato Ken - Zhi Yuan. And Minghao. That thin, precise line across his first knuckle that you’d noticed from the very first boardroom meeting. The way his father deferred to him with a single finger twitch. The ancient language he spoke in the car after the wedding attack. The effortless violence on the terrace. The way he knew about your practice without you ever showing him.

The realization settles heavy in your chest. Your husband - the man who pressed his jacket to your bleeding arm, who wears the red bracelet you braided with your own hair - is not who anyone thinks he is.

Kero doesn’t mention the Xu family once. Doesn’t connect Minghao to any of this. Her ignorance of your husband’s involvement is louder than any confirmation could be- Minghao is an unknown member of the Virate. A Shade, Kero had called it. A ghost wearing the face of a logistics heir, planted here for purposes far beyond shipping contracts and political marriages. You keep your expression neutral, swallowing the storm of questions and fears that you can't let consume you - not here, not with this stranger.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. "This helps."

You reach into the inner pocket of your coat and pull out two things: the sleek, matte-black digital card and a small silk pouch you’d prepared weeks ago during one of your quiet Wednesday rituals. You set the card on the low table first, then slide the pouch toward her with careful fingers.

“If you ever want a new private account set up, use this," you tell her. "It's completely clean and untraceable, with access to resources most people here only dream about in these AR rooms you run." You point at the pouch. "This is for protection. Black salt, rosemary, a bit of hematite. I made it myself. It’s nothing fancy, but… it's my way of showing gratitude."

Kero stares at the offerings, genuine surprise flickering across her face. She picks up the silk pouch, turning it over in her scarred hand. “You made this?” Her eyes lift to yours, sharper now. “Are you a practitioner?”

“I dabble. It was something I started as a kid to pass time. I.. didn’t have much of a childhood and some of the housemaids practiced.”

Kero’s lips curve into a faint, knowing smile, but she doesn’t press. She tucks the pouch into her pocket with surprising care. “If you ever want to apprentice with real practitioners, go to the Silver Thorn Apothecary in the Lower District, near the old canal bridge. Tell them Kero sent you. They don’t take just anyone, but they might make an exception.”

“I appreciate it.”

Kero leans back, studying you for a long moment. The amber light softens the edges of her shifting features. “Watch yourself with the Virate. They don’t play by Syndicate rules. They bind blood, erase names, and turn children into weapons. Once you’re in their sights, it’s hard to get out.” She pauses, tilting her head. “Still… there’s something about your energy. Stubborn. Grounded. I like it."

A small grin tugs at your lips. “I’m trying. I should go. Thank you again, Kero. For everything."

You stand and she rises with you, holding the digital card in her hand. "Don't be a stranger, Mrs. Xu. Try to stay alive."

Rain hisses down on you as you leave, your boots splashing softly in the shallow puddles pooling in the concrete. The Pearl District is alive with partygoers, tourists and socialites heading to clubs, casinos and more, their laughter harsh against the churning of your mind.

Minghao is a Shade. You know with utter certainty, somehow. He's a ghost - a weapon, and you have no idea what it means that he married you or what he wants. He'd told you that you were no use to his family dead and you still believe that, but now you want to know for what.

In an alley between buildings, you dig around in your pocket for your cards. You shuffle them quickly, rain beading on their glossy surface as you do. Three cards slip out one by one, catching on your wet hands until you pull them out of the deck and flip them over.

The Tower. The Moon reversed. Death.

Thoughts of the cards haunt you all the way to the train. Your hood is pulled low, the black fabric of your coat blending into the sea of weary commuters. The bracelet on your wrist feels heavier than usual, a quiet anchor against the unease crawling up your spine.

Pressed between a businessman muttering into his phone and a woman clutching a synthetic flower bouquet, a sense of unease creeps up on you. Eyes on you. Not the casual glances of strangers, but something deliberate and predatory.

The doors hiss shut and the train lurches forward, accelerating into the tunnel with a low whine that vibrates through your bones. You keep your gaze fixed on the scratched window, watching the blur of service lights streak past like dying stars. Your hand slips into your coat pocket, fingers brushing the matte-black comm device Minghao gave you months ago. The private channel. Encrypted. Off-grid. You haven’t used it yet, but it feels good to have in your hand.

You shift your weight, scanning the car without turning your head. Faces blur in peripheral vision, a sea of tired eyes, downturned mouths, and people asleep in seats. No one stands out. No one meets your eyes for too long. Yet the sensation builds, a slow pressure like storm clouds gathering before lightning splits the Tower.

Two stops pass and your pulse quickens with each one. At the third, you make a split-second decision to get off that's nowhere near your intended route toward the Observatory. You elbow your way toward the doors as they open, stepping onto the platform and into the sub-level station, ait thick with the scent of damp rot and the distant rumble of freight loaders. Neon signs flicker overhead, advertising cheap stim-packs and off-grid betting dens.

You don’t look back. Not immediately. You weave through the sparse crowd, heels clicking against cracked concrete, and take the exit stairs two at a time. The streets above are narrower, hemmed in by crooked buildings and powerlines that spark intermittently in the thin rain. You turn left, then right, cutting through a market alley where vendors hawk sticky buns and meat skewers, fat sizzling.

Still, the feeling follows.

Your breath comes sharper now and you pause at a corner stall, pretending to examine a rack of knockoff jade pendants while your eyes flick across reflections in a rain-streaked metal panel. Nothing. A shadow shifts two stalls down, but it's gone when you focus. Your instincts, honed by years of the universe’s subtle nudges, scream a single name.

Sato Ken.

The thought lands like a cold blade between your ribs. The scar on his knuckle flashes in your memory. So does his polished smile and the way his gaze had lingered too long at the last charity function, heavy with something unreadable. You’d felt it then too. The Devil.

You quicken your pace, ducking down a narrower side street. The rain intensifies, sheeting off overhangs and turning the ground into a slick mirror of fractured neon. Your coat clings to your skin, heavy and cold. Heart hammering, you slip into a shadowed alley between two derelict storage units where it smells of rust and urine.

Crates are stacked haphazardly against one wall, providing meager cover where you press your back to the damp brick, breathing through your mouth to stay quiet. Water drips from a rusted pipe overhead, steady as a metronome. For a moment, only the distant train rumbles and your own pulse fills the space.

A splash confirms you're being followed and you don't hesitate. Your fingers close around the comm device, pulling it free with trembling hands. The surface is cool, almost alive under your touch, drinking in the faint alley light. You activate it with a press of your thumb, the faint holo-sheen blooming like starlight in the dark. The private channel connects with a soft chime that feels too loud in the confined space.

It rings once. Twice.

“Come on,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the rain.

Your free hand grips the small knife in your other pocket, though the blade feels inadequate against whatever waits in the shadows. The universe had warned you. The cards had warned you. Death upright. Transformation through violence.

The line clicks open and Minghao's voice comes through, low and immediate. "What's wrong?"

You've never been happier to hear his voice. The sound of his calm and controlled voice nearly buckles your knees. You lean harder into the wall, eyes darting to the alley mouth where a silhouette might appear any second. Rain sluices down your face, mixing with the cold sweat on your skin. The feeling of being watched intensifies, a prickling heat at your nape like fingers hovering just above your spine.

"I need you to find me," you tell him, voice barely audible. "I'm about to get taken or killed."

"Wicked-"

"You have access to my medical records," you interrupt. "You should have been emailed how to access. I have a subcutaneous tracking chip. Activate the emergency beacon with the password given to you - it pings your private network. Do it now."

Footsteps again, deliberate now, closing in from the alley’s entrance. A shadow detaches from the gloom, tall and masked.

“I know you’re a Shade,” you whisper. “Maybe I mean nothing to you at all, but you saved me on our wedding night and if I’m still important to your family, you need to find me. Or at least my body."

Minghao says your name - not wicked woman, not wicked - just your name. You say nothing else, swallowing as you drop the comm in the rain and crush it under your heel, the sharp crack lost to the sound of increasing downpour.

When the figure steps out of the shadows, all you can see are the grey eyes. You stare at him head on, refusing to show him fear despite the way your hands tremble in the cold rain.

"Is your husband coming?"

"Yes."

He nods. "Good."

-

Thunder shakes the penthouse. It's not loud enough to drown out the hammering of Minghao's heart as he gets dressed frantically. For once, Minghao feels like he might be panicking. He's not entirely sure - panic is a foreign concept to him. As a Shade of the Virate, he doesn't operate in adrenaline and panic - he simply exists in the detachment of calm and deliberate decision making.

This doesn't feel like that. He has no idea when he started caring about you so much - can't even really figure out when it happened. He supposes between the random late night dinners, the rare instances of breakfast, and the weekends when he watched you sit at the coffee table with your little herbs and candles muttering to yourself, he decided he liked you.

Had you been the elitist, snobby socialite he assumed you were going to be, he wouldn't be in this situation. Yet fate - because he's starting to believe in fate - had put you into your position - unprepared and woefully unjaded - through the violence of your sister's death, and put you directly into Minghao's path. He doesn't know what else to call it, because only destiny could be this specific.

Rain crawls in silver streaks down the windows, turning Hyperion into a smeared galaxy beneath the clouds. Minghao stands in front of the open wardrobe in a black compression shirt and tactical trousers, fingers gone motionless around the clasp of his chest holder as the information he'd requested through your instructions appears across the retinal display he'd put over his right eye.

PATIENT STATUS: ELEVATED STRESS RESPONSE WARNING: HEART RATE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: ADRENALINE EXCEEDING SAFE BASELINE WARNING: CONCUSSION DETECTED LOCATION PING: ACTIVE LOCATION: 908 LOWER WATER STREET, WAREHOUSE DISTRICT, HYPERION 3094304

Minghao watches as your biometrics spike violently across the lens. Oxygen levels unstable, cortisol flooding yourself, neutral activity elevated. Nothing in your current vitals tells him that you're dying, which is the single positive news he has while he finishes buckling the holster before he opens another hidden compartment in his room, revealing weapons.

He takes the knives and two guns. They charge at his touch, the pulse letting him know they're primed as he holsters them. The red cord around his wrist slides with his hand movement, the azabache charm clicks against the gun as he removes his hand.

You'd looked so serious when you handed it to him, like you were testing him. He hadn't seen it then for what it was - a leap of faith to see if he was serious about you practicing your little customs without fear from him. Now he knows that he'd passed the test, because you'd start being more open around him. Not hiding things. Calling him and telling him you needed his help.

Minghao yanks a jacket over the holsters and accesses the medical feed again with a blink of his eyes. Nothing has changed, and your location still pings in an abandoned shipping corridor near Pier Nine. It's in Xu territory, a dock that belongs exclusively to Minghao's father, and by extension, Choi Moojin.

The hours Minghao has spent trying to track down his half brother have gone to waste. It appears that his brother has the jump on him, and why shouldn't he? Zhi Yuan or whatever the name he goes by now has known Minghao existed for far longer than Minghao has known he had a sibling, and it's clear that you've been in his sights for a while as an obvious attempt to get to Minghao.

Minghao is going to kill him. He made the decision long before you'd called him. He had decided before his mother even finished telling him about Yuan, about the first born son she naively thought the Virate gave away. It doesn't matter if Yuan is blood, though. He'd spilled the blood of those under the protection of the Xu family, and Minghao was bound by honor to pay him back.

Blood for blood.

It's not an easy situation. Minghao doesn't know if his brother is here by authorization of the Virate, or if he's gone rogue. The right thing to do would be to contact the Triptych, but Minghao has no plans of doing that. It's too much of a risk if they've sanctioned whatever attack this is, so he's decided to do what he wants. He knows it'll have consequences - he has carried out the punishment for this kind of thing plenty of times.

"Fuck," Minghao sighs, running a hand over his face.

As much as he wants to do this alone, he knows that the odds will be better if he has leverage. Everything with the Virate and the Triptych especially is above leverage and moves within moves, and Minghao doesn't have any right now. So he picks up the phone and dials a number he's never called before, heart hammering as the phone rings.

"Xu Minghao," Jeonghan answers softly. "What can I do for our favorite shipping heir on a rainy Thursday evening?"

Minghao slips a knife into the sheath at the base of his spine as he speaks. “I need a deal.”

Jeonghan pauses. "Oh?"

"In exchange for leverage and information on the Virate."

"I'm listening."

"I need protection and support from the Choi Syndicate if the Virate comes knocking at my door."

Jeonghan's no longer amused or joking when he says, "And why would they do that?"

"Agree to it before I say anything."

Jeonghan pauses. "Why'd you call me?"

"You're the heir to the Wisdom and you're smart. You'll know whether I'm lying or you'll figure it out yourself. Now I want a deal before I say anything."

The Observatory feels too high, too isolated tonight, suspended above the storm like a fragile glass cage. Neon from the distant Pearl District bleeds through the fog in fractured violet and electric blue, painting the matte black steel beams in shifting hues that do nothing to calm the unfamiliar knot twisting in his chest.

The line is silent for a beat too long. Jeonghan’s voice returns, stripped of its usual lazy amusement. “A deal, how bold. Alright - I, Yoon Jeonghan, Second to the Wisdom, affirm that the verbally negotiated agreement between us is valid and binding, and will be upheld by the Choi Syndicate under penalty of death or exile. Talk."

“The Virate,” Minghao starts, running a hand through his hair. "I'm a member. They raised me as a Shade. Nameless. Trained for killing and secret work. My family’s move to Hyperion, the logistics empire, this marriage - it isn't just business moves, it’s for the Virate. They wanted someone nameless but loyal to sow seeds and gain influence with one of the Syndicates of the city, ideally the Choi Syndicate."

A soft whistle from the other end. “And here I thought you were just another pretty Arkos heir playing at power. Continue.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens. He moves to the bedroom door, glancing once toward the east wing where you should be safe. The biometric feed in his retinal display pulses steadily, your location fixed, stress elevated but alive. For now.

“I have an unexpected target on my back,” he says, already striding toward the private elevator. “A Shade operative. One I didn’t know existed until recently. He orchestrated the wedding attack. Tonight, he has her. I’m on my way to eliminate him. It might blow back. If the Virate decides I’ve gone rogue or exposed too much, they’ll come for cleanup. I need Choi Syndicate support if that happens - protection, resources, a buffer. In exchange, I’ll give you information useful for leveraging a partnership with the Virate in Arkos. Real leverage. Names. Structures. Weak points the Triptych would rather keep buried.”

The elevator doors hiss open. Minghao steps inside, the mirrored walls reflecting a man dressed for violence. His hair is still damp from the earlier rain, eyes sharp and unblinking. Jeonghan is quiet again, but Minghao can hear the calculation in the silence, the Wisdom's son weighing angles, risks, opportunities.

"Hm," Jeonghan hums. "Interesting. You know this verbal agreement could be void based on your intent to threaten the safety of the Syndicate, right?" Minghao doesn't answer as the elevator plunges downward. "Why trust me with this?"

“Because you’re useful,” Minghao answers flatly. “And because my wife is bleeding time in a warehouse while we talk. Agree or don’t. But if I walk into this alone and don’t come back, you lose the chance at whatever game you’re playing with the docks.”

“You’re more interesting than I gave you credit for, Minghao. Fine. Deal. Choi support if the Virate comes calling. You deliver on the information. And try not to die, Baby would be devastated if the lead she gave your wife ended up with her dying."

Minghao pauses. "We'll discuss what you mean later."

"Sure."

Minghao pockets the phone. His mind cycles through possibilities of Yuan’s training, the scar, the grey eyes that matched his mother’s. Blood for blood. The old laws demanded it, but something sharper cuts beneath the duty now. Your voice on the comm, steady even in terror. The way you’d crushed the device rather than let it lead danger straight back here. Stubborn. Honest. Wicked in ways that had nothing to do with tarot cards.

The doors open into the cold concrete expanse. Elara and Kai snap to attention near the armored car, but Minghao waves them off with a sharp gesture. “Stay here. Guard the penthouse. No one in or out. If I’m not back by dawn, call Yoon Jeonghan."

“Understood, sir.”

Minghao slides into the driver’s seat himself, the engine humming to life. Rain hammers the garage ramp as he accelerates upward, the city’s neon arteries blurring past. His grip on the wheel is steady, but the red cord around his wrist catches the dashboard light.

His hands tighten on the wheel. He's ending this game of shadows tonight.

-

Your head throbs with a deep, nauseating pulse that radiates from the back of your skull down through your jaw. The world tilts when you try to lift it, the edges of the dim warehouse blurring like wet ink on parchment. The concussion is surely courtesy of the desperate headbutt you'd delivered when Zhi Yuan had grabbed you in that alley. The satisfying crunch of his nose breaking still echoes faintly in your memory, a small, defiant victory amid the terror.

Thick ropes bite into your wrists and ankles, securing you to a heavy metal chair bolted to the floor. The warehouse is vast and derelict, one of the many abandoned husks along the Lower Water Street docks where Xu shipping containers sit in rows.

Rain hammers on the corrugated roof overhead, leaking in thin streams through gaps in the panels to form oily puddles on the concrete. Dim emergency lights cast long, sickly yellow shadows across stacked crates and rusted forklift skeletons.

You test the ropes around you subtly, keeping your movements small, but there's no give. Your small knife is long gone, though the black tourmaline bracelet is still there, warm against your skin, a fragile tether.

Across from you, Zhi Yuan is seated casually on an overturned crate. Blood has dried in dark rivulets from his broken nose down over his mouth and chin, staining the collar of his shirt. The injury makes his sharp, balanced features turn grotesque, his grey eyes eery in the low light. He holds a stained cloth in his hand, dabbing occasionally at the swelling in his face.

"You're not what I expected," he admits. "Though I suppose any woman associated with the Choi family fights back."

You lift your chin, ignoring the way the motion sends fresh dizziness spiraling through you. Fear coils tight in your gut, but you refuse to let it show. You meet his gaze evenly, challenging every boardroom lesson your father ever drilled into you since your sister's death.

"Headbutting you was worth the headache," you mutter. "Though I imagine it hurts worse on your end."

His mouth twitches into something like a smile. "I've endured worse. You know, most heiresses would be sobbing by now. Begging. Offering credits or Syndicate favors."

"I'm not worried."

"You think your husband is coming?"

"I know so."

He leans back and sighs. "I know so too." His eyes watch you carefully. "I saw the way you looked at my scar at the gala. Same as his. You don't miss much, do you?"

“Enough to know you're a threat. What do you want, Zhi Yuan? Or is it Ken? Does the Virate let you keep any name at all?"

His grey eyes narrow slightly, but the amusement doesn't fade. "Names are fluid for us. Tools. Zhi Yuan was the boy the system forgot. Sato Ken was the man who married well and smiled at galas. Neither is real. But you can call me Yuan. It's... familiar."

“Familiar because of whatever connection you have to my husband.”

Yuan stops dabbing his nose and watches you for a long moment. He rises slowly, pacing a few steps through the puddle-streaked space. His boots splash softly. Yuan drags another crate closer and sits across from you again, legs stretched out casually.

“Tell me,” he drawls. “How does it feel to be married to a man who was never meant to have a wife? A real one, anyway.”

“It feels like he's going to kill you." You stare at him. "And if he doesn't, the Choi Syndicate will. I'm not some random woman you can steal away in the middle of the night. Your turn - why me if this is about him or the Virate?"

"I was at your wedding, you know?" He cocks his head. "You made a beautiful bride. The intent was to kill you and turn the Choi Syndicate against him, but once I saw that he cared, I knew that wouldn't work. They would see his honestly. So now you're just bait. My brother owes me a conversation."

The revelation hits you like a physical blow. Your breath catches sharply in your throat. Brother. You look into Yuan's eyes and don't know how you missed it - Luli looks right back at you, the cool grey, the calm eye of the storm.

Yuan watches your reaction with dark satisfaction, leaning back slowly. “Yes. Luli’s firstborn. The one she tried to hide. I found out about him by accident, you know? There he was, golden second son, raised by our mother and Jian in relative comfort, given a public name and legit empire to inherit while being a Shade for the Virate. All while I rotted in foster homes and training cells, learning how to kill before I could read properly. It wasn’t fair. He got life, the light, the illusion of choice. I got the shadows and the scars."

The Devil upright. A man in chains, who cannot escape what he is bound to. The tarot cards make sense, suddenly. You're looking at the devil, a man who cannot or will not escape the fate he thinks he's tethered to. You think of the Nine of Wands upright - a wounded warrior still standing guard, exhausted but defiant - and realize it's Minghao. Someone stuck between two worlds.

"I don't care where you're from or who you're related to," you spit out. "Only a weak man pities himself to this degree."

It hits a nerve. Yuan stands, violence written all over his face, but a device on the table a few feet away chimes and shows a hologram of a map, a red dot pinging as it approaches. Your heart lurches when you realize it's Minghao, throat tightening as the dot speeds through the roads of the Warehouse District.

"Finally," Yuan sighs. "I get to meet my brother."

Thunder rolls in the distance. Your heart hammers in your chest as you watch the entrance door, hearing the hiss of tires and the slamming of a car door. You can barely breath until the heavy metal door is being ripped open, rain pouring in as a dark silhouette slips through. Minghao shuts the door behind him, water streaming off of his black jacket, hair plastered to his forehead and neck. His eyes are unreadable, scanning the room before they fall on you.

Minghao strides forward, ignoring Yuan entirely. Your heart stutters, the violence in his eyes like nothing you've seen.

"Are you okay?" His voice cuts through the rain, low and steady.

You manage a nod, the motion sending fresh spikes of pain through your skull. The ropes bite deeper as you shift, but you hold his gaze. “I’m alive.”

Minghao’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering along his cheek. For a heartbeat, the polished heir you met in the boardroom vanishes completely. This is the man who snapped an assassin’s neck on your wedding night. This is the Shade.

"Good. I'll be just a moment, okay?"

You nod and only then does he turn to his brother. Yuan is standing, clearly annoyed. The resemblance is unmistakable now that you know to look for it - the same sharp-soft balance in their features, the same predatory grace. But where Minghao carries a coiled stillness, Yuan vibrates with resentment, grey eyes burning with untapped rage.

“Brother,” Yuan greets. “Took you long enough.”

Minghao doesn’t waste words on pleasantries. “You’re no family of mine. We cull men weak enough to be driven by petty jealousies.” Minghao gestures to him. “Knives only. Old way. No guns. No tricks. You and me."

Yuan’s smile widens, splitting the dried blood on his lip. “You still cling to the old customs? You're a little princeling here - you aren't Virate.”

“I honor what I am,” Minghao replies. He shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall to the wet floor. Beneath it, the compression shirt clings to his frame, revealing the holster straps and the faint outline of the small spell jar you gave him, still tucked against his chest. The red bracelet on his wrist stands out like a slash of blood against pale skin. “Do you?”

Yuan laughs, low and bitter and strips down to a similar compression shirt as Minghao. Two blades appear in his hands, thin, wickedly curved karambits that catch the light. “I was forged in the same dark you were. Let’s see which of us the Triptych favored more.”

Minghao draws his own knives. No flourish. Just efficient, practiced motion. One in each hand, shorter than Yuan’s but perfectly balanced. He rolls his shoulders once, eyes never leaving his brother’s face as the rain hammers the roof in relentless sheets and water drips from cracks overhead, plinking into puddles that spread across the concrete like spilled ink.

You test the ropes again, heart hammering against your ribs. The black tourmaline bracelet feels warm against your skin, a small circle of your own intention. You close your eyes, sucking in a short breath as you center yourself and focus on the single intention you have: Minghao living.

The fight begins without warning and you flinch. Yuan lunges first, a blur of motion across the wet floor, his karambit slashing in a wide arc meant to open Minghao’s throat. Minghao twists inside the reach, blades flashing up to parry. Metal screams against metal and sparks fly, tiny and bright in the dimness. They separate, circling each other like lions.

Yuan attacks again, faster this time, feinting low before slicing high. Minghao ducks, but not quite fast enough as the blade catches his shoulder, opening a shallow line of red. Blood wells immediately, mixing with rainwater. Minghao doesn’t flinch. He counters with a vicious upward thrust that forces Yuan to leap back, boots splashing.

Each collision is brutal, knives cutting air. Feet slide on the slick concrete, searching for purchase. Yuan is slightly taller, leveraging reach, but Minghao is faster and more economical with his movements, his efficiency brutal as he slashes Yuan across the rib, tearing fabric and flesh.

Minghao presses the advantage, driving Yuan backward with a series of rapid strikes. Their blades lock, faces inches apart, and for a moment, they strain against each other, muscles corded, breath visible in the damp air. Yuan’s grey eyes gleam with something like joy.

"I knew you liked the girl," Yuan goads. "This isn't business for you. This is emotional."

Minghao headbutts him hard and Yuan's face explodes in blood again, the damage you'd done earlier doubling. He stumps and Minghao follows, his knives dancing in a pattern too fast for you to track as he cuts open Yuan's shoulder, his forearm, his thigh. Minghao moves like pain is irrelevant, cutting Yuan until the man is screaming and kicking at Minghao for distance.

Yuan feints left, then spins, driving a blade toward Minghao’s kidney. You suck in a sharp breath but Minghao pivots and catches Yuan's wrist, twisting violently with a sickening pop. Yuan roars, dropping one karambit while swinging wildly with the other. Minghao takes a cut across the chest for it, but he doesn't let go. Instead, he yanks Yuan forward and drives his own knife upward where it sinks into Yuan's side, just under his ribs.

Yuan gasps, eyes widening. He tries to pull away, but Minghao holds him close, almost intimate. Their faces are inches apart, rain dripping from Minghao's hair onto Yuan's cheek.

"Blood for blood," he says, voice hard. He says something to Yuan in that same language you don't understand before he twists the knife.

Yuan’s mouth opens in a silent scream while his free hand claws at Minghao’s shoulder, leaving bloody streaks. His grey eyes lock onto Minghao’s for one long, terrible second. Then the light in them gutters out. Minghao yanks the blade free and Yuan collapses to the wet concrete with a heavy splash. Blood spreads beneath him, dark and final, mixing with rainwater and oil. The body twitches once, twice, then stills.

Minghao stands over his brother for a long moment, chest heaving, blood running down his arms and torso. Then he turns to you. The shift in him is immediate and devastating as the killer melts away into something soft. He crosses the distance in three strides, dropping to his knees in the puddle before your chair

His hands are trembling as he unties the ropes at your wrist, careful as he cuts through them with the knife slicked in his brother's blood. His dark eyes search your face frantically, cataloguing every bruise, the swelling at your temple, the way you’re favoring your head.

"Are you hurt?" He murmurs. "Tell me where. Please."

Please. You don't think you've ever heard him say that. Not to you. The way he says it is devastatingly soft, his sharp eyes round as he looks up at you, hands hovering like he doesn't know what to do.

“I’m okay," you whisper.

Minghao cuts away at the ropes around your ankle before tossing the knife and pulling you forward, careful not to press against any injuries. His embrace is fierce and gentle at once, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other spanning your back. You can feel his heart hammering against yours, fast and terrified in a way his face never shows.

It's the first time he's touched you - honestly touched you - since your brief kiss at the altar and the night you were almost killed. His touch is grounding and warm, the smell of him comforting but laced with the metallic tang of blood. You pull away, your hands hovering as you look at all the places he's bleeding.

“You’re bleeding-"

“It doesn’t matter.” He pulls you back in, his voice muffled by your hair. "You are nosey and you are stubborn and you are fascinating. Thank you for calling me."

"Minghao, you need stitches."

“Later.” He presses his forehead to yours, eyes closed. Rain drips from his lashes. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters right now.”

The spell jar is still pressed between you, warm against his chest. You can feel its faint outline. The red bracelet on his wrist brushes your skin as he cups your face again. Something inside your chest cracks open, relief, fear, the strange blooming warmth you’ve been trying to ignore for months.

“I knew you’d come,” you whisper.

“I will always come for you.” The words are quiet, almost reverent. He kisses your forehead, then your temple, avoiding the bruise, then the corner of your mouth. Not possessive. Just desperate reassurance. “I’m sorry you had to face him alone."

“I headbutted him. Broke his nose.”

A soft, startled laugh escapes him. “Of course you did.” His thumb traces your jaw. “My wicked, impossible wife.”

He helps you stand, supporting most of your weight when your legs threaten to buckle. The warehouse spins for a moment, but his arm around your waist anchors you. He keeps you turned away from Yuan’s body, shielding you with his own as he guides you toward the broken door.

Outside, the rain is still falling in torrents. Minghao’s car idles just beyond the entrance, lights off, engine humming low. He helps you into the passenger seat with painstaking care, buckling you in, checking the angle of your head, murmuring soft instructions to breathe slowly. Then he rounds the car and slides behind the wheel.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. Rain lashes the windshield. Minghao’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles white. Blood still trickles from the cut on his chest, but he ignores it, eyes fixed on you.

“I killed my brother tonight,” he says eventually, voice hollow. “For you. I need you to know I would do it again. I understand I have not been forthcoming or warm, but I care for you.”

You reach across the console and take his hand. His fingers curl around yours immediately, tight enough to hurt. The red bracelet shifts between you.

“I know,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

He lifts your joined hands and presses a kiss to your knuckles, eyes closing again. When they open, the intensity is back, but softer now. Protective. Possessive in a way that feels like safety rather than the chains you'd felt that first meeting in the boardroom.

“Let’s go home,” he says. 

You nod, exhaustion crashing over you like the rain outside.

-

Doctor Tzintzun finally steps back, wiping her hands on a sterile cloth. The Observatory penthouse is quiet except for the low hum of the air filtration system and the distant patter of rain against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Fog presses close outside, turning Hyperion into a muted glow far below

The doctor packs her kit with efficient movements, glancing between you and Minghao. “The stitches on your arm will hold, but keep them dry. Concussion protocol is in place - rest, dim lights, no screens. As for you, Mr. Xu, those cuts were deep. Change the dressings in six hours. Pain management is on the bedside table. Call if anything worsens.”

Minghao nods once, voice low. “Thank you. Elara will see you out.”

The door seals behind them with a soft click, leaving the two of you alone in the low-lit living room. Your body aches in new and old places, your temple tender from the concussion. But you’re alive. He’s alive.

Minghao sits on the wide, low couch beside you, closer than he’s ever been in this space. The black silk robe he wears hangs open at the chest, revealing the edge of white bandages and the hard planes of muscle beneath. His hair is damp, falling across his forehead in dark strands. The red bracelet you made him still circles his right wrist, the azabache charm catching the soft amber light from the single lamp. He hasn’t taken it off.

You shift slightly, the oversized shirt you wear - his, you realize - riding up your thighs. The silence stretches, thick with everything unsaid. The fight. The blood. The truth of what he is. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the faint scar on his knuckle, the way his chest rises and falls with careful, controlled breaths.

He turns toward you, dark eyes intense in the dimness. For once, there’s no polished mask, no deflection. Just raw, unguarded focus on your face.

“I don’t know why you get under my skin,” he says quietly. "I was trained not to let anyone close. Attachments were liabilities. You were supposed to be a transaction - a bridge that was useful and controllable."

He reaches out, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek with surprising gentleness. The touch lingers, callused fingertips tracing your jaw. “But you fight back when you should crumble. You read the universe in cards and smoke and believe in it so stubbornly it makes me question everything I was forged to be. You called me when you were terrified and trusted me to come.”

His thumb strokes your lower lip, eyes dropping to watch the motion. The air between you crackles, charged like the moments before lightning. Your pulse quickens, heat blooming low in your belly despite the exhaustion and pain. You can smell him, clean skin, faint pine.

“I don’t understand it,” he murmurs, leaning closer. "You affect me. You make me want things I was never meant to have.”

"So have them," you murmur.

He laughs and kisses you. It’s not the chaste brush from your wedding. This is real and hungry, months of restrained tension exploding between you. His mouth claims yours, tongue sweeping in to taste you deeply. You moan softly into him, hands fisting in the front of his robe, pulling him closer. He tastes like mint and rain and something darker, needier. His hand cups the back of your neck, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip.

The world narrows to the wet slide of tongues, the soft sounds of breath and need, the heat of his body pressing you back against the couch cushions. Your bandages pull slightly but the pain is distant, drowned in sensation. His scent envelops you. The low groan vibrating from his chest makes your pussy clench.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth down your neck, sucking lightly at your pulse point. “Tell me to stop,” he rasps against your skin, voice wrecked. “If this is too much after I lied-"

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper, threading fingers through his damp hair and tugging him back up for another searing kiss.

Minghao makes a low sound and shifts you both, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. The robe falls open completely, revealing his bandaged torso and the hard length of him pressing against you through thin fabric. Your shirt rides up, bare thighs against his hips. He’s already hard, thick and hot, and the realization sends a fresh wave of arousal flooding through you.

He kisses you like a man starving, hands roaming under your shirt to cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble tight and you let out a shaky sound, overwhelmed.

“So fucking perfect,” he growls, breaking the kiss to yank the shirt over your head.

Cool air kisses your skin, then his hot mouth is on you, sucking one nipple deep while his fingers pinch and roll the other. The wet heat of his tongue, the gentle scrape of teeth, the suction - all of it pulls desperate whimpers from your throat. You arch into him, grinding down against his cock, feeling the thick ridge slide against your dampening folds through your panties.

“Minghao-" His name breaks off on a moan.

He switches sides, lavishing the other breast with the same filthy attention, sucking hard enough to leave imprints of his teeth on your skin. One hand slides down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties, fingers finding you soaked.

“This wet for me already?” he murmurs. “My wicked wife.”

Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling deep. You cry out, hips rocking instinctively as he starts to pump them slowly at first, then faster, thumb finding your clit and circling with devastating pressure. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers working in and out of your pussy fill the room, mixing with your gasps and his low groans. He kisses you again, swallowing your moans as he finger-fucks you harder, scissoring and curling until you’re trembling on the edge.

“Come for me, baby,” he demands against your mouth. “Let me feel it.”

The orgasm crashes over you, sharp and sudden, and you clamp down hard around his fingers, thighs shaking as it rips through you. He doesn’t stop, working you through it with deep, steady strokes until you’re whimpering his name.

He pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean with a groan. “Taste so good. Need more.”

Before you can catch your breath, he lifts you effortlessly, ignoring the way you yelp, hands hovering near his injuries. He lays you back against the wide couch and kneels between your spread thighs, peeling your soaked panties down your legs and tossing them aside. The cool air hits your exposed, dripping pussy, making you shiver. Minghao stares like a man possessed, eyes dark, lips parted.

He spreads your thighs wider, hooking your legs over his shoulders, and buries his face between them. The first long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit draws a broken cry from you, his tongue parting you like velvet.

“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he mutters, voice muffled.

He sucks your clit between his lips, tongue flicking rapidly while two fingers plunge back inside you, fucking you in time with his mouth. It makes you suck in a sharp gasp, lost to the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers. You fist his hair, hips grinding against his face as another orgasm builds fast and brutal. He curls his fingers against that perfect spot inside you, sucking hard on your clit, and you shatter again with a sharp scream, thighs clamping around his head as you come again.

He laps you through it, gentler now, until you’re twitching and oversensitive. Only then does he rise, wiping his glistening mouth with the back of his hand. His cock strains against his pants, a wet spot forming at the front that makes you eager. You reach for him, tugging the fabric down, freeing his thick, heavy length to reveal a flushed dark head slick with precum. You wrap your hand around him, stroking once, and he hisses, hips jerking.

“Need to be inside you,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Now.”

He sits back on the couch, pulling you into his lap again so you can straddle him with your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. His cock slides hot and bare against your soaked folds as you grind down, coating him in your arousal.

“Fuck me,” you whisper lips dragging against his. "Like you mean it. Like I'm yours. Like you should have on our wedding night"

Minghao grips your hips, eyes locked on yours, and pulls you down onto him in one smooth, relentless thrust that has you gasping into his mouth, your hands cradling his face.

The stretch is exquisite, burning pleasure as he fills you completely, bottoming out with a shared groan. You’re so wet he slides in easily, but the fullness makes your breath hitch. You can feel every ridge, every throb of his cock buried deep enough to make you shiver.

"Fuck," he hisses. His hands knead your ass, guiding you to rock on him. “So fucking hot and wet around me.”

You start moving, riding him slow at first, savoring the drag of his thick cock against your walls. He floods your senses - his scent, the taste of him still on your lips from earlier kisses, the sight of his bandaged, muscled torso flexing beneath you, the feel of his hands guiding you harder, faster.

He surges up, capturing your mouth in a messy kiss as he thrusts up to meet you. The angle hits deep, grinding against that spot inside of you that has you twitching. Sweat slicks your bodies where they press together, his heart pounding against yours.

“Ride me harder,” he growls, one hand pressing your lower belly, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”

You do, grinding down with fluid rolls of your hips until the pressure builds again. He sucks harshly against your neck then lower, biting and licking his way toward your chest. The feeling of his teeth scraping against you sends you over, coming around him as you hide your face in his neck, crying his name.

Minghao curses, flipping you onto your side gently with your back to his chest. He's careful as he lifts one of your thighs and hooks it over his, and he slowly thrusts back into you from behind in a single, fluid stroke. His arm wraps around you, hand cupping your breast, pinching the nipple as he fucks you with long, drawn out thrusts that have you panting.

"My pretty wife," he pants against the shell of your ear, nipping lightly. "Fate brought you to me. I know it. I never believed before until you."

You moan helplessly, pushing back to meet every thrust. Another orgasm crashes over you, vision whitening as your walls flutter and squeeze him. Minghao groans deeply, pace faltering until he buries himself to the hilt, hips jerking as he spills inside you.

You stay locked together, panting, bodies slick with sweat. His cock softens slowly inside you but he doesn’t pull out, holding you close. His hand strokes lazily over your stomach, down to where you’re still joined, feeling the mess of your combined release leaking out.

After long minutes, he presses soft kisses to your neck, your shoulder, your jaw. Turning your head, he kisses you properly again.

“I never intended this,” he murmurs against your lips, breaking the kiss. “I was supposed to use this marriage, keep my distance, and fulfill the Virate’s purpose. But you deserve better. You deserve a real husband. Protection, honesty, partnership. I promise you that - until death, like I said. No more shadows between us."

"I would like that," you whisper, looking up into his eyes - open and honest for the first time. "Thank you."

Rain taps against the window as you lay there, tired and safe in his arms. For once, you don't worry about anything - there is nothing to worry about. The Tower has already fallen. The illusions are gone. All that remains is what you choose to build from the wreckage.

- The wedding you always imagined is better than your first one. Late afternoon light filters through the canopy of trees in soft, dappled gold, catching on the mist that clings to ferns and low-hanging moss. The air carries the scent of damp earth, pine resin, crushed herbs, and night-blooming jasmine. For once, the rain has paused, like the earth is letting you have this brief moment among the trees.

This is nothing like the extravagent wedding suspended three hundred floors above the city. No cameras. No political theater. Just earth. Just intention. Just truth.

You're barefoot on a small clearing of soft moss and fallen petals, wearing a simple slip of midnight silk that brushes your ankles. Minghao stands across from you, barefoot and dressed in loose black linen that makes him look less like a Shade and something softer. More solid. Something yours.

A length of hand-dyed red silk binds your hands together, soaked through with oils, saturated with the smell of rose and mugwart and something bitter. Baby stands a respectful distance away beside Seungcheol, her haunted expression gentler today, almost peaceful. Jeonghan leans against a tree with his usual lazy smirk while Kero grins, all teeth.

“This is the one that matters,” Minghao murmurs. "Until death."

The two of you, despite aforementioned reunion, hadn't exactly grown up together — he was born in St. Cloud to two kindergarten teachers and spent a majority of his elementary school years weaving in and out of the trailer park he called home. He salted tires early in the morning and walked dogs late at night for pocket money, he picked up beer cans tossed around the park and neighboring areas to get cash at Midway Iron. He was a good student and an even better clarinet player, often spending evenings sitting by the local high school's band hall to hear the crash of cymbals and deep baritone of the golden tuba. If he was lucky, he'd catch the choir girls warming up before their bus took off into Minneapolis for competitions.

He wouldn't meet you until his sixth grade year when luck struck both his parents and they got better paying jobs in Bemidji — two and a half hours north of his hometown, and the place you called home. His family packed up everything they could fit into the back of his father's 1995 Chevy G20 and they left — the trailer park disappearing in the rear view and giving Jihoon a stomach ache. He had to start all over, and meet all new people — but his family had moved just at the end of 1998, so he hadn't been too well acquainted with his teachers or his schedule anyhow. You were an eighth grader when he got to the local middle school, and he remembers exactly what you looked like, too, the day that he met you.

You were a bit taller than he was then, and you'd convinced your mother to let you dye your hair a honey blonde with caramel lowlights. You had a permanent zigzag part and wore it in a half-up do with two ponytails that swung when you walked, and you had a purple windbreaker on that he would soon learn to be your favorite piece of your wardrobe — along with several pairs of dark wash Jordache jeans that had no back pockets so you'd eventually clip your Motorola I1000 Plus (a gift from your parents on your fourteenth birthday) to your waistband. You were always all smiles, you wore Victoria's Secret Sweet Talk lipgloss and swapped your tubes with your friends every week — your favorite was the shimmery gold. You also wore metallic silver polish on your fingernails, and he remembers the distinct smell of ethyl acetate every time he walked past the girls' bathroom on the second floor — sometimes even catching a glimpse of you and your friends sitting on the sinks and painting your nails during lunch.

He met you fully when you slammed into him in your rush to get to Home Economics, somehow bursting his clarinet case open and catching the lower joint with your foot. You'd crouched quickly, picking it up (as well as his extra reeds) and grabbing his case before anything else could tumble out with a worried look, "sorry! Are you okay?"

He'd mumbled a yeah, taking his things back from you as your fingers carefully held the case open for him to put them back. You closed it, peering down at him through your lashes that had been smoothly swiped with brown mascara — and he remembers how hot his cheeks and ears felt at the fact that you were now in front of him. He'd seen you, he'd heard you laugh, but he'd mostly heard you speak — strongly and confidently — every morning over the school's PA system during homeroom. You ran the school's radio club, Aurora FM, and that was what you were most known for — even if to Jihoon, you were just a nice girl with a pretty smile for the time being.

He'd know better in due time.

That was your only interaction in middle school. You'd moved onto ninth grade the next year, and he joined the radio club that year. He stayed behind the scenes, quietly gathering information, distributing intel, writing scripts. He'd occasionally fill in if Soonyoung, the president that year, was running late and needed someone to fill his spot. He tried his best — he led the Pledge of Allegiance that he didn't really care for, he congratulated people for their birthdays, he read out the lunch menu and talked about what the school extracurricular teams were getting up to come the following weekend.

Everyone said he was a natural. Smooth, steady, but he wasn't all that sure. He liked hanging back. He liked keeping to himself, not having too many people know who he was or wanting to socialize with him. Nonetheless, he made friends and eventually was made the Vice President of the radio club by the end of the year because Soonyoung wanted him to be President but he didn't want to do the morning announcements unless he absolutely had to. So, VP it was.

His eighth grade year was uneventful. He was the band's first chair clarinet player, he was a straight-A student, he was always saved a seat at a lunch table in the corner closest to the staircase that led up to the library in case he and his friends wanted an escape. Sometimes he went outside with Mingyu and Seokmin, kicked the soccer ball around that Mingyu brought from home — that kept getting confiscated because it was against the rules — but he tended to keep to himself anyhow.

Middle school ended and he left his Vice President position to his good friend Hansol — feeding into the local high school and reuniting with Soonyoung, who was in his sophomore year…

And you, in your junior year. He vividly remembers arriving on his first day, too — he'd been lucky enough that Soonyoung kept in contact and told him that he was guaranteed a spot in the high school's radio club when he came in. He'd told him to meet up with him at the library before getting his schedule so he could get his passes for the year, only to walk into the radio room to see you and Soonyoung yelling at each other. You were both fully teasing, but there were two guys he did not recognize watching the entire ordeal with bitten back grins.

You were still dying your hair honey blonde with caramel lowlights, but it was much longer and even slightly curling in several places. You had sparkly clips everywhere, and your purple windbreaker was draped over the thigh of one of the guys that was sitting back in the desk chairs. You had soft taupe shadow light brushed over your eyelids with gold glitter on the center, your lashes now coated with black mascara and your waterline lined with dark brown. Your lips donned a frosty berry color…the same color stamped onto the cheeks and lips of the boy with your jacket over his thigh.

You had a boyfriend.

"Yah! Can't you see we have company!?" Soonyoung had yelled out when Jihoon's silver clarinet case caught his eye. He'd turned quickly, his hair now sporting frosted tips as he easily embraced Jihoon in a tight hug — and he was barely able to look over Soonyoung's shoulder to see you peering at him, almost like you knew him. Your zigzag part was gone, replaced with a straight one.

Soonyoung had let him go when Jihoon murmured that he couldn't breathe, only to grab his hand and pull him forward, "this is Y/N! You know Y/N, right? We went to middle school together!"

You tilted your head at him, "you're…I bumped into you once, right? You were the new kid back in '98."

Jihoon introduced himself quietly, watching the way his name shaped your lips as you repeated it to yourself. You then turned on your heel, introducing the men sitting in the desk chairs. The lankier guy with long hair was Jeonghan Yoon, treasurer of the radio club — and the boy sitting next to him with the thick brows and stamps of your lipstick was Seungcheol Choi, the secretary.

And the band's first chair clarinet player. And the junior varsity's soccer team captain.

"…and he's also my boyfriend! He's so good that Coach Lowe thinks he could go pro." You'd been all smiles saying that, the boy blushing all the way up to his ears as you slid into his lap. He buried his face into your shoulder, his eyes full of stars as he peeked at the hoop earrings swinging from your lobes, only paired with a small gold S earring snugly tucked into a tragus piercing you'd gotten at some point. He and Jeonghan both also coolly introduced themselves to Jihoon, and eventually the room was full of more people — including Mingyu and Seokmin, who he had managed to coax into joining the club with him. They all started at the bottom again, and Jihoon quickly took initiative — asking all the right questions and Seungcheol had been visibly impressed.

You had also been impressed. You were Vice President of the club, having joined a year before Seungcheol, Jeonghan and Soonyoung even arrived at the high school. Jihoon found it a little endearing how enamored Seungcheol was with you, but even more that the entire radio club liked you far more than they did the actual president — a senior that arrived late, that you gave a mildly annoyed glare at, that smelled like her boyfriend's AXE body spray and the faint ganja smoke. Her letterman jacket boasted the last name LOWE, and she introduced herself to the freshman with low, red eyes as Kathleen.

Freshman year was rather uneventful — he spent his time doing everything he did in middle school, but this time…he was also noticing more about you. You had a car, a 1991 GMC Syclone that often sat you and Seungcheol in the cab. You'd sneak him out for lunch with you, you'd drive around town with him — Jihoon saw the two of you on dates a few times, at the local ice cream parlor where Seungcheol would kiss your temple and wipe the corners of your lips of chocolate with his thumb. He was head over heels for you, Jihoon could see it entirely.

Another thing was that Jihoon often heard you humming Jumpin' Jumpin' by Destiny's Child in the mornings while you made last minute touches to the script while Seungcheol talked numbers and events with Jeonghan. He listened to the stations you'd put on the staticky radio, frowning inwardly as you fiddled with the antenna until Seungcheol eventually gave the radio a quick hit and the music would come out clearly. You liked anything, really — but listened mostly to rock, R&B and the occasional Top 40 station.

The songs that you sang along to the most that year were Hanging By A Moment by Lifehouse, My First Love by Avant & KeKe Wyatt, and Never Let You Go by Third Eye Blind. Sometimes you'd sing (You Drive Me) Crazy by Britney Spears at Seungcheol, making his cheeks tinge bright red as you slowly got louder to embarrass him — only for him to yank you close to him and kiss you all over and get you both told off by faculty.

The radio club was also often at any and every school event, including dances and sports competitions — which meant the eight of you (sometimes seven…if Kathleen was off getting stoned with her boyfriend and their friends instead of tagging along like she was supposed to) were often lumped together. It was on those nights that Jihoon got some one-on-one time with you — seeing as his father's '95 G20 could fit most of you. Kathleen's absence often made it easier, with someone having to sit in someone else's lap so she could have a seat to herself.

That was typically when you and he got conversations in. You'd drive fifteen minutes out to his two-story home (that his parents could now comfortably afford on their new salaries) right before events and greet them warmly. Sometimes you brought freshly baked goods from your own mother, who ran the best bakery in Bemidji; sometimes you'd bring flowers for his mother. You'd be invited in for a drink, or a quick bite — and Jihoon would often stay ducked behind the cracked door of his bedroom that felt too big for him. He'd hear his mother cover for him, saying he was finishing up homework or doing some sort of chore for her — when in reality, he'd confided in her that you made him a little nervous. She'd gotten that warm look in her eye, like she usually does when she knows something is a half-truth, but she went along with it anyway.

Then the two of you would sit in the front and tweak the radio here and there, with two cans of Crush grape soda that his mother had slid your way. You told him once that it was your favorite, the medicinal taste of the grape nowhere to be found in that twelve-ounce can and reminding you of summers with your cousins in Emerald Isle…and he asked his mother to keep a six-pack in stock.

It went untouched unless you were borrowing the van.

He also didn't do much of the talking on the drive back to the school. You talked, and you talked a lot — and quite fast. He'd seen Seungcheol stare at you attentively in order to catch all the little details you'd slip into your stories because you also loved to backtrack later in the week and beat the dead horse. But with Jihoon…the talking seemed to be to fill the silence. He responded carefully, and you seemingly enjoyed his company — but that didn't stop him from shying away from you at all and any opportunity.

"You don't like me much, do you?" You had asked him the night of the junior prom later that year, and you were wearing a beautiful butter yellow dress that made your skin glow, the skirt stopping just below your knees. He blinked at you, holding the camera he'd been given by one of the Yearbook girls to help out.

"I never said that?" "It kind of feels like it. You never really talk to me."

Jihoon must've looked taken aback, but you didn't have much time to respond before Seungcheol carefully whisked you away. The last few radio club meets were canceled by Kathleen, and she signed off a week before school let out because she graduated. Mornings were silent, but there was an email thread going back and forth detailing summer events until several of the public library computers and even Soonyoung's personal home one got hit with the ILOVEYOU malware.

Eventually, school let out for summer and radio club meetings were held at your house — and the first was missing a certain Seungcheol Choi. Your eyes were teary as you carefully scribbled across the cool chalkboard wall your parents let you have, talking business until Soonyoung carefully asked where Seungcheol was.

"Moved to Maine to live with his grandmother because his parents thought he and Y/N were spending too much time together," Jeonghan had replied in a low whisper, but loud enough that your shoulders tensed. Mingyu and Seokmin offered soft apologies, but you just ignored them and kept talking about the summer events. At some point, your voice was far too thick to be intelligible and Jeonghan carefully led you out of your bedroom while Jihoon looked around the room. There was a box with Seungcheol's name and new home address printed on a shipping label, and he dared to peek in — and felt his heart sink at a two-year anniversary present that seemingly went unopened.

Happy two year anniversary, baby! I burned a CD for you, it's in the scrapbook. The tracklist is written on the back but our song is on there! I'll be a radio show host soon, just you wait, and I'll play our song on the radio all the time. For now, I love you. And I can't wait for many more years with you.

Your girl, Y/N <3

Your song with Seungcheol was one he heard over and over that summer. It was a country song from 1987 — Forever and Ever, Amen by Randy Travis. Your Syclone only fit two people, and it still smelled like Seungcheol's cologne according to Jeonghan — so he was in charge of wheels for the summer, driving the group around in a 1993 Audi S4 Avant his father had officially gifted him at the end of the school year. The trunk hauled a bulk of soundboards, amps, microphones and in the backseat — usually piled on top of Mingyu and Seokmin's laps — were coolers and snack bags. Jihoon's mother often piled a french baguette with all the fixings, slicing it into five and wrapping it up individually for each of the club members.

You weren't yourself for a while, either. Summer came and went, and payphones were your best friend. You'd ask around for quarters, often landing on Jihoon before scoring one and sauntering off to see if Seungcheol would be by the phone. He often was, and you only seemed more and more heartbroken as the calls got shorter and shorter. He knew Seungcheol was in tears on the other end if you were rapidly wiping at your eyes and tugging at the skin around them.

Your honey blonde highlights were replaced by chocolate brown box dye a week before school started. You held the last summer radio meeting at Jeonghan's house, because he had recently gotten a computer in his family room. The five of you huddled around for a while as you set up the projects you'd all done so the yearbook would have them for the upcoming school year. Eventually, Mingyu and Seokmin walked home — living only ten minutes from Jeonghan's house. Jeonghan's mother was gracious enough to keep you and Jihoon for dinner, and you saved the project on your thumb drive before hiking your bag over your shoulder.

"May I use your phone to call my parents?" He had asked Mrs. Yoon quietly, before you gave a quick whistle, your keys jingling as Jeonghan hugged you quickly. You gestured at the door, "I can take you home."

It was then, a week before his sophomore year of high school and your senior year, that he was really and truly alone with you in a space you dominated. Your Syclone smelled like expensive cologne, and had a sweatshirt draped over the passenger seat. Seungcheol's penmanship was scribbled all over your glove compartment in silver Sharpie, and a Polaroid of you both was resting over your speedometer. You were smiling the widest he'd ever seen, and it was backdated two years.

"It was hard," you suddenly spoke as you turned the engine over and pulled out of the Yoons' driveway, and he glanced up at you from where he'd been staring at the photo. "The break-up. His parents never really liked me, but apparently I was distracting him. As if he wasn't a straight-A student and in so many extracurriculars…but whatever."

Jihoon opened his mouth, intending an apology to tumble out…

"You changed your hair."

You blinked, glancing at yourself in the rear view mirror as you rolled up at a stop sign, your chipped silver fingernails carding through it.

"Yeah. I needed a change." "You've had highlights as long as I've known you."

You raked your eyes over his face, tilting your head as you flicked on your turn signal, "so you think it's bad?"

"No," he shook his head, nibbling on his lip as you pulled out into the main street. Your hands were calm at ten and two, chunky rings adorning your fingers, "but it's not what you're used to, is it?"

"I think change is good," he admitted, "not seeing Seungcheol at the beginning of the summer was weird, but I know that ultimately…if he could've stayed, he would've. Moving to Bemidji was weird but I'm here now and my parents like it. Going to a new school, moving into a house for the first time…it was hard for me but it was good. It's the same with hair. I can assume highlights are expensive."

You snorted then, "I got them for free. My older sister is my hairdresser….she was mad when I went in with the box dye. Tossed it out and gave me…whatever this is."

"I'd say it's chocolate brown." "Then it's chocolate brown." "I never got to answer your question at the junior prom. About disliking you."

You hummed, braking lightly at a stoplight and turning to look at him, "yeah. What's the verdict?"

"It's not that I don't like you, I'm just…you make me a little nervous." He picked at a woven bracelet Seokmin had given him at the beginning of summer. "I appreciate you from a distance."

"Why?" "Why what?" "Why do I make you nervous?"

"Everyone likes you so much," he shrugs, seeing the corner store down the block from his house appear out of the corner of his eye. "You're very nice and approachable and that means you have constant eyes on you. I don't like to be perceived all that much."

"And yet, you went out for the radio club?" He could hear the smile in your voice, only giving you another shrug in response before sucking his teeth.

"I like the behind the scenes. Confidence is…a little lost on me." "So you never want to be the President?" "I'd sooner impale myself on a sword slathered in cyanide."

You'd laughed then — and a real laugh, one he hadn't heard since the end of the school year. Your eyes were hidden by the thickness of your lashes, your shimmery lips spread across your teeth as you shoved his shoulder lightly.

"You're gonna read the announcements on Monday morning." "I will literally not show up if that's the case."

You sucked your teeth, pulling up to his house just as a familiar song came on the radio. You pursed your lips as the sound of the dobro came through your speakers, quickly turning the volume dial all the way down. Sighing, you turned in your seat slightly, "you can't let fear keep you from being great, Jihoon."

"It's not fear. It's…just common sense. You are built for greatness. Not me, I'm your Average Joe." He stated simply, unbuckling his seatbelt before giving you a quick once over. "I'll see you on Monday. Thank you for the ride."

"No problem." "Drive safe."

He slipped out of the car, carefully shutting your door and following the cobblestone walkway to his front door. He stilled on the front step, turning on his heel and bounding back to your car. Your window was down as you rustled around for something, your eyes flickering up when he spoke again.

"Hey, Y/N?" "Yes?" "I like your hair."

Monday came fast — and his schedule was waiting in your hand when he arrived to the radio room in the library. You were comparing them with Mingyu's and Seokmin's, and Soonyoung was talking shop with Jeonghan at the computer in the back of the room. You were officially a senior and the President of the club, with Jeonghan as your Vice. Seungcheol was a presence that still lingered around you — your ear still donned the gold S earring, you fiddled with the radio before looking around, almost as if waiting for him to come hit it. You did it yourself, lingering at it as Forever and Ever, Amen bled through before you turned it off.

Soonyoung was upped to Secretary, and Jihoon, Seokmin and Mingyu shared any other major responsibilities. You'd closed the radio club to any new members, having told Jeonghan that you wanted your last year with it to be one for the books. Your schedule let you out early, half past one in the afternoon, and you made Jeonghan promise to take them all home after school instead of making them walk. He'd scrunched his nose, plucking a twenty from the money clip shoved in the silver treasury box.

"For gas money," he said as he cracked his gum and shoved it into the pocket of his letterman jacket.

Or…Seungcheol's, rather. His surname was in bold blue letters across the back, a soccer patch ironed onto the sleeve. It had another patch, one seemingly custom made — a set of cherries, with your initial on one and his own on the other.

You grimaced at it, turning away before giving Jihoon his schedule, "you're taking Calculus as a sophomore?"

"I like math." He mumbled, not bothering to mention how he'd been spending the hours before summer meetings studying so he could test out of math before his senior year. Your schedule reflected the same course at the same time as him, "you're taking it first period?"

"We should sit together. Dr. Wade is an ass," you shrugged, pulling your bag over your shoulder before giving him a soft smile. "You sure you won't give the morning announcements? C'mon, Ji. For your good buddy Y/N?"

"Yeah, Hoonie." Mingyu teased from his seat across the room, and Jihoon sighed, rolling his eyes as he moved to step in front of the PA system microphone. He cleared his throat, turning fobs and dials, reaching for the silver triangle that generations past had stolen from the band room downstairs.

"Where's the script?" He muttered, searching for the brass beater as you took the sheet off the printer, still warm. He flipped it, scanning it quickly before flicking the microphone on and playing a three-note count on the triangle, "good morning, Aurora Falls. Today is Monday, August 14th, 2000. Happy birthday to Coach Lowe and Principal Barnaby, and thank you to Principal Barnaby for sixteen years of service with Aurora Falls Independent District. These are your morning announcements, brought you to by Y/N Hong, Jeonghan Yoon, Soonyoung Kwon, Seokmin Lee, Mingyu Kim and Jihoon Lee. Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance."

You smiled proudly next to him, your hip resting against the counter as he read off the pledge and a few other announcements — the weather forecast, updated lunch menu, when tickets for the Fall Ball would be going on sale and new positions for the sports teams…

And he skipped over Seungcheol's name on the new roster.

You nodded inwardly, listening to him try to keep a bored tone out of his voice as he spoke on and on; he noted the way your thumbnail, painted with a fresh coat of silver polish, ran over his name.

Seungcheol Choi — AF BEARS VARSITY SOCCER JUNIOR CAPTAIN.

The three others dispersed after you took over the rest of the announcements, thanking Jihoon with a squeeze of your fingers against his shoulder.

"Let's walk together," you nudged him with your elbow, your eyes twinkling under the fluorescent lights that gave him headaches. He silently agreed, falling into lockstep with you as you led the both of you out of the radio room. He kept his grip tight on his clarinet case as people talked to you while walking past, before one of the senior football players sidled up to you. A quarterback, he thinks, sporting a letterman jacket like the one Seungcheol used to — last name LOWE, first name Declan.

An offspring of Coach Lowe's, much like Kathleen.

And a disappointment of a leader, just like his sister.

Jihoon has seen the way he plays ball and it's dirty. He's a shit throw and a ball hog, but let the record show that it's not like he hasn' t been called on his bad habits several times — both on and off of the playing field.

"Hey, radio star," he had a smoother drawl than Kathleen, one that reminded him of his grandparents in Tennessee as he threw his arm over your shoulders. You scowled, shoving him off, "get away from me, ugh! As if!"

Jihoon bit back his snort at the Clueless reference, silently opting to skirt around to the other side where he looped his arm with yours. The senior's friends teased him, "oh come on, babe! I'm Captain this year, that's gotta count for something."

"Put it on a resume, I don't care." "Seungcheol's gone, babe. Face the music."

Jihoon felt you tense then, your hand holding his arm tightening slightly as you looked over your shoulder, "Shelby dumped you, babe. Face the music that no one wants your sorry ass."

After that, Jihoon doesn't remember who hit first. All he really remembers is the way his chest felt suddenly hot when the word bitch reached his ears, and the way his clarinet case clattered across the hall. He also remembers the soft scent of your shampoo wafting up his nose when you pulled him off the floor, and the sudden realization that there was a bleeding quarterback clutching his nose in the middle of the hallway.

Jihoon doesn't even think he was tall enough then to hit Declan that easily.

Jihoon also remembers the three-day suspension he was given. Not because he felt bad for what he did, because he didn't — but because his mother would not let him rest. She scolded him the entire drive to the urgent care, in the waiting room to get his eyebrow stitched up, on the drive home, and even all throughout dinner. He couldn't count on all his fingers and toes how many times his mother told him that we don't hit other people, Jihoon Lee.

"He was harassing her and called her a bitch. I think one fight won't kill him." Jihoon had muttered over his bowl of soup that night, his father glancing up at his mother. Jihoon swirled his spoon through the hot broth, the steam wafting up into his face when there was a knock at the door. His father dismissed him to open it, and he hadn't bothered looking through the peephole before opening it — seeing you, Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Seokmin and Mingyu all standing on his front porch.

"Jihoon is not allowed friends over," his father had spoken up behind him, but you held up a stack of papers.

"Just bringing his schoolwork, Mr. Lee." You replied, but your eyes never left the three stitched points across his left brow. Your fingers were holding the paperwork tight, and he took it from you — watching you awkwardly shove your hands into your pockets as his mother skirted behind him.

"You fought that boy over her?" "I didn't fight anyone over anybody. And if it was her, I wasn't going to tell you. Thanks, guys." "Let them join us for dinner."

And for dinner, the five of you joined. They huddled around the dining table, filling all the chairs and Jihoon giving his up for you to sit. He ate alone in the kitchen, making quick work of soup and rice before hearing you offer to move plates to the kitchen. He wanted to step out, but you managed to make it back to the kitchen before he could.

"You didn't have to do that today, Jihoon." You started, running a shaky hand through your mussed hair. Your eyes were a bit swollen, the whites pink from what he assumed to be tears. "You could've been seriously hurt."

"He was being a jerk to you," he replied simply, his thumb fiddling with the tab on his can of soda. He flicked it, "he called you a bitch. And you got tense when he mentioned Seungcheol. I couldn't stand there and do nothing."

"For someone who doesn't talk much, you sure think a lot."

"For someone who talks a lot, you make a lot of excuses. He was a jerk. I hit him. It's over with and I'll be back at school in three days. I should be glad he didn't beat the tar out of me." Jihoon shrugged, but you trilled your lips, "and don't worry. I know you can fend for yourself, it was just..an instinct reaction. One I didn't know I had and one I likely won't ever tap into again, but I'm glad it was for you. If that's of any consolation."

Jihoon also remembers how tightly you hugged him then — how he lightly patted your back as he saw his parents peek into the kitchen with wide eyes. His own screamed that he was just as taken aback, and eventually, he saw you and the rest of the group out of his home. He waved as the five of you piled into Jeonghan's car, and his mother made a quiet comment about you that stuck with him for the rest of the year as she watched through the window.

"She's gonna go far, that girl."

Suspension came and went, and the school year rolled on without much more to be worried about. His clarinet practices ran late sometimes, he started learning how to drive with his father, he went to radio club in the mornings and spent his weekends studying and practicing. Winter break came around and you showed up at his house with a gift on Christmas Day, inviting his family to your mother's New Year's Eve party.

"My mom is always looking for more friends," you'd smiled lightly, the cold wind biting at your skin under your thin coat. It was only then that he learned your mother was raising you alone, and promised he'd get his parents to drive out to your house for the New Year. They did just that, and the radio club was huddled together in the basement of your house and eating while the adults got tipsy upstairs. You kept stealing rice cakes out of Jihoon's bowl, who couldn't stop himself from pinching at the almond cookies Seokmin had brought down in a napkin — until Jeonghan came downstairs with his puffer still on and slightly overstuffed.

"….What do you have, Jeonghan?" You'd asked slowly, blindly stealing a piece of fish cake out of Jihoon's bowl before he pulled it away, "get your own!"

"Only children never share," Mingyu turned his nose up at him, offering his own bowl as the two of you both stuck your tongues out at him — only for Jeonghan to clear his throat and open his puffer jacket to reveal a bottle of homemade makgeolli just as Soonyoung made his way down the stairs with the familiar clink of yet another bottle. They looked at each other, a soft snicker falling from their lips as they both wormed down the stairs and joined the group in the middle of the basement.

"Not only are you late," you smacked the back of Soonyoung's head as you took the clear bottle from his hand, "but you steal from my mother's stash? Have some shame…you could've brought cups."

"We can just share from the bottles!" Jeonghan argued, only for Mingyu to pipe up, "that's indirect kissing. And I'm not kissing any of you boneheads, that's reserved for Nina Jang."

"Nina Jang is never going to look your way," Soonyoung snorted, uncapping the glass bottle and taking a smooth sniff. "Plus, she's seventeen. You're not even sixteen until April."

"Nina Jang would kiss Mingyu," Jihoon piped up, shoving one of the cookies from Seokmin's napkin into his cheek and grabbing his soda off the coffee table in front of him. "But jokes on him, she's also kissing that senior boy, what's his name?"

"Jaehyun Kim," you spoke around a hot dumpling in your mouth, fanning at your face as Jeonghan scrunched his nose at you, "fuck off, it's hot!"

"She is not kissing Jaehyun Kim," Mingyu scoffed, only for Jihoon to shrug and tilt his can at him, "she is so. I saw them behind the bleachers last week."

"Where are you that you know all this stuff anyway, Jihoon?" Jeonghan asked casually, taking a sip of the bottle confidently. Seokmin's eyes were nervous as he offered it, Jeonghan's soft voice assuring he doesn't have to drink any if he doesn't want to as Soonyoung takes the bottle.

"Clarinet practice. And I like to listen to the choir practice sometimes, and you're lazy so I end up scripting the announcements in the mornings. You'd be surprised how early people get to school to make out," Jihoon grimaced, taking the last sip of his can before crushing it and tossing it into the recycling bin a few inches from the door. Mingyu had a pout on his lips, making Jihoon coo as you steal yet another dumpling off the tray in the middle, "it's not the end of the world. You can still kiss Nina Jang."

"Ugh, yeah, but I want my first kiss to be special," Mingyu groaned, sinking down in his spot on the couch. Jihoon glanced over at you, watching the way your shoulders shook with silent laughter as Jeonghan shoved you lightly.

"Quit that, just because you and Seungcheollie—" "I told you that in confidence, Jeonghan Yoon!"

"Told him what in confidence?" Soonyoung hung his head over the arm rest of the brown leather recliner, eyes curious. Jihoon also eyed Jeonghan's blushy face as he fiddled with his bracelet, one he'd seen matching with Seungcheol during last year's club meetings. You rolled your eyes, "that Seungcheol and I had our first kiss and his mom caught us and yelled so loud we fell out of the tree we climbed."

"You can climb a tree?" Mingyu interrupted, and Soonyoung held the bottle of makgeolli out to Jihoon. You slightly turned to face Mingyu, your fingers wrapping around the neck of it and pulling it towards you, "I can do lots of things. Not that you can do half the stuff I can—"

"Can so." "I've kissed Nina Jang, you haven't. So I've got you beat in your biggest goal, anyway."

"Let it be clear that she kissed Nina Jang as a dare," Jeonghan said as you took a sip of the rice wine in front of them all, their eyes wide at the idea of a girl kissing another girl. "It's not a big deal, you'll see worse things in college."

"You're don't even want to go to college, Han," you rolled your eyes, wiping your thumb across your lip of stray liquid. Jeonghan snorted, "probably not, but you'd invite me to all the parties anyway. You love me!"

The night goes on with everyone slowly beginning to overshare things about their lives — Seokmin's first kiss with a girl who moved back to Minneapolis over the summer, Jeonghan's first kiss with Seungcheol of all people (and how he introduced you and Seungcheol the very next day,) how you moved to and grew up in Bemidji after being born in Emerald Isle. Eventually, the bottles of makgeolli made their rounds to every hand in the room — and the taste was sweet and thick in the back of Jihoon's mouth. It was an hour to midnight as Jeonghan shoved you closer to Jihoon to fit on the couch, the television staticky around an old VHS tape of The Little Mermaid and Seokmin was singing along — both beautifully and slightly slurred from the alcohol.

"What about you?" Jeonghan leaned over your lap, his cheeks rosy from the heat of the basement and alcohol in his system. Jihoon raised a brow, his own face probably not faring any better as he gave him a questioning look. "Have you kissed anyone, Jihoon?"

"I'm sixteen?" "Yeah, that's not my question. Have you kissed anyone?" "No, I'm sixteen."

"I had just turned fifteen when I had my first kiss with Seungcheol," you piped up next to him, "and he was fifteen a few weeks later. I don't think it's that crazy to not have kissed anyone by this point. It's silly, anyway."

Jeonghan didn't seem all that convinced, but let the topic go as Seokmin switched out the tape with The Devil's Advocate, "no way are we watching a scary movie on New Year's Eve."

"It's not that scary," you argued, trying to steady your words as you carefully stacked plates up to take back up to the kitchen sink. "It's just…it's a movie. Don't pussy out, Jeonghan. Jihoon, help me go upstairs."

"Can you bring me back a soda? I'm all out, gorgeous," Soonyoung held up his empty orange Crush can, with Jihoon snorting as he took the plates out of your hands before pushing ahead of you up the stairs. Jeonghan was still heard arguing with Seokmin as you opened the door behind him, easily sliding back in front of him. The party with the adults was in full swing, and Jihoon felt suddenly uneasy at the smell of rice wine on his lips as he slipped past his parents — his mother's sharp eyes catching him. He held up the plates and she nodded, turning back to her conversation with who he was introduced to be the pastor at your church.

"You've really never kissed anyone?" You asked quietly as the two of you ducked into the quieter kitchen, with lots of food still left. You glanced out the kitchen doorway before shoving a handful of cookies into a napkin and then into your pocket, making Jihoon snort as he turned the water on lightly to rinse off the plates.

"Why is that so surprising?" "I guess it's really not, it's just…interesting. You're not curious?"

"It's just a kiss. I'll get to it eventually. Maybe tonight, maybe in three months, maybe in two years. Who knows?" He shrugs, and you roll your long sleeves up to wash the plates. The two of you move in tandem, and eventually you're making him keep watch as you sneak another bottle of makgeolli under your shirt and into the waistband of your jeans. He has a thick slice of triple chocolate cake and a stupid can of orange Crush soda for Soonyoung, and he makes for distraction as you quickly worm your way back to the basement. His mother makes him also take a water bottle, but he makes it back to the basement with no issues…

Until he almost slammed into you at the top of the stairs after closing the door behind himself. The makgeolli bottle in your hand is open, the cold liquid spilling over your fingers as you hiss. You're watching the way Mingyu and Soonyoung are wrestling on the ground in front of the television and getting increasingly louder, shaking your wet hand as you wrinkle your nose at him over your shoulder.

"Shit, sorry—" "Did you just say shit?"

"I'm not a baby, you know." Jihoon muttered, making you snicker inwardly as he crouched to see Jeonghan holding a twenty in his hand and yelling that whoever won got it, "Soonyoung's gonna win."

"Nah, Mingyu is." "I'll bet you ten bucks Soonyoung wins." "I don't have ten bucks, but I'll bet…here, I'll bet you a kiss."

Jihoon rolled his eyes, opting to take a seat on the step and pick off pieces of the cake with his fork. You slid a random fast food straw out of your sleeve, pulling the paper off with your teeth and slipping it into the bottle to sip from when Seokmin called that Soonyoung won. Mingyu was scowling as he shoved him off, and Soonyoung happily plucked the bill out of Jeonghan's hand.

"All Mingyu does is disappoint me," you mumbled, almost too close to Jihoon's neck because he jerked away from you. You winced in apology, but Jihoon pointed with his fork, "now you owe me a kiss."

"Ugh, yeah." "Saying ugh when you bet that instead of money is kind of insane on your part." "I'm not saying ugh like gross, I'm saying ugh like…I didn't think I'd lose."

Jihoon laughed aloud, catching the attention of the boys down the stairs. You waved at a beady eyed Jeonghan, turning to Jihoon, "I can kiss you at midnight."

Jihoon shook his head, steadily rising to his feet before turning his nose up, "I'll cash that kiss in when I feel like it."

The night went on, and the six of you rang in the New Year with a tight group hug.

Jihoon and his parents went home at two in the morning, and the promise of a kiss was not out of his mind as he managed to mask the tipsy sway of his body with the excuse of fatigue.

His sophomore year went on without much else to worry about. You became increasingly less available, opting to retake your standardized tests several times for better scores and spending hours at study sessions with Jeonghan. Mingyu and Seokmin ended up in relationships by the end of the year — Mingyu with the Nina Jang, and Seokmin with a sweet girl in the choir. Both girls were curious about radio club, and were easily coaxed in by your cheeky smile and bright personality.

Then, graduation season came for you. Your free time became shorter and shorter, your voice on the morning announcements was missed every so often. Jihoon couldn't remember the smell of your shampoo by the time prom rolled around, and even though he was at the event for the sake of the club, everything was too much of a blur for him to focus. He kept to himself in the corner, watching the way his friends canoodled in the corner with their new girlfriends — only for Jeonghan to tug him aside gently.

"I'm moving this summer," Jeonghan said as quietly as he could with the DJ blaring music, and Jihoon's eyes went wide with surprise. He spotted you across the room, holding a clear cup of punch as you sang along to So Gone by Monica with your friends — your dress was a soft purple, handmade by your mother with a halter neck and sequins shaped like butterflies all over the tulle overlay. You seemed to sense his eyes, because you glanced over just as Jeonghan murmured more, "Y/N doesn't know and I don't want you to tell her. She and I asked Soonyoung to give you the Vice President role for the radio club. You'll be President by your senior year if everything works out."

Instead of going to anyone's house after prom for after parties (read: to get stoned in someone's basement and sneak vodka from someone's parents' liquor cabinet,) you piled everyone into the bed of your truck and drove steadily down to an ice cream parlor that's old as dirt. The owners knew everyone in town, and easily scooped hefty portions of chocolate, vanilla, strawberry and homemade butter pecan ice cream into small waffle bowls for everyone.

They were at your graduation two days later, your gold cap marking you as the valedictorian of the Aurora Falls High School class of 2003. Your speech mentioned all of them, and your eyes scanned all over the entire stadium as you smiled brightly — stopping suddenly when they reached Jeonghan, widening so much that your lashes touched your eyebrows. Jihoon glanced over, seeing Seungcheol inching into the seat with a bouquet of flowers in his hand.

It wasn't about Jihoon, but something in his chest ached as the speech continued to flow out of your mouth — rehearsed, timed, perfect.

Jihoon didn't see you after, much less the rest of the summer if you weren't being driven around by Seungcheol in a pick-up truck he didn't recognize. It had a bench seat, it was bright red with white detailing, and even had balloons tied to the mirrors during the end of the summer to signal your birthday, and his shortly after.

And eventually, that red pick-up truck drove you out to California with all your things packed in boxes. Jihoon learned from sparse meetings with Jeonghan while he packed up his bedroom that Seungcheol had put in double the work to graduate early and follow you wherever you went. Jeonghan and his family were moving back to New York, following his mother's residency program — but Jeonghan left an address, asking for letters.

Jihoon sent them. He received them, and in his final letter to Jeonghan went a ticket to his graduation.

And when Jihoon graduated two years later, donning the same gold cap you had, Jeonghan was in the stands with Soonyoung. You weren't there, and Jihoon had done his best to forget about you — even if he swore he heard your voice on the radio a few times. He kept his achievements quiet, he made his parents proud and he left Minnesota in his rear view, having packed his father's '95 G20 and moving out east. Rutgers welcomed him, as did several beautiful girls — and his first kiss.

His first everything, actually. Her name was Britney, much like the Louisiana pop star, and even in 2005 — she sported honey blonde hair with caramel lowlights that had a zigzag part and was held back into two messy, spiky space buns at the nape of her neck. Her lips were plump and glossy, her eyes were bright, her voice smooth…

But she wasn't you.

Eventually, that relationship developed more. He fell in love with her, entirely; even when honey blonde and zigzag parts turned to jet black and pin straight, even when he took her to her sorority's semi-formals and held her hand during every weekend they managed to drive out to New York City from campus. They were fully dating by the end of his sophomore year of college — talking marriage, a potential kid or two, but a big, big house. Oceanside, per Britney's request; somewhere warm, per Jihoon's…

Until she went home to Florida for the summer and called him two weeks in and asked to break up. He had been back in Minnesota, working alongside his mother for a summer camp program when he got the call — hearing the loud music blaring in the back, and he simply agreed. She'd seemed peeved that he agreed so easily, but she wound up not returning to Rutgers in the fall — leaving Jihoon to cope with the heartbreak in some sort of twisted peace.

He stayed in touch with his friends — Soonyoung was across the country in Seattle, Mingyu ended up at Tufts in Massachusets, and Seokmin was just an hour drive into New York at The Julliard School. Jeonghan was taking community college courses while working in Manhattan, bussing tables and, unbeknownst to Jihoon, keeping the secret that you were graduating and he was going to fly across the country to see it happen.

Jeonghan was also home to the secret that halfway through college, you and Seungcheol had amicably split — him to pursue potentially going pro for soccer, you for the love of radio and how unsure you were at the idea of having a family and settling down before you could get a chance to achieve star potential. You had been eagerly interning at several radio stations, earning praise as a pupil and even networking to build connections in the sports world so you could still be close to Seungcheol — he was your best friend. He was your twin flame, just as hard working as you were…

And he was dating Jeonghan. Long-distance, behind closed doors and the phone bill was a bitch, but they were dating and you were the one who egged them on. You spent your time interning, studying, getting cups of coffee and not bothering to bite your tongue at misogynistic remarks. You stuck up for the underdog, you slowly made a name for yourself and Jihoon stuck to what he knew best — working behind the scenes. Scripts, catalogues, internships to keep his mind off the ache in his chest from his breakup and keep the whole operation afloat.

He heard your voice for the first time on ROCK 105.3 in San Diego — clean, clear, crisp and confident. He'd flown out for an internship opportunity, and was sat in the back of a car sent to pick him up at the airport. It was March 11th, 2009 and he even remembers the way his skin prickled at the smooth, soft tone of your voice that still had that

"That was Journey's Who's Crying Now on ROCK 105.3's 3PM hour of commercial free music. I'm your host, Y/N Hong and up next is Sweet and Low by Augustana. Enjoy your Friday, freaks. Keep on rockin'."

Jihoon attempted to nonchalantly dial up Jeonghan, who knew he would be in San Diego and was cat sitting for him, "I heard Y/N on the radio."

"No shit? What station?" "San Diego's ROCK 105.3. I can't believe one of us actually made it to radio." "You know Y/N. She stops at nothing."

He didn't get a chance to hear you again before he went back home, but not even a week later — he heard you speaking in the Communications Hall of his campus. He followed the sound — only to see your face projected on the wall of the Social Responsibility and Community Wellness course he took last semester. He peeked in, seeing the ROCK 105.3 sign in the background of your web camera. You were smiling brightly, and he saw a flash of honey blonde hair and caramel lowlights when Professor Calla asked if you have any upcoming projects.

"Yes! This is an offer extended only to senior broadcast journalism students, so if you hear something about it, it's confirmed by me. I recently partnered with a few radio stations across the country, going even back to my home, the North Star State of Minnesota, to bring life back to some radio stations that have seen better days. The program is called Caller Number Nine, and each station will get six weeks with me to see if I can successfully bring up ratings, re-engaging local audiences and even holding events to get the people to tune back in. That being said, the only requirements are that you are a senior broadcast journalism student that is eligible to graduate, willing to relocate, and that you are lucky enough to be Caller Number Nine. Professor Calla will give you a paper and send you an email with all the information necessary as well as all the stations that are up to be static shocked! Good luck, future radio stars."

Jihoon waited exactly fifteen minutes for class to let out before worming his way into the lecture hall. He'd been one of Professor Calla's favorite students the semester prior, and even had her personal email in case he ever needed anything — it didn't take more than a quick hello for her to begin rambling about the Caller Number Nine program and handed him a piece of paper.

There were stations all over the country on it — but his eyes zeroed in on Lake Ruby's long-dying radio station, 109.6 RUBY FM. He'd listened to it on trips down to Wisconsin to visit his cousins during the summer and get a Culver's scoop every day for a week — but he hadn't done that since he moved out of St. Cloud and he hadn't heard much about Lake Ruby since.

Lake Ruby was the fifth stop on the hit list, and the program offered all-inclusive housing and a permanent spot at the radio station once the goals were achieved — and you'd be hosting the first call from San Diego on June 15th, 2009. It would be a long distance call, and there was a chance he wouldn't even have a chance to get on his phone — the call slot was at noon in Pacific Standard Time.

Which meant it was at three o'clock his time.

And his graduation was the same day at one in the afternoon…

He could try.

Weeks passed, graduation came and his nerves were absolutely shot.

It wasn't about you.

It was about getting a job. Getting to help bring back something that meant something to him, about making his family proud and achieving his dream.

"You're gonna call the radio station, aren't you?" Jeonghan said the moment he spotted Jihoon fiddling with his phone in the car. Jeonghan, Seokmin and Mingyu had all come down and Soonyoung managed to get a last minute flight out — barely landing in Newark Liberty an hour before the event. Mingyu had picked him up and the older man got dressed in the car — even brushing his teeth a second time with the complimentary water bottle from the airport and swallowing his toothpaste.

It seemed Jihoon wasn't the only one with the idea to call the radio station — amongst his peers, everyone was buzzing with excitement. The ceremony seemed to go on forever, and lunches with family and friends were even longer. He rushedly collected his diploma, thanking a few of the professors up on the stage and even giving a quick salute to his guests in the stands — but by the time they sat down to lunch at a diner Jihoon loved to frequent during late night study sessions, his internal clock started ticking like a bomb.

He could feel sweat start to slowly bead at his hairline as he watched the clock hands move closer to three. The number was already sitting on the tiny screen of his Blackberry, and he could see several other people he'd been in those same broadcasting courses with nibbling their lips and bouncing their legs under their tables.

"You're gonna get it," Jeonghan soothed, patting Jihoon's knee under the table. His parents had been filled in by Mingyu, and they'd been skeptical — but upon hearing that it was you running this contest, they gave soft smiles and wished their son good luck; opting to zero in on thick sandwiches and pickles stacked high on their plates.

Jihoon, much like the time he punched Declan Lowe, cannot remember much of anything. He remembers hearing your voice, he remembers hearing caller number nine, and he remembers the surprise in your laughter when everyone at the table yelled at his name is Jihoon Lee.

Time seemed to move almost too fast for Jihoon after that.

You'd had the winners to your raffle fly out to San Diego for promotions in the last week of June, giving out assignments and letting everyone get better acquainted with each other. Your schedule was put out by that point, too — and Lake Ruby was the fifth stop on the list. You started in Ashland, Oregon in July, only to travel out to Washington, Colorado before your stop in Nebraska was set to end on Christmas Eve that year.

The reunion was also something that seemed to hit you just as hard as it hit him — but you were better at masking it than he was. You were all smiles — but the honey blonde hair was lost once more. It was a chocolate brown again, and he ignored the blush creeping up his neck as he let you pull him into a warm hug. You hugged him far longer than any of the other winners, eventually explaining that you and he were long time friends.

Jihoon wonders how far that friend title can go when you hadn't spoken in years, but he smiles and agrees for appearances.

He spent the summer in Lake Ruby — getting acquainted with the townspeople, easing into the internship at the station. He grew close with the older gentleman running it, his eyes clouded by cataracts and fumbling with the audio consoles and his microphone. His name is Gus, a Greek man who grew up in Lake Ruby after moving across the ocean from one of the Athenian sub-cities. He told Jihoon stories about his yia-yia, who raised him alone after their big move, and often brought big batches of spanakorizo or pastourmadopita made by his wife to share with him. Jihoon eventually met said wife — a small woman named Beryl with many things to say to him, particularly that she had a nice granddaughter around his age.

As for the locale that actually housed 109.6 RUBY FM, Jihoon made it his mission to clean the place up — fixing up overcrowded file cabinets, offering music suggestions more popular with the younger crowd of the town, even going as far as repainting the station inside and out. He bought a nice couch, new chairs, microphones, headsets; he even decorated the lobby area with signed posters and a huge lava lamp in the corner, changing the bright fluorescent ceiling bulbs to softer yellow ones.

And now, he's late. He's running late on your very first day with him, and Good Girls Go Bad is playing in the speakers of his car as he finally pulls into the station. Your car is covered in snow, a 2010 Audi A6 in sparkly cherry red. Your license plate still says California as he skirts past it, forgoing his scarf as he punches in the code to the front door. Warm air hits his face as he shuts it behind him, the sound of MGMT's Kids now bleeding into the end of Good Girls Go Bad.

He can see you through the window — you're in your element. You're easily making conversation with Gus, your coat the same deep purple as that beloved windbreaker he knew to be your favorite. Your hair is still chocolate brown, but there's a zigzag part and Gus is laughing at whatever you're saying while you smile inwardly, holding a half-eaten lokma in your fingers as he skirts into the room after swiping his badge.

"Nice of you to join us, boy." Gus's voice is deep as he acknowledges Jihoon. He winces, earning your eyes as he shucks his coat off, "I'm sorry I'm late."

"Don't be sorry, be better," Gus says gently, before offering the plate of lokma to him. "Help yourself. Beryl said you need to eat more."

"I eat so much with you guys," Jihoon mumbles, plucking a piece off anyway and shoving it into his cheek. "What else did I miss?"

"My arrival," you snort, licking your fingers of honey and cinnamon before clearing your throat. "It's Christmas, Jihoon. You could've been on time."

"Have you seen the roads? You're lucky I'm even alive." "Hi, Y/N. How are you? I've missed you."

He tongues his cheek, and Gus snickers inwardly as he slips into the backroom, "you two get reacquainted. I've gotta call my Beryl and let her know I'll be on my way soon."

Your eyes are expectant, making him sigh, "hi, Y/N. How are you? I missed you."

You beam, "hi! I'm good and I missed you, too! Christmas Eve in Nebraska was a shitshow, but that's neither here nor there. Are you ready to work?"

"Hi, Jihoon. How are you?" "I know you're late." "We've been reunited for seven minutes and you're already pissing me off."

You roll your eyes, pressing the very same button that flashes the bright red ON AIR sign on, "Y/N Hong coming at you live, thank you for tuning in to our 6PM commercial free hour! The temperature outside is twenty-three degrees Fahrenheit, let's be sure to bundle up! Happy holidays from your folks here at 109.6 RUBY FM, and this is Crushcrushcrush by Paramore!"

He's unimpressed, "Y/N."

"Jihoon." "Ask me how I am."

"You're late," you repeat, and Jihoon tries not to let his eyes zero in on the glossy plum color on your lips. "So prove to me that you deserve this opportunity, and get to work."

He pouts, "I've done so much already—"

"And I love what you've done with the place, baby," you interrupt, smoothly sliding your coat off your shoulders and the click of your heels catches his attention as you walk to the hook by the door to hang it up. Your shampoo is the same and he feels his chest tight at the soft tobacco and vanilla scent floating off you as you walk back to your seat. "Prove you've got what it takes. Announce the next segment in fifteen minutes."

"You want me to impale myself on a sword slathered in cyanide." He slumps in his chair next to yours, only to feel you grab the arm of it and yank him closer to you. Your perfume is stronger now, and he glances at your ear to see that same S earring snug in your tragus.

"I want you to be great." You murmur, your hand tight around his chair as he glances at you. "Not the Average Joe. That's not what you're made for and it's not what I'll let you be, either. Friends don't let friends be mediocre."

Friends don't let friends be mediocre.

But friends don't lean in almost too close in a radio station in Lake Ruby, and friends don't almost kiss on Christmas Day 2009.

Good luck, caller number nine.

All vows are sealed in flesh — Embossed on a bloodletting manual, origin disputed

THE WORLD NARROWS TO THE SCENT OF BERGAMOT AND JASMINE, THE ROOM SPINNING AS JEONGHAN PRESSES IN CLOSE TO YOU. You think Jeonghan could crawl into the cathedral of your ribcage and not be close enough. You pull him into you further, the heat of him against your back and Seungcheol to your front enough to make you whimper.

A broken sound tears from your throat before you can swallow it down. Your hips roll instinctively, legs squeezing Seungcheol's thick thighs. He makes a desperate sound as you chase friction - desperate for it - against the thick, hard line of his cock straining against his pants.

"Easy, baby," he murmurs, voice rough.

One large hand settles possessively at the small of your back, warm and steady, while the other cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking over your racing pulse. His lips find the sensitive skin just below your ear, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses that make your lashes flutter and your breath hitch.

Jeonghan shifts closer behind you, his slim body molding perfectly to your back. His breath ghosts warm over the shell of your ear as his fingers trace slow, deliberate circles over your hip bone.

"So pretty, Wildheart," he purrs. "You're burning up, though. Can you let us help? We want to make it better."

You nod frantically, words failing you as you rock against Seungcheol again, the friction pulling another desperate, needy sound from your lips. Jeonghan’s hand slides up your spine, gentle but firm, encouraging the movement of your hips as he laughs against your neck while Seungcheol drags his tongue over your scent gland.

It nearly knocks you out cold. You make a sound you've never made before, the feeling of Seungcheol's wet tongue against your skin maddening. Having them close to you like this suddenly becomes the only thing you've ever wanted, wrapped up in them so tightly you think you'll die if they pull away.

"Breathe," Jeonghan whispers, lips brushing the nape of your neck. "I know it's overwhelming. Take what you need from Seungcheol, baby. He'll give you anything you want, he's a sweet alpha."

Seungcheol’s breath hitches sharply against your neck at Jeonghan’s words. His grip on your waist tightens, helping guide your hips into a slower, more deliberate grind against the thick ridge of his cock. The pressure is perfect and maddeningly not enough all at once. You whimper, chasing the feeling, lips parted as you tilt your head further to give Seungcheol better access to your throat.

Jeonghan chuckles softly, the sound warm and pleased against your skin. “See? He’s already desperate for you. Kiss me, baby."

You'd deny Jeonghan nothing, and you don't deny him now. You turn toward him blindly, seeking the heat of his mouth. His lips press against yours, slotting softly. You reach up toward him, threading fingers into his long hair, tugging as your tongue slips past his lips while your other hand grips the side of Seungcheol's neck.

Jeonghan hums approvingly, kissing you deeper while his hands stay firm on your hips, helping you roll against Seungcheol in a steady rhythm while the alpha groans against your neck. His mouth is hot and wet as he kisses and sucks at your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder.

Each drag of your pussy against him sends sparks shooting up your spine, endless and addicting. The fabric between you is soaked with slick, making the glide messy but too restricted.

"You smell so good," Seungcheol rasps, voice strained. "Fuck."

The praise makes your head spin. You moan into Jeonghan’s mouth, the sound swallowed by another deep, consuming kiss as your hips stutter against Seungcheol. The heat inside you coils tighter, every nerve alight and begging for more. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too sensitive.

Seungcheol's solid chest against yours with Jeonghan pressed to your back makes you drown in them, the sensation so overwhelming that you don't know what to ask - don't know what you need.

Jeonghan, as always, senses exactly what is on your mind. He pulls back just enough for your lips to brush against yours when he says, "You don't know what to ask for, do you?"

"No," you whisper.

"That's okay. I'll help you, okay? I'll tell you what you need."

Nodding, you swallow thickly, your eyes glassy and unfocused as you look up at him. His gaze is dark, pupils blown wide with want even though his heat is nowhere in sight. The realization that he wants you even without it is maddening, your breath catching in your chest as he grins and presses a kiss to your nose.

"Seungcheol," Jeonghan says, turning to the alpha. "Lay down."

Seungcheol doesn’t hesitate for even a second. He shifts beneath you, sliding down the bed until he’s flat on his back, eyes never leaving yours. There’s a raw, desperate edge to the way he looks up at you, reverent in a way that's new and that makes you shiver. His hands rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking circles as his chest rises and falls rapidly while he breathes shakily.

Behind you, Jeonghan shuffles you forward and presses a soft kiss to your temple. His fingers work the hem of your tunic, tugging it up and over your head easily. The cool air of the room hits your feverish skin and you shiver violently. His hands skim up and down your arms, warming you up.

"We're gonna let Seungcheol taste you," Jeonghan murmurs. "I bet he's been dying to take care of your pretty pussy."

Seungcheol makes a low, wrecked sound at Jeonghan’s words, his hands tightening on your thighs. His eyes are nearly black now, fixed hungrily where Jeonghan helps you shuffle out of your pants, the fabric scraping against your soft thighs.

The moment you're bare, Seungcheol makes sound deep in his throat, his hands going to your thighs, warm and rough. Jeonghan’s palm smooths soothingly down your back, guiding you to lean forward until your legs bracket Seungcheol's head.

"Good," Jeonghan coos. "Knees there, mhm. Nice and slow."

Seungcheol’s hands slide up to grip your hips firmly, steadying you as you hover uncertainly above him. You can feel the heat of his breath fanning against your dripping core, and it makes your thighs shake, muscles jumping. Your heart pounds in your chest, pulse throbbing as Jeonghan hooks his chin over your shoulder.

"He wants it so bad," Jeonghan laughs, grinning. "Don't you?"

Seungcheol nods. "Please. Need it so bad, baby."

With Jeonghan's hands on your hips, you let him guide you down, the smell of his jasmine and honeysuckle overwhelming. "Lower - you can sit. He can take it. Don't hover."

The first brush of Seungcheol’s mouth against your soaked folds pulls a sharp, broken cry from your throat. His tongue licks a broad, messy stripe from your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit, groaning deeply at the first taste of you. The sound vibrates straight through your core, making your hips jerk involuntarily. Seungcheol’s hands tighten on your hips, holding you in place as he licks again, slower this time, savoring.

"Oh fuck," you gasp, falling forward a little.

Jeonghan holds you up, his arms wrapping around you as he keeps you pressed tight to his chest.

"Let him eat," he teases. "Seungcheol has been so patient, hasn't he? He's liked you for so long, you don't know the half of it."

Jeonghan's words make you and Seungcheol moan in unison. Seungcheol’s tongue works messily, lapping at your pussy, circling your swollen clit with broad swirls before he sucks it into his mouth greedily. His pace between long, slow licks and quick, sharp flicks makes your thighs tremble, eyes fluttering shut as you let him and Jeonghan take control, going boneless.

You can hear how wet you are, the slick sound of Seungcheol's mouth driving you crazy. His tongue traces to your entrance, fucking into you with shallow thrusts before pulling back to drag in lazy circles around your clit again.

Warm pleasure coils tight in your belly, sharp and intense. Your heat makes the sensation of his mouth against you overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once. Sweat beads along your hairline and you feel it trickle down your spine as you chase your high, Jeonghan helping you roll your hips against Seungcheol's mouth.

Jeonghan leans over you, chest pressed flush to your back, lips brushing your ear as one of his hands slides around to tease your nipples, pinching and rolling them lightly.

"Just like that," he murmurs. "He fucking loves it."

Seungcheol’s response is a deep, muffled groan that vibrates through your entire core. He sucks harder on your clit, two thick fingers suddenly pressing against your entrance and sliding inside you with embarrassing ease. He curls them immediately, stroking that perfect spot inside you with practiced precision while his tongue continues its relentless, messy assault on your clit.

"Please," you gasp. "Please please please please."

"Let go, baby," Jeonghan whispers. His fingers pinch your nipple harder, sending another spark of pleasure straight through you. "Come for him, he's earned it."

The pressure builds unbearably fast, winding tighter and tighter with every stroke of Seungcheol’s fingers and every hungry swipe of his tongue. Your hips stutter, grinding down desperately against his face as his fingers pump faster, curling and stroking without mercy while his tongue flicks relentlessly over your swollen clit.

Jeonghan’s lips press to the side of your neck, sucking a dark mark into your skin over your scent gland and it sends you over the edge. Your back arches sharply, a raw, broken cry tearing from your throat as your thighs tighten around Seungcheols' head, hips jerking.

Seungcheol doesn't stop - doesn't even slow down. He just groans loudly into your cunt, lapping up every drop of your release with greedy slurps and swipes of his tongue until your vision is whiting out at the edges and your body quakes.

Only when the tremors finally start to subside does Seungcheol slow his movements, though his tongue still lazily licks over your sensitive heat, like he just can't get enough. Your thighs quake uncontrollably around his face, slick and release coating his chin and lips.

But you still feel the knife of your heat twisting you, the orgasm only taking the edge off for a second. You make a sound of frustration, hating that it isn't enough, hating that even after that, you want more. You want want want - don't know how to do anything but want.

Jeonghan’s arms wrap around you from behind, steadying your trembling frame as he presses a soft kiss to your sweat-damp shoulder.

"It's okay," he whispers. "I know you want more. It's hard not to want when we're all bonded like this and when you're with an alpha. You want more than anything else. I know."

He gently eases you off Seungcheol’s face. The alpha makes a soft, disappointed sound at the loss, but doesn’t protest. He simply looked up at Jeonghan with dark, glassy eyes, lips shiny with your release. Jeonghan gives him a small, approving smile, threading his fingers through Seungcheol's hair to scratch gently at his scalp and make the alpha preen.

"Seungcheol, can you scoot back a little?" Jeonghan asks. Seungcheol obeys instantly, sitting up and scooting toward the wall to make room for Jeonghan. "Thank you, baby."

Jeonghan shuffles backward then, settling against the wall adjacent to Seungcheol. He presses his back to the stone, his delicate fingers hooking into his pants to pull them down smoothly. His cock springs out, hard and flushed, dripping with need as he rips his shirt off and tosses it.

Jeonghan is a work of art, his frame all powerful lines of lithe muscle. You knew he was a weapon, but you hadn't realized how much he was carved like a deadly blade, narrow and lethal.

He reaches for you with both hands, grinning. "Come here, Wildheart. Sit on my cock while Cheol takes care of us both, yeah?"

You crawl toward him on shaky limbs and Jeonghan helps you straddle his lap, his hands gentle but firm on your hips. He holds his cock steady with one hand while guiding you down with the other.

The first press of his tip against your soaked entrance makes you sob with relief. Jeonghan pulls you down onto his cock slowly, splitting you open inch by inch until you're fully sitting in his lap, panting as your pussy spasms around him. He's thick, the pressure immense but so so good as you lean back against him, tucking your forehead against his neck.

Jeonghan lets out a soft sigh, his hands wrapping around you, squeezing you to him. You shake in his hold, trying to adjust to the stretch. Your hips twitch instinctively but Jeonghan's arms tighten around your waist.

"No moving yet," he mumbles. "Just this."

Seungcheol slides off the bed and onto his knees, eyes dark and reverent as he looks up at the two of you. Jeonghan hooks your knees over his legs, prying you wide for Seungcheol's gaze, and you hear the soft rumble in Seungcheol's throat as his pupils expand.

Leaning forward, Jeonghan threads his fingers through Seungcheol's dark hair, tugging gently. "Come on, Cheol. Taste how sweet she is now."

The first wet swipe of Seungcheol's tongue is maddening. His tongue traces where you're split open around Jeonghan's cock and you make a high pitched sound, thrashing against Jeonghan. Seungcheol's licks are slow and messy, dragging his tongue from where you're impaled on Jeonghan all the way up to your clit before tracing back down to the base of Jeonghan's cock, sucking greedily where you're joined.

You shake violently in Jeonghan’s lap, overwhelmed by the dual sensation. Jeonghan’s cock is thick and hot inside you, stretching you perfectly, while Seungcheol’s warm, wet tongue laps at you. You clench down on Jeonghan and he groans, shivering behind you.

“Such a good alpha,” Jeonghan praises, fingers tightening in Seungcheol’s hair as he guides his head gently. “Look at you."

Seungcheol hums in response, the vibration traveling through both of you. He becomes more eager, licking broader stripes, sucking softly at your clit before dipping lower again to taste where you and Jeonghan are connected. His tongue presses flat against your folds, lapping up every drop of slick that leaks around Jeonghan’s cock.

Occasionally he lets his tongue drag over Jeonghan’s balls or the base of his shaft, sucking messily as he goes, spit dripping slowly. It earns a soft, pleased sound from the omega, his hips twitching up into you momentarily.

Your hands grip Jeonghan's forearms, nails digging into his skin and leaving behind crescent moons as the warm knot in your stomach winds again. Jeonghan murmurs against your forehead, his lips warm as he asks if it feels good. You can only nod frantically against his neck, barely able to put together a coherent thought.

Seungcheol grows bolder under Jeonghan’s gentle guidance, sucking your clit into his mouth while his tongue flicks rapidly. His hands slide up your thighs, holding you open for him as he works. He alternates between long, slow licks along your stretched entrance and focused attention on your clit, never once neglecting the place where Jeonghan’s cock disappears inside you.

"I'm gonna-" you pant against Jeonghan, words slurred.

"I know," Jeonghan hums. "You can come. Go ahead, baby."

Seungcheol doubles his efforts, sucking harder on your clit while his tongue continues its messy worship. Jeonghan’s cock twitches inside you, the sensation pushing you right over the edge as your second orgasm slams into you harder than the first.

A sharp, keening cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp down tightly around Jeonghan. Slick gushes around his length, dripping down onto Seungcheol’s eager tongue as he continues licking you through it, soft and obedient, drinking down everything you give him.

Jeonghan holds you close through your high, murmuring soft praise against your hair while his fingers keep stroking Seungcheol’s hair lovingly. You sob through the aftershocks, body twitching and trembling uncontrollably as the pleasure slowly begins to ebb, leaving you limp, boneless, and still shaking in Jeonghan’s arms.

You don't know how long you stay like that, panting against Jeonghan until Seungcheol is helping him lay you down in bed, pulling out. You whine and Jeonghan chuckles, hushing you fondly. He nuzzles in your hair, pressing a kiss to your head.

"Seungcheol's gonna help you." He shuffles to the side of you, lounging on the bed while his hand runs up and down your side. "It'll feel so good."

Jeonghan's scent spikes as he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, rubbing his cheek on your skin, the scent of jasmine cutting through the heavy scent of heat.

Seungcheol kneels between your spread thighs, his broad chest heaving. His bergamot and cedarwood scent is thick and heady, and his hands tremble slightly where they rest on your slick thighs.

"Don't want to push you too far," he rasps.

"Want it," you immediately say, blindly reaching for him. "Please, Seungcheol."

He curses. "You smell so good. It's driving me crazy."

"You won't hurt her, Cheol." Jeonghan presses a kiss behind your ear. "You've got her."

Swallowing thickly, Seungcheol nods and lifts your hips a little, shuffling closer to you. You don't remember when he peeled his clothes off, but when you look up at him through your lashes, your breath catches. He's every bit of the powerful alpha from the mountains you knew he was, thick and broad, his cock heavy and leaking.

The blunt, thick head of his cock presses against your wet entrance and you whine, feeling the head catch before he presses in, splitting you open on his thick cock. The slow push draws a loud, keening moan from your throat as a shiver ripples through you, his scent blooming.

He's thick - the kind of stretch that burns but immediately feels so good that your mind blanks out. You feel yourself leaking around him while Jeonghan peppers your shoulder with feather-light kisses, his fingers stroking until Seungcheol bottoms out and his head falls forward, a groan slipping from his lips.

"Gods," he growls. "Feels so fucking good."

Your walls pulse and flutter wildly around the overwhelming fullness, tears pricking your eyes. Jeonghan lets out a soft laugh, nipping gently at your earlobe.

"Slow and deep, Cheol," he requests. "It's what she needs."

Seungcheol nods shakily, sweat dripping down his temples. His hands grip your hips tighter as he pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, before pushing back in with one long, powerful, deep stroke. The drag is devastating, all of him pressing up against you at once.

"That," you gasp, stars exploding behind your eyelids. "That again, please."

Seungcheol groans brokenly with every thrust, his bergamot scent growing thicker, tangling with the sweet floral of Jeonghan. The omega reaches up with one hand to card his fingers through Seungcheol's sweaty hair, running his nails against the alpha's scalp.

You turn to Jeonghan, seeking the heat of his mouth and he's happy to oblige, tongue tangling with yours while he drinks down every moan and cry of Seungcheol's name. You press into Jeonghan, eager for more, eager for whatever he'll give you as Seungcheol takes you apart.

Ignoring the ache in your thighs, you cant your hips upward, chasing the way Seungcheol fucks into you. He notices and picks up his pace, the wet sound of him fucking into you loud as Jeonghan leans up to watch where Seungcheol's cock disappears into you.

"Such an eager pussy," Jeonghan notes. He glances at you, eyes dripping down to your mouth. "Eager to use your mouth too?"

You nod without hesitation, mouth falling open easily. Jeonghan hisses a curse, shaking his head before kissing you softly and getting up on his knees. His hand drops to his cock, pumping his shaft eagerly as he shuffles on his knees toward you, a grin on his face.

Jeonghan looks pretty like this, flush and pink in the cheeks and his chest, his long hair sticking to the sweaty patches on his neck, lips swollen. You stare up at him through wet lashes, hypnotized by him, tongue out and waiting.

"Fucking Gods," Jeonghan growls. "What a pretty omega."

Jeonghan carefully guides his slick cock past your lips, sliding into the wet heat of your mouth with a soft sigh. He lets out a light, airy moan, trembling a little as he sets a teasing, shallow pace.

You moan loudly around his cock, the sound muffled, drool slipping from the corners of your mouth as Seungcheol continues his slow, grinding thrusts. Every deep stroke pushes you further onto Jeonghan’s cock, the head nudging the back of your throat.

"She looks so pretty like this," Seungcheol pants. "Does it feel good?"

“She feels perfect,” Jeonghan answers, leaning to kiss Seungcheol messily. "So warm and eager. Keep fucking her just like that, can tell she's getting close again."

You whimper and sob around Jeonghan’s cock, the vibrations making him groan softly. Your body shakes violently between them, overwhelmed. The two of them kiss messily, both sliding into you at an unhurried pace, scents tangling as you spiral.

Without warning, you clamp down viciously around Seungcheol, your moan muted by Jeonghan in your mouth. Fresh slick blooms around Seungcheol and Jeonghan pulls out of your lips with a wet pop, letting you cough and cry Seungcheol's name as you come around him.

Seungcheol groans loudly, leaning down to catch your lips with his. He tastes like you and Jeonghan combined, the sweet and heady tang dizzying. His hands are warm on your hips as he slows down, the wet slide of him dragging to just a heavy, lazy grind until you're limp beneath him, exhausted.

Carefully, Seungcheol pulls out, mindful not to jostle you too much. His breathing is still ragged, and he leans down to pepper you with soft kisses, his scent warm and soothing. Jeonghan's hands are carding through your hair, the pressure of his fingers massaging your scalp making your skin buzz as you drift.

"Rest, baby," Seungcheol murmurs.

You murmur something incoherent in response, already half out of it. Jeonghan shifts to lie beside you and you turn toward him instinctively, seeking his warmth. He pulls you close so your forehead rests against his chest, bodies side by side.

Seungcheol moves behind Jeonghan then, large hands sliding up Jeonghan's hips, nails dragging as he goes. Jeonghan makes a little weak sound, pushing back toward Seungcheol.

You lean forward, kissing Seungcheol slow and messy, like you have all the time in the world. His tongue brushes yours lazily, a contented sound slipping from him as Seungcheol presses his cock into Jeonghan with one slow, deep thrust.

Jeonghan's moan buzzes against your mouth, a pleasant feeling that you lean into. Your fingers tangle together and you let him kiss you lazily, occasionally breaking apart to pant Seungcheol's name as the alpha fucks into him gently, drawing pretty sounds out of him.

"Fuck," Jeonghan whispers against your mouth. "Feels so good."

Seungcheol's hand reaches over Jeonghan's hip to rest against your waist, grounding himself with your warmth. You lace your fingers with him against your hip and he squeezes your hand tighter, glad you're there as he rolls his hips into Jeonghan.

It doesn't take long for Seungcheol's thrusts to grow sharper, his breathing ragged as he chases release. One of Jeonghan's hands reaches back to grip Seungchoel roughly, his nails biting into Seungcheol's skin.

Together, they both groan as Seungcheol buries himself deep, hips sputtering against Jeonghan's ass. You feel Jeonghan spill between you, warm and slick as he trembles against you, breaths coming sharp and quick.

For a long moment, the only sounds are heavy breathing. Jeonghan presses one last lazy kiss to your forehead before turning to Seungcheol, who is slumped behind him on the bed.

"She's barely awake" he whispers. "Worn out."

Seungcheol hums. "Need to clean her up."

You feel the two of them move. You're barely aware of them as they scoop you up, a small protest leaving you. It feels good to be back in Seungcheol's arms, the smell of him making you lean further into his neck, breathing in.

Warm air and the smell of lavender and mineral water greet you. Seuncheol steps carefully into warm water with you in his arms, lowering himself until you're stirring as hot water envelops you, soothing and washing away the sweat and mess.

Your eyes flutter open, half-lidded in heavy to see Jeonghan slide in beside you. He smiles and reaches for a cloth, dipping it into the water before working it gently into your neck and shoulders.

"Feel okay?" He asks.

You nod. "M'tired."

"Good. Sleep it off. We've got you."

Seungcheol makes a sound of agreement, his chin tucked on top of your head as he holds you steady in the bath while Jeonghan works. You drift off into a hazy doze, vaguely aware of the sound of them talking and the vibration of Seungcheol's voice.

When you finally hit the bed, you're asleep before you even get there.

-

You wake slowly. You feel the ache of your heat immediately, the neverending throb in your gut and in between your legs so strong that you make an angry sound, miserable that it keeps coming back. You know you can't help it, but it doesn't make it any less frustrating, the desire and flush is an inescapable pressure that makes you whine and press into the bed.

You’re still in Seungcheol’s large bed, buried under thick furs and soft blankets that carry the mingled scents of the pack, but the strong arm draped possessively over your waist and the firm chest pressed flush against your back belong unmistakably to Soonyoung, the smell of citrus cutting through Seungcheol's heavy bergamot.

"Soonyoung?" You mumble, face down in the blankets.

You breathe him in and though the smell of him is soothing, it also stokes the simmering fire low in your belly. Your body feels heavy, the sticky warmth of slick starting again as your heat gathers. You grit your teeth, fists clenching like you can fight away your heat just like you do with everything else.

"Stop fighting it," Soonyoung murmurs, pressing himself closer and pressing his lips to the nape of your neck. You go slack a little, lashes fluttering as he runs his nose along your neck into your hair. "Jeoinghan and Seungcheol had to help with important errands. It couldn't wait - they didn't want to leave but they needed to do this."

You turn carefully in his arms until you’re facing him. His honey-colored eyes are already open, watching you with quiet focus. There's a crease on his cheek from the pillow and he's a little swollen with sleep, cheeks round and a little flushed. His eyes are sharp though, pupils dilating with you as his sole focus.

The heat chooses that exact moment to surge again. A sharp, twisting cramp blooms low in your abdomen, forcing a soft whimper from your throat. Soonyoung’s nostrils flare as he catches the renewed wave of your scent, his hands going tight on your hips.

You hesitate, the old fear rising despite the need clawing at you. You know what the Divine did to him, how he was used, forced, broken down in the most intimate ways. The thought of asking him to help you through this heat suddenly feels like the worst thing you can do.

Soonyoung must see it - he always does with you, reading your every move. He always has, even from that first night when he slipped you the knife, knowing your course of action would be to cut yourself free. Now he sees it again and he presses a kiss to your forehead, lips lingering, his scent blooming.

"I want to help you," he murmurs. "If you want me to. I want you. Not just because the heat. I want you. Always have."

"Are you sure?"

"More than anything else in the world. You won't take. You'll let me give because I want to."

You swallow. "Okay."

Soonyoung lets out a long, relieved breath. He leans in and kisses you slowly like he's memorizing the shape of your mouth, his lips soft and warm, tongue gently coaxing yours into his mouth. One hand slides down the side of your neck, thumb pressing lightly over your racing pulse before sweeping back and forth over your scent gland.

Your body reacts immediately, going slack as you breathe him in. He tastes like a summer morning, fresh citrus and heat. You thread your fingers in his hair, nails scraping his scalp lightly to draw a low moan out of him, the kiss breaking as he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m going to take my time with you,” he promises, voice low. “But I need to set the pace. Can you give me that?”

You nod without hesitation. "Anything."

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise sends a fresh wave of heat rushing through you.

Soonyoung shifts you gently onto your back, spreading your thighs wide with careful hands. You shiver as he begins pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbones, sucking lightly at the swell of your breasts until your nipples are tight and aching. He links his hands with yours, squeezing gently as his tongue traces down the center of your stomach until he's nipping at the soft skin of your hips.

By the time he settles between your spread legs, you’re trembling, squeezing his hands to the mattress to control yourself, letting him set the pace. Soonyoung kisses the inside of your thighs first, slow and deliberate, teeth grazing the sensitive skin until your muscles jump. When he leans in and licks a broad, wet stripe up your entrance, you nearly die, his name coming out of your lips in a broken, warbling whine.

He groans against you, the vibration traveling straight through your core. "Gods, you taste so fucking sweet. So wet already. No wonder Vernon's addicted to this."

You flush, shivering and fighting to lift your hips off the bed to meet him. Soonyoung takes his time like he promised, his tongue working you open with lazy strokes and long drags through your folds before he circles slowly around your clit.

"Fuck," he mutters to himself again, shaking his head as he presses his tongue to your entrance.

Two thick fingers slide into your soaked heat without warning, curling immediately against that perfect spot inside you. The sudden fullness makes you whine. He looks up at you, his eyes dark gold and half-lidded, a smirk on his face. He bites his lower lip, watching you as he begins to pump his fingers slowly before his mouth returns to your clit, sucking gently in time with his fingers.

Soonyoung takes one of your hands off the bed, bringing it up to thread in his hair. You take his permission immediately, threading your hair in his silver strands as your thighs tremble around his shoulders. Every stroke of his fingers, every flick and swirl of his tongue sends sparks shooting up your spine as sweat beads on your hairline. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, every nerve alight and singing.

When your first orgasm crashes over you, it hits hard. Your entire body seizes, a raw, broken cry tearing from your throat as your walls clamp down around his fingers. Soonyoung moans loudly into your cunt, licking you through it, drawing out your high until your vision whites out at the edges.

He doesn’t stop until the tremors begin to fade, only then slowing his movements to soft, soothing licks that make you whimper from oversensitivity. Only then does he crawl back up your body, kissing you so you can taste yourself on his tongue.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice rough.

You nod, reaching for him desperately. “More… Please, Soonyoung.”

He smiles against your mouth. “Turn over for me, baby. Hands and knees.”

Your limbs feel loose and shaky as you obey. Soonyoung settles behind you, hands smoothing reverently over the curve of your ass, thumbs spreading you open so he can admire how slick and swollen you are. He leans down and licks one long, slow stripe from your clit all the way up, making your whole body jolt.

“Perfect,” he breathes.

Soonyoung shuffles, kicking off his pants before settling behind you, nails scraping across the round globes of your ass as he groans. The blunt head of his cock presses against your entrance and you whine, head hanging heavy between your arms. He pushes in agonizingly slowly until his hips are flush against your ass and you’re stuffed full of him. The stretch burns in the most delicious way, every ridge and vein dragging against your sensitive walls.

Soonyoung stays perfectly still for a long moment, letting you adjust, one hand stroking soothingly down your spine while the other grips your hip. You fight the urge to push back against him, pussy fluttering until he leans down and kisses your shoulder.

"Thank you for being patient," he rasps. "Just what I need, baby. Thank you."

Slowly, he begins to move, each thrust a soft grind that presses that soft spot inside you with every stroke. The angle is devastating, deep enough to make you see stars as you pant through each stroke. His hands roam your body, squeezing your ass, stroking your back, reaching underneath to pinch and roll your nipples until you’re crying out with every movement.

He fucks you like that until you can barely breathe, leaning down to press his chest to your back, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. “So good for me. Such a good omega, taking me deep and slow."

It feels so good you can't do anything but mumble nonsense, turning your head to find his mouth. He moans, catching your lips with his as he kisses you messily until you're coming again. Soonyoung groans deeply but keeps his pace steady, fucking you through every pulse until you’re limp and trembling beneath him.

He carefully pulls out and flips you onto your back, leaning up to catch his breath. You look up at him and suck in a sharp breath. Soonyoung is painfully beautiful, the ridges of his chest and stomach shining in a thin layer of sweat, his hair damp and clinging to the sharp line of his neck. His eyes are burning, hungry and wild as he looks down at you, hands rubbing up and down your thighs.

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs. "You know that, don't you? My beautiful Wildheart."

Soonyoung hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half as he slides back inside you in one smooth thrust. The new angle forces a loud, keening moan from your throat, struggling to breathe for a second. He feels even deeper like this, pressing against places that make your toes curl and your eyes roll back.

He sets a deep, grinding rhythm, eyes locked on your face the entire time, drinking in every gasp, every flutter of your lashes, every broken moan of his name. His silver hair falls forward, brushing against your heated skin and one hand slides between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit while he fucks you, pushing you toward a third orgasm.

“Look at me,” he whispers when you start to spiral. “Want to watch you fall apart.”

You don't look away from him, reaching a hand up to cradle his face, your thumb tracing his bottom lip. He licks your thumb playfully, winking at you as you come with a desperate sound in the shape of his name. Soonyoung follows moments later, burying himself as deep as he can go and spilling inside you with a low, guttural groan, hips stuttering against yours.

He collapses carefully beside you, immediately pulling you into his arms. His fingers trace lazy, soothing patterns along your sweat-damp back while you both catch your breath, the air thick. Exhaustion tugs heavily at you now, the edge of your heat finally softening into something more manageable. You nuzzle closer into his chest, and he laughs throatily.

His fingers continue their lazy path along your sweat-damp spine, the air in the room heavy with the scent of citrus and the faint cedarwood from Seungcheol in the blankets. You scoot closer, pressing your nose against Soonyoung's chest, inhaling the bright, clean scent of him. It settles something restless inside you, even as the low throb of your heat lingers.

“You always fight so hard," Soonyoung notes eventually, breaking the silence. "Even against your own heat. Were you always a fighter like that? I imagine you were, considering what I know about you."

For a moment, you go still, thinking back to Valen. You can see it in your mind so clearly: the great halls filled with laughter and music, torches burning bright against the rich tapestries. You remember running through snow-dusted courtyards with the other children, flushed and cold. The kitchens had always smelled like spices and bread, the cooks sneaking you honey cakes when you ran through.

“It was loud,” you murmur with a small smile. “Valen was never quiet. The palace was always full of life with music drifting through the halls. I liked to sit in the kitchens and steal food and run around the courtyard with my friends. We didn't have a ton of noble children, but I played with anyone my age."

"Yeah?"

You nod against him and hook one leg over his hip so you can pull him closer. "It was cold in the winter, but the people were warm. My mother would take me down to the great hall during feasts and let me sit on her lap while the bards sang the old epics. My father taught me how to ride and how to wield a sword before passing me off to people who had a right to teach me."

Your parents had loved you fiercely and loudly. Thinking of them now makes your throat swell shut, clenching your teeth as you will yourself not to cry. Memories of your father hoisting you onto his shoulder fill your mind, walking through festivals with you perched there so you could see performances. Your mother would spend hours braiding your hair, placing flowers meticulaously.

To them, you were their daughter. Their stubborn, beloved daughter who argued too much and liked to play with a sword far too often. But you were theirs, and you'd never doubted your place in Valen's halls for a moment.

"That sounds nice," Soonyoung murmurs.

You nod. Valen had been alive. Full of voices, color, and affection. You were never hidden away in cold towers or kept at a distance. You were surrounded by people who adored you, elders who patted your head and smiled when you tore through the halls.

"They loved me, I think. My people." Your smile fades slowly. “That’s why it hurt so much when the Divine came. They didn’t just destroy a kingdom. They destroyed the warmth and laughter. Valen didn't deserve it."

Soonyoung listens quietly, his honey eyes never leaving your face. His fingers keep moving in slow, soothing patterns across your back, grounding you through the shift in memory.

“Sounds like you were cherished,” he says gently, voice full of quiet wonder.

“I was.” You swallow. “Maybe too much. Sometimes I wonder if that made the fall even harder because I feel like I let them down."

He tights his hold on you. "I know you know this, but it's important for me to say it: you haven't let them down. You intend to bring down the Divine. That is enough."

You tilt your head up to look at him properly. His eyes glitter in the gloom of the room, amber and soft. You smile a little, though you feel the pang of sadness in your gut as sharply as a knife.

“What about you?” you ask, reaching up to trace his mouth delicately. "Only if you want to talk about it. I know you were alone."

Soonyoung’s expression softens, but there’s a shadow behind his eyes. He catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm before placing it back over his heart.

“No family. No pack," he murmurs. "I didn’t have feasts or mothers braiding my hair or anyone telling me I could shake mountains. Just alleys that smelled like piss and rotting fish, and the constant fear that tomorrow I might not eat. But I was free. I could do whatever I wanted. Go anywhere."

"What was your favorite thing to do?"

He smiles then. "Sleep in the forest in my wild shape, especially when the moon was full and all of the stars were out. I loved the smell of pine, especially when it was autumn and the needles were all on the ground."

"That sounds nice."

"We'll do it one day," he promises, kissing you softly. "Just spend a night out under the moon. For now, sleep. When you wake up you'll eat and drink water for me, yeah?"

"Mhmm."

"Good. Sleep, baby."

-

Time slips away as you drift in and out of a light, fevered doze, your body heavy and boneless in Soonyoung’s arms. Your limbs feel too heavy, your thoughts too slow, wrapped in the thick fog that you can't get out of no matter how hard you try to shove at it.

When you stir again, the room is dimmer. Soonyoung is still there, propped up against the headboard with you tucked securely against his chest. His silver hair is messy, falling into his eyes, and one of his hands strokes slow, soothing lines up and down your bare spine. The scent of citrus and warm amber surrounds you like a protective blanket, steady and reassuring.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs, voice low. He presses a gentle kiss to the top of your head. "How are you feeling?"

You make a small, discontented sound, burying your face deeper into his neck. Everything feels too much. The air against your overly sensitive skin, the distant sounds of the mountain, even the gentle rise and fall of Soonyoung’s breathing - it feels trippled compared to last time. Your heat is hitting harder than any you’ve experienced before, throat dry and stomach twisting with a mix of hunger and nausea that makes the idea of eating feel impossible.

This heat feels impossible.

"Tired," you mumble. "Don't wanna move."

He chuckles. “I know, baby. But you need to drink some water and eat a little something. Your body’s working hard. Let me take care of you.”

You shake your head stubbornly, a quiet whine escaping you. The thought of sitting up, of anything disrupting laying against him in bed, makes your anxiety spike. Slick still clings to your thighs, a constant reminder of how raw and needy you feel. Another smaller cramp twists low in your belly, and you press your thighs together instinctively.

Soonyoung doesn’t push immediately. Instead, he shifts you carefully so you’re half-draped across his lap, one arm supporting your back while his free hand reaches for a waterskin and a small cloth-wrapped bundle on the low table beside the bed. The movement makes the blankets slide against your hypersensitive skin, sending little sparks of overstimulation racing through you and you hiss.

“Here,” he says gently, uncorking the waterskin. He brings it to your lips, tilting it slowly. “Just a few sips. Small ones. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

You turn your face away at first, lips pressed together in protest, a petulant little huff leaving you.

“Hey.” Soonyoung’s voice stays patient but firm. “I know it feels overwhelming right now. Your heat is hitting you harder than usual and it’s okay to feel fussy. But I’m not going to let you get dehydrated. Just a little for me? Be my good girl.”

You chew the inside of your cheek. Soponyoung presses a kiss to your temple, waiting. His patience chips away at your resistance and you part your lips reluctantly for him. He tips the waterskin carefully and cool, clean water touches your tongue. It feels shockingly good against your parched throat and suddenly you're taking several small sips before draining it.

"Good," he coos. "See? Not bad." He sets the waterskin aside and unwraps the bundle, revealing soft bread, a few strips of dried meat, and some preserved fruit. "Food next."

You shake your head again, pressing closer to his chest. "Not hungry. I feel weird."

"I know you do. Just take a bite. If it's too much we'll stop."

His patience is endless. He waits, rubbing slow circles on your lower back. Eventually, you nod and open your mouth, accepting the bread. It’s soft, slightly sweet, and easier to swallow than you expected. Soonyoung feeds you another small bite, pausing for you to chew and swallow before you open your mouth again, waiting for more.

"There you go," he grins. "Proud of you. I know this shit is hard when everything feels like this."

You let out a shaky breath, the overwhelming fog in your mind a little clearer. You nuzzle into his neck again and Soonyoung wraps both arms around you to squeeze until you go slack and content.

Just as you start to drift again, the door to the room creaks open quietly, the smell of jasmine making you stir. You pick up your head to see Jeonghan slip into the room, shutting the door behind him.

"She looks grumpy," he tells Soonyoung, raising his brows.

Soonyoung huffs, but there’s no real annoyance in it. “Shut up. She’s still riding the edge of a wave.”

Jeonghan saunters over, crawling onto the bed like a cat. He settles on Soonyoung’s other side, close enough that his knee brushes your thigh through the blankets as he leans on Soonyoung's shoulder a few inches from your face, pouting at you.

“Poor thing,” Jeonghan coos, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Is the big bad heat making you all fussy? Did Soonyoung have to beg you to drink your water like a stubborn little kitten?”

You make a small, indignant sound, too tired and overwhelmed to snap back properly. Jeonghan grins, clearly enjoying himself.

“Look at that pout. Adorable."

“Soonyoung,” you mumble, half-burying your face again.

That’s all the encouragement Soonyoung needs. In one smooth, fluid motion, he shifts you gently before turning on Jeonghan to surge forward and pin the omega flat to the bed. Jeonghan’s eyes widen in delighted surprise as Soonyoung’s hands capture his wrists, pressing them into the mattress above his head.

“Enough,” Soonyoung growls, but there’s a laugh threaded through the words. “You're one to talk. Gods know you are far worse than any omega I've known in heat."

Jeonghan laughs breathlessly. "So what?"

Soonyoung answers by leaning down and kissing him hard enough that Jeonghan melts into it immediately, a soft pleased hum vibrating through him. You watch them through half-lidded eyes, the sight sending another ripple of heat through your already fevered body.

Soonyoung finally pulls back just enough to speak against Jeonghan’s swollen lips. “You’re going to behave,” he murmurs, voice rough, “or I’ll keep you pinned here while I take care of her without you.”

Jeonghan’s eyes sparkle. “Promises, promises.”

You let out a small, needy sound, the renewed wave of your heat flaring hotter watching them. Soonyoung glances over at you, his expression softening instantly. He releases Jeonghan’s wrists and holds out a hand to you, beckoning.

You crawl closer on shaky limbs, letting Soonyoung pull you in so you’re straddling one of Jeonghan’s thighs while he remains hovering over the omega. Jeonghan’s hand immediately slides up your bare side, warm and teasing, fingertips tracing the curve of your waist.

“Look at her,” Jeonghan purrs. “All flushed and dripping again already. Poor baby’s heat is really biting hard today.”

“Stop teasing her,” Soonyoung warns, but there’s heat in his tone rather than anger. He leans down and captures your mouth in a deep kiss, slow and charged, while Jeonghan’s fingers drift higher to cup your breast, thumb brushing over your sensitive nipple.

The dual attention makes you whimper into Soonyoung’s mouth. He breaks the kiss and looks between the two of you, eyes dark. "On your sides. Face each other."

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow but obeys with a lazy grin, rolling onto his side. You follow, lying face-to-face with him while Soonyoung slots in behind you, his strong chest pressing flush to your back, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady.

Jeonghan’s warm breath fans across your face while Soonyoung's heat is solid at your back. Soonyoung’s hard cock nestles against the curve of your ass while Jeonghan’s hand slides down to hook your top leg over his hip, opening you up.

“Easy,” Soonyoung murmurs against the nape of your neck. "Slow."

Jeonghan leans in and kisses you softly at first, then deeper, tongue sliding against yours in lazy strokes while his fingers trail down your stomach and between your legs. He groans when he feels how soaked you are.

Soonyoung’s hand joins Jeonghan’s, their fingers tangling briefly before Soonyoung guides two of his own thick fingers inside you alongside one of Jeonghan’s. The stretch is immediate and overwhelming. You gasp sharply, hips twitching as both of them pump their fingers in a coordinated rhythm, making your thighs squeeze around their hands as you keen.

Soonyoung nips at your shoulder, then soothes the bite with his tongue. “That’s it. Let us hear you. You don’t have to hold anything back with us.”

Jeonghan’s free hand cups your breast, pinching your nipple just hard enough to make you clench around their fingers. He watches your face with dark, hungry eyes, drinking in every time you pinch your brows and scrunch your nose.

They work you open like until your first orgasm builds and crashes over you without warning, pussy fluttering hard around their combined fingers as you cry out, body shaking between them. Soonyoung holds you tighter through it, murmuring praise against your skin, while Jeonghan kisses you through the peak, swallowing every sound.

When the tremors finally ease, Soonyoung carefully withdraws his fingers and shifts positions again. “Jeonghan, on your back. Wildheart baby, you’re going to ride his face while I take care of the rest.”

"She gets baby and I don't? What kind of favoritism is this?"

Soonyoung pins Jeonghan down to the bed by the throat, biting at his jaw sharply. "You've been my baby for years. I love you and you know it."

Jeonghan grins. "I like to hear it." He turns to you, his grin turning wicked. "Let me taste."

He rolls onto his back and reaches for you immediately, helping guide you up until your knees bracket his head. You hover uncertainly, still trembling, but Soonyoung’s hands on your hips steady you as he helps you lower yourself onto Jeonghan’s waiting mouth.

The first broad swipe of Jeonghan’s tongue against your soaked folds pulls a loud, broken moan from you. He wastes no time, licking deep, sucking gently on your clit, then fucking his tongue inside you with enthusiasm. His hands grip your thighs, holding you down against his face as he devours you messily, his moans whiny and pleased.

Behind you, Soonyoung kneels between Jeonghan’s spread legs, leaning forward to press his chest against your back, kissing down your neck and shoulders.

“You look so pretty like this,” Soonyoung rasps in your ear. "Does Jeonghan's mouth feel good? I bet it does."

You nod and Soonyoung laughs throatily, kissing your ear before he reaches down and guides his cock to your entrance, rubbing the thick head through your folds and against Jeonghan’s tongue in messy, wet strokes. The sensation of Jeonghan's tongue and Soonyoung's cock sliding against you makes your eyes roll back and Soonyoung accepts your weight as you lean on him, hips twitching as Jeonghan sucks greedily at you.

When Soonyoung finally pushes inside you, it’s slow and deep, stretching you open while Jeonghan continues licking wherever he can reach - your clit, your cunt where it's stretched open around Soonyoung, the base of Soonyoung’s cock where you’re joined.

You feel impossibly full, every nerve alight as Soonyoung starts a slow, rolling grind inside you. Jeonghan’s tongue never stops moving, hungry and determined as his hands roam before settling on your hips to help you grind against his mouth.

Soonyoung fucks you with deep, controlled strokes, careful of Jeonghan beneath you, making breathly sounds every time Jeonghan's mouth travels down to lick at him instead.

“So good,” Soonyoung groans, lips pressed to your shoulder.

Jeonghan hums loudly in agreement, the vibration shooting straight through you. You come again, softer this time, the high lasting longer as both of them draw it out until you're leaning heavily against Soonyoung, pressing your nose to his neck.

Soonyoung pulls out carefully and helps you shift again, laying you on your back while he pulls Jeonghan up so he can kneel between your legs. Soonyoung presses a messy kiss to Jeonghan's lips, licking your slick from him, making a pleased sound as he pulls at Jeonghan's pants to help him out of them.

“Fuck her,” Soonyoung tells him, voice dark with command. “Slow. I want to feel every thrust.”

Jeonghan's eyes are glassy as he nods, cock heavy and swollen. You reach for him and he grins, letting you link your fingers before he pins them against your hips as he slides in with one, smooth motion. Soonyoung slides up behind Jeonghan, one hand wrapping around to grip Jeonghan by the throat and pin him to Soonyoung's chest while the other holds Jeonghan by the hip to slide in.

The omega moans, eyes fluttering as Soonyoung presses his hips flush to Jeonghan's ass, hand tightening around his throat. Jeonghan starts to move then, deep rolls of his hips that make you sigh. Soonyoung moves with him, thrusting against Jeonghan from behind in time, driving Jeonghan deeper into you.

"Want to kiss her," Jeonghan says to Soonyoung, asking permission.

Soonyoung lets Jeonghan's throat go and the omega leans down, his hair falling forward as he leans down to kiss you messily. Soonyoung leans over Jeonghan’s shoulder to join the kiss, tongues tangling between the three of you in a wet tangle.

You lose track of how many times you come, each orgasm blending together into one long, rolling wave. Their hands are everywhere and their mouths leave your skin for long, and when the three of you finally collapse together, their hands continue stroking you gently, grounding you as the heat simmers down into a more manageable ache.

Jeonghan nuzzles into your neck, voice sleepy but still teasing. “Told you we’d make it better.”

"Jerk," you growl.

"He got what he wanted," Soonyoung sighs. "I need some fucking sleep."

You don't even know if you respond before you're out like a light.

-

You smell Seungcheol before you're even fully awake, the sharp scent of anxiety making you sit up before he's even through the door. Soonyoung and Jeonghan stirred beside you, both instantly alert as Seungcheol strides into the room. He stands at the edge of the bed, fully dressed, jaw clenched tight.

"Cheol? You ask, voice rough with sleep. "What's wrong?"

He drags a hand through his hair. "I need Jeonghan."

"What's going on?"

Seungcheol's dark eyes flicker over the three of you before landing on Jeonghan, who is already prying himself out of bed and into pants. “Junhui’s been wounded. Badly. They can’t take him to main medical. Seokmin is with him right now, stabilizing him, but the wound looks poisoned. You’re the only one familiar enough with this kind of toxin. I need you.”

Your stomach drops. You push yourself up further, ignoring the way your body still feels overly warm and sensitive from the heat. You don't know who Junhui is, but Seungcheol's worry is palpable, and when Jeonghan curses under his breath, you feel your anxiety spike.

"What kind of poison?" Jeonghan asks. "Do you know the symptoms?"

“Fast-acting. Paralysis starting in the limbs, burning at the wound site. Smells metallic,” Seungcheol answers automatically. "Seokmin says it’s spreading."

You push yourself up, blankets pooling at your waist. "I can help."

“No.” Seungcheol’s answer is immediate and firm. Soonyoung’s arm tightens around your waist at the same time, gently but insistently holding you in place. "You're still in heat."

"But-"

"No. Junhui is a friend, but he's still not our pack."

"Stay with me," Soonyoung says. "Jeonghan will handle it. He knows what he's doing."

Jeonghan finishes pulling on his tunic and moves toward the bed. He leans down, cupping your cheek with one hand, and presses a quick, soft kiss to your forehead.

“Listen to them, baby,” he says gently. “I’ll come back as soon as I can. Stay safe and rest.”

You watch helplessly as Jeonghan grabs his boots and heads for the door. He glances back at Seungcheol one last time and lets the alpha kiss him briefly, nodding. The door clicks shut behind Jeonghan, leaving the room feeling suddenly heavier.

You turn to Seungcheol, heart pounding against your ribs. "Who is Junhui?"

"An ally."

"What was he doing? Why couldn’t they go to medical?”

Seungcheol goes very still. He drags a hand through his hair, his broad shoulders rising with a slow, tense breath. For several long seconds, silence stretches between you. His scent spikes sharper with unease.

“He tried to kill Ina,” Seungcheol says, voice low and heavy. “As a favor to us. To buy us time. To take some of the pressure off you and Vernon."

"What? She’s-"

"I know," Seungcheol mutters. "But if anyone is skilled enough to kill her that isn’t one of us, it's Junhui."

"But why?"

"She's still on you and Vernon for the incident in the tunnels. We needed someone to do it while all of us were accounted for."

"Does she know it was Junhui?"

"He doesn't think so. He's like Vernon and Ina."

"Beta occultist assassin, you mean?"

Seungcheol sits on the bed and shakes his head. "Junhui is unique. Should he live, he can tell you about himself one day." He sighs heavily, running a hand over his face. "We moved too quickly. Ina moved to have an inquisition with the Divine brought back for the room they found in the tunnels. I didn't want to put you through another."

For a moment, all you can do is sit in silence. You think of the first time you met Ina, her wicked smile. You remember the venom in her voice, the way she had threatened and mocked - she enjoyed pain. It was obvious. She'd enjoyed making Vernon feel like he was on uneven footing, and she enjoyed making you feel small.

Anger surges through you, hot and sharp, cutting straight through the lingering haze of your heat. Your hands clench into fists on top of the sheets as you think about her eerie colored eyes. She was going after you, but more importantly, she was going after Vernon. Your Vernon. Your jaw tightens as fresh fury burns in your chest.

Soonyoung’s arm remains firm around your waist, his thumb tracing slow, grounding circles against your skin, but even he can feel the sudden shift in your scent, leaning back to peer at you with raised brows.

Seungcheol watches you carefully, waiting. You lift your chin, meeting his gaze, rage brewing. “Let me handle it. Tell me where she is, and I’ll deal with her myself.”

"Wildheart…" Seungcheol shakes his head.

To witness Her is to be unmade gently - From the page of a Blood Tome

YOU’RE DRAGGED UNWILLINGLY FROM SLEEP. At first, the warmth of the bodies you’re pressed between and the smell of jasmine and citrus is comforting, your heartbeat levelling out as your eyes flutter, nearly drifting back to sleep. It’s the voices that keep you awake, murmuring at first but rising in volume beyond Soonyoung’s bedroom door.

Soonyoung’s arm is slung around your waist, his soft breaths puffing against the back of your neck. Jeonghan is pressed to your chest, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’d fallen asleep trying to crawl inside of you. You’d probably let him, if he succeeded.

The sheets are a mess of limbs and heat, and though you can’t see in the darkness, you make out the line of orange beneath the door to indicate there’s a fire in the hearth and people are awake. You hear the voices rise again and the sound of scraping metal, your heart lurching at the sound.

Soonyoung stirs immediately, his arms tightening for a brief second before he’s up and out of bed, moving toward the door, alert and growling. You shield your eyes from the light when he opens the door, the orange glow spilling into the room as Jeonghan’s eyes peel open, pupils blown as he peels himself from you to peer over his shoulder.

“What-” he starts, voice rough with sleep, the word breaking off into a growl as Soonyoung vanishes down the hall, citrus scent souring. You smell the incense and hear a soft voice a moment later, the hair on the back of your neck rising while Jeonghan slides from the bed, hissing, “The Divine calls.”

Jeonghan’s scent spikes as he reaches for a shirt to pull over his head. The fabric nearly swallows him whole and you realize it’s one of Chan’s, the clove scent clinging to the linen as Jeonghan runs his fingers through his hair. He turns to look at you, waiting as you get up from the bed, heart hammering against your ribs. He extends a hand toward you and you take it, his fingers wrapping around yours possessively as he strides into the hall.

The stone floor is cold, causing a shiver to run up your spine. You see the others in the living room, the heart burning low as it casts long, flickering shadows across the stone room. Seungcheol is near the entrance blocking the view outside like an icy wall, shoulders rigid with one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Seokmin hovers a step behind him, blade in hand but rested, his entire frame rippling with tension while Chan paces behind him, claws half-extended. Vernon lingers in the shadows, the gloom of the firelight catching his eyes like inky coins.

Beyond Seungcheol you can smell others - someone with a soft, milky scent heavy with spiced cardamom, and two others with metallic smells that are heady and earthy. An omega with two alphas, you think. The smell of the incense makes you dizzy, thoughts going back to the sanctum the day before and the whip of the Bloodsong cracking at your thoughts and your will.

“The omega, if you will,” a feminine voice insists beyond Seungcheol.

“She just got back from the hunt yesterday. It hasn’t even been a full twelve hours.”

“The terms of her citizenship were clear. One night a week with Captain Velkar. Your travels have nearly put you off schedule.”

Jeonghan squeezes harder. “She is exhausted, Ilia. Seungcheol, move please.”

Reluctantly, the alpha moves, His eyes dance to you, dark and thungering. Your eyes slide from him to the woman in the red robes in the doorway, the two alphas behind her armed and glowering. The omega is beautiful, her round eyes a strange lilac color and her round face dollish, lips plump. Her hair is hidden beneath the hood of her robes, hands folded behind her back as she regards you with renewed interest.

“This is not a debate, Jeonghan.”

You don’t know this priestess. You sense some familiarity between her and Jeonghan, but his face gives away no details. Regardless, the priestess is right - this isn’t a debate. You feel the way their disobedience balances on the edge of a knife, the desire to push back and protect you from the inevitable so strong that even the quiet Seokmin has a sword drawn.

In any other situation, you might smile. Right now, you know what needs to be done. One night a week with Velkar feels heinous, the very thought of it making your skin crawl. You’re not helpless, though. You hadn’t been the first time you’d come face to face with him and he’d kicked you into the dirt, but now you don’t need claws or teeth for a weapon. You have your voice.

“I’m not trying to debate you,” Jeonghan insists, voice softening. You recognize that tone of voice, the velvety purr he uses when he’s trying to get what he wants. “I would request a favor from the Divine, a small mercy for our pack. Give us one more day so that Wildheart can rest. The hunt was long and hard, and she faced an inquiry, both very demanding tasks. All we desire is for some lenience.”

“Request denied.”

The words hang in the air. You sense the shift in the room, Seokmin’s grip tightening on his sword while Vernon’s hand drifts toward the knife at his thigh. Soonyoung is thrumming with violence, lingering behind Seungcheol like a cruel statue waiting to come to life and slaughter its enemies.

Fear coils in your gut briefly. You think of Velkar’s leering face and his promise of pain, the way he looked at you when you were broken on the ground and bleeding, the way you’d overheard him talking about wanting to make you break. Beneath the fear, something sharper grows, the anger and the hatred twisting into calculation as you think of what you know you can do now.

“Of course I’ll go,” you tell her, glancing sharply at Seungcheol. His jaw tightens but he says nothing. “It’s my duty to the Divine. Please forgive us, being apart is often stressful, as you can imagine.”

Ilia’s smile is condescending. “I cannot imagine. It’s nice to see a single one of you has any semblance of intelligence and knows their place. I’ll allow you fifteen minutes to collect yourself.”

With that, she spins on her heel and walks down the hall, the two alpha guards making way for her. Both of them linger for a second, leering at Seungcheol and Soonyoung specifically before following the priestess, both of them at her easy beck and call. Seungcheol all but slams the door shut behind them, his entire body bristling with barely contained violence.

“Wildheart-”

“This is part of the deal,” you cut Seokmin off gently. He sheaths his blade and you have half a mind to ask what drove him to take it out in the first place, but you don’t. You let him come to you, frustration visible in his scent as he cups your face and tilts your head upward. “If we refuse now, she’ll take more than one night. You all know this. Don’t be stupid.”

“Velkar is-”

“Let me handle him.”

Seokmin’s thumbs sweep back and forth across your face. His eyes are dark and round, vulnerable now that the priestess and her alphas are gone. Jeonghan’s hand is still in yours, thumb pressed hard to the top of your hand like he can leave a mark. Maybe he wants to, so that Velkar knows you’re taken.

“Ah,” Seokmin sighs and steps away. “She can handle him.”

“It isn’t her I’m concerned about,” Seungcheol mutters, face dark. “If he harms a hair on your head, I will paint the Sanctum red with his blood.”

Your lips twitch. Jeonghan lets go of your hand and drifts toward Soonyoung while you approach Seungcheol. The alpha remains unmoving, mouth downturn and eyes full of rage. You realize he’s pouting a bit, his anger mixed with a sort of childish indignation you’ve never seen. It makes you bite your bottom lip to contain the amusement, despite the mood in the room.

Carefully, you reach out to take his hand. He hesitates and for a moment, you think he’ll refuse you again, that everything you thought you’d overcome isn’t over. He relents though, his hand covering yours as you rest your joined hands against his chest. You can feel the way his heart hammers behind his ribcage, alive and angry.

“You trust me, right?” You murmur, looking up at him.

Several emotions cross his face, all of them so quickly you can barely register them. But he nods immediately, relaxing a little as you step a fraction closer, his bergamot scent making your lashes flutter. He’s warm, letting you crowd his space a little. If this was a few days ago, you’d never have imagined stepping chest to chest with him, letting your nearness ease the anxiety.

“I’ll be okay,” you murmur. Seungcheol closes his eyes, dropping his forehead to yours. “Velkar isn’t going to harm me.”

“Perhaps we should be more worried for him,” Chan grunts, his attempt at amusement falling flat with his irritation. “I don’t suppose we can hope that you’ll gut him?”

“I can’t.”

“Never stopped you before.”

You grin and pull away from Seungcheol. He clings to you for a second, not wanting to let you go. He does though, letting you go to Soonyoung and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth while he rages in silence, brows pinched and citrus sour. Jeonghan is pressed into Soonyoung’s side, pulling you toward him by the hip as he presses a kiss to your mouth. When you pull away, his eyes are dark, something cruel and vicious there as he tilts his head in a small nod, a silent I trust you.

Vernon helps you pack, silent as ever. He asks for nothing and gives no advice, he simply folds a cloak and puts it in your bag and grabs your dagger to step toward you and tie to your waist himself. You faintly smell the sage on him as he does, his eyes focused on his fingers as they nimbly secure the dagger to your belt. He gives it a single tug before deciding it's good enough, and cinches the top of your bag before holding it out to you.

You take it with a soft thank you and lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. He hums slightly, leaning into you further, fingers gripping the edges of your shirt to keep you in place, holding you for a moment longer. Warmth blooms in your chest and when you step back from him, you want nothing more than to stay in your room and climb into the bed with him. From the way his nose twitches, you know he can tell that’s what you want, but Vernon maintains control over himself, gesturing to your door.

The rest of the pack is irritated. Chan presses his face into your neck as he hugs you, his nose rough against the sensitive skin of your neck. Your lashes flutter for a second as he scents you, the world spinning until he steps away to be replaced with Jeonghan, who does the same. It's intoxicating, the smell of black tea and clover mingling with Jeonghan's jasmine and honeysuckle, your stomach flipping as Jeonghan steps away from you.

Seungcheol and Seokmin loom like twin mountains near the door, neither one of them taking their eyes off of the Red Priestess and her alphas who wait for you just beyond the doorway. Soonyoung pushes off the wall as you approach, his yellow eyes catching yours, lit with something wild and familiar. Your heart beats a little faster, recognizing the fire in his eyes, the same spark that was there the first night you met him.

Soonyoung gently grips the back of your neck, pulling you flush against his chest. He smells like citrus and home, your eyes closing briefly as you squeeze him back. His lips press firmly to your forehead, his grip on you tight and crushing and home. Your throat constricts for a second, worried that if you let him go and leave now, you'll come back to find him broken and battered again.

He steps back a little, cradling your face to look up at him. "I'll be okay," he murmurs as though he can sense your thoughts. "You worry about you, yeah? If he touches a hair on your head-"

"Painting the Sanctum red," you rasp back, nodding. "I got it."

"I don't know that you do, Wildheart."

Behind him, the Red Priestess clears her throat. Soonyoung growls back, but steps away from you. Seungcheol's face is like thunder as you pass. He simply nods, hands flexing at his sides like he wants to reach out and grab you. You don't doubt that he does, your entire chest warming at the thought while he and Seokmin level angry glares over your head.

The Red Priestess waits without a word as you step into the corridor. The door doesn't close behind you, your pack watching as she turns on her heel and strides down the hall, the two alphas moving with her. You follow her without looking back, knowing that turning around and seeing any of the men watching you will be your undoing.

Mountain air hits you as you move up a level in the mountain, following the priestess and her guards. Your tunic and cloak do little to ward off the chill and you curl your fingers in the fabric of your cloak as you walk behind Ilia, her red robes pooling and swaying with each of her measured strides.

The ascent upward is a familiar one. Black stone walls veined with pulsing light guard your right side as you take the stairs up. Torches flicker as you pass, their flames casting long, dancing shadows as you near the Sanctum level. Your gut tightens at the smell of incense, your instincts screaming from the horrors experienced there. For a moment, you worry that's where you're being taken, but Ilia leads you past the double doors to another set of steps and onward, making another ascent to a level of the mountain that you're unfamiliar with.

Every few steps, the wind howls up the corridor, carrying the smell of cold and pine. It slices through your clothes, making you shiver. Your thighs ache a little from the climb, your breath fogging as the air grows chill. This high in the mountain, the rock face opens to random balconies looking out into the grey sky, a swath of forest underneath. Your stomach turns uneasily when you pass by the windows, dizzy when you glance down to see how high up you are.

Or maybe it's the thought of Velkar that makes you sick. Even thinking the name sends a fresh wave of dread cutting through you, a blade cold as the winter air coming in through the open mountainside. You remember the way he looked at you that first evening in camp, the leering and hungry smirk, like he was looking forward to bending and breaking you. The memory of his boot against your ribs makes you clench your fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms.

You can handle Velkar. You know you can. You're not the same feral, angry girl who had been brought to him bleeding and baring your teeth. Now you have the Call, a weapon far more cunning than teeth and sword. And you have them - your pack, waiting for you to come back, ready for divine violence if you're so much as bothered at the way Velkar spoke to you.

Still, a tine finger of fear brushes down your spine. Velkar has had a lot of time to think of new ways to hurt you, and you know he's the Divine's favorite for a reason. A single night could stretch into something far worse if you so much as slip, and you know that hiding your rage and hate is more important than ever.

You have to be smart. Cunning. Careful. You need to be Jeonghan, you realize. The thought makes you smirk a little as the corridor narrows and levels out onto a landing high in the mountain's upper reaches. The wind screams through the open arches here, carrying flurries of early snow that has not yet made it down toward the lower levels of the mountain. The stone here is darker and older, covered in carvings and symbols that remind you of the catacombs.

Ilia stops before a heavy iron door, letting one of the alpha pound his fist against it. The air here is thinner and sharper, laced with the faint scent of smoke and winter chill. You shiver, pulling your cloak tighter just as the door swings open with a loud, grinding sound.

Velkar fills the doorway, a sneer twisted on his face. His hair is cropped short, a fresh scar near his eyebrow. His eyes are flat and cold, raking you over slowly before stopping at your throat. You don't lift your eyes to meet his but you don't waver under his stare, letting him look at the soft part of your neck where you know he smells where Chan and Jeonghan have scented you.

Ilia inclines her head once, her eyes flicking between you and Velkar. "The omega, as requested. I will return in the morning, Captain."

Velkar doesn't acknowledge her. His gaze stays locked on you before he turns. "Come, omega."

Ilia narrows her eyes at him but she turns without another word, her robes pooling around her. She glances at you a single time, something unreadable in her gaze before she's gone and walking back down the stairs, the wind roaring behind her and her guards.

With a deep breath, you follow Velkar into the shadow of his home, the door swinging shut behind you with a loud boom. You immediately hate being in his quarters, the air stifling hot despite the cold outside, the sharp tang of leather and old blood everywhere. He smells of intense spice and a hint of sweat, not at all like the steady, earthy smell of Seungcheol or sharp citrus of Sonyoung.

Velkar drags his eyes over you again, slower this time. You ignore the way your skin crawls, keeping your eyes forward. He steps closer, circling you a grin on his face. You suppose it's to intimidate you, but now that you're here, you're not afraid of him at all.

"On your knees," he says, voice low and rough.

For a second, you don't move. A flicker of surprise crosses his face, but before he can reprimand you, you sink low to the floor, knees pressing to the warm stone. You keep your expression calm and eyes lowered, your heart skipping as you place your palms on your thighs. You will not give into anger just because he prods you - he might make you kneel now, but you'll gut him for it later. You vow it to yourself and the people of Valen - Velkar's future is blood and ash. You'll make sure of it.

Velkar reaches out, his thick fingers brushing your jaw. You grind your teeth as he tilts your face up, urging you to meet his eyes. He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. "Disappointing that bitch Seungcheol broke you before I could. I looked forward to doing it."

Your fingers flex against your thighs. His grip on your jaw tightens briefly before he releases you with a low chuckle, stepping back. He gestures to his living quarters, turning away from you.

"Clean it," he orders. "Every inch. The floors. The tables. The weapons. Scrub until your hands bleed and then clean the blood. When you're done, you'll wait on your knees for me to inspect it."

He leaves you on your knees, disappearing down the hall somewhere until a door slams. You don't flinch, you don't breathe. You stare at a wall with unseeing eyes, the rage inside of you bubbling up, your nails digging into your thighs through your pants. You work your jaw, swallowing past the disgust and the hate before glancing around his living quarters.

They're bigger than your packs. You suppose you're not surprised. His chambers are oddly spar, the absence of any pack scent or omega striking you as odd. There are no soft blankets, no shared nesting materials, no trace of anyone else's life here, either willing or not. There's just weapons, bloodstains and the heavy, oppressive silence in his absence.

The main room is circular, the walls raw black stoned veined with the same pulsing light of the main Bloodkeep. A single iron brazier burns fiercely in the center, the heat near suffocating. There are no rugs or cushions, only a cold stone floor worn smooth, a heavy wooden table that's scarred and peeling, and a wall full of weapons. No personal touches, nothing.

It occurs to you that Velkar must thrive in isolation. There's no need for softness or anything else here. He doesn't want it. He desires only the sharp edges of power and pain, a lone wolf who needs no one and who would rather bend others under his boot than welcome them to his hearth.

The absence of any other omegas bothers you more than it should. You stand, rubbing your knees and frowning. You'd assumed Velkar had many omegas here serving him. He was the Divine's favorite, afterall. But perhaps even she is not cruel enough to give him gifts - beside you.

You find a rag and a rusted bucket in the kitchen, the rough cloth stiff with old filth. You curl your nose at the rotted scent but fill the bucket with water from a freezing cold basin before starting back in the main chamber, kneeling on the stone floor again.

The brazier's heat burns at your back again, sweat gathering at your hairline and clinging to your skin as you wet the rag and begin to scrub. You're not even entirely sure what you're cleaning - you've never had to do this before. You've seen enough of the palace's workstaff to have a general idea, but you realize immediately that your hands are for gripping swords, not for soaking over and over and scrubbing at stone.

As you work, you take in the room around you. It's obvious that Velkar values rudimentary function over everything. There's no decor or furs, and the weapons on display are plentiful but simple and ugly. The swords here are not like the ornate dagger Vernon gifted you or the beautifully carved weapon that belongs to Chan. Each thing is a sharped piece of metal, but no more.

Your interest is piqued when you move to the next room and see maps spread out on tables, the territories of the continents marked and pinned. You tilt your head, looking over maps of familiar places like Lysium and Valen, many of them marked with red, aggressive slashes. Your stomach lurches when you realize it's his way of marking them as fallen, each red slash as violent as their end.

Maps further back on the table capture your attention. You lean closer, realizing that it's the Old Cities. Licking your lips, you get a better look at them, the paper aged and worn at the edges. Despite their age, there's new ink on them in Velkar's childish scrawl detailing supply lines and troop routes, and your eyes widen when you realize these are parts of the Divine's expansion plans after winter.

Routes through the mountain passes, estimates of food stores needed for a prolonged siege, even notes on which loyalist packs to deploy first. One map in particular shows the ancient spires of Eira’s Reach circled in red.

Your heart pounds harder. The Old Cities had been places whispered about in Valen as the last strongholds of thge old ways of the world, ancient cities that were far beyond the mountains. The Divine needed the power of the continent to take them, and with the fall of Valen followed by the potential fall of Eira's Reach, she'd have it.

You linger far longer than necessary, pretending to scrub the edge of the table while your eyes devour every detail. You trace a finger lightly over one of the routes, memorizing the pass names and the estimated timeline.

As you read, you realize that Velkar isn't very literate, based on the childish scrawl and broken sentences. He doesn't seem smart enough for code, but he makes due with what he does know. You file it away for later, turning to your waterlogged hands and the task ahead.

An ache settles deep in your back. Velkar does not show his face again as you work, which surprises you. You navigate to each room alone and unwatched, an example of how little of a threat he thinks you are. Stupid. He must think you're low enough born that you don't know how to read or that you don't know anything about maps - why else leave you unsupervised?

Eventually, you end up in his sleeping quarters. The bed is large but stripped down to a single thin blanket and one pillow. No nest. No pile of stolen clothing from lovers or packmates. The air smells only of him, spicy and sweaty. You choke on it, working on scrubbing the floor beside the bed, rag moving in slow circles as your hands cramp.

You have no idea where Velkar has gone. The slam of a distant door earlier suggested he was in one of the rooms, but so far you've explored every room and haven't run into him again. Odd. You wonder if there are secret passage ways in this home too, tunnels leading down into the mountain in unseen paths. It's likely - especially knowing he'd been in a secret chamber all those months ago when you'd overhead him talking about you.

By the time you dump the bucket into the sink, your hands are raw and waterlogged, knuckles bleeding thin lines where the rag rubbed them open. Pressing your hands to your pants in an attempt to dry them, you decide to organize instead, your hands aching as you start straightening weapons on their racks and stacking maps nearly. You wipe down the wooden tables until the surface gleams dully.

It is still stiflingly hot in Velkar's chambers. You blame the brazier, the fire burning fiercely in the center of the room, throwing waves of dry, suffocating heat as you pass by. The sweat comes worse now, trickling down your spine and soaking your tunic until it clings to the small of your back. It makes you irritable and claustrophobic, rolling your shoulders and stretching as you try to shake out the ache in your limbs and the nasty feeling clinging to your skin.

You keep working, jaw tight, but the heat doesn't leave. It presses in harder until it's so unbearable you open his front door, uncaring if he shows up and thinks you're trying to escape. The cold air blasts you in the face, soothing only for a moment. The wind feels icy against your skin, but it does nothing to stop the ache.

For a moment, you lean against the door frame, eyes closed, letting the breeze tug at you. A sharp cramp starts in your stomach, and you realize you haven't eaten in hours. Groaning, you walk back inside the chambers, closing the door and the brief relief of the cold off.

There is nothing inside Velkar's kitchen. You have no idea what or where he eats, but it's obviously not here. It makes your stomach cramp worse, a small sound of frustration leaving your lips. You lift the hem of your shirt, intending to wipe the sweat from your face when you pause, breathing in.

Your head snaps up. You smell it now, the way your scent sweetens and blooms, the unmistakable softness of preheat threading through the stale air of Velkar's quarters.

"No," you whisper. "No no no no. Not right now."

Panic flares hot and bright behind your ribs. You'd lost track of the days and time, the weeks between your last heat evaporating with weeks spent locked in your living quarters training and days hunting down deserters. Now that you realize it, you know it instinctually, the wave of pain that makes you double over familiar and oppressive.

You try to breathe through it, forcing yourself upright and to keep organizing it. You can last a few hours. Your last heat didn't really settle until hours after the onset of symptoms, so you should have time.

This time feels different. You try to ignore the way your hands shake, the way you feel like curling in on yourself. It occurs to you that the last time you had a heat, you hadn't really had a pack. Hadn't had ever been taken care of through one until Vernon and Seokmin. Now you do have a pack, your hormones and body adjusting to them, to being around them.

Fuck.

The thought of Velkar returning and finding you in the early stages of heat is humiliating. You cannot imagine what onslaught of insults and belittling he'll do, especially because he'll think it has something to do with him and nothing to do with the pack members you share bed and hearth with.

Heavy boots echo from the hallway. Your heart seizes and you spin around as Velkar appears - definitely a secret passageway, then - a fresh sheen of sweat on his brow like he'd just walked up the depths of the mountain. His eyes sweep over the chambers before they land on you and he grins, pointing to the ground.

Without a word, you kneel. You'll do anything to keep him distracted by your obedience, to keep him unaware of the way you're burning up from the inside out. You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, the metallic tang flooding your mouth while Velkar begins his inspection of your world.

He's deliberate in his examination, dragging fingers across tables, checking for dust, looking at each weapon one by one to see if they're properly aligned and placed. He kicks at a corner of the floor you'd scrubbed, and you see a tuft of dust. You grimace, knowing he's going to be angry.

Sighing, he walks over toward you, stopping to stand in front of you, hands behind his back. "You missed spots."

"I will rework them."

"Useless."

The crack of his hand across your face is so startling that you're on the ground before the pain in your jaw even registered. It's a vicious strike, open-palmed and hard as it snaps your head to the side. You fall hard onto your elbow, the stone floor jarring. You crumple and roll over as the room tilts on its axis, the pain in your face and the heat in your body making you dizzy.

You don't realize you're laying on the floor with all your limbs splayed until you see Velkar staring at you with rigid stillness, his nose flared and pupils blown wide. You stare at him for a second, watching as his hands flex at his sides, claws sliding out as his scent fills the room, pungent and heavy.

Lust.

It occurs to you in a single, terrifying moment why he keeps no omegas in his quarters. Velkar has no control. The realization occurs to you as his lips peel back from his teeth and a shudder rolls through him and he inhales again, the blacks of his eyes wild.

"Oh," he growls, voice like gravel. "I'm going to eat you alive."

Velkar takes one heavy step forward, then another. His hands are shaking with the effort not to lunge, and you scramble backward. It's a mistake. It activates his predator instinct and he roars, leaping toward you as his control snaps. You snarl, rolling away from him as he grabs at you, hitting the floor where you were a second ago.

For a brutal, terrifying second, Velkar has you in his grip. He yanks you by the ankle toward him and you scream as you scrape against the stone floor. You don't hesitate for a second though, striking out with your foot, connecting with his brow. He roars and lets go for a second as his skin splits and blood blooms across his face.

It gives you a moment to scramble away from him, putting distance between you as you try to get onto your feet. Again, he's triggered by your retreat, throwing himself at you again. He grips your calf and yanks and you yelp as you hit the ground again. His breath his hot against your calf as he snaps his teeth near your leg, spit flecking the fabric of your pants.

Terror that he's going to try and eat you explodes through your every nerve. The Call responds, surging upward like a second heartbeat. You reach for it, pulling on that ancient thread inside of you as you twist in Velkar's grip.

"Stop."

The word rips out of you, raw and commanding, but nothing happens. Velkar laughs, delighted, and hauls you closer toward him. His scent floods your senses, rancid with bloodlust so thick it coats your tongue and makes your stomach heave.

You're going to die if you cannot get the Call under control. You realize that Velkar is so far gone that he might be impossible to reach, that the bloodlust makes him beyond control. His hand closes around your thigh, claws pricking your skin and your rage explodes.

"GET OFF ME."

Velkar jerks backward, his entire body going rigid, muscles seizing violently. A guttural sound squeezes from his throat, and you feel the air vibrate with your command. You scoot away from him, sitting up as you watch him battle the command.

"Go to your room. Lock the door. Stay there until morning. Forget everything."

Every work feels like glass scraping across your vocal chords, the panic and the anger clashing as you fight for control over the Call. This is exactly why Seungcheol wanted you to practice - he realized how hard it might be to use in a door or die situation like when you'd used it on the alphas who had attacked you after the fighting pits.

For a moment, you think Velkar will resist again. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, adrenaline flooding your system until you're shaking violently. Velkar's eyes glaze over then, his movements jerky and unnatural as he gets up to his feet and turns, staggering down the hallway until he vanishes, followed by the sound of a slamming door.

You lie on the ground for a while, chest heaving, body shaking. As the adrenaline fades, your heat crashes back in, a wave of cramps twisting your gut. Your scent is thick and heavy in the air as you crawl to a corner of the room, pressing your back against the wall and tucking your knees toward your chest, trying to shrink yourself.

As much as you want to leave, you don't dare. The thought of leaving without knowing if the Call worked to make Velkar forget is terrifying. It roots you to the spot for the remainder of the night, hours stretching into an endless, fevered nightmare.

You don't sleep. You can't. Every time your eyes drift shut, another cramp makes you gasp for air, the fever so hot now that you can't stop shaking. The brazier burns lower and lower, but it doesn't stop the sweat and the heat trapped under your skin.

What if the Call breaks? It's the thought that haunts you in your corner, eyes fixed on the hallway. The idea that Velkar could break away from the Call's control at any second and come out here and finish you keeps you in the corner, ready to use it again.

There is no comfort here. You try to think of Jeonghan's jasmine and Chan's nose at your neck, but it's the wrong thing to do. Your heat makes the memories worse, sweat and slick sticking to your thoughts as you groan and make yourself even smaller against the wall.

"Go to your room. Lock the door. Stay there until morning. Forget everything," you murmur, the Call still thrumming in your voice. You whisper the command to the empty room over and over again, afraid that if you don't and Velkar comes back, that he'll catch you unawares.

Hours pass. Your voice is hoarse as you start to drift off, tired and delirious in the corner of the room, spent and exhausted. The scrape of Velkar's door makes you freeze, every muscle locking as you ready yourself to fight him off again, the drowsiness evaporating for a moment of clarity.

He appears in the doorway, hair disheveled and sticking up in odd directions. His shoulders are slumped, eyes bleary and unfocused. He stops when he sees you in the corner and for a moment, seems amused, like the thinks maybe he did something to keep you like that.

Then his nostrils flare, and you see his pupils dilate again, the madness coming back.

A loud knock at the door makes you both pause. Velkar seems half ready to leap at you, but the door opens and the two alphas from the day before step into the room. They pause for a moment, looking between you and Velkar. You watch the taller of the two steps between you and Velkar, his hand resting on the pommel of his blade.

"Captain Velkar." It's Ilia's voice that cuts through the tension. "The night is over. I have come for the omega." There is a pause in Ilia's voice. "That omega better be alive, Captain."

Velkar says nothing. It's one of the priestess' guards who says, "She's alive. She's in the corner."

"Get her up."

"No," you rasp. "I can do it myself."

Three sets of alpha eyes watch as you struggle to get to your feet. Your knees nearly buckle, but you manage to remain standing as you walk toward the door. You feel your pulse in your neck, your vision unfocused and blurry as you step in front of the door where Ilia is waiting.

Her lilac eyes are cool and assessed, taking in your flushed skin, your trembling, and your scent. Her doll-like face pinches, irritated as her eyes flicker beyond you toward Velkar, who is unmoving.

"Get yourself under control, Captain," she clips. Her eyes flicker back to you. "Come, omega."

Pivoting, she begins her walk down the stairs. You stare after her, cowed by the thought of walking down the steps. Swallowing past the dry patch in your throat, you follow her anyway. You have no other choice, wanting to put as much distance between you and Velkar as possible.

It isn't until you run into her that you realize Ilia has stopped on the stairwell. You recoil backward, bumping into the wall behind you. Your heart lurches, thankful that it was stone you'd leaned back on and not one of the windows that would have led you plummeting to your death.

"Did he try to eat you?" she asks, eyes narrowed.

You stare at her. "What?"

"Captain Velkar. Did he try to maul you? Bite you?"

A memory flashes through your mind of Velkar’s teeth snapping inches from your leg, the wet heat of his breath, the feral black of his eyes as he lunged like a starving animal. For one horrifying second you had truly believed he meant to rip you apart and consume you.

The memory makes your stomach twist violently, another cramp rolling through your core in response. You must not hide the horror on your face, because Ilia’s painted lips press into a thin, disgusted line.

"Disgusting," she mutters, voice full of contempt. "It is an insult to the Blood Mother to keep a beast that would feast on the flesh of her bloodline."

She continues down the stairs without waiting for you, crimson robes whispering against the stone. You all but throw yourself after her, legs unsteady, one hand shooting out to brace against the cold, veined wall as another cramp steals your breath. The rough stone scrapes your palm, grounding you for half a second.

"What do you mean?" you ask.

She doesn't slow down. "Are you stupid?"

"What? No."

"I know your brain is heat-addled, but you sound stupid. I'm talking about the cannibal."

"He's a cannibal?"

It suddenly makes sense. The isolation. The lack of servants. No omegas. You'd known it was odd, but you'd assumed he liked the loneliness, that he thrived on it. It hadn't occurred to you that the isolation was because he liked eating omegas.

"Yes, it is an alpha sickness to consume omegas," Ilia says sharply "It is a stain on the Blood Mother."

"Isn't the Divine-"

"The Divine is not the Blood Mother. Our holy goddess Selyne should strike Velkar where he stands for the way he devours her bloodline."

Another cramp rolls through you. Your knees buckle for a moment and you grab the wall harder, nails scraping stone. Ilia doesn’t slow or offer help this time. She simply continues, her steps measured and graceful.

You only know a little about Selyne from being in this mountain. You know she's the ancient Goddess of the Bloodmoon and that she supposedly gifted the Bloodsong to omegas to help them fight back against their would be abusers, but her worship was dark, covetous and fanatical.

Ilia's worship isn't surprising - it's the derision when she speaks of the Divine and Selyne being separate that is a shock. Rivia claims to be the mouthpeace for Selyne, the daughter through which the Goddess commands her worshipers and her divine intent. So Ilia's decision to separate the two is jarring to you, all things considering.

Ilia serves the Divine - it is without question. You've seen her obey orders efficiently and without hesitation like she had when she escorted you to Velkar's quarters. But it's clear to you now that she sees Velkar's continued existence and his high rank as a personal insult to the goddess she worships.

How does one who genuinely reveres Selyne toelrate working for a ruler who keeps a cannibal as one of her favorite captains? You have no idea, but it feels like a fracture you can exploit, like Ilia views the Divine's tolerance as a betrayal of the faith. A perversion, even.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as you fight through another wave of pain. Your knees buckle for a moment and you grab the wall, nails scraping stone. You pull your hand from the wall as you near the landing with the Sanctum doors, your eyes lingering on the shut stone as you pass.

You glance at the back of Ilia's head. She makes no move to look at the doors. She simply glides past, uncaring as she begins her trek down. You don't know what to make of her, so you file it away to ask Jeonghan about later, eager to exploit a potential weakness within the Divine's own ranks.

The descent back to the pack quarters feels endless. Every step sends fresh cramps twisting through your belly, sharp and unrelenting. Your thighs are slick, your tunic clings uncomfortably to your sweat-damp skin, and the mountain air does nothing to cool the fever burning under your skin.

Ilia walks ahead of you in silence, her crimson robes swaying like blood against the black stone. You keep one hand pressed to the wall for balance, the other curled protectively over your stomach as if that could somehow hold the heat at bay.

When you finally reach the familiar corridor, your pack’s door comes into view. Relief crashes over you so hard your vision blurs. Ilia stops just outside it, turning to face you with that cool, unreadable lilac gaze.

Seungcheol yanks the door open before she can even knock, his broad frame filling the doorway like a storm cloud. His bergamot scent rolls off of him and you sway, looking up at him with round eyes. The others hover behind him, their gaze heavy on you.

Ilia doesn’t flinch. “The omega is returned. She is fine.”

Seungcheol’s eyes snap to you, raking over your flushed face, trembling limbs, and the unmistakable sweet scent pouring off your skin. His nostrils flare. Rage flickers across his features first, his jaw clenched so tight you think his teeth might be grinding.

“She is in heat,” Ilia continues coolly, as if commenting on the weather. “I will speak with the Divine about not sending her to Captain Velkar during her cycle in the future. It is… inefficient.”

She says it like a simple correction of protocol, but the implication hangs heavy in the air. Inefficient. Dangerous.

Ilia gives a single, graceful nod and turns in a swirl of crimson robes, leaving you standing in the doorway like a ghost.

For a second you just stand, swaying on your feet, the weight of the night crashing down all at once. The heat, the fear, the endless hours huddled in the corner whispering commands to an empty room, the terror that Velkar would break free and finish what he started - all of it hits you at once.

Seungcheol’s rage fractures the moment he truly looks at you, his fury softening into something raw and pained. His scent shifts, no longer angry but deep and protective as he steps forward to pull you against his chest without a word, one large hand cradling the back of your head while the other warps around your waist.

The moment his scent hits you, your body gives out. Your knees buckle and a fractured, relieved sound escapes you. He doesn't miss a beat, bearing your weight as he lifts you against his chest and pulls you into the room, kicking the door firmly shut behind him.

Your face presses into the crook of his neck, inhaling bergamot and safety and pack, and the world tilts. You feel Seungcheol’s heartbeat thundering against your cheek, hear the low, soothing rumble starting in his chest as he tries to calm you even while his own body vibrates with leftover rage and fear for you.

"She's going to pass out," Seungcheol tells someone, the words rumbling through you. You know he's speaking right next to your ear, but you hear him as though he's at a distance. "She smells like a wreck."

"Water," Seokmin murmurs. You feel his hands on your back - you don't have to look to know it's him. You'd know his hands anywhere. "Water now. Soonyoung, please grab her blankets. Put them in Seungcheol's bed. Chan, she needs food."

The world starts to melt away. You feel like you're floating, though you know it's Seungcheol carrying you. You cling to him, eyes closed, breathing him in until you feel something soft under you, a mattress dipping under your joint weight.

"We've got you," Seungcheol murmurs. You don't let go of him when he tries to stand. Instead of making you, he changes tactics and gets on the bed, pressing his back to the wall to cradle you. "I've got you, baby."

You don't fight the darkness. You let it take you, safe for the first time in hours.

- The world returns in bits and pieces.

First comes the scent of bergamot and cedarwood that makes your thoughts dizzy, followed by the steady thrumb of a heartbeat beneath your cheek. You curl into the warm body, pressing your nose further into the warmth that you realize is Seungcheol's neck, the smell of him making you shiver, thoughts turning to static.

The distraction only lasts for a moment. Your heat intensifies now that you're awake, no longer simmering but burning. Pain twists in your stomach and you let out a sound, squeezing your eyes shut so hard that colors explode behind them. You can feel the stickiness between your thighs and though you know you can't help it, embarassment makes you freze.

"It's okay," Seungcheol murmurs, the word rumbling through his chest. His hand strokes up and down your spine, his touch soothing. "It's not a big deal."

Another cramp hits, harder this time. Your fingers curl tightly into his shirt, nails digging in as your back arches involuntarily. Seokmin is there in an instant, lavender scent cutting clean through the heavier pack smells as he kneels beside the bed. Cool fingers brush damp strands of hair back from your forehead and you open your eyes to see him looking at you, eyes soft and warm.

“Water first,” he says gently. “Small sips only. Chan, bring a basin and fresh cloths. She needs to cool down a bit before her fever spikes higher."

The mattress dips behind you. Soonyoung’s bright citrus floods your senses as his arm slides carefully around your waist, anchoring you between him and Seungcheol. "You okay?"

You shake your head. "I know. I'm sorry, baby."

The new endearment makes matters worse. You feel yourself shiver, the heat between your legs growing steadily. Seungcheol makes a sound while Soonyoung nuzzles into you, inhaling deeply. Being between them is both madness and relief, the scent of them pressing in making you want to peel out of your clothes, but the weight of their heat and scents grounding.

"How is she?" Jeonghan asks, coming into the room.

You immediately lift your head from Seungcheol, reaching for Jeonghan. He looks surprised but grins, reaching out to let you lace your fingers together and pull him toward you where you lay between Soonyoung and Seungcheol.

"Yeah?" Jeonghan asks, kneeling on the bed. "Need me, pretty girl?"

You nod frantically, fingers tightening around his as you pull him closer. The moment his jasmine and honeysuckle scent hits you fully, another wave of heat crashes through your body, so intense it steals your breath. Your thighs press together, slick soaking further into the already ruined fabric of your pants, and a soft, needy sound escapes before you can stop it.

Jeonghan’s eyes darken instantly, but his touch stays gentle as he slides fully into the bed, propping himself over you, the weight of his hips pinning yours to the bed, his hands planted firmly on the mattress on either side of you. Seungcheol and Soonyoung both make room for him, Soonyoung snaking a sneaking hand up to thread through Jeonghan's hair while the omega dips his head down, his nose brushing against yours.

"What do you need?" He asks, breath sweet against you. "Tell me."

You can’t form words right away. The heat is climbing faster now that you’re awake and surrounded by your pack. Every inhale brings more of their scents, all of them mixing into something intoxicating that makes your head spin and your core throb. Your skin feels too tight, too hot, too sensitive.

Your back arches slightly, pressing you chest to chest with Jeonghan. "It hurts worse than before."

“That’s because your body’s been adjusting to us," Jeonghan murmurs, his lips so close they brush against yours. You feel the heat of him, the way he goes a little slack when Soonyoung runs his nails down the back of his neck. “The last heat was before you had a real pack. Now your hormones are responding to all of us. It makes the onset faster and the waves stronger. Same thing happened to me."

You nod shakily, but the explanation does little to ease the fire licking through your veins. Sweat trickles down your spine, making the tunic cling uncomfortably. You shift restlessly, trying to find relief that isn't there. Soonyoung nuzzles into the side of your neck, inhaling deeply. The sound he makes only makes the ache between your thighs pulse harder.

A whine escapes you and Jeonghan stops it short with a kiss, his lips warm and soft against yours. It makes your thoughts spiral, but it's over before you know it, his lips trailing to your forehead where he murmurs, "Easy. Tell us what hapened with Velkar while you can. Chan brought back cold towels."

Jeognhan pulls himself from you and you make a broken sound. He smirks, pleased as he sits on the bed, still close while Chan joins him. Chan's eyes are dilated, dipping cloths into the cold water before passing them to Jeonghan to press to your neck.

The coolness of them brigns immediate relief. Your eyes flutter shut and you sag a little, Soonyoung still pressed close enough that his breath fans against your temple. Jeonghan methodically places the cool rags where you burn up the most on your neck, chest and forehead, the relief making the heat bearable.

“I cleaned like he ordered," You mutter. "Room by room. He left me alone for hours. I snooped when I could and looked at maps of Valen and other places. They've been strategically working their way to the Old Cities. They definitely have plans to attack as soon as winter frost melts like we thought."

"Hmm. Makes sense."

You snap your eyes open when you hear Vernon. He's leaning against the door, arms crossed, half hidden in shadow. "Oh. You're here. Hi."

His grin is soft. "Hi. Keep going, don't let me distract you."

"He was totally alone. No omega. No servants. I thought that was weird."

"It is," Chan agrees.

You continue, the words spilling faster now. “When my preheat hit, he lost control. Snapped at my leg like he was going to eat me. I honestly thought he would. The Call was so hard to use and I had to use it a few times, it's like it was blocked by the bloodlust. I forced him to stay in his room and forget what happened like I did with the hunting party."

Soonyoung growls into your neck, the sound making your toes curl. "Good."

"I didn't want to leave until I knew it stuck. It did, but it was like his bloodlust reset. Ilia knocked on the door before she could do anything about it. She told me he eats omegas."

"What?" Seungcheol demanded, grip turning to iron. "What are you talking about?"

"She said he's a cannibal. I think that's why he's all alone. Something about omegas in heat makes him want to literally eat them, Seungcheol." A ripple of anger goes through him, his entire frame shuddering. "Ilia said it was an insult to Selyne to keep a beast that would eat omegas, and I felt like she meant it was an insult at the hand of the Divine."

Jeonghan’s expression sharpens with interest. “That tracks with what little I’ve heard. Not all the Red Priestesses are loyal to the Divine out of fear or ambition. Some genuinely worship Selyne as the old goddess of blood and lineage of omegas. The see the Divine's rule as necessary but corrupted. Ilia could be one of them." He glances at Vernon. "Do some diggng."

"I'll start now." He hesitates at the door, eyes on you. "You'll be okay?" You nod and he smiles, soft and fond. "Ask for me if you need me."

Vernon vanishes out the door, leaving the rest of you in silence. Soonyoung shifts beside you, his citrus scent sharpening as he presses one more kiss to your temple, lingering fora second before he pulls himself away from you. His gold gaze is bright with worry, but there's something darker there now, a hunger that makes your heart skip a little.

"Rest a little," he tells you. "Jeonghan and Seungcheol will stay with you."

"You're not staying?"

"We have a work rotation. We'll be back to help later, okay baby?"

You nod shakily, another cramp twisting through your core and pulling a soft whimper from your throat. The heat is rising faster now, making your thoughts hazy and your body ache with desperate need. Soonyoung leans in, capturing your lips in a deep, grounding kiss. His mouth is warm and familiar, tasting like citrus and home, and for a brief moment the kiss eases some of the burning. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently across your skin.

When he pulls away, he turns to Jeonghan, pressing a slow and deliberate kiss to his mouth, earning a whine from Jeonghan, the omega's hand coming up to grip the back of Soonyoung's neck, pulling him closer.

Soonyoung laughs, muttering against Jeonghan's mouth. "Take care of her."

Jeonghan nods, eyes dark with understanding. “Always.”

Chan sighs and leans forward to squeeze your ankle, promising he'll be back later as he drags Soonyoung away from Jeonghan. Seokmin gives you a quick kiss, his grin warm and brief before he's jostling a bickering Chan and Soonyoung further into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him.

Seungcheol doesn't miss a beat, pulling you into his lap and turning you so you’re straddling his thighs, your chest pressed to his. His bergamot and cedarwood scent surrounds you completely, grounding and safe. Jeonghan moves in behind you, his slim frame pressing against your back, jasmine and honeysuckle blooming warm and sweet. Their combined scents hit you like a drug, making your head spin and the heat between your legs throb harder.

“You’re safe,” Seungcheol murmurs against your ear, one big hand sliding under your tunic to rest against your feverish skin.

Jeonghan’s lips brush the back of your neck, voice velvet-soft. “Breathe, pretty girl. We’re right here. Tell us what you need.”

"You," you whisper. "Please."

YOU'RE A HEARTBREAKER, DREAM MAKER LOVE TAKER, DON'T YOU MESS AROUND WITH ME

-

LEE JIHOON FUCKING HATES PAT BENATAR SONGS. Not because she's a bad singer - she really isn't. But every time he hears one of her refrains from a distance, he's forced to think of you, and thus, it ruins his fucking day.

He'd like to go a single day without it being ruined. Today doesn't feel like the day. Neither had yesterday, or the day before that, an endless cycles of bad days and things that remind Jihoon of you everywhere he goes and everywhere he looks.

Jihoon swears the looming cloud over practice and media day for Day One of the Australian Grand Prix has followed him all the way from Monaco where he took his single reprieve between preseason testing and the start of the Formula One season. It hadn't been much of a rest, considering testing in Bahrain had been so bad that it had haunted him every night. What should have been warm days by the pool and runs down by the water had turned into hiding in the dark of his apartment, going through simulations and data and about a million other things to prep for this weekend.

This weekend that Pat Fucking Benatar is kicking off.

Australia blurs by on the other side of the window. As many times as Jihoon has been here, the sun never gets any kinder. He can feel its oppressive heat even behind the tinted glass of the car, and his sunglasses do almost nothing to keep the brightness at bay. Still, the sparkling blue of the ocean and the swath of blue sky above him is a nice break from the grey interior of his gloomy apartment back in Monaco.

"Can we change the radio station?" Jihoon asks.

The man in the front makes a questioning sound and Jihoon curses internally. He knew he should have committed to studying Italian in the off season. He's been a part of the Ferrari Formula One team long enough to need a better grip on the language, but he'd been uncommitted in the off season to learning it. He'd been too busy sulking over the poor end to last year's racing season and the very abrupt end of your relationship.

Soonyoung turns around the the front seat of the car, face dubious. "You don't like Pat Benatar?"

Jihoon is surprised his new teammate even knows who Pat Benatar is. Soonyoung, though older than him by a few months, doesn't seem to know much about music beyond the thumping techno and house that is often coming through his headphones or the hiphop that he swears he knows every word to.

Kwon Soonyoung has taken a bit for Jihoon to get used to. As the new driver for the second Ferrari seat, he is a personality that Jihoon can only categorize as wildfire and uncontrollable so far, but he begrudgingly doesn't dislike Soonyoung, which is a surprise. He thought he was going to hate the reckless upstart, but he actually kind of finds him refreshing. Plus, he's got an infection personality about him that reminds Jihoon of Chan, who had only been his teammate for a year, but he'd liked nonetheless.

Soonyoung is the kind of driver in F1 that is in the headlines for his behavior as much as he is his wins. It had surprised Jihoon when they signed Soonyoung after Chan moved to Williams. Soonyoung wasn't exactly the refined, classic Ferrari brand, but he was a good driver, and the long-standing Formula One name needed good drivers, particularly after Jihoon's not-so-great season last year.

"She's not my favorite," Jihoon responds, looking back out the window.

Hobson Bay gleams in the distance. Boats bob in the distance, random pops of colored parasailers dragging across the sky, the people in them the size of ants against the vast blue. As afraid as he is of heights, Jihoon would rather be tangling from one of them right now than heading to the first practice session of the season. He has no idea when he became so adverse to his own career, but the knot in his stomach only tightens the closer they crawl to the circuit.

"Oh man, you're missing out!" Soonyoung puts his hand to his face like a fake microphone and proceeds to belt, "You're a heartbreaker! Dream taker! Love taker!"

"Soonyoung."

"Yeah, yeah." He turns to the man in the driver's seat. He's grinning, apparently as easily charmed by Soonyoung as everyone else always is. "Puoi cambiare la musica? Grazie."

The driver nods and flips it to jazz and Jihoon sighs, leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes behind his sunglasses. Of course the new addition to the team speaks perfect Italian. Why wouldn't he? There seems to be a world of things that Soonyoung can do that Jihoon can't, including driving the impossible cars that Ferrari has given them this year.

Preseason testing had gone well for Soonyoung. He had the kind of testing sessions that made the Tifosi hopeful again, article after article talking about how he was bringing the spark back to Ferrari after a challenging last season that had ended up with Jihoon finishing outside of the top three and Chan losing his seat to shift to Williams.

Ferrari is a tough team to drive for. Jihoon knows that. He knew that when he started his rookie year with Alfa Romeo three years ago. He's going on his third season with Ferrari now, and the only thing that seems to stick is that he chases Red Bull and Mercedes for World Championships.

Still, Jihoon has been the closest Ferrari has been to consistent podiums in a while and he knows that. He's sacrificed everything - including being able to listen to Pat Benatar - to help lift Ferrari back to its former glory. To do so would be any drivers dream, and Jihoon was on track to take it until the tail end of last year. Preseason hadn't been kind to him either, leaving him with a dangerous sense of foreboding for what this season has to offer him.

The car this year is a beast, hard to control, hard to steer. Jihoon spend most of the practice sessions trying to muscle it to make the turns he wanted and grip it to death when it wanted to make turns he didn't want. It was like he was in personal conflict with the car, and while the car isn't sentient, Jihoon can't help but feel like it's purposefully chosen to work against him.

If Jihoon's relationship with you had taught him anything, it was that he liked stubborn. Stubborn girl, stubborn car, stubborn driver. Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn't seem to know what the word stubborn is, going with the flow and doing whatever Ferrari asked him to do. Mostly.

Australian sun beats down on Jihoon as he steps out of the car. He can already hear the fans screaming in the distance, the echo of their voices carrying over the black asphalt. He cringes internally, pulling the hat on his head down a little lower, trying to hide from wandering eyes. Soonyoung seems to come alive in front of fans, yelling back at them with his hands cupped around his mouth, making them go nuts. Jihoon resists the urge to smack him, knowing it isn't fair to steal Soonyoung's excitement just because he's miserable.

The garage smells the same as it always does, like rubber mixed with the slick scent of grease. The glare of the sun reflecting off the cherry paint on the car nearly blinds him and he holds up a hand, shielding his eyes. Jihoon steps inside and feels the familiar prickle across his shoulders. It's like stepping backward into a house that used to be his but has sold, a stranger in his own house.

Mechanics pause mid-motion when they see him, nodding and giving him tight smiles. Members of his team clap him on the back as he goes, and the tension bleeds out of him when he sees familiar faces. These are the people who want him to win most in the world. Despite the very passionate fan base Ferrari has, the men and women of this garage put just as much time and effort into wins as he does, and the tension eases a little when he remembers that the people her want whats best for him.

Soonyoung bounces in behind him, already waving at people he met for five minutes during testing, marveling at the gold painted Ferrari on the nose of his car. Jihoon ignores him, strolling over to gaze at telemetry screens that line the back walls. Numbers and graphs make more sense to him than people do, and he likes to find comfort in the data, to dive deep and puzzle out what he needs to do next.

It hadn't always been that way. There had been a time in Jihoon's racing career where how he felt behind the car had mattered more than the data. Those were the years that he was finishing inside the top ten with a car no one expected to do well, and before he'd been moved up to Ferrari where he felt more pressure to win, where he felt like he needed more than instinct. Having an instinctual edge for the car wasn't enough - he needed to understand. To be in control.

Data had been the worst thing that ever happened to him, you'd told him once. Jihoon had thought it was ridiculous at the time, but now as he stares at the wall of all the adjustments they've made from Bahrain, he isn't so sure you were wrong. You rarely were.

Matteo spots him first, the senior race engineer grinning as he walks over. Matteo has the look of someone sharp and scary, his dark hair threaded through with grey and wireframe glasses perched on a hawkish nose. Thankfully, Matteo's looks are deceiving. He's warm and loud, a riot in the garage as bright as the paint on the cars.

"Jihoon!" He claps his hands, sound ringing out. "Ready to make the data team cry again?"

Jihoon exhales sharply. Matteo's sense of humor is only appreciated sometimes. "Maybe it'll be tears of joy."

"Così ti voglio!" He claps Jihoon on the shoulder. "That's the spirit!"

After walking around the car a few times and killing time, they head to the motorhome. With his head tilted down, Jihoon heads to the team meeting room on the second floor where there are people sitting inside already through he frosted glass, including the team principal.

Unlike Matteo, Nico isn't as easy on the humor. He's serious and driven, his frown lines deepening when Jihoon sits down. Nico is also Matteo's opposite in appearance, his warm brown eyes and light brown hair making him seem kind and approachable. Jihoon had learned early on that it was deceiving, discovering Nico was clipped, to the point and direct. Jihoon doesn't mind it, but it makes for uncomfortable conversations when Jihoon is under performing like he had in Bahrain.

The table is covered in print outs of historical track data, schematics, tire degradation curves and overlays that probably make more sense to the people surrounding the table than they do to Jihoon. He picks a paper up and frowns when he sees a map of energy deployment in the car that failed him in Sakhir. Energy is a confusing thing in Formula One, especially as the FIA and the teams make new rules about how to be environmentally friendly while being cost efficient.

Matteo doesn't waste anyone's time, tapping the first sheet to start the meeting. The room goes silent, employees leaning forward with their elbows on the table to listen to the man that's supposed to lead them all to victory.

"Front wing adjustment was too aggressive," Matteo starts. He looks at Jihoon. "You were fighting the adjustment too much, so that needs to be accounted for. We made some adjustments that should give you more more control without over correcting."

Jihoon nods once. Clinical. Logical. He's good at this when the alternative is screaming into a helmet to fix problems no one can handle as he drives 200 mph.

"What about rear suspension?" He asks. "It was a mess."

Matteo flips a page. "We're running you two millimeters higher than Bahrain to start."

"Can we drop it back if it's too much understeer?"

"Yes. Better than bouncing like a kangaroo, no?"

They move on to the power unit and show him the revised energy harvesting maps and their strategy to conserve energy on the corner exits to leave him with more juice when he needs it most. He nods, detailing each thing they've change, knowing he'll stay up tonight overthinking about it in that same way that he always does.

As the sun dips outside, the rest of the meeting carries on like that, the team firing data and adjustments at him while he tells them about how the car felt. When the meeting concludes, Jihoon feels a little better, but he has a laundry list of things to report back on for the day's practice run, and he's already trying to commit to memory all the adjustments he needs to make when driving the car.

Soonyoung is waiting outside for his own meeting with Nico and the engineering team, leg bouncing as he sits on the couch. He grins at Jihoon as they exchange places, Soonyoung's team swapping for Jihoon's. Like most teams, they only share a few personnel, keeping the driver's goals, teams, and strategy separate to ensure for clean, fair racing.

Jihoon spends the next hour in his room watching his races in Bahrain, flicking through his notes. The room in the motorhome is small, but it's got good air conditioning, a soft couch that he likes to doze on, and TV screens that he can use for leisure or data. He almost always picks data, touching the mousepad on the computer in front of him to flip screens.

By the time he's entering the garage for his first practice session, the garage has come to life, a full world of life and sound and smells. His personal race engineer Luca waits for him, arms crossed over his chest as he orders something in rapid Italian to the man handling tires. Jihoon likes Luca. He's built like a fire hydrant and manages pressure like one two, keeping most of his feelings bottled up until they come exploding out when Jihoon blows a tire or when someone puts him into the wall. Thankfully, his outbursts are often well-timed and never pointed at Jihoon.

"We'll start with mediums today," Luca says when he sees Jihoon. "We'll do softs after twenty minutes if the track allows."

Jihoon nods, listening as Luca fires off some technicalities about the car. It's hard to listen with Soonyoung's side of the garage turning into a circus, the driver shaking hands with every single one of his engineers and mechanics. Jihoon notices there's a tiny tiger pin clipped to his race suit and decides e doesn't want to open the can of worms by asking about it.

A calm settles over Jihoon as he readies to get in the car. The mechanics swarm around him and someone hands him his balaclava. He pulls it down over his head, noting that it smells faintly like laundry detergent. The helmet goes next, the squeeze of it familiar against his skull, tight and secure. He's field of vision narrows to the oval of the open visor, and he knocks on top of the helmet out of habit, the solid sound good.

Jihoon climbs the car and gets in, the sun glinting off the visor of his helmet as he sinks into the seat, body molding to it immediately. He leaves the visor up for now, reaching up as someone hands him the wheel to the car so he can plug it in. The dashboard lights up like Christmas, numbers colors, readings that are green. Green is good, though he doesn't expect to see red from the jump.

The garage doors are open now and Australian heat pours in, the sun vicious as it bounces off every shiny surface in the garage. Outside, the grandstands are starting to fill in for fans watching practice, team flags everywhere. Jihoon watches the clock on the wall, counting down the seconds until he can get out of the car again.

He runs through the start procedure in his head over and over again, reciting everything that he needs to do and everything tiny thing that can go wrong in the first five minutes of a season. Already he feels like he's forgetting what he talked about during the strategy session, but he'll just have to make do. If the car wants to fight with him today, he'll fight back. Jihoon is stubborn like that.

When the car's engine finally roars, Jihoon comes to life. He changes entirely with the sound of the engine humming and the vibrations climbing up through his legs, the steady buzz making him a little itchy and jumpy. The heat soaks through the carbon body of the car and the faint smell of brake fluid reaches him as he shuts the visor to the helmet, rolling his shoulders to ready himself.

"Radio check," Luca says, voice crackling over the comms.

"Good."

"Pit lane opens shortly. You're P2 in the queue."

"Copy."

"All good?

"Yeah," Jihoon says.

What Jihoon doesn't say is how hard it is not to think about how badly he fucked up in Bahrain. He doesn't tell Luca that he can still feel the understeer even though he hasn't started yet, and he doesn't say that it feels like the car hates him and that he hates the car back just as much.

Instead of telling Luca all that - because what the fuck would Luca say - the board goes green and mechanics step away from the ca so Jihoon can shift to idle the car forward, slow and easy out of the garage and into the blinding light of Albert Park.

The radio crackles again. "Out lap. Bring it in nice and slow."

Jihoon doesn't reply. He's already sinking, going deep into the icy, quiet place where the rest of the world falls away and there's only the car, the track, and the thin line between glory and utter disaster. Here, the only thing that can hurt him is himself.

Taking in a shaky breath, Jihoon starts his race weekend with the out lap. It's always the slowest part of the weekend, but Jihoon tries to treat it like the moment before the storm, taking his time to feel the car and see how it's doing. He grips the wheel tight, then let it slides, the hiss of his gloves against the wheel lost to the engine of the car. He feels the vibration of the drive, every bump and drag of the tires against the asphalt, every snag and pull.

Albert Park in March isn't as hot as it could be, but the track's surface is already hot enough to make the car feel stifling. He ignores it, his focus turning to a laser point as he eases into his first practice session, the heat and the nerves secondary to everything else.

Sector one is forgiving, Turn One a long, sweeping right that rewards his patience, and as Jihoon feathers the throttle and lets the car settle, he smiles as he takes it easy, no red on the dash, no losing power.

"Tires at 71 front, 68 reader. Good for now," Luca tells him.

"Copy."

"How's the understeer?"

Jihoon pauses, feeling the way the car takes a curve. "Not bad."

"Good."

At Turn Three, the car fights back a little and Jihoon feels the twitch through the rear, just enough to remind him that he's got new flooring. He notes it and continues to drive, pushing through the turn and leveling out the car.

By Turn Nine, he's relaxed, sliding into a rhythm he was terrified he would never find again, as irrational as it was. He flies down the straight, the wind and the force of the car pinning him to the seat. He feels alive, grinning for real as he remembers why he does this stupid, dangerous job in the first place. He brakes late into the chicane and takes the corner perfectly, the relief so suddenly that he nearly lets out a shout.

"Nice," Luca says. "Brake temps good."

Jihoon exhales. Its' the first time all week he hasn't felt like he's dragging his car by the balls toward the finish line. He settles in deeper, pushing the throttle faster, the car picking up pace as the crowd blurs, the smear of clouds and blue overhead a watercolor backdrop.

"Alright, let's go flying lap."

"Copy."

Turn One and Turn Two are nice to him, the car gliding and letting him feather the throttle again. There's no sudden loss of power and the tires feel good, and Jihoon feels a sense of relief as he starts to eat off half a tenth from his benchmark in 2024.

Then the circuit bites back.

He turns into Turn Six and the front loses its grip, the nose of the car pushing wide and causing the tires to protest. Jihoon corrects the snag of the car, but it costs him momentum as he lets go of the throttle for a moment to avoid going off track. It doesn't shake him at first, but the car continues to fights back as he nears Turn Seven, the rear end stepping out and causing him to break too soon. He curses, losing more time as he shakes his head and curses.

Turn Eight turns into a mess as he rear steps out again and Jihoon jerks the wheel, relieving the throttle for a split second too long. It immediately breaks his flow and he curses, feeling the fear from Bahrain creeping in on him. He'd managed not to think about it for a few laps, but now it's there, looming behind him like the final boss music from the video games Chan likes to play.

Jihoon brakes at Turn Fifteen late like he always does, but the car understeers and runs wide. He curses and corrects again, giving the feedback to Luca in a clipped, frustrated tone. Luca notes the understeer but Jihoon has to keep driving, so he does, despite the fact that he suddenly would rather stop the car, get out, and walk into the fucking ocean to be eaten by the sharks.

When he finally crosses the finish line, he waits. Jihoon already knows it's not great when Luca's feedback takes a beat too long before he says, "Alright. P8 on times so far. Soonyoung is on pace for P3 on time for reference."

Jihoon doesn't answer. He breathes through his nose, jaw locked, staring straight ahead.

Luca, knowing Jihoon, says, "We'll make the adjustments. P8 isn't terrible."

"Noted."

He peels into the pit lane and heads to the garage. When he stops the car, he doesn't move as the mechanics swarm around him like a school of red fish. Instead of getting out, he kills the engine and sits there, staring, staring, staring.

He knew Pat Benatar was going to ruin his day.

-

FP2 is somehow worse.

The changes they made after the morning session should have helped in theory. On paper. On a whim. On track, though, Jihoon spends nearly twenty-five minutes chasing a balance that refuses to stay put, fighting the wheel and the tires and the engine and the entire world through the entire session, and he gets absolutely nothing out of it.

His best lap puts him at P11 when the practice session ends. Meanwhile, Soonyoung floats his way to P4, the younger driver laughing and clapping someone on the back as Jihoon crawls out of the car in the garage, glaring at the back of Soonyoung's head as he greets some girl with a brief kiss. Of course Soonyoung is also in a successful relationship - why wouldn't he be? He's everything Jihoon isn't, apparently.

It isn't Soonyoung's fault. Part of Jihoon his happy for his teammate, but he knows how bad this looks for him specifically, and it eats at him despite how much he likes Soonyoung. Giving a poor performance as the team's senior driver when the fresh blood can handle the car no problem is a tale as old as time in this sport, and Jihoon has no desire to make it a permanent reality.

Jihoon is still damp and simmering when his media responsibilities pull him toward the press conference room. The public relations team walks beside him, rattling off instructions with a tablet in hand: fifteen minutes in the pen, then the main presser. Sky, F1TV, then the big room. You're third.

It's clinical. Rote.

The media pen is the usual circus of cameras, mics, and reporters jostling for position. The sun is lower now, slanting across Albert Park in burnt oranges and faded pinks while the asphalt simmers behind, a black mirror of heat. Jihoon pulls his hat low and steps into the chaos, swallowing thickly as he puts on a brave face and a polite smile that probably looks more like a grimace.

"How do you feel about your performance today in the second practice session?" Someone asks, leaning forward.

He takes it in stride. "Still working through balance issues. We made changes between sessions, but the car's not giving us what we expected. We'll keep digging."

"Frustrating day?"

"Frustrating, sure. But it's Friday. We'll reset and head into qualifying tomorrow."

He keeps his answers short and clipped, nothing short of professional. The anger is there, coiled low in his gut, but this swarm of reporters ask him fair questions. He hates that most of all, how the critique is fair and warranted, how each question is posed with the real question - are you worried?

Jihoon is worried, but he can't say that. So he keeps his frustration leashed, answering each questioning with unfaltering precision that Ferrari loves him so much for. Honestly, interviews and professionalism might be the only place he surpasses his teammate, who had gotten in trouble last year with Williams for mouthing off during an interview.

The rest of the questions pass Jihoon in a blur of more questions and more clipped answers. He's aware he sounds short, but he doesn't care. He gets through it until he's being ushered toward the media room where he lets someone hook him up to a mic on the collar of his shirt and he's instructed to sit between Choi Seungcheol from Red Bull and Chwe Vernon from McLaren, both who had done much better than him today.

One leg crossed over the other, Jihoon waits as the conference starts. He's both relieved and irritated to be sitting between Red Bull's shining star and the man who had blown everyone else out of the water during practice session, everyone wondering what the hell Vernon has brought to the team in orange as the new driver at McLaren. It gives Jihoon the respite he needs to collective his thoughts, but it also gives him just the right amount of time to look at the crowd of media personnel, which is a mistake.

He spots you immediately, his eyes drawn to where you're sitting like second second nature. Perhaps it is still an instinct to look for you after all this time. He's spent so long doing it that he doesn't know how to train himself not to, doesn't know how to forget that you'll be in the room for every single one of these.

You look the same as you always have. Same focused expression, same slight tilt to your head when you're listening hard. You scribble answers down on a notepad - old school, you used to joke - your quick hand visible from where he sits. He already sees parts of the pages where you've torn them, a nervous habit you obviously haven't gotten rid of, and he notices the prong on your pen cap has been snapped off. You never did have still hands, tearing bits of paper and snapping caps whenever things were too quiet around you.

It knots his stomach and he forces himself to look away, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. He hates that he knows so many things about you. Last season, he would have been watching you ask other drivers questions, trying to hide the smirk as you grilled them on strategy and performance. Now it's been months since you walked out on him in Austin, and he hasn't spoken to you since.

When it's your turn to ask questions and you fix your gaze on him, Jihoon thinks he's doing to die. If looks could kill, yours would certainly cut his beating heart right out of him. There's no warmth in your expression today, no secret smile as you're given a mic to ask questions, the cool sharpness of your stare so sharp he almost doesn't hear you over the pounding on his own heart as you start talking.

"Jihoon, two questions if I may," you say. He wants to say no, but even now, he can deny you nothing so he nods as if he has a choice. "After two difficult practice sessions, how confident are you that Ferrari can still fight for podiums this weekend?"

The question isn't unfair. It's not even particularly mean, but the way you phrase it in that infuriatingly calm and measured voice, almost clinical, makes it land like a slap. He feels the heat crawl up his neck as he stares at you, rage simmering under the surface immediately. You've always been the only person who can get a rise out of him, and it seems that hasn't changed.

"It's not where we want it," he answers, voice low and controlled as he can manage. "But we've got time. Podiums are still the target and are within reach."

“Even with the gap to Red Bull looking bigger than last year?”

"We’re not here to talk about gaps. We’re here to close them. Next question.”

Your eyes narrow, just a fraction because you are here to talk about gaps. He knows it, you know it. Vernon who is scratching the back of his neck and pretending to avert his gaze knows it.

“Second question, then," you continue. "You’ve spoken before about how important mental reset is after a tough preseason. How are you handling the pressure personally, given that your teammate has adapted to this year's car much faster?”

Jihoon wants to scream. He wants to say a lot of things. Wants to ask why you're asking that question. Wants to ask if this is revenge, if this is what happens when the pressure and his career gets in the way of being with you and if this is punishment for putting you second one time too many.

His answer comes out dangerously low. "I'm handling it the way I always do. I drive the car I'm given, and the rest is noise. I focus on the data, I do the work. The only pressure is from myself to do what I've been tasked to do."

You hold his gaze for a beat. It can't be more than a second, but he swears you cut down to the fucking core of him, your gaze a scalpel he cannot fight.

You nod. "Thank you."

Even though you've asked your questions, Jihoon is so acutely aware of you that he can barely focus on anything else. You stand there in the back, almost hidden behind a taller reporter, but you've opened the floodgates now - not just to the dam holding back his rage, but to the audience of reporters who were waiting for someone to poke him first.

"Jihoon," a reporter from Motorsport.com asks. "A follow up question for you. Given the performance gap to your teammate today, do you feel like the team's development direction still suits your driving style? Or maybe there's a risk that Ferrari has built a car that suits a different style?"

Jihoon scoffs. He can't help it because he hears the question for what it really is - do you think Ferrari has built the car for your teammate. Even Seungcheol makes a face, trying to cover his expression by putting his chin in his hand. It's a bold move to imply that a team has built a car for someone specific, and someone like Seungcheol who has that exact narrative year-after-year recognizes it the same way Jihoon does.

"I think the team is building the fastest car they can," Jihoon shoots back. "My job is to drive the car. If I can't drive the car, I need to adapt. Ferrari does not build the car for the driver. They build the car, the driver drives it. That's it."

No one asks him another question and he's glad. He doesn't want to answer more questions about the car and he doesn't want to answer questions that are the same questions you already asked him organized in different ways to make it sound like it's not a repeat question.

He knows it isn't fair to be upset with you, but he is all the same. He hates that once upon a time, he knew there wasn't malice behind your questions, knew that there was warmth and love instead of this this cold, calculated precision of a journalist and nothing more, asking him questions like he was just another driver.

But that's what he was to you now. Just another driver.

Back on the paddock, the sun is almost gone. The rrange light bleeds across the garages as Jihoon walks fast, cap low, shoulders up. He glances at the sky once and begrundingly acknowledges that the spill of tangerine light is beautiful, but when he nears the Ferrari motor home and hears your voice, he forgets all about where he is and appreciating his surroundings.

He looks up and sure enough, you're standing there with Soonyoung. From the distance you're standing from the motorhome, it's obvious you had just been walking by - not looking for him. Not waiting for him. Just passing through like anyone else, probably heading back to your hotel room to write a feature on how god fucking awful he was.

Soonyoung is laughing, his head thrown back, and you're smiling - not the polite, press smile you give everyone else - but the real kind that's genuine. The kind of smile that Jihoon used to get in hotel rooms at two in the morning when he showed you a funny video next to him in bed or when you woke up in the morning to find breakfast waiting. The kind of smile that you gave him and made anything and everything feel possible.

The sight hits him like break failure at 180 MPH.

Jihoon changes direction without thinking and he's in front of you before he can talk himself out of it, cutting off whatever Soonyoung is saying to ask, "Soonyoung, can you give us a minute?"

Soonyoung's laugh dies immediately. He looks at you and then back at Jihoon, suddenly unsure of the atmospheric change happening now that Jihoon is in the equation. "Uh… yes."

"No," you answer over Soonyoung. You stare at him, eyes flashing. "I'm in the middle of a conversation."

"It'll take two minutes."

"I'm not doing this here."

Jihoon steps closer, not crowding, bust enough that you can’t pretend he’s not there. “Then where? Because you had plenty to say in there.”

“That was work.”

“Work,” he repeats. The word tastes bitter. “Right.”

Soonyoung is frozen, looking like he wants the ground to swallow him whole. Jihoon ignores his teammate, watching as you try to look anywhere but at Jihoon directly. Rich, considering you'd looked at him sharp as ever in the media conference.

"I have to go." You step around him. "I have a deadline."

The urge to try and stop you nearly takes over. Jihoon doesn't move though, knowing he can't, a boundary he is unwilling to cross. So he stands rooted to the spot, watching you storm off into the dying sun, your silhouette blazing like the inside of his chest.

Silence stretches. Jihoon can feel his heart pounding just as hard as it does when he watches the lights go out at the start of the race, the adrenaline rush making him dizzy in the dying Australia evening. He wants to scream, his hands tight fists, walking you turn and vanish from his sight before he can muster up something to shout at you.

Soonyoung clears his throat awkwardly and Jihoon glances at his teammate, who is desperately fumbling for something to say. "Umm. Bad day?"

"Yeah."

"Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but she knows me from my time at Williams. Nothing weird. She's cool but I'm not - nothing weird here, alright? I'm not trying to step on anything. I have a girlfriend. Kind of. It's really complicated, to be honest."

Jihoon’s laugh is short and hollow. "You’re not stepping on anything.”

Soonyoung nods slowly. “Okay. Good. Cool.” Another beat. "You wanna grab a drink?"

Jihoon stares at the spot where you disappeared. He wishes you would re-materialize, that the sun's heatwaves will conjure a mirage of you, smiling and happy and looking at him the way you had Soonyoung.

"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah man. I need a drink."

Soonyoung claps him once on the shoulder, light and tentative. "How many drinks until you tell me your beef with Pat Benatar?"

"In your fucking dreams, Soonyoung."

"No biggie. I can tell you about my fake girlfriend."

"Your what?"

-

Jihoon loses the Australian Grand Prix faster than he can conceptualize. One second the lights are going out, the next he's crossing the finish line in P12. It's not dead last, but P12 in a Ferrari at the start of the season feels like swallowing glass, especially with Soonyoung on the podium with a P3 finish after a ruthless drive that turned the crowd into roaring red flags and a thunder of noise.

First podium of the season for Ferrari, and it's Soonyoung's.

Jihoon kills the car and sits. Doesn't move. Mechanics swarm but he stays strapped in, visor down, breathing harshly. The radio doesn't crackle with Luca's voice because he knows there's no sense in a pep talk now. Everyone who knows Jihoon knows that a silver lining won't help cool the sting of reality cutting through Jihoon for the first finish of the season, not that there's any silver lining to pull from today's disaster.

Eventually, Jihoon unclips and climbs out of the car. The heat hits him like a wall, the Melbourne evening still thick and sticky even after the sun has faded beyond the track somewhere, the afternoon still raw but dying. He yanks his helmet off, balaclava soaked through while sweat runs into his eyes and he lets it, trudging toward weigh in before he has to cool down and head to the media pen.

He doesn't speak. No one speaks to him either. Seungcheol from Red Bull glances at him with a single brow arched, but says nothing. Jihoon doesn't expect the golden driver of Red Bull who snatched P2 behind Chwe from McLaren to get it. How could he? Seungcheol has done what Jihoon hasn't - fixed a team clawing for championships.

As always, the media pen is chaos. Jihoon walks through it with his head down, cap pulled low and race suit half-unzipped and hanging off his hips. The PR handler murmurs reminders that are lost to the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the sound of voices and questions and the post-race whirring of machines.

He barely stops walking before someone asks, "How disappointing is P12 after such high expectations from Ferrari this weekend?"

Jihoon stops and forces the corners of his mouth up in a mock smile. "Disappointing. We didn't extract what the car was capable of. That's on me and the team. We'll need to fix it."

"Your teammate just earned Ferrari's first podium of the season on his first race with the team," someone points out. Jihoon pivots toward them, staring. "How much does that result change the mood in the garage for you personally?"

"Soonyoung drove perfectly. He deserved podium. The mood in the garage is fine. I'm focused on why I wasn't there with him. Nothing changes and the goal is to be a team."

He keeps moving, giving short answers with no elaboration. The anger sits low and hot behind his ribs like old oil that won't clear, clogging up everything and making him overheat. Every question feels like someone pressing on a fresh bruise, and now half of them are laced with congratulations for Soonyoung that land like insults even though they're not.

The press conference room is blessedly cold when he enters. He drops to the seat on the far left with Soonyoung in the middle, still flushed and grinning from his race. Seungcheol sits to his right, relaxed and leaning back as Jihoon crosses his arms and stares at the sea of faces with unseeing eyes.

When the moderator starts, Jihoon barely hears her. Soonyoung gets a generic opening question and Jihoon listens to his teammate talk about the management of the car and the strategy, his easy energy making the room laugh. Jihoon has never been able to do that, but he admires Soonyoung for being able to command a room full of sharks.

"Jihoon."

He looks up and sees you're standing near the front row this time, not hidden like before. Your notebook is open, pen poised old school, just like you like it - and your expression is unreadable, save for the slight tightening at the corners of your mouth.

"Two questions," you say. It's the same calm delivery that used to make hotel rooms feel safe after bad races and now just makes him sick to his stomach. "After finishing P12 on a day when Ferrari still earned a podium, how do you assess the performance gap within the team, and what does that say about the car's direction?"

The room quiets or maybe that's just how it feels. It's a similar question to the one you asked after practice on day one, but now you've got a race to use against him and the poor performance as justification.

Jihoon hears his own heartbeat in his ears and notices the way Seungcheol shifts, a small uncomfortable movement. Seungcheol knows who you are and knows what you mean to Jihoon, and for some reason the empathy that comes from another driver that Jihoon considers a long-time friend makes him more irritable.

Jihoon leans into the mic. “The gap is real. We saw it all weekend. Soonyoung maximized what the car could do today. I didn’t. My job is to close the gap. We'll keep working."

You don’t flinch or soften. “You’ve been vocal in the past about the importance of mental reset after difficult sessions. Clearly that reset didn’t happen between FP2 and the race today. With your teammate delivering under the same conditions, what specifically prevented you from finding the same level of performance?”

The question isn’t cruel, but It’s surgical. Fair. Asked the same way you’d ask any driver who just threw away twenty points while his teammate stood on the second step. Butt it's you who's asking the question and it' Soonyoung who is sitting right there, proof that the car wasn’t the problem. Jihoon was.

He exhales through his nose. “Pressure. Expectations. Execution. Same things everyone deals with. I didn’t handle it well enough today and Soonyoung did, that’s the difference.”

You nod once. “Thank you.”

He wants to laugh. Or throw the mic. Or ask why the fuck you’re doing this - why you're sitting there looking at him like he's just data on a screen. But he doesn't. He sits through the rest of the questions and lets Soonyoung charm the room with humble gratitude and jokes, lets Seungcheol talk strategy like the golden boy he is. Jihoon stays quiet unless directly addressed, and when it ends, he stands first.

He doesn't go straight to the motorhome. The buzzing in his veins won't let him. Instead, he stands outside the narrow service corridor behind the media center and leans against the wall, arms crossed. He knows you'll walk this way because you always used to cut through here to avoid the main paddock and the crowd crush when you were on a deadline.

Knowing things like that about you is agony. He hates the way he knows your quirks and tells, hates the way it's instinct for him to know what you'll say or do. Hates that he knows you were being fair in the media conference but he's angry anyway, rage and something like heartbreak simmering just under the placid surface of him.

You appear a few minutes later, phone in your hand and notepad tucked under your arm, typing away at your phone. He says nothing but you sense him, pulling up short as you jerk your attention up to see him. Surprise briefly flickers across your face before it settles into a cool, unreadable mask.

"What, Jihoon?" You sigh, sliding the phone into your pocket.

"You're nitpicking," he says.

"I'm asking questions."

"You don't have to phrase them like I'm the only person who failed today."

"Maybe you didn't notice, but you were on the stage among podium winners and people who finished inside top ten. Bitch at the moderator for the shitting press window, not me."

The laugh that comes out of him is sharp and humorless. "Right. And you've got a story to write, yeah? Am I getting a villain edit?"

"I'm not writing fanfiction, Jihoon. I'm writing what happened. Ferrari got a podium and it wasn't you. The why is relevant. This is my job."

“Your job,” he repeats, the word tasting like bile. “And what exactly is your job now? Because it feels a lot like following me around and twisting the knife every time I open my mouth while everyone else gets to clap for the new guy.”

"Get used to it." You storm passed him and he fights the urge to reach out and stop you. "I've been assigned Ferrari full-time this season for a feature series. I will continue to twist the knife, since apparently asking appropriate interview questions is a crime now."

Jihoon feels something crack inside his chest when the words hang. Knowing you will be in the garage to write about his every failure and Soonyoung's every win makes the room spin as he puts together what you're telling him.

"So I get to see you every race," he grits out. "Every time I fuck up, and you get to write about it."

You watch him with an unreadable gaze before you dismiss yourself. "I'm not hunting you for sport, Jihoon. Stop acting like it. Thankfully for you, your teammate has a lot to write about and is a lot less of an asshole when I ask him about his mistakes."

Jihoon says nothing. He stares at you as you walk away, never looking back to him. The service hallway is cold against his still-damp skin. He stays there even after you're gone, back against the wall, head tipped back, eyes staring fluorescent lights until his vision is swimming in coalescing lights.

The sounds of the paddock are distant - laughter from hospitality, someone singing off-key, the hum of engines as people break down the race. Normal Sunday night noises after a race, except nothing feels normal to Jihoon. Not anymore, not when he's P12 and you've gone somewhere he doesn't know how to reach.

Fucking heartbreaker.

-

The Jeddah Corniche Circuit is one of Jihoon's least favorite tracks. He doesn't hate it because of the walls that come out of nowhere or the straights that punish any ounce of hesitation, but rather hates it because last year when he'd been here, you'd been fighting. Maybe he should have known then that the fighting happening between closed doors wasn't going to mend itself. Now you're here in the garage and he feels that familiar fight or flight hammering under his ribs, your presence in the garage bringing back to life the bickering you'd done in hotel rooms just a year ago in this very city.

He hates seeing you around, the awful sense of desire and frustration clashing inside him every time he sees you, the newest permanent fixture in Ferrari's garage. You move through the garage with the same quiet authority you used to have when you were dating, and he hates how normal it is to see you here, how easy it is for you.

You ask Matteo questions while leaning over Luca's shoulder at the telemetry wall, scribbling notes while you skirt around mechanics and team personnel. You fit in so well that it makes him want to scream, and worst of all, everyone likes you. They had liked you when you'd been around in a less official capacity last year, but seeing the way you make Soonyoung laugh and the way the mechanics stick close to you is just proof that you're not the problem.

Jihoon is.

This will be the fourth race in with you in the garage and Jihoon still flinches when he sees you. He tries to compartmentalize when he sees you with his visor down in the car or headphones on in the garage, but sometimes he can't avoid you, like right now when you're standing in hospitality in front of the coffee machine he was heading toward.

He swallows. Your back is to him, head ducked as you scroll on your phone, the espresso machine churning as it processes your coffee. You're dressed in the black jeans that used to - still - drive him crazy, your media pass dangling around your neck.

"Settling in nicely?" His voice makes you startle and you whirl, looking at him with wide eyes. "Sorry."

You don't answer immediately. "I guess."

He leans a shoulder against the wall a few feet away. Arms crossed. “Garage suits you. You’re practically living there now.”

"Yeah. Now I’m just like you.”

He pauses and let's the words settle. For a second, he doesn't know what you mean. Then he sees the immediate wince on your face, instant regret that tells him it's a barb. He narrows his eyes, arms tightening a little.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asks evenly.

"Nothing. I shouldn't have-"

"No. Tell me what you mean."

For a second, you don't answer. Instead you take the coffee from the machine and put a sleeve and lid on, doing anything you can to delay an answer. You've always been good at. taking time to choose your words. It's the single quality you have that makes you stick out among the other journalists, thoughtful and careful in your questions, never stupid, never rage baiting.

"It means," you answer carefully. "That I'm here because the job demands it. No space for anything else. I assumed it would be familiar to you."

"That's not fair."

“Isn’t it?” You tilt your head, the same way you used to when you were trying not to cry in hotel rooms after he missed another anniversary dinner. “You were never really there, Jihoon. You chose the garage. Every time.”

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out because you’re right, and the truth tastes acidic. This isn't how he imagined starting a Grand Prix day. Outside the room, team members drift past like nothing is wrong, carrying about their day without a care in the world while Jihoon feels like someone is ripping the scab off of a wound he was hoping was finally healing.

It was a futile hope and he knows it. Jihoon has known from the moment he saw you that he isn't healing, and hearing you say why you left so plainly turns his thoughts to static. He doesn't know what to say or do - he never does. That was part of the problem too. You'd wait for him with tears in your eyes looking defeated and he'd come home tired, unsure of what to say or how to make it better. So he just didn't.

You swallow thickly and shake your head. "I apologize. We shouldn't be talking about this. You have a race and I was out of line. I apologize."

"No," he says, though his voice feels distant. "I asked for honesty."

Silence stretches for a moment before you nod and clear your throat. "Good luck today, then."

Jihoon doesn't follow you out when you leave. Doesn't watch you go. Doesn't do anything. He stands and stares with unseeing eyes, his thoughts grinding like the failing engine of his car in practice two days ago.

You were never really there.

It's all he can hear when the lights go out. He starts clean but his head is a mess, the car kissing the wall at Turn 22, him feathering the throttle too early exiting Turn 13. Every fuck up he makes, your voice echoes over and over again until it feels like he's talking to you through the headset, not Luca.

You were never really there.

Despite the haunting drone of your voice, he fights anyway, trying to defend hard against Xu into the final sector on lap 12, managing to hold the inside to force him wide. He even manages to overtake Lee in the Williams car with a late brake down the inside of Turn 1 that makes Luca praise him over the radio, but it's lost to the static of his mind.

You were never really there.

Jihoon finishes in points, but it feels hollow. P8 isn't anything to brag about, but at least he's inside the fucking points for the first time this season. It should feel like a weight off his shoulders, but its not. He still has work to do, the gap between him and Soonyoung at P4 not much smaller than it has been the last four races.

The press routine becomes rote. Jihoon climbs out the car, yanks the helmet off, lets the sweat burn his eyes, and eventually pulls a cap low over his sweaty hair before following PR out to the pen. It's the same wash, rinse, repeat of every race before this one, a time loop he can't break.

"P8 from last weeks P11 - is this a step forward?"

No, he wants to scream. Instead, his voice is clipped and efficient. "Points are points. Car is improving. We keep pushing."

"Mentality still good, then?"

Absolutely fucking not, he wants to holler. "Focused as always. We reset. We move on."

The press conference is a haze of questions and rehearsed answers. He barely hears the questions he's asked, but he somehow manages to ask them. You ask him no questions - pity or resentment, he's not sure - but he's grateful anyway.

Jihoon goes through the motions of finishing a race weekend, sitting through debrief silent and offering feedback when asked. His team looks at him sideways, but no one pushes. No one wants to be too hard on him, like he's fragile. It makes him want to throw something, to scream to stop treating him like a child.

He doesn't. He just gets through it with gritted teeth and steely focus until he's sitting in a hotel room that's too quiet and too clean, too empty.

Jihoon showers to escape the silence, the heat of the water burning away the residual anger and turning it into something else that hurts just as bad. He stays under the spray of water until it runs colder and his fingers prune, reluctantly getting out only to sit on the bed in a towel, staring down at his phone in his hand.

A blank thread with your name stares back at him, the blinking text cursor waiting for him to type. So he swallows and types, fingers moving haltingly.

I'm sorry about this morning.

Deletes.

You were right but I don't know how to do this with you around

Deletes.

You're fucking up my head.

Deletes.

The problem is me. I miss you.

Deletes.

Jihoon locks his phone and throws it onto the armchair across the room. He lies back, still damp as he stares at the textured ceiling. The room smells like generic hotel soap and the faint scent of the cologne you bought him two years ago.

Outside, the city thrums, the traffic and distant thrum of bass from a car echoing toward his window. Inside, your voice loop on repeat, haunting him like that stupid Pat Benatar song you love so much.

You were never really there. Heartbreaker.

You were never really there. Dream maker.

You were never really there. Love taker.

-

Rain beats down on the garage, the wind coming off Biscayne Bay blowing sheets of it across the track, turning it into a black mirror. Jihoon watches the radar with arms crossed in the motorhome, still in his fireproofs, suit tied around the waist. They expect a long delay and he blows out a sigh, hating the waiting game, his nerves frayed and the after burn of lost adrenaline making him itchy.

Mechanics kill time by playing cards and engineers scroll data on tablets while Soonyoung sits on the ground playing his switch, chatting with his race engineer. Soonyoung laughs at something she says, corner of his eyes crinkling when he smiles. Jihoon gives them a wide berth, staying away from that ticking time bomb of a PR nightmare as much as he can.

Jihoon spots you coming his way and his heart starts to hammer on instinct. You look toward an empty meeting room and jerk you're head toward it, half a command, half request. Jihoon should say no, considering the last time he spoke to you one-on-one fucked with him so bad he could barely drive the car. But the same desire to be close to you and to hear your voice overrides any logic he has and he nods.

You enter the room first, dropping yourself into one of the armchairs. He sits on the couch across from you, elbows on his knees, watching you fidget as you settle. You don't have a notebook or anything for an interview, so he realizes whatever this conversation is, it's personal. It makes him brace for the worst, muscles locking like he's going in for a fight, heart racing.

"You need to stop fighting the car."

He blinks, momentarily stunned. "What?"

"The car. You're muscling the shit out of the car, and that's never been your style of driving. You're bleeding time in sectors because you're not trusting yourself and you're over-correcting before the rear even steps out."

Jihoon stares. The words land like cold data readouts that are clinical and accurate, brutal in their simplicity. He wants to snap back and tell you to save it for the article, but you're not doing an interview right now. You're starring at him with the same analytical gaze you used to give him when talking strategy on a plane while heading to the next race.

He swallows hard and looks away toward the rain hammering on the window. The sky is gunmetal beyond the glass, Miami turning into a canvas of grey and purple, lightning cracking.

"I don't know how to stop fighting it," he sighs. "Every time I ease off, it feels like I'm losing grip or giving up."

You hum thoughtfully. "Remember Imola last year?"

He nods. Imola last year was one of his best races, a beautiful performance clawing his way from P14 to P1. You'd both celebrated well into the early hours of morning, you pinned under him, him drunk off of the high of winning and the heat of your mouth.

"That was a race you won on pure instinct," you point out. "You just locked in and didn't fight the car. You just drove.

He exhales long and slow. The advice sinks in and he thinks about every race prior to this season, all of his feathering too early, snapping the wheel, the way the car in Bahrain testing had started out like a dialogue but ended up as a confrontation.

Jihoon meets your eyes. You're watching him, fingers fidgeting in your lap, and he realizes you're nervous and that maybe he's not the only one who regrets the conversation in Saudi Arabia.

"You really think that's it?"

"I know it is." There's no hesitation when you answer. "I've watched every single part of your racing. You're fast when you let go. You lose it when you start to overthink."

"I guess."

"You never used to overthink."

You're right. Jihoon have never been someone who was over-controlling on the car or strategy. He was often calm and collected, absorbing the problems as they came. He'd been like that with you too, though. He didn't overthink your problems, didn't dig his heels in to try and figure out each one.

And then you'd left and he realized that maybe he hadn't thought about it enough.

Jihoon wants to tell you that, but he doesn't know how to say it in a way that doesn't make it sound like his failures this season are your fault, because they're not. He just wishes you understood his newfound obsession with control, how he doesn't know how to let it go because the last tie he had, you'd walked out of his life.

Rain taps on the window as he nods, exhaling long and slow. "Alright."

You nod and stand, wiping your hands on your jeans. "That's all I came to say."

"Thanks," he murmurs, voice soft beneath the patter of rain. "For telling me instead of making it a headline."

"I'm not your enemy." He nods but says nothing. "Good luck."

Then you're gone, leaving him with nothing but the rain until the delay ends an hour later.

It's a shortened race, the track wet and slick. Jihoon climbs into the car, a new energy humming in his veins, and for once, it isn't nervousness or the determination to control the car - it's confidence. Confidence in himself and in the car., confidence that he's driven on wet tracks and worse cars than what Ferrari's given him.

So he tries not to think about it too much when the lights go out and the spray is everywhere. The car feels different immediately and even though he starts to tighten his grip, he takes a deep breath and lets the car slide into Turn 3 instead of forcing it. He lets the rear slide a little, heart leaping until it catches and he's out the turn.

Jihoon grins a little, pressing the throttle to gain pace, the water on his helmet slicking off as he hunts the McLaren in front of him, the brake lights a smear of color in the mist off the track.

Luca's voice crackles over the radio. "Good pace. Keep it tidy."

Jihoon keeps it squeaky fucking clean. No over-corrections, no white-knuckles on the wheel, and he breathes through the turns, feeling the hum of the engine and the drag of the tires. He trusts the tires to catch when they need and by lap 12, he's up to P5 after overtaking Lee in the McLaren and Hong in the Mercedes.

Soonyoung is ahead of him, fighting with Choi for P3. Jihoon doesn't worry about chasing him. He drives his own race, cruising into Turn 1 with a late break and beautiful exit, defending against Hong desperately trying to retake P5 behind him.

And then he crosses the finish line inside the top five for the first time since last season. For the first time this season, Ferrari has two cars in the top five and Jihoon starts to laugh, Luca's excitement bleeding through the radio.

It is far from perfect and it's not on the podium where he wants to be, but its so much better than P8 or lower. So much better that he feels like he drove better, not grinding the brakes or bumping the wall on his exits, too tight on the control. For the first time all season, it felt like it was instinct, like he just drove without worrying about trying to control the result.

He rolls the car slowly down the pit lane, engine dropping to a soft purr as his adrenaline bleeds out. Jihoon kills the engine in the garage and sits for a second longer than usual, letting the post-race high crash a little.

He unclips, pushes the steering wheel up and out, and climbs onto the halo. He yanks the helmet off, balaclava peeling away with it, and shakes out sweat-soaked hair. Soonyoung is already out of his car, arms raised as he jumps down from the car and gives Jihoon a feral grin.

"Fuck yeah!" He bellows over the noise of mechanics and dying engines. Soonyoung meets him in the garage, clapping Jihoon hard on the back. "You drove like your old self today. Fucking loved it."

Jihoon swallows and nods once, not trusting himself to say more without his voice cracking.

The media pen is mercifully under cover as the rain picks back up, water streaming off the edges of the canopy in steady ropes as Jihoon stands with a towel around his neck, hair still dripping. He sees you before you see him, speaking to a Sky Sports producer, gesturing with your notebook the way you always do when you’re working out angles in real time. Black jeans. Ferrari media pass. Hair damp from the rain you must have crossed without an umbrella. You look focused. Professional.

Beautiful. So beautiful its like a knife to the ribs.

When your eyes finally meet his across the pen, you don’t flinch or look away. You just give a single, small nod and he returns the gesture, not friends but not enemies. It eases the pressure a little bit, but doesn't ease the ache.

Media goes better today, as it so often does when he's not sucking behind the wheel. Jihoon answers just as short and to the point as usual, but there's less bite today and he doesn't feel snappy, doesn't feel tired and poked and prodded. He just feels…. good, which he hasn't in a long time.

By the time he's back in the garage, you're coming his way, calm and collected. He pauses, brows raised as rain beats down on the garage roof.

"You have a moment to spare for an interview?" You ask.

He nods and gestures toward his dressing room. You look like you want to protest - the dressing room feels too personal - but it's you and him and he charges down the back hall without looking back, knowing you'll follow him.

You do, slipping in and closing the door behind you with a metallic click. He sits on the small couch, melting into it as he closes his eyes, thankful for the cool, dry air to fight of the wet Miami heat. You sit down on a folding chair where his trainer usually sits, crossing one leg over the other.

"Ready when you are," he murmurs.

"Alright." You tap your phone. "I'm recording today."

"No note pad?"

"No, I still have my notepad. It just makes it easier for the longer pieces."

"Got it."

"So," you start. "P5 today. First top five of the season for you personally and Ferrari's strongest team result so far. Walk me through what made the difference."

"Track was tricky," he admits. "But the car felt good but predictable. For the first time in a while, I could learn on the rear without it loosing control. The team gave me a good balance before the restart, and once I stopped trying to fight the car, the pace came naturally."

"You mention you stopped trying to fight the car. Was there a specific moment it clicked today?"

Jihoon opens his eyes and looks at you. He can tell you mean the question honestly - you're not asking him if what you said made a difference. You're asking if something happened during his drive, if the feedback on the radio or the data helped him figure it out.

"Yes," he says. "Someone reminded me that I've never been fast when I'm fighting the car. I took their advice. It had nothing to do with anything else but that."

You hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary after his answer before nodding. "Team radio was pretty quiet on your drive today, you had less changes and corrections. Was that deliberate or did the drive just go that well?

"Bit of both. Drive just started right from the beginning and Luca and I just sort of reached a flow state. Didn't need to talk much. Sometimes I just need to shut up and drive."

The corner of your mouth lifts just enough that he knows you're amused. He stares at it, heart skipping a little, and for the first time in a long time, this feels like familiar territory. You've interviewed him in every corner of every track for years, but the two years you were together were the best of them.

This feels almost like that now. Almost. You've reverted back to the polished, calculated interview style you had before you'd started dating, but there's something softer there that has stuck, even after the breakup, something personal. Something in the way you look at him, like it takes you a second to remember that you're not together when you're asking him questions.

Jihoon realizes how much he wishes you were. He enjoyed interviews more back then when it felt like you'd dissect his race because you cared about what was going on in his head and less to piece together a story. It helped that most of them were followed by him pressing you into the mattress until neither one of you thought about racing anymore, but things had been easier then.

Until they hadn't.

As much as he misses it, not every night was perfect. Most nights you'd sit in a hotel room and pore over telemetry together, head on his shoulder and he'd lean into your insights without question, nodding along. You strategy had always been - and still is - sharp as ever. He used to joke about you becoming a race engineer, but you like journalism and the challenge of a story.

But then there were other nights. Missed calls, reschedule dinners, him prioritizing workouts and strategy sessions over planned time with you. Jihoon has no idea when he started making you secondary to the garage, but you'd walked away from him before he figured it out.

"So," you start. "Soonyoung's been the benchmark for Ferrari so far this season with consistent top-five pace. Today you matched him more closely than you have all season. Does that make it feel like pressure is easing internally with the team?"

Jihoon looks down at his hands for a beat, thumbs tracing the edge of the couch cushion. This is the kind of question that could be spun a dozen different ways in print, and he knows you know that. Still, you've asked it anyway - not to hurt him, but to get something out of him that you probably know is there.

So he thinks about the question before he says, "Soonyoung is a good driver. His start reminds me of my first year with Ferrari. He's hungry and adaptive. The pressure isn't to match Soonyoung or catch up, but to drive the car the way I know I can. Today I showed that I can. It doesn't mean the job is done, but it means I'm capable when I apply myself."

Surprisingly, you do smile at that. It's like watching the first spill of pink into a morning sky as the sun rises, warm and startling. He feels his heart race a little faster as you look up, holding his gaze longer than you have all season. You nod once, acknowledging that you like the answer, before dropping your gaze back down to your notes.

"Last question," you tell him. "You've talked a lot in the past about instinct being your strongest weapon. Would you say you're getting that version of yourself back?"

Jihoon leans back, letting his head rest against the couch. He stares up at the lights, blinding by the fluorescent, color swimming at the edge of his vision as he chews on the question. Instinct is how he used to drive - it's what made him stand out from other drivers as he climbed his way through F2 and into F1. Where others spent years getting the mechanics and feel for racing, Jihoon just instinctively raced.

It's what initially drew you to him in the first place. His raw, uncalculated drive on the track was something you appreciated. You'd always told him there was a kind of honestly about it, that Jihoon was never trying to beat anyone else or be anyone else. His biggest competition had always been himself, and he was only ever trying to drive how he knew he could.

Somewhere in the last year, he'd lost that and started comparing himself to his teammates, to the other drivers on the grid that were younger and fresher. He had started thinking that if he just spent more time in the garage, if he just looked over the data more, he could keep up. That he could keep pace with where he wanted to be - needed to be.

Now, Jihoon see's the gap in the logic and sees your question for what it truly is: do you get it, Jihoon. Do you see where you've lost your way?

"Yeah," he croaks finally. "I think I get it now."

You let the silence stretch while you lean back, watching him as he drops his gaze down and looks at you. There's no follow up question. You just stare at him with an unreadable expression, and just when he thinks you're going to say something, you nod and lean forward to stop the recording.

"Thank you." You lean back for a second, finger tapping on your thigh. "It'll be a good piece. Honest without being brutal." You stand then, sliding your phone in your pocket. You hesitate just before you reach the door, turning a fraction to glance at him. "You looked good out there today. Like the old Jihoon."

The compliment makes his heart race. He nods, a tired smile splitting his face. "Felt good."

Before the moment can stretch too long, you slide out of the room, the door clicking behind you. Jihoon stays seated, staring at the door. The absence of you feels heavier than it used to, the ache behind his ribs steadily rising when he realizes that now you'll go back to a hotel room that isn't his and work on a piece without any chances of him distracting or interrupting you. No late night coffee date with your fingers intertwined, no shower hot enough to melt metal to ease the tension of a deadline.

Just you. Without him.

Fucking heartbreaker.

-

The streets of Barcelona past midnight are nice. It's quiet but not empty, making Jihoon feel like he has just enough room to breathe without being entirely alone. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks, the streetlamps casting pools of light on him as he wanders, the smell of the bougainvilleas strong, the violet flowers spilling over iron balconies and gates.

Jihoon had been stellar today. Not just stellar - he'd made his first podium of the season, securing P2 with a clean start and flawless driving. He'd been held off from winning by the McLaren, but for the first time in his career, Jihoon doesn't care about P1. He cares about his drive - about himself - and the trust he's had to put into himself to make the drive possible today.

After having to retire the car in Ferrari's first home circuit of the year at Imola, it's a fucking relief. While he'd done fine afterward in Monaco, being the heartbreaker of the home race had been weighing on Jihoon since slamming his head on the wheel and screaming as the car's engine gave out. Soonyoung had been Ferrari's only pride that day, making podium as a sea of red exploded in the Italian grandstands.

Seeing all that red again today in Spain had lessened the sting of it all. It had been a long time since he stood on a podium with the Tifosi screaming his name, red flags rippling in a sea of fans. Soonyoung had finished in P4, grinning like an idiot when Jihoon had wandered back to the garage, saying welcome back as though even Soonyoung knew the real Jihoon had been found again.

Jihoon turns left, walking toward a string of shops and late-night restaurants. He's still buzzing from the win, restlessness and a little hunger driving him from the quiet luxury of the hotel room onto the familiar streets of Spain.

He looks up and stops dead when he sees you.

You're learning against the low stone rim of a fountain that gurgles quietly, the lights strung between buildings casts a soft, gold light on you that makes you glow. You're in jeans and a soft grey hoodie that Jihoon realizes is his, making him jolt.

Sensing his gaze, you look up at him. You seem confused for a split second before you realize it's him and freeze. "Jihoon."

"Hi." His voice comes out a little more unsteady than he means it to. He clears his through, heart doing that stupid thing that it does whenever it sees you recently. "What are you doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep." You pocket your phone. "You?"

"Same. Too much adrenaline."

You grin - a real grin, full of warmth that makes Jihoon want to burst at the seams. "Congratulations again. You raced clean today."

"Thanks. Felt good."

"I bet."

He hesitates a beat, the fountain bubbling as the two of you stare at one another. "I'm kind of starving and trying to find something open. Do you want to come?"

Surprise followed by hesitation flickers across your face. He braces for a polite no, realizing that he has over-extended beyond the polite fencing you've put up between the two of you.

"Sure," you say finally. He blinks in surprise. "I skipped dinner to make a deadline."

The two of you walk in silence for the first two blocks. The alleys narrow, forcing you a little closer, shoulders nearly brushing. Jihoon is hyper aware of your warmth and the soft smell of sandalwood perfume you like to wear, the one he bought you when you were in Singapore the year before. The scent nearly undoes him, his hands flexing in his pockets as he keeps himself from reaching over to close the distance and pull you closer.

You discover a tiny bodega tucked under a low archway almost by accident, the stripped awning sagging but the neon on the door flashing that its open. The tables outside are mismatched, some with wicker chairs some with metal, but the smell of hot oil and something spicy drifting from the door is too hard to resit.

A server gestures through the window to take one of the tables so you do, chairs scraping silently against the night. When the server appears, Jihoon panics for only a moment before remembering you are the Spanish speaker between the two of you, relief flooding him as you order two glasses of wine and plates of garlic prawns, bread and thing slices of jamón.

"Wine, huh?" Jihoon grins. "Are we celebrating?"

"Maybe." You take a sip and hum. "Better than podium champagne."

"Everything's better than podium champagne. You learn to hate the smell and taste after a while."

"Still crave being showered in it though, yeah?" He nods, sipping the wine. It's dry, the taste of cherries rich on his tongue. "You looked happy up there today."

"I was. The car felt good. Didn't have to fight the car."

"The car or yourself?"

As always, your question is sharp and to the point. You always had a way of voicing the real issue, of asking the right question. When Jihoon first met you, he thought maybe it was because you were a journalist, but now he knows its because you're good at seeing through the bullshit, your instinct for truth better than anyone else he knows.

"Both, I guess."

When the food arrives, your conversation lulls. Not in a way that feels awkward, but it feels nice. Jihoon watches you bite into a garlic prawn and make a little noise that does things to his stomach and chest, his eyes going to his plate as he steals a slice of jamón.

It melts on his tongue and he makes an equally obscene noise that has you laughing, leaning back in your chair as you nod and sip your wine. "Yeah. It's good."

"Remember Singapore?" He asks, peeling back the shell on a prawn. "That hole in the wall that we loved to go to with the laksa that almost killed me?"

"You mean the one that made you cry?"

"I did not!"

"You absolutely did, Ji."

The nickname is so sudden that it pulls both of you up short. Jihoon’s fingers freeze around the prawn shell. He doesn’t look up right away. He can’t. If he does, he’s afraid the careful distance you’ve both been maintaining since Miami will shatter, and he doesn't know what will spill out of him if it does.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “Old habit.”

When he lifts his faze, your eyes are fixed on the table. You look embarrassed, like the armor you've been wearing all season with him has as single weakness and you've just pressed on it yourself.

"It's okay." He swallows, still frozen. "It was nice hearing it. I know we're not-" He stops and shakes his head, putting the prawn down and wiping garlicky fingers on a napkin. "I know we're not together anymore, but hearing you say it just now felt nice."

You pick up a piece of bread, tear it in half, then tear one half again. You’re not really eating it, you're just giving your hands something to do. Jihoon has seen you do it a hundred times, usually with pens or pieces of paper, snapping caps and ripping corners of notebooks.

"I've almost used it before this," you admit, not looking at him. "It's an adjustment. You're not the only one who thinks of places like Singapore."

Jihoon’s throat closes as he nods. It's both heaven and hell to hear you say it, to know that you remember the smell of the hotel shampoo on skin, the way you'd lay in bed while you read over a piece as he dozed against your side.

"I fucked that up," he admits.

It's not a question and you don't rush to correct him. Jihoon feels his stomach hollow out, heart dropping to his ass. You're nice enough not to agree, but your silence is somehow worse, like you're trying to spare him.

He hates it.

"You can say it. I know. I did."

You lift a shoulder. "You chose something else. Over and over until I decided I wanted to make a choice for once, so I chose me."

“I thought if I gave everything to the car, I would be able to catch up. I guess I just thought you'd understand."

"I did - I do. But I'm not a pit stop, you don't get to come and go as you please."

Jihoon remembers the night you left so clearly. He remembers the exact shade of gold of the Austin skyline, the live music drifting from Rainey Street. You always liked it better than Sixth, and it was closer to the river. He'd almost made podium that day, finishing P5 after Ferrari finally began clicking after Jihoon had spent the entire first half of the season grinding himself to dust to chase Red Bull and Mercedes.

He remembers the way you'd come out of the bathroom fully showered, voice soft as you tried to spark up a conversation. Jihoon was staring at data, looping on how he could have done better, how he could have pushed the car a little harder. P5 was fine, but it wasn't good enough. Wasn't right.

The fight had started softly at first - you asking him if he was listening, him insisting he was. You never raised your voice, but you did that night, your anger sharp against the buzz of Austin traffic, accusing him of making the relationship too low-priority.

He remembers you pacing the room as he yelled back at you, raw and angry. This was his career, his life, you knew what you were getting into. If you didn't want someone who worked hard, what were you doing there? It had been the wrong thing to say, and as he remembers it now, he winces.

You'd packed by morning, pale grey light spilling across the Texas sky as Jihoon watched you numbly. You'd folded your clothes with shaking hands, your silence a wall of ice meant to keep him out. And he'd let you keep him out. He hadn't fought. Hadn't begged.

"Yeah," Jihoon sighs. "Yeah I know. I get it."

Your eyes soften, but there’s a guarded edge too, like this kind of honesty scares you more than it helps. "I know you do. It doesn't make it easier."

For a moment, the two of you stare at one another. Jihoon opens his mouth to take a risk, heart pounding, to apologize and tell you to let him try and fix it. But before he can, he watches you straighten, the softness in your eyes shuttering, replaced by the cool mask you've kept all of this season.

"It's late," you sigh, signaling for the check. "Early flight tomorrow."

Jihoon slams into your wall of ice at 200 MPH. He reaches for the check before you can, waving off your soft protest. You say nothing as he signs for it, the silence pressing in as you both stand, chairs scraping.

The lights of Barcelona hum softly in the night. He thinks of Austin again, the dim lights reminding him of the same strip of restaurants and bars burning outside the suite, the absence of your voice pressing in on him as he lay on the hotel bed staring at the ceiling.

When you part ways, Jihoon's blood is buzzing. He feels it in his hands and arms, a nagging feeling that he can't stop as he murmurs a quiet goodbye. You give him a small smile and head off. Just like in Austin, he doesn't stop you. Doesn't know what to say.

Somewhere, music is drifting through an open window of an apartment, the crackling sound of Pat Benatar's voice drifting on the wind, a constant phantom that always drifts behind him.

Heartbreaker. Dream maker. Love taker.

-

The roar of the Tifosi is a living thing. Sound crashes over the Autodromo Nazionale Monza, so loud that Jihoon can barely thing. Jihoon's car gleams under the Italian sun, the sea of red flags rippling in the grandstands visible as the heat presses in.

Visor down, the world narrows to the inside of the car. He doesn't let the crowd get to him. Breathes in. Breathes out. Wills his hands to stop shaking. Monza is just like any race, but it feels like more than that today. This is the home race, bigger than Imola, with higher stakes and a louder crowd.

There's no room for error today. Not with Seungcheol on pole, untouchable all weekend in qualifying. Jihoon is slotted at P3 behind Chwe's orange McLaren, and Soonyoung is just behind Jihoon in P4, the energy of two Ferrari's starting so high up palpable.

Beneath him, the engine hums. It feels like an extension of his own body, nervous and edgy but ready. Jihoon knows every straight here, every turn - knows that power and clean exits will reward him here if he just lets the car do what needs to get done.

Today, the goal is simple - finish the race where he started. He's not chasing Chwe and he's not trying to jockey for position with Soonyoung. Jihoon's only goal is to finish the race under his own terms without fighting the car, without forcing it.

Jihoon sucks in a sharp breathe. The grandstands are a blur of crimson, but he focuses on the five lights ahead, thumbs brushing over the wheel. He breathes out as the first light illuminates, then the second. He breathes in. The lights go out, and he exhales.

The launch slams into him immediately. He's careful as the vehicle shoots forward, holding the inside line to Turn 1 as Vernon's McLaren goes wide on the exit. Jihoon attacks without thinking, surging into P2 and peeling off as Luca says something encouraging in Italian. It's lost in the roaring blood in Jihoon's ears, eyes laser-focused on Seungcheol's car ahead.

Jihoon falls into a rhythm of feathering the wheel and braking late. The car feels good under him, each bump of the chicane smooth. His hands grip the wheel as he sails through the sectors, narrowing the gap between him and Red Bull.

"Gap to leader 0.8 seconds," Luca says. "Push push."

Jihoon doesn't respond. He's too focused, the world reduced to turns and braking points. He hardly registers the passing of time until he's debating pit maneuvers with Luca while he defends Soonyoung from overtaking him.

"Solid," Luca says and Jihoon grins, putting space between him and his teammate on the straight. "Gap to Soonyoung 1.2. Can the tires handle more?"

"Yes."

"Keep up the pace and stay out as long as you can. Box for hards on lap twenty four."

"Heard."

On lap twenty, Seungcheol makes a tiny mistake and locks up going into a turn. Jihoon presses the advantage, diving around the outside through the second part of the chicane to overtake. The car slides close enough to the gravel that he feels the rocks kick up and rattle against the metal floor, each ping of the stone on metal that he cut it too close to going out of bounds for an overtake.

He pulls out in front of Seungcheol and grins, pushing the car harder. He knows the heat is building in his tires as Seungcheol heads to the pit lane. The front tires are staring to wear, and the car pushes too wide through a turn, fighting him. Behind him, Soonyoung pits, the orange McLaren hunting Jihoon down.

"Gap to Chwe 3.2"

Jihoon feels the pressure in his shoulders, feels the wheel fight back. He doesn't grip it harder. He breathes deeper and lets the car slide a fraction more than usual, trusting it to catch the edges of each turns. It does, and he exhales, fending off Vernon until Luca calls for new tires.

The mechanics are a blur in his peripheral. He barely registers the stop before he's peeling back out onto the track again, narrowly sliding out in front of Choi to slot himself in P3 behind Soonyoung. But now Jihoon has fresher tires, closing the gap between his teammate on an inside overtake at Rettifilo that forces Soonyoung wide with a late brake.

Jihoon grins, hunting down the back of Chwe's car until he rolls across the finish line in P2 with Soonyoung narrowly behind him in P3.

"Belissimo!" Luca screams, his voice peaking the radio mic. "Fucking beautiful! What a drive, Jihoon. Kwon is in P3, forza!"

Grinning, Jihoon rolls the car into parc fermé and kills the engine. His hands are shaking like he just finished pole, and for Ferrari, it may as well be. He sits for a long second, chest heaving, sweat burning his eyes and soaking through the balaclava.

Outside, the roar washes over him like a wave crashing onto the cliffs. The Tifosi are so loud the air vibrates, smoke and flares of red drifting across the crowd as he rests his head on the back of the seat. Something cracks open inside of him, relief and joy spilling out that he hasn't felt in weeks.

Jihoon unclips and pushes the wheel away, climbing onto the halo to rip of his helmet and balaclava. His hair is plastered to his neck with sweat but he grins, raising his arms as he jumps down, the Tifosi screaming.

Soonyoung is there in an instant, helmet gone, grinning like a madman as he grabs Jihoon and kisses him on the head.

"Double fucking podium at Monza!" Soonyoung screams. Jihoon laughs, shoving Soonyoung off. "What a fucking race!"

Jihoon sees Chwe running to his crew as he launches into them, celebrating another win in what has to be the best season McLaren has had in years. Jihoon is happy for Vernon - happy for himself, jogging toward his crew as he and Soonyoung both celebrate with them, the sound of the crowd swelling even louder.

The podium ceremony is chaos, the fans so loud that the speakers become irrelevant. Champagne hits Jihoon in thick, foamy sprays as Vernon turns to shoot it right at his face, Jihoon choking on sweet fizz as he steps off to shake his bottle in retaliation. He laughs in delight as Soonyoung dumps half the bottle of champagne on Vernon's head in retaliation, screaming wildly like a kid.

A pressure releases in Jihoon's chest. Every missed point, ever bad turn of the car, every night spent staring at the ceiling of a hotel room - it all pours out of him as he yells, spraying the rest of his champagne in white arcs.

Jihoon is buzzing by the time the formalities end and he's jogging back to the paddock, heart hammering, blood buzzing. He waves to the crimson see of fans, holding a fist up in the air as he goes.

And then he sees you.

You're standing at the edge of the paddock, media pass flickering around your neck in the breeze. Your notebook is clutched to your chest like always, and Jihoon is surprised to see the smile on your face. For once, you look unguarded, and the small smile that used to light up dim hotel rooms at three in the morning cuts right fucking through him.

He doesn't think. He doesn't warn you. He just takes six long strides across the asphalt, cups your face in his hands, and he kisses you like he's been starving for it because he is. He pours every apology he never said out loud into the kiss, every regret from last season but especially Austin. Every follow race that felt empty without you comfort him after.

You freeze for half a heartbeat, your hands frozen near his hips like you don't know if you want to push him away or pull him closer. Jihoon's heart is hammering and he pulls back a fraction, lips still tasting like champagne and your lip balm - birthday cake, he thinks.

"You told me to stop fighting myself," he murmurs. "So I am. I'm not fighting the fact that I'm an idiot and an asshole or that I fucked up. I did. I'm sorry. I know I don't have to put you first all the time, but I can't make you a permanent second. I won't anymore. Even if I never make another podium again."

Your breath catches, eyes flaring with surprise. Your hands land on his hips, not pushing, but holding, your fingers curling into the sweat-dampened racing suit. Your eyes search his, wide and more vulnerable than they've been in months, looking for any hesitation that he doesn't mean it, any fault in his words.

Jihoon sees the indecision flicker through you. He knows you remember the sting of missed dinners, the lonely nights waiting for him, the way he'd chosen other things over you. But he sees the warmth there too, knowing that there is room for you, knowing that you trust him to be capable of doing both.

Then you're kissing him.

He grins into it, sighing as you press into him. Your kiss is softer than his, hands sliding up to his neck, fingers tangling in his damp hair to pull him closer until the champagne staining him is soaking through your clothes.

Love swells in his chest so much he thinks he might not be able to breathe. He crushes you to him, lost in the heat of your mouth and the sweetness of your birthday cake lip balm and the sweep of your tongue. He groans, a shiver rippling through him.

And then Soonyoung's wolf-whistle cuts through the haze and Jihoon breaks the kiss, glancing over. Soonyoung stands with his eyebrows raised, a swarm of mechanics around him, the girl that is Soonyoung's fake girlfriend standing next to the race engineer Soonyoung wants to be his real girlfriend, all of them watching.

Then they start cheering and you laugh covering your face with your hand as Jihoon cracks a smile, laughing as his team yells at him in Italian. He doesn't care, he just turns to you again, hand sliding to your waist as he keeps you close.

"I'm sorry."

"You're still an idiot. And we have talking to do."

"I know."

“And I’m still writing about Ferrari. Full season. That doesn’t change.”

“I know that too.”

You study him for several long seconds and he doesn’t look away. Then you lean up and kiss him again, short and sweet.

"You have press to do. Let's go."

Press is a breeze for once. Jihoon can hardly stop looking at you. For the first time in a long time, when you ask him questions, he trusts that they're not meant to hurt him. They never had been, but it's one thing to know something than it is to feel it. He answers them easily, a small smile on his face as he answers other questions.

Honestly, he barely hears them. His gaze goes back to you every time, watching the way you rip the edges of your notebook to keep your hands busy, watches the way you scribble things down on the corner of the paper. He wants nothing more than to finish this press conference and steal you away, to take you somewhere behind closed doors.

Jihoon is good at waiting. He waited most of his life to earn a seat in an F1 car, and waited again to get promoted to Ferrari. Now, he waits through the rest of a press conference, media responsibilities, a post-race strategy session, and some sponsorship related handshakes and greetings.

It's nothing compared to how many times he's left you waiting, he's sure. He intends to make up for it, spotting you near the coffee machine of hospitality, leaning against the counter with your head cocked. He doesn't say anything - doesn't have to. He nods toward the stairs and you follow, slipping behind him as he leads you toward the small, but clean room that belongs to him in the motorhome.

He doesn't want to wait anymore. Neither do you.

The door to the room clicks shut behind you. The space is small, filled by a single couch pressed against one wall, a coffee table, a mini fridge and two TV's directly across from the couch. The paddock hums faintly outside, but right now he's not worried about that. Right now he's turning to you, the post-race adrenaline humming in his veins.

Neither of you says a word a he closes the distance, hands finding your waist to pull you toward him. His mouth finds yours, desperate and hungry, all teeth and tongue, the past melting as soon as his tongue brushes against yours. He spins you toward the couch, careful as he cradles your face and walks you backward.

"Fuck I've missed this," he breathes against you. His fingers dig into your hips briefly as you tug at his team polo. Your hands peel it upward and off, fingers dancing along the taught muscle of his stomach, his heart hammering. "I've missed you."

"You never said so."

"I didn't think you wanted to hear me."

You press a palm to his jeans where he's already hard and straining. He makes a sound that's strained, lids fluttering as you drop to your knees and look up at him through your lashes. "I guess I didn't. I want to hear you now, though."

Jihoon's heart leaps as you tug the zipper of his jeans down. He doesn't dare move, watching with shaky breath as you hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and briefs and pull down just enough to free his aching cock. He shivers, the air cold, the tip of his cock flushed and hardening as you wrap your hand around the base, stroking gently.

"Oh fuck," he groans, tilting his head back, lashes fluttering.

You laugh. "Look at you."

Jihoon can't help it. He feels himself grow harder at just the touch of your hand, velvet around his shaft, stroking agonizingly slow in a way that makes his knees a little weak. He presses a hand against the wall, trying to keep himself steady when he feels the heat of your tongue slither up the underside of his cock.

A broken sound escapes him. His free hand threads in your hair, not pulling or pushing, but grounding himself, trying to gain some sort of semblance of control over himself. Your tongue is devilish, rolling around his swollen tip, and Jihoon swears he sees god.

"Fuck," he whispers.

"You're so fucking hard for me already," you tease.

He doesn't respond. He doesn't think he has the words. His hips twitch of their own accord when you take him into your mouth, slow and deliberate. He shivers, pressing his fist against the wall as he lets out an agonized sound. It feels so fucking good he can't think straight, and when you hollow your cheeks to suck him deeper, he thinks he's going to die.

"Shit," he swears. "Like that. Please. Fuck."

Your free hand grips what you can't swallow down, twisting as your spit drips down to ease the slide of your hand. Jihoon squeezes his eyes, trying not to come as you bob your head and suck him leisurely, humming lightly as your tongue scrapes the vein on the underside of his shaft.

The wet sounds of your mouth nearly break him. You take him deeper, throat relaxing as you swallow around him and his hips twitch. He grits his teeth, growling to stop himself from busting, feeling you gag around him and pull back a little.

"Sorry," he rasps. "You're gonna make me come if you do that again."

He glances down at you and thinks he's going to pass out. You're looking up at him with wide eyes, wet with want, mouth covering in spit and come, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you take a breath, hand sliding up and down his length.

"Come here," he growls, yanking you off the floor to crash your mouth into his.

The kiss is messy, spit and come mixed with the taste of you. He doesn't care. He'll take you anyway he can have you, his hands peeling your shirt away, your bra - anything that stops him from palming your warm skin.

Jihoon sinks to the couch and pulls you with him, your knees straddling his thighs. You're warm and soft in his hands, making him groan as you kiss him, fingers tangled in his hair, pussy pressed to his slick shaft. He grunts, fingers digging into your ass as he encourages you grind on him, the friction turning his stomach to static.

He slides a hand between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. He let's out a whimper as he circles your clit with feather-light touches that make you crumble, your head falling to his shoulder as your hips chase the friction of his fingers.

"So fucking wet, huh?" He asks, grinning as he kisses your neck. You nod, clinging to him like a life line. "Missed this pussy gripping my fingers. Can I stretch you out, baby?"

You whine and nod, rocking against him. He sucks greedily at the spot underneath your ear as he presses a finger in, the slide easy. You whine and a shiver ripples through you when his finger presses against your front wall, pressing against that spot he's learned over and over.

"Yeah?" He asks. "That the spot?"

"Please."

He doesn't make you wait. He presses another finger in, pumping slowly as you roll your hips to meet his fingers, pussy gripping him hard. He let's out a sound that sounds strangled as he fucks you with his fingers, grinning at the way you writhe for him, still sensitive just like he remembered.

Your mouths tangle again and Jihoon is spinning, his thoughts turning to a staticky mess as he strokes you, loving the way you drip into his hand, loving the way you whimper and can't focus on kissing him, your brows pinched tight, mouth open as you breath hard.

"Feels good," you whisper.

"Good. Come for me like this, baby. Let me hear you."

It doesn't take you long. His fingers are relentless and you shatter around him with a muffled cry in his neck, walls clenching around him. He works you through it, his heart hammering as he presses his mouth to your ear, tongue darting out to ease your lobe.

"That's it, just like that," he whispers, grinning when you nod, dazed.

Before you can catch your breath, you're lifting yourself and grabbing his cock, positioning him at your entrance. He barely registered you've pulled off his hand when you're sinking down on him, his brain whiting out as the heat of you wraps around him.

"Fuck," you swear. "You feel so fucking good."

Jihoon grips your hips, guiding your movements as you start to ride him, slow rolls turning into urgent bounces. His hands roam everywhere he can grab - your ass, your thighs, your tits - he can't keep his hands off of you, like if he lets go he might lose you again.

"Just like that," he groans, planting his feet on the ground to thrust up into you. "Fuck I missed this. Missed you so much."

You lean forward, foreheads pressing together, your breath fanning his lips as you quicken your pace. The couch leather creaks beneath you but he doesn't care, the heat of your skin sliding against his driving him insane, the smell of your skin and the sandalwood driving him to madness.

He wraps his arms around your waist, barring you to him as he fucks up into you hard, knocking you into his chest, your hands sliding against his sweaty shoulders. You make a loud sound and he lets you, uncaring who hears.

"Right there," you gasp. "Please don't stop, fucking asshole - oh my god."

"Yeah?" He grits. "I'm an asshole?"

"Yes!"

He laughs and shifts, lifting you off him. Your surprise is evident but he smiles and turns you around. "Ass up."

You comply, knees on the couch, hands braced on the cushions as he kneels behind you. You look over your shoulder, smirking as he presses the crown of his cock against your entrance.

"Still an ass man?"

He thrusts in hard and your smugness is knocked right out of you as his hands squeeze the globes of your ass. "Yes. Especially for this ass in particular."

Your head drops down as he thrusts in slow, grinding his hips each time he slides in fully. He presses forward, leaning over you to keep his chest pressed to your back, craving the nearness. You lift your head and lean into him, eager to press back as he fucks into you hard, hands grabbing at your hips.

When you beg him to go harder, he does, driving into you as one hand reaches around to toy with your clit, deft fingers circling as you turn into a mess underneath him. He loves the effect he has on you, loves to watch the ice between you all season melt, loves that he can have you like this.

"Come with me," he murmurs, breath shaky. "Please baby."

You nod, the two of you sliding together until you clench around him, squeezing him tight until he spills. Your name is broken on his mouth, his lips pressed to your shoulder, tasting the sweat on your skin. Your hand is reaching back, digging into his wrist, nails leaving crescent moons as you shake underneath him, coming undone.

Carefully, the two of you collapse together, both on your side. His back is against the couch, one arm slung around your waist to keep you from sliding off the couch, the other under your head. The couch barely fits the two of you - made for relaxing, not desperate sex - but neither of you moves to get up.

Jihoon noses the curve of your neck, still damp with sweat, lips brushing the tender spot beneath your ear. He kisses you lazily and you press into him, making him smile into your warm skin.

"Still alive?" He asks, voice rough.

"Barely. You?"

"Dead. I think you killed me." His teeth graze your earlobe playfully. "Worth it."

"Hmm."

He tightens his hold around you, desperate to keep you closer than you've been in months. "I meant what I said earlier. I won't be perfect, but I'll never put you as a permanent second again."

You turn your head just enough to catch the corner of his eye. You examine him before you nod and say, "That's all I've ever asked for."

“I’ll set reminders to not be a dick to my girlfriend. I'll make it a recurring alarm.”

"Girlfriend? Haven't heard that in a while."

He presses a kiss behind your ear, lingering. "Get used to it. I don't make the same mistake twice."

You twist in his arms until you’re facing him, noses almost touching. Even this close, he can't help but think you're the most beautiful woman on the planet. He grins, watching you through his lashes as you reach up to brush strands of sweaty hair from his face.

"You're sticky from champagne," you note.

"You're sticky from cum."

"Ji!"

He laughs deeply for the first time in forever, squeezing you close. You settle against him, the room falling quiet for a bit with the low hum of the air conditioning and the murmur of post-race activity beyond the door. Jihoon almost drifts to sleep when he hears a sound drifting through the door, muffled at first. When it gets louder, he cracks an eye open, recognizing the unmistakable voice of Soonyoung belting at top volume somewhere in the motorhome.

"You're a heartbreaker! Dream maker! Love taker don't you mess around with me!" Soonyoung shouts, the faint sound of the song on speakers somewhere muted somewhere beyond his yelling.

Jihoon’s entire body goes rigid behind you. Then you start laughing, slapping a hand over your mouth to muffle your voice as you lose it. The tension bleeds out of him as Soonyoung continues into the second verse, his voice moving around the building, a traveling circus.

"Of course he's singing that fucking song," Jihoon groans."

“Heartbreaker! Dream maker! Every time I think of you-"

You're laughing so hard you're nearly doubled over in his arms, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Jihoon groans as you clutch your stomach, Soonyoung's voice cracking beyond the door.

"I hate him," Jihoon sighs.

"I actually think he's really good for you. He looks up to you, you know?"

"I guess."

"Come on," you tease, trying to free yourself from his arms. "Let's join."

"No!"

"Team bonding."

"I bonded when he kissed my forehead already."

"Jihoon."

He sighs and lets you stand, staring at the ceiling. "Fine."

Looking up at you, Jihoon can't help but smile, his entire world finally settling, the pieces falling back into place where they belong. All he had to do was stop trying to control it and let it happen. He watches you get dressed, entranced with the way you move, the way you smile at him.

THE TEMPLE OF THE GODS IS ALWAYS QUIETEST IN THE MORNING. The temple breathes around you, vast and ancient. Stone sweats beneath your palms, the lower levels of the temple always a little cooler, a little wetter. Oil lamps burn low along the corridors, their flames casting flickering light against the marble columns. Incense hangs heavy in the air, smoky and sweet.

Your tunic is damp at the hem, darkened with water and ash. The cloth in your hand catches on the grooves carved into the altar, the stone worn smooth under your hands. The stains never really fade, the rust-colored shadows lingering after years of neglect. It doesn’t matter how many times you scrub or how many times you return with fresh water and salt - the stone does not budge.

You scrub anyway. It’s all you know how to do.

Murmurs of worship reach you at a distance. The sound of voices is never heavy around you - never around you. Here, the air is different. Quieter. Heavier. No one likes to come to this part of the hall with wine to leave or flower petals to place at the foot of the altar. It’s just you and the soft scratch of your scrubbing, day in and day out.

You kneel before the altar of Ares, knees pressed to marble that never warms, even in the summer. Your tunic clings to your thighs, making you shiver. You can’t remember the last time you felt warm while tending to Ares altar, but you’re used to it now.

No one else bothers with the altar. You are its single caretaker, its single worshiper, the only person brave enough to tend to a God of War during a time of peace. Most people think it’s bad luck, an invitation for violence, a foolish temptation of fate.

So they leave his altar to you, an orphan with no patron god, no family name to throw around to get better assignments. It’s you and the cold altar, as it has been for three years.

Candles burn down to the wick. You scrape away at their wax. It’s your own fault - you’re the only one who lights candles for Ares. It feels wrong not to, the lonely altar a little sadder without the flickering flame. It’s also practical, the small flames giving you better light to work with than the oil lamps that are farther down the row.

Standing, you knock your head on the hilt of a sword. You curse, rubbing the back of your hand as you move away from it. The sword is the only part of the altar that's not stone. It’s laid perfectly straight across the upturned palms of Ares, the edges dulled by disuse but free from rust. It is the only thing on the altar not damaged. The statue is cracked and chipped and worn with time, but the sword is eternal. Unchanging.

“Sorry,” you mutter, pausing to adjust it, nudging the hilt back into perfect line on Ares hands. “Didn’t mean to do that.”

Your voice feels small in this space, swallowed by stone and shadow. You don’t typically speak to the god - you’re not sure if he ever listens. But sometimes you do, making quiet observations or muttering small complaints about your day - things you’d never say aloud anywhere else but the silence of solitude.

You finish adjusting the sword, fingertips lingering for a moment on the cool metal. The blade seems to drink in the candlelight rather than reflect it, the edges holding shadows. A faint vibration hums beneath your palm, and an eerie sensation that you've felt before. You remove your hand, the thrum leaving a strange, static sensation on your hand. It never frightens you when it happens, but the lingering feeling makes you uneasy.

Exhaling, you step back, looking at the altar. It looks almost the same as when you arrived this morning. It's still stained and lonely, but the candles burn a little brighter now, the wax pooling neatly instead of spilling over the edges. You gather the damp cloth, the bucket of gray water, the small brush worn down to bristles, and turn away. The corridor swallows your footsteps. Behind you, the hum fades gradually until it is only the memory of pressure against your skin.

The stairs to the upper levels are narrow and steep, worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet. You climb carefully, bucket sloshing against your hip. The air changes as you ascend, the cool dampness giving way to warmer drafts and the faint sweetness of myrrh.

You emerge into the great colonnade, afternoon light slicing through the eastern windows. Priestesses in white move like ghosts between the upstairs altars, arranging fresh laurels on Apollo's shrine, replenishing oil in Demeter's lamps, spreading petals around Aphrodite's feet. A young visitor kneels before Hermes, lips moving in rapid, fervent prayer.

No one pays you any mind as you walk.

A cluster of three priestesses near Athena’s statue pauses mid-conversation when your shadow falls across their path. Their eyes flick toward you, brief and dismissive. They resume speaking, voices dropping half an octave, words too soft to catch. You keep walking.

Further along, an older priest with a grey beard steps aside as you pass. Not quickly, not rudely, just enough that your elbow does not brush his robe. He nods once, the barest dip of his chin, then continues toward the inner sanctum without a word. You have long since stopped expecting more.

Outside, the sky has turned to molten bronze. You toss the bucket of water outside on the rocky outcrop that the temple stands on, pausing to look down from the mountainside. Below, the city unspools in winding streets of stone and blue-tiled buildings. The sea breathes beyond, blue and churning, the salt heavy in the air with a mix of fig.

Once you've returned your cleaning supplies to their proper place, you head toward the central courtyard. A massive fig tree stands dark against the growing twilight sky, its branches turning from silver to gold as Apollo drags the sun down so his sister can drag the moon upward.

Tables scatter the courtyard, full of priestesses and a handful of priests that sit in loose circles, breaking bread and passing claw bowls of olives and yogurt thinned with honey, speaking in soft murmurs. You ignore them in favor of sitting at your usual place at the end of the furthest bench, right against the cool bark of the fig tree.

Carefully, you lean over to pluck flatbread, cheese and a handful of figs from the center of the table. No one pays you much mind as you do. It's better that way. When you'd first come here, an orphan looking for anything to do in exchange for shelter, they hadn't been so nice. Pretending you're not there is a better alternative to the scathing comments and looks you'd used to receive.

Murmurs drift around you like smoke. You listen as the fig in your hand bleeds red juice down your fingers, frowning at what you hear. Mentions of raiders sighted along the northern pass, border temples burning. Ares walking the streets.

His name lands like a stone dropped in silver water. You glance up to see people casting sidelong looks your way, frowning. As if it was you who had mentioned the God of War. You look back down at the table, biting into the fig, the juice filling your mouth.

When your plate is empty you rise without hurry, stack the clay dish neatly, and walk past the tables. Conversation stutters, then resumes behind you. It is the way of things here when you're the only person foolish enough to tend to a cruel god. An unneeded god.

Your quarters are tucked behind the grain stores on the lowest level of the temples, down a side passage that few people ever use. The Temple of the Gods is complex, built onto the top of the hill and winding deep into it, the hallways and subterranean rooms serving as its roots. Not everyone lives in the temple like you do - most people have homes.

You don't.

The inside of your room is small. It's barely wider than your outstretched arms and smells faintly of cypress and lemon. A narrow pallet rests against one wall, covered with a single wool blanket dyed the color of rust. A low table holds the few possessions you have: a comb that's missing two teeth, a single extra tunic that's folded, and balm for burns when you knock over candles or when your fingers dip into wax.

Every day is the same routine. Chores in the morning that go through until early afternoon, followed by tending to Ares altar, followed by dinner and bed. You follow that routine now, peeling off the wet tunic and putting it aside to dry. Your shift underneath does nothing to keep the chill of the room out, goosebumps rising on your arms until you climb under the woolen blanket.

You draw your knees up, curl onto your side, and stare at the faint crack of moonlight beneath the door. Somewhere above you, the temple settles into its night rhythm. You listen until the sounds blur into silence, eyes heavy, limbs sore.

Tomorrow you will rise before dawn, go about your chores, and kneel before the altar. Always the same labor, always the same silence.

You breathe in, breathe out, and let the darkness take you.

-

Oil lamps flicker as you descend the narrow stairs, same as every day before you. Your palm stings where the rope of the bucket digs into your palms, water sloshing over as you walk. Dawn always feels heaviest in the temple, as though it's just you and the gods. You feel the press of something around you as you get closer to Ares' altar, something you can't see but you can feel, always just out of sight when you turn your head.

You've noticed that over the years, the way something seems to buzz when you're near the God of War's statue, just beyond your reach. It's one of those small observations you keep to yourself. No one would care what you had to say anyway. They have their own gods to whisper to, ones that promise harvest and safe travels or wisdom, not the bloody blade of conflict.

You set the bucket down with a soft thunk, the water inside rippling faintly. The altar of Ares waits in its alcove, unchanged and unchanging, the statue's broad shoulders casting a long shadow. You kneel, dipping the cloth into the cool water, and begin the ritual scrubbing. The stains are stubborn today, rust-brown flecks that flake under your nails but never fully yield. It's been this way since you first took the task years ago.

That time feels distant, nearly impossible to reach. You'd arrived at the temple an orphan with dirt-streaked clothes and a hollow ache in your stomach that no amount of rotten bread could fill. The high priestess had looked you over and simply told you it was Ares' altar or nothing. You'd taken it in stride. And why wouldn't you? You had no family to warn you of bad omens, no village tales to fill your head with dread. It was just a job, a way to earn your keep in a world that had already shown you its teeth.

The cloth rasps against the stone, a steady rhythm that echoes your thoughts. You've watched the others over the years, clustering around Zeus' grand pedestal upstairs, leaving offerings of wind and cheese. Watched them leave bowls of rosewater and ripe figs for Aphrodite, whispering to find them love and passion, to bless them with a fulfilling marriage.

Fear shapes their world. You learned it long ago - fear of failure, fear of not being pretty enough, fear of not being brave enough, fear of not climbing high enough. Fear is the lens through which they experience Ares, a monstrous god that threatens to ruin everything they've ever worked for, a name only prayed to when the world is on fire and the air choked in smoke.

There hasn't been war for a long time. The priestesses believe it's because no one prays to Ares anymore, so he has no power here, no way to keep a foothold in this world. But there's you. Tending to him as you always have, his sole patron, the only one who occasionally murmurs about your day to a stone face who cannot hear you, a pleasant buzz at the back of your neck when you do.

Footsteps echo down the corridor, light and hurried. You pause, glancing up to see two priestesses coming your way. You recognize them both - they're sisters. Elara is the taller of the two and older, her tan skin golden in the lamplight. Thalia trails behind her, shorter and rounder in the face, but beautiful enough to have the lords of the city asking for her at the temple gates.

They've never spoken to you directly before, especially not in the dim underbelly of the temple. It makes you straighten slightly, water dripping from your cloth onto the stone, pooling at your knees.

"Why are you doing that?" Elara asks, stopping a few yards away near the closest lantern. You can tell she doesn't want to come any closer to Ares gloom, her grey eyes flickering toward the statue looming over you.

"Tending the altar," you answer slowly. "As I always have."

"Look around, fool," Elara hisses. "The scouts bring word of armies marching, raiders at the border. War's breath is down our necks, and you have the gall to come polish the sword of our would be destroyer?"

Thalia peers around her sister, face like thunder. "You should leave his statue. You're inviting him in."

"Maybe that's what she wants," Elara notes. "She came here scavenging for a place like a rat in the granary - perhaps she clings to him because he's the only one she can have. But we know the truth. Your devotion has called him down."

You say nothing at first, your gaze drifting back to the statue. The sword lies still in his palms, eternal. You've thought about how strange the people of this world think sometimes. Thought it odd, how people carve meaning from chaos by blaming others, how they assign treachery because fear prods at them, a spear to the back of the neck.

An orphan is easy to blame in a place like this. You don't command armies, you don't know how to hold a shield, or burn down a village, and yet only you could be the root of war. The fire starter. There is no logic here, no rhyme or reason. Only fear nipping at their heels like hellhounds.

"War comes from the greed of men," you mutter, turning away from them to resume your scrubbing. "Not from scrubbed stone."

"Selfish," Thalia mutters. "You should abandon this place. Walk away. Then he will sleep again."

"I command no armies, nor do I command the God of War." You scrub at the stains that never move. "Perhaps you should pray to your gods to stop him."

Elara spits at your feet, the glob landing wet on the marble. "When the fires come, I hope they come for you first."

Thalia laughs and they turn as one, footsteps retreading up the stairs to leave you in the dim. You sit back on your heels, cloth in your hand, watching them leave you alone at the foot of the altar. The stone presses cold against your skin, unyielding. The hum returns faintly, a pulse under your knees.

You sit there for a long time after their footsteps fade, the spit drying slowly on the marble in a small, darkening spot near your knee. The lamps have burned lower, the shadows extending farther. Your cloth lies forgotten in your lap, water soaking through the fabric in cold patches. The hum beneath your knees has quieted to almost nothing, a faint tremor you might mistake for exhaustion if you didn't know better.

Slowly, you lift your head to peer at the statue looming above you. The marble is cracked in places, fine spiderwebs spreading from the left cheekbone. There's a deep fissure running down the right forearm where time or some earthquake long ago tried to claim it, but the face remains mostly untouched. You've studied the face of Ares thousands of times, and yet with Elara's threat hanging in the air, the lamplight finds new angles.

The statue of Areas has high cheekbones that catch the flicker of the flame, casting hollows beneath them that make his expression both stern and almost wear. His jaw is strong, and his mouth is full and set in a firm, unreadable line. The eyes have always captured you, fierce in stone, the sculptor leaving the pupils as bare pockets of shadows instead of inlaid with lapis lazuli like Zeus.

Hair falls in carved waves from beneath a crested helm long since broken away at the edges, strands curling against his broad forehead and brushing the strong column of his neck. There’s a faint scar etched across one brow, though you're unsure if it's accidental or deliberate.

You’ve never thought of the statue as beautiful before. Not in the soft, inviting way Aphrodite’s likeness is beautiful, or the serene way Apollo’s is. Ares is different - arresting in a way that is almost uncomfortable, like looking at someone who sees you and immediately knows every fear, every secret.

Tonight, with the accusations still ringing in your ears and the temple settling into uneasy quiet above you, the face feels less like cold stone and more like a witness.

“I don’t know if you’re listening,” you whisper, feeling a little silly as you pick up the cloth to begin scrubbing again. "But I never really believed you were. Not the way the others believe in their gods. Sorry if that offends you."

You pause, fingers aching. "They're stupid. I know I shouldn't say so, but they are. To think that I alone could be the reason border temples burn or call down war like ringing a bell is insanity." A small, dry laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. "If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here. I would be somewhere else. Maybe somewhere warm, and near the ocean. Somewhere there's a lot of fruit and I could have as much as I want. Somewhere I could learn to read, maybe. To have purpose. If I could command a god, I wouldn't be here."

The statue doesn’t answer. Of course it doesn’t. But the lamplight shifts, and for a heartbeat the carved eyes seem to sharpen, as though the shadows themselves are paying attention. Your heart spikes and you lean forward, pressing your forehead down until it nearly brushes the base of the plinth.

"Sorry." You murmur. "That was rude. If you're listening, anyway."

No one answers, but as you resume your scrubbing, the lamps behind you gutter once, the hum under your knees steady as ever.

-

The warning bells wrench you from your sleep with jagged nails. At first, they blend with the remnants of your dreams, the distant roll of thunder blurring to deep, tolling bells of the city guard. You realize with sharp terror that you're not dreaming and you bolt upright on the narrow pallet, your blanket tangling around your tangles as you kick it free. Your night shift clings to your skin, damp with sweat as your heart begins to hammer.

Screams tear through the silence. Panic floods your veins like ice water, sharp and breathtaking. You scramble, forgetting all about your tunic as you fumble with the bronze latch on the door, handles shaking. The door sticks for a single, agonizing moment before it swings free and opens into the Underworld.

At least, you think it's the Underworld for a moment. Chaos reigns supreme in the hall, smoke rolling down from the upper levels in thick waves, stinging your eyes. An orange glow beckons at the end of the hall and screams echo from above, frantic under the heavy thunder of boots. Someone's voice cuts off mid-plea and your heart lurches as you plunge into the smoke, covering your mouth, eyes watering.

You climb the stairs two at a time until you're spilling into the main landing of the temple, sliding to a halt. Heat slams into you, the air turning to ash and fire. Flames devour the eastern wing, roaring up the tall wooden beams, eating at the roof that has sheltered you from rain and wind for years. The fig tree in the courtyard is aflame, bark peeling in curling sheets as it burns.

Priests and priestesses scatter in every direction, white tunics covered in blood and soot, face streaked in tears and ash. One of them stumbles toward you, clutching a bleeding arm, her eyes wide and glassy with shock. A soldier in leather armor and dented bronze grabs her before she can reach you, yanking her hair backward. She screams only once before his sword flashes down. You flinch as blood sprays in a bright arch, spattering the marble floors.

Your breath comes in shallow, panicked bursts. This is the end of everything you’ve known - the altar, the scrubbing, the cold water and heavy bucket - all of it burned to whatever war this is, whoever's army has come here to pillage and burn and slaughter. Burning.

A soldier spots you standing frozen in the chaos. His eyes light with interest and he shouts something at you, pointing with a bloodied sword. Two other soldiers turn, grins splitting their face as they start toward you, boots crunching over broken pottery stained with blood.

Terror surges inside of you, more primal and absolute than you have ever known. You spin and bolt toward the inner corridors, your body taking you to the only path you can think of in the fiery hell scape of the temple. The lower levels call to you, cool and dark and comforting - but what calls to you more is the sword upon Ares alter, the only weapon you can think of to fight back, to save yourself.

Laughter chases you and the soldiers jeer as they start to run after you. You're quick on the steps, flying down them as their boots pound down the corridor behind you. Your lungs scream as you dive into the dark halls of the lower temple, the oil lamps burning low, the altars here untouched as you fly by them, running for the last halo of gold light where Ares stands.

You burst into the alcove, skidding on marble now warm from rising heat. The statue of Ares looms in the flickering gloom, larger and more imposing than ever as shadows dance across its cracked features. The sword rests in those upturned marble hands, eternal and waiting.

Your hands shake violently as you reach up on tiptoe and wrap your fingers around the hilt of the sword. It's heavier than you expected, but as you pull it free the weight adjusts, turning from heavy to perfect, like the grip was shaped for you and you alone. The leather grip is cool against your skin and the dull metal of the blade catches the low lamplight in a dull gleam.

The hum you've felt for years surges through you, stronger now than ever, a roaring vibration that travels from the sword up your arm and into your chest, syncing with the frantic pounding of your heartbeat until it feels like your pulse is a living thing connected to the sword.

You spin to face the corridor, raising the sword in both hands. Your stance is all wrong and the weapon feels awkward in your grip, but the weapon steadies you as the soldiers round the corner. It's just the three of them, faces flushed with violence and glee as they look at you, stalking down the hallway.

"Look at the little mouse," the one at the lead says, grin spreading. "Drop it, little mouse, before you poke yourself. I can give you a sword to play with."

One of the men behind him licks his lips, eyes raking over you. “She’ll make a fine prize after we finish here.”

Your arms tremble, but you don’t lower the blade. The hum thrums louder, almost deafening in your ears, drowning out the distant roar of flames. Sweat stings your eyes. The temple groans overhead, beams cracking and shifting as it gives way in sections to the raging inferno.

"Come here, little mouse," the leader coos. He steps into the lamp light of Ares alter, eyes shining. "Let me have a taste."

No sooner than he steps into the ring of light, the world shatters around you.

A deafening crack splits the air, like thunder ripping through the temple. You scream, nearly dropping the sword as you cower, ears ringing. The stone floor shudders beneath your feet and a blinding white-gold flare erupts in the air, like a seam in reality shredding open. You throw one arm over your eyes to hide from it, the sword shaking in your other hand as you step back.

Heat washes over you as the light vanishes and you're left blinking, fading streaks of light fading as your vision adjusts, spots swimming in your peripheral vision.

A figure stands between you and the three men.

He's taller than any mortal you've ever seen, armored in blackened bronze that seems to drink the light from the oil lamps. A crested helm of horsehair and iron shadows his face, his armor shoulders broad, stance lethal. In his right hand is a long spear, its haft made of dark wood bounded with glowing gold, the tip of the weapon gleaming with a sharpness that seems to cut the air itself. In his left hand is a sword that looks exactly like the one in your hand, runes pulsing faintly along the metal.

Ares.

You realize it at the same time as the soldiers do. They stumble backward from him, murmuring his name in awe as they stare, wide-eyed and terrified.

The God of War says nothing. He simply moves - faster than you thought possible, faster than any mortal has the right to. His spear juts forward in a flash of movement, piercing the leader's chest with a wet, crunching sound. The man is lifted off his feet, skewered like a boar before the god tosses him aside. The body crashes against the wall, blood spraying as Ares advances.

Screams of terror rip through the hall from the remaining two men. They lift their swords but they can do nothing against a god. You watch in mute terror as Ares parries without looking and drives his own blade upward in a single, brutal stroke. You hear a gurgle before you realize Ares has cut the man open throat to ear, the crimson surging as the man buckles.

The third turns to flee, but Ares hurls the spear, arm snapping forward like an adder. The weapon punches through the man's armor, sending him forward to the ground as he collapses. He jerks once - twice - then goes still, hanging on the weapon like a trophy of war.

Silence crashes in, broken only by the crackle of distant flames and your own ragged breathing.

Ares turns toward you and your knees nearly give out.

The face underneath the helm is the statue you've tended to for years made flesh. His high cheekbones are hollowed by shadow and the growing firelight at the end of the hall, his jaw clenched in fury that terrifies you. His eyes burn red, the ancient weight of them pressing against you and pinning you in place. Dark hair spills against his forehead, one of his brows interrupted by the same crack on his statue.

He sheaths his sword and lowers himself to a knee before you. You blink, watching as he removes his helm. His hair is dark, the sides and underneath cropped shorter in an undercut. He is devastatingly beautiful in a way that terrifies you, the anger in his face softening to something you can't read.

"You," he murmurs. "Are the one who came to me in darkness. Who scrubbed the stains that time could not remove when others refused. Who lit candles for a god no one else would name. For years I have felt your hands at my altar, and heard your words in what otherwise would have been silence. In a temple that feared me, only you showed me kindness."

Awe crashes over you, mingling with terror and grief until you can barely breathe. Your fingers tighten on the sword - his sword. So he had been listening. All that time - all those years, spent on your knees at the foot of his altar, tending to him and muttering about your day. About your little complaints or observations. The hum you'd felt then hadn't been an illusion or madness. It had been him - real and present.

“Lord Ares,” you manage, voice cracking. You drop to your knees, ducking your head. "Please don't let us burn."

"You do not bow to me." He rises and takes a step toward you. You look up, chest heaving as he approaches you slowly, as though he's afraid to startle you. "I cannot save this place. War is not a hound I call to heel. To halt it here would only shift the slaughter elsewhere - war is inevitable and a wheel that is always turning. I simply honor the wheel - I cannot bend fate for mercy alone."

The ceiling groans overhead, a deep, ominous crack splitting the stone. Embers rain down from the ceiling, red and glowing. You see smoke curling behind him, the fire crawling closer and closer. The heat is relentless now, pressing in.

"But you," Ares murmurs. "You who asked nothing, who gave when others only took. You will not die here."

He reaches out toward you. You let him, his callused palm cupping your chin, thumb brushing feather light over your jaw. You shiver, eyes fluttering as he looks down at you, expression soft, almost reverent. More embers fall, haloing him in firelight as his eyes drink you in.

"Sleep," he whispers. "When you wake, you will know peace."

The world tilts, and darkness swallows you whole.

-

The sound of crackling flames has been replaced by the sound of water. You groan, rolling over. It's not just the sound of water, you realize - it's the sound waves, the rhythmic hush of them retreating and returning. You inhale and you don't smell smoke. Rather, you smell the clean and cool scent of growing things, of salt and brine, of driftwood.

Your eyes flutter open slowly to see light filtering through palm fronds overhead, soft and golden. You lie on a soft bed with a thin blanket of undyed linen that feels softer than anything you've ever known. A low ceiling of thatch stretches above you, open at the sides so the breeze can drift through.

You try to sit up and a gentle ache rolls through you. You glance down and realize you're free from soot and sweat, a new and proper tunic of white and red replacing the night shift you'd been in at the temple.

A shadow shifts nearby, snagging your attention. Ares sits cross-legged on the sand just outside the small shelter's open wall, his back to the endless sea of blue behind him, facing you. The armor is replaced by a simple tunic of deep crimson linen belted at the waist. His helm is absent, dark hair shining in the sunlight, damp like he's just come up from the water.

Swallowing, you sit up fully. The sword from the altar rests beside you. You remember the temple in flashes, the burning ceiling, the fire eating the fig tree, the blood of the priestess as she ran toward you - him, slaughtering the men who chased you to his altar, the sudden violence of it.

"Lord Ares," you whisper.

He tilts his head and a faint smile touches the corner of his mouth. "I've had many names across centuries and places. Ares. Enyalios. Resheph. Montu. Men have called me destroyer, protector, madness, courage. But here, please call me Soonyoung."

The name settles over you like warm sand. Simple. Human. "Soonyoung."

"I like the sound of the name on your tongue."

A flush crawls up your neck. You look around again, taking in the details you missed at first. There's a small fire pit nearby, the embers still glowing beneath a flat stone. There's a basket holding figs and pomegranates, and a few pots with lids on them. You turn, and in the distance of the island, you see a small building, nondescript and built from driftwood, nestled in lush greenery.

"How long has it been?" You ask him, glancing at him nervously. "Since the temple?"

"Two days. You slept rather deeply. The journey here took a lot from you."

"You saved me."

"I would not leave you to the fire." His gaze drops briefly to the sand between his knees, his fingers tracing idle patterns. "Not you."

"The temple?"

"Gone," he says quietly. "The raiders burned what they could not carry. Some survived. Many did not. War took what it always takes."

You nod once, the grief sharp but distant. You had known, somewhere beneath the panic, that there would be no saving it. Still, hearing it aloud makes your chest ache. Even if the people there had not been kind to you, it had been your home.

Soonyoung rises smoothly, brushing sand from his palms. He grabs a pomegranate and splits it open with his thumbs, the red juice running over his fingers. He offers you half, the seeds gleaming like rubies inside.

"Eat," he says. "Your strength needs rebuilding."

You take it, the fruit cool against your palm. The first seed bursts between your teeth, tart and sweet, juice spilling down your chin. You wipe it away with the back of your hand, suddenly self-conscious under his steady regard. He seems amused as he sits again, this time a little closer. You feel the heat of him as you eat in silence, both of you watching the water of the beach below and the wind through the palms.

As you chew, you glance toward the building in the distance again, the walls catching the slanting sunlight.

"It's mine," he says, noticing you looking. "Built long ago when this island was a sanctuary for me after long periods of war. I find the peace of this place a necessity for myself."

"Is this place real?"

He hums and nods. "Yes, but no mortal could stumble upon it - save perhaps someone particularly unlucky like Odysseus." He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “Tell me about yourself.”

You blink, startled. No one has ever asked before. He smirks like he knows this, but he says nothing, chewing on seeds as he watches you with dark eyes. His eyes are no longer red - they're dark and fathomless, warm in a way you don't expect.

"There isn't much to tell," you admit. "I found the temple when I was small. No name, no family. The high priestess took me in because there were chores to be done and an unattended altar that needed scrubbing. Everyone was afraid of you. I wasn't."

A faint smile flickers across his face again. "I know. I listened to you."

"You did?"

"Every word. Every muttered curse when the wax spilled. Every quiet breath when you knelt and thought no one was listening.” He sets the pomegranate rind aside, wipes his hands on his chiton. “You were the only voice in three years that did not ask me for victory, or vengeance, or protection from enemies. You simply existed. I thought it was nice."

“I didn’t know what else to do. It was my place to ask for anything."

"And now? You would still ask nothing of me?"

You look out at the sea, the depth bluer than anything you've ever known. You don't know what you would ask for - can't think of anything, really. Though you know Ares has no connection to the sea, you think he's rather similar - endless, beautiful, stormy.

"I would ask nothing of you," you say eventually.

He hums thoughtfully. "This island is mine. Far from mortal shores and far from the path of armies. No war reaches here unless I will it, and I do not will it. I offer you this place, though you don't ask for it. I don't offer it to you as a worshiper or a servant, but as a guardian. Tend the fire if you wish, watch the horizon. Keep the silence for me. Sleep inside or beneath the stars out there."

The offer hangs in the air between you, his words making your heart skip a beat. You've never had someone offer you to stay somewhere without an obligation, to exist without the weight of survival pressing down on you.

For a moment, you stare at him, the pomegranate half forgotten in your hands, the juice sticky on your fingers. You wonder what it would be like not to exist in the shadowed hallways of the temples, whispers following you as you pass. To live without averted eyes or people treating you like a curse made flesh.

Here, on this island, there would be no one to tell you what to do. No one to chastise you. No one to force you to eat alone in a courtyard of people. A refuge, not a rejection. But beneath the relief simmers doubt, a familiar shadow that has dogged you since childhood. Who are you to accept such a gift? An orphan with no name, no lineage, no skills beyond scrubbing stains that never truly fade. What if this is pity, disguised as kindness? A god's whim, fleeting as the sea foam that dissolves on the shore?

"War isn't always battle," Soonyoung murmurs, watching you mull it over. "Sometimes war is with oneself. Or with others, mental and years long. Sometimes war is survival to a life you were born to, but perhaps don't deserve. It is rest and respite I'm offering. Not pity or amusement."

"Can you read my thoughts?"

"No, but I can read your face." You flush and he grins. "You've tended to me for years and I've listened to you. Perhaps you don't know me, but I know you."

Gratitude sparks in your chest, overwhelming and raw. He saved you - not the temple or the others, but you. Knelt before you in blood and fire, the person who gave him company when no one else did. And now he sees right to the heart of you, to the very wound you knew was there but never had a name for.

You draw a breath, steadying yourself and you meet his gaze. "I accept."

Something brightens in his eyes - relief, you think. His shoulders ease, a tension you hadn't realized was there fading, and he smiles at you, eyes crinkling. He rises and offers you a hand. You set the rind of the pomegranate aside and take it, letting him help you to your feet.

"Come," he tells you. "Let me give you a tour."

You follow Soonyoung, your bare feet sinking into the warm sand. It's soft and fine beneath your soles, shifting with each step. The beach curves downward gently to a crescent of white edged by turquoise shallows that foam as the waves meet the shore. The air feels alive as you step onto damp sand, charged with an undercurrent of energy that feels like static on your skin.

Soonyoung walks beside you, his stride confident and unhurried, but there's an energy to him that crackles like lightning on the verge of striking. He doesn't touch you again, but his presence is a tangible force, goosebumps lining your arms that you tell yourself is from the cool ocean breeze.

"This beach is the heart of the island," Soonyoung tells you, spreading his arms. "The sand here never erodes, and the waves bring shells and driftwood as gifts from my uncle when he sees fit."

He gestures ahead where the tide laps lazily, depositing a cluster of iridescent conch shells that gleam in the sunlight. You grin and stop to pick one up. Its surface is cool to the touch, humming faintly under your fingers.

"Bring it to your ear," he urges gently, grinning.

You press it to your ear, and instead of the ocean's roar, you hear a soft melody, like distant flutes weaving through whispers of wind. You turn to him, delighted and he laughs. The sound is so rich you forget all about the shell, watching him as he closes his eyes and tilts his head toward the sky, sun-kissed and happy.

He seems so different from the god who appeared the night in the temple, reigning fury down on your attackers. You wonder if this is the version of Ares only the island gets, the hidden side of war that needs rest, that needs respite and happiness to fuel the rage and the violence.

As you walk, the sand gives way to low dunes tufted with sea grasses that sway, their blades tipped with dew. Wildflowers bloom in random clusters, vibrant explosions of gold and red. Soonyoung bends down to pluck a bloom and tuck it behind your ear casually with no regard for the way it makes your heart slam in your chest, startled.

"These grow year-round," he explains. "There are no seasons here to wither them. The island provides - fruits ripen eternally, herbs grow, and animals thrive. You'll never hunger or want for anything." His tone is happy, almost boyish in its excitement. "I shaped this place with the help of some of my siblings. I desired a place where life persists, defiant against decay."

"It's beautiful," you admit. "Not what I expected."

He nods. "It cannot be war all the time. Even I need peace."

The path curves inland, away from the beach's gentle slope, into a grove of olive and fig trees that form a natural canopy overhead. Sunlight filters through in golden shafts, illuminating leaves. The ground underfoot turns to mossy earth, cool and springy, dotted with fallen figs that split open. Birds flit between branches, their feathers flashing jewel tones you've never seen.

Deeper into the grove, a narrow stream emerges, its waters crystal-clear and bubbling over smooth pebbles. He crouches to cup water in his hand and drinks. You do the same, dipping your hands into the cool water. When you bring it to your lips, the crispness of it startles you. It's the cleanest water you've ever tasted, cool and clear, a shiver rippling down your spine. He grins and splashes a bit of water toward you, the droplets landing cool and tingling on your skin.

The grove opens to a gentle rise, leading toward the house you glimpsed earlier. It's a driftwood house, sun bleached and reflecting the sun's glow. Terracotta tiles crown the flat roof, with vines of blooming wisteria cascading down one side in waves swaying in the breeze. A columned portico faces the sea, supported by pillars carved with small shields. Wooden shutters frame wide windows, open now to let in the breeze, revealing glimpses of the interior.

Soonyoung pushes open the heavy oak door and ushers you inside with a sweep of his arm, his grin eager. The main room is open and spacious, the floor covered in woven rugs of deep crimsons and earth tones. A hearth dominates one wall, a small fire crackling inside.

On another side, a kitchen alcove gleams with copper pots and shelves laden with jars of fruits and spices. A low table nearby is set with clay bowls and ewers of water. He leads you to a short hall into a room, pushing open the door to reveal a room with a wide bed draped in linens and pillows. The windows in the room overlook a small herb garden, bees humming lazily among blooms of lavender.

He leads you to a back terrace, shaded by a pergola overgrown with grapevines heavy with clusters of ripe fruit. You're amazed at how lush everything here, every fruit swelling with ripeness, every ounce of water clear and cool. From here, the view sweeps across the island. You can see the beach below and the grove's verdant sprawl, distant cliffs rising with goats.

Soonyoung leans against a pillar of the pergola, crossing his arms over his chest to turn his eyes on you. He seems nervous, almost, chewing the corner of his lips as he watches you take in the view.

"This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen," you admit. "I still feel like I'm dreaming."

"I assure you, Wonwoo - Hypnos - is not here." Soonyoung grins when you look at him, wide-eyed. "Do you think I don't know the others?"

"You just talk about them so casually."

"They're my family. We might spite one another and occasionally fight, but they're family nonetheless."

"I've never had a family."

Soonyoung softens, pushing off the column to drift toward you. He lifts his hand as though to brush it against you, but thinks better of it, dropping it at his side. Instead, he tells you, "Rest. Eat. Drink. I'll leave you to it."

"You're not staying?" You hate the instant panic, the way your heart flares. His smile is fond. "I'll be here as often as you wish. Occasionally I've got some things to address, like now. But I won't abandon you here, so long as you want my company."

Soonyoung lingers for a moment longer on the terrace, the late-afternoon light catching the edges of his dark hair and turning the crimson of his tunic to something almost molten. He watches you with that same quiet intensity he’s carried since the temple, sending a shiver down your spine. The wind moves through the grapevines overhead, rustling leaves and sending a few loose tendrils curling toward the floor.

“I’ll leave you to settle,” he says at last, voice low but carrying the same easy confidence he’s shown all afternoon. “The house knows what you need. If you’re hungry, the kitchen will have what you want. If you’re tired, the bed will be warm. If you want the stars tonight, the mats where you woke up remain there, a sort of bed under the stars. I’ll be nearby. Not far. Call if you need me."

You nod, throat tight. The words feel inadequate, but they’re all you have. “Thank you.”

He smiles, small and genuine, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes the scar on his brow lift slightly. “No thanks necessary. You’re home now.”

Home.

He turns then, stepping off the terrace with that same fluid grace, bare feet silent on the warm stone path. You watch his back until he disappears around the curve of the grove, swallowed by olive branches and golden light. You stand there a long time after he leaves, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, the borrowed tunic soft against your skin. The fabric smells faintly of sun-dried linen and something like myrrh.

You step back inside the house, moving slowly, half-expecting the walls to shift or the floor to vanish beneath you like a dream. But the floor stays firm beneath you as you re-enter the sleeping chamber and head toward the wide bed. You sink onto its edge, palms pressing into the mattress. IT gives beneath you, softer than anything you've ever slept on. The constant tension that lived between your shoulder blades finally bleeds out, the ache of release blooming across your back.

Tears come then, sudden and quiet. Not sobs - not grief, because you don't grieve the temple, not exactly. But relief, sharp and bright, cutting through the haze of exhaustion. There's a hint of sorrow for the life you lost, even if it was never truly kind, but the utter relief of realizing where you sit now, in a house built by a god, surrounded by things that never stain, that never corrode, is overwhelming.

You're home now.

Soonyoung's words echo. The phrase feels foreign. Home has always been temporary until the temple, and even then, a storage closet in a corner of a world that you'd carved out for yourself or a spot at the farthest bed during meals never really felt like home. You had duty and silence, and you had the hum of an altar no one else but you would touch, but never a home.

Your fingers curl into the linens. Gratitude swells again, so large it hurts. Not just for the rescue, not just for the island, but for the way he saw the war inside of you. The silence battle, not bloody or gory but just as violent. He'd heard your complaints for years, your mindless commentary, and kept watch. Saved you when you needed it.

Lying back slowly, you stare up at the beamed ceiling. Late sunlight slants across the room in long golden bars, painting stripes of warmth across your body. Outside, the waves keep their steady rhythm. Somewhere distant, a bird calls, a clear note that echoes over the water.

For the first time in years, you don't feel watched, but you don't feel invisible either. You just… feel present.

You breathe in, breathe out. And for once, drift into a comfortable sleep.

-

Waking up on the island is unlike most days. Instead of opening your eyes to dim, cool darkness, you're greeted by warm air, the blankets around you soft and scented slightly with something woody. Sunlight filters through the open window, panting the bed in warm shafts. You sigh, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, peering around the room to find the sound that pulled you from sleep.

Soft footsteps pad across the floor somewhere beyond the bedroom door. Your heart quickens, a remnant of the temple's chaos flashing through your mind: boots thundering down corridors, screams echoing off marble. But there's no smoke here, no heat of flames pressing in. Only the distant hush of waves and the nearer hum of bees in the herb garden.

Sitting up carefully, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet warm against the rug. You pad toward the door, curiosity driving you out into the main room, which is bathed in morning light. You pause when you see Soonyoung, his back to you as he stands at the low table in the kitchen. He's dressed simply again, in a loose tunic of undyed linen that hangs open at the neck, revealing the strong lines of his collarbone and the faint scar that traces across it. His hair is tousled, still damp from what might have been an early swim, and he moves with that same coiled grace.

He turns at the sound of your approach, his dark eyes lighting with that boyish excitement you saw yesterday while he gave you a tour of the small island. "You're awake! Good, I thought you might sleep longer."

You hesitate in the doorway, fingers curling against the frame. The sight of him here, domestic and unarmored, stirs something unfamiliar in your chest, a flutter that you dismiss. You can't help but stare at him, hypnotized by the way the light catches the planes of his face, highlighting the sharp jaw and the faint scare on his brow. You immediately chide yourself - he's a god, not something for you to stare at like a starstruck priestess.

"I didn't mean to intrude," you murmur, voice rough from sleep."

He waves a hand dismissively. "No intrusion. I was gathering breakfast. The fruits are at their best in the morning. Join me on the terrace? The view is unmatched at this hour."

You nod, following him as he lifts a platter laden with fruit in one hand as he leads the way through the back door. The stone underfoot is warm from the sun, and beyond the low wall, the island unfolds in a tapestry of green and blue. The seat glitters under the climbing sun. No smoke on the horizon. No distant bells tolling alarm. Just the island and the cool breeze.

Soonyoung sets the platter on the low table between two cushioned benches, then settles onto one with a fluid motion, stretching his legs out as if the world bends to his comfort. You take the opposite bench, looking at the platter of fruit. Figs bleed red juice onto the clay, grapes swollen and deep purple. Honey gleams golden in a small jar, and Soonyoung tears a piece of flatbread and dips it into the honey, offering it to you.

"Eat," he murmurs, voice soft but insistent. "The food here will mend the spirit."

You take the bread, the honey sticky and sweet on your tongue, mingling with the warm, yeasty flavor. It's richer than anything from the temple, and you sigh, letting it melt in your mouth. Soonyoung watches you as you chew, like he's gauging your reaction. His eyes meet yours, dark and warm, and a spark jumps in your chest, unbidden. You look away quickly, focusing on a grape you pluck from the bunch, a nervous flush warming your neck.

"How did you sleep?" he asks, breaking the silence as he selects a fig, splitting it open with his thumbs. Juice runs over his fingers, and he licks it away absently, the gesture distracting you.

"Deeply," you answer after a beat too long. "Better than I have in years, honestly."

"The island attunes to you. If you prefer the stars, the shelter by the beach is yours too. Sometimes I like to sleep there." He pauses, popping a grape into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "Did dreams come? Or just peace?"

"Peace. Honestly, it was strange to wake without the immediate sense of monotony."

"Mhm."

"Better than the dread I felt waking up that night."

"Dread is war's shadow." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "Speaking of that night - you picked up my sword and faced those men with no training and without fear."

"I was plenty afraid."

"Perhaps, but you were brave enough to defeat the fear. That's no small thing. I rarely see that even in battle-hardened warriors. You don't know how challenging it is to look certain death in the face and decide to fight it anyway, even if it's inevitable."

You think for a second, nibbling on a piece of cheese. "I just did what felt right. I knew the way to the altar - knew the sword was there. It was just instinct."

He tilts his head, studying you with that penetrating gaze. "Have you ever thought of learning? Properly, I mean. Not because you'll need to - war doesn't touch this place. But it could be something for you to do, to embrace that strength."

The question hangs between you, laced with possibility. Your pulse quickens. Learning to use a sword never occurred to you - why would it? Women didn't wield swords to begin with, but certainly not those who served a temple of the gods. The idea, however absurd, makes you grin, looking up at him. He smiles like he knows your answer already, chewing thoughtfully on a grape.

"I think I'd like that," you say.

"Excellent!" He shoots to his feet, startling you. Energy crackles around him, making you lean back. He offers you a hand, a grin splitting his face. "Let's start now. Basics first. Come with me, the beach has good footing."

You can't help but laugh. He pulls you up to your feet and drops your hand, leading you down the path to the beach from the terrace. Birds trill in the trees as you pass, the air full of scents of blooming fruit and salt spray. You reach the beach easily, the sand firm and damp near the water's edge, waves lapping gently.

Soonyoung turns to you and holds out a hand. You blink in surprise as the air ripples for a second, like heat waves disrupting reality in the distance, and the sword from the altar appears. Your mouth pops open a little, shocked. You shouldn't be, you suppose. He's a god with powers beyond your understanding at his finger tips, the ability to command armies and summon weapons barely scratching the surface with what he's able to do.

He holds the sword out to you and you stare at it, unsure. He smirks, tilting his head to the side. "Take it. It's yours."

Similar to the first time you picked it up, the sword is heavy for a single moment before it balances itself. You marvel at it in the sunlight, watching the way the sun glints off the edge, now sharped and polished to perfection. It's the perfect size and weight in your hand, and when you give it a gentle test swing, Soonyoung's smile is so warm that you feel yourself grin back.

"First lesson," Soonyoung says, voice shifting from playful to commanding. "Discipline. War isn't mindless fury. It's control over your body, your breath, you fear. Control over your enemy, their goals."

He strides toward you and gently reaches out, tapping you on the wrist to lift your sword hand. His touch is electric and you stare at his hands as they adjust your grip on the handle of the sword, fingers callused and precise as he squeezes your fist briefly.

"Looser here," he murmurs, thumb pressing lightly on your knuckle. "Yes, like that."

The sun highlights the muscles rippling in Soonyoung's forearm as he steps to the side, dropping your hand in favor of showing you how to take your stance, bent at the knees, legs firmly planted, not too far apart. You stare at him, watching the way the sun catches the lighter threads of his hair, haloing him in gold.

You swallow, focusing on the sword in your hand as you try to ignore the way your heart races, reminding yourself that Soonyoung is a god - Ares specifically, the God of War - Miaephonus, Thouros - to many. Soonyoung had said he wears hundreds of names, and you know it to be true as he leads you through basic forms, his tone steady, the command threading through his voice though he never raises it.

Soonyoung is a patient teacher, each correction gentle but direct. Sweat beads on your brow but you find the work exhilarating. Never before did you imagine you could hold a sword, never before did you think you might find yourself on the beach with the sun reaching its zenith, learning from the god who makes art of the sword and spear.

As he drills you, you realize Soonyoung is right. There is a discipline to the way he teaches you, a logic to the moves and the steps that is less rage and chaos and more control. More purpose. You think it reminds you of him, fierce but contained, like that night in the temple when his rage had been a controlled vehicle for violence.

Soonyoung laughs and stops you after a particularly clumsy swing on your part, the sword tipping too far forward. He grins, eyes twinkling as he strides forward and summons another weapon. You watch as he holds it loosely, turning his hand to display the grip.

"You're still gripping it too hard," he tells you. He demonstrates again before twirling the blade in a showy arc, winking at you. His grin grows when you glower. "Fighting has a flow to it. If you're too rigid, you'll break. If you're too loose, you'll fall. You need to be the perfect combination of both to flow."

You try to mimic the motion, but your arm wobbles, the sword dipping awkwardly. Laughter bubbles up unbidden. It surprises you to hear yourself laugh. His grin is fierce and he steps toward you, steadying your elbow gently.

"You have a beautiful laugh," he tells you before stepping away again before saying, "Again."

You nod, breathing deeply as he instructed, inhaling the salt air to center yourself. The sand shifts under your feet, forcing you to adjust, to find balance in the unpredictability. You swing again, this time with more intent, the hum in the sword vibrating in harmony with your movements. Soonyoung claps in delight, nodding as he has you do it again and again.

You keep going until your arms tremble and the sun sits high overhead. Sweat slicks your skin, your tunic clinging in damp patches, but the ache in your muscles feels good. Soonyoung watches every movement with that blend of fierce focus and boyish delight, correcting your stance with quick taps of his blade or a murmured instruction.

"Alright, that's enough for now," he declares as the sun dips into the afternoon. "Not bad, honestly."

You lower the blade, chest heaving, and wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The hum in the sword has settled to a gentle thrum against your palm. "Why does the sword hum?"

"It hums?"

"Yes. Like a vibration."

"Ha!" He claps his hands, delighted. "It's my energy. Didn't expect a mortal to feel it. I should have known you'd sense it."

"I sensed it at your altar too."

"Is that so?" Soonyoung cocks his head and his grin sharpens. "Virago."

"Virago?"

"A woman of great strength and tenacity, a warrior, even if only in spirit and not practice. Athena would like you."

The compliment makes you avert your eyes. You don't know what to make of his words. Thankfully, he doesn't wait for you to respond, summoning you to lunch as he charges up the path that leads toward the little refuge you woke up in yesterday.

You follow him in the white stand, the tide higher now as it laps closer to the dunes. The simple thatch roof comes into view, mat still spread where you slept. The fire pit smolders low, embers glowing under a flat cooking stone. A fresh basket waits beside it, overflowing with more fruit, a round loaf of bread steaming slightly, and a clay jug beaded with condensation.

Soonyoung drops to one knee beside the pit, coaxing the embers back to life with a few dry twigs and a breath that carries the faint scent of smoke and myrrh. Flames lick upward almost eagerly, as though the fire recognizes him.

He glances at you over his shoulder, playful glint returning. “Sit. The island’s hospitality is better than any feast hall in Olympus.”

You settle onto one of the thin mats, legs tucked beneath you. You watch as he slices the bread with a small knife before passing you a thick piece that he slathers with honey. You accept it, biting into the bread. It's warm and sweet, melting on your tongue and you sigh contentedly, earning a grin from him as he slices another piece for himself.

For a while you eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic hush of waves, and the occasional cry of a seabird wheeling overhead. Every bite of bread and fruit is sweet, and when he passes you water from the clay jar, it's cold and refreshing, chasing away the day's heat immediately.

"Will you tell me about Troy?" You ask, sucking juice from your fingers.

Soonyoung pauses mid-bite, brows lifting in surprise. Then he leans back on one elbow, stretching his legs toward the fire, and grins. "You want war stories? Most people beg me to stop once I start."

"I want your stories," you correct. "I've never left the mountain the temple sits on. Never seen a city larger than the one that burned. Your world is bigger than mine could ever be. I want to experience it through you."

Something shifts in his expression. You think it's pleasure, unguarded and bright as he sits a little straighter, dark eyes gleaming. "Alright. Troy, then."

He tells you about the walls first - tall as mountains, white stone gleaming under the sun, built by gods and men together. He describes the sound, the metallic ring of bronze on bronze, the way the ground shook as thousands of Greek chariots charged across the plains of Troy.

Soonyoung tells you about the silent parts, too. About the moment he watched Hector laugh with his son on the ramparts, the way Paris sometimes played the lyre at dusk to chase away the sorrow of the sentries, to make them less afraid.

You listen as he mentions Achilles, the best of the Greeks - not with hatred, like you might have thought, but with a kind of reluctant respect. You listen with rapt attention, leaning forward as he tells you of the battle, of the chaos of war.

"Did you really walk among them?" You murmur. "During the battle?"

"Of course, though oftentimes mortals don't recognize us. We seem to them a great warrior or a brother in arms, perhaps. But we are there, fighting alongside those who honor us at altars and whisper our names."

"Is that why you came for me? Because I tended your altar?"

"I would not know you otherwise."

You nod. It makes sense. "I suppose if war never came to me, you'd have no reason to appear?" He nods, watching you with a careful expression, like the topic of war makes him nervous, somehow. You think of the way the others in your temple feared him, the way they were so worried that tending to his statue would summon him. "I didn't summon you, right?"

He cocks his head. "How do you mean?"

"By tending to your altar did I… did I invite war in?"

"No. War is necessary." He sighs and leans back, looking up at the blue sky. He closes his eyes, basking in the sun like a cat. "It's not right nor is it wrong… it's simply the balance to peace. War has its own logic. I don't choose the winners, though I try to make the fight fair."

"And after? When war is over?"

"I come here. Sometimes for short periods of time, sometimes for long times. But men always create war and I am summoned often." He opens his eyes, glancing your direction. "You're the first person I've ever brought here, though."

You meet his gaze, heart doing that unsteady flutter again. He holds your eyes a beat longer than necessary, something unspoken flickering between you. Then he clears his throat and stands, brushing sand from his tunic.

“Keep practicing while I’m gone,” he says, voice brisk again, though the warmth lingers in his eyes. “Forms one through four, slow and deliberate. Feel the purpose in each one. I’ll be back for dinner.”

Before you can answer, he steps back, the air around him shimmering like heat over stone. One moment he’s standing there, sunlit and solid. In the next, he's gone, leaving only the faint scent of wood and salt in his wake.

You sit for a long minute staring at the place where he vanished. The fire pops softly. Waves sigh against the shore. You rise, pick up the sword where it rests against the shelter pole, and walk back down to the firm sand near the water. The sun is past zenith now, light slanting golden across the beach. You take your stance, and you practice as he says, each movement deliberate.

You practice until your arms burn and sweat drips from your brow. Until the light turns amber and the first stars prick the deepening blue overhead.

-

Days on the island begin to fold into one another like the gentle turn of waves against the shore. The first week feels like a dream you’re afraid to wake from, but the second week you realize this is your new reality, something that won't be taken away from you. It's not borrowed or temporary, it's yours.

Mornings arrive with light spilling through the open window of the bedroom, always warm. You wake without the jolt of bells or dread, body unfolding slowly from the soft linens. Some days you linger in bed, listening to the island breathe. Other mornings you rise earlier, drawn outside by the soft pink light that precedes sunrise. You walk the beach barefoot, sand still cool from the night, collecting shells that hum faintly when you hold them to your ear like Soonyoung taught you.

Breakfast is always abundant. It isn't just Soonyoung who seems to serve you - it's the kitchen, too. Fresh bread and figs appear even when Soonyoung isn't there, yogurt and honey cakes waiting for you when you stumble in. On days Soonyoung is absent, you eat alone on the terrace, legs dangling over the low wall, watching the sea change color from steel to turquoise as the sun climbs.

On the days Soonyoung is there, the routine shifts to include him. He arrives without announcement, footsteps soft on the path toward the house or simply appearing at the edge of the grove with that faint shimmer of his. Breakfast is always shared side by side on the terrace on those days, legs brushing occasionally.

Soonyoung likes to talk, and you like to listen. He tells you stories of distant wars, of siblings who bicker like mortals, of the first time he tasted honey and decided mortals weren't so bad after all. He answers every question that spills out of you, that same fond patience of his bleeding through when he smiles at you no matter how ridiculous the question feels.

“You’re relentless,” he says once, laughing, but there’s pride in it, not mockery. “No one’s asked me that since the fall of Mycenae.”

When he's gone, you practice the sword forms he taught you. The blade feels more familiar each day, less like a foreign object and more like an extension of your arm. You move through the sequences slowly and deliberately, breathing with each strike.

On the afternoons you don't practice, you wander. You trace the grove's paths until you know every twist and turn. You sit at the spring sometimes too, hands in the cool water, letting it soothe the stinging calluses forming on your palms.

Evenings depend on whether he returns. When he does, you eat dinner on the terrace underneath the torchlight and the stares, biting into grilled fish and olives stuffed with feta. You both like to look up at the sky after dinner, Soonyoung telling you about the constellations while you listen. you tell him the smaller details of your life, and though they feel insignificant, he listens like they matter, like your small life is worth the same attention of the sack of Troy.

When he’s absent, you eat alone. You take the platter to the beach shelter, lie back on the mats under the open sky, and watch the stars emerge one by one.

You miss him when he's gone, though. Not because you feel lonely - you've been alone your entire life, even in crowded rooms of people. You miss him because your affection for him has taken root in your heart and grown in increments, like the vines creeping up the columns of the house.

It's hard not to feel something for him, but you can't help the way your chest tightens when he appears after a long absence, your relief so sharp it startles you. You can't help it when your gaze lingers when he laughs, warm and unguarded, head thrown back as though the sky itself amuses him.

You know it's foolish. He's Ares - a god. He is ancient and vast, a concept that is only occasionally made flesh, someone you could never truly hope to understand. So many mortals have loved gods and fallen to tragedy because of it, but now that you've felt the warmth of his palm and heard the depth of his laughter, you cannot blame them for falling.

The gap between you is not bridgeable. You tell yourself this daily, sternly, whenever your fingers brush his while passing a cup, whenever he smiles at you like you’ve said something clever, whenever he watches you practice forms with quiet pride.

And yet.

And yet and yet and yet.

The comfort of him settles deep. When he is near, the world feels steadier. When he is gone, you miss the steadiness. You don't dare name it, though. You barely acknowledge it. It feels like a dangerous thing, whatever it is, so you keep it buried. Knowing him is enough.

It has to be enough.

On nights like tonight, it's more than enough. The air carries the smell of salt and sweet smoke from the small fire crackling on the beach, embers popping and drifting toward the sky. The small shelter stands behind you, but you've dragged the mat out onto the sand near the waterline, close enough that the occasional wave licks at your feet before retreating.

Above, the sky is a vast blanket strewn with stars, brighter than anything you've ever seen. Soonyoung lies on his back next to you, hands tucked behind his head, the gold light from the fire flickering over the faint scar in his eyebrow and the curve of his smile.

"I think I envy the stars," Soonyoung murmurs, staring up at the sky.

You turn toward him, perplexed. "Envy?"

"They're never alone. Even when the world tears itself apart, they have each other. I've had centuries of company. Siblings who tolerate me. Mortals who loved me and shared my bed." He blows out a slow sigh. "But most eventually curse my name when war comes. Company is rarely the same as understanding."

"People are afraid of war."

"War is duty," he murmurs. "Always has been. I am the swing of the blade that protects the hearth and the fury that defends the weak. They thank Athena for wisdom in battle and yet fear the fury that shields them. When they thank me, it's with averted eyes, as though saying my name will summon conflict."

Soonyoung's words sink in. You think about the others in the temple, how the sisters - probably dead, now - told you they believed as much. They had believed that tending to Soonyoung's - Ares' - altar would summon him, that being kind to him would call him down and destroy everything.

You watch him, his profile sharp against the night. His gaze seems distant, like he's lost in thought. You don't know how to comfort a god, but you try anyway.

"People are often afraid of the things and people they don't understand," you murmur. "Logic fails in the presence of fear."

"Well said." His mouth twitches a little. "Even among the gods it's the same. The gods hate to be compared to mortals, and yet we're so similar. They crave peace yet fear the one who makes it possible. Peace is only beautiful because it follows wrath."

"That sounds lonely."

He finally turns his head to meet your eyes. The firelight turns his irises molten, soft in a way that steals your breath.

“You never asked me to be anything other than what I am," Soonyoung notes. "You lit candles no one else would touch, and spoke to me like I was listening even if you weren't sure. It brought me comfort."

You sit up slowly, drawing your knees toward your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them. His eyes follow the movement, impossibly dark. Your heart stutters as he looks up at you, face softer and more vulnerable than you ever thought a god of war could look.

"I was never afraid of you," you tell him softly. "Not even when the temple burned and you appeared and killed those men. Only for a moment I was afraid - but not of you. Most of all, I was just relieved."

He smiles. "Still not afraid?"

"No. You've given me what others couldn't - time and attention. A life. Something to do. You're kind and you teach me how to fight though most would find it improper. You listen when I tell you about nothing important. You ask questions even if you know the answers just to make me feel heard. It brings me comfort."

His smile deepens, soft and aching, eyes shining in the firelight. For a moment the space between you feels alive, humming with the same vibration you’ve felt from the sword, from his altar, from him. The air thickens. Your breath catches as his gaze drops briefly to your mouth, then lifts again, searching.

You feel your heart rate spike as you avert your eyes, the panic that he'll see the affection just simmering beneath the surface of your skin. You cannot love him - he's a god. He's vast and ancient, and you're a mortal. Whatever feelings you have for him is too fragile and impossible, and if you name it, you know it'll break.

"Anyway," you say, throat tight. "I envy the stars too. They are far more beautiful than anything us mortals have managed to conjure up."

Soonyoung blinks, surprised at your change of topic. Your heart pounds as you silently beg him not to press the issue, to not keep the conversation so close to the feeling stuck in your chest. Then he exhales, something that's almost a laugh. He leans back on his hands, gazing upward again.

"You've never been more wrong, Virago."

-

The sun is a merciless coin of heat and light in the sky, turning the beach into a sheet of pale fire. Sweat slicks down your spine, your tunic clinging in damp patches that dark against your back. The sword in your hand feels alive, less of an object and more of an extension of your arm. You no longer think about how to move - you just do.

Soonyoung circles you barefoot, sand dusting the tops of his feet. His own linen tunic is sleeveless today, the fabric gathered at the shoulders with glinting bronze pins. His sculpted arms flex as he moves, beads of sweat tracing down each curve of muscle. He holds his sword loosely in his right hand, tip lowered, watching you with that predatory patience you've come to know.

"Again," he says. "Don't hint at the move."

You nod once, breath steady despite the burn in your shoulders and arms. You step forward, the blade rising in a clean arc. Steel meets steel with a bright clang that startles the gulls from the dunes. Soonyoung parries without effort, guiding your momentum past him so you stumble a half step.

"Too much shoulder," he murmurs near your ear, stepping close to catch your wrist in his hand to correct you. "Use the hips. Let the turn carry the force."

He doesn’t release you immediately. Instead he rotates your wrist a fraction, showing the angle, then slides his palm up to cup your elbow, lifting and adjusting until your form feels perfect. His fingers linger there, calluses rasping lightly against your skin. You can feel the heat radiating from his chest, inches away.

You swallow. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

He steps back, but the space between you feels smaller than before, your breath shakier as you try to shove down the awareness of him.

The next hour passes in a blur of controlled violence. Disarming lessons are your least favorite - they draw him too close, his forearm brushing yours, his knee nudging the inside of your thigh to correct your stance. When you overextend, he catches you around the waist with one arm to steady you, palm flat against your ribs until your balance returns.

It's utterly maddening. He's gentle, despite the coiled strength in every single one of his movements. You know his hands have killed thousands - you've seen him throw a spear that skewered a man through. And yet he handles you with gentle confidence, like handling glass.