The sound was sharp enough to make Jay flinch, just barely, a subtle jerk of his shoulders, but he didn't step back. He stood right where he was, planted across from you on the other side of the narrow study table, both his palms pressed flat against the polished wood surface, fingers splayed wide like he was bracing himself. Beside his right hand, just brushing against his pinky, sat a brown envelope, ordinary, unremarkable, the kind you'd use to mail documents or store receipts. Except it wasn't ordinary at all, and you both knew it.

You had already opened it. A few moments ago, when Jay had first slid it across the table toward you with a quiet, "Just look inside first," you'd given him a skeptical look, the same look you gave people who tried to cut the line at the campus café, and undone the metal clasp with one finger. The moment you peeled back the flap, your brain short-circuited. The envelope was filled with money. Not a few folded bills, not some chump-change twenties — filled, stuffed to the point where the paper bulged outward like it was struggling to contain what was inside. Bill after bill after bill, crisp and pressed together so tightly you could barely pry them apart with your fingertips. Your mouth had gone dry. You couldn't even count it properly mentally, not when your eyes were still trying to process the sheer volume of it. Four hundred dollars? Nine hundred? Maybe even a thousand? Every time you tried to land on a rough estimate, the number climbed higher, your mind fumbling with digits the way your hands fumbled with the bills. It was the first time in your life you'd seen so much money in one sitting, let alone held it, let alone had it sitting in front of you on a scratched-up library table like it was nothing.

"Please, Y/N—I swear it'll just be a quick one-time thing. You have to help me out," Jay said, and the desperation in his tone was so raw, so unguarded, that it almost caught you off guard. His voice dropped on the last sentence, going low and almost brittle, like the words themselves were fragile and he was afraid of crushing them. His eyes, dark brown, normally so composed and easy, were wide and searching, locked on yours with an intensity that made the air between you feel heavier.

You already knew it was absolute bullshit. The whole setup, the way he'd walked over to your usual study spot in the library's east wing where you always sat, third floor, back corner, the table beside the window that overlooked the quad, and hovered awkwardly by the empty chair across from you until you looked up from your notes. The way he'd said he had an important question to ask about a subject both of you shared, some elective you'd both wound up in because it fit your schedules. You'd told him to just ask right then and there, leaning back in your chair with your arms crossed because something about the way he was shifting his weight from foot to foot told you this wasn't about academics at all. He insisted on taking you to one of the private study rooms, the kind that required cash to book, the kind with a door you could lock and walls thick enough that sound didn't travel. You said no. Flat out, no, you had studying to do, you didn't have time for whatever cryptic thing he needed to say. He insisted again, his voice dropping lower, his hand rubbing the back of his neck in that restless way people do when they're wound tight. You said no a second time. He insisted a third, and by then a few passersby had slowed their pace, eyes sliding over to the two of you with that particular brand of campus curiosity, the kind that would be a rumor by dinner. You noticed the girl with the ponytail lingering near the shelf a few feet away, pretending to browse a book she was holding upside down. You noticed the guy at the next table suddenly very interested in his phone, which was facedown on the desk. You exhaled through your nose, muttered a curse under your breath, grabbed your bag, and followed Jay down the hall because the last thing you needed was an audience.

Yup, Jay — as in the Park Jongseong. People referred to him as Jay, and you never really knew the full reason as to why, but apparently it was his English name, one he'd had since childhood, and he preferred to be called that around university. He'd introduced himself that way on the first day of freshman orientation, and obviously, the student body didn't hesitate to comply. Jay was and still is the sheer epitome of the typical picture-perfect guy, the kind that seemed like he was drafted in a lab by someone trying to engineer the ideal male specimen. He was intelligent, effortlessly so, the kind of smart that didn't need to announce itself because it showed in the way he spoke, the way he could break down a complex concept in class without breaking a sweat, the way professors seemed to light up whenever he raised his hand. He came from an incredibly wealthy background — old money, the kind that didn't need to be flashy because it simply was, the kind that came with family estates and business empires and the quiet assurance that you'd never have to worry about a single thing in your life. He was the president of the music club, the lead guitarist of the university's band, and as if all of that wasn't enough, the campus heartthrob, a title he hadn't asked for but couldn't seem to shake off.

Every single girl was head over heels for him. That wasn't an exaggeration, it was a documented, observable, almost scientific phenomenon. You could swear you'd overheard your block mate laugh about how during one Valentine's Day, he was hiding in the music room for a whole day because people wouldn't stop chasing after him, shoving gifts and confessions and handwritten letters through the door crack until the floor looked like a paper avalanche. Another girl in your dorm had a Pinterest board dedicated to him, screenshots from his Instagram, candid photos people had taken during his performances, even a blurry shot of him eating at the cafeteria that she treated like some kind of holy relic. It was unhinged. It was also, admittedly, understandable.

Which is why it came to you as a surprise — no, not a surprise, a shock, a full-body, brain-stalling, what-the-fuck-is-happening shock — that he'd dragged your ass to a secluded, cash-only private study room on one breezy Tuesday afternoon with an envelope filled to the brim with cash, set it on the table between you, and asked if you could fake-date him.

You? Jay? Date? It had never crossed your mind. Not once. Not even in some passing, idle thought, the kind your brain produces at two in the morning when you're half-asleep and thinking about nothing in particular. Sure, he's attractive, anyone with functioning eyes could see that, the sharp jawline, the dark hair that always looked effortlessly styled even when he'd just woken up, the way his whole face seemed to carry this natural, easy confidence like he'd never had to second-guess a single thing about himself. But he was way out of your league, and more than that, you both never really batted an eye at each other. You existed in the same spaces, the same lecture halls, the same campus walkways, the same cafeteria, but you moved in entirely different orbits. Just so happened that both of you had taken up the same course, and even then, your interactions had been limited to the occasional "can I borrow a pen" or "did you catch what the professor said about the deadline." Nothing more. Nothing less. Two people who happened to share a lecture room and nothing else.

"Come on, cut me some slack. The girl your parents are arranging for you to marry can't be that bad," you had said, leaning back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to sound casual even though your heart was still doing something strange and irregular from the sheer absurdity of this conversation.

"She is!"

"Show me a picture."

Jay let out an exhale, long, heavy, the kind that seemed to carry the weight of several sleepless nights, before fishing his phone from the pocket of his jacket. He unlocked it, his thumb moving quickly across the screen, scrolling through what looked like his mom's messages, then his DMs, his brow furrowed in concentration as he searched for a specific photo. You watched his face as he scrolled, the tightness in his jaw, the slight downward pull of his lips, and for a moment, the campus heartthrob facade fell away entirely, and he just looked like a guy who was stressed out of his mind. Then he found it, turned the phone toward you, and held it there.

You looked. You leaned in. Your eyes traveled across the screen, the girl in the photo was striking, genuinely stunning, the kind of beautiful that made you do a double-take. She had this effortless elegance about her, dressed in something that probably cost more than your entire semester's textbook budget, standing in what appeared to be the foyer of a home that looked like it belonged in an architecture magazine. Flawless. Immaculate. The type of person who looked like she'd never had a bad day in her life.

"Ooooh, she's bad as hell," you smiled — and you meant it, because damn, she really was, and you weren't about to pretend otherwise just to make Jay feel better about his predicament.

A beat. Jay looked at you dead in the eyes, his expression utterly flat, a picture of pure, unamused disbelief. And you just smiled back at him, wide, toothy, completely genuine, the kind of smile that said I know this isn't helping but I'm being honest here.

"Alright, that's enough! That's not the point, my point is I don't want to get married—"

"Then just tell your parents you're not yet ready, as simple as that." You cut him off, waving your hand like you were swatting away a fly. "Sit them down, look them in the eye, say 'hey, I'm twenty-something, I'm not doing this right now,' and call it a day."

"Fuck, I've tried and tried and tried, but they won't budge on their decision." Jay's voice cracked on the last word, just barely, a hairline fracture in his composure that he quickly sealed shut by pressing his lips together and looking away for a second. When he looked back, his eyes were harder, more urgent. "I'm way too young to be marrying at this age. Sure, some people our age are married, but I'm not them and they're not me! I have things I want to do, things I actually want, and being tied down to someone I didn't even choose isn't one of them." His hands curled into fists on the table, knuckles going pale. "Please, Y/N, just—this one big favor. This and nothing more, I'm begging."

He was begging. Park Jongseong, the guy who had the entire campus at his feet, was standing across from you in a dimly lit study room practically pleading with you like his life depended on it. And the worst part, the part that made your chest tighten slightly, the part that made your arms uncross and fall to your sides, was that it was real. You could see it in every line of his body, hear it in every syllable he pushed out. He wasn't being dramatic. He wasn't putting on a show. He was genuinely, desperately, sincerely asking you for help, and the vulnerability of it was staggering.

You had to admit, with his level of desperation, you were starting to feel real bad. You'd never seen someone be this desperate — not around you, not in your presence, not directed at you. Even your ex hadn't been this desperate for you, and they'd had actual reasons to be. This was the campus heartthrob, a guy who could snap his fingers and have a line of volunteers stretching from the library to the campus gates, and here he was, choosing you, asking you, practically on his knees in front of you. It didn't make sense. None of this made sense.

"I'm sorry you have to go through this, but no is no. That's final on my end." You said it as firmly as you could, chin lifted, voice steady. You meant it, or at least, you wanted to mean it, you were trying to mean it, because the logical part of your brain was screaming at you that this was insane, that fake-dating Jay was a terrible idea, that nothing good could come from entangling yourself in the mess of someone else's life, no matter how much money was in that envelope.

"Oh my god, please, I'll do anything, I'll even add more money to the—"

Money? Money.

Yup, as in the brown envelope filled with money. The envelope that was still sitting on the table between you, its mouth open, its contents spilling slightly outward, bills catching the overhead light. The first time you'd seen it, when Jay had first pushed it toward you, you thought he was going to bribe his way through you to get a yes, just straight-up purchase your agreement like you were a transaction, like your consent was a commodity he could afford. The thought had made your stomach turn. But then he'd clarified, hastily, almost tripping over his own words in his rush to explain, he'd just taken some money out of his card, he said, and to see it as a thank-you if ever. A gesture. No strings. No pressure. Just — here, this is what I can offer, if you're willing.

What an arrogant bitch, using daddy's money to get what he wanted. The thought surfaced sharp and bitter, and you let it sit there for a second, let yourself feel the sting of it, the unfairness, the casual way he could just produce this kind of cash like it was pocket change, like it was nothing, like it was the equivalent of buying someone a coffee. Though, you knew, and this was the part that made the thought dissolve as quickly as it had come — you knew you couldn't resist that much money. You couldn't. You were physically, financially, realistically incapable of turning away from what that envelope represented.

Truth is, in this prestigious university filled with students who spent their weekends drinking on yachts and flying home for holidays like commuting was a personality trait, you're the elephant in the room. The odd one out. The one who didn't belong, not because you weren't smart enough, not because you hadn't earned your place, but because you existed in a world that operated on an entirely different currency than the one everyone else was spending. You came from a less fortunate background compared to everyone here, and that was putting it gently. Your hometown was the kind of place people drove through without stopping, the kind of place where the biggest employer was the gas station on the highway and the most exciting thing that happened all year was the county fair. For your whole life, all you could do was study. That was it. That was the one lane you had, the one road available to you, and you ran it like your life depended on it — because it did. Get amazing marks, get recognized enough to be able to get somewhere nice in life, somewhere better, somewhere that didn't feel like a dead end with a nice view of nothing. All that effort paid off in the end, because here you were — admitted to this prestigious university, the kind with the manicured lawns, the stone buildings, and the reputation that opened doors before you even knocked, far from home, with a full 100% scholarship. Every penny covered. Tuition, housing, the works.

You didn't even know this was possible. When the acceptance letter came, when you'd read the words “full scholarship” and felt the ground tilt beneath you, you'd sat on the floor of your bedroom for ten minutes just breathing, because your brain couldn't process anything beyond the fact that something had finally, finally gone right. You were beyond thankful. You still were. Every single day you woke up in that dorm room, you felt it, the gratitude, the disbelief, the quiet, stubborn resolve to not waste a single second of this opportunity.

But gratitude didn't pay for groceries. And a full scholarship didn't cover the things that fell through the cracks, the meals you skipped because the dining hall was closed and the nearest affordable option was a twenty-minute walk off campus, the school supplies that weren't included in the textbook package, the toiletries and the laundry detergent and the occasional cup of coffee that kept you awake during exam week. So now, with Jay offering you an insane amount of money, more than your parents could scrape up for months of careful, pinching saving, more than you'd earn in an entire semester of your part-time job, just to be his fake girlfriend? You couldn't possibly resist. You were already somewhat struggling to keep up, the kind of struggling that was invisible to everyone around you because you'd gotten so good at making it look effortless. You worked part-time as a lab instructor in another department of the university — setting up equipment, walking students through procedures, cleaning up after sessions — and while the pay was something, it wasn't enough to breathe easy. You saved up quite frequently, hoarding every extra cent like a dragon guarding its treasure, to the point where you'd forget to eat at times because the cafeteria line was long and the off-campus options cost money and you'd already convinced yourself that skipping one meal wasn't that big of a deal. You were literally living in the damn trenches, grinding yourself down to the bone in an environment where the person sitting next to you in lecture was complaining about their dad's yacht needing repairs.

He was still yapping about whatever, something about how his parents were persistent, how the arrangement had been in the works for months, how he'd tried every angle he could think of and this was the only option left, when you'd finally snapped back to reality, the sound of his voice dissolving into white noise as your brain latched onto the single, crystalline truth sitting in front of you: that envelope, that money, that lifeline.

"Deal." You said it with your face blank. No smile, no hesitation, no dramatic pause. Just the word, clean and final, dropped onto the table between you like a card laid face-up.

You saw Jay's face change instantly — like a switch had been flipped, like sunlight breaking through clouds. His eyes went wide, his mouth fell open, and then the most genuine smile you'd ever seen on another human being spread across his face, so bright and so unguarded that it almost looked out of place on someone you'd only ever seen looking composed and cool and collected.

"Oh my god really? Thank you, thank you so much, oh my god—" The words tumbled out of him in a rush, his voice climbing higher with each one, his hands coming off the table to gesture wildly in the air like he didn't know what to do with them. He looked, for a moment, like a kid who'd just been told he could have dessert before dinner, pure, unfiltered relief flooding every feature, softening every sharp edge you'd ever associated with him.

"Yeah, yeah, calm down before I change my mind." You retorted, but you were clearly amused at his enthusiasm, the corner of your mouth twitching despite your best effort to keep your expression neutral. There was something almost endearing about watching Jay, the campus heartthrob, the cool guy, the one everyone wanted, practically vibrate with gratitude right in front of you. It was humanizing in a way you hadn't expected.

"Yes, ma'am." He said it with a nod, still grinning, and there was something in the way he said it, the slight dip of his head, the warmth in his voice, that made your chest do that strange, irregular thing again.

So then there you and Jay were, officially "boyfriend and girlfriend." Just like that, in a dimly lit private study room that smelled like old paper and lemon-scented wood cleaner, with a brown envelope full of cash sitting between you and the campus heartthrob beaming at you like you'd just handed him the world. You never knew up until when the act would last, though — just be convincing for as long as possible, up to the point when Jay says it's over, he's free, and both of you could just go back to the way things were. Two people who happened to share a classroom and nothing else, the way it was always meant to be.

At least, that was the plan.

The first week of "dating" was surprisingly easy.

Though, at that point of the week, nothing significant had happened yet. You guys were still somewhat awkward about the whole ordeal, like two people who'd signed a contract to perform in a play but hadn't yet rehearsed their scenes. No crazy public interactions, no dramatic cafeteria entrances, no hand-holding across the courtyard for all to see. You guys never even texted, not really, not in the way actual couples texted, with that constant low hum of conversation that never really stopped. Maybe you'd send Jay a horrendous reel about some funny skit, the kind that made you snort quietly to yourself in your dorm room at midnight, and caption it with something like "this is how i saw you in that study space" and he'd either just react with a haha emoji or reply with a laugh or be sassy in return, firing back with a reel of his own that somehow managed to be even more unhinged than yours. Sometimes he'd message you about an assignment assigned to a shared class, dry, practical stuff, "did prof say apa or mla" or "is the thing due friday or saturday,” the kind of texts that could've been sent to anyone, that carried no weight, that left no residue once they were answered. Just that, nothing more. Simple day-to-day interactions, the bare minimum of communication required to maintain the illusion that two people were in any kind of relationship at all. Honestly, you guys only interacted when you'd remember, perhaps like once every two days, maybe even less, the rhythm of it irregular and loose, like a heartbeat that kept skipping. Ya'll didn't even acknowledge each other in public. Not a wave, not a nod, not so much as a glance across a lecture hall. You'd walk past each other between classes with the same neutral, unseeing expression you'd give a stranger on the sidewalk, and it was fine, it was easier that way, simpler, less to explain, less to perform. The fake in fake-dating had never felt so appropriate.

The second week was when things had gotten a bit strange.

It was a regular Thursday afternoon, the kind of Thursday that felt like it had been stretching on for about six business days already, the kind where the week's exhaustion had settled into your bones like damp cold and you could practically feel your brain running on fumes. You were in the lab, packing up your things because your shift had finally finished — the last student had left twenty minutes ago, the equipment was wiped down and stored, the logbook was updated, and the only thing left to do was zip your bag and drag yourself back to the dorm for whatever sad dinner awaited. You were slipping your charger into the front pocket of your bag when your phone lit up on the counter, the screen glowing with a message notification.

Jongseong [6:13 PM]: hi! :) are you free right now?

Yeah, your contact name for him was Jongseong. Not Jay. Not "bf 💕" or whatever the hell a real girlfriend would save her boyfriend's name as. Jongseong. His Korean name, the one he didn't go by, the one most people on campus didn't even know. He didn't know you'd saved him that way, and he definitely didn't need to know. It just served as a little reminder, a quiet, private, almost superstitious reminder, that this whole thing was meant to be some stupid thing, some arrangement, some transaction dressed up in the costume of a relationship. You didn't know how exactly it'd help, calling him by a name he didn't use, keeping that tiny sliver of distance preserved in your phone's contacts list, but that's what you told yourself, and that was enough.

You stared at the message for a bit, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. What the hell could he possibly want now? You thought, your brow furrowing slightly. It had been days since your last actual exchange, a reel about a cat falling off a counter, three days ago, to which he'd responded with a skull emoji. And now, out of nowhere, on a random Thursday evening, a cheerful "hi! :)" and a question about your availability like you were being summoned for a meeting. You typed back a while later, after you'd zipped your bag and slung it onto your shoulder.

You [6:15 PM]: why? i'm at the lab rn

He saw the text almost immediately, the read receipt appeared within seconds, which told you he'd been staring at his phone waiting for your reply, which was somehow both endearing and mildly concerning.

Jongseong [6:15 PM]: oooh okay

Jongseong [6:15 PM]: do you wanna head out to this

Jongseong [6:15 PM]: new retro themed diner that opened up? 😅 it's a bit far from the university though, but i can drive you back and forth

Diner? Eat out? Goodness, you couldn't even afford to buy dinner on some days, and he was asking you to go to some trendy new spot that probably charged eighteen dollars for a milkshake and had a waitlist longer than the financial aid office. The thought alone made your wallet ache in sympathy.

I mean, you did have money, the one Jay had given you in that envelope, the one that was currently tucked inside the zippered pocket of your bag, still as full as the day he'd handed it to you. But you couldn't bring yourself to spend it yet. Not even for something this small, not even for a meal that your growling stomach was practically begging for. You had more priorities, bigger ones, heavier ones, the kind that didn't go away just because you were hungry. Sending some money back to your parents, for one, you'd already calculated how much you could afford to send without destabilizing your own fragile ecosystem, and the number was pitifully small but it was something, it was the least you could do when your mom and dad were back home stretching every paycheck until it tore. Your needs, too, the things that kept you functional, the toothpaste and the laundry soap and the replacement headphones because your current pair was held together with electrical tape and prayer. All the works. Every dollar in that envelope was already earmarked for something, already spoken for in the mental ledger you maintained with the obsessive precision of an accountant during tax season.

You [6:16 PM]: dude

You [6:16 PM]: i'd love to but i have no money

Jongseong [6:16 PM]: the envelope?

You [6:17 PM]: can't bring myself to spend it yet jay 🥲 i have lots of things i need to prioritize rather than some dinner

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: i understand

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: dinner's on me ☺️ i'll pick you up from the lab in a bit

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: just gonna grab my keys

Oh my god, this guy. You stared at your phone screen, your mouth slightly open, that familiar mixture of disbelief and reluctant warmth spreading through your chest. He'd just — announced it. Like it was obvious, like it was already decided, like your financial situation was a minor obstacle he could simply breeze past with the casual ease of someone who'd never had to think about the price of anything in his entire life. And the smiley face. The little ☺️ at the end of the message, so completely without guile, like he genuinely didn't see the big deal about paying for your dinner. You didn't know whether to be grateful or annoyed, so you settled for a weird combination of both that manifested as you pressing your palm against your forehead and exhaling slowly.

You [6:17 PM]: wait wait ok but what are we even gonna do at the diner

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: eat?

You [6:17 PM]: yeah what else 🫠 no way you're just doing this without some explanation

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: i'm just being a nice boyfriend, no?

Jongseong [6:17 PM]: but yes lol i have something i want to talk to you about

Something he wanted to talk about. That was vaguely ominous, or maybe it wasn't, maybe it was exactly what he said it was, a conversation, a discussion, something practical and straightforward. But the phrase "something I want to talk to you about" had a certain weight to it, the way phrases that start with "we need to talk" or "can I tell you something" always carried more gravity than their individual words suggested.

You [6:17 PM]: can't we just… do this over the phone?

He didn't answer. You stood there for a minute, your phone held loosely in your hand, waiting for the three dots to appear, waiting for the typing indicator, waiting for anything. None. The screen stayed still, the conversation hanging on your last message like an unanswered question mark. So you just continued on with your business, packing the rest of your things, double-checking that nothing was still plugged into the electrical sockets, a habit you'd developed after nearly starting a small fire during your first week on the job, closing the lights off in some areas. Then your phone vibrated in your hand, a sharp little pulse against your palm.

Jongseong [6:23 PM]: look at the door

You did. And there he was.

The lab doors were those awkward ones, the ones with a rectangular window set into the middle of the door, like a porthole, the glass slightly frosted but not enough to obscure whoever was standing on the other side. And Jay was right there, visible through that window, his face backlit by the hallway's amber light. He was tapping on the glass with his knuckles, waving at you with his other hand, and wearing this boyish smile, this wide, slightly crooked, utterly disarming smile, that made him look about five years younger and infinitely less like the campus heartthrob and more like some eager puppy that had shown up at your door expecting a walk.

You let out an exhausted exhale, the one that came from deep in your lungs and carried with it every ounce of resistance you'd been trying to maintain. And you flipped him off, just raised your middle finger casually, without heat, the way you'd flip off a friend who was being annoying but not annoying enough to actually be mad at. He just smiled wider, his eyes crinkling at the corners, clearly unfazed, then reached for the door handle, pushed it open, and walked in.

"Still busy?" he asked, his voice easy, light, like he hadn't just driven across campus to show up unannounced at your workplace like some kind of determined golden retriever.

"No, I'm done with everything already. Just—checking up on some things." You said, gesturing vaguely around the lab, your tone carrying that tired-but-not-unfriendly edge that had become your default around him.

"I'll help you," he muttered, already moving past you into the lab, his eyes scanning the room with a quick efficiency that surprised you. "It's getting dark already. We should get going before some ghost clings onto my girlfriend."

The word "girlfriend" hit you like a small, unexpected electric shock, a quick jolt that started in your stomach and radiated outward, making your fingers tingle and your breath catch for just a fraction of a second. A knot twisted in your stomach, tight and warm and deeply confusing, the kind of physical reaction you had zero authority over and absolutely no interest in analyzing. It was the first time he'd said it out loud, at least to your face, in a context that wasn't part of some rehearsed pitch, just dropped it into conversation like it was natural. You didn't even have the time to argue with him, to protest, to say don't call me that, it's weird, because he'd already started venturing through the lab, checking the sinks, unplugging a device you'd missed, verifying that the gas valves were shut off, his movements quick and competent and entirely too helpful for someone who'd probably never set foot in a science lab before today. You had just watched him, watched the way he moved through the space with an easy confidence, the way his sleeves were pushed up to his forearms revealing the subtle curve of muscle and the glint of a watch that probably cost more than your entire semester's living expenses, the way he double-checked things without being asked, the way he just helped, simply and without fanfare. When he was finally done, he walked back over to you, reached out, and pulled you gently by your wrist — not grabbing, not yanking, just a warm, steady pressure around your wrist that guided you forward, his fingers fitting loosely around the bone like a bracelet. With his other hand, he scooped your shoulder bag off the table where it had been sitting, slinging it over his own shoulder without a word, and then he looked at you.

"Ready? Didn't leave anything?" he asked gently, and the softness in his voice. the genuine, unhurried concern in it, made something in your chest shift, a tiny tectonic movement, barely perceptible but undeniable.

You looked at the table, then around you at the dim lab, then at him — at his face, at the way the hallway light caught the slope of his nose and the dark of his eyes, at the way he was standing there with your bag on his shoulder. "Nope, didn't leave anything." You said, and your voice came out quieter than you intended.

A smile tugged at his lips, small, warm, barely there but unmistakable, before he walked you out of the lab, his hand dropping from your wrist but the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin like a fading warmth you couldn't quite shake.

The diner was incredibly cute, wait, cute wouldn't even be able to do it justice. It was charming in the way that places only existed in movies or in the carefully curated feeds of lifestyle influencers, the kind of spot that seemed almost aggressively aesthetic, like it had been designed in a boardroom by someone with a Pinterest board titled "i miss being a kid" and an unlimited budget. Red vinyl booths with chrome trim, black-and-white checkered floors, vintage neon signs spelling out words like "EATS" and "SHAKES" in glowing pink cursive along the walls, a jukebox in the corner that actually played real records, its arm moving mechanically from song to song while a warm, crackling version of some fifties doo-wop track drifted through the speakers. There were framed posters of old films, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Rebel Without a Cause, Grease, and the air smelled like frying batter, vanilla, and that particular, indescribable scent of a place that took its desserts seriously. It looked exactly like how those influencers would post about, all warm lighting and curated messiness, exactly like how the social media pages would market it, except somehow better.

He chose to sit beside you. Which was — okay, crazy, genuinely unhinged behavior, because you guys were seated at a dining booth. The classic kind, the one with two seats facing each other, a table in the middle, the configuration designed so that two people could sit across from each other and have a face-to-face conversation like normal human beings. But no. Jay wanted to sit beside you. On the same side of the booth. Like an actual couple. Like people who wanted to share the same view, the same space, the same pocket of air. You didn't argue, you couldn't, actually, because by the time your brain had processed the audacity of his choice, he'd already slid into the seat next to yours, settling in with an easy sigh and draping one arm along the back of the booth behind you, not quite touching your shoulders but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his arm like a space heater you hadn't asked for. The proximity was ridiculous. Your knees were inches from his. You could smell his cologne, something clean and faintly expensive, the kind of scent that probably had a French name and a price tag with too many zeros. You stared straight ahead at the empty seat across from you, hyperaware of every inch of space between your body and his, which wasn't very many inches at all.

He had told you, repeatedly on the drive over, in between navigating the streets and fiddling with the radio and making small talk about the weird billboard they'd passed, that he'd be the one paying, so don't hesitate to order anything you wanted to eat. He'd said it casually, like he was reminding you about the weather, like dropping forty or fifty or a hundred dollars on dinner was the equivalent of swiping a metro card. But that was hard on its own, wasn't it? You were used to the idea that whenever someone chipped in some of their money to buy you stuff, a meal, a drink, a ticket, you'd purposely pick one of the cheapest options so it wouldn't break a hole in their wallet. It was instinct, deeply ingrained, the kind of reflex you'd developed over years of being the person who couldn't afford to be treated and didn't want to be a burden. You'd scan the menu from the bottom up, looking for the lowest number, and you'd convince yourself that the cheapest thing was the thing you wanted anyway. But Jay wasn't having it. He insisted you get something that you actually wanted to try and eat, anything, desserts and drinks too, and he clearly wasn't in the mood to tolerate your bullshit.

"Jay, wait, I'm deadass. This one is pretty okay for me already—" You pointed at one of the cheaper items on the menu, a simple chicken sandwich that was reasonably priced and wouldn't make you feel like you were eating someone's weekly grocery budget.

"Pretty okay? Not the one that's 'I'd love this?' Come on, don't worry about the money please, don't worry about my money, just pick something you want to eat—" His voice was earnest, almost pleading, and he leaned slightly closer, his shoulder brushing yours, the contact light and brief but enough to make your breath hiccup.

"That is okay!"

"Okay doesn't necessarily mean that's what you want!" He shot back, and there was a frustrated edge to his tone — not anger, not even close, but something softer, something that sounded like he genuinely cared about whether you were settling for something instead of choosing something, as if the distinction between okay and I want this mattered to him more than the money it cost.

You both had spent about five minutes going back and forth over the menu, a delicate, ridiculous tug-of-war that probably looked insane from the outside. The waiter sitting by the table even seemed amused, their pen hovering over their notepad, watching the two of you bicker like an old married couple over whether you were allowed to order the thing you actually wanted. You eventually just gave up, the exhaustion of arguing with someone who had infinite money and infinite stubbornness was too much for your tired, post-shift brain, and settled for this incredibly gigantic cheeseburger with wedges on the side and a vanilla milkshake because Jay had insisted, pointing at it on the menu and telling the waiter before you could protest one last time. You couldn't even catch wind of what he'd ordered for himself, he'd rattled it off so quickly and smoothly that by the time you registered he'd stopped talking, the waiter was already walking away with a knowing smile.

When all you guys had to do was wait for your order, you leaned back in the booth, as much as the vinyl seat would allow, which wasn't much, not when Jay's arm was still draped along the back of it behind you, and started to speak.

"So, what thing did you want to talk to me about?" You said, turning your head toward him, and the motion brought your face closer to his than you'd anticipated, close enough that you could see the faint freckle below his left eye, close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you were the kind of person who counted things like that, which you absolutely were not.

"Oh my god, right. So, I kind of—I wanted to talk about the boundaries we should establish for this whole fake relationship thing." He said, and his tone shifted, still casual, still easy, but there was a note of seriousness underneath it.

Boundaries? For this fake relationship? You thought it was pretty self-explanatory already — the basic don't-fall-in-love type shit, the obvious don't-catch-feelings clause that went without saying, the unspoken agreement that this was a transaction and not a romance. But he wanted more depth, more clarity, more than the envelope and the unspoken assumptions that had carried you through the first week.

You both then spent a long time talking about the do's and don'ts. Even after your food had arrived, the cheeseburger towering on the plate like a small architectural marvel, the wedges golden and steaming, the milkshake thick and cold in its metal cup with the extra in the mixing tin beside it, both of you were still at it, the conversation flowing around bites and sips and the occasional pause to chew.

"No weird couple shit." You insisted, pointing a wedge at him for emphasis, a golden spear of potato that served as your gavel.

"What do you mean no weird couple shit? It has to be convincing!" He argued, leaning forward, his eyebrows raised in that way that said he thought you were being ridiculous, and the motion brought his shoulder pressing lightly against yours again, the warmth of it seeping through the fabric of your jacket.

"Yeah—but there are certain things we can do to make it convincing that doesn't involve doing weird stuff!" You shot back, and you could hear how unconvincing your own argument sounded, the vagueness of "weird stuff" hanging in the air between you like a question mark.

He raised his brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in that particular way that meant he was about to challenge you and he was already enjoying it. "Define weird for me then."

You did. No matching anything, no matching outfits, no matching phone cases, no matching profile pictures like those couples who treated their social media accounts as a joint enterprise. No pet names — absolutely no "babe" or "baby" or "honey" or any of those saccharine, tooth-rotting terms of endearment that real couples used like breathing. No holding hands unnecessarily, no leaning into each other for photos, no excessive physical contact beyond what was strictly required to sell the illusion. The works. You laid it all out like a lawyer presenting terms, and that only earned you another argument from Jay, who countered every single point with the kind of rhetorical precision that made you suspect he'd been on the debate team in high school. No matching? Then how would people know we're together? No pet names? What do you want me to call you in public, "my esteemed colleague"? No hand-holding? Then what do we do when someone's watching, stand six feet apart like we're at a COVID checkpoint?

You must admit, arguing with Jay was funny. Not frustrating-funny, not the kind of funny that makes you want to throw something. Actually, genuinely funny, the kind that makes your cheeks hurt from trying not to smile. He simply wouldn't back down on his argument, even if you'd already found five different loopholes in his logic, he'd manage to find another loophole to swing past through, pivoting and redirecting with the nimbleness of someone who was used to getting his way but was having too much fun trying to get it to just give up. His eyes would light up when he thought he'd cornered you, and then they'd narrow playfully when you'd slip out of his trap, and the whole thing felt less like a negotiation and more like a game, a game where nobody was keeping score and the point wasn't winning but just the pleasure of playing. You don't even remember where the debate had ended, it just started with you taking a potato wedge, he took a bite from his eggs and bacon, and eventually you both just started eating, the arguments dissolving into the rhythm of the meal, forks and voices rising and falling in alternating turns until the conversation had drifted so far from its original shore that you couldn't even see the starting point anymore. It strayed off somewhere, from favorite childhood memories (his involved a summer in his grandparents' countryside home, catching dragonflies by the creek; yours involved the single year your town had a carnival and you'd won a goldfish that lived for three miraculous days) to a professor Jay absolutely despised (a man whose grading system seemed to operate on spite and a coin flip) to a weird urban legend that had been circulating in the university since its foundation (something about a ghost in the old humanities building who only appeared during finals week, which, honestly, made sense because who wouldn't be haunted by the ghost of failed exams). And through all of it, you were aware, vaguely, persistently, like a low hum in the background, of how close he was. The heat of his arm behind you. The way his knee would occasionally brush against yours under the table and neither of you moved away. The way he'd turn toward you when he laughed and his shoulder would press into yours and it felt like something you didn't have a name for, something you weren't supposed to be cataloguing.

You thought you were done. Both of you were done, your plates were empty, the milkshake was nothing but residue and melting ice, the conversation had reached that natural lull that signaled it was time to go, time to head back to the dorms, time to put this strange, unexpectedly pleasant evening to bed. You were reaching for your bag when an unusually large banana split arrived at the table, a towering monument of ice cream and fruit and whipped cream and chocolate sauce, served in one of those long, boat-shaped glass dishes that seemed designed to be shared. It came with two spoons, placed neatly on either side, a quiet invitation. Jay took one spoon for himself, offered the other one to you, handle-first, and told you to eat.

You opened your mouth to talk more, to say you were full, to say you couldn't possibly, to deploy any of the dozen polite refusals you kept on standby for moments like this. He said he couldn't finish it alone, which was probably true, the thing was obscene, a three-scoop sundae with enough toppings to feed a small party, and you argued you were full, which was also true, your stomach was at capacity and your cheeseburger was sitting like a contented stone in your abdomen. And he just — shut you up. Reached over, took the spoon right out of your hand, your fingers stuttering on the cold metal as he plucked it away, took a scoop of the vanilla ice cream drizzled with chocolate syrup and rainbow sprinkles, and shoved it in your mouth. Just like that. No warning, no ceremony, just the cold press of metal against your lips and then the sweetness flooding your tongue, vanilla and chocolate and the crunch of sprinkles, so sudden and so unexpected that you made a small sound of surprise, something between a yelp and a laugh, and your eyes went wide and Jay was grinning at you, grinning like he'd just won a prize, grinning like this was the most fun he'd had all week, and you couldn't be mad, you couldn't even pretend to be mad, because the ice cream was good and his smile was ridiculous and somehow, impossibly, this was your life now.

You both bickered even more after that, but this time, laughing and giggling, the kind of laughing that's hard to do with a mouth full of ice cream, the kind that makes you snort and almost choke and reach for a napkin while the other person just laughs harder at your suffering. The banana split was a mess within minutes, the neat architecture of scoops and toppings collapsing into a delicious, chaotic swirl as you both dug in from opposite ends, occasionally fighting over the same cherry, occasionally stealing the best bite from the other's side of the dish with zero remorse. The head chef, all the way from the kitchen, poked his head through the service window and was smiling at you both, this warm, knowing smile, the kind that said he'd seen a thousand couples share a banana split and knew exactly what he was looking at, even if you didn't.

Yet.

By the sixth week, that's when things got absolutely insane.

For the third week, you'd walk with Jay from one class to the other, not deliberately, not in some rehearsed couple-y way, just naturally, the way two people do when their schedules happen to overlap and the route to the next building is the same. Except it wasn't just the same route, because you'd find yourself slightly altering your path to match his, and he'd slow his pace without mentioning it, and somewhere between the science building and the humanities wing, your strides had synchronized without either of you acknowledging it. Totally not disappearing from your friends and the next time they'd see you was with Jay, walking beside him, your shoulder almost level with his, laughing at something he'd said about the professor's tie, while your friends stared from across the courtyard like you'd grown a second head.

Of course, some people caught wind of it and you'd heard some allegations being thrown at the both of you, whispers in the hallways, the kind that traveled fast and loose through a campus where everyone's business was everyone's entertainment. But since walking with someone from the opposite gender is completely normal, a lot of people brushed it off as the two of you being friends. Study buddies. Classmates who happened to share the same route. Nothing to write home about.

For the fourth week, a group of guys from the basketball team saw you and Jay studying together in the library. Of course, Jay wanted to get to know you more — more to the point he'd at least have something to say about you if someone asked, something beyond "she's in my class" or "we share a course," something that sounded like what a real boyfriend would know. Your favorite coffee order. The class you hated most. The way you tapped your pen against your notebook when you were thinking. He'd ask questions casually, sprinkled between textbook chapters, and you'd answer just as casually, and somewhere in the middle of explaining why you couldn't stand the smell of peppermint, you'd realize you'd been talking for an hour and neither of you had turned a page. You let him in, gradually, and he let you in too, small facts at first, then bigger ones, the kind of disclosures that built a portrait of a person stroke by stroke. Occasionally, he'd drag you back into the secluded study spaces if you mentioned, in passing, that the library was too noisy, "come on, I know a spot," he'd say, and you'd follow him down the familiar hallway to the same cash-only rooms where this whole thing started, except now the door stayed unlocked, the envelope nowhere in sight, and it just felt like two people who wanted to hear each other without the static of the world layered on top. The basketball guys obviously didn't care — one of them nodded at Jay on the way out, that was the extent of it. But the people at the tables nearby did, their heads turning as you disappeared behind a closed door. Both of you didn't really care.

For the fifth week, a professor that absolutely adored you both for being incredibly attentive in her class, she'd called you two her "favorite students" more than once, half-joking and half-completely serious, passed by the both of you when she was going to another professor's office to leave something, and both of you were heading back to the main space. As always, Jay picked you up from the lab, he was carrying your bag slung over one shoulder and a couple binders you'd also brought to the lab because you didn't have the time to run back to the dorms and leave them since your class from before had ended a little bit later. So you'd shown up to the lab with your bag, your binders, and your slightly breathless "I'm here, sorry," and Jay had shown up at 6:15 like clockwork and taken all of it from you without asking, the bag and the binders tucked against him like they weighed nothing, leaving you empty-handed and oddly weightless as you walked beside him through the corridor.

She saw you both, both of you saw her, both of you joyfully greeted her, a warm, simultaneous "hi, Professor!" that came out so in unison it was almost comedic, and she greeted you both back, her eyes flicking from you to Jay to your bag on his shoulder to the easy, close way you were walking, and she plastered a knowing smile on her lips, deliberate and impossibly smug, and said "both of you look good together" then walked off, her heels clicking down the hallway like a punctuation mark.

You laughed afterwards, short and bright and slightly too quick, because what else could you do? The knot in your stomach had pulled tighter and you didn't know what to do with that either.

By the sixth week, you were just eating lunch with your friends at the cafeteria. Yes, the public cafeteria filled with a bunch of people from different courses and different years, all mushed into one sprawling, echoing space — the kind of scene that felt like it belonged in a movie's wide shot, hundreds of bodies and trays and conversations layered into a wall of ambient noise. It wasn't cramped, it was huge even, but it was awkward with the amount of people present in the room, every table occupied, every seat filled, the kind of crowded that made you feel visible whether you wanted to be or not.

You were eating with your friends, mid-bite into your rice, explaining to them for the ninth time the step-by-step procedure for this one assignment, "no, you add the reagent after, not before, I swear I've said this eight times already,” when a hand just lightly tapped your shoulder. Just a tap, brief and warm, the kind of touch that was gentle enough to be a question rather than a demand.

You looked back, and oh my god, it was Jay. He was standing behind you with a bouquet of flowers, your favorite flowers rather — yellow and white lilies, the ones you'd mentioned once, just once, in passing, during one of those library study sessions weeks ago, a throwaway line about how your grandmother used to grow them in her garden and you'd always thought they were the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. And he'd actually remembered, because here they were — yellow and white lilies, absolutely gorgeous, wrapped in craft paper and tied with a simple twine bow, the petals soft and slightly open. The whole function stopped what they were doing. You heard a fork drop in the distance, the clatter of metal on tile sharp and cartoonish. You heard a camera click from somewhere to your left. You heard the hushed murmurs of those nearby, a wave of whispers rippling outward from your table like the surface of a pond after a stone.

"What the hell is this?" you asked, but your voice came out steadier than your heart, which was doing backflips, literal backflips, acrobatics you didn't know it was capable of. This was the first time you'd ever received a bouquet of flowers from anyone, not from your ex, not from a friend, not from no one, let alone from the campus heartthrob himself, standing behind you in a crowded cafeteria on a regular weekday like this was something people just did.

"Who else would it be for aside from my absolutely lovely and gorgeous girlfriend?" he said, smiling, not smirking, not performing, just smiling, warm and bright and so unreasonably genuine that it made something behind your ribs stutter.

Fuck, even about a month later and the word "girlfriend" still made a knot in your stomach tighten, still sent that same small electric pulse through your system, still made you feel like the ground had shifted a fraction of an inch under your feet. He said it loud enough for everybody to hear it, loud enough for the tables nearby, for the camera that had clicked, for every pair of ears in this room that had been waiting for confirmation of whatever rumor they'd been spinning for weeks.

You accepted the bouquet, your fingers closing around the craft paper, the stems cool and slightly damp against your palm, and said thank you, and your voice was softer than you meant it to be, softer than the moment called for, because the lilies smelled like your grandmother's garden and you weren't prepared for that particular wave of nostalgia to crash into you in the middle of the cafeteria. He crouched down to meet you at eye-level, his face close to yours, close enough that you could see the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, and he whispered something to you, "you're doing great, by the way,” so quiet that only you could hear it, his breath warm against your ear, and then he pressed a feather-light kiss to your cheek. Just a brush, just a ghost of contact, his lips landing somewhere below your cheekbone and above your jaw, barely a second of touch, but it burned, a warm bloom spreading from the point of contact across your face, down your neck, and into your chest like a drop of red food coloring in a glass of water. You could feel yourself getting red, could feel the heat climbing your skin. After the whole ordeal, he just simply walked away — straightened up, gave you one last look, that same easy smile, and walked back toward the exit like he hadn't just detonated a small bomb in the middle of the lunch rush. You turned back to your friends like it was nothing, setting the bouquet down beside you on the bench, the lilies resting against your thigh.

Your friends were in absolute disbelief.

"Girl, what the fuck?! You have to fill us in! How did you pull the Park Jongseong?!" a friend asked, leaning across the table, her eyes wide, her voice climbing into a register that was part shriek and part interrogation.

"Even better, how did he pull you," another squealed in excitement, grabbing your arm, bouncing in her seat, the kind of giddy that was infectious even when you were trying very hard to be stoic.

None of them knew you were getting paid to do this though.

That same evening, in your dorm, the lights off except for the small lamp on your desk, you snapped a photo of the flowers, you'd found a cup large enough to hold them, filled it with water from the hallway fountain, and set them on your desk like a tiny, temporary garden. The photo came out warm, the lamplight catching the curve of the white petals, the yellow centers glowing like small suns. You sent it to Jay.

You [10:04 PM]: one image attached

You [10:04 PM]: thank you so much for the flowers wtf 🥹 i've never received a bouquet from anyone before

You [10:04 PM]: lilies are my absolute favorite oh my goodness

He replied almost instantly — the read receipt and the response arriving so close together it was like he'd been waiting.

Jongseong [10:04 PM]: you're always welcome ☺️

Jongseong [10:04 PM]: no thank you for the kiss?

Right, the kiss. The feather-light, cheek-grazing, face-reddening, cafeteria-witnessed kiss. The most physical you'd both agreed to was holding hands, or at least around that point, the boundary lines drawn during that diner conversation, the ones you'd insisted on, the ones he'd argued about, the ones you'd both silently been adjusting week by week without ever formally revising the contract. The kiss was uncalled for. The kiss was not part of the agreement.

You [10:04 PM]: dude hell no, we did not agree to that point 😹

Three dots. Appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again, like he was typing and deleting and typing and deleting, wrestling with the response like it was a decision that mattered.

Jongseong [10:05 PM]: mmmm

Jongseong [10:05 PM]: sure, but it did make us look convincing, right?

It definitely did. The whispers after he left, the stares, the camera click — convincing didn't even begin to cover it. The whole cafeteria had swallowed it whole, no questions asked.

Damn you, Park Jongseong.

The cafeteria occurrence didn't need a whole day for the entire university to figure it out.

By that evening, it was everywhere, the campus confessions page, the group chats, the study group threads, the comment sections of Jay's Instagram posts from three months ago that had nothing to do with you but suddenly had people tagging your handle underneath them. Literally everybody figured it out, and a lot of people were enthusiastic about the whole thing, the kind of enthusiastic that manifested as heart emojis in your DMs, strangers smiling at you in the hallway, and your lab students suddenly treating you with a reverence that had nothing to do with your teaching ability and everything to do with who you were allegedly sleeping with.

But of course, there were some who were incredibly salty about it. A few bad words directed to you here and there, muttered under breaths as you passed, the kind of venom that was just quiet enough to be deniable if you confronted it. Salty social media notes that were so painfully directed to you that it was almost comedic, the kind of anonymous posts that said things like "some people will do anything for attention" and "weird how the most popular guy on campus suddenly has a girlfriend nobody's ever heard of,” vague enough to maintain plausible deniability, specific enough that you could feel the crosshairs on your back. The whole package. But you couldn't care less. Imagine going crazy over a man who's "taken" but he's technically single? The irony wasn't lost on you. You were being paid to hold his hand, and people were tearing themselves apart over it. The absurdity of it was almost enough to make you laugh out loud in the middle of the hallway, but you didn't, because you had a reputation to maintain — however fabricated it was.

The word spread like wildfire, until it eventually reached Jay's parents. Yeah, he told you that personally, called you on a Wednesday night, his voice tense but not panicked, more like someone bracing for impact rather than already in the crash. Jay's parents were powerful people, powerful as in they had every single kind of connection to the school — administrators, board members, donors whose names were etched into the marble plaques on the walls of the newest buildings. The kind of people who could make a phone call and change a curriculum, who could lean on a dean's decision with nothing more than a raised eyebrow at a dinner function.

His mom had heard through the wife of a trustee, who'd heard through her daughter, who'd heard through the campus grapevine, which meant the news had traveled from students to parents in less than forty-eight hours. Jay had told them it was true, that he was seeing someone, that it was you, that it was serious. And they'd wanted to meet you. He'd managed to delay it somehow, told you not to worry about it yet, that he'd figure out the timing. You'd nodded, said okay, and pushed it to the back of your mind where it sat like a box you didn't want to open.

Those seconds turned into minutes, then minutes into days, then days to weeks, then weeks into months.

Then somewhere in the blur of all that time, somewhere between the walking, the studying, the cafeteria lunches, the quiet drives, and the late-night texts, you fell in love with him. Shit, you didn't even notice it happening. That was the thing. It wasn't a moment, wasn't a lightning strike, wasn't a cinematic realization set to swelling strings. It was slow, quiet, and insidious, the way morning light creeps across a room until you suddenly realize you can see everything clearly. It happened in the margins. In the spaces between the fake and the real, in the moments that weren't part of the performance, in the details that no contract could account for. By the time you recognized it for what it was, by the time you could put a name to the warmth that had taken up permanent residence in your chest, it was already too late, and you'd been living with it for so long that it felt less like a revelation and more like an admission of something you'd always known.

It was in the polaroid. The one in Jay's car. You'd noticed it one evening when he was driving you back from the diner, the second time you'd gone, or maybe the third, the visits had started blurring together into a single, warm continuum. The car had stopped at a red light, and you'd glanced at the dashboard, and there it was, tucked into the corner of the visor, held in place by the clip, a small polaroid photo of the two of you. You and Jay. In the photo, you were laughing, mouth open, eyes crinkled, mid-sentence or mid-laugh, caught in that unguarded space between expressions where you looked the most like yourself. And Jay was looking at you. Not at the camera, not smiling for the lens — looking at you, his head slightly tilted, a soft, almost wondering expression on his face, the kind of look that made your breath catch even through the distortion of polaroid film and faded light. When the hell did he even take this? No, when has someone taken this? You didn't remember a camera, didn't remember posing, didn't remember anything except the warmth of whatever moment it had captured.

"Is that us?" you'd asked, reaching for it.

Jay's hand had come up quickly, not roughly, but quickly, and gently guided your hand away, his fingers wrapping loosely around your wrist for just a second. "Don't touch, the lighting's perfect right there."

"You have a photo of us in your car," you said, and you were teasing but your voice came out strange, softer than you intended, with a wobble you couldn't quite control.

"Of course I do. What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't?" He'd said it lightly, easily, his eyes on the road, eventually the light turned green, and he drove off, the polaroid stayed where it was, and you spent the rest of the ride staring at it from the corner of your eye, this small, square proof that somewhere along the way, a moment between you had been important enough to preserve.

It was in the condominium. The first time Jay had suggested you study at his place instead of the library, you'd hesitated. His place, as in the off-campus condominium his parents had bought for him, the one you'd heard about in passing from people who talked about Jay's lifestyle the way people talked about celebrity real estate. But the dorms were unbearable that week — to your right, the person in the next room wouldn't stop watching anime at full volume, the theme songs bleeding through the wall in an endless, tinny loop of Japanese pop that drilled into your skull every time you tried to focus on a paragraph. To your left, someone was constantly jamming — guitar riffs, the same four chords over and over, the kind of repetitive, enthusiastic mediocrity that made you want to open your window and throw your textbook into the quad. You'd mentioned it to Jay offhandedly, just venting, the way you'd mention bad weather, "I can't focus, my neighbors are insane,” and he'd said, simply, "Come to mine. It's quiet." You'd said no, that's too much, and he'd said, "It's literally just a place to study, Y/N, I'm not inviting you to a masquerade ball," you'd laughed despite yourself, and an hour later you were standing in the lobby of his condominium complex, looking around like you'd walked into the wrong building.

Because it looked and felt exactly like a hotel. The lobby had high ceilings and polished marble floors and a front desk with someone who actually greeted you by name. The elevator had more buttons than your dorm had floors, and the hallway to his unit was lined with expensive wood paneling and soft ambient lighting and the kind of silence that felt like a luxury. His unit itself was definitely something. It was everything you weren't used to. Hardwood floors that gleamed. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the city skyline. A kitchen with marble countertops and appliances that looked like they'd never been touched. Bookshelves made of dark, rich wood, actual wood, the kind that smelled like forests and money, stocked with novels, vinyl records, and a small collection of framed photos you didn't let yourself look at too closely. It was warm though, not sterile, not showroom-perfect, but lived-in in a way that surprised you. A throw blanket draped over the couch. A mug left on the counter from that morning's coffee. Sheet music scattered across the dining table, handwritten, his handwriting, notes and chords in pencil and pen. It smelled exactly like him, that same woody, clean cologne from the diner, but also coffee, detergent, and something underneath that was just so him, a scent you'd started associating with safety without realizing when.

You studied at his dining table. He studied on the couch. For the first hour, you worked in comfortable silence, the only sound was the scratch of your pen and the soft turn of his pages. Then he'd get up to refill his water, pause by your chair, lean down to read over your shoulder, and make some comment about your handwriting, "is that an 'a' or a tiny drawing of a fish?" and you'd swat at him and he'd dodge, grinning, and retreat back to the couch. This became the routine. You'd show up with your bag and your binders, he'd already have a drink waiting for you on the table, iced tea, the way you liked it, no sugar, extra ice, a detail he'd clocked without being told, and you'd study, and you'd bicker, and sometimes you'd order food and eat cross-legged on his living room floor with the TV on low, and sometimes he'd play something on his guitar. You'd listen from the table with your chin in your hand, your pen still, and your heart doing that thing it did whenever music came out of his hands, like the sound was traveling directly from the strings to your chest without bothering to go through your ears first.

It was in the jacket. During Jay's shows with his band, the university events, the seasonal showcases, the occasional gig at a bar off-campus that served overpriced drinks and undercooked nachos, you started showing up. Not every time, not at first, but enough that the people in the crowd began to recognize you as that girl, the one standing near the side of the stage with her hands in her pockets, watching the lead guitarist with an expression she couldn't quite control. And you wore his jacket. It started because the venue was cold, that was the practical reason, the one you told yourself, the bar had aggressive air conditioning and you'd worn a thin shirt and Jay had shrugged off his jacket without asking and draped it over your shoulders mid-conversation, the leather still warm from his body, the lining soft against the back of your neck. But then you kept wearing it. To every show. It was oversized on you, the sleeves falling past your wrists, the collar swallowing your shoulders, and it smelled like him. When you wrapped yourself in it, standing in the crowd with the bass vibrating through your ribs and the stage lights washing everything in amber and blue, you felt like you were wearing an embrace. Every single time he'd find you in the crowd mid-song, his eyes scanning the faces until they landed on yours, and he'd smile. Not the performance smile, not the heartthrob smile, not the smile he used for the audience. A different one, just for you.

It was in the food. Jay showing up to your dorm with takeout bags in his hands became so regular that your roommate stopped asking questions and started just setting an extra place at the desk. He'd knock, two quick taps, your rhythm, and you'd open the door, and he'd hold up the bag like a trophy and say something like "you skipped lunch again, didn't you" or "don't argue, I already bought it" or, once, memorably, "I got the spicy one because you lied last time about being able to handle mild." He'd sit on your bed, your narrow, creaky dorm bed that was approximately one-third the size of his king at the condo, and you'd sit cross-legged across from him, and you'd eat and talk and laugh. He'd tell you about band practice or something his mom texted or a song he was trying to learn, and you'd tell him about your shift or a grade you were stressed about or the weird noise the pipes in the hallway were making at 2 AM, then the food would get cold because you'd forget to eat while you were talking, and then he'd notice and say "eat your food" and you'd say "you eat your food" and he'd pick up a piece of whatever and hold it in front of your mouth until you took it, you'd both laugh, then the knot in your stomach would tighten, and you'd think: this isn't fake. This can't be fake. Nothing about this feels fake.

And it was in the words. Those two damn words. Whenever you were in public, walking across campus, leaving a building, saying goodbye at the car, parting ways at the cafeteria, Jay would look at you with that easy, warm expression and say, "Love you." Not "I love you." Just "love you." Two words, dropped casually, breezily, like they weighed nothing. But there was never an "I." Never the subject, never the declaration, never the full sentence that would turn it from a fragment into a statement. Just "love you,” light, effortless, and always accompanied by a smile or a wave or the brush of his hand against yours, and every time he said it, you felt the words land somewhere deep in your chest and settle there — warm, confusing, and impossible to parse. You told yourself it was part of the act. Convincing. Consistent. A boyfriend thing to say. But the absence of the "I" nagged at you, not because you needed it, but because its absence felt deliberate, like he was holding something back. "Love you" was a door he could walk through and close behind him and "I love you" was a door that didn't have a handle on the other side. You didn't ask about it. You were afraid of the answer. You were more afraid that there was no answer at all, that it was just habit, just performance, just two words that meant exactly as much as the envelope of cash they were attached to.

Months. Eleven months. You'd been fake-dating Jay for almost a year, and somewhere along the way, the fake had started flaking off like old paint, and what was underneath was something you didn't have the courage to name, something that felt too big for the arrangement you'd made, something that made you lie awake at night staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars your roommate had stuck on the ceiling freshman year and thinking fuck, fuck, fuck in a quiet, desperate loop. Because you knew that this had an expiration date, that one day Jay would sit you down and say it's over, he was free, his parents had backed off, and both of you could go back to the way things were. Two people who happened to share a classroom and nothing else. And you'd say yes, of course, sure, sounds good, and you'd smile.

You'd take whatever was left of the envelope money and you'd go back to your life and he'd go back to his. The polaroid would stay in his car, the jacket would go back in his closet, the lilies would wilt on your desk, the word "girlfriend" would stop making your stomach twist, and you'd be fine. You'd be fine. You'd absolutely, definitely, completely be fine.

You were at the convenience store near campus — the one that stayed open past midnight, sold rice balls and instant ramen, and the kind of cheap coffee that tasted a lot like regret but kept you awake during exam week. It was a Thursday, or maybe a Friday, the days had started running together, your brain fuzzy from a long shift at the lab and a longer afternoon of studying and the kind of bone-deep tiredness that made the lights of the store feel both too bright and strangely soothing. You were standing in the snack aisle, holding two different brands of shrimp chips and trying to decide which one was less of a mistake, when your phone buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled it out. The screen glowed.

Jongseong [11:47 PM]: come home with me next weekend

Jongseong [11:47 PM]: i'll introduce you to my parents :)

You stared at the screen. The shrimp chips hung limp in your other hand. The words on your phone sat there, stark and undeniable, and the knot in your stomach, the one that had been tightening for eleven months, the one you'd been pretending wasn't there, the one that felt exactly like love, pulled so tight you thought it might snap.

Jongseong [11:47 PM]: sound good?

You didn't type back. Not yet.

Shit, you were so, so damn screwed.

The drive was forty-five minutes of your heart attempting to exit your body through your throat. Jay's car hummed along the highway, city lights smearing past the windows, and you sat in the passenger seat with your hands folded in your lap and your pulse visible in your wrists.

You'd spent the entire morning getting ready, not for them, you told yourself, for you, because if you were going to walk into the Park family estate, you were going to walk in looking the part. Black kitten heels that clicked when you walked. A black satin maxi skirt that moved like water around your ankles. A white turtleneck top, it was baggy, the sleeves wide and draped, ending just below the elbow, the kind of silhouette that managed to look effortless and intentional at the same time. Gold jewelry, because your grandmother always said gold warmed the skin and you believed her. A gold bangle on your right wrist that caught the light every time you moved. Your favorite necklace, a gold chain with a heart locket, and inside that locket, a photograph of your grandmother, the one who'd gifted it to you when you were fourteen, her smile small, proud, and permanent behind the glass, and beside her photo, an empty space where a second picture could go, a blank rectangle of possibility you'd never filled. Gold teardrop earrings that swayed when you turned your head. Your hair was done out, wavy at the ends, falling over your shoulders the way you'd spent forty minutes and two YouTube tutorials perfecting.

When Jay had arrived at your dorm to pick you up, he'd knocked his usual two taps, and you'd opened the door, and he'd — stopped. His hand was still raised from the knock, his mouth slightly open, his eyes traveling from your hair to your earrings to the locket resting against your collarbone to the drape of the top to the sweep of the skirt to the kitten heels, and then back up again, slowly, the way someone reads a letter they weren't expecting. He didn't say anything. He just looked at you, and the silence stretched, and it wasn't the comfortable kind, it was the kind that had weight, the kind that pressed against your skin and made you acutely, almost painfully aware of every inch of yourself.

"Jay?" you said. "Do I have something on my face? Is my foundation cakey? Did I smudge my—" You touched your cheek, your hand moving instinctively, your confidence deflating by the second under the intensity of his stare.

He blinked. Then he swallowed. Then he said, quietly, almost to himself, "You look—" and stopped again, the word lodged somewhere in his throat, and he exhaled a small breath and ran his hand through his hair and tried again, his voice steadier but still carrying that undercurrent of something stunned and unguarded: "You look really beautiful, Y/N."

The knot in your stomach, yup, the same damn one you'd been ignoring for months, pulled tight enough to hurt.

Now you were here, walking through the front door of the Park family home, and the word home didn't even begin to cover it. The foyer was the size of your entire dorm floor. Dark hardwood, polished to a mirror shine. A double staircase curving upward. A chandelier that probably cost more than your parents' house. Fresh flowers on a console table, lilies, white ones, and you tried not to read into it but your hand drifted to your locket anyway. The house smelled like gardenias, furniture polish, and the kind of quiet that only enormous, expensive spaces could produce.

Dinner was served in a dining room that could have seated twenty and was currently set for four. Candles. Crystal glasses. Plates that probably had a heritage. You sat across from Mrs. Park and beside Jay, and the food was extraordinary and your appetite was nonexistent, but you ate, because that was what you did — you ate what was in front of you and you were grateful for it, because once upon a time there hadn't always been something on the plate.

"So, Y/N," Mr. Park began, his voice deep and measured, carrying the practiced warmth of a man who was accustomed to making people feel comfortable before he decided whether they deserved to stay that way. "Jongseong tells us you're on a full scholarship. That's quite impressive."

"Thank you, sir! It took a lot of work, but I'm grateful every day for the opportunity." You kept your voice steady, your posture straighter than it had ever been, your hands folded in your lap under the table where they wouldn't give you away.

"And what are you studying?"

You told him. He nodded. The conversation moved through the expected checkpoints, your coursework, your lab work, your plans after graduation, and you answered each question cleanly, precisely, the way you answered exam prompts, and Jay beside you was a quiet, steady presence, his hand occasionally brushing your knee under the table in a gesture that was either reassurance or reflex or both.

"She's the top of her class, actually," Jay said, and there was pride in his voice, real pride, not performance, the kind that couldn't be faked, or at least the kind that you chose to believe couldn't be. "She works as a lab instructor on top of her full course load. She's—she's really remarkable."

Mrs. Park smiled. It was a beautiful smile, technically. All the right muscles, all the right timing. But it didn't reach her eyes, which remained cool and assessing, two dark stones set in an otherwise immaculate face. "How lovely," she said. "You must be very dedicated."

"I try to be," you said.

"And your family—where are they based?" Mrs. Park asked, and the question landed softly, the way sharp things do when they're wrapped in silk.

You told her. The small town. The modest background. The distance. You didn't apologize for it, you wouldn't, but you felt the temperature of the room shift, felt it the way you feel a window crack open in winter: a thin, precise draft that changes everything without disturbing a single thing.

"How quaint," Mrs. Park said, and lifted her wine glass to her lips.

The rest of dinner passed in a rhythm that felt like walking across a frozen lake, each step measured, each sound checked for the groan of something giving way beneath you. Mr. Park asked about your interests, your hobbies, your opinions on a recent news story, and you answered, and he nodded. He seemed pleased, genuinely, which was more than you could say for the woman sitting across from you, whose silence had developed its own vocabulary. Every time you spoke, her gaze would drift, just slightly, to the locket at your collarbone, or the modest cut of your top, or the way you held your fork, cataloguing, calculating, placing each observation into a mental file labeled Not Enough.

After dinner, Mr. Park retreated to his study with a cordial "it was wonderful to meet you, Y/N," and Jay went to use the restroom, and Mrs. Park excused herself with a gracious smile and a hand on your shoulder that lingered one beat too long, and you were left standing in the hallway with the echo of crystal and the ghost of gardenias, unsure of what to do with your hands or your body or the evening that still stretched ahead of you.

So you wandered. Not with intention, just with the aimless, curious impulse of someone who'd never been in a house this size and couldn't quite fathom its dimensions. You found the kitchen. Or rather, the kitchen found you, you turned a corner and there it was, vast, gleaming, and staffed by two women in uniform who were clearing the dinner dishes with the quiet efficiency of people who had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand more.

"Can I help?" you asked, and they looked at you the way you'd been looked at all evening, with surprise, though this time it was a different kind.

"Oh, no, miss, we've got it," the older one said, her hands already moving, stacking plates.

"Please, I insist. I'm not a guest who sits around," you said, and you were already reaching for a dish towel, and something in your voice or your hands or the way you said guest, like it was a costume you were wearing rather than a role you inhabited, made them pause, and then relent, and then smile, and before long you were standing beside them at the counter, wiping down plates and making small talk about the weather, the commute, and how long they'd worked here. It was easy, the easiest you'd felt all night, because you knew this rhythm, this work, this language of hands, tasks, and the quiet solidarity of people who kept things running while other people sat at tables and made decisions about their lives.

You helped sweep the kitchen floor, the broom familiar in your hands, the motion automatic — you'd done this before, after all. Not in a house like this, but in houses, other people's houses, back when you were young and your mom would clean for families in the next town over. You'd go with her on weekends because she couldn't afford a sitter, and you'd help because that was what you did, because your hands were small but they could hold a rag, because every extra pair of hands meant finishing earlier and going home sooner, and because the women who employed your mother sometimes slipped you a few bills at the end of the day. You'd hand them over and your mom would kiss your forehead and say “that's my girl.” The money would then disappear into the jar on top of the refrigerator that was saving for something you never quite reached.

"You're very kind," the younger maid said, watching you work. "Most of Mr. and Mrs. Park's guests don't—they don't really notice us."

"I notice you," you said simply, because you did, because you always had, because you'd been on the other side of that not-noticed wall your whole life and you'd promised yourself that if you ever ended up on this side, you wouldn't be the person who walked past.

After a while, you needed paper towels, you'd spilled a bit of water on the counter and the dish towel was already damp. The younger maid pointed you toward the supply closet down the hall, and you walked, your heels quiet on the hardwood, the hallway long and lit by sconces that cast amber pools on the walls, and you were rounding the corner when you heard your name.

Not your first name. Your full name. Spoken by a voice that was smooth, unhurried, and utterly without malice — which made the words it was producing all the more devastating.

"She's a sweet girl," Mrs. Park was saying, and her voice carried through the gap of a door that wasn't fully closed, a sliver of warm light falling across the hallway floor. "She's pretty, she's smart, she's polite. But she's poor, Jongseong, and we do not want that reputation clinging onto our family."

Your hand stopped on the wall. Your heels stopped on the floor. Your lungs stopped in your chest.

"I don't want other people figuring out that my son married a peasant."

Peasant. The word hit you like a slap — not sharp, not sudden, but deep, a bruise that formed instantly and throbbed with a pain that radiated outward into your jaw, your shoulders, your fingertips. Peasant. As if your grandmother's hands that raised you were dirt. As if your mother's back that bent over other people's floors was a stain. As if the scholarship you'd bled for was a charity case instead of a testimony. Peasant. You pressed your back against the hallway wall and the locket was cool against your collarbone, your grandmother's face was pressed against the glass inside it. You wanted to scream but your throat was made of stone.

"Mom, that's—" Jay's voice, strained, tight, a wire pulled to its limit.

"Jongseong, honey." Mrs. Park again, and her tone shifted — still smooth, still gentle, but with an edge underneath, the edge of someone who believed with absolute certainty that they were doing you a favor by telling you the truth. "I know what's best for you, and Y/N isn't what's best for you."

"Isn't it better that she comes from less?" Jay said, and you could hear him struggling, hear the syllables catching and tumbling, hear the way he was reaching for arguments and coming up with handfuls of air. "She's hard-working, she's independent, she's earned everything she has—like, she didn't just inherit it, she built it. Built it. Isn't that—isn't that worth something?"

"Of course it's worth something, dear. Worth something to her," Mrs. Park said, and the distinction was precisely devastating. "Worth something to the life she comes from. But this family has a legacy, and that legacy requires a partner who can stand beside you at a charity gala and talk to the governor's wife about the yacht club without looking out of place. It requires someone who understands the world you're going to inherit."

"I understand the world I'm going to inherit," Jay said, but his voice was smaller now, less certain, and you realized with a slow, sickening clarity what was happening, he wasn't failing to defend you. He was drowning in something else entirely, something that was rising in him at the same time his mother was tearing you apart, and the two forces were colliding inside his chest and neither one was winning and you could hear it, you could hear the exact moment when the boy who'd handed you an envelope full of cash, begged you to save him realized that you'd saved him in a way money couldn't buy, and he couldn't speak because love, real, involuntary, and irreversible love, doesn't come with talking points.

"Your father agrees with me," Mrs. Park continued, and you heard Mr. Park's voice then, low and conciliatory, the voice of a man who'd already made his decision and was now merely softening its edges: "Jongseong, your mother and I only want what's best for you. You're the sole heir to the company. Everything we've built—the business, the reputation, the standing—all of it goes to you. And the person standing beside you determines how the world sees that legacy. It isn't about Y/N as a person, okay? It's about suitability."

Sole heir. The words registered somewhere beneath the devastation, filed away in the part of your brain that was still functioning, but they landed on numb ground. Of course he was. Of course the only son of this house, this dynasty, this gleaming empire of hardwood and chandeliers. Of course he was the one who'd carry it all. And of course they wanted someone suitable. Someone who knew what a yacht club was. Someone who didn't learn which fork to use by watching other people eat. Someone who wasn't you.

"Y/N is suitable," Jay said, and his voice cracked on the word suitable, cracked the way his voice had cracked in that study room ages ago when he'd said I'm begging, except this time the desperation wasn't about freedom from an arrangement. It was about you, specifically you, and the crack in his voice said everything his sentences couldn't: he loved you, that he'd been too late realizing it, that the realization was so big and so sudden and so consuming that it had stolen the language right out of his mouth, and his mother was still talking and he couldn't find the words to stop her because every word he reached for felt too small for what he was trying to say.

"Jongseong." Mrs. Park's voice again, patient, immovable, the voice of a woman who had been winning arguments in this house since before her son was born. "I'm not saying she's a bad person. I'm saying she's not our person. There's a difference, and you know it. You've known it your whole life."

Silence. The worst kind — the kind that isn't absence of sound but absence of response, the kind that means someone has opened their mouth and found nothing there, the kind that means the person you needed to fight for you is fighting something inside themselves instead and losing.

You pressed your palm flat against the hallway wall. The wallpaper was silk, you noticed. Actual silk. You noticed because noticing small, irrelevant things is what the body does when the large, relevant things are too heavy to carry. Your grandmother's face was warm against your collarbone. The empty space in the locket beside her was cold.

"Y/N, dear? The paper towels?" A voice from behind you, gentle, concerned, the younger maid, standing at the end of the hallway with a questioning tilt of her head, her eyes scanning your face and finding something there that made her expression shift from curiosity to caution. "Are you okay?"

You straightened. You smoothed the front of your skirt. You touched the locket once, quick, reflexive, like pressing a hand to a wound, and you smiled. A small smile. A functional one. The kind that holds a person together long enough to get to the bathroom where they can fall apart in private.

"Yup, coming!" you said, and your voice didn't crack, not even once, and that was the bravest thing you'd ever done.

An hour later, you still felt so sick to your stomach that you were genuinely surprised you hadn't thrown up.

The nausea sat low and persistent, a churning, acidic thing that had nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the word peasant reverberating through your skull on an endless loop, each repetition carving it a little deeper, making it a little more permanent, turning it from something someone had said into something you might always hear. Both of you had left the Park residence about ten minutes ago, you in the passenger seat, Jay behind the wheel, the glow of the dashboard illuminating his jaw, his hands, the side profile you'd memorized without meaning to. And his mother — his mother had the audacity, the sheer, staggering audacity, to pull you into a hug before you left. Right there in the foyer, in front of the gardenias and the chandelier, she'd wrapped her arms around you and pressed her cheek to yours and said, "It was so lovely to meet you, dear," and her perfume was expensive and her embrace was warm and every cell in your body was screaming you called me a peasant, you called me a peasant, you called me a peasant while your arms hung at your sides and your mouth said, "Thank you for having me, Mrs. Park," and you smiled, and she smiled, and the hug lasted exactly the right number of seconds for a woman who meant absolutely none of it. Absolutely disgusting.

You were upset for the whole ride, and you knew it was visible, you could feel it in the weight of your own silence, in the way your answers came out a half-beat too slow, in the faint, persistent tremor in your hands that you hid by keeping them folded in your lap. You were still talking to Jay, still responding to his questions, still maintaining the basic architecture of a conversation, but there was a layer of sadness underneath everything, thin and translucent but unmistakable, the way frost on a window doesn't block the view but changes the color of everything behind it. He'd asked if you had fun. You said yes. He'd asked if you thought dinner went well. You said it went fine. He'd asked if his mom was nice to you. You said she was very hospitable. Each answer was technically true and emotionally hollow, and the hollowness rang like a bell in the space between you.

Of course, Jay noticed. He noticed within the first three minutes, because Jay noticed everything about you, had been noticing for months, cataloguing your habits and your silences and the specific way your voice changed when you were trying very hard not to feel something, and this voice — this flat, careful, polite voice — was the one you used when you were hurting and refusing to admit it. He tried pushing you to answer why you were upset. Gently at first, "Hey, are you okay? You seem quiet,” and then with more intention, "Seriously, Y/N, talk to me. What's wrong?" and you wouldn't budge. You shook your head, you said nothing, you said you were just tired, you said it'd been a long evening, you said you were fine, and every "I'm fine" was a door you were closing in his face. He kept knocking, you kept closing, and the rhythm of it was making the air in the car thicker, heavier, and harder to breathe.

A few pushes later, rain started pouring. Somewhat heavy rain, the kind that arrived all at once, as if someone had turned a faucet, the sky splitting open and dumping sheets of water across the windshield so thick that the world outside became a blur of headlights, dark asphalt, and the ghostly shapes of trees bending under the weight of it. Predictable, you thought. You'd checked your weather app earlier, back at the dorms when you were still getting ready, and it had said it was going to rain around this hour. You'd even packed a small umbrella in your bag. Funny how the universe couldn't even be original about the timing. Eventually, that was all the conversation in the car was about while it was raining, Jay kept pushing and you just wouldn't give, the back-and-forth wearing down into something jagged and raw, his persistence meeting your silence like water against stone except the stone was starting to crack and the water kept coming and neither of you knew how to stop.

"Y/N, come on, you've been off since we left, just tell me—"

"I'm fine, Jay."

"You're not fine, you haven't been fine all night—"

"I said I'm fine."

"Would you stop saying that? You're clearly not—"

"There's nothing to talk about."

And then, finally the thread snapped. Jay's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter, his jaw clenched, and something broke loose in his chest, something that had been building for miles, and the words came out sharp, frustrated, and louder than he meant them to be, loud enough to cut through the rain drumming against the roof of the car, loud enough to make you flinch:

"Fuck, Y/N, you're acting like we're an actual couple!"

The car went quiet. Even the rain seemed to recede for a second, pulling back just enough to let the silence rush in and fill the space where the sound had been. Then your eyes burned. Just like that, without warning, without permission, the heat surged upward from somewhere deep in your chest, hit the backs of your eyes, your vision blurred, and the dashboard lights smeared into streaks of amber and white, and you couldn't even hold it anymore, couldn't keep the door closed, couldn't pretend the frost on the window wasn't there, and the tears came. Not the quiet, dignified kind. The kind that take everything with them. Your mascara and your eyeliner, the eyeliner you'd spent twenty minutes perfecting, the mascara that was supposed to be waterproof but clearly had not been road-tested against the specific devastation of hearing the boy you love tell you that your feelings were out of bounds, streamed down your cheeks in dark, inky rivers, tracing lines along your jaw, dripping off your chin onto the satin skirt you'd chosen so carefully, and you couldn't stop it, you couldn't even slow it down, you could only sit there in the passenger seat and sob silently, your shoulders barely moving, your mouth pressed shut, the only sound the wet, ragged catch of your breath trying to hold itself together and failing.

Jay just thought you'd gone radio silent, another refusal, another door, another round of the same fight. He glanced over once, briefly, saw you facing the window, and returned his eyes to the road, his jaw still tight, his hands still gripping the wheel, the frustration still hot in his veins. Then he glanced at the rearview mirror. And he saw you. Not the back of your head, your face, reflected in the glass, and the reflection showed mascara-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes and a mouth trembling with the effort of not making a sound, and you were sobbing, silently, completely, the kind of crying that meant the person had decided long ago that their pain wasn't worth hearing and was holding it underwater with both hands. His heart broke. It broke the way glass breaks, suddenly, completely, into a thousand pieces that couldn't be reassembled, that could only be swept up and carried. He pulled over. No warning, no signal, just the car jerking to the right, the tires splashing through the puddle at the edge of the road, the vehicle settling onto the gravel shoulder of some neighborhood street, the houses dark, the streetlights haloed in rain, the world reduced to the sound of water and the ghost of your breathing.

"Y/N—" he started, and he reached over, his hand extending across the center console toward your shoulder, toward your arm, toward any part of you he could hold, because he couldn't think straight while driving and he couldn't think straight now and the only thing his body knew how to do was reach for you. But the moment his fingertips brushed the fabric of your sleeve, you moved, you unbuckled your seatbelt with a sharp click, yanked the door handle, and you were out, the door swinging open and the rain pouring in and you stepping out of the car and into the downpour like it was the only direction left.

You ran. Not far, not fast, your kitten heels slipped on the wet asphalt and you kicked them off without breaking stride, bare feet slapping against the puddles, the rain hitting your shoulders, your hair, your face, mixing with the tears until you couldn't tell which was falling from the sky and which was falling from you. You didn't know where you were going — just away, just forward, just anywhere that wasn't the passenger seat of that car where you'd heard those words.

You're acting like we're an actual couple.

Jay followed. He was out of the car before the door had fully closed behind you, his own door left open, the interior light on, and he was running, actually running, his shoes hitting the pavement, his shirt already soaked through, the rain flattening his hair against his forehead, and he was following you because one time, months ago, when you'd stepped out of your dorm without an umbrella on a cloudy day, your roommate had absentmindedly told him, told Jay, who'd been waiting in the hallway with takeout, that you were prone to sickness. Like, one raindrop and it was absolutely over. One drop and you were congested for a week. One chill and you were bedridden for three days. She'd said it casually, dismissively, the way people mention things that are just facts of life, and Jay had filed it away in the same mental cabinet where he stored your coffee order and your favorite flower and the sound of your laugh, and now you were standing in a downpour in with nothing but your dogs out and he was not about to let you catch your death on some stranger's sidewalk.

"Y/N, stop—please, just stop—"

You didn't stop. You walked faster, arms wrapped around yourself, the rain hammering your back, your skirt heavy with water and clinging to your legs, the gold earrings cold against your neck, the locket pressed to your chest like a shield that wasn't working. He caught up to you anyway, longer legs, less stubbornness, more desperation, and fell into step beside you, and you kept walking, and he kept pace, and the two of you moved down the wet sidewalk like two people who'd lost the map and couldn't agree on which way was home.

"Y/N—"

"I'm fine, Jay."

"You're not fine, you're standing in the rain without shoes—"

"I said I'm fine!"

And then you stopped. Not because you wanted to — because your legs gave out, not from weakness but from the sheer, crushing exhaustion of holding months of love inside a body that wasn't built to contain it. You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, rain streaming down your face, your bare feet in a puddle, your mascara ruined and your hair ruined and your heart absolutely, irreparably ruined, and you turned to face him, and the dam broke.

"I feel so stupid," you said, and your voice cracked on stupid, cracked wide open, the word splitting into fragments that the rain carried away. "I feel so—god, I'm so stupid, Jay, because I—I heard what your mother and father said about me. I heard it. I was looking for paper towels and the door was open and I—I heard everything." A sob tore through your chest and you pressed your hand over your mouth and it did nothing, the sound still came, muffled and wet and broken. "They called me a peasant. Your mother called me a—she said peasant, Jay, and your dad—suitability, he said it's about—about suitability, and I—"

You were breaking down. Visibly, audibly, completely. The stoic, composed girl who'd walked into the Park residence was gone, and what was left was someone younger, someone rawer, someone who'd been holding herself together with thread, spit, and willpower, had finally run out of all three. Your sentences were stuttering, fragmenting, words tumbling over each other like people trying to escape a burning room.

"And I know—I know this is just—I know we're just—I know it's fake, I know that, I was the one who said no, I was the one who—who said no falling in love shit, I was the one who said no weird couple stuff, I drew the lines, I made the rules, and—" Your breath hitched, a sharp, involuntary gasp that bent you slightly forward, and the rain ran down your face, your shoulders shook, you were crying so hard you could barely form words but you kept going because it was all coming out now, all of it, everything you'd swallowed, buried, and denied for months, and it was messy, ugly, and exactly what the truth always sounds like when it finally gets permission to speak. "But fuck you, Jay! Bullshit—I actually love you. I love you so much it hurts, and I—I don't even recall when it started feeling less like some mutual agreement and more like—more like—"

You couldn't finish. The sob swallowed the rest of the sentence and you stood there, drenched and trembling, your hands balled into fists at your sides, your mascara in ruins, your grandmother's locket pressed cold and heavy against your sternum, and you'd said it, you'd finally said it, and the relief and the terror of it were indistinguishable, two rivers merging into the same flood.

Jay stared at you. Through the rain, through the dark, through the curtain of water that blurred the edges of everything, he stared at you, and the expression on his face was something you'd never seen before, not shock, not pity, not the practiced composure of the campus heartthrob, but something stripped and raw, a boy standing in the rain watching the girl he loved say the words he hadn't been able to find in his parents' study, the words that had been sitting in his throat for weeks, months, maybe since that first evening in the diner when she'd smiled at him with ice cream on her lips and he'd thought oh no.

He stepped closer. One step. Two. Three. Close enough that you could see the rain caught in his eyelashes, close enough that you could see his chest rising and falling with breaths that were faster than they should've been, close enough that you could see his hands shaking. He reached out and pulled you into a hug from behind, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, his chest pressing against your back, his chin dropping to the top of your wet, wavy hair, and the embrace was so sudden, so warm, and so tight that it knocked the remaining breath out of your lungs and a fresh sob out of your throat. You could feel his heart through his soaked shirt, hammering against your spine, and it was racing, racing the way yours was, the same tempo, the same desperation, two drums beating in the same storm.

Then he turned you. Gently, his hands on your shoulders, guiding you until you were facing him, and the rain was between you, on you, and everywhere. Your eyes were red, your face was a mess, and he looked at you the way he'd looked at you in that polaroid in his car, not at the camera, not at the performance, at you, just you, and there was nothing guarded in it, nothing held back, nothing fake.

"And even after all that," he said, his voice low and rough and thick with something that sounded like it had been drowning for months and had finally broken the surface, "you still feel like you're the one who broke the agreement?"

And then he kissed you.

Not a feather-light press. Not a convincing-for-the-crowd peck. Not a contractual obligation on a cafeteria cheek. He kissed you in the rain, on a sidewalk in a neighborhood neither of you knew, with your mascara running, his shirt soaked, your bare feet in a puddle, and his hands cupping your face like you were something precious and terrifyingly impossible to let go of. It was long — longer than any kiss you'd imagined, longer than any kiss in any movie, long enough that the rain had time to trace paths down both your faces and pool where your lips met, and the cold became irrelevant because his mouth was warm and his hands were warm and the whole world was cold and wet and none of it mattered, none of it existed. Nothing existed except the pressure of his lips, the steadiness of his grip, and the way your hands found the front of his shirt and held on the way you'd been wanting to hold on for months, fingers twisting into the wet fabric, pulling him closer, closer, because if this was the only real thing then you were going to make it as real as possible, you were going to press every ounce of everything you'd been carrying into the space between your mouths and hope it was enough.

When you broke apart, slowly, reluctantly, the way people separate when the air they share is more necessary than the air around them, he didn't go far. His forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven on your rain-cold skin, his thumbs brushing the remnants of mascara from your cheeks with a gentleness that made your chest ache in a completely different way than it had been aching all night. Then he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead — a seal, a promise, a full stop on a sentence that had been running for months. Then he took your hand, raised it to his lips, and pressed a soft kiss to your palm, the kind of kiss that wasn't about passion but about tenderness, about treating a part of you that had swept floors, held rags, carried groceries, and typed lab reports as though it was worthy of being kissed.

"Let's head back now to the car," he said quietly, his voice still rough, still raw, but steadier now, anchored.

You looked down at yourself, drenched, barefoot, skirt heavy with water, hair plastered to your neck, and then at him, equally soaked, shirt clinging, shoes squelching, the both of you looking like you'd climbed out of a lake, and you let out a small, watery, almost-laugh. "We're both soaking wet, Jay."

He looked at you, and the corner of his mouth lifted, that same easy, warm, real smile, the one that was only yours, and he said, "It's okay. You're acting like I can't handle some wet ass car seat. It's all good."

You laughed. An actual laugh, small, broken, wet, and still trembling with the aftershocks of everything, but real, and he smiled wider, and he kept your hand in his as he walked you back to the car through the rain, and the car seat did get wet, but it didn't matter at all.

Jay drove you back to his condominium unit. He didn't ask, he just told you. The car was still humming with the aftershocks of everything that had just happened on that sidewalk, the rain still hammering the windshield, your bare feet still cold and your skirt still heavy and the taste of him still faint and electric on your lips, when he glanced at you and said, simply, "You're staying at mine tonight." Not a question. Not an offer. A statement, delivered with the same quiet certainty he used when he told you to order what you actually wanted at the diner, the same certainty he used when he picked up your bag without asking, the same certainty that had been steadily, silently eroding every wall you'd built since the day you'd said deal in that study room.

"Jay, I—"

"You're wet. You're barefoot. Your roommate went home for the weekend, right?" He already knew the answer, you'd mentioned it earlier in the week, in passing, one of those small facts that Jay collected and stored and retrieved at exactly the moment they became relevant. "I'm not letting you walk back to an empty dorm soaking wet in the rain. You'll get sick. End of discussion."

You wanted to argue. Some part of you, the stubborn, self-sufficient part that had raised itself on the principle that you didn't need anyone to take care of you, wanted to say I'm fine, I can handle it, I've handled worse. But that part was small and tired and waterlogged, and the part of you that had just said I love you out loud for the first time was larger and louder and didn't have the energy to pretend anymore. So you nodded, a small, quiet nod, and you pulled your knees up onto the seat, looking out the window and you let him drive you home.

His home. The word didn't feel as foreign as it should have.

The journey up to his unit was funny, in the way that things are funny when they're happening to you and you're too exhausted to feel embarrassed about them yet. The lobby of his condominium was quiet at this hour, late enough that the ambient music had been turned down to a whisper and the marble floors reflected only the warm glow of the recessed lighting and the silence had that particular, hushed quality of spaces that were usually full but were currently holding their breath. You walked in behind Jay, your bare feet leaving wet prints on the polished floor, your ruined satin skirt dripping a small trail behind you like a sad, glamorous snail, your mascara still smeared under your eyes in a way that made you look vaguely like a raccoon who'd had a very bad night. Jay was no better, his shirt was plastered to his torso, his hair was flattened against his forehead in dark, wet spikes, and his shoes made a squelching sound with every step that echoed through the lobby like someone repeatedly stepping on a sponge.

The woman behind the front desk, the same one who'd greeted you with "Welcome back, Mr. Park, and guest" all those months ago, looked up as you both passed. Her eyes traveled from Jay's soaked shirt to your bare feet to the dark mascara tracks on your cheeks to the way Jay's hand was resting on the small of your back, and her expression underwent a very specific, very readable journey: first confusion, then assessment, then a slow, knowing crinkle at the corners of her eyes, and finally a smile, warm, private, the kind of smile people reserve for things they find genuinely endearing. She didn't say anything to you, but as you passed the desk, you heard her mutter under her breath, quiet enough that she probably thought you couldn't hear but you could, you absolutely could: "Lovebirds, how cute." And then a small, fond exhale, the way someone sighs at a movie scene that hits a little too close to home.

Jay didn't hear it. He was already guiding you toward the elevator, his hand still warm against your back even through the wet fabric. But you heard it, and something about it, the casual certainty of it, the way this stranger looked at the two of you, dripping, ruined, and walking through a lobby at midnight, and saw love before she saw mess, made your throat tighten in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

You showered first. Jay handed you a towel and pointed you toward the bathroom and said "take your time, the water pressure's ridiculous" and you stood under the shower for longer than you needed to, letting the hot water undo what the cold rain had done, watching the mascara swirl down the drain in grey and black ribbons, pressing your forehead against the tile and breathing and breathing and breathing. When you turned the water off and reached for the towel, you realized the problem. Your undergarments. Your bra, your underwear, the ones you'd worn under, the ones you'd chosen specifically because they didn't show lines, were wet. Soaking, thoroughly, irreversibly wet, the rain having penetrated every layer you'd been wearing, and you hadn't brought a change of clothes because you'd come to Jay’s house to have dinner with his parents, not to sleep over, not to plan for a rain-soaked confession and a kiss on a stranger's sidewalk and a night that had gone so far off-script that the script was now a distant memory. You wrapped the towel around yourself and cracked the bathroom door open and called out, "Jay?"

He appeared a moment later, still damp, having changed into dry sweats and a t-shirt, his hair sticking up in that way it did when he'd toweled it off without looking in a mirror. "Yeah?"

"I, um. I don't have—my undergarments are wet. Everything's wet. I didn't exactly pack an overnight bag."

He stared at you for a second, then his face did something, a quick flicker of oh followed by that familiar, faint flush that crept along his cheekbones whenever the conversation veered into territory that reminded him you were, in fact, a person with a body, and that that body currently existed on the other side of a towel. He cleared his throat. "Right. Yeah. Of course. Hold on."

He disappeared and came back with his arms full, an oversized grey hoodie, soft and worn from many washes, the kind of hoodie that had lived in his closet long enough to carry the shape of his shoulders; a pair of red plaid boxers, clean, folded, the fabric soft and slightly faded; a pair of thick socks, the kind meant for hardwood floors in winter; and a pair of slippers he handed you with a slightly sheepish expression. "These are a little big. I never really wear them—they were a gift, my aunt bought them thinking I'd use them around the unit but they don't fit right and I keep forgetting to throw them out. They're clean, though. I promise."

You took the pile from him, and the hoodie was warm from being in a drawer near the heating vent, and it smelled like his laundry detergent, that same clean, woody scent that his whole condominium carried, the scent that meant safe before your brain had consciously decided it meant anything at all. You closed the bathroom door, dropped the towel, and put everything on. The hoodie hung past your hips, the sleeves falling well beyond your wrists, the neckline wide enough that it slipped slightly off one shoulder. The boxers sat loose around your waist, the plaid pattern absurd and comfortable. The socks were thick and warm and the slippers were, as promised, a little big, your feet sliding slightly when you walked, and you looked at yourself in the bathroom mirror, mascara-free, hair wet, drowning in a grey hoodie and red plaid boxers that belonged to the boy you loved, who loved you back, and you thought: this is the most myself I've ever looked.

When you opened the bathroom door, the steam followed you out into the hallway. Jay was standing right there, waiting, a towel draped over his shoulder and a smaller one in his hand, the hair towel, you realized, when he gestured for you to come closer.

"Come here," he said, and you did, walking toward him in your oversized slippers, and he guided you to sit on the edge of the couch, and then he stood behind you and began drying your hair with the smaller towel, his hands working the fabric through your damp strands with a gentleness that made your eyes prickle. You'd never had anyone dry your hair before. It was such a small thing, a nothing thing, a functional thing, and yet the intimacy of it was staggering, the careful way his fingers moved through the wet, the way he'd occasionally pause to squeeze a section between the towel and his palm, the way he'd brush a strand away from your neck and his fingertips would graze your skin and send a small, involuntary shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

"My eyes still hurt," you whined, pressing the heels of your palms against your closed eyelids, and the whine came out small and childish and genuinely pitiful because they did hurt, you'd cried so hard on that sidewalk that your eyelids were swollen and raw and every blink felt like sandpaper. "They're all puffy and gross."

Jay giggled, a bright, surprised sound, the kind that escaped him before he could catch it, and you could hear the smile in it, the unguarded warmth of it, and you wanted to be annoyed that he was laughing at your suffering but the sound was so genuinely, infectiously happy that you couldn't even muster the indignation.

"They're not gross," he said, still working the towel through your hair, his voice soft with amusement. "You're just having a reaction to being dramatically beautiful in the rain for ten minutes. It's a known side effect."

"Dramatically beautiful?" You lifted your head slightly. "I looked like a swamp creature."

"Mm, a very pretty swamp creature," he corrected, and you could hear the grin, and you groaned and slumped back against his abdomen and he laughed again, and the sound of it traveled through his chest and into your spine and settled there, warm and constant, and you thought: I could live in this sound.

He finished drying your hair after a few more minutes, the dampness reduced to a soft, manageable weight that would air-dry the rest of the way. He gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I'm gonna go wash up. Make yourself comfortable, there's water in the fridge, extra blankets in the closet, and the TV remote is—somewhere under the couch cushions, I always lose it."

You nodded, and he disappeared down the hallway toward the bathroom, and you heard the shower turn on, and then you were alone. The condominium was quiet, that rich, expensive quiet that big spaces produced, the kind that felt like being wrapped in something soft. You sat on the couch for a moment, your knees pulled up to your chest inside the oversized hoodie, the slippers half-off your feet, the towel still draped over your shoulders.

Then you got up. You didn't mean to go looking for him, you were just restless, your body still humming with the residual electricity of the evening, your skin still remembering the rain, the kiss, and his hands on your face, and walking felt like the only thing to do with all that leftover voltage. You padded down the hallway in your too-big slippers, past the kitchen, past the closet with the extra blankets, past the bathroom where the shower was still running, and you found his bedroom.

The door was open. The room was dim, just the lamp on the nightstand, a warm amber glow that made the bed and the bookshelf and the guitar propped in the corner look like they belonged in a painting rather than a real person's life. And there was Jay, seated in the comfortable lounge chair in the corner, the one with the deep cushion and the angled back that faced the window, the one you'd seen him sit in before when he was reading or thinking or absentmindedly strumming chords on his guitar without plugging it in. He was still in his sweats and t-shirt, his own hair damp and finger-combed back, his legs stretched out, his phone abandoned on the armrest, and he looked up when you appeared in the doorway, and the look on his face, open, warm, a little tired, completely yours, made your breath catch.

You walked in. Your slippers made a soft, shuffling sound on the hardwood. You didn't say anything, you didn't know what to say, your voice having apparently used up its entire vocabulary on that sidewalk and now sitting empty and quiet in your throat. You just walked toward him, slowly, your hands finding the front pocket of the hoodie and burying themselves inside it, and you stopped a few feet from the chair, and you looked at him, and he looked at you, and the air in the room felt thick and warm and charged with something neither of you had named yet but both of you could feel pressing against your skin.

Then, without warning, without a word, without a question, without anything except the quiet, certain movement of his hands, Jay reached out and pulled you onto his lap.

It was smooth, the kind of movement that looked effortless but required a specific kind of confidence, a specific kind of certainty that the person being pulled wanted to be there. His hands found your waist inside the hoodie, his fingers closing around the fabric and the warmth underneath, and he drew you forward and down until you were settled across his thighs, your knees on either side of his hips, the hoodie riding up slightly where his hands gripped it, the red plaid boxers hidden beneath the grey fabric. Your hands landed on his shoulders, the only place they could go, and you were close, closer than ever before because this was a different kind of closeness, the kind that wasn't born from desperation or confession but from choice, from the simple, deliberate act of being exactly where you wanted to be.

His hands stayed on your waist. His eyes stayed on yours. The lamp cast shadows across his face, highlighting the slope of his nose and the sharpness of his jaw and the way his pupils had darkened, blown wide, the amber glow reflected in them like small fires. Neither of you spoke. The room was quiet except for the sound of your breathing and his breathing and the distant, low hum of the city beyond the window, and the silence wasn't awkward, heavy, or uncertain — it was full, the way silence is full when it's holding something that words would only diminish.

You sat there, on his lap, in his hoodie, in his boxers, in his slippers that had fallen off your feet somewhere between the doorway and the chair, and his hands were warm through the fabric, and his heart was beating fast against your chest, and the night was still raining outside, and you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

"If there's something horrendous on my face you should tell me and stop staring like that."

The words came out softer than you intended, barely more than a whisper, because the way Jay was looking at you right now made it difficult to breathe properly, let alone speak at full volume. His eyes were dark, not the warm amber-brown they'd been over dinner or the soft, fond shade they'd taken on while drying your hair, but something deeper, something hungrier, the color of burnt honey held over a flame, and they were fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse stutter and your thighs press instinctively tighter around his hips.

He didn't answer right away. His thumbs, which had been resting idle against your waist, began to move — slow, deliberate strokes along the curve of your hips through the hoodie, his fingers pressing into the fabric just hard enough that you could feel the warmth of each individual fingertip through the worn cotton, and every point of contact lit up like a switch being flipped somewhere beneath your skin.

"There's nothing horrendous on your face," he said finally, and his voice had dropped, lower than you'd ever heard it, a rough, quiet thing that seemed to vibrate through the pads of his fingers and into your bones. "I'm staring because you're in my clothes and it's making me lose my mind."

A startled laugh escaped you, breathy and nervous. "It's just a hoodie—"

"It's not just a hoodie." His grip tightened fractionally, his fingers curling into the fabric at your hips, and the slight, possessive pressure of it sent a sharp thrill skating down your spine. "You're sitting on my lap in my clothes, smelling like me, looking like that, and you're asking me why I'm staring?" He exhaled, a short, almost-laugh that was more breath than sound. "You're killing me."

The laugh that had been building in your throat dissolved into something else, something warmer and less certain, and you became acutely aware of how close his face was to yours, close enough that you could see the faint water droplets still clinging to the ends of his hair, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his exhale ghosting across your chin, close enough that the distance between his mouth and yours had become a question that neither of you had asked yet but both of you were waiting to answer.

You answered it.

It wasn't planned. It wasn't a decision made by the rational, thinking part of your brain. It was gravity, pure and simple, the same force that had pulled you into his lap and pulled you to this condominium and pulled those three words out of your mouth on a rain-soaked sidewalk, your body leaning forward, your fingers tightening on his shoulders, and your mouth finding his with a certainty that surprised you both.

Jay made a sound against your lips, a low, sharp inhale through his nose, and then his hands were sliding from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you forward, pressing you closer, and he was kissing you back with a fervor that made the kiss on the sidewalk feel like a prelude, a rough draft, a sketch compared to this, the final, full-color rendering, all the detail and depth and texture filled in at once. His mouth was warm, sure, and unhurried despite the urgency thrumming beneath it, his lips moving against yours with a precision that suggested he'd been thinking about this exact thing for longer than he'd ever admit, mapping out the pressure, the angle, and the way his lower lip fit between yours, and the deliberateness of it, the care of it, was so fundamentally him that it made something in your chest crack open and spill warmth through your entire body.

Your fingers climbed from his shoulders into his hair, threading through the damp strands, and the sound he made in response, a muted, rough “fuck” breathed against your mouth, sent a jolt of electricity straight down your center. You tugged lightly, experimentally, and his head tilted back. His breath stuttered and his fingers dug into your back through the hoodie hard enough that you knew his fingerprints would be embedded onto your skin, and the thought of that, of wearing his fingerprints beneath his hoodie, made you press into him harder, made the kiss deeper, made your tongue slide against his with a desperation that surprised you.

He responded instantly. One hand left your back and came up to cup the side of your face, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your head just slightly, and the new angle made everything sharper, more intense, the slide of his tongue against yours sending sparks skittering down your nerve endings like lit matches dropped on dry kindling. His other hand stayed pressed into the small of your back, keeping you flush against him, and you could feel his heart hammering against your chest, or maybe that was yours, or maybe it was both of them beating in tandem like they'd been doing it forever and were only now acknowledging the rhythm.

You shifted on his lap, adjusting your weight, your knees tightening against the outside of his thighs, and the movement pressed your hips down against his in a way that made you both freeze. The sound that escaped you was small and involuntary, a half-swallowed whimper that vibrated against his lips, and the sound he made was worse, or better, depending on perspective — a low, guttural groan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest and traveled through his body into yours like a seismic event.

"Don't—" His voice was fractured, barely coherent, his forehead dropping against yours, his breath coming ragged and hot against your swollen lips. "Don't move like that if you're not—fuck—if you're not planning to follow through, because I—"

You moved again. Deliberately this time, not an adjustment but a choice, your hips rolling forward in a slow, deliberate grind that pressed the heat between your thighs against the unmistakable hardness that had developed beneath the fabric of his sweats. The friction, the pressure, the feeling of him solid and insistent against you even through layers of clothing, pulled a moan from your throat that you didn't recognize as your own voice.

"Shit—" Jay's head fell back against the chair, his neck corded, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut for a single, trembling moment before they opened again and fixed on you with a look so raw, so unguarded, so full of want that it made your stomach clench and your breath come short. His hands slid down from your back to your hips, fingers spread wide, and he held you there, held you against him, and he didn't stop you when you moved again.

The dry grinding started slowly, almost tentatively, your hips finding a rhythm against his that was more instinct than experience, more feeling than technique. The seam of the boxers you were wearing, his boxers, dragged against you in a way that sent sharp, stuttering pulses of pleasure through your core with every movement, and the angle of it, the way his body was positioned beneath you, meant that every roll of your hips pressed you directly against the length of him, hard, thick, and impossible to ignore through the thin cotton of his sweats. You could feel the shape of him, the heat of him, and the knowledge that you were doing that, that you were the reason the campus heartthrob was hard, breathless, and gripping your hips like you were the only solid thing in a spinning room, sent a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs so quickly it almost embarrassed you.

"Jay—" His name came out broken, half-moaned, and you didn't even know what you were asking for, only that the friction wasn't enough anymore, only that the fabric between you was a barrier that your body was increasingly desperate to dissolve.

"I know," he breathed, and his hands flexed on your hips, guiding you, easing you into a slower, deeper grind that made you both gasp. "I know, baby, I know."

Baby. The word hit you like a physical thing, warm and weighted, and the way he said it, rough and reverent, like it had been sitting on his tongue for weeks waiting for permission to come out, made your hips stutter and your fingers tighten in the fabric of his t-shirt and a small, needy sound escape your lips that you couldn't have stopped if you'd tried.

"You feel so good," you whispered, and the admission came easier than it should have, your inhibitions eroded by the haze of sensation and the certainty that the boy beneath you was someone who would catch every vulnerable thing you dropped. "Mmgh, Jay, you feel—god, you feel so big."

A strangled sound escaped him, half-laugh, half-groan, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass, palms covering the curve of you through the hoodie, fingers pressing into the plush softness with a grip that made your breath hitch and your spine arch. "You can't just—fuck—you can't just say things like that to me—"

"It's true," you breathed, rolling your hips again, slower, feeling every inch of him against you, and the words tumbled out without permission, fueled by the way his fingers were kneading your ass through the fabric with a desperation that matched your own. "You're so hard, Jay, I can feel all of you and you're so—"

He kissed you to shut you up, or maybe because he couldn't not kiss you, his mouth crashing into yours with a hunger that made the previous kisses feel like polite suggestions, his tongue sliding against yours with a slick, dirty insistence that made your toes curl and your hips grind down harder and your thoughts dissolve into a warm, wanting blur. His hands were everywhere on your lower half, squeezing, gripping, pulling you against him with each roll of your hips, and the wet sounds of your kissing and the muted creak of the chair beneath you and the broken, shared breathing filled the quiet room like a symphony composed in the key of desperation.

When he pulled back, just enough to breathe, his lips were swollen and wet. His eyes were nearly black, the amber swallowed entirely by the blown-wide pupils, his chest was rising and falling with a heaviness that made you feel powerful and wrecked in equal measure. His right hand stayed on your ass, fingers digging into the flesh hard enough to dimple the fabric, but his left hand moved, traveled from your hip to the front of the hoodie, fingertips tracing up your stomach through the soft cotton, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake, until his hand reached the hem of the hoodie where it bunched at your waist, and his fingers slipped beneath it.

The first touch of his bare fingers against the skin of your stomach made you shiver violently, a full-body tremor that had nothing to do with cold and everything to do with the way his hand was warm, moving downward with a slowness that was almost cruel. His fingertips traced the line of your waistband, his waistband, the plaid boxers, the fabric you were wearing because everything you owned was soaked through, ruined, and the only thing standing between his hand and the place you needed it most was a thin, faded layer of cotton that he'd bought at a store months ago and never thought would be worn by anyone but himself.

"Can I?" His voice was barely a whisper, rough and low, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath mixing with yours in the small space between your faces. His hand had stilled just above the hem of the boxers, his fingertips resting against the bare skin of your lower belly, and the question was so gentle, so Jay, even now, even with his other hand still gripping your ass, his hardness still pressing against you, and his breathing still ragged with want, he was still asking, still making sure, still putting your comfort above his own desperation, and the tenderness of it made your eyes sting, your heart clench, and your hips can’t forward into his palm in an answer that was more honest than words could ever be.

"Yes," you breathed. "Please, yes."

His hand slipped beneath the waistband.

The first brush of his fingers against you made a sharp, keening sound rip from your throat that you'd never made before, a sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than your lungs, somewhere primal and wanting and utterly unguarded. Jay groaned in response, a low, broken sound, and his fingers pressed more firmly against the damp fabric, feeling the wetness that had nothing to do with rain, and the heel of his palm ground against you and fuck—

"You're so wet," he breathed against your mouth, and the words were reverent and ragged and almost disbelieving, like he couldn't quite comprehend that he was the cause of this, that the girl on his lap was this affected by him, by his hands and his mouth and the sound of his voice saying baby like it was the only word that mattered. "God, you're so wet for me already and I've barely touched you."

"You've been touching me," you managed, and your voice was unsteady, cracked down the middle by the slow, deliberate circles his fingers were drawing against you through the thin cotton. "You've been—ah—touching me this whole time, your hands on my—on my hips, on my ass, you've been—"

"Been driving you crazy?" he finished, and there was a smile in his voice, that same quiet, knowing confidence that made you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure, and his fingers chose that moment to hook around the elastic of your underwear and tug it aside, the first touch of his bare fingers against your bare skin made every thought in your head evaporate like mist.

He explored you slowly at first, which was somehow worse than if he'd just plunged in and gotten to it, because his fingertips traced along the slick, swollen edges of you with a meticulous attention that felt like study, like he was memorizing you, learning you, cataloging every fold and every flutter and every place that made your breath catch or your hips jerk or your fingers dig harder into his shoulders. His middle finger slid through your wetness, gathering it, spreading it, and the obscene, slick sound of it combined with the feeling of his finger moving so close to where you needed it most and yet not quite there, not quite inside, was a form of torture so exquisite you almost sobbed.

"Jay, please—"

"Please what?" His voice was silk and gravel, his finger still drawing lazy, maddening patterns along your entrance, dipping just barely inside before retreating, a cruel, tantalizing hint of what was to come. "Use that pretty mouth for me, baby."

"I want—I want your fingers inside me, please, I need—"

He gave you what you wanted.

One finger slid inside, slow and deep and deliberate, and the stretch of it, the intrusion, the feeling of him entering you for the first time in any capacity, made your mouth fall open, your eyes squeeze shut, and a sound escape your throat that was somewhere between a moan and a cry. He was inside you, his finger, just one, but the girth of it, the length, the way it curled slightly as it pressed to the hilt, was enough to make your walls clench around him reflexively and your hips grind down against his hand seeking more, more, because one wasn't enough, not when you could feel how much more he had to give.

"Mmgh, that's it, baby," he groaned against your jaw, his lips brushing the skin there, his breath hot and unsteady. "Clench around me like the good girl you are."

The phrase hit you like a freight train. Good girl. Two words, spoken in that low, rough voice, with his finger inside you and his other hand still gripping your ass like he owned it, and you felt a fresh pulse of wetness coat his finger and your walls clamp down around him so hard that he hissed through his teeth and his own hips bucked up involuntarily beneath you.

"You like that," he observed, and it wasn't a question, and the quiet certainty in his voice, the way he'd clocked exactly what those words did to you and filed it away for future use, made you whine high and needy in the back of your throat. "You like when I tell you how good you're being for me."

"I like—I like everything you do," you gasped, and it was the most honest thing you'd ever said, because his finger was moving inside you now, curling and pressing and finding a spot that made your vision white out at the edges, your thighs tremble against his, and his thumb had found your clit and was drawing tight, devastating circles around it that made coherent thought impossible. "I like—oh god—I like you, I like your hands, I like—"

"Mm, like my fingers inside you?" His voice was filth, pure filth, spoken against the shell of your ear, and the warmth of his breath, the obscenity of the words, and the feeling of a second finger joining the first made your whole body seize and arch and press into his hand with a desperation that bordered on mindless.

Two fingers. The stretch was significant now, the girth of two of his fingers pressing into you, spreading you open, and the fullness of it, the pressure, the way his fingers moved in tandem, curling, thrusting, grinding against the spot inside you that made stars scatter behind your eyelids, was so overwhelmingly good that the sounds you were making weren't even words anymore, just a stream of whimpers and moans and broken syllables that spilled from your lips without your permission or your awareness. Your tongue was out, just slightly, your mouth open, your breathing ragged and wet and audible, and you were riding his hand now, your hips moving of their own accord, grinding down against his fingers, chasing the pleasure, and every roll of your hips pressed your ass into the grip of his other hand, which was squeezing and pulling you apart with a fervor that made you feel desired in a way you'd never felt before, like you were something precious, filthy, and his.

"You're so wet and so tight," he groaned, his fingers pumping into you with a steadiness that contradicted the tremor in his voice, the crack in his composure. "Squeeze me tight, baby, just like that—fuck—just like that, you're doing so good, you feel so fucking good—"

"I feel—you feel—" You couldn't finish the sentence, your brain unable to string together enough words to express the overwhelming, consuming, devastating pleasure of his fingers inside you, his thumb on your clit, his other hand on your ass, and his voice in your ear saying things that would make your past self combust with embarrassment and your present self drip with more arousal onto his already-soaked fingers. "Jay—ugh—Jay, please, I need—I need more, I need you, I need—"

"You need me?" His fingers slowed, just slightly, and his forehead pressed against yours, his eyes finding yours, and the look in them was so intense, so burning, so full of love and lust and something fierce and protective that it stole the air from your lungs. "You need me where, baby? Tell me."

"Inside me," you whispered, and the words came out trembling and true and stripped of every layer of pretense you'd ever worn. "Not your fingers. I need—I need your cock inside me. Please."

Something in Jay's expression fractured. You watched it happen, watched the last thread of his restraint snap like a guitar string pulled too tight, watched his jaw clench and his nostrils flare and his eyes darken to something feral and desperate, and then his fingers withdrew from you, dragging through your wetness, leaving you empty and aching. Both hands came to your hips, gripping hard, steadying you, and he stood up from the chair in one fluid motion, lifting you with him, your legs wrapping around his waist, your arms locking around his neck, and he carried you the four steps to the bed and laid you down on the mattress with a gentleness that was almost incongruous with the hunger in his eyes.

He stood over you for a moment, just looking, his chest heaving, his hair falling across his forehead in damp, messy strands, his sweats tented obscenely, and the visual of him, this boy, this man, who you'd watched from across lecture halls and sat beside in study rooms and fake-dated for months, looking down at you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing, made you reach for him with both hands, your fingers closing around the hem of his t-shirt and tugging.

"Come here," you said, and your voice was wrecked and breathless.

He came. He stripped his t-shirt over his head in one swift motion and dropped it somewhere — floor, chair, another dimension, you didn't care, couldn't care, because his chest was bare, his abdomen was lean and toned, his skin was glowing warm in the lamplight, and then he was climbing over you, his knees bracketing your hips, his hands on either side of your head, and he was kissing you again, deep and dirty and consuming, his bare chest pressing against the hoodie, and you could feel his heart pounding against yours, or yours against his, or both, both, both.

"Wait," he said against your mouth, and he pulled back just enough to look down at you, at the hoodie, at his hoodie stretched across your body, the fabric that carried his scent and his shape and now you inside of it, and something in his expression went soft and hungry and utterly undone. "You have no idea what you look like right now."

"I look like I'm wearing your clothes—"

"You look like you're mine," he said, and the word came out rough and low and proprietary in a way that should have made your feminist sensibilities bristle but instead made lava flood through your veins and pool molten and insistent between your legs. "You look like you belong to me, and I've never—god—I've never been so horny for anyone the way I am for you right now. The way I've been for you this whole time. Every time you wore my jacket, every time you pulled it around yourself and it swallowed you whole and you looked at me from inside it like you were safe there—I wanted to put you on every flat surface I could find and—"

"Then do it," you interrupted, breathless, bold, your hands sliding down his bare chest, feeling the heat and the firmness and the slight tremor of his muscles beneath your palms. "Stop telling me and show me."

His breath hitched. His eyes searched yours for a single, electric second, and then he was kissing you again, and his hands were on the hoodie, pushing it up, his fingers sliding beneath the fabric and finding your bare waist and climbing higher, higher, until his palms covered your breasts, the feeling of his warm, slightly rough hands cupping you, squeezing gently, his thumbs tracing the swell of you above the cups, made you arch into his touch with a whine that vibrated against his lips.

"Off," he said against your mouth, and it took you a confused moment to realize he was talking about the hoodie, and then his hands were gripping the hem and pulling it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it off you, the soft grey fabric sliding over your head and your arms and joining his t-shirt on the floor, and the cool air of the room hit your bare skin for exactly one second before his mouth was on you, his lips pressing to your collarbone, your chest, your breasts, and his hands were everywhere, warm and big and eager, kneading and caressing and exploring the territory they'd been denied for months with a thoroughness that left you gasping and trembling and threading your fingers through his hair and holding on.

"Loved you in the hoodie," he murmured against your sternum, his breath hot and damp, his lips dragging across your skin between words. "Love you out of it, too. Love you every way you come. I want you every way you'll let me have you."

"Have me," you breathed. "All of me. Every—ah—every way."

His hands were on your bare breasts, palming them, cupping them, his thumbs dragging across your nipples with a slow, firm pressure that sent lightning bolts of pleasure shooting straight down your body to the place where you were wet and swollen and desperate and aching, and you were making sounds again. You couldn't stop making sounds, couldn't stop the whimpers and the moans and the small, keening ah, ah, ahs that fell from your lips every time his thumbs circled or his fingers squeezed or his mouth dipped down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to the curve of your breast. Your back was arched, your hips were grinding against nothing, seeking friction, seeking him, and the desperation of it, the mindlessness of it, would have embarrassed you if you had any capacity for embarrassment left, but you didn't, you'd left it on that sidewalk in the rain along with every wall you'd ever built.

"Jay, please," you gasped, your hands fumbling with the waistband of his sweats, your fingers clumsy and urgent and trembling. "I need you, I need you inside me, I can't—please—"

He pulled back just enough to look at you, and the sight of you, bare from the waist up, your chest heaving, your lips swollen, your eyes glazed with want, wearing nothing but his red plaid boxers, made him exhale shakily and press his forehead against yours and whisper, "You're going to be the death of me, you know that?"

"Then die happy," you managed, and he laughed, even in the middle of this, even with his cock straining against his sweats, his hands on your bare breasts, your fingers in his waistband, and the sound was so warm and so him that it made your heart ache even as your body burned.

He stood, just for a moment, and pushed his sweats and boxers down in one motion, and then he was bare before you, fully bare, and the sight of him, all of him, the lean lines of his hips and the firm planes of his abdomen and his cock, hard and thick and curving slightly upward toward his stomach, the tip flushed and glistening, made your mouth go dry and your breath catch and a single, overwhelmed thought crystallize in the haze of your desire: who knew the campus heartthrob had such a big dick?

You'd imagined, of course. You were only human, and Jay was — well, Jay, and the rumors that circulated through campus gossip were as persistent as they were impossible to verify, and you'd filed them away under "things that were none of your business" even during the weeks when your business and his had become increasingly entangled. But the reality of him, the generous length, the substantial girth, and the way it twitched under your gaze, the tip leaking a bead of moisture that caught the amber lamplight, it exceeded every rumor, every imagined scenario, every late-night thought you'd dismissed as wishful thinking the morning after.

"You're staring," he said, and there was a smile in his voice, that same quiet, confident smile, but there was vulnerability underneath it too, the vulnerability of someone exposing himself, in every sense, to the person whose opinion mattered most.

"I'm appreciating," you corrected, and your voice was hoarse and your eyes were still fixed on him, and you reached out, your fingers wrapping around him, and the sound he made, a sharp, strangled gasp, his hips jerking forward involuntarily into your grip, was the single most intoxicating thing you'd ever heard. "You're—mm, Jay, you're really—you're so—"

"Stop," he breathed, but it wasn't a command, it was a plea, his jaw clenched and his eyes squeezed shut and his hands gripping the edge of the mattress on either side of your hips like he was holding on for dear life. "If you keep talking and touching me like that I'm not going to last long enough to—"

"Then don't make me wait," you whispered, and you released him and reached for him instead, your hands finding his shoulders and pulling him down toward you, and he came willingly, eagerly, his body covering yours, his weight settling between your thighs, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was gentler than the moment called for, slower, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your lips the same way he'd memorized everything else about you.

He shifted your positions then, his hands on your hips, guiding you, and you understood without being told, he wanted you on top. He settled back against the pillows, his head on the cushioned headboard, his hands on your waist, and he looked up at you with those dark, burning eyes and said, "I want to see you. I want to watch you. I want you to take what you need."

Your heart stuttered. Your hands were trembling as you straddled him, your knees on either side of his hips, the red plaid boxers still loose around your thighs, and you hooked your thumbs under the elastic of both, his boxers and yours, and tugged them down just enough, just far enough, and the cool air hit the slick, swollen heat of you and you shivered. Then you were positioned above him, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance, and the anticipation of it, the size of it, made your breath come short and your fingers dig into his shoulders.

"Slow," he said, his hands steady on your hips, steadying you, grounding you. "As slow as you need. I've got you."

You sank down.

The first inch made you both gasp, you at the stretch, the overwhelming fullness of him pressing into you, the girth spreading you open wider than his fingers had prepared you for; him at the wet, tight heat of you wrapping around the most sensitive part of him, the clench of your walls drawing a broken, guttural “fuck” from his throat that seemed to come from the soles of his feet. You paused, breathing through it, adjusting, and his hands rubbed slow circles into your hips, his thumbs tracing the crease where your thighs met your hips, so patient even though you could see the strain in his jaw and the tendons in his neck and the way his knuckles were white with the effort of not grabbing you and pulling you down the rest of the way.

"More," you breathed, and you lowered yourself another inch, and another, and the stretch was intense, almost too much, the kind of fullness that bordered on pain and pleasure in equal measure, and your face must have shown it because Jay's hand came up to your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, his voice coming out soft and concerned beneath the raw need.

"You okay? We can stop, we can—"

"Don’t stop," you said fiercely, and you dropped your hips the rest of the way, taking all of him, and the sound that ripped from your throat was something between a scream and a moan, loud, broken, and utterly beyond your control, and the sound that echoed from his was its mirror — a raw, shuddering groan that vibrated through his chest and into yours, his head thrown back against the headboard, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough that you knew there would be bruises shaped like his hands tomorrow, and you would press each one in the mirror and remember this moment.

Full. You were so full, impossibly, overwhelmingly full, stretched to your limit around him, and he was big, bigger than you'd even thought from looking, because looking and feeling were two entirely different universes of experience, and the feeling of him inside you, the heat and the hardness and the way your walls clenched and fluttered and tried to accommodate the intrusion, was so much, too much, exactly enough. You stayed still for a moment, both of you breathing, both of you adjusting, both of you existing in the space between anticipation and motion where the world narrows to a single point of connection.

Then you moved.

You lifted your hips, slow, feeling every inch of him sliding against your inner walls, the drag of him exquisite and maddening, and then you sank back down, and the angle pressed him against that spot inside you, that spot, the one his fingers had found earlier, the one that made your eyes roll and your breath stutter and a high, keening whine escape your lips, and the pleasure was so sharp, so blinding, so sudden that your body acted before your brain could intervene. You bounced again, faster, harder, chasing that feeling, and the sound of your bodies meeting, the slick, wet slap of skin against skin, the obscene squelch of him moving inside your wetness, filled the room alongside the symphony of your shared moans.

"Fuck—" Jay's voice was shattered, breathless, his hands gripping your hips but letting you set the pace, letting you ride him, letting you use him for your pleasure, and the sight of you above him, bare and lost in it, your head thrown back, your lips parted, your breasts bouncing with every movement, was unraveling him from the inside out. "You feel so fucking good, you're so—god, you're so tight, you're squeezing me so hard, baby—"

"I can't help it," you gasped, and you couldn't, your walls were clenching around him involuntarily with every thrust, every grind, every time he hit that spot that made your brain short-circuit, and the clenching made him groan and the groaning made you clench harder and the feedback loop of it was driving you both toward an edge that was coming too fast and not fast enough. "You're so—you're so big, Jay, I can feel you so deep, you're hitting—ah—you're hitting right there, right there, don't stop, please don't—"

"I'm not stopping," he growled, and his hands moved from your hips to your breasts, palming them, squeezing them, his thumbs dragging across your nipples with a firm, deliberate pressure that sent shockwaves of pleasure cascading through your body, converging with the pleasure building between your thighs, and the combined sensation was so overwhelming that you barely registered the shift in his posture until his arm was around your neck.

Not choking, never choking, you trusted him with your life and your body and every fragile thing you'd ever held, but holding, his bicep curling around the side of your neck, his forearm resting along your collarbone, his hand coming to cup the opposite shoulder, and the position, the possessiveness of it, the intimacy of it, the way it pressed your body flush against his chest and kept you close and controlled and his, made something wild, needy, and desperate claw its way up from the pit of your stomach and out through your mouth in a long, shuddering whine that you muffled against the side of his neck.

"I've got you," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and damp, his voice a low, devastating rumble that you felt in your bones, and his hips snapped up to meet yours, and the new angle, the new depth, the new force of him driving into you from below made you sob against his skin. "I've got you, baby, I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere—you feel so good wrapped around me like this, so fucking good, taking me so well—"

"Jay—" His name was a plea and the only word left in your vocabulary, repeated over and over against the warm skin of his neck between wet, open-mouthed kisses and whimpers and the small, helpless sounds that were being fucked out of you with every thrust. "Jay, Jay, Jay—you feel so good, you make me feel so good, I've never—I've never felt like this, you're so deep, you're so—oh god—you're so big, how are you so—fuck—"

"Yeah?" His voice was gravel and fire against your ear, and his arm tightened fractionally around your neck, just enough to make your head spin and your body sing, and his hips pistoned up into you with a rhythm that was losing its steadiness, becoming rougher, more desperate, more animal. "You like how big I am? You like feeling me deep inside this tight little pussy? Squeezing me so good, baby, fuck—you're gonna make me come if you keep making those sounds—"

"What sounds—" you tried to ask, but the question dissolved into a moan so filthy and so loud that you would have been mortified if you had any mortification left, but you didn't, it was all gone, burned away by the heat of him and the grip of him and the relentless, devastating pleasure of him hitting that spot inside you over and over and over until your vision was blurring. Your thighs were trembling, your fingers were clawing at his back, and your sounds — the whimpers, the moans, the broken ah ah ahs, the way your tongue was out and your mouth was open and you were practically drooling with the overwhelming, consuming, ruinous pleasure of it, were filling the room and his ear and his consciousness until there was nothing else in the world but you and him and this.

"Those sounds," he answered, his voice fractured, wrecked, barely recognizable as the composed, collected boy who'd charmed an entire campus without trying. "Those—fuck—those sweet little whines, the way you're moaning my name, the way you can't even—you can't even talk, can you? Too full of me to think, aren't you, baby?"

"Yes—" It came out as a sob, honest and raw, your forehead pressed against his neck, your body bouncing on his cock with a desperation that had abandoned all rhythm and restraint, your hips moving faster, harder, chasing the peak that was building inside you like a wave pulling away from shore, gathering size and force and inevitability. "Yes, I can't—I can't think, you feel too good, you're too —god—you're too big, you're so deep, I'm—Jay, I'm close, I'm so close—"

"Me too," he breathed, and his arm around your neck shifted, his hand moving to the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair, and he held you against him, your face pressed to the junction of his neck and shoulder, his face pressed to the crown of your head, the way he was holding you like something precious even while his hips were driving into you with an intensity that bordered on savage, made your chest crack open wider than it already was, made the pleasure in your body merge with the love in your heart until they were the same thing, the same overwhelming, consuming, impossible force, and you were crying again, you realized distantly, not from sadness but from fullness, from too much, from the impossible, miraculous reality of being loved, fucked, and held all at once by the same person, by the person you loved, by the person who loved you back.

"Jay—" you whined, high and desperate. Your walls were clenching around him in rapid, involuntary pulses that signaled the approaching edge, and his hips were stuttering, his rhythm falling apart, his breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps against your hair. "Jay, I'm—I'm gonna—"

"Me too, baby, me too," he gasped, and his hand tightened in your hair, and his other arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you impossibly closer, deeper, his cock buried to the hilt inside you and his hips grinding up against you in tight, desperate circles that pressed against your clit with every movement. "Come for me, I've got you, come on my cock, let me feel you—"

And then, just before the wave broke, just before the edge crumbled beneath you, just before your orgasm crashed through you like a storm making landfall, he whispered it.

"I love you."

Oh my god.

Not love you. Not the shorthand version he'd been using for months, the lazy, abbreviated thing that let him say it without really saying it, that kept the I out of it, that kept the confession at arm's length where it was safe and deniable and less terrifying than the full, unedited truth. I love you. With the I. For the first time. The most important word in the sentence, the word that made it a declaration instead of a throwaway, the word that turned it from something you could brush off into something you had to catch and hold and carry with you for the rest of your life, and he said it right there, right then, with his cock inside you and his arms around you and your body on the edge of the most intense pleasure you'd ever felt, and the shock of it, the staggering, breathtaking gift of it, was what pushed you over.

You came with a cry that broke in the middle, his name and a sob tangled together into a sound that was neither and both, and your walls clenched around him in rhythmic, devastating waves that pulled and squeezed and milked him with an intensity that ripped a sound from from his chest that you'd never heard before, raw, loud, unrestrained, his head thrown back, his jaw clenched and his entire body rigid beneath you and inside you and around you, and then he was coming too, his hips jerking up into yours in erratic, desperate thrusts, his cock pulsing inside you, thick and hot and filling, and the feeling of him coming inside you, the warmth of it spreading through you, the intimacy of it, no barrier, no distance, nothing between you but skin and the shared, shuddering aftermath of something that had changed you both, made your orgasm intensify rather than fade, a second wave cresting on the heels of the first, and you were both gasping, trembling, and holding onto each other with a ferocity that suggested letting go would mean falling off the edge of the earth.

The aftershocks rolled through you in diminishing pulses, your walls still fluttering around him, his cock still twitching inside you, your bodies still pressed together from chest to hip, neither of you willing to create even an inch of distance. The room was quiet except for your breathing and the rain against the window, which had never stopped, which had been the soundtrack to the entire night from sidewalk to confession to this, this moment, this bed, this body against yours, this love made physical and undeniable and real.

He was still inside you. Softening, but still there, still filling you, still connected, and the warmth of him inside you, the physical proof of what had just happened, made you squeeze around him reflexively and him hiss in oversensitive response, and the small exchange was so intimate, so coupled, that it made you press your face into his neck and breathe him in and whisper, against his pulse, "I love you too. With the I. I love y—wait, no. I love you more."

His arms tightened around you. His chest expanded with a breath that seemed to fill him entirely, a breath that had been waiting, maybe, since the first time he'd said those words without the I and wondered if you noticed the omission, and the exhale that followed was warm and slow and carried with it a tension you hadn't realized he'd been holding until it was gone.

"Mm, good," he murmured into your hair, and his voice was hoarse and raw and smiling, and the hand in your hair stroked gently, absently, the way you'd stroke something you'd been terrified of losing and were now learning you could hold. "Good. I meant it, by the way. Every time I said it before, I meant it. I just—I wasn't brave enough to include myself in the sentence."

You woke up to the smell of butter.

Not perfume-butter, not the artificial, movie-theater approximation of butter, but real butter, the kind that sizzled and popped and went golden-brown in a pan, the kind that meant someone was cooking something that would be terrible for you and perfect in every other way. Your face was pressed into a pillow, the sheets were tangled around your bare legs, and the space beside you on the mattress was empty but still warm. The amber lamp had been turned off at some point during the night and replaced by the grey-white morning light filtering through the curtains, and you lay there for a long, suspended moment with your eyes closed and your cheek against the pillowcase, breathing in, breathing out, letting the reality of the night before settle over you like a second skin.

Then the smell of butter intensified, and your stomach growled loud enough that it echoed off the headboard, and you opened your eyes.

The bedroom was soft in the morning light, quieter and less cinematic than it had been in the amber glow of the lamp, but somehow more real for it. The chair in the corner where it had all started was just a chair again. The bed was just a bed, albeit one with rumpled sheets and the clear evidence of two people who had spent the night learning each other in ways that went far beyond the physical. Your clothes, his clothes, the grey hoodie and the red plaid boxers, were folded neatly on the nightstand, and next to them was a fresh glass of water, two Advil, and a small sticky note with handwriting that made your chest ache:

Eyepatch for the puffy eyes is in the bathroom cabinet. Left side, second shelf. Take the pills. Come find me when you're ready ❤︎

You took the pills. You found the eyepatch, which turned out to be under-eye gel patches, not a pirate costume, and you pressed them under your eyes and stared at yourself in the bathroom mirror and looked exactly like what you were: a girl who had cried in the rain, confessed her love, had incredible sex, and slept in the bed of the boy who loved her back, in that order. The gel patches were cold, soothing, and you left them on while you pulled the hoodie over your head and stepped into the boxers and padded barefoot down the hallway toward the smell of butter and the sound of something sizzling.

Jay was at the stove.

He was shirtless, still in his sweats, his hair doing that thing it did in the mornings where it stuck up in the back at an angle that defied physics and dignity in equal measure, and he was holding a spatula and frowning at a pan with the concentrated intensity of someone performing neurosurgery rather than making a sandwich. The kitchen was warm and golden with natural light, and the butter was crackling, and there were two plates on the counter and a pot of tomato soup simmering on the back burner, and the scene was so unexpectedly, devastatingly domestic that you stopped in the hallway entrance and pressed your palm flat against your sternum as if you could physically hold your heart in place.

He hadn't seen you yet. He was focused on the sandwich, lifting the edge with the spatula to check the browning on the bottom, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like come on, come on, don't burn, don't you dare, and the tenderness of it, the sight of this boy, the one the entire campus tripped over themselves to get close to, standing shirtless in his kitchen at ten in the morning carefully monitoring a grilled cheese sandwich as if it were the most important task he'd ever undertaken, made something bloom in your chest so suddenly and so fully that you were moving before you decided to move.

You crossed the kitchen in five quick steps on your bare feet, rose up on your tip-toes, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

He was actually startled, the spatula jerking, his shoulder jumping, a small whoa escaping him, and then he turned his head and saw you and the startled expression dissolved into something so warm, so open, so unguardedly happy that you rose up on your tip-toes again and kissed him properly, on the mouth, soft, slow, tasting like nothing at all except morning and him and the quiet, unbelievable joy of getting to do this.

"Hi," you said against his lips.

"Hi," he said back, and he was smiling, you could feel it, the curve of his mouth against yours, and his free hand, the one not holding the spatula, came to rest on your hip over the hoodie, his thumb tracing a small, absent circle against the fabric. "You slept late."

"You wore me out," you said, and the words came out without thinking, and then the meaning of them caught up with you and you felt the heat rush to your cheeks, and Jay's smile widened against your mouth and he pressed another kiss to the corner of your lips and said, "Nice," with such quiet, satisfied certainty that you had to bury your face in his bare shoulder to hide the fact that you were grinning like an idiot.

He finished the grilled cheese, two of them, golden, crispy, and oozing cheese from the edges, cut diagonally because, as he informed you when you raised an eyebrow, "diagonal is the correct cut, this isn't a negotiation,” and poured the tomato soup into two mugs, and you carried everything to the couch and settled into the cushions with your legs folded beneath you. The hoodie pooled around your thighs, the warm mug between your palms, and Jay sat close enough that your knees overlapped and his arm rested along the back of the couch behind you, not quite around you but undeniably there, a warm, steady presence that made the couch feel smaller and safer and more like home than any piece of furniture had a right to.

You ate. The sandwich was perfect — buttery, crunchy, the cheese pulling in long strings when you bit into it, the soup warm and rich and exactly the right thing for a morning when your body was sore in unfamiliar places, your eyes were still slightly swollen, and your heart was so full it felt like it might bruise your ribs from the inside. Jay ate his sandwich in three bites, which was both impressive and horrifying, and then he stole one of your untouched halves and ate that too, and you let him because you were too full, too content, and too busy watching the way the morning light caught the line of his jaw to summon the energy for indignation.

The TV was on but the volume was low, some morning show neither of you were watching, and Jay picked up the remote and navigated to Netflix and handed you the remote with a look that said your pick, and you scrolled. You scrolled through the usual suspects, the true crime documentaries you'd been meaning to watch, the romantic comedy that kept appearing in your recommendations with an algorithmic stubbornness that felt almost personal, the K-drama Jay pretended not to be interested in but always watched over your shoulder when you put it on, the nature documentary with the dramatic voiceover, the animated series, the cooking competition, the vintage sitcom, the new release with the ominous thumbnail, and the sheer, absurd abundance of it, the endless scroll of options that you'd never have time to watch, became its own form of entertainment, the two of you debating the merits of each option with the lazy, low-stakes passion of people who had nowhere to be and no one to impress and all the time in the world to decide.

You'd narrowed it down to three candidates when Jay's phone buzzed.

The sound was sharp and specific, the particular vibration pattern he'd set for family messages, and it cut through the comfortable haze of the morning like a pin through a soap bubble. Jay reached for the phone on the coffee table, swiped it open, and you watched his expression change, the easy, post-sleep warmth in his eyes sharpening into something more focused, his brow furrowing as he read, his jaw setting in a way you'd come to recognize as his tell for something he didn't want to deal with.

"Oh my god, you have to be kidding me," he muttered, and there was a note in his voice — not anger, exactly, but something adjacent to it, the exasperation of a person who'd just been handed an obligation he hadn't asked for and couldn't refuse.

"What's wrong?" You lowered the remote, the Netflix menu forgotten, the three candidate movies suddenly the least important thing in the world.

He turned the screen toward you.

The message was from his mother — you recognized the contact name, the formal Mom with no emoji, no affectionate modifier, just the word itself, clean and unadorned, the way Jay said she preferred most things. The text read:

Mom [10:49 AM]: Jongseong, bring Y/N to the summer estate in two weeks time. Your uncle can't make it this weekend.

And then, directly beneath it, as if the first sentence were merely logistical preamble to the real point:

Mom [10:49 AM]: If you're so serious about her, it's time the entire family met her.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 : @simsimluver @maishee @grdientlips @yejisair777 @kristynaaah @heesroses @vmpiricou @seungiesdoll @malibluess @stwryun @hooniluhv @rikisn @hazeheart12 @exclipszz @melancholatte @bluepains @gojopolo @jasmineeeee1009 @ming1luvr @ni-k1ttie @enzsstuff01 @willothewispbf @emvss @simjaeyunslut @luvlyjaemin @kikizzz0 @ilovhoonie @prettygirlthings-world @jaesim @luv4dani @perristar @bkatarina @fialtorelle @slutforaz @adoreade | send an ask if you’d like to be added ˙𐃷˙

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𝐞𝐥’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 : hi again hoonguin nation !!! unfortunately i did grow attached to this fic somewhere along the way & there are still so so so many things i have yet to put 🙁 no i didn’t put them here because too much would’ve been happening already . . there’ll definitely be a part two soon because i don’t leave you guys hanging 😘

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

The back of Park Jongseong’s head is almost as annoying as the rest of him. 

Haloed in a well-kept array of perfectly styled dark hair, it currently blocks your view of the last slide in today’s lecture. Eyes tracing the perfectly mussed strands, you can’t help but roll your eyes. 

It’s an illusion of a carefree nature you know Park Jonseong certainly does not possess. Every strand of hair, down to the very last follicle is exactly where he wants it to be, no matter how hard he tries to pretend like it was nothing but a few strokes of his fingers and the grace of the light afternoon breeze. 

You scoff. As if that control freak would leave anything up to the whims of nature. You’ve seen his planner, even if only in passing. And by accident, of course. 

Filled to the brim with reminders and deadlines and memos, all etched in his infuriatingly neat handwriting, you doubt he’s ever left anything up to chance.

You’d admire the incessant diligence if it came from anyone else. Or at least, you’d respect it. But with Jongseong, or Jay as he insists on being called, you can only resent it. 

Every minute he dedicates to his own meticulousness is only another hour you have to spend studying. Writing. Editing. Practicing. Perfecting your own work and hoping the final result looks half as effortless as his. 

Effortless. That word tastes more bitter on your tongue than it has any right to. But it’s hard not to resent someone that was handed everything on a silver platter and loves to dangle it just out of your reach. 

Park Jongseong. He’s the only son and surefire heir to the conglomerate his father has been grooming him to run since he could check boxes on a spreadsheet. Part of you wonders if his enrollment in university is just for show. Surely there’s nothing he could learn from a bachelor’s in business that he didn’t learn on his father’s lap at the age of ten. That only makes you even angier. 

Mentally, you begin to sift through the day’s to-do list. 

Finish econ homework. Assign roles for your insurance law midterm project. Email your marketing professor for a finalized version of the midterm schedule. Send it to your manager at the cafe so he doesn’t schedule any overlapping shifts. Call your mom. Text Sunoo back. Make sure this month’s stipend didn’t get blocked during transfer again. Ask Kaia if she got an update from the landlord about next year’s rent increase. 

The longer the list extends, the more the words start to swim in your mind. The sound of your professor’s voice begins to lose its sharpness. It fades to a lulling wave before it disappears entirely, replaced by a sudden ringing in your ears. 

Your vision starts to swim, too. Blinking, you try to clear the black spots that suddenly halo Jay’s head. Quickly, the effort begins to strain. Screwing your eyes shut, you lower your head, hoping it will ease the sudden nausea beginning to rise from the pit of your stomach. 

Your skin feels hot. Too hot. Sweat beads at your temple as you fight the urge to be sick. 

Not on the laptop, you pray. Even through the haze in your mind, you’re well aware of just how many notes and assignments you would lose if your laptop died. Never mind the fact that you wouldn’t be able to afford a replacement for at least five months, and even that leaves no room for error in your finances or emergency spending. 

Palm supporting the weight of your clammy forehead, the ringing in your ears sharpens to something piercing. You can feel your consciousness slipping, thoughts fading as soon as they come. 

The urge to be sick is still there, but it’s distant now, fading into some corner of your mind that you can’t quite access. 

I’m not going to puke, you realize. But I am about to pass out.

Forcing breath in through your nose, you feel your heartbeat pounding in your throat. It echoes between your ears as you do your best to hold onto your last threads of coherence. 

You think you hear your name, maybe, somewhere in the distance. Grinding your teeth, you do your best to focus on it. Reach out like it’s a lifeline pulling you through the waves. 

You hear it again, louder this time. You’re closer. The nausea has faded now, more of a mild discomfort than an imminent threat. The vertigo that sent your mind swooping is calming to a gentle rock. 

Hesitantly, you try opening your eyes, just barely. The bottom of your keyboard looks back at you, blurry through your eyelashes. 

Again, you hear the sound of your name. Only this time, it’s clear enough to realize that it’s not a figment of your imagination. 

Too quickly, you lift your head, opening your eyes fully. Doing your best not to wince at the sudden movement, you suppress the sudden chill that traces your spine in a shiver. 

Sat halfway up the bowl of the lecture hall, you meet your professor’s eyes. Your face, previously clammy, suddenly feels impossibly warm as you realize nearly everyone in the lecture hall has their eyes locked on you too. 

Their expressions are a mix of concern and confusion. You can’t decide which one is worse. 

Pointedly, you avoid the weight of the stare coming from directly in front of you. The last thing you want to know is how Park Jongseong is looking at you right now. Because he is. 

You can feel it, the heaviness of his lingering gaze. What expression does he have? Is he confused like the rest of them? Or maybe his eyes are full of nothing but contempt, a sick sense of vindication at your humiliation. 

You did just barely edge him out of the top score on last week’s econ quiz, after all. Maybe he’s been praying for a moment like this. Karmic justice for taking what he must be sure is rightfully his. 

Or, worst of all, his eyes could be shrouded in sympathy. Worry. A reminder that no matter how many sleepless nights you spend studying and extra shifts you pick up just to afford the used versions of the pristine, brand new textbooks he arranges on his bookshelf, you will always be nothing to him. 

Not a threat, even if your GPA rivals his. Not competition, even though the two of you are always fighting for the last word in class discussions. 

You’re just another student. A girl whose place in the lecture hall behind him is funded by scholarships he’s never had to think twice about. A business major who studies the field and knows that ultimately, connections are the only thing that make your name worth anything in this cutthroat industry. 

It doesn’t matter how many networking functions you attend, how many professors you build relationships with, and how much of your own blood, sweat, and tears you pour into this. 

The blazer you found on clearance with loose threads and a stubborn wrinkle that your old iron can never seem to entirely erase will never turn heads the way his limited edition, perfectly pressed designer brand suits do. 

The name your parents gave you, will love and consideration and pride, will never hold the same weight, the same value, as Park Jongseong. 

“I—” you try, but your voice comes out dry, scratched raw. Forcing down a reluctant swallow and hoping your humiliation goes down with it, you try again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear the question. Could you repeat it?”

Your professor hesitates for a moment, frowning. Eventually, she says, “That’s alright. We’re just about out of time actually.” 

You glance at the clock. Class isn’t scheduled to finish for another eight minutes. And Professor Jung never ends early. Ever. 

Addressing the entire hall now, she adds, “Don’t forget that this semester, we’ll be doing an exam and a project for your midterm. Again, my recommendation is that you find someone to partner with for the project. It’s extensive, and I designed it intending for the work to be split between two people. I won’t stop you if you choose to work alone, but the deadline will come sooner than you think. Finalize your plans and topic now, and send me an email or come see me at office hours if you have any questions. I’ll see you all next time.” 

With her reminders, students begin to shift, gathering their things as a few glance around in disbelief at the early dismissal. Thankfully, the gesture has eased most of the attention off of you. 

But before you can slide your laptop into your bag, her voice cuts through the hall once again. “And, ____?” Startled by the sound of your name, you look up to find her eyes already on you. Her expression is unreadable. “Stay after class for just a minute.”

Shit.     

Nodding, you bend to grab your bag. As soon as you stand from your chair, you feel it again. That same pair of eyes. 

This time, he catches you off guard. You don’t have enough of a warning to avoid the gaze you suddenly meet. 

Over his shoulder, Jay isn’t looking at you with disgust or contempt or even vindication. He’s just… looking. The same way you’ve seen him fine comb a spreadsheet or double check a report when the numbers don’t quite add up. 

Like he’s searching for something. Trying to figure something out. 

Your eyes widen slightly before you turn your head, breaking eye contact. 

When Park Jongseong looks at you, the only thing you want to see is the mild annoyance he has whenever you beat him to a correct answer. The strained frustration whenever you edge him out of setting the exam curve. 

Not his scrutiny, his searching assessment like you’re someone worth a second glance. No matter how much you resent him for largely treating you like a pesky fly, it’s what you’ve come to recognize as the status quo. It’s comfortable. Safe. 

Him giving you any sort of actual attention is very much not. 

Pulling your bag over your shoulder with a bit more force than necessary, you’re pleasantly surprised to find your legs quite stable beneath you, even if that shaky, jello-like feeling lingers slightly. 

Approaching Professor Jung’s podium with trepidation, you do your best not to fidget. She busies herself shutting down the projector and gathering her notes as the rest of the students file out of the hall.  

After a handful of moments, she closes her laptop and looks up at you. Her eyes shift over your shoulder, somewhere near the door. 

“Is there something you need, Jay?” she asks. 

Immediately, a surge of unease pulls at your stomach. The last thing you need is for him to bear witness to this conversation. 

“I…” you hear behind you, hesitant in a way he almost never is. “No, I’m sorry. I’ll ask you next time, Professor.”

You watch as she nods towards him. “You can always send an email, too, if it’s urgent.”

“Right.” His voice is smooth. Sliding around your shoulders and settling in the air. “Thank you, Professor.”

She nods again, a final dismissal. “Take care, Jay.”

You can’t bring yourself to look. Instead, you wait for the soft thud of the door closing behind him. 

Your professor waits, too. She parts her lips to speak, but the words are spilling from you before she can. 

“I’m so sorry, Professor,” you plead. Participation isn’t weighted particularly heavily, according to the syllabus she handed out at the beginning of the semester, but you need all the points you can get. “I promise it won’t happen again. And I really was paying attention, I just had this weird headache all of a sudden, and—”

“Woah,” she reaches out a hand. “Slow down.” Confusion creases her brow at your reaction. “I didn’t ask you to stay to chastise you.”

“Oh,” you breathe. Relief is short lived as confusion begins to take its place. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Don’t apologize.” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry that I gave that impression.” She sighs. Silence stretches for a moment before she continues, “Look, ___, you’re one of my top performing students. Maybe the top performing student.”

For a second, you almost wish Jay had stuck around, just to hear that. 

“I’m not concerned about your academic abilities or your focus in class,” she continues. “I am, however, starting to become a bit concerned about you.” 

“Me?” you echo. 

Nearly halfway through the semester, Professor Jung has solidified herself as one of your favorites. She’s in her mid-forties, demanding but receptive, and an absolute genius in the accounting world. 

She’s pushed you to see numbers, data, in a new way. To stop looking at them as some cold, detached thing and start looking for the implications. To consider how salaries and bonuses and business expenses affect not only a company’s bottom line, but also the employees that make it possible. 

Numbers, she always says, are a reflection. They tell you about customer satisfaction, employee well-being. Factors that matter if you care about longevity. Continued success. Ethics and morality. Conversations that are all too often missing or pushed to the side in this industry. 

You’ve been hoping that come finals, she’ll be willing to write you a recommendation letter. Maybe even ask you to TA for one of her lower level classes if your schedule allows. 

In short, you value her opinion. Not just as someone with significant authority over your GPA, but as someone with experience who seems to share your values. In the business world, it’s as rare as striking gold. 

Now, she stands across from you with concern etched across her features. “You’ve been quieter in class,” she says. “And today isn’t the first time I’ve seen you like that.” She nods towards your earlier seat. “Hand on your head like you’re in pain.”

“Oh,” you exhale, not sure what to do with her worry. You never imagined she, or anyone for that matter, would notice. You shake your head, prepared to brush her off, “I’m fine—”

She won’t let it go so easily. “Are you sleeping?”

“What?” you flounder for a moment. “I mean, it’s almost midterms, so I’ve been doing some extra studying, but—”

“So you haven’t,” she concludes, disapproval in her eyes. 

“I have,” you insist. “Just less.” The concern in her gaze doesn’t ease. “A little less,” you amend. 

“Are you eating?”

“Yes,” you nod. Extra hours in the library and the pressure of a potential rent increase might mean your meals are a bit less regular these days, but she doesn’t need to know that. “I even get free things from the case at the cafe during shifts, so—”

“You’re working?” Another flicker of concern crosses her face. 

Shit. 

“Oh, I…” you trail off, unsure what to do with the sudden interrogation. “I mean, yeah. But only part time.”

“You’re taking nearly double the recommended course load and you’re working. No wonder you’re nearly fainting in the lecture hall.”

Swallowing your pride, you admit, “I’m trying to graduate early. My scholarship depends on my class rank, and I—” you bite at the inside of your bottom lip. Your throat suddenly feels full, words getting stuck on the way out. “I can’t—”

“I know what it’s like,” she says, voice gentle. “Believe me, I do.” She pauses for a moment, weighing her words. “You’re brilliant, truly. One of the most impressive students I’ve had in my classroom in a long time. And you have grit, talent, perseverance. A commendable work ethic. You have what it takes to make it in this industry. But you need to take care of yourself, too.”

It’s humiliating, the way a tear catches in the corner of your eye. It spills, despite your stubbornness. You feel small, helpless as it tracks a hot, wet streak down the curve of your cheek. 

Professor Jung’s voice softens even further. “Is there someone nearby that can help? A family member? A friend?”

You’re biting the inside of your lip so hard you’re worried you might draw blood. Another tear escapes as you shake your head in a miniscule movement. 

Friends have long since fallen off your list of priorities. The few relationships you formed during freshman year have long since fizzled after you left one too many texts without a response and canceled on one too many plans. Kaia is the closest thing you have now, but your schedules are nearly opposite each other and as a nursing student, she’s nearly as busy as you. Even after two years of living together, you still call her your roommate. Not your friend. 

Your family is far away. Back in your hometown, the distance between them and the city your university campus sits on feels like an uncrossable ravine. Besides, they have their own worries to take care of. Namely, the restaurant that’s been in your family for generations. An enterprise that has cost your family more than it’s earned them for the last decade. 

Your father, mother, and younger brother all work multiple jobs to make ends meet. It would be nothing short of selfish to ask them for help now. 

“Okay,” your professor nods. The sympathy in her eyes is almost unbearable. “Then I’m going to request that you go visit the university clinic. I’ll call now and make you an appointment for this afternoon.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I mean, really, I’m fine—”

Professor Jung is firm. “Their services are free for students. It’s a university resource. Your tuition funds it.”

“I work this afternoon,” you protest.

“What time?”

“Three thirty.”

She’s already pulling out her phone. “I’ll see what’s available before then.” 

“Really,” you try to stop her, “I’m fine. I’ll eat a good meal tonight and make sure I go to bed early—”

“Frequent headaches and dizziness can be a cause for concern.”

“I’m sure if I just rest, then—”

“But you won’t rest.” Her gaze is heavy, something almost protective in it. “I know how it is. You tell yourself you just need to push through until midterms. But then there are events and presentations and research conferences. And then there are finals and you’re doing the same thing over again. It doesn’t end with graduation. This line of work rewards people who never sleep, who never rest, who never take a breath. Your competition is always trying to get one step ahead of you, to edge you out. You wear yourself to the bone until you make enough money to pay someone else to do it for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You feel that familiar sting at the edge of your eyes again. The urge to cry, but this time for an entirely different reason. 

“I believe in you,” she says. “I know you have big dreams, and I believe in those, too. So take an hour out of your afternoon and go visit the university clinic. Do it once and the next time you’re feeling unwell, it will be a little easier. Find ways to take care of you, too.”

The hesitation must still be apparent on your face, because she adds, “I’m more than happy to resort to threats if I must. I’ll make the midterm project a mandatory partner assignment.”

Your gaze wavers. “You wouldn’t.”

She just nods. “And I’ll assign partners. Why not pair up the two best students in class? I’m sure if the two of you put your heads together, you could come up with something truly commendable.”

The two top students. That would mean you and— 

No. 

“This doesn’t feel aligned to the Business School code of ethics,” you point out.

“Then go to the clinic,” she instructs, a note of finality in her voice. “And you’ll never have to find out just how terribly malleable that handbook is.”

You clench your jaw for a moment, looking for a loophole, a way out. And then, finally—

“Fine,” you acquiesce. 

“Good,” she nods. “I know the director at the university health center. I messaged him before the end of class. Go now. They’re waiting for you. They’ll see you right when you arrive.”

“You already…” your jaw drops slightly. “But what if I—”

“Just go,” she urges, nodding towards the door. “The sooner you go, the sooner you can get back to running yourself into the ground studying.”

There’s more you want to say, to argue, but she’s right. The quicker they diagnose you with stress induced headaches and fatigue and recommend resting more, the sooner you can get back to doing the opposite. 

Nodding, you make your way towards the door. Fingers around the handle, her earlier words echo through your mind. 

I believe in you. It’s been a long time since anyone told you that.

Turning back, you meet her gaze one more time, trying to swallow the emotions that threaten to rise. “Thank you.”

Professor Jung nods once, an expression you can’t quite read in her eyes. “I’ll see you next week, ___.”  

Halfway between the lecture hall and the health center, your phone dings with an incoming notification.   

You smile as the image spreads across your screen. Sunoo poses next to one of the cutest dogs you’ve ever seen, both of them tilting their heads at the exact same angle. 

A surge of fondness is quickly followed by a pang of loneliness. You’d give anything to see your little brother in person right now. To see that smile in person and wrap him in the biggest hug as he laughs in your ear. 

Looking at the picture a moment longer, you send a quick response before tucking your phone back into your pocket. 

Sunoo. Your brother is only one year your junior, but the protectiveness you feel towards him makes the gap feel bigger. 

He hates it, the way you coddle him. But after a life-threatening tumor nearly took his life when the two of you were in elementary school, you’ve felt more like a guardian than an older sister. 

It’s hard to remember how things were when you were just a kid. Your memories are hazy around the edges, and the passage of time has only dulled them further. 

There was never a time when your family was wealthy, but things were different back then. Your mother smiled more. Her back didn’t ache yet. She came home from long days of taking telephone orders and covering waitress shifts at your family’s restaurant with a smile on her face and enough energy to chase you and Sunoo around the neighborhood playground for hours. 

Your father came home later, usually. After all the cleaning was done and the restaurant was prepped for the next day. After the books were balanced and the cash register was double checked. But he laughed when he saw the two of you. Entertained your requests for endless rounds of hide-and-seek no matter how exhausted he was. 

Sunoo was always a sweet kid. The kind of shy that people gravitated towards. He was gentle, thoughtful, good. His teachers sang his praises and his friends’ parents were always happy to have him over. 

You were a bit rougher around the edges. Not mean or misbehaved, but something in you was always trying to run, to take, to push, even when everyone around you was resting. You had a fierce competitive streak and a hard time losing at anything, especially at school. 

You wanted to be the best at math, at science, at language arts. You wanted to run faster than all of the boys who treated the playground like their domain and draw better than all of the girls who spent every second of free time at the arts and crafts table. 

You wanted to do everything. Be everything. An astronaut. A scientist. A famous singer. A doctor. A lawyer. The president. Your dreams, your hopes, your goals for the future were always shifting, never standing still. 

And then, on a rather ordinary Thursday afternoon when you were in the fifth grade, your world fell apart. 

You rode the bus home alone that day. Sunoo hadn’t gone to school. Complaining of a stomachache and his head hurting in the morning, your mother took a day away from the restaurant to stay home with him. 

When you finally arrived at your stop, the elderly woman who lived next door was waiting for you there. You still remember it now, the awful, aching look of sympathy in her eyes as she greeted you. Called you sweetheart and told you that your family wasn’t home right now. That they had asked her to bring you to them. 

You remember the confusion, the anxiety as she pulled her small car into the hospital parking lot. The terrible ache in your heart, the panic in your chest as you met the tearful, desperate gazes of your parents. The crushing weight of their arms around you as they pulled you into a crushing embrace. 

The utter agony of looking at your baby brother unconscious on a hospital bed, skin pale. So pale. Too pale. 

A tumor, the doctor called it. You were too young to know what he meant, but you understood the weight of it. The implications. The sickening feeling in your gut as you heard him tell your parents to prepare for the worst. That he likely had no more than three months left to live. 

The clang of your mother’s knees hitting the hospital floor still rings in your ears sometimes. The desperate, hushed tones of your father’s whispers as he pleaded with the doctor, begging him to save his son’s life. 

The next year was the worst of your life. 

Week after week, treatment after treatment, doctor after doctor, and your brother only got worse. Sicker, paler, weaker. 

It was a rare gene mutation that caused the tumor, the doctor explained to your family one afternoon. His voice was strange as he tried to juggle the appropriate amounts of professional detachment and sympathy all at once. And it was likely the same mutation making it so resistant to treatment.

The hospital was doing everything in their power, but they thought his chances might be better if he went to a larger hospital, one with more resources, with dedicated departments and doctors who specialized in this kind of treatment. 

Sunoo was moved to a different hospital less than a week later. Your parents took turns staying with him while the other kept the restaurant running. It killed them not to be at his side, you know, but the longer treatment took, the more bills began to stack up. 

There was a silver lining within it all, though. The three month estimate that the doctors gave came and went. And still, Sunoo was alive. Even if only barely.

Your community was supportive beyond words. Donation drives were set up, meal trains funded by strangers you’d never seen before. Your family's restaurant had more visitors than it had seen in decades. But even with their generosity, it wasn’t enough. 

When the revenue ran dry, keeping Sunoo alive was funded by your parent’s meager savings. And when that evaporated, they turned to loans. 

You watched as they worked themselves to the bone. Trying to keep their sick son alive and their only source of income afloat. 

Your parents wanted your life to remain as normal as possible. You still went to school, still lived at home, still rode the same bus. 

The same elderly woman who brought you to the hospital that day was the one who made your meals most nights. Who made sure you were taken care of and got to bed at a reasonable time. She even came to your parent-teacher conference. Knitted you a new sweater and a pair of mittens when autumn turned to winter. 

But no matter how much normalcy they wished for, your life was a shadow of its former self. School was different. Teachers treated you like broken glass. The high expectations they once had were whittled away into nothing in the name of sympathy. 

The friends in your class did their best to be kind, and the easygoing friendships you’d built before were lost somewhere in the rubble of their pity.

You had never felt more alone in your life. 

You only got to visit your brother on the weekends. You remember the way you would sit at his bedside for hours, telling him stories, tidbits from school, random thoughts no one else had the time or ability to listen to. He was unconscious for most of it, but you told him everything anyway. 

And when the weight of your grief was too heavy, when your throat was aching and sore from all the talking, you’d fall asleep like that, curled awkwardly over the edge of the hospital bed, his limp hand gripped tight between your fingers.

In the midst of it all, somewhere in the tangle of agony and grief and loneliness, you lost your dreams. 

You didn’t care about being the fastest runner on the playground anymore. You spent most recesses in the school counselor’s office now, anyway. Whenever you tried to draw, your hands weren’t sure what to do. It was as if they’d lost their spark, their creativity. 

It didn’t matter if someone else was better than you at times tables or if another classmate’s essay won first place.

You didn’t want to be an astronaut anymore. Space suddenly felt so far away and so terribly cold. You didn’t want to be a singer or a lawyer or a scientist, and you’d had enough of doctors to last a lifetime. 

The only thing you wanted was for your brother to get better. For him to come home so the two of you could ride the bus together again. For your mom to smile like she used to. For your dad to take the two of you berry picking on a sunny day again.

When spring finally bloomed, so did the first glimmers of hope. Sunoo was responding to his latest treatment. Much better and quicker than before. 

He was actually awake now when you would visit him. He laughed at your stories, even if it did usually end in a coughing fit that made your mother sick with worry. He would respond to you, ask you to tell him more. 

One weekend, just as the daffodils around your school began to grow, he was even sitting upright when you walked into his hospital room. The next time, you brought him one, and he smiled when the nurse helped find a vase to keep it in the windowsill. 

Slowly but surely, color started to return to his cheeks. Life started to take root in his body again. 

The day after you finished the fifth grade, he stood up from his hospital bed, with his hand on the table for support. You hugged him so tight that your parents nearly had to pry you off of him when his heart monitor started to jump.

At the agonizing pace of a snail, things got better. Day by day, he got stronger. Healthier. Until eventually, finally, he was given a clean bill of health. 

It wasn’t the same as before. A year in the hospital had taken its toll. Your brother was still fragile, still needed the extra support that everyone around him was more than ready to bend over backwards to give.  

By the time summer came, Sunoo was back home. His weekly hospital visits became monthly, then quarterly, and eventually biannual. When autumn arrived, he was back in school. 

Even after a year in hell, life started to become normal again. But some things had changed fundamentally. 

Your family, once financially sound, had begun to struggle immensely with money. Irregular operations at the restaurant made profits plummet to nearly irreparable levels. Beyond that, every penny your parents had saved was gone. 

The hospital bills had submerged them in immense debt. Put simply, your family had no money anymore and nothing but a now failing restaurant to try and dig yourselves out of a hole that felt more like an abyss. 

And you, once fueled by visions of grandeur, dreams that stretched beyond your wildest imagination, lost every desire to become something amazing. It just simply didn’t matter to you anymore. The only thing you wanted to be was Sunoo’s older sister. Someone that could help him and take care of him and stay by his side no matter what. 

You still had drive, still had this fire deep that burned deep within you, but now it was fueled by something else. 

At eleven, it meant helping Sunoo with homework and threatening the boys that teased him on the playground until they cried. 

At sixteen, it meant canceling last minute on your date to the junior prom to take Sunoo to the movie he’d been wanting to see in theaters. 

And when Sunoo, much to your parent’s dismay, decided that he wanted to take over the family business and inherit the restaurant they had never quite managed to make profitable again, you decided to shoulder that burden, too.    

Your brother loved to cook, loved to use food as a means of connecting with other people. He treated food like a remedy, like a gift. He used a warm meal to comfort people in despair and baked cookies whenever he wanted to show his appreciation. For him, he could think of no better way to spend his days than making, preparing, and serving food to all kinds of people. 

You had no talent in the kitchen, but it didn’t matter. Sunoo was the chef, not you. In your senior year of high school, you realized that what your family’s restaurant, what Sunoo, needed was someone who could handle the business side of things. Someone who could look at impossible numbers and make them work in their favor. Someone who could breathe life into a failing business and turn it into the bustling diner of your brother’s dreams. 

You needed a business degree. And not just a degree, but an education. One from a top university where your professors could give you the tools you needed to make Sunoo’s dreams a reality. Of course, that was never going to come without a hefty price tag. 

So you made a plan. You were smart. Academically gifted. You already had impressive college entrance exam scores on your side, but you needed more. While your classmates enjoyed their last months of time together, you worked. Day in, day out applying for scholarships, internships, fellowships. Writing essays, email professors, scouring the internet for every bit of information you could find on business schools. 

You could count on one hand the average number of hours you slept each night senior year. But in the end, it was worth it. You graduated high school with an offer into the most prestigious business school on this side of the country and the scholarship to fully fund it as long as you maintained a high enough GPA and class ranking. 

On top of that, you were even granted a modest living stipend. One to help cover the rent, textbooks, and grocery expenses you could never bring yourself to ask your parents to help cover. 

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. It was enough. 

It didn’t matter that your dreams fell by the wayside all those years ago. It didn’t matter that before all of this, you had no interest in business. 

Your brother, your miracle of a brother, had been given a second chance at life. And now, you had the opportunity to help him achieve his only dream. 

Walking across your university campus now, you almost decide to just ditch the health center. You have work to do. You don’t have time to waste sitting in a doctor’s office.

Besides, the selfie Sunoo sent with the dog, no matter how adorable, is only a reminder of what you set out to do. The longer you take to graduate, the longer Sunoo has to keep the restaurant afloat through a combination of long hours at odd part-time jobs. 

Right now, his current gig is as an assistant at the local veterinarian’s office. Your brother loves animals, but it kills you knowing how much he’d rather spend that time cooking. Restoring your family’s restaurant to its former glory. Surpassing it. 

It would be such a relief to tell him he doesn’t have to pick up extra shifts anymore, to tell your mom that she doesn’t need to keep the job she hates at the grocery store anymore. To tell your dad he doesn’t need to keep taking all of the contract construction work that takes such a hard toll on his body. 

Your family, all three of them, have been through so much. It’s the least you can do to ease some of their strain. To lessen some of their burden. 

But then you hear Professor Jung’s words again. 

Find ways to take care of you, too.

Should you? Part of you is still resistant. But regardless, you realize, you’re no use to your brother’s dream if you run yourself entirely into the ground. 

Besides, maybe the clinic will give you something a bit more effective than Tylenol for your headaches and you can actually get a bit more studying done before your vision starts to swim. 

So, even with feet that want to drag, you force yourself all the way to the university health center. 

You don’t make a habit of spending time in hospitals, but much to your relief, this is one of the more pleasant waiting areas you’ve been in. The ceilings are high, and the windows are large. Afternoon sunlight warms the space where a dozen odd people wait for their names to be called. 

It has a relaxed feel to it. There are patterns on the chair cushions. Conversations in the corner. It doesn’t have that awful, lifeless, sterile feel you’ve been trying to avoid since you were ten. 

When you give your name to the receptionist, she immediately ushers you towards the small hallway of exam rooms. Glancing towards the half full waiting area, a flicker of surprise crosses your features. Professor Jung must have really pulled some strings for you. 

You follow her to room number six, offering a tight smile when she says the nurse will be with you shortly. 

Glancing around the small examination room, it looks how you’d expect. There’s a layer of paper beneath the table you sit on, and it crinkles loudly every time you shift your weight. There’s a computer in the corner, two low stools, and a handful of medical tools whose name you know about half of. 

A handful of posters cover the walls. Reminders about good handwashing hygiene, dates for the latest flu shot, a list of symptoms for upper respiratory infections. There’s nothing unusual, but you can’t quite get your body to relax fully. 

Before long, you hear a quiet knock on the other side of the door. The nurse that enters introduces herself before settling onto one of the stools in front of you. 

Glancing down at her clipboard briefly, she looks up to you with a perfunctory kindness in her eyes. “What brings you in today?” she asks. 

“My professor suggested I come, actually.”

“Mm,” she hums. “Anything in particular bothering you?”

You take a deep breath in. Part of you is still itching to just brush her off, but you came all the way here. Might as well be honest. 

“I’ve been having headaches,” you admit. “They don’t usually last long, but they’re… intense. Sometimes they make me dizzy, too. Or nauseous. I haven’t vomited or passed out, but I’ve come close a couple of times.”

The nurse nods, reaching for the stethoscope. “How frequent are these headaches?”

“It depends,” you nod. “Usually no more than once every couple of days, but it’s been happening more often for the past few weeks.”

Pressing the stethoscope against your sternum, she instructs you to take a deep breath in. Exhale. 

She jots something down on her clipboard. “When you have these headaches, what do you usually do to treat them?”

“Take a Tylenol,” you explain. “Maybe lay down for a while if it’s really bad.” Most of the time, you just grit your teeth through it, but that doesn’t seem like the right answer.  

“Would you describe the pain as manageable?” she asks, picking up another tool. This one, she presses gently into your ear. 

“Usually, yeah.” You think back to your lecture today, the spinning in your head. “Sometimes it’s really intense, but it passes pretty quickly.”

She takes a step back from you, recording another note on her clipboard. “Do you have any other symptoms, anything strange that you’ve noticed since the headaches started?”

“Not really,” you shake your head. 

“Are you sure?” she presses. “No night sweats? Fever chills? A clammy forehead?”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupt, shaking your head. “It’s really just the headaches that are bothering me. I actually have to get to work soon. Is there any—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the nurse frowns. “You’re running a bit of a fever, and your heartbeat is slightly irregular. I’d like to check a few more things. Draw some blood and do a chest x-ray, at least.” 

“Is that really necessary?” You don’t mean to be so curt, but the sudden shift in tone has panic starting to claw at your throat. “Midterms are soon, so I’ve been a bit more stressed than usual. I’m sure it’s just that—”

“Regardless,” she interrupts, not unkindly, “it’s best to be sure.”

So you acquiesce. Push up your sleeve with no resistance so she can draw a vial of blood. Don’t mention your upcoming shift as she guides you to the x-ray imaging room. 

The more rooms she leads you to, the more tests they run, the more a sense of unease begins to build in your stomach. 

Not because you’re worried you’ll be late for work. Not because you’re thinking of your to-do list or an upcoming midterm. 

Because for the first time, you’re beginning to wonder if your headaches aren’t quite as benign as you’ve dismissed them to be. That’s the thing about spending so much time focused on everyone but yourself. You never stop to consider that something could actually be happening to you. 

You’re sure it’s just paranoia. Lingering trauma from all your previous time spent in hospital rooms at your brother’s bedside, but whatever it is, you can’t seem to shake it. 

After another handful of minutes, she gives you the final update. There were no abnormalities detected in any of the x-rays. The blood tests will take a bit longer to process, but they’ll call you within three days. 

Until then, you’re to take it easy and come back immediately if you notice worsening headaches or any other symptoms. 

With a nod, you gather your bag again. Walking past the receptionist, you offer her a tight smile. Glancing at your phone, you check the time. You still have a little over an hour before your shift. 

You should probably eat something, take a quick break before you’re on your feet for the rest of the afternoon, but that lingering feeling of dread in your gut makes both options seem unfavorable. 

Instead, you force your feet to come to a standstill. Not caring that you’re still in the middle of campus, surrounded by other students passing you by, you screw your eyes shut. 

You take a deep inhale. Hold it. Count to five. Exhale. 

You’re fine. You’re just fine. You have to be. 

If you play your cards right, you’ll graduate in two semesters. Sunoo will finally have the restaurant of his dreams. Your parents can enjoy a true retirement. 

You’re better than this. Stronger than this. A couple of fucking headaches are not going to ruin everything you’ve worked for.

You’ve survived worse, and you’ll survive this too. No matter how many sleepless nights and skipped meals and bottles of Tylenol it takes. You’ve worked too hard to watch it all go down the drain now. 

Again, you tell yourself, you’re fine. 

Even in the privacy of your own mind, you can’t quite tell if it’s a lie or not. But at the end of the day, you suppose it doesn’t really matter. 

You’re so close. Fine or not, you know what you need to do.  

…..

Three days later, you’re pouring over your insurance law notes in a library study room when the vibration of your ringtone breaks the silence. 

Checking the caller ID, you hesitate for only a moment before answering. 

Inconclusive, the nurse from the university health center tells you, and you hate that answer more than you expect to. You’ve spent the last three days more anxious than you care to admit, and this only adds fuel to the fire. 

According to the nurse, there are some abnormalities in your blood test. Namely in your blood count. Proper diagnosis is outside the scope of the university health center, but they’ve written you a referral to the nearest hospital proper for further testing. 

It’s called Saint Mary’s. It’s pretty close. Should only take you about thirty minutes on the bus.

Mentally, you scramble. You’re not sure what tests they’ll need to run or how much they’ll cost, but you’re sure the answer isn’t free. Your finances are already tight, and part of you wants to just ignore the nurse’s advice and hope that whatever’s causing irregular numbers will resolve itself. 

But the sheer anxiety of it all is killing you. Maybe the hospital can get you set up with some sort of payment plan. If your rent increase isn’t too high, then you can mitigate this with some extra shifts at the cafe. 

It’ll be fine. Your headaches haven’t been nearly as debilitating for the last three days. Visiting the hospital will give you the peace of mind you need to push through these last few semesters. 

So you make time in your schedule the next day. Erase a study session from your planner and replace it with the hospital’s name. 

Pull out the exact change for the bus fare and sink down into a window seat, pulling your headphones over your ears as you watch the city begin to pass you by. 

It strikes you then, just how little of your surroundings you’ve explored these past two years you’ve been in university. You can hardly remember the last time you stepped foot off campus for something other than a visit back home. 

It feels strange, seeing so many buildings and parks and places so close to you and realizing just how unfamiliar they all are. 

The hospital is only a handful of stops away. You exit the bus just as quickly as you got on, and then you take a deep, steadying breath. 

The process is nearly identical to your university health center. They ask for your name and identification, but this time, they direct you back to the waiting room. It’s the bad kind, this time. The type of sterile, lifeless room that makes you want to run back out the front door the way you came. 

Thankfully, you’re not left to wait long. 

This nurse is kind, too. She asks for your name and gives you hers. The testing they conduct is more extensive now. You’re shuffled from one machine to another, listening as they explain the purpose for each one without really processing anything they tell you. 

And then, when it’s done, they send you to a private room. Inform you with a tight smile that the doctor will be with you shortly. 

You sit alone for long minutes, waiting. You tap your fingers against the top of your thigh, a steady rhythm that grounds you to reality and allows you to escape it in short bursts. 

The doctor enters quietly, introduces himself. You don’t remember his name. You hardly remember yours. 

It’s difficult to focus on anything he says. The ringing in your ears is back, now. Even stronger than before. 

You only gather bits and pieces of what he tells you. But it’s enough. 

Three months. The universe must have a strange, sick sense of humor. Must love the vertigo induced by the worst sort of deja vu. Must revel in the irony of doling out death sentences. 

Three months. 

Sat in an uncomfortable chair in the dead center of a sterile, lifeless office, the doctor pushes his glasses a little further up his nose. Then, he repeats himself with just as little fanfare. 

You have three months to live. 

It’s only an estimate of course, but he’s seen this kind of tumor before. A rare genetic mutation.

Genetic. Of course.

You should have been tested, ten years ago. But money was so tight, and everyone’s attention was on Sunoo, and it just never happened. You slipped through the cracks, along with the identical malignant gene mutation you share with your younger brother.

Yours is small still, just behind your heart. That’s why the x-ray didn’t pick it up. But the MRI today did. It’s why your blood count is all over the place, why your heartbeat is arrhythmic.

It’s why you’ve been having headaches, why you’ve come dangerously close to fainting multiple times in the past few weeks. 

Three months. It may just be an estimate, but no matter how you look at it, it’s not a lot of time. It’s no time at all. 

Grief, pure, raw, aching, hits you with the force of a tsunami wave. 

The realization strikes you, in the middle of the doctor’s office, that you aren’t going to do it. Any of it. You aren’t going to graduate. You aren’t going to see your parents retire. You aren’t going to give Sunoo the restaurant of his dreams. 

No, instead, you are going to die. 

You can already feel it. Sunoo was the exception to the rule, the anomaly. He may have survived this once, but he was always meant for better things. He had the care he needed, got the treatments that brought him back to life even if they bled your family dry. 

Your parents, even if they wanted to, couldn’t do that again. They barely scraped by the first time. And even if they could, you wouldn’t let them. The guilt of it all would be too unbearable. Maybe even a fate worse than this. Your own savings are laughable. Not anywhere near the amount needed for something of this magnitude. 

When the doctor asks if there’s anyone he can call for you, you shake your head. You won’t burden your family with this. Not yet. Not for as long as you can. The weight of their worry would only make it worse. 

He looks at you with pity, then. With sorrow. You hate them both. He writes you a prescription for a pharmacy’s worth of medication, tells you that these will ease the worst of your symptoms but that you shouldn’t expect to be fully functional for more than a month or so with medicine alone. 

He gives you the list of treatment plans and watches as you half heartedly pretend to look them over. The bold faced font seems to mock you. The pictures of smiling families and spring air that you’ll likely never see again.

All of the treatments have fancy names, medical terminology you don’t understand. Glancing over the list, the only thing you see is dollar signs. Money you don’t have. 

When you ask for time before making a decision, the doctor advises against it. Reminds you that time is of the essence, that you’re lucky they caught the tumor now before it progressed further. 

That waiting longer is nothing but a death sentence. 

You thank him and tell him you’ll be in touch shortly. You can’t tell if he knows you’re lying through your teeth. 

The bus ride back to campus passes nearly the same as the journey here did. Again, you sit by the window, pulling your headphones over your ears. The buildings you pass blur into an undistinguishable mix of colors and shapes you realize you’ll never get the chance to parse between, to sort through. 

The ride to the hospital felt like an opportunity, a reminder that there was so much of the world left for you to see. The journey back feels like a prison sentence. The taunting fear that outside the tiny bubble you’ve built for yourself, the rest of the world will remain a mystery to you forever. 

When you reach the stop for your university, you stand, thanking the bus driver as you exit. 

He looks almost surprised at your gratitude, pleasantly shocked someone remembered him at all. 

And then you walk, not in the direction of your apartment, but instead towards the cluster of buildings that make up the School of Business. It’s evening now, and students are far and few between. 

There’s an unseasonal chill to the air, and you pull your jacket a little tighter around your shoulders. You walk until you reach the edge of the campus, the place where a singular, half hidden bench sits just out of view. Sinking down onto it, you let it absorb the weight of your body. Pray that it will hold steady as you unleash the weight of your grief. 

For a moment, you just sit. Your emotions feel out of reach, untouchable in some part of you that’s been locked away for too long you can’t remember how to get there again. 

But eventually, you find them. It starts slowly, a detached feeling of loss, of mourning, before the floodgates open. Before long, you’re sobbing. Alone on the bench, tears stream down your face with little restraint as choked sobs catch in your chest, your throat. You’re nearly screaming at the sky, your entire body shaking with the force of it all. 

Above it, a question circles your mind. 

Why?

Why this? Why me? Why now?

You cry for so long you think you must surely be out of tears. There can’t be anything left in your body besides this horrible disease, this awful fate your own failing nervous system has sealed in stone. 

And then your sobs start to change. Until it’s not tears you’re choking on anymore, but laughter. Terrible, gut-wrenching, bone-cracking laughter at the sheer irony of it all. 

You’re not sure how long you sit there, caught somewhere in the crossfire of all your mixed emotions. But eventually, your sobs subside entirely. 

As the night begins to close around you, you’re left with nothing but the weight of reality, the gravity of truth. The disorientation of your world that’s been flipped on top of its head within the span of hours. 

Every impossible deadline, every bit of effort you’ve put into achieving all of your goals these past few years – it suddenly all feels so fucking useless. 

Every sacrifice you’ve made, every self-serving desire you’ve pushed to the side, buried beneath your commitment to your family, they all start to bubble to the surface one by one. Until you're left with something that tastes all too much like regret. 

You’ve never thought about it twice, your decision to pursue business for your brother. Ever since Sunoo’s miraculous recovery, his goals and yours have felt inseparable, like one, united thing. 

But now, alone on a campus bench with a knife hanging over your head, you think, for the first time in a long time, of that little girl who dreamed of being an astronaut. A singer. A scientist. 

You wonder what she’d say to you now. If she’d admire your determination, your grit. Or if she’d take one look at your business degree and simply think, how boring. 

You suppose it doesn’t really matter now. She’s not here anymore. But you are. Even if only for three more months. 

You imagine telling her the truth, that shadowy version of you that the past has long since claimed. 

You part your lips. They feel dry against your breath, dehydrated from your sorrow. “I only have three months to live,” you whisper to the wind. 

You’re not sure how she’ll react. She’s only ten, after all. Death still feels like some abstract concept, you’re sure, not a finite reality. Time still feels malleable. Birthdays still feel far aways. Nights still feel endless. Dreams still feel worth chasing. 

Three months? She whispers back to you, tilting her head in thought. 

You nod. 

Okay, she whispers again. Then live for three months. 

It’s not that easy, you want to explain. I have plans, hopes, goals. Things I still need to finish. 

But maybe you underestimated her. She had her life taken from her too, after all. Maybe she understands your grief more than anyone else ever could. 

And no matter what you tell her, her answer remains the same. 

Live, she insists. For three months. 

So instead of crying or laughing or cursing the universe any longer, you reach into your bag, fingers closing around the spine of your favorite notebook. Pulling a pen out, you open to the next clean page. And then you start to write. 

…..

The back of Park Jongseong’s head is even more annoying than usual today. Has his hair always been this shiny? Even the fluorescent lights that wash everything else out only seem to make it richer, more luscious looking. 

You’re so wrapped up in debating how much pride you would lose by asking him what shampoo he uses that you almost miss the tail end of his argument. 

“Laying off unnecessary staff is the only way to remedy the situation,” he states. Plainly, firmly, as if his opinion is law. As if there’s no room for argument. “Of course the accounting error would have ideally been caught much earlier in the process, but if the company is already in secondary audits, it’s practically a losing battle. It’s best to just cut the losses and preserve what they can.” 

“An interesting perspective as always, Mr. Park,” Professor Jung nods from her place at the podium. Glancing around the lecture hall she asks, “Did anyone have a different interpretation? An alternative recommendation for how the company should proceed?”

Nearly every pair of eyes in the lecture hall turns to you. Even Professor Jung glances up at your seat, although she’d never admit if you called her out on it. 

But your hands remain planted firmly on your lap. Instead, you play dumb. Pretend that it’s strange of them all to assume you’d have something to say. Act as if you haven’t spent every single other class this semester countering every single one of his points. Today, you remain silent as you too glance around the hall curiously, as if expecting someone else to counter Jay’s idiotic analysis. 

Perhaps idiotic is too harsh. A better word might be obvious. That’s Jay’s problem, you think. He’s always had everything he needs. He’s never had to get creative, to think outside the box. He looks at a poorly balanced accounting book and thinks, “How would Dad handle this?” instead of “What would be the best solution for this unique situation?”

Even Jay himself, who sits nearly directly in front of you, tries to shift in his seat subtly enough to take a glance back at you. You don’t think you’re imagining the frown on his face when he finds you sitting silently, a mask of indifference on your face as you pretend to type another row of notes on your laptop. 

“Okay,” Professor Jung continues from the front after the silence extends a moment longer. “If no one else has anything to add, then we’ll look at our next case.” She changes the slide, showing a new set of sample data from year end accounting books. “Business A had a profit margin of roughly 6.2% in the third quarter of the previous fiscal year…” 

Her words trail off as you glance down at your nails. They’re pink. A pretty shade that you selected with spring flowers in mind, even though it’s just the beginning of fall. Call it nostalgia or stupidity, but spring has always been your favorite season. You’ll take it in any form you can. Besides, the shade is gorgeous against your skin. The tip of your ring finger even has a tiny cherry blossom painted on it. 

You smile, thinking of the nearly two hours you spent yesterday afternoon at the nail salon getting them done. You’d never been before, but the process was just as fun as you imagined. The nail artist was sweet, too. She graduated from your university just a few years ago with a history degree. Changed her mind a few months after earning her diploma, and after some time in cosmetology school, here she was. Running her own nail salon.

Changing her mind and seeing where life takes her. Not worrying about wasted time in the pursuit of a happy ending. It’s not jealousy, exactly, but something unpleasant pulls at your heart when you think about it.   

You get why she likes her job so much. You feel pretty, feminine. Love the way it feels when your nails tap against the screen of your phone as you type a message. Or click against your keyboard as you type your class notes. 

They weren’t cheap, though. Despite that, you’d only smiled and nodded when she suggested coming back in three weeks for a fill. You’d have to scratch out another study session to make time, just like you did for this appointment. Old habits may die hard, but no matter how hard you search, you can’t quite seem to find a part of you that cares. 

You’ve always wanted to get your nails done. Always wanted to be one of those girls that walks around with glowing skin and nice hair and new clothes and pretty nails that you fund with disposable income. It doesn’t matter if it’s frivolous or ridiculous or hopelessly girly.

You’ve spent years with jagged cuticles and short, plain, nails because it was practical. Because it saved you money and time and effort that you could spend studying or networking or planning for the future. 

When you finished at the nail salon, you imagined showing your ten-year-old self how they turned out. 

Very pretty, your past shadowy self told you, and the smile that spread across her face made it worth it all over again. 

Even now, Professor Jung’s voice fades to a pleasant blur in the background. You’re going through the motions more than anything. Pretending to write notes even as you alternate between tabs. One for your lecture and one for flight tickets to the nearest beach town that nearly every student at your university has been to at least once for a drunken spring break vacation. 

You’ve never dreamed of going, have never even been to the beach, but you think it might be nice. You can already imagine the feeling of sand between your toes. Of warm ocean water lapping against your skin. The sound of waves lulling against the shore. 

A pleasant seaside breeze rustling through your hair. 

The sound of Professor Jung wrapping up the lecture for the morning drags you back to reality. There’s no sunlight in the lecture hall, and there’s certainly no sea breeze.

There is, however, a reminder.

“Don’t forget about the Goldfellow’s annual charity gala this weekend. As upper division students, you’re all welcome to attend. It’s an excellent opportunity to network and share space with some of the top executives in our local community. If you do decide to attend, remember that it is a formal event and proper attire is expected.” At that, class is dismissed.

The Goldfellow charity event. Although a better label might be ‘a gathering of every silver spoon raised twenty-something within a fifty mile radius.’ You have serious doubts about how much charity is actually being done.

Then again, perhaps you shouldn’t judge. You’ve never attended the event yourself, after all. Usually you would jump at any kind of networking opportunity, but this one is different. Exclusive. 

The stipulation of proper attire has always made it dangle just outside your reach. Until now, it hasn’t bothered you much. You’re sure that most people are there for the ridiculous venue and open bar. And you use that to convince yourself that no real networking is done. 

Standing from your seat, you pull your bag over your shoulder. Glancing up, you find that Park Jongseong has yet to leave his seat, too. He is standing, though. And, even more alarming, he’s looking right at you. 

More specifically, his gaze is fixated directly on your hands, your fresh manicure, as if it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. 

Then, he looks up at you. “You’re quiet today.”

His tone is infuriatingly neutral. You can't tell if he’s mocking you or deliberately trying to incite your rage, but with Jay, you’ve made a habit of assuming the worst.

“Perhaps you should take notes,” you suggest, voice even.

Jay shakes his head. “If I have something to say, I’ll say it.”

“Well, do you?” you ask. “Have something to say, I mean. Or are you just determined to waste a few more minutes of my time?”

His mouth opens, closes again. This time, his already sharp jawline clenches into something lethal. As if he’s biting back words. Ironic, given what he just said. 

“I suppose I don’t,” he finally tells you. 

“Great,” you intone flatly. “Well, then.” And then you're pushing past him, all the way down the stairs to the door of the lecture hall. You’re not sure if he watches or follows or stays right where he is. You don’t look back, not even once. 

A handful of minutes later, you’re in the library. For nearly the first time since you began your degree program, however, it’s not class notes you pour over.  

Instead, you pull your notebook out from your bag. Your personal notebook. The same one from that night, alone on the bench, screaming at the stars and asking for advice from hallucinations of your younger self. 

Its pages are mostly blank. You don’t use it for much. Grocery lists, mostly. Occasional reminders that aren’t related to school. Over the past two and a half years, you’ve only managed to fill about twenty pages.

Turning to the last one, you half expect to not find what you’re looking for. Parts of that day still feel like figments of your imagination. 

But there it is. Looking back at you in your own neat handwriting.

Bucket List, it reads across the upper margin. 

You nearly snort. You suppose there was no need to get creative, but you really were putting things in blunt terms.

Kicking the bucket. You’re not sure where the idiom comes from, but you guess it doesn’t really matter. There are other things to focus on now. Namely, the neat, bullet point list beneath it.

Get my nails done professionally, the first line reads. You smile, glancing back down at your hands. With a satisfying stroke of ink, you write a checkmark through the hand drawn box next to it.

Done, you think.

Lip caught between your teeth, you scan over the rest of the list.

Get my hair cut and colored professionally

Buy a really expensive dress 

Go on a beach vacation

Ride in a convertible 

Kiss a stranger

And then at the bottom, the item you scratched out almost the second after you wrote it. 

See the Northern Lights

You remember the documentary you watched in elementary school, how magical the sky looked, all lit up in colors, glowing shades of green and blue. But it just isn’t realistic. Auroras haven’t been sighted in your city in, well, forever. And it’s not like you have the ability to fly to an Arctic country on a whim. 

So your list is complete with just six items, one already checked off. 

It’s a mismatched list. A short jumble of whatever random desires struck you in the moment. You can already think of things to add, to amend. 

But part of you hesitates. These were the first things you thought of that night. Your most selfish, vanity driven, purely inconsequential desires that you wanted to do just because. 

It feels wrong to edit them now. So you don’t. Instead, you push your planner to the side, ignoring your perfectly curated study schedule.

It doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t matter if you’re the top scorer on the midterm or if you’re just painfully average. You’re not even sure you'll get the chance to take it. 

So instead, you open your laptop and search for hair salons in the area. You don’t filter them with the lowest priced options first. You just look. See which ones have a nice interior and friendly looking stylists. 

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re pressing on the ‘confirm booking’ button, despite the fact that the listed prices are nearly a quarter of your monthly rent. 

It doesn’t matter. You’ve never gotten your hair done. You’ve never even let yourself think about getting your hair done. 

But alone on the bench with the weight of your imminent mortality heavy on your shoulders, it was one of the things you wanted to try. 

Like your nails, it’s frivolous. Unnecessary. And that’s what makes it perfect. It’s something entirely for you. For no reason other than the fact that you simply want to. 

Glancing at the next list item, your mind starts to turn. A new hair style and an expensive dress deserve to be seen, after all. 

The Goldfellow charity gala is hardly your ideal party, but you’re not sure how many formal events you’ll be invited to in the next three months. This might be your only chance. 

Sifting through your emails, you find the invitation Professor Jung forwarded to all her students. And then, before you can overthink it, you RSVP yes. 

And then you start looking up department stores in your area.

…..

The dress you wear looks just as good when you put it on Saturday night as it did in the fitting room two days ago. 

It fits you like a glove, flattering your body in a way you didn’t even know was possible based on your experience with the clearance rack. And it’s satin. Has a beautiful, subtle shine and glimmers gorgeously under the soft chandelier lights. 

Walking into the charity gala, the man at the front smiled as he offered to take your coat for you. Didn’t look at you with pity or confusion or poorly hidden disgust. 

He just smiled. Like you belong here. 

For once, you actually feel like you do. At most networking events, especially the ones hosted by the upper echelon, you feel a bit like a toddler in her mother’s closet. Playing dress up with the big kids in a way that’s painfully obvious. 

But not tonight. Tonight, you feel pretty. Worth the second glances people are giving you. You understand it, why people with the resources go through so much trouble. Their attention feels good. You like the way people look at you like they want to know more. 

Settling further into the tastefully decorated convention room, you can picture it all, a life you could have had if you’d been born with money and ambition for this particular field. 

You’d be a charmer, you decide. The kind of girl that needs nothing more than a good dress and thirty seconds to have investors begging at her feet. A true conglomerate sweetheart that understands how the best of deals are made with champagne and well-timed fleeting glances. 

Kind of like the girl your eyes land on now. On the opposite side of the room, her long, dark hair shines under the low chandelier light. She’s gorgeous, and it’s not just because of the deep, red dress that favors her.

Even from a distance, even at a glance, you can tell she comes from money. She carries herself with that kind of grace, that self-assurance that wealthy people always have. Like the room belongs to her.

Whoever she’s talking to seems to agree. It’s a man, you can tell. He has his back to you, but you can imagine his expression easily enough. His eagerness. The way he hangs off her every word, hoping she’ll deem him worthy of her time a little longer. 

You watch for another moment, until he turns. It’s his side profile you see now, and it’s unmistakable. Jay. 

Of course. You want to roll your eyes. 

The two of them are perfect together. A match made in heaven, or maybe a CEO’s board room. 

Either way, it has you adjusting your dress, a bit uncomfortably. All of a sudden, it starts to feel like an illusion again.

One hair cut, one expensive dress. You’re still playing dress up. You just did a better job this time. The truth is that you can wear whatever you want. It will never be enough to make you belong here. Not really. Not in the way they do. 

The next time a waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes, you don’t hesitate to reach out and grab one. 

Taking a long, slow sip, you allow yourself one final look at Jay. At the girl he’s with. He laughs at something she says, and she puts her hand on his arm. 

You pretend like there isn’t something unpleasant starting to swim in your gut. 

And then you make yourself busy. It is a networking event, after all. 

The first person you find is another girl from your class. She hardly recognizes you, and you can’t quite decide if you like that or not. The champagne is starting to form a pleasant, light sort of haze in your mind, and you feel like you can’t be bothered by anything. 

You speak for a minute before moving on. Before long, you start to lose track of all your conversation partners. Another boy from your class. A recent graduate. A startup leader who’s always looking for interns to join his team.

One conversation bleeds into the next, and your glasses of champagne do the same.

The lights start to feel warmer, or maybe that's just the proximity of bodies. Either way, your cheeks are flushed when the waiter passes again. 

Reaching out, you replace your empty glass with a full one. But you never get the chance to bring it to your lips. 

A hand suddenly encircles your wrist, plucking the champagne flute from between your fingers. 

“Hey—” you begin to protest, but a glance upwards stops you dead in your tracks. The hand around your wrist, the champagne thief, is none other than Park Jongseong.  

He’s looking at you with something furious in his gaze. “What is wrong with you?” 

For a moment, you’re too stunned to respond. And then— “What’s wrong with you?” you return. “I was drinking that.” 

You try to reach around him for your stolen champagne, but he’s faster. He steps to the side, effectively blocking your path. You hate to admit it, but he looks good. 

Of course he does. This is his domain, after all. It comes naturally to him, you’re sure, the styled hair, the spotless suit that’s been tailored to perfection. 

Across from you, he’s looking too. You watch as he swallows, throat bobbing with the action. 

Just like in the lecture hall, his gaze makes you fidget, brings back your previous uncertainty tenfold. 

You’re hoping he’ll get lost, but Jay does the opposite.

“I don’t know what sorrows you’re trying to drown,” he intones flatly, “but a charity event hardly seems the place to do it, don’t you think?”

“I’m not drowning anything,” you argue. It’s a lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “It’s only my second glass.” Another lie. 

His lips pull into a thin line. “It’s at least your third.” 

God damnit. 

You roll your eyes. “What are you, my father? I’m not even drunk.”

“And it’s probably best we keep it that way.”

“There is no we.” Your eyes narrow. “I can handle myself and my alcohol. So give me back my champagne and go back to flirting with whatever oil tycoon’s daughter you were talking to earlier before she thinks I stole you from her.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his features, and you curse your misstep. It appears he wasn’t the only one keeping tabs tonight. 

“I wasn’t flirting—”

“I don’t care what you were doing. Champagne.” You nod towards it pointedly. “Now.”

Jay makes no move towards the glass. Instead, he just looks at you for a moment. Assessing. “You’re acting strange these days,” he finally says. He scans you again, all the way down to where your hemline brushes against your heels. “And you look different. Your hair…”

You roll your eyes again. “Yes, well you’ll be delighted to know that even scholarship students have the privilege of getting a haircut sometimes.”

“What?” he blinks. “I didn’t even know you were—” he shakes his head. “Never mind. It’s not just that. The color is different.”

Your hair, the hair you were so terribly fond of less than five minutes ago, you suddenly want to rip out of your scalp. “Try not to faint from the shock,” you say, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, “but we do occasionally splurge on a box of hair dye, too.”

“In class, too,” he presses, ignoring your sarcasm. “You’re quiet. I mean, the other day in Professor Jung’s, you didn’t even counter my suggestion for mass layoffs from that sample data set.”

He really has some nerve. Some sheer fucking audacity. “Believe it or not, my sole purpose in life is not to correct every one of your idiotic takes in class. I think I’d run out of oxygen if I had to do that.”

“You had no problem doing it before,” he points out.

“And now I’m not. Shouldn’t you be relieved?” Champagne momentarily forgotten, you take a step forward, praying your argument will be final enough to get him to leave. “I mean, the way I see it, you should be thanking me. Everyone else is way too scared to go against you because of your family name. Now that even I’m silent, the entire lecture hall is officially your echo chamber to conquer.”

“I don’t want an echo chamber,” he shakes his head. “You’ve always had good, I mean, interesting ideas,” he amends. “You made me have to think harder, approach problems in a new way. It’s made me a lot better at analysis.” 

You thought you had all but run out of rage, but that comment incites a new flame you hadn’t realized was still there. 

“Well I’m terribly sorry that I can’t be your stepping stone to becoming a better analyst anymore,” you say, eyes narrow as your tone goes dangerously low. “I suppose you’ll just have to do it on your own now.”

“Wait,” he protests as he realizes how you interpreted his words. “That’s not what I meant—”

But you’re over it. Over this conversation. Over this event. And most certainly over him. 

“To be completely honest, Jay, I’m not really interested in hearing about what you meant. In fact, the only thing I really want is to have my champagne and some peace and quiet again. So, I’m just gonna just take my glass back, and you can shove whatever you meant by that right up your—”

He steps to the side again, this time just as your fingers are closing around the stem of your glass. Knocking into your wrist, he sends the contents of your glass flying, spilling down the front of his ridiculously expensive suit. 

It’s his fault, technically, but even with your renowned flippance on finances, you don’t want to be responsible for footing that dry cleaning bill. 

“Shit,” you breathe. He just stands there for a moment, shellshocked. Useless, you think. 

“Here,” you open your purse, pulling out the wad of napkins you keep stashed in case of accidents just like this. He takes them from you wordlessly as you search for more. You’re sure you have another handful somewhere in your bag. “It’s a light liquid, so it should be okay. Just dab at it gently, and then—”

You look back up, the words dying on your lips. 

Because Jay is not dabbing gently at the stain on his suit jacket. In fact, he doesn’t seem concerned with the spill at all. Instead, he’s intently examining one of the napkins you gave him, eyes narrowed in concentration. 

Confusion flickers across your features. Did you accidentally give him a napkin that was already stained with something? Is there a weird brand name written on it? 

“What?” you ask. “Why aren’t you—” you look at the paper in his hands again. With a sinking feeling in your gut, you realize that along with the napkins, you handed him something else. Something you never intended for anyone else to see. 

Panicking, you reach for it. Jay is quicker. Holding it above his head, he keeps it firmly out of your reach. Even in your heels, your fingers can’t quite close around it. 

“___,” he says your name. His voice is entirely too close to your ear. Stopping your struggle for a moment, you look at him. Involuntary, you let out a small gasp at the sudden proximity. As if you’ve been burned, you take a half step back. 

Looking at you with his hand still stretched above his head, he asks in a low tone, “Why do you have such a weird bucket list? And why do you carry it around in your purse?”

“It’s not a bucket list—”

“It literally says ‘Bucket List’ at the top.”

God damnit. Why did you write that?   

“It’s nothing. Just give it back to me—”

He continues to dangle the paper just out of reach. “Does someone have a hit out on you or something? Do you terrorize students in all your classes and now one of them is finally taking revenge?” There’s a playfulness in his tone, but you don’t miss the concern hiding there, too. Even if he tries to disguise it. 

“You know,” he presses on, “‘She’s smarter than me and I hate her for it’ isn’t a legally mitigating circumstance for murder. You can tell the authorities if someone’s acting like it is.”

“No one’s trying to kill me.” In your panic, you almost miss his mangled attempt at a compliment. 

“Then why are you acting like you’re going to die?” He says it so bluntly, so plainly, that you swear you nearly feel the world slip from underneath your feet. 

He doesn't mean it. There’s no way he actually means it, but it sobers you in a startling way. The thought that Jay, someone you’ve only come to know through contempt and competition, can read you like an open book. 

“I’m not—” Your words suddenly feel like chalk in your throat. You’re no stranger to lying, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to say it. Not with the weight of his gaze, with the weight of your diagnosis, pressing against you from all angles. 

You feel it again, that sickening and all too familiar sensation. It starts as a sharp, localized pain, just above your left eyebrow. You wince. Your breath is suddenly a difficult thing to catch. 

In front of you, Jay’s posture eases slightly. You’d be able to grab your list again now, surely. If only you could get your limbs to cooperate. 

Pain spreads quickly, first through your head. The ringing in your ears is back, too. That high pitched sound you can’t seem to shake as your vision starts to swim. You feel unsteady on your feet as nausea begins to roll in your stomach. 

Beneath you, your legs feel useless. Made of jelly, feeble, about to buckle under your weight. You sway slightly, hand coming to your forehead as you try to think through the pain, through the haze. 

You can’t collapse. Not now. You have to stay standing. You have to be okay. 

“Woah,” Jay says. It’s lost somewhere amongst the high pitched frequency in your ears. Your pathetic bucket list lies discarded on the table behind him as he reaches forward, as if to steady you. His hands never find you, though. They just linger awkwardly in the space between your bodies, still half outstretched. “You okay?”

You try to answer, try to brush him off and grit through your teeth that you’re fine, but it feels different from before. The nausea, the worst of the dizziness should be passing by now. Your consciousness should be coming back to you, not fading into darkness the more you try to cling to it. 

“Hey,” you think he says. Gently, so gently, and you can barely hear him, can barely distinguish words from one another. “Hey, why don’t you sit down. I’ll get you some water or something, and—”

You don’t hear the end of his suggestion. With one final breath, your last tie to consciousness is severed. You feel your body teetering, before you start to slump forward. You think you feel it then, the warmth of his hands on your skin. The weight of your body against the soft fabric of his suit instead of the unforgiving surface of the hardwood floor beneath you. 

Your head rests against his chest. Even as your consciousness fades, you can feel his heartbeat, the way it pounds beneath your cheek. You think you hear him call out, loud at first and then louder. There’s desperation in his voice as he begs, pleads for help. 

With warm hands against your skin, and your pulse ringing loudly in your ears, the world around you fades entirely until there’s nothing but darkness. 

…..

Squinting, the only thing you can make out is light. It’s bright, too bright. The sudden influx of light only makes the dull ache against your temples more pronounced. Blinking slowly, you try to ease away some of your confusion. 

You’re not in your bedroom, that much you know for sure. Eyes opening fully, your surroundings begin to take shape. The ceiling above you is tiled, lined with fluorescents. Turning your head to the side, you see two chairs. A bedside table. A vitals monitor. 

You’re in a hospital. 

Trying not to panic, you push at the bed beneath you, moving your body into an upright position. The monitor next to you doesn’t seem to appreciate your effort. The second you sit up, it starts beeping incessantly, flashing a warning sign you’re not sure how to interpret.

A handful of seconds later, the door bursts open, a nurse flying in. 

“You’re awake,” she assesses. “Good.” Hands pressing against your shoulders gently, she urges you back to a laying position. “You shouldn’t try to sit up for at least a few minutes. Your body is still a little out of sorts right now.”

A little out of sorts. That’s a mild way of putting it, you suppose. 

“I…” you trail off, still a bit dazed. “Which hospital am I in?”

The nurse frowns at you, sympathy in her eyes. “You’re in Saint Mary’s, sweetheart. My name is Hana. I’ve been overseeing your care since your boyfriend brought you in yesterday evening.”

“My… boyfriend?” you echo.

“Mhm,” Hana nods. He should be back any minute. I’ll let him know you’re awake. He stayed here all night, you know. You found a good one,” she winks. Scanning the vitals machine, she adds, “You seem to be pretty stable now, but you took quite a fall last night. You’re lucky he was there to catch you. The doctor will want to speak to you again and get a final prognosis, but I think you should be free to go before the end of the day unless we find anything new.”

“Okay,” you nod, still a bit stuck on the word boyfriend. “Thank you…” you trail off, not able to remember the name she gave you. 

“Hana,” she finishes helpfully. 

You nod again. “Thank you, Hana.”

Just as she turns to leave, the door to your room opens again. This time, it’s Jay that comes tumbling in. Like Hana, he seems to have been in quite a hurry, if the shallowness of his breath is anything to go by. 

His eyes lock on you. You have the sudden urge to fidget under his stare. 

“They told me you woke up,” he states. In the middle of your hospital room, he looks more unsure of himself than you’ve ever seen him. His hands, usually folded neatly or busy with work, hang awkwardly at his sides. 

His hair is mussed. It still looks good, of course, but it’s messier than you’ve ever seen it.

He’s still wearing his suit from last night, from the gala. It’s not so pristine now. He’s removed the jacket, for starters. And the champagne stain still spreads across the front of his white shirt, more obvious now that it’s dried. 

His collar is askew, the top button undone by what appears to have been frantic hands.  

You wish you were here under different circumstances, so you could truly revel in the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see Park Jongseong looking disheveled. 

“She’s awake,” Hana confirms. “Vitals look good for now.” Looking at you again, she points to the red button on the table beside you. “Press that if you need anything.” Glancing between you and Jay, she ends with, “I’ll give the two of you some privacy.” She winks at you again, and it takes every ounce of your willpower not to correct her assumptions. 

But then she’s gone. It’s just you and Jay. 

“You told them you’re my boyfriend?” You arch an eyebrow.  

Jay shakes his head. “I didn’t tell them anything.”

“But you let them assume.” 

“It was either that or they called your family.” At the mention of them, something cold and sharp pierces through your gut. 

Still, you bluff, “What makes you think I don’t want them to call my family?”

“Do you?” He calls it. “I can go tell Hana right now.” His gaze narrows, once again assessing you like you’re a particularly stubborn spreadsheet. “But I don’t think you want me to do that. In fact, I don’t think you’ve even told your family you’re sick at all.”

You freeze. “Why would you assume that?”

“Am I wrong?” he challenges. 

Your silence is confirmation enough. 

“I knew it.” He laughs in disbelief, looking at the ceiling for a moment before he returns his gaze to you. “That’s so like you. You know, I get not telling your family when you have the flu or some weird infection you picked up from a party you shouldn’t have gone to, but Jesus Christ, ____. Cancer?”

Your body goes cold at the word. He knows. Jay knows. 

His anger is confusing. And, you think, entirely unfair. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I exactly chose to have it.” 

“No, but you did choose to drink. You know, the doctor told me he specifically warned you about the side effects of alcohol with your medication.”

“That has to be a HIPAA violation. I should sue for dubious ethics—”

“Then I hope every doctor you come across has ‘dubious ethics’ so they can get someone else to help keep you alive,” he exasperates, volume rising, “since you don’t seem very interested in doing it yourself.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You must have misheard him. There’s no way he actually has enough audacity to say that to you. But this is Park Jongseong you’re talking about. 

Of course he does. Of course he fucking does. 

Your voice is low when you enunciate with an unnatural level of precision, “Excuse me? What did you just say to me?”

Jay has a mind of his own. “I mean, seriously, what the hell were you thinking—”

This time, you won’t let him finish. “I don’t know who the fuck you think you are, but you don’t know the first thing about me or my family or my situation. I know you’re used to walking into a room and having your opinion matter more than everyone else’s, but you don’t get to do that here.” Your chest is heaving now. You’re half afraid your vitals monitor is going to start beeping at you again. But you’re angry. “This is my life. My burden to bear. Thank you for helping me get to the hospital safely. Truly. But that doesn’t give you the right to dish out your opinion unsolicited.” 

Across from you, Jay takes a deep inhale. Releases it. 

His eyes scan your face. He sees the anger there. The resentment. He drags a palm across his forehead, and on his next exhale, he says, much more quietly, “I’m sorry.” You can hardly believe your ears. 

“What?” You have to make sure. Surely you heard him wrong. 

But he says it again, more audible this time. 

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “You’re right. I’m just… confused, ____.” He’s looking at you again, in that way that you hate. Like he’s trying to see all the way down to your bones. “I can’t figure this out at all. I mean, the ___ I know fought tooth and nail for every class assignment, no matter how small. You practically ran yourself into the ground every exam season since freshman year. I’ve never met anyone who works as hard, who tries as hard, as you at anything. And that was for test grades. And now… this is… this is your life. And I may not know everything about you or the situation, but from where I’m standing, it looks like you’ve just accepted it. I’ve never seen you go down for anything without a fight, and now I’m supposed to believe that you’re just gonna let death take you?” He shakes his head. “It’s just not you.”

“It’s different.” You shake your head. You don’t expect him to understand. The last thing you want to discuss with a conglomerate heir is family finances. So you’ll tell him in vague terms. “Assignment grades, test scores, those are things I can control. The outcome is directly related to my effort. This is… different. There’s something broken in my body. It doesn’t play by the rules, and it doesn’t care about the effort I put in. No matter what I do, it’s just broken.”

“But the doctor mentioned treatment plans. He said there were options to consider—”

“Not for me,” you shake your head. “Those options aren’t things I can do.”

“But why?” he presses. “This is your life. Even if there’s only a small chance, isn’t anything worth trying?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. It’s more honest than you planned to be. But his searching gaze, his rising desperation, have you feeling vulnerable. “I don’t know if it’s the right choice. If I’ll regret it. But it’s still my choice, and this is what I’m choosing now.”

“So what?” he pleads for a bit of understanding. “You just stick it out for a couple of years and then say goodbye to everything?”

“Three months,” you correct. 

“What?”

“The doctor estimated I have about three months left. I suppose it’s a little less now,” you amend. “It’s already been nearly a week.”

“Three m—” His voice breaks on the last syllable, eyes wide where they meet yours. Something releases in his body. The breath that was holding him upright. He deflates. “That’s not— You won’t even graduate. You’ll hardly finish the semester.”

“I know,” you nod. You’ve had time, albeit not much, to process some of your grief, your shock. Watching it play out across Jay’s features in real time is jarring, to say the least. “That’s why I made that stupid list I accidentally handed you at the gala. I know it’s not exactly a good bucket list, but they’re things that I want to do. Things that will make the next three months feel meaningful.” 

He just stares at you for a moment. “I… you’re so calm.”

“Believe me,” you smile ruefully, “I’ve had my fair share of tears and screaming and throwing things. But none of it changes anything.” You look away from him now, eyes on the window. “I don’t want to spend the next three months angry. Not at myself or anyone else or the universe.”

You feel his eyes against the side of your face. He won’t say anything in response. Won’t give any sort of acknowledgement or approval to your acceptance. 

Instead, he tells you, “You have to stay away from alcohol.”

At that, you roll your eyes. “Cut me some slack. You tell a girl she’s got three months to live and you don’t even let her drown her sorrows in a glass of champagne?” It’s meant to be a joke. Or at least a bit lighthearted. Something to diffuse to stifling tension. 

Jay doesn’t seem to appreciate the punchline. 

“Do you know how fucking terrified I was when you collapsed like that?” His voice is low, urgent. Your gaze meets his again, and there’s something desperate in his eyes. “I’m serious, ___. No alcohol.”

The gravity of his tone hits somewhere deep within you. Even if it’s only fleeting, even if it wasn’t intentional, it’s nice to think for a moment that someone else shares this burden with you. That there’s another soul in this world that understands what’s happening, that cares about the choices you make and their effect on you. 

“Okay,” you breathe, voice small. “No alcohol.”

“Good,” Jay nods. His relief doesn’t feel fabricated, not when you watch some of the tension ease out of his shoulders. “Okay,” he nods. “Hana mentioned that the doctor will want to talk to you again. He should be stopping by soon. I’ll wait for you, and then I can drive you back to campus.”

“You don’t have to do that.” You shake your head. “I can just take the bus—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he cuts you off. “I’m already here.”

“Okay,” you nod. You could argue further, but you have the feeling it would be useless. Suddenly, you’re the one feeling unsure of yourself. “Thank you,” you tell him, more a force of habit than anything. 

Silence stretches between you, both of you avoiding direct eye contact. 

As you look around the room, a question strikes you. “I know that this is Saint Mary’s but which ward am I in? It looks different from before.”

“Ah,” Jay nods. “That’s because you’re not in a ward.” Confusion flickers across your features. He’s quick to explain, “This is a private room.”

“A priv—” You nearly choke on your words. You don’t even want to imagine the hospital bill you’re currently racking up. “I didn’t request that.”

“I know,” he says, either oblivious to your panic or ignoring it. “I did.” 

“You…” You try not to let anger be your primary emotion, but it’s difficult in the moment. “Jay, I can’t afford a private room.”

At that, he only looks surprised. “What are you talking about?” He balks. “You don’t have to… I wasn’t going to ask you to pay.”

“Of course I’m paying,” you argue. “You think I’m going to let you cover my hospital bills?” 

“You’re not paying me back,” he shakes his head. 

“Don’t do that,” you warn as soon as you see something dangerous start to enter his gaze. “I might be sick and I might not have money, but you don’t get to pity me.”

At that, he looks genuinely surprised. He’s quiet for a moment. And then, soft but firmer than you expect, he says, “I don’t pity you. I don’t, can’t even begin to understand you, but I don’t pity you. Not today, not ever. My family donates regularly to this hospital,” he explains. “They offered to put you here as soon as I said my name. There’s nothing to pay back.”

“Oh,” you say. Your voice comes out smaller than you mean for it to. And then, just because it feels due, “Thank you.”

Jay looks at you for a moment, expression unreadable. “You can thank me by actually listening to what the doctor says this time. And then by following his advice.”

“I will,” you nod.

“Seriously. Medication side effects are no joke. You have to—”

“I will,” you repeat, firmer this time. 

“Okay,” Jay accepts. “Good.”

As if on cue, you hear a quiet shuffling outside your door. Muffled voices exchanging words, feet turning towards the entrance. The doctor must be here. 

Jay hears it too. He looks at you one last time and instructs, “Behave. And listen.”

Something about the way he says it has your spine feeling rigid. “I already told you I will—” 

The knock interrupts your protests as the doctor enters the room. It’s the same middle-aged man you saw the last time you visited Saint Mary’s. The one who gave you your diagnosis. The one who told you you have three months left to live. 

You don’t remember his name now. Doctor…

Your eyes land on his name tag. That’s right. Doctor Kim.

He looks at you now with an expression that’s hard to decipher. Not pity. Not sympathy. Now that he knows you have someone willing to come to the hospital for you. 

You wonder if he’s curious about it now, the reason you told him you had no one to call before. 

It’s impossible to tell. Doctor Kim’s expression is unreadable. He’s a malignant tumor specialist, after all. He’s used to giving out terrible news, to putting even the worst of circumstances in plain terms. 

Jay greets him before excusing himself. He reminds you he’ll be waiting, when you’re done. And then, he's gone. 

At first, Doctor Kim rechecks your vitals, jots down a couple of notes. And then he says, “I can’t lie, Miss ____. I was hoping the next time I saw you, we’d be discussing treatment plans.”

“Ah,” you intone. You try to keep your voice light, but you can’t quite look at him when you say, “I’m sorry to disappoint.” 

“Champagne, was it?” He pulls a stool up next to your beside and sits. There’s no judgement in his voice, not even the frustration that Jay had. He’s just confirming the facts, but that somehow feels even worse. Like you’ve disappointed him. 

“Only a few glasses.” 

“A sip of alcohol is enough to trigger serious side effects with the medication you’re on. You’re lucky all you did was lose consciousness. You’re very lucky someone was there to catch you. If you had fallen, we’d be having a very different conversation right now. If you were able to talk at all, that is.”

The gravity of his words hit you with full force.

“What?” The syllable is small, breathy.

Doctor Kim sighs. “Perhaps the gravity of the situation was not fully conveyed at our previous meeting. I’ll be more clear now. Miss, ____, your body isn’t able to heal itself right now. Your blood cells, even the healthy ones, are deteriorating rapidly. If you fall, if something breaks, if you cut your finger and it becomes infected, the three month estimate I gave you becomes much shorter.”

There’s no ringing in your ears, but his words feel muffled, like you’re listening underwater. 

He continues, “That’s why my primary treatment plan includes a specialized, targeted version of chemotherapy that can—”

You shake your head. “I’m not interested.”

“You’re not interested in what, exactly?” he asks. “Living?”

You’re quiet for a moment. Can’t quite meet his gaze. “Am I free to go?”

“You’re stable for now, but I’d like to keep you one more night if—”

“Is that a yes?”

He sighs. “If you insist on going, then I won’t force you to stay.”

“Thank you, doctor. I’ll be more careful.” 

He has more to say, you’re sure of it, but the room remains silent as he helps detach the monitors from your body. 

And then that’s the end of it. 

The drive back to campus is quiet, mostly. Jay has some old classic rock album on shuffle, but he keeps the volume low. Lets you look out the window and doesn’t say much. Doesn’t expect you to either. 

The truth sits heavy between the two of you now. 

It interrupts your plans, shatters the mirage you’d constructed. 

For the last week, you’ve imagined your death and the moments leading up to it as a solitary endeavor. You know you’ll have to tell your family eventually. But you have to time it right. If there’s any hope, they’ll insist on treatment. Even though it would mean losing the threadbare pieces of their lives that they’ve managed to scrape back together. 

You told Professor Jung that your health checkup went well, told Kaia that the two hundred dollar rent increase coming next year was something you still needed time to think about. 

You’re prolonging it. Delaying it. Death is your dirty little secret. Well, was. 

The evidence of that currently has his eyes trained on the road ahead, knuckles slightly pale against the steering wheel. 

And that presents a problem. 

As you approach the outskirts of campus, you break the silence. “Please don’t tell anyone,” you request. 

Jay sighs. Resigned, like he expected this. “Does anyone know?”

“No,” you shake your head. 

“Your family?”

He already guessed in the hospital, but you confirm it again now. “I’ll tell them when the time’s right.”

“When it’s too late, you mean.” He’s stealing glances at you now. You school your features into something neutral as he does it again. Reads you like a damn open book. Predicts even the darkest of your plans with ease. 

“It’s complicated,” you argue. You’re not sure why you feel the need to justify your choices to him. 

“How so?” he presses.

You deflect. “It’s a long story.”

Jay won’t give it up. “I have time.”

You’re quick, too. “Yeah, well I don’t.”

He doesn’t get it at first. “What? What urgent plans could you possibly have on a Sunday afternoon?”

You’re silent for a moment, just giving him a look while you wait for the ill timed joke to sink in. 

“Oh,” he finally says, slow on the uptake. And then he’s glaring. “That’s not funny.”

“I think it is.” You shrug. 

“Do you really? Or is it just easier?”

That catches you off guard. “What?”

“It is easier,” he repeats, “to treat it all as some big joke? Something meaningless? To pretend like your life doesn’t matter to you, like none of this scares you?

You’re quiet for a moment. Silent, while the wake of his words settles around you. It extends a bit too long, and despite all the boundaries he’s already broken today, he worries he’s overstepped. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes. “I—”

“Of course I’m scared,” you whisper. In the passenger seat of his car, the admission feels like defeat. You feel like you’re on that bench again, by the business buildings. Only this time, you aren’t alone. “Jay, I’ve never been more fucking terrified in my life. Death is so… unknown. I’m scared it will hurt. I’m scared that it won’t, that I’ll feel nothing at all. I’m scared that three months will be over before I have the chance to do anything that matters, and I’m fucking scared that I won’t even actually get all the time the doctor estimated. When I close my eyes and try to sleep, I see my parents. My little brother. I imagine them seeing me like that – pale and stiff and wrong – and they just keep—” Your voice breaks. “They’re always crying. And then it’s not just fear anymore. It’s guilt too. I made them feel that way. I couldn’t just stay alive for them. It was my fault, and deep down, maybe they resent me for it, too.”

“Then why—” He whispers, voice cracking too like he’s the one who’s suffering. “Why won’t you get help? Why won’t you tell them?”

“Because believe it or not,” you whisper back, “I think it would be worse if I did. I watched them lose everything, give everything up once. I can’t ask them to do it again for me. The guilt would eat me alive. I can’t be that selfish.”

“And this isn’t selfish? Making their choice for them?”

You shake your head. “It’s my turn to make a sacrifice.”

“Are you insane?” He’s louder now, as if sense can be forced into your head with volume. “Love isn’t some transaction you pass back and forth. You’re lying to yourself,” he accuses. “You’re not telling them because you already know what they would do. They’d do anything for you. It doesn’t matter if they’ve been through hell before. They’d choose to do it again. Always. So put your guilt aside for a second and let people that love you take care of you when you need it.”

He’s dangerously close to striking a vein you don’t want him to find. His arguments are making too much sense, eroding the decisions you thought were set in stone. You need him to stop. “You don’t get it—”

“Because you won’t tell me anything!” His palms splay against the steering wheel now, open in frustration.

“I don’t have to!” You’re loud now too. “I barely know you. It’s not like you would even begin to understand, anyway. You were born with the world at your fingertips, but in case you need a reality check, that’s not what life is like for the rest of us—”

Jay switches into the left lane so suddenly it cuts through your words. Thrown by the force, you grip the armrest for support. “What are you doing? You’re about to miss the turn—”

“I hope,” his voice is low now. Steady, controlled but just barely. “That I’m misunderstanding you.”

He waits until the light is green, then he spins the car through a U-turn. 

“Jay, what are you doing? I need to go back to campus—”

He’s done hearing your excuses. “Are you telling me this is about fucking money?”

In the passenger seat, your blood runs cold. Shit. Shit. You said too much. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you said I wouldn’t understand. Because of my family. Their resources. Their money.”

“I did not say that,” you argue, but it’s futile. Weak to even your ears.

“You implied it.”

“So what,” you scoff. “I’m done talking about it. Like I said, you wouldn't get it. And why did you turn around? Where are you even going?”

“I’m taking you back to the hospital.” His tone leaves no room for discussion. 

“What?” For the second time, your blood runs cold. “Why?”

“Why do you think?” He says it like it’s obvious. Like nothing you’ve said in the past few hours has gotten through to him. “So you can tell the doctor you changed your mind and start treatment.”

You’re panicking now, pulling at your seatbelt. “I didn’t change my mind,” you protest. “I’m not starting treatment—”

“And I’m not gonna drive you back to campus and act like everything’s okay. I’m not gonna sit here and watch you die.”

His words hang in the air, the implication obvious. He has the money, after all. Probably won’t even notice it’s missing. You hate the way it makes you feel small, like you owe him something. Like he’s doing this out of some misplaced sense of obligation.

Your voice is barely audible. “You told me you didn’t pity me.”

“I don’t,” he reaffirms. “This isn’t pity.”

Your words bite, even more than you mean for them to. “Well, I’m not a fucking charity case either.”

“Then it’s not charity.” He shakes his head. “It’s a deal.”

“A deal?” you echo. “What deal could you possibly make with me—”

“Let me finish first in our class,” Jay says, and it catches you entirely off guard. “In all of our remaining courses and overall class rank,” he clarifies. “Let me take first.”

You scoff. “You don’t need me to do anything for that.”

“I do,” he insists. “You and I have been neck and neck since our first year. Competing against you, there’s no guarantee.”

“That’s hardly an equal trade,” you point out. “I can’t even imagine how much money—”

“It is for me.” His jaw tightens. “If I don’t rank first, my father won’t officially initiate me as a shareholder. I won’t have any position or power in the company. And he’s not fond of second chances. I won’t have an opportunity to remedy my mistake later.”

At that, you turn to face him fully, surprise coloring your features. His eyes are still on the road, but you’re sure he can feel that way you scan his side profile, the tense set of his jaw and shoulders. 

You can’t get a read on him, on what he’s thinking. Does it humiliate him to ask? Is he even telling the truth? You can’t imagine someone in your family ever treating you so coldly, but the sudden tension doesn’t seem fabricated. 

You know you’d be stupid not to agree. You don’t need to rank first to keep your scholarship, and that accolade won’t mean much past graduation. You glance at him again. Well, at least not for you. 

And regardless of the consequences, you’d get a fighting chance. Something akin to hope blooms in your chest. You haven’t let yourself feel it, not since that first night. It’s almost addictive now, like water in a desert. You stop yourself just before you start scooping mouthfuls with your bare palms. 

“I can’t—”

“Please,” he whispers. It’s not an argument now. Not a debate. He’s begging you. 

And that’s what does it. Unties the last knot of your resistance.  

You’re quiet for a moment longer, and then—

“Okay,” you whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. Jay keeps his gaze forward, but you watch a flicker of relief ghost across his features. 

“I have two conditions,” he tells you. 

It’s so like him, you think. To get his way and then ask for more. 

“You’re really gonna push it? I could change my mind, you know.” But you won’t. Not when you’ve already tasted water from the oasis. Not when hope is already curling deep within you. Not when you could live. 

Jay calls your bluff, too. “First, you tell your family.”

“But—”

“It doesn’t have to be right now,” he adds. “But within three days.”

You want to argue, to protest. But they’ll want to come see me. They’ll have to take time off work, away from the restaurant. And the transportation costs will be too high. 

Jay beats you to it. “I’ll cover any related costs that you let me. I’ll help you hide it, too. Pretend it’s part of a donation program or a special fund for university students.” 

It’s generous. It’s so terribly considerate that it makes your head spin. You can’t linger on it too long without feeling uncomfortable. 

Instead, you say, “Fine. What’s the other condition?”

“Your bucket list.” Jay nods to your purse that rests on your lap. You realize he must have returned it while you were unconscious, the list you accidentally gave him last night. “You still spend the next three months checking everything off.”

“What?” you frown. You weren’t expecting that. “Why?”

“Treatment is hope,” he explains. “Not a guarantee. You took the time to write it, so you should see it through.”

Part of you hesitates. If you’re really going to do this, if you’re really going to live, then you’ll need every last penny you’ve saved. Sunoo will need it. Your parents will need it. 

But you suppose you can take a sleeper train to the beach to avoid hotel costs and find some old convertible with a cheap rental fee to drive around for an hour. And kissing a stranger doesn’t exactly cost anything. 

Suddenly, the thought of Jay reading that particular list item has heat rising in your cheeks. It’s probably too much to pray he’s forgotten about it. 

But you’ve left enough of your pride in his car and at his feet. 

For a moment, you imagine what this feels like for him. What it would be like to give out such an impossible amount of money so easily. To have a father that gives ultimatums that could change the trajectory of his entire future in an instant. 

And then you think of you. Of the simple truth you’ve been dodging and denying and ducking from since reality slapped you across the face a week ago. 

You don’t want to die. 

You think of that little girl. The one who wanted to be an astronaut, a lawyer, a singer. She wouldn’t want you to die, either. 

And like Jay said, this isn’t a guarantee. But it is hope. 

For you. For Sunoo. For your parents. For her. Maybe, you think, even for Park Jongseong, who's been slowly edging further and further past the speed limit for the last five minutes. 

“Okay,” you tell him, looking out at the buildings you pass. You still don’t know most of them, but there’s another word there now, and it makes all the difference. 

Yet. 

You don’t know most of them yet. 

So you seal your fate with one last word. “Deal.”

⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖

"okay you have to stop getting lucky," he muttered, watching his character take damage on screen.

"that's not luck," you said simply.

he cut you a sideways look. you kept your eyes on the screen and smiled.

about ten minutes later he sat up a little and went, "okay wait, new rule."

"you can't make new rules because you're losing."

"i'm not losing, i'm strategizing." he turned to face you. "whoever dies first, owes the other person a kiss."

the word landed and you felt it, even if your expression didn't really move. you glanced at him. he looked completely unbothered, already turning back to the screen like he hadn't just said that. like it was the most casual suggestion in the world.

"fine," you said.

he nodded once. "fine."

you both went back to playing. maybe two minutes passed. then heeseung's character walked straight into open fire and dropped.

you stared at the screen. then at him.

he had this small, guilty smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, controller still in his hands, not looking at you.

"heeseung."

"i slipped."

"you did not slip."

"the controls are sensitive—"

"heeseung."

he finally looked at you then, and the smile softened into something less jokey. he didn't say anything, just waited, and you understood what he was actually asking without either of you having to make it weird.

you leaned in and kissed him. soft, simple, just a second. when you pulled back he was quiet in a way that felt different from his usual confidence. his eyes dropped briefly and he did a small exhale through his nose, almost like he was recalibrating.

"okay," he said after a moment.

"okay," you agreed.

neither of you really acknowledged what just happened. he just settled back into the couch and held out his hand for your controller.

"come here, i'll show you a better angle on this map."

you handed it over. he guided your hands, still not making a big deal of it, but he stayed closer than he needed to. at some point between rounds you'd shifted without thinking, and he ended up with his head resting on your lap, still playing, occasional commentary on what you were doing wrong. you didn't move. he didn't either.

it was just game night. except it wasn't, really. and you both knew that.

‎‎ ‎𝐎𝐎𝟐’ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗝𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗦𝗘𝗢𝗡𝗚

jay had been getting ready for around forty minutes and you'd been in his room the whole time, sitting on the edge of his bed watching him. he wasn't stressed about it, just particular. there's a difference, and jay would be the first to tell you that.

"you look fine," you said.

"fine," he repeated, turning from the mirror. "you said fine."

"jay—"

"that's such a nothing word."

you gave him a flat look. "you look good. are you happy?"

he pointed at you. "was that so hard." he turned back to the mirror, satisfied, fixing his collar like the conversation was resolved. you rolled your eyes but you were smiling and he knew it without even looking.

you stood up eventually and came over without him asking, smoothing down his lapels, checking that his jacket was sitting right. he let you take over without a word, arms relaxed, watching you in the mirror with this quiet attention he sometimes has.

you moved to his tie. slightly off, the knot a little uneven. you started fixing it and your eyes were down, focused, and then at some point you looked up to check the line of it and jay was already looking at you. not at the tie, at you.

close. still. no joke ready, no comment coming. just him watching you with something open in his expression that you didn't have a name for yet.

and then you kissed him. soft, brief, like your heart made the decision before your head could talk itself out of it.

you pulled back. brain fully online now.

you cleared your throat. "okay—you're good, we should get going before—"

"hold on."

you stopped.

jay stepped forward, closing the space you'd just put between you, and without saying anything he took your hand. turned it over. and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the back of it, eyes down, like he meant it more than he knew how to say yet.

when he looked up he didn't drop your hand.

"you've been my friend for a long time," he said. blunt and honest, the way he always was, but his voice had none of its usual edge. "and i don't want to make this weird. but i'm also not just going to stand here and act like that didn't happen."

you looked at him.

"it happened," you said quietly.

"yeah." a beat. then the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. "and for the record—it was a little short."

there he was.

you laughed despite yourself. "jay—"

"i'm just saying." he finally let go of your hand, stepping back, composure returning but warmer now. different. "something to think about."

he grabbed his keys, checked himself one last time in the mirror, and held the door open for you like nothing had just happened in the middle of his bedroom.

you walked past him. he fell into step beside you, close, easy, same as always except not the same at all.

he didn't bring it up again that night. he didn't need to. the hand kiss said everything he wanted it to, and jay had always known exactly how to make a point.

‎‎ ‎𝐎𝐎𝟑’ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ 𝗦𝗜𝗠 𝗝𝗔𝗘𝗬𝗨𝗡

layla had been the center of attention from the moment you got there, and jake was completely fine with it.

"she likes you," he said, watching her crawl into your lap for the third time.

"she likes everyone."

"no she doesn't, actually." he reached over to scratch behind her ear. "she's picky."

you looked down at layla, who had her chin on your knee and was looking up at you with the most sincere expression a dog had ever managed. you laughed a little and rubbed her side and she immediately flopped over dramatically.

jake was watching the two of you with something easy and fond on his face. the afternoon had been like this — no real plan, just his place, layla stealing the show, the kind of hangout that didn't need a reason. you'd been friends long enough that this was its own category of comfortable. just existing in the same space without it needing to be anything.

"she's genuinely the best," you said, focused on layla.

"yeah," jake said. then, casually, like it was nothing, "she and you are my two favorite girls."

you paused. layla wiggled but you weren't really paying attention to her anymore. you looked up at jake.

"oh really," you said.

he met your eyes. "mhm."

just that. no joke behind it, no immediate deflection. he held your gaze with this easy certainty that made the words sit differently than if he'd been messing around.

the space between you felt different now. like you'd both just noticed it at the same time.

he leaned in, and you didn't move away. his thumb brushed along your cheekbone, light, and he kissed you — soft and unhurried, the kind that didn't feel rushed or accidental. when he pulled back he stayed close, thumb still resting at the edge of your face, and he looked at you for a second.

then he nodded slowly, like something had just been confirmed.

"so does that make me your boyfriend now or."

you blinked. "what."

"i'm just asking." he leaned back, the most unbothered expression on his face. "i feel like that's a reasonable follow up question."

"jake—"

"layla thinks so too." he looked down at her. "don't you, girl."

layla's tail wagged.

"she doesn't know what you're talking about," you said.

"she absolutely does." he looked back at you, grinning now, but underneath it was something genuine. something that had been there the whole afternoon, maybe longer than that. "i'm just saying. you kissed me back. that feels like relevant information."

"you kissed me."

"you didn't stop me."

you opened your mouth. closed it. looked at him — the grin, the easy confidence, the way his eyes were soft underneath all of it. jake had always been like this. warm in a way that snuck up on you.

"yeah," you said. "okay."

he paused. "yeah okay as in—"

"as in yes, jake."

the grin that broke across his face was immediate and a little ridiculous. he looked away for a second like he was trying to compose himself and failing completely. layla, sensing the shift in energy, sat up and wagged her tail like she was in on it.

"she knew," he said, pointing at her.

"she did not—"

"layla knew." he looked back at you, still grinning, and nudged your shoulder with his. "i knew too, for the record."

"you're so annoying," you said, but you were smiling and he saw it.

he left his hand resting over yours on the cushion, easy and warm, like it had always belonged there. layla settled back down across both your laps, completely unbothered.

the afternoon kept going, except jake had that quiet satisfied look he got when things went exactly the way he'd hoped, and every time you glanced at him he was already smiling.

you were too.

‎‎ ‎𝐎𝐎𝟒’ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗞 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗡

it started because you made a comment about a movie being mid.

you were now forty minutes into a debate that had somehow moved from the couch to the kitchen while sunghoon made tea, still talking, completely committed to being right about a movie you both watched two weeks ago.

"the second half was weak," you said.

"the second half was intentional," he said, not looking up from what he was doing.

"the second half could be intentional and weak."

he paused. looked at you. "okay fair." then immediately: "it was still good though."

you'd been friends long enough to know that sunghoon debated things the way he did everything else. it was genuinely annoying. you'd told him that before. he'd said thank you, which was even more annoying.

he handed you a mug and leaned back against the counter, and the petty movie debate continued. you ended up back in the living room, you on the couch, him on the floor with his back against it because he claimed the cushions were uneven, which was not true and you'd told him multiple times.

"one cushion is higher than the other," he said, for the record.

"no it isn't."

"yes it is."

he looked up at you from the floor, completely serious. you looked down at him. he looked back up at you with that expression he had—blank on the surface, something quietly entertained underneath it.

"you're so weird," you said.

"you've been friends with me for this long," he said. "what does that say about you."

you didn't have a great response for that.

it got quieter after a while. comfortable quiet, the kind that didn't need filling. the movie debate had dissolved somewhere along the way and now it was just the background noise of the city outside and the two of you not really doing anything in particular.

you'd been looking at him without fully meaning to—he turned and caught you looking.

you leaned down and kissed him before you could think it through. it was quick, slightly awkward given the angle—you on the couch, him on the floor—and when you pulled back he was looking at you with an expression you couldn't fully read.

a beat of silence.

"the angle on that," he said slowly, "was terrible."

you blinked. "excuse me?"

"geometrically. you were at least thirty degrees off from—"

"sunghoon."

"i'm just saying there was a simpler way to—"

"are you seriously—"

"i'm observing," he said. but his ears were red. you could see it clearly from where you were sitting and he knew you could see it, which somehow made him go more still and more composed, like if he just didn't acknowledge it the evidence would disappear.

you pressed your lips together to keep from smiling. "your ears are red."

"it's warm in here."

"it's not warm in here."

"the tea—"

"sunghoon."

he stopped. looked at you. the joke dropped, just for a second, and underneath it was something genuine and slightly unguarded.

he got up from the floor and sat next to you on the couch—the cushions he'd been complaining about for an hour—and kissed you properly this time. no bad angles. brief but certain, the way sunghoon did things when he'd decided on them.

when he pulled back he looked forward instead of at you.

"the cushions," he said after a moment, "are still uneven."

"oh my god."

"i'm just noting—"

"you just kissed me and you're talking about the cushions."

"i can do both," he said. but he was fighting a smile now, losing slightly, and he didn't move away.

you shook your head. he finally let the smile happen and said nothing else. which, for sunghoon, was basically everything.

‎‎ ‎𝐎𝐎𝟓’ ‎ ‎‎ ‎𝗞𝗜𝗠 𝗦𝗨𝗡𝗢𝗢

the party had been good. genuinely good, the kind where the energy stays high without anyone having to force it, and that was mostly because of sunoo—not because he was loud about it, but because he had this way of making everyone around him feel like they were exactly where they were supposed to be.

by the time the last person left it was late. the place was a mess. streamers across the floor, cups on every surface, the cake mostly gone.

you stayed to help clean up. he didn't ask you to.

"you really don't have to," he said, already knowing you weren't going to leave.

"i know," you said, and grabbed a trash bag.

sunoo cleaned the way he did most things—steadily, no rush, actually thorough. you worked through the living room together, not talking much, just moving around each other easily. the music was still going low in the background, something soft he'd switched to once the party wound down.

at some point you ended up in the kitchen dealing with the last of the cups and sunoo was leaning against the counter going through his phone, showing you a video someone had taken earlier that night. you watched it over his shoulder, laughing at something someone had done in the background that nobody noticed at the time.

he locked his phone and set it down and just looked at you for a second.

"thank you," he said. simply, no performance behind it. "for staying."

"it's your birthday," you said.

"that's not why you stayed though."

you looked at him. sunoo was like that—calm and perceptive underneath the warmth, always registering more than people expected.

you didn't have a great response so you didn't give one. and something about that—the quiet, the late hour, the way he was just looking at you made the space between you feel different.

he kissed you. soft and certain, one hand coming up briefly to your face. it wasn't impulsive. it felt like something he'd thought about and decided on.

when he pulled back he looked at you the same way he had before, just with something a little warmer in it now.

"i've been wanting to do that for a while," he said.

"why didn't you say something," you said.

he tilted his head slightly. "i'm saying something now."

you laughed softly. he smiled, bright and content, and handed you the last trash bag like the moment could just exist without being turned into something bigger. one thing about sunoo is that he makes good things feel simple.

‎‎ ‎𝐎𝐎𝟔’ ‎ ‎‎ ‎𝗬𝗔𝗡𝗚 𝗝𝗨𝗡𝗚𝗪𝗢𝗡

late night study sessions with jungwon had a specific rhythm to them. you'd start focused, actually productive, and then somewhere around the two hour mark it would start to deteriorate—not because either of you stopped caring, but because there's only so long you can look at the same material before your brain starts refusing.

tonight had followed the exact same pattern.

notes spread across the table, laptop open, two empty cups from the coffee you'd made an hour ago that had long since gone cold. jungwon had his pen in his hand but hadn't written anything in a while. you were reading the same paragraph for the third time.

"i've lost it," you said.

"same." he closed his notebook. "take a break."

you leaned back in your chair and stared at the ceiling. jungwon stayed where he was, quiet, and you could feel him thinking without needing to see his face.

you looked over at him.

he was already looking at you.

he leaned across and kissed you. calm and straightforward, no buildup, no announcement. just a decision he'd made and followed through on, because that was how jungwon operated—he thought things through and then he did them.

it was soft. brief. when he pulled back he stayed close and there was a small smile on his face, composed but genuine.

"that wasn't weird, was it?" he said.

the smile gave him away. he wasn't actually worried. he was asking because he wanted to hear what you'd say.

"a little warning would've been nice," you said.

"noted." he didn't move back. "was it weird though."

you looked at him. the lamp on the table was the only light in the room, everything else dark, and jungwon in this setting—a little softer than his default was someone you'd been trying not to think too carefully about for longer than you wanted to admit.

"no," you said. "it wasn't weird."

the smile stayed. he nodded once, like that was the answer he'd expected, and sat back in his chair and opened his notebook again.

"okay," he said. "ten more minutes and then we stop for tonight."

"jungwon."

"the material's not going anywhere."

"that's not what i—"

"ten minutes," he said, already writing something down. but he was smiling at the page, the kind he was trying to keep small and wasn't quite managing, and you caught it anyway.

you pulled your notes back toward you.

ten minutes. then you'd figure out what came next.

‎‎ ‎𝐎𝐎𝟕’ ‎ ‎‎ ‎𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗠𝗨𝗥𝗔 𝗥𝗜𝗞𝗜

you'd been at it for a while—phones out, sharing tiktoks back and forth, the kind of spiral where one video leads to another and suddenly it's been fifty minutes and you've covered everything from fashion hauls to story times to something neither of you could explain but both found funny anyway.

niki had good taste in what he sent you. you'd always thought that. he'd watch your reaction first before looking back at the screen, which you'd caught him doing more than once and never mentioned.

at some point you put your phone down and your eyes landed on the chrome hearts pieces on his dresser. rings, a couple necklaces, all of it laid out like it wasn't worth a small fortune.

"can i try one on," you said.

he looked up. "yeah, which one."

you went over and looked at them properly. he came and stood next to you and you pointed at one of the necklaces, a longer one with a cross pendant. he picked it up without hesitation and moved behind you to put it on, his hands coming over your shoulders to fasten the clasp.

you looked at yourself in the mirror. the necklace sat right, heavier than you expected, and it looked—good, actually. you tilted your head at your reflection.

niki was still behind you, looking at you in the mirror, and you caught his eye in the reflection for just a second before he leaned down and kissed the side of your face. not quite your cheek, not quite your lips. somewhere in between, gentle and quick.

you went still.

then you turned around slowly and looked at him.

"did you just kiss me right now."

he looked at you with the most even expression. "maybe.

"i've prayed for times like this," you said.

riki blinked. then he started laughing, the kind that meant he wasn't expecting that response and couldn't help it.

"do not laugh at me right now—"

"you literally just said—"

"niki—"

he was still laughing, shaking his head, you looked at him and he looked back at you.

"you're so—" he started.

"don't," you warned.

he smiled instead. and then he reached out and adjusted the necklace on you, straightening the pendant, hands gentle, eyes down for a second before he looked back up at you.

"it looks good on you," he said. simply.

you looked at him. niki, underneath the teasing and the even expressions and the casual shrugs, meant every word he said. you knew that about him.

"yeah?" you said.

"yeah." a beat. "you can keep it on for now."

you both knew that wasn't really about the necklace. you didn't say that out loud. you didn't need to.

“you’re awake,” he says without turning, already reaching for your mug. he knows the sound of your breathing. knows the exact second sleep leaves you.

“barely,” you mumble, padding across the cool marble floor. you wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. his body reacts instantly — relaxes into you, one hand coming down to cover yours, thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles. he smells like soap and something darker beneath it. leather. smoke. a scent you don’t ask questions about.

“you didn’t sleep,” you say, accusatory.

he hums, noncommittal. “i did.”

“you’re lying.” you pout into his back.

a quiet laugh leaves him. he turns then, cups your face with warm hands, studies you like he’s memorizing something precious and breakable. he kisses your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth — never rushed, never careless.

“you’re very observant for someone who just woke up,” he notes with a smile.

you smile back, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “you promised you’d come to bed.”

“i know.” his thumb pauses against your cheek. “i had things to finish.”

things. always things.

you don’t press. you never do.

the penthouse is peaceful in the early hours, perched high above a city that doesn’t know how to be quiet. floor-to-ceiling windows stretch out behind him, glass reflecting steel and sunlight and a life that looks impossibly clean from up here. if you squint, it almost feels normal. almost feels like any other marriage.

jay sets your coffee in your hands exactly the way you like it — two sugars, a dash of cream, stirred counterclockwise. you never taught him that. he learned by watching. he learns everything by watching.

“you have a meeting today?” you ask.

his eyes flick briefly toward the phone on the counter. it hasn’t stopped vibrating since dawn. “yes.”

“with them?”

“yes.”

you nod. you don’t ask who them is. you never need to.

when you married jay, you knew the broad strokes. you knew he wasn’t a businessman in the way magazines liked to call him one. you knew men feared him. you knew doors opened when he walked into a room and closed behind him like a warning.

what you didn’t know — what he made sure you never saw — was the blood between the lines.

he buttons his cuffs carefully, then reaches for his tie. your fingers intercept it, smoothing the fabric, looping it around his neck with practiced familiarity. his gaze drops to your face, softens further.

“you don’t have to do that,” he murmurs.

“i want to,” you insist.

he lets you. he always lets you.

your hands shake just a little, and you hate that he notices everything. his fingers come up, steadying yours, grounding you. “hey,” he says quietly. “look at me.”

you do.

“i’ll be home early,” he promises, voice low and sincere. “we’ll have dinner. i’ll order from that place you like.”

“you hate that place.”

“i love it,” he says easily. “because you do.”

the doorbell rings. both of you freeze. it’s subtle — so subtle, anyone else would miss it. the way his spine straightens. the way his eyes sharpen, calculating, distant. the softness drains out of him like water from a sink.

“i’ll get it,” he proclaims. 

three men wait outside. all black suits, all respectful distance. they nod when they see him. one of them glances at you and immediately looks away. jay steps between you and them without thinking.

“car’s ready,” one of them says.

jay nods. “give us a minute.”

the door closes. silence stretches. he turns back to you, and the softness returns — but slower this time, like it has to be pulled back from somewhere deep. he takes your face in his hands again, presses his forehead to yours.

“lock the doors,” he says gently. “don’t open them for anyone but me.”

“i know,” you reply.

he hesitates, like he wants to say something else. like there’s a confession lodged in his throat that he swallows down instead.

“i love you,” he says instead.

you smile — soft and true. “i know.”

he kisses you — slow, reverent, like a man who prays in private — and then he’s gone, suit jacket slipping over his shoulders as the door shuts behind him with a final, echoing click.

you stand there long after the elevator carries him away, coffee cooling in your hands, sunlight crawling higher up the walls. something unsettles in your chest.

you tell yourself it’s nothing.

you always do.

─────

it happens in less than a minute.

one moment, you’re stepping out of the car, keys already in your hand, phone tucked between your shoulder and ear. the garage smells like oil and concrete, familiar and dull. ordinary. you’re thinking about groceries, about whether jay will actually make it home early this time.

the next moment, the world fractures.

a hand clamps over your mouth from behind — firm, practiced, cutting off your breath before you can even inhale to scream. another arm hooks around your waist, lifting you just enough that your feet scrape uselessly against the ground. your phone clatters to the concrete, the sound too loud, too final.

you fight. instinct takes over. you claw, kick, twist — but they anticipated that. they always do. your movements are smothered with terrifying efficiency.

“easy,” a voice murmurs near your ear. calm. almost polite. “don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

something sharp presses into your side — not cutting, not yet. a warning.

your vision blurs as a hood is pulled over your head, plunging you into darkness so complete it feels physical. the scent of fabric and unfamiliar cologne fills your lungs. you’re lifted again, this time carried, your body handled like cargo instead of a person.

it’s fast. clean. no shouting. no chaos. whoever these men are, they’ve done this before.

the car door opens. you’re shoved inside, the seat cold beneath you. someone buckles the belt across your chest with maddening care, like they’re worried about your safety. the door shuts. locks engage. the engine starts.

you’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter, breath coming in short, panicked gasps beneath the hood. your wrists are restrained — not painfully, but securely. Enough that struggling feels useless.

the car moves. you don’t know how long you drive. time stretches and warps in the dark. every turn sends fear spiraling deeper into your chest. you try to count your breaths. you fail.

finally, the car stops. hands grab you again, pulling you out, guiding you forward. you stumble; they steady you. someone adjusts the hood so it doesn’t snag. another opens a door. you’re led inside, down a corridor, the echo of footsteps telling you the space is large. empty.

the hood comes off. harsh light burns your eyes. you blink rapidly, heart hammering, taking in your surroundings in jagged pieces — concrete walls, a single chair bolted to the floor, men standing in a loose semicircle. all black. all impassive.

one of them steps forward. he looks at you with something like curiosity. like you’re a chess piece that’s finally been placed on the board.

“well,” he says. “the boss’s wife.”

the words hit harder than any blow. your stomach drops. 

they know. this isn’t a mistake. this isn’t opportunistic. this isn’t about money or chance or bad timing. this is deliberate.

another man chuckles quietly. “didn’t think she’d look so… normal.”

normal. your throat tightens, fear sharp and cold. 

“what do you want?” you manage to ask, voice trembling despite your effort to sound steady.

the first man tilts his head. “you.”

“no,” you counter, nervous but angry, your first tightening. “you want him.”

a slow smile spreads across his face. “smart.”

they don’t touch you after that. not really. they leave you seated, hands bound, the door slamming shut behind them with a hollow clang that echoes long after their footsteps fade.

silence rushes in. it presses in on you from every side, thick and suffocating. the lights hum overhead. your pulse roars in your ears. you try to move your wrists again, but the restraints don’t budge. you swallow hard, fighting the urge to cry.

jay’s face flashes in your mind — the softness of his morning smile, the warmth of his hands, the way he always stands between you and the world without even thinking about it.

they took you because of him. because they know what you mean to him. your chest tightens with a new, horrifying realization — you aren’t leverage. you’re a message.

you curl forward as much as the restraints allow, breathing through the panic, clinging to the one thought that cuts through the fear like a lifeline.

jay will come.

he has to. he always does.

─────

you know he’s coming before you see him.

it starts with a sound that doesn’t belong. a sharp crack echoes down the corridor outside your cell — too loud to be a door, too final to be accidental. you freeze, breath caught in your chest. another sound follows. a shout, cut short. then a gunshot.

your heart slams against your ribs. the men outside start shouting. orders barked. footsteps scrambling, no longer controlled, no longer calm. panic bleeds into their voices, and for the first time since you were taken, it isn’t yours.

another scream. closer this time. something heavy slams into the wall outside your door. you hear bone break — there’s no mistaking that wet, hollow sound. someone cries out, a broken, animal noise that makes your stomach twist.

you press your back against the concrete, eyes fixed on the door, as if staring at it hard enough might stop what’s coming. gunfire erupts again. not wild. not frantic. precise. each shot spaced just enough to tell you whoever is pulling the trigger isn’t rushed. he’s not afraid. he knows exactly where he’s going. exactly what he’s doing.

your hands tremble violently now, restraints biting into your wrists as you try — uselessly — to pull free. tears spill down your cheeks, unbidden, your breath coming in shallow gasps.

then silence. not the calm kind. the kind that follows devastation. footsteps approach. slow. measured. the handle turns. the door swings open.

and there he is.

jay fills the doorway like a shadow given shape. for half a second, relief floods you so fast it nearly knocks you unconscious. your chest aches with it. your mouth opens to say his name.

then you really look at him. blood stains his shirt, splattered across his collar, smeared along his sleeves. his knuckles are red, raw, slick. a dark streak cuts across his jaw, drying too quickly to be yours.

but it’s his eyes that stop you cold. they aren’t warm. they aren’t gentle. they are empty. not blank — focused. lethal. like something ancient and merciless has surfaced and there’s nothing human left to stop it.

this isn’t the man who kissed your forehead that morning. this is what the city whispers about.

“jay,” you blurt out anyway, voice breaking. his gaze snaps to you instantly. everything else disappears. for one heartbeat, something shifts in his expression — something sharp and pained flickering beneath the cold. he takes a step toward you.

a sound behind him makes him turn. one of the men staggers into the doorway, clutching his side, blood soaking through his fingers. his eyes land on you, wild and desperate.

“please,” the man gasps. “i —”

the gunshot is deafening in the small room. the man drops before he finishes the sentence. jay doesn’t hesitate. doesn’t flinch. doesn’t even look away when he pulls the trigger.

he kills him like he’s extinguishing a candle. for you. your scream tears out of you before you can stop it.

your body recoils instinctively, shoulders curling inward, legs pulling back as far as the restraints allow. when Jay turns back to you and reaches out — bloodied hand outstretched — you flinch hard, a sharp, involuntary movement fueled by pure terror.

“don’t—!” 

you clamp your mouth shut too late. the damage is done.

he freezes. his hand hovers in the air between you, trembling just slightly. his eyes flick down to where you’ve shrunk away from him, then back up to your face.

the cold drains out of him all at once. horror rushes in to replace it.

“no,” jay breathes, the word barely audible. “no, no —”

he takes a step back like he’s the one who’s been struck. his gun lowers, forgotten, clattering to the floor as his hand drops uselessly to his side. you’ve never seen him like this. not angry. not controlled. broken.

“i’m sorry,” he says, voice hoarse, cracking around the edges. “i — i didn’t mean to — i never wanted you to see me like this.”

his eyes flick over you frantically, checking for injuries, for blood that isn’t his. when he sees the restraints, his jaw tightens, something dark flickering again — but he forces it down.

he kneels in front of you instead. slowly. carefully. like you might shatter if he moves too fast.

“i won’t touch you,” he says quickly, desperately. “i swear. i just — tell me what you need. please.”

your chest hurts. your vision swims. this is jay — your husband — on his knees in front of you, hands shaking, eyes full of anguish because you’re scared of him.

“i’m here,” he continues, softer now. “you’re safe. i’ve got you. i promise.”

but the image won’t leave your mind. the sound of the gunshot. the way the man fell. the emptiness in jay’s eyes when he pulled the trigger. you nod faintly, unable to find your voice.

he reaches out again — stops himself halfway. and that restraint, that pain-filled pause, hurts more than the violence ever could.

─────

the safehouse is too quiet.

not the peaceful kind of quiet — the kind that presses in on your ears until you’re sure you’re missing something. the kind that rings louder than gunshots, louder than screaming men, louder than the echo of a body hitting the floor.

silence follows you into every room.

jay drives. you sit in the passenger seat, knees pulled to your chest, fingers locked together so tightly they ache. the city blurs past the windows, streetlights streaking into long, indistinct lines. you keep your eyes fixed on the glass, afraid that if you look at him, you’ll see it again.

the blood. the gun. the way he didn’t hesitate.

the car smells faintly metallic, like iron and gunpowder, no matter how many times you tell yourself it’s just in your head. jay doesn’t speed. he doesn’t speak. his hands grip the steering wheel with measured control, knuckles pale, jaw tight. he checks the mirrors constantly, scanning, calculating. still protecting you.

you flinch when he takes a sharp turn. he notices.

the safehouse is tucked away in a nondescript building — plain, unremarkable, intentionally forgettable. he parks in an underground garage, kills the engine, and just… sits there for a moment.

“you’re safe here,” he says quietly.

you nod. you still don’t trust your voice.

inside, the space is clean, sparse, designed for function rather than comfort. neutral colors. no personal touches. it smells like disinfectant and something faintly medicinal. a place meant to patch people up and move them along. not a place meant to live.

jay gestures toward the couch. “you can sit. or lie down. whatever you want.”

his tone is gentle. careful. like he’s stepping through a minefield. 

you choose the far end of the couch. the distance is small — just a few feet of empty space—but it feels vast. you curl inward, arms wrapping around yourself, shaking so hard your teeth click together. your body won’t listen when you tell it you’re safe now.

you’re not shaking because you were taken. you’re shaking because of what came for you.

jay notices everything. he sees the way your shoulders hunch when he moves too close to the kitchen counter. the way your breath stutters when he sets his gun down on the table — unloaded, magazine removed, deliberately placed out of reach.

he takes another step back.

“i’ll make tea,” he says. “if you want.”

you nod again.

he moves quietly, deliberately keeping his back to you. you hear the kettle fill, the click of the switch, the soft hum as it heats. ordinary sounds. domestic sounds. they feel wrong here.

your hands won’t stop trembling.

when he sets the mug down on the table in front of you, he does it slowly, sliding it toward you instead of handing it to you. steam curls up between you, carrying the scent of chamomile.

“i remember you like this one,” he says, tone soft.

you wrap your hands around the mug, grateful for the warmth even as it burns slightly. your fingers feel numb.

minutes pass. maybe longer. jay sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely together. he keeps his gaze low, never forcing you to meet his eyes. the silence stretches until it feels unbearable.

“i never wanted you to see that.” his voice is barely above a whisper.

you swallow hard.

“i tried to keep it away from you,” he continues, words careful, weighted. “i built walls. i thought if i loved you hard enough, none of this would touch you.”

you finally look at him. he looks… smaller somehow. stripped of the power that he wears like armor. his eyes are tired, rimmed red, his shoulders slumped forward under a weight that looks crushing.

“i failed,” he says simply. the truth lands heavy between you.

you want to tell him it’s okay. that you understand. that you still love him the same way. but your body betrays you again — a shudder running through you when he shifts closer by instinct, stopping himself instantly the moment he notices.

“i won’t touch you,” he says quickly, pain threading through his voice. “i swear. not until you tell me it’s okay.”

that breaks something in your chest.

“i’m not—” your voice cracks. you stop, swallow, try again. “i’m not afraid of you.”

it’s a lie. or maybe it’s only half of one. he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t push. he just nods slowly, like he already knew.

“i am,” he says. “i’m afraid of what you saw. of what it cost you.”

the kettle clicks off in the kitchen, loud in the quiet room. outside, the city keeps breathing. inside, you sit in the aftermath — two people who survived, but not unscathed — learning how to exist in the space between love and fear.

─────

night settles over the safehouse without ceremony.

there’s no gradual dimming of the sky, no comforting rhythm of evening routines. just the quiet hum of the building, the muted glow of a single lamp left on in the living area. shadows stretch long and thin across the walls, and every one of them feels heavy with things unsaid.

you sit on the edge of the bed in the small bedroom jay insisted you take. the sheets are clean, crisp, untouched. you haven’t laid down. you’re not sure if you could.

jay stands in the doorway. he hasn’t crossed the threshold. he hasn’t even leaned against the frame. he just stands there, hands loose at his sides, eyes fixed on the floor like he’s afraid that if he steps any closer, you’ll vanish.

“i can sleep on the couch,” he says quietly.

you shake your head. “you don’t have to decide that right now.”

a pause. then he nods once and finally steps inside, stopping well short of you. the distance remains — carefully measured, painfully intentional.

“you should sleep,” he says.

“so should you.”

a faint, humorless smile tugs at his mouth. “i don’t think that’s going to happen.”

silence stretches between you again, taut and fragile. you break it first. “you’ve never told me how you started.”

his head lifts slowly.

“you don’t have to,” you add quickly. “i just… i want to understand.”

for a long moment, he looks like he might refuse. then his shoulders sag, just a fraction, as if he’s setting something down.

“i grew up learning how to fight before i learned how to read,” he says. his voice is even, detached, like he’s reciting facts rather than memories. “where i’m from, violence wasn’t a choice. it was currency.”

he takes a step closer. you don’t move. “if you couldn’t hurt someone, they hurt you. worse. survival meant becoming harder than the world around you.” his gaze flicks up to your face, searching. “at first, it was just that. staying alive.”

you swallow.

“then people started to notice,” he continues. “they followed. they listened. fear is… efficient.” his jaw tightens. “somewhere along the way, survival turned into power.” the word tastes bitter in his mouth.

“i didn’t stop,” he admits. “because stopping meant becoming vulnerable again.”

he exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself for the next part. “then i met you.”

your heart stutters.

“you smiled at me like i wasn’t dangerous,” he says softly. “like i was just a man. no one had ever looked at me that way.” his voice breaks, just slightly. “loving you was the first time i wanted to be better instead of just stronger.”

tears burn behind your eyes.

“i built a life around you,” he continues. “a softer one. i thought if i kept the darkness far enough away, it wouldn’t matter that it existed at all.”

he looks at you fully now.

“i’m terrified you’ll leave,” he says, the admission raw and unguarded. “that you’ll look at me and only see what i did tonight.”

your chest tightens painfully.

“i’m terrified, too,” you admit in a whisper. he stills.

“i love you,” you say, voice shaking. “but the man i love can destroy worlds.” you squeeze your hands together, grounding yourself. “and that scares me in a way i don’t know how to fix.”

he nods slowly, eyes shining. “i know.”

neither of you move closer. neither of you pull away.

you sit together in that truth — fear and love tangled so tightly they’re indistinguishable.

hours pass. the light outside the window fades completely. the city hums faintly in the distance. jay eventually sits on the floor against the far wall, back pressed to it, knees drawn up. you remain on the bed, curled in on yourself, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

neither of you sleeps. every time your eyes close, you hear the gunshot again. every time his do, he sees you flinch.

so you stay awake. together, but apart — waiting for morning, and whatever comes with it.

─────

morning comes, but it doesn’t bring relief.

light seeps through the thin curtains of the safehouse, pale and hesitant, like it’s unsure whether it’s welcome. you haven’t slept — not really. your body aches with exhaustion, your head heavy, your thoughts tangled and sharp.

jay is already awake. you know because the couch creaks softly when you step into the living area, and you see the blanket folded with military precision, the pillow set neatly at one end. he’s in the kitchen, back to you, moving quietly, efficiently. a man making himself small in a place that suddenly feels too big.

“coffee’s ready,” he says without turning. his voice is calm. controlled. too calm.

“thanks,” you reply. you sit at the table. he sets a mug down in front of you, careful not to brush your fingers. he doesn’t sit. he leans against the counter instead, arms crossed, gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder.

the distance is deliberate. you sip the coffee. it tastes right. that almost makes it worse. conversation becomes something clipped and careful.

“did you sleep?” you ask.

“a little,” he lies. you nod. you don’t call him on it.

throughout the day, he keeps himself busy — checking the perimeter, making calls in low voices you can’t hear, cleaning weapons you never see him use. when he moves past you, he gives you wide berth. when you speak, he listens — but his eyes never linger. never soften.

he doesn’t touch you. not your hand. not your shoulder. not even by accident. at first, you tell yourself it’s kindness. restraint. him respecting your fear.

but hours pass. then more. and something cold settles in your chest.

you watch him from across the room as he changes the bandage on his knuckles, jaw clenched, movements precise. blood seeps through the gauze. he doesn’t flinch. you do.

he notices.

“i’m fine,” he says immediately, too quickly. he drops his hands to his lap, hiding them from your view. “you don’t need to worry.”

that’s when it hits you. he’s protecting you — from himself.

that night, he doesn’t even ask about the bed.

“i’ll take the couch again,” he says, already gathering the blanket.

your chest tightens. “jay —”

“it’s better this way,” he interrupts, still not looking at you. “you need space.”

do you?

or does he?

you lie awake again, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of him settling into the other room. the distance feels louder than the violence ever did. it hums between you, filling every corner.

by the third day, the ache becomes unbearable. you miss him. the way he used to look at you like the world softened when you walked into it. the way his hand would find yours without thinking. the way he used to choose you openly, fiercely.

now he keeps choosing distance. you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror — tired eyes, drawn face, someone who looks like she’s already been left behind. when you step out, he’s sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“jay,” you say softly. he looks up — but only for a second. just long enough to acknowledge you. then his gaze drops again.

“what is it?”

the words sting more than they should.

“do you… still want me here?”

his head snaps up then, shock flickering across his face. “of course.”

“then why does it feel like you’re already gone?”

silence crashes down between you. he exhales slowly, runs a hand through his hair. “i’m trying to keep you safe.”

“by disappearing?”

he winces, like the word cut deep.

“i can’t be what you saw,” he says quietly. “not around you.”

“you are what i saw,” you whisper. “and you’re still the man i married. but every step you take away from me — every time you won’t look at me — it feels like you’re choosing a life without me in it.”

he stands abruptly, pacing once, twice, agitation breaking through his control. “i don’t want you to be afraid.”

“i’m already afraid,” you admit, tears spilling over now. “i’m afraid that the man i love thinks the only way to love me is to leave me alone.”

he stops. slowly, he turns back to you. for the first time in days, he really looks at you — and the pain in his eyes mirrors your own.

“i thought distance would protect you,” he says hoarsely.

“and i thought distance meant i’d already lost you.”

the words hang between you, raw and trembling. angst boils there — in that space where love and fear collide, where neither of you knows how to reach for the other without hurting something fragile.

and neither of you moves.

─────

you don’t mean to overhear it.

you’re halfway down the hallway, bare feet silent against the cool floor, when you hear voices coming from the far room — the one jay’s been using for calls. you stop automatically, not out of fear, but habit. privacy has become something delicate here. fragile.

one of his men speaks first. low. careful. “boss, if this gets worse — if they keep circling — you know what it’ll cost to keep her near this life.”

there’s a pause. your breath catches. then jay answers.

“she comes first,” he says, without hesitation. no anger. no dramatics. just certainty. “always.”

something tightens painfully in your chest. another voice, hesitant. “even if—”

“even if that means i walk away.”

the words land like a physical blow. you press your hand to the wall, steadying yourself as something inside you fractures — and then reforms into something clearer, sharper, devastatingly honest.

he isn’t holding onto power. he’s holding onto you.

the violence, the blood, the world he commands — it isn’t ambition. it isn’t hunger. it’s armor. a fortress built around the one thing that ever made him want to be more than what he was taught to be.

he isn’t dangerous despite his love. he’s dangerous because of it.

you turn before you’re discovered, heart pounding, every step back toward the living room heavy with realization. when jay joins you minutes later, his expression shifts instantly — concern flickering when he sees the way your hands are shaking.

“you okay?” he asks.

you don’t answer. instead, you walk past him, then turn to face him fully. he stills, reading the set of your shoulders, the resolve hardening in your eyes.

“i heard you,” you say.

his face drains of color. “you—”

“she comes first,” you repeat softly. “always.”

he swallows. “i didn’t mean for you to hear that.”

“but i did.”

silence stretches between you, thick and electric. his instinct is to retreat — you see it in the way his weight shifts back, in the way he braces himself like a man expecting impact.

“i wasn’t trying to manipulate you,” he says quickly. “i would’ve walked away even if you never knew.”

“i know,” you reply. that’s what breaks through his defenses. his eyes lift fully to yours. “you think you’re protecting me by pulling away,” you continue, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “but all you’re doing is making me feel like i don’t get a choice.”

he exhales slowly. “i don’t want you to live in fear.”

“i already do,” you say honestly. “i’m scared of what you can do. i’m scared of what this world does to you.” you take a step closer. he doesn’t move. “but i’m more scared of a life where you decide i’m better off without you.”

his jaw tightens. “you shouldn’t have to carry this.”

“then don’t make me carry it alone.”

that lands. you close the remaining distance between you — slowly, deliberately — until you’re standing just in front of him. close enough to feel the warmth of his body, the tension coiled beneath his skin.

“i choose you,” you say quietly. “not the version of you that pretends the rest doesn’t exist. all of you.”

his breath stutters.

“you don’t know what you’re asking,” he murmurs.

“i do,” you say. “i’m asking you to trust me with the truth. with the parts you think will make me leave.”

his eyes shine now, emotions warring openly across his face — fear, longing, devotion, restraint. “i don’t want to stain you with this.”

“you don’t,” you reply. “you let me decide where my line is.”

a long beat passes. then — carefully, like he’s handling something sacred — jay nods.

“you’re scared,” he says.

“yes.”

“but you’re still here.”

“yes.”

his voice drops to a whisper. “i don’t deserve you.”

you lift your hand, stopping just short of touching his chest. you wait. when he doesn’t pull away, you rest your palm there, feeling his heart hammering beneath your fingers.

“maybe,” you say gently. “but you’re mine anyway.”

for the first time since the safehouse, he leans into you. not fully. not yet. but enough. and at that moment, you don’t feel like something he has to protect from himself.

you feel like something he’s finally willing to stand beside — without hiding.

─────

healing doesn’t arrive all at once. it comes in fragments. in pauses. in choices so small, they almost feel insignificant — until you realize they’re everything.

the first time it happens, it’s late afternoon.

jay comes back inside after a call, jaw tight, shoulders rigid in a way you recognize now. not danger — control. he stops short when he sees you at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, rinsing a cup.

there’s blood on his hands. not fresh. dried at the creases of his knuckles, faint streaks along his fingers. your breath catches before you can stop it. he sees it immediately.

“i —” he halts himself, gaze dropping to his hands. his shoulders lower, just a fraction. “give me a second.”

he turns away without waiting for a response. you watch him at the sink. watch as he rolls his sleeves higher, turns the water on warm — not hot — and scrubs slowly, thoroughly. soap. rinse. again. he cleans beneath his nails, rubs until his skin is pink and raw, like he’s erasing something he doesn’t want to bring near you.

only when his hands are clean does he turn back.

“is it okay,” he asks quietly, “if i sit with you?”

the question knocks the air from your lungs.

“yes,” you say, just as softly. he sits — not close enough to crowd you, but close enough that his presence feels intentional. grounding. when your arm brushes his, he stills, waiting.

“you okay?” he asks. you nod. and this time, it’s true.

from then on, he always asks. before a touch. before a hug. before he reaches for your hand like it used to be instinct.

“can i?” 

“is this alright?”

“tell me if you want me to stop.”

each question is a promise disguised as caution. night is harder.

the first nightmare hits you without warning — violent, loud, filled with echoes of gunshots and doors slamming shut. you wake with a gasp, heart racing, sheets tangled around your legs like restraints.

jay is awake instantly. he’s sitting on the floor beside the bed now — always the floor — back against the frame, close enough to be there but never assuming more. he looks up when you bolt upright, eyes alert, sharp with concern.

“hey,” he murmurs. “you’re safe.”

your breath comes in shuddering bursts. the room feels too small. too dark.

“can i —” he hesitates, then finishes carefully. “can i hold you?”

you nod, tears blurring your vision. he climbs onto the bed slowly, movements deliberate, like he’s afraid sudden motion might shatter you. when his arms come around you, they’re loose at first — an offering, not a cage.

you lean into him. his chest is solid, warm. his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. he doesn’t speak. he doesn’t move. he just breathes with you until your shaking eases and your fingers curl into his shirt on their own.

sometimes, it’s his nightmares instead. you wake to the sound of him gasping, body rigid beside the bed, hands clenched into fists like he’s still fighting something only he can see. you reach for him instinctively, catching yourself for half a second — then remembering what you asked for.

“all of you,” you whisper. you sit beside him on the floor, close enough that your knees touch. you don’t grab him. you don’t startle him.

“i’m here,” you say softly. when his eyes finally focus on you, they’re haunted — but not empty. never empty when he looks at you.

he leans forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder like it’s the only place he can put the weight of what he carries. you wrap your arms around him, feel him exhale like he’s been holding his breath for years.

this is how you learn again. in the way he always cleans himself before touching you. in the way he lowers his voice instead of raising it. in the way he lets you see the aftermath instead of hiding it.

you learn that gentleness doesn’t erase cruelty — but it can follow it. it can choose differently afterward. and slowly, carefully, you learn to breathe around him again. not because the world is suddenly safe.

but because when he holds you, he is.

─────

it’s late.

not the dramatic kind of late where the world feels sharp and dangerous — but the soft, suspended kind, where even the city seems to be holding its breath. the lights are low in the safehouse, shadows pooled gently in corners. the clock on the wall ticks quietly, steady and patient.

jay sits on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. he looks exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. like something heavy has finally stopped moving and settled inside him.

you stand a few steps away, watching him. there’s no tension in the room tonight. no distance measured in careful feet. just a fragile calm, humming with things that want to be said.

you cross the space between you and sit on the floor in front of him instead of beside him. close enough that your knees touch his shins. he stiffens instinctively — then forces himself to relax.

you tilt your head up to look at him. he meets your gaze immediately. he always does now.

“do you know who you are to me?” you ask softly.

his throat bobs as he swallows. “i know who i want to be.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

he shakes his head once, almost imperceptibly.

“you’re the man who learned my fears,” you say. “not the obvious ones — the quiet ones. the way i hate raised voices. the way i need the lights on when i’m anxious. the way i pretend i’m fine when i’m not.”

his breath catches.

“you noticed,” you continue. “you adjusted. you never made me explain myself.”

your fingers curl around his wrist, gentle but sure. he doesn’t pull away.

“you’re the man who memorized my smile,” you whisper. “who knows the difference between the polite one i give strangers and the real one that only happens when i’m safe.”

his eyes shine now, glassy and overwhelmed.

“and you’re the man who would burn the world,” you say, voice trembling with the weight of the truth, “and still kneel for me if i asked you to stay.”

something in him shatters. it’s not loud. it’s not dramatic. it’s quiet and devastating.

jay’s shoulders collapse inward, like he’s been holding himself upright through sheer will and it’s finally failed him. his hands come up to his face, fingers digging into his hair, breath breaking as a sound slips out of him — raw, cracked, unguarded.

you’ve never seen him cry. not once.

his chest heaves as he bends forward, forehead dropping toward his knees. the man who commands rooms with a glance, who ends lives with a decision, folds in on himself like the weight of loving you has finally become too much to carry alone.

“i tried,” he chokes. “god, i tried so hard to be better for you.”

you move without thinking. you rise onto your knees and wrap your arms around him, pulling him into your chest. he resists for half a second — pure instinct — then gives in completely.

he clutches at you like he’s drowning. his face presses into your shoulder, breath uneven, fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt as if you’re the only solid thing left in his world. his body shakes with silent sobs he’s clearly never allowed himself before.

you hold him. you don’t rush him. you don’t tell him to stop. you don’t tell him to be strong. you cradle his head, fingers threading gently through his hair, rocking him slightly as his grief spills out in quiet, broken breaths.

“i see you,” you murmur into his hair. “all of you.”

his arms tighten around your waist, desperate and reverent all at once.

“i’m still here,” you whisper. “you didn’t lose me.”

for a long time, that’s all there is. breathing. warmth. two people holding onto each other in the aftermath of everything they survived.

when his breathing finally evens out, when the tremors fade, he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are red, lashes wet, expression bare in a way that feels sacred.

“you still see me,” he says hoarsely. you cup his face, thumbs brushing away tears without hesitation.

“the same man,” you say. “just no longer alone.”

and this time, when he leans into your touch, there is no fear left in either of you — only love, steady and unbreakable.

─────

​​time moves differently now.

the city hums outside the penthouse windows, alive and chaotic, but inside, the world is quiet. days pass without the edge of fear you once carried. nights are long and unbroken, filled with soft light and warmth rather than shadows and dread. the threat that once loomed over you is gone, dissolved by things you don’t ask about — by deals made, promises enforced, and the unflinching hands of the man you married.

jay still moves like he owns the streets, still commands rooms with a look, still carries a reputation that makes the world fear him. but at home… at home, he is different. he moves with softness. he makes coffee just the way you like it. he folds the laundry. he lingers when he shouldn’t need to, just to watch you laugh over some trivial thing.

there is still blood on his hands sometimes. sometimes on his sleeves, on his cuffs, on the sharp edges of the world he walks through. but never when he touches you. never when he holds you. when he cups your face, brushes a strand of hair from your forehead, or presses a kiss to the crown of your head, his hands are yours alone — warm, clean, careful.

you watch him across the apartment sometimes, a man built of contradictions. broad shoulders carrying a weight no one should bear. dark eyes that have seen too much. a jaw hardened by survival. and yet the softness he shows you — the gentleness — is deliberate, constant, unwavering.

he comes home from meetings and walks straight to you, dropping the mask of authority at the door. he doesn’t have to announce it; you feel it in the way he sighs when he sees you, in the way his eyes brighten like sunrise. he tells you about nothing and everything, little victories and quiet frustrations, and you listen, because this — this ordinary, impossible intimacy — is worth every nightmare you survived.

some nights, you sit on the couch, knees drawn up, and he curls around you. the city glows behind the glass, indifferent to the life you’ve built inside. and you rest in his arms without fear. you learn to trust the silence, the closeness, the ordinary moments that once seemed unattainable.

he is still the man who can burn worlds. you know that. you remember. but he is also the man who chooses you every single day, who kneels before you in softness and reverence, who lets his world be dangerous elsewhere so that here — inside these walls — there is only love.

and as you lean into him, hand pressed against the warmth of his chest, heart syncing with his, you know the truth.

"princess." he said, voice strained in that way he always used when he was trying not to show emotion, "i assure you, my ears were the temperature they always are."

you laughed quietly and his shoulders froze. you wondered if he even realized how soft he'd become these past few days, at least with you.

you walked a little further in silence and you glanced at him again, this time longer. he must've felt it, because he finally spoke, voice low.

"…you are smiling."

you blinked. "am i not allowed to?"

he hesitated. "you are. i just simply… do not know why you are smiling at me."

the fact that he sounded genuinely confused nearly melted you.

"you did good." you said honestly. "you always do. you're confident when you fight, when you train, when you speak. but today… you seemed unsure of yourself."

he exhaled slowly. "dancing is not part of a knight's duties."

"maybe it should be." you said, teasing again.

he shot you a deadpanned look, but underneath he was flustered. "princess." he warned softly, "please. do not tease me about this."

you stopped walking. sunghoon halted too, turning to you immediately, concern flickering in his eyes.

you shook your head and stepped closer. closer. and closer until his breath stilled.

you could see the way his pupils dilated, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. for someone so careful with every move he made, he suddenly looked like he didn't know where to move or his eyes — or his mind.

"sir park…" you whispered, "you should be confident. even in this."

he frowned lightly, confused, heartbeat in his ears. "in dancing?"

"in… moments like this."

before you could talk yourself out of it, you reached for his wrists, gentle and hesitant, and guided his arms up, placing them around your waist.

his fingers twitched on your back as you felt him tense, his muscles locking up. then you placed your hands on his chest, right over his heart, and looked up at him.

"princess…" he breathed, voice barely a whisper, "what are you—"

"slow dance with me."

his eyes widened. there was no music. no instructor. just the empty, moonlit hallway and the two of you standing far closer than propriety allowed.

"this is… improper." he whispered, but didn't move his hands from your waist.

"so?" you murmured, stepping a little closer, your body brushing his. "no one's here."

sunghoon's breath shuddered. he looked like he was fighting ten emotions at once — duty, fear, longing, restraint, confusion — yet he didn't pull away.

"… you are bold tonight." he murmured.

"maybe."

"have i encouraged this behavior somehow?"

you tilted your head, shooting him a small cheeky smile. "hmm... maybe?"

he huffed softly and let his forehead dip just slightly, as if gravity was pulling him toward you.

you took a small step to the side, guiding him. and hesitantly, rigidly, he followed.

one step.

another.

your bodies moved slowly, gently, quietly, as if afraid to break the fragile moment forming around you. he wasn't good at it, but he wasn't as bad as you both thought either. he moved with careful precision, watching your feet, then your eyes, then quickly looking away again.

"see?" you whispered, "you're not terrible at this."

"i am aware." he said quietly, "that i am not stepping on your feet. that is the extent of my skill."

"it's enough."

the words 'for me' were left to quietly linger in the air.

sunghoon's fingers tightened shyly at your waist, not enough to be improper, but enough that you felt it.

you looked up as he looked down. and for a heartbeat, the world felt unbearably still. moonlight traced the line of his jaw, the soft curve of his lips, the faint confusion and warmth swimming in his usually cold gaze.

"princess." he whispered, voice deep and unsteady, "you're… too close."

you swallowed. "should i move?"

his answer took too long. far too long.

"…no." he finally murmured, and you felt your heart leap.

you swayed with him in the corridor, hands still on his chest, his arms still around you, both of you pretending this was just a harmless dance and not something shifting beneath your feet.

and for the first time, sunghoon didn't try to hide the softness in his eyes.

you could feel something inside of you. it was subtle, barely there, but you felt that strange, floating feeling between you and sunghoon. it was almost like a thread, thin but taut, stretched between your chest and his.

you weren't touching anymore, not really. his hands had slipped from your waist, yours from his chest, yet the warmth lingered stubbornly, refusing to fade. neither of you stepped back at first. you simply… stood there, facing each other and breathing the same small pocket of moonlit air.

his eyes lingered on you longer than they should've. soft yet unsure, melting in the quiet, turning into something else entirely.

finally, he blinked and tore his gaze away, jaw tightening.

"…you should…" sunghoon murmured, looking off to the side, "you should dance with someone more skilled."

you could help the frown that formed on your face, confused at his words. "what?"

"someone who already knows how to dance." he continued, still staring at the floor as if it might swallow him whole. "someone who doesn't keep stepping on your feet. someone who isn't…" his voice lowered a fraction "...stiff."

your lips parted in surprise. he actually sounded embarrassed.

"i'm serious." you replied back, playing with the sleeve of your dress shyly. "i'd prefer that over some… polished, perfect, stuck-up noble boy who dances like he's trying to show off. i genuinely enjoyed dancing with you today."

he froze. the tips of his ears went crimson first, then the flush crawled down his neck. he turned his head away so quickly you almost laughed again.

"i—" he stammered, shocking you because for as long as you knew him, sunghoon never stammered. "that is— i am not— princess, that is—" he coughed sharply into his hand, as if that could reset his entire soul, and kept his face stubbornly averted.

you stared at him with widening eyes, heart fluttering.

sunghoon was flustered. sunghoon. cold, sharp, terrifyingly composed sunghoon — was flustered.

he opened his mouth to try again.

"princess… i—"

"sir park!"

the two of you jumped.

a knight jogged down the hallway, armor clinking loudly in the silent space. he slowed as he reached you both, bowing quickly.

"my apologies, princess. sir park—your presence has been requested at the training grounds. the soldiers are preparing for this morning's combat drills, and your oversight is needed."

sunghoon straightened instantly, composure snapping back into place like armor being strapped on.

his voice returned to its firm, authoritative tone. "understood. i will head there at once." then he turned back to you, and the softness from moments before flickered in his eyes, barely noticeable unless you'd been looking for it.

"princess." he said quietly, taking a step closer to you. "where can i… safely leave you?"

the phrasing made your heart warm. he was always careful with you now, always cautious, always thinking.

you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "you can take me to the library."

he nodded, though his jaw clenched for a second. some internal hesitation he didn't voice.

"the library, then."

he gestured for you to walk beside him, and you did, both of you stepping into the next hall with the ghost of your slow dance still clinging to your skin.

the door to the royal library opened with a gentle groan, dust motes floating lazily in the warm shafts of sunlight as you stepped inside.

the moment your feet crossed the threshold, sunghoon's hand hovered near your back. not touching, but close enough that you could sense the heat of him there. still flustered. still stiff. and still trying (and failing) not to think about the words you'd said earlier.

sunghoon cleared his throat once, then guided you toward your usual spot: the cushioned armchair by the wide arched window, the one you always curled into like a cat chasing sunlight.

"sit." he instructed quietly.

you raised a brow at his tone, smiling, but obeyed. he didn't meet your eyes as he scanned the nearby shelves, grabbed the first book his hand landed on, and placed it into your lap like he was trying very hard to be unaffected.

"read this." he said, trying to sound casual.

you blinked, then looked at the title.

'the complete history of the kingdom's turnip trade.'

you stared, then snorted so loudly the sound echoed between the bookshelves.

sunghoon froze. "what." he said flatly.

"turnips?" you wheezed, covering your mouth. "sunghoon... did you just hand me a book about turnips?"

his face went red again.

"i—" he straightened abruptly, regaining his cold stoicism like a shield. "—the content is irrelevant. the point is that you stay here until i return."

you were still laughing when he leaned down slightly, just enough to scan over you one last, thorough time. his eyes flicked from the window, to the shelves, to the corners of the room, then back to you.

checking for threats.

checking for danger.

checking… you.

when he was finally satisfied, he exhaled through his nose and turned toward the door.

once outside, the cold, professional sunghoon snapped fully back into place. he swept the corridor with sharp eyes and immediately called over the nearest knight in the hallways.

"you." he barked.

the knight nearly tripped over himself hurrying forward. "sir park?"

sunghoon stood tall, broad shoulders squared, authority rolling off him like armor.

"you are to watch the princess while i am at the training grounds." he ordered. "you do not leave your post. you do not look away. you do not fail."

the knight nodded rapidly. "yes, sir!"

"i enjoyed dancing with you."

sunghoon's jaw tightened. your voice, soft and shy flashed in his mind without his permission, and his heart pounded in his chest equally without his permission.

"there must not be so much as a scratch on her when i return." he said lowly. "understood?"

the knight infront of sunghoon nervously gulped but stood straighter. "understood, sir park!"

he gave one last curt nod, then turned and strode down the hall, steps disciplined… but his ears were still just a little pink as he marched away.

and you, inside the library, were still laughing at that ridiculous turnip book. completely unaware of how tightly he guarded the thought of you in his mind.

the royal library was warm with late-morning light, the sun filtering through polished glass and shining softly across the floor. you sat curled in your window alcove, a teacup between your hands, while your friend, wonyoung jang, noble-born (and endless dramatic) sat across from you, her long hair cascading over her shoulder like a painting.

outside, through the tall arched window, the training grounds spread out below. and in the center of it all, was sunghoon, training a group of soldiers again with that frightening precision of his, movements fluid. even from this height, you could make out the intense focus in his posture. the tight shirt he wore clung to him with sweat. when he moved, his muscles flexed like he was carved out of steel.

wonyoung sipped her tea, eyes flicking between you and the scene below.

"so," she hummed delicately, "that's sir park, the famed red knight?"

you nodded, maybe a little too quickly. "yes, that's him. the one my parents ordered for."

"mhm." she said, drawing out the sound like she was already suspicious.

you hesitated, then began telling her everything. why he was here, how he'd been assigned to you because of the nomad raids, how he followed you around everywhere you went with no if's or but's. you explained the fight you'd had with him, the way he'd cornered you in the hallway, the dance lesson incident, the distance in the greenhouse while you treated his wound, every moment where his cold exterior had cracked, even just slightly.

and, embarrassingly, you ended up praising him more than you intended.

"he's strict." you said quietly, gaze drifting out the window, "but he's… reliable. and he listens. even when i'm... stubborn. and he— he didn't tell my parents I snuck out, wonyoung. he actually protected me from getting punished. and he's just... different. i don't know how to explain it."

when you finally looked away from the window, wonyoung was staring at you, knowingly and dangerously amused.

"what?" you blinked.

a slow smile spread across her face.

"y/n." she said sweetly, "are you… crushing on your knight?"

you instantly choked on air. "W-WH—NO?!" your voice cracked. "why would you—why—no!"

wonyoung raised a brow. "so the intense staring… the shy little smiles… the way your ears get pink when you talk about him—"

"they do not get pink—"

"and the way you've been watching the training grounds this whole time." she added, gesturing with her teacup toward the window. "and the way you said 'he's just different' with that dreamy little sigh—"

"i did not sigh!"

"uh-huh."

you glared at her with all the dignity a princess should possess… which, unfortunately, was not much at this moment. "i don't like him." you insisted, crossing your arms. "he's… frustrating. and cold. and bossy. and—"

"downright dashing?" she offered, lips curling.

"no!" you sputtered. "i mean—he's aesthetically—well, yes—but that's not—he's... i'm not—!"

she leaned back smugly, sipping her tea again. "whatever you say, princess."

you turned back to the window, cheeks burning.

and that's when wonyoung decided to go for the kill.

"hmm." she hummed, tilting her head as she openly eyed sunghoon's figure outside. "he is quite handsome, isn't he? look at his shoulders. and his back. and — oh my — his arms. i didn't expect him to be that built. no wonder they call him the red knight… i'd let him ruin me too—"

"wonyoung!"

"whatttttt?" she asked innocently. "you mean you don't notice how attractive he is? that jawline? that ridiculously tiny waist?"

"s-stop talking!"

but the more she spoke… the more you couldn't not look.

sunghoon was down there, sparring with two soldiers at once, sweat dampening his hair, jaw set firmly in concentration. every movement was elegant, lethal, powerful and unwavering. and when he paused to correct a soldier's stance, placing a firm hand on the man's shoulder and surely speaking in that low, rumbling voice you'd grown used to—

your breath stuttered and your fingers curled against the windowsill.

your heart... it pounded so suddenly and so intensely that you froze.

wonyoung's voice softened, knowingly this time.

"you see it now, don't you?"

you swallowed hard. all the moments you you tried to brushed off… his closeness that night in the hallway, his steady hands when he guided you in the dance, the way he watched you during lessons, his expression that changed just slightly only for you.

and the way you were changing around him.

you pressed a hand to your chest.

"oh." you whispered.

wonyoung grinned. "oh?" she teased. "what's that sound? realization? acceptance? emotional growth?"

you hid your face in your hands, mortified.

"i think..." you admitted in a tiny, horrified voice, "i might—maybe—possibly—like him."

wonyoung squealed, clapping her hands. "i knew it!"

now completely aware of what your heart had already decided many, many days ago, you slump back into the armchair, hands pressed to your burning face.

"oh my god, wonyoung… what am i supposed to do now?" you half–whisper, half–wail, sounding like someone whose entire world has been turned upside down by one stupidly handsome knight.

wonyoung beams like this is the best entertainment she's had all year. "what do you mean what?" she scoots closer, skirts rustling. "you indulge in it, obviously. what's the harm? he's gorgeous, he's loyal to you, he follows you around like a broody puppy, and honestly—i would've jumped his bones by now."

"wonyoung." you choke on nothing but pure mortification.

she shrugs innocently, sipping her tea. "what? am i wrong?"

you bury your face in your hands again, groaning. "i can't just… just do something about this. i don't know what i'm doing— i've never— he's—”

"you're a princess y/n." she cuts in, flicking your forehead with a grin. "act like one. use that pretty face, your charm, your… honestly, let's be real, that body of yours is a weapon. does he look like he's seen heaven when he looks at you?"

you freeze. "h-he doesn't look at me like that!"

"oh i bet he does." she says with a laugh. "when he thinks you're not paying attention. he's probably terrible at hiding it too."

you think of his cheeks that go red and you want the castle floor to swallow you whole. "i can't believe this…"

wonyoung leans in, voice dropping conspiratorially. "does he reciprocate at all? anything? or are you completely hopeless?"

you fiddle with your cup, thinking back. "i mean… he does get flustered. easily. like… very easily. especially when it matters."

wonyoung nearly screams. "oh that is gold. he's totally inexperienced then."

"huh??"

she nods like she has cracked the code of the universe. "that man has never kissed anyone in his life."

you nearly spit your tea. "YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THAT—"

wonyoung gestures out the window dramatically. "look at him! he's all stiff and disciplined and brooding and built like some marble statue—he looks like sex on two legs but i promise you, he's absolutely clueless. knight training doesn't include flirting lessons you know."

you press a hand to your chest, dying slowly. "wonyoung, please— i can't breathe—"

she grabs your shoulders, shaking you lightly. "be brave! do something! tease him a little! see how he reacts! what's the worst that could happen? he'll just turn red like a tomato and malfunction. honestly? i'd kill to see that up close."

you take in her words… slowly and painfully.

you do have a crush. a very real one. and sunghoon…

sunghoon who blushes at your compliments. sunghoon who gets flustered when you touch him. sunghoon who puts himself between you and danger without hesitation. sunghoon who slow danced with you in the hallway like he was afraid you'd vanish.

you swallow.

"i… i don't know if i can." you murmur shyly.

"you can." wonyoung says, patting your cheek. "and you should. it doesn't hurt to try, does it?"

you stare down at your hands. you feel a flurry of emotions: mortified, overwhelmed, but… not unhappy. and for the first time, you wonder... maybe she's right.

wonyoung rises from her seat with a bright smile, smoothing her elegant skirts. "alright, i should head back before my mother starts doubting that i'm actually here with you and instead assumes i've run off with a stable boy again."

you snort. "you did that once."

"and it was worth it." she tosses her hair proudly.

you shake your head, amused, but the warmth in your chest is real. she steps closer, takes both your hands, and squeezes. "visit me next." she says, sincerity peeking through her usual theatrics. "once this nomad disaster is over. i mean it."

you smile at her softly. "i'll come. i promise."

"good." she loops her arm through yours, practically dragging you toward the library doors. "now come on." she chirps, "escort me to my carriage."

you roll your eyes but smile, linking your arm through hers as you both giggle and step out of the warm, quiet sanctuary of the library.

but the moment you cross the threshold, the change is immediate.

the hallway swallows you in silence. not peaceful silence. unnatural silence.

the usual sounds are missing. no shuffling of feet, no quiet chatter of maids, no clinking of trays, no butler arguing with knights leaving muddy footprints in the halls, not even the usual chirping of birds from the open windows. even the bright blue sky now seemed to be shy, dark clouds stretching longer than they should.

your steps grow slower. you glance around.

"where... is everyone?" wonyoung questions, her voice sounding far too loud for the empty corridor.

you stop walking too, brows knitting distrustfully as you survey the quiet. "this is... strange. this wing is always busy at this hour."

your heartbeat picks up, a restless, uneasy pattering inside your chest. sunghoon never leaves you without someone. he was meticulous. obsessively so. the knight he assigned should've been right by the door.

but there's no one.

you open your mouth to call for someone, anyone... but a sharp sound cuts through the hall.

footsteps.

one pair, then two more, heavy and fast, echoing like approaching thunder.

the hairs on the back of your neck rise as you turn.

down the far end of the hallway, three figures appear. silhouettes at first, moving with a speed and purpose that make your stomach clench. as they get closer, you notice how wrong they look against the refined halls of your home. their clothes are darker, layered with rough leather and mismatched fabrics, a style that has no place within castle walls. their shoulders are broad, steps confident, grins wide and twisted like they already know something terrible.

your breath catches.

"who… are they?" wonyoung asks, a look of unease falling on her features, but you barely hear her.

because as they stomp closer, all the details come into view like pieces of a nightmare falling into place.

the crude axes strapped to their sides, jagged daggers hanging from belts, and the heavy boots leaving faint smears on the polished stone.

and...

the blood.

it stains their hands, splattered across their sleeves, smeared at the edges of their tunics. not dried, but fresh. deep red. recent.

your stomach flips painfully.

the knight. the one assigned to you. they must have—

you swallow hard, a tremor running down your spine.

these men… these aren't castle guards. they aren't servants. their clothing and weapons unmistakable.

nomads.

inside your home.

inside your castle.

your pulse skyrockets so loud you hear it in your ears. the nearest man lifts his chin when your eyes meet his, a slow, hungry smile crawling across his dirt-streaked face as if he recognizes you — as if he's been looking for you.

you stagger back a step.

"wonyoung." you breathe, barely managing the sound, "we have to go. now."

she stares for a heartbeat too long — until her gaze lands on the blood dripping from the man's fingers.

her face drains of color.

"oh my god." she whispers. "th-they're—"

"run!" you scream, grabbing her wrist so hard she gasps.

the two of you bolt down the hallway. your skirts flying, slippers slamming against the stone and hearts pounding wildly as the nomads behind you break into a full vicious sprint, their boots hammering against the floor like something out of a nightmare determined to catch you.

your lungs burn as you and wonyoung sprint through the corridor, the slap of your footsteps drowned beneath the guttural shouts behind you. the nomads' boots hit the stone in chaotic violent rhythm, faster than yours, heavier than yours, getting closer with every second.

their breathless laughter echoes down the hall, twisted and eager, like the hunt thrills them.

"don't look back!" you gasp, even though you're already doing so, catching a glimpse of one of them rounding the corner, eyes locked onto you like prey.

wonyoung's grip on your hand trembles as she pushes herself to run faster. "i'm not! but they're— oh my god—!"

you both round another corner, skirts snagging on your legs, hearts slamming painfully against your ribs. the castle, once familiar and safe, feels like a maze designed to trap you.

another turn. another stretch of hallway.

and then you see it.

you skid to a halt so abruptly that wonyoung yanks forward, nearly falling.

the hallway ahead is littered.

bodies.

maids sprawled against walls, baskets overturned, tea trays shattered. knights collapsed with swords still half-drawn, armor cut open, blood staining the once pristine stones.

the metallic scent hits you like a slap.

"no. no no no—" wonyoung claps her hand over her mouth, eyes filling with horror.

your breath stutters out of you in a choked sob as you stumble back, staring at the horrifying scene.

one of the knights stirs. a weak, desperate groan escaping him.

you whip around, eyes wide and your blood freezes solid in your veins.

"jungwon—?"

he lies slumped against the wall, one hand pressed hard over a deep gash in his side, blood seeping between his fingers. his breathing is ragged, eyelids struggling to stay open.

but when he recognizes you, panic flashes across his face.

"pr-princess." he wheezes, voice cracking as he tries to straighten. "go... go! you have to run— you can't... hah... can't be here—"

his arm gives out and he collapses again, coughing blood.

your throat tightens painfully.

"jungwon." you cried out, knees buckling as you drop beside him. your shaking hands hover uselessly in the air, terrified to touch yet terrified not to. "you... you're hurt—!"

"don't worry about me…" he grits out, eyes squeezing shut. "they're coming after you. please— please run."

the footsteps behind you grow louder, turning the corner.

wonyoung screams, dragging at your sleeve. "we have to go! we have to go now!"

but you stare at jungwon. at the boy you've known for years, the kind knight who always greeted you with a smile, who once secretly brought you pastries from the kitchens.

you can't leave him. you won’t.

your jaw clenches, something wild rising in your chest.

"wonyoung... go."

she stares at you, horrified. "what?! no! absolutely not! i'm not leaving you!"

"you have to!" you cry, voice cracking. "you need to get help. the guards, the generals, anyone!! sunghoon— the soldiers— someone!!"

"i'm not leaving you alone!" she cries again, grabbing your arms.

"wonyoung, please!" tears sting your eyes. "i can't leave him alone! he— jungwon will die. you have to go! you're faster than me. go!"

the nomads shouts grow louder and closer. a harsh, roaring wave approaching.

jungwon coughs weakly, tugging at your skirt. "princess… please. don't let them catch you."

"go wonyoung!!" you scream, voice breaking.

wonyoung's face crumples in fear. fear for you, fear for herself, fear for what she knows is the right choice.

and then, with a hesitant choked sob she turns and runs, leaving you kneeling beside jungwon as the enemies close in, her heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else.

the three nomads round the corner, their boots clanging against the stone floor, echoing down the empty hallways like a warning bell. their sneers are sharp, cruel, and their eyes glint with bloodlust. the foul stench of smoke and iron clings to them, and the sight alone makes your stomach churn.

you step forward instinctively, shaky legs threatening to buckle, positioning yourself over jungwon as best you can. "leave!" you shout, your voice trembling but carrying all the authority you can muster. "leave now, or there will be consequences! i-i swear—"

but they laugh, low and guttural, the sound twisting into a chilling echo off the stone walls. they don't even slow their approach. each step they take feels heavier than the last, the air thickening with their menace.

"leave." you command once more, though your voice trembles. "t‑turn around now. this is your only warning!"

the one in the middle laughs. a horrible, choked sound that rattles the air.

"warning?" he echoes, stepping forward. "from little princess?"

jungwon pulls weakly at your skirt again from behind, voice hoarse and broken. "princess please. j‑just go—"

you ignore him.

sharp and scalding anger surges through your fear.

"you… you will pay." you spit, fury rising despite the terror coiling in your chest. "for harming my people, for coming into my castle!"

one of them tilts his head, dark eyes scanning you as if you were a delicate creature caught in a trap. his broken speak drips like venom from his mouth. "beautiful princess. so small… so soft…" he taunts, voice rough and mocking. the words crawl along your skin, making the hair on your arms rise.

you swallow hard, gripping at your skirts as your heart hammers in your chest. "w-what do you want?" you demand, voice sharp now despite your fear. "what will make you leave? tell me, or you'll regret it!"

the leader, the tallest of the three, smirks, stepping closer. the point of his dagger glints even in the dim hallway. "we take princess. hostage… ransom… power." he says slowly, each word deliberate, meant to unsettle you.

your breath catches. your chest tightens. hostage? you? the thought makes your knees feel like jelly, but you refuse to give in. your hands clench into fists, and you square your shoulders, staning over jungwon as best you can.

the injured knight tries to push himself upright, groaning in agony. "no... d‑don't touch her!" he can barely lift his head, yet he still tries to reach for his fallen sword.

the nomads laugh and exchange a glance, smirking at each other as though amused by your defiance, and begin to close the distance. the hallway feels impossibly narrow now, the stone walls pressing in as your world shrinks down to the three monstrous figures stalking toward you. their intent clear, their menace undeniable.

jungwon struggles to his feet, determination painted across his pale, bloodied face. with the last of his strength, he lunges toward the closest nomad, trying to swing his weapon despite the pain tearing through his side but it's no use. one swift, merciless kick sends him sprawling to the cold stone floor, the air knocked from his lungs. he groans, clutching his side, eyes flicking desperately toward you.

"princess!" he croaks, voice strained and ragged, just as the nomads converge.

your heart thunders as you try to step back, but before you can even reach for an escape, grubby blood-streaked hands wrap around you. one of them yanks you forward, and in a heartbeat, you're lifted over a broad shoulder, the ground slipping away beneath your feet.

"no!" you scream, struggling, kicking, trying to free yourself, but their grip is iron. panic swells in your chest like a storm, suffocating and immediate.

behind you, jungwon's world tilts violently as darkness presses against him. his last vision is of your terrified eyes, wide and shimmering with unshed tears. he gasps, chokes, and then collapses on the stone floor.

further down the castle corridors, wonyoung skids to a stop, heart hammering in her chest. she takes in the chaos around her. maids running, knights shouting, doors swinging open and closed as she yells at the top of her lungs, her voice cutting through the panic like a blade.

"help! there's been an attack! the princess! she's in danger!"

her words draw every eye. servants freeze mid-step, knights stiffen, and for a moment the castle seems to hold its breath. she barely has time to catch it all in, but she continues, her voice rapid and urgent, summarizing the horrors she'd just witnessed. the bloodied halls, the bodies of the knights and maids, the nomads chasing the princess and that jungwon injured.

"someone get sir park! now! h-he has to save her!"

nearby knights exchange alarmed glances, instantly springing into action. the urgency in her voice leaves no room for hesitation. commands ripple down the hall, armor clanking as they sprint toward the training grounds. a senior knight shouts an order, voice sharp and commanding.

"notify sir park at once! take no delays! and someone report to the king and queen this instant!"

the butlers nearby, realizing the gravity, hurry to usher wonyoung away toward a safer wing of the castle. she hesitates, glancing back down the corridor as panic twists in her stomach. she tugs at their hands, protesting, but is gently yet firmly guided to safety.

outside, the sun was now covered by dark clouds, the telltale signs that it was about to rain and casting long shadows over the training grounds.

sunghoon's focus had been absolute. each movement watched over with a focused look as he guided soldiers with a calm authority that left no room for mistakes. sweat traced lines down his forehead, muscles taut beneath his fitted shirt, eyes scanning every movement with the sharpness of a hawk.

then — a commotion, sharp and urgent, tore through the rhythmic sounds of practice. a knight came barreling across the training field, his boots pounding the stone path. his eyes were wide with panic and his chest heaving.

"sir park!" he shouted, voice raw with fear. "the castle! i-it's been breached and nomads are inside! the p-princess is in danger!"

sunghoon's body froze mid-step. the air seemed to constrict around him as the words sank in, disbelief flashing across his features before it was overtaken by a storm of anger. his jaw tightened so hard the muscles in his neck stood out.

"what... did you say?"

the knight felt a chill go up his spine and he felt himself momentarily freeze up. his breathing hitched as sunghoon turned to look over his shoulder at him.

his voice was iced. "repeat. slowly. and don't leave out a single detail."

the knight's stammering rushed through the horrors — the bloodied hallways, the fallen maids and soldiers, the three nomads that had somehow snuck in, jungwon being hurt and how you were in immediate danger.

sunghoon's hands curled into fists, veins stark along his forearms as the grip he had on his sword tightened. his breath come in measured, but shook when released. every inch of him screaming something horrifying. the soldiers around him froze mid-drill, sensing the shift. the quiet before a storm.

he growled under his breath, fire blazing in his dark eyes. "how dare they." the red knight was angry, and the very air seemed to hum with it.

he snapped his head to the side to look at the group he was just training and snapped, "you all come with me now!"

the knights immediately yelled out a, "yes sir!" and sunghoon turned to look back at the castle. his blood began to boil.

he took off at a measured, terrifyingly quick pace toward the castle, each step purposeful, every motion radiating an intensity as the group of knights too ran behind him.

he didn't even glance at anyone else because his entire world had narrowed to the threat inside the castle walls. his lips pressed into a thin, cold line and eyes flashing a dangerous glint.

the doors to the castle slammed open with the force of a tempest as sunghoon stormed in, the echo of his boots and the clatter of armor announcing a predator in pursuit. behind him, a squad of knights scrambled, their swords drawn, shields at the ready. every instinct screaming desperately as he scanned the halls, taking in every flicker of movement and every sound of scuffing footstep.

"split up! search every corridor. no one goes alone. keep eyes sharp and ears sharper!" he barked. his dark eyes were unrelenting, piercing through the dim light of the castle corridors. "you!" he yelled, pointing to a younger knight at his side. "with me. stay close. don't leave my side for a second!"

the red knight moved like liquid steel, every step precise, calculated, yet terrifyingly swift. he was a storm contained in human form, his aura alone bending the air around him, making the other knights instinctively step back before giving a salute and spreading out, giving him room to dominate the hallways. their yells echoed faintly, but he ignored it, focusing on the hallways ahead and the scent of blood, the faint scuff of hurried boots fading away behind him.

they rounded a corner and sunghoon's gaze fell on a figure slumped against the wall. his breath hitched slightly. not out of fear, but a tight coil of concern snapping in his chest.

jungwon.

the sight of his comrade, passed out and bloodied, slumped against the wall with his wounds staining his shirt. it made something sharp twist inside sunghoon and his blood run ice-cold.

he didn't hesitate. he dropped to his knees, one hand gripping jungwon's shoulder, shaking him lightly but firmly. "jungwon! hey, wake up! are you all right? do you know where she—where the princess went?” his voice carried a fierce edge that made even the passing shadows of the corridor seem to shrink.

jungwon's eyes fluttered open but only barely, pain and exhaustion etched into his features. he coughed, blood trickling at the corner of his mouth. "th-they… took her t-to the n-north wing… the corridor down there." he groaned, pressing a hand to his side and weekly pointing down the corridor with his other hand.

sunghoon's jaw clenched, knuckles whitening around jungwon's shoulder. "stay with me jungwon." he said sharply. his eyes, dark and merciless, darted toward the knight following him. "take him. get him treated. now!" the knight nodded immediately, hoisting jungwon carefully onto his shoulders and sprinting toward the infirmary with astonishing speed.

sunghoon rose to his feet, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword, even though he didn't draw it yet. his gaze swept the corridor, cold and precise, analyzing every shadow, every sound, every hint of intrusion. the castle was his hunting ground now, and he moved with the deadly confidence of a predator who knew the prey would not escape.

he followed the path jungwon had indicated, every step a silent promise of lethal retribution. banners fluttered faintly in the corridor's draft, tapestries swayed, but nothing drew his attention except the trail of chaos. the scuff marks, the overturned candlesticks, a faint smear of blood, subtle but enough for him to track the intruders' path.

he paused at the entrance to a corridor where the trail went cold. his senses sharpened to a razor edge. every heartbeat in the hallway seemed audible. then, a muffled whimper caught his attention. he crouched, listening intently, scanning the shadows. the nomads were near. too near.

then, he sprinted down the hallway with a fluid motion, moving like a blur, limbs tight with controlled power. he didn't slow. each step brought him closer to you, the princess who had unknowingly become the center of his world, the reason his heart and mind had sharpened into this lethal focus.

as the corridor opened up to the armory wing, he spotted the three intruders clustered near a shadowed doorway, your figure in one of their grasps struggling and terrified. sunghoon's breath steadied, his jaw set, and a low, dangerous hiss escaped him. every muscle coiled, ready to strike, radiating a terrifying aura that froze even the most hardened of the intruders for a split second.

"hands off the princess." his voice growled hard and cold, carrying through the hall with the weight of death itself. the intruders turned, their sneers faltering as the full measure of sunghoon's presence hit them. he didn't charge immediately, the sheer certainty of his intent was a weapon of its own.

the three nomads stiffened at the sight of sunghoon, but only for a breath. once they realized he stood alone and that it was just him with no soldiers in sight, they began to exchange glances, their cocky confidence slithering back into place like oil over water.

they didn't know who he was. didn't know what they were standing in front of. not a knight, not a commander... but a weapon forged for moments exactly like this.

their mistake.

the one holding you tightened his grip on your arm, pulling you back just a fraction as if showing off his claim. the other two shifted their positions, starting to flank him, smirking as though they thought they had the upper hand.

sunghoon's glare sharpened like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath.

"i'll say it once more." he growled, voice low and lethal, each word vibrating through the corridor like a warning before a storm breaks. "let. her. go."

his eyes flicked to yours just for a heartbeat to check if you were hurt, but more importantly, to anchor himself when anger was threatening to split him open.

and your tear-streaked face, trembling but defiant, nearly snapped the last thread holding him together.

he looked back at the nomads. and the fury in his eyes could've turned iron molten.

the nomads burst out laughing. the sound echoed ugly through the hall.

"no ransom?" one sneered, his accent thick and his smile stained with blood. "we no go without ransom."

"princess come with us." the second added, chuckling as he nudged the one holding you. "worth big money. big power."

sunghoon's nostrils flared. the muscles in his forearm twitched, his hand itching toward his sword.

then... the moment that broke something in him.

the nomad restraining you dragged a grimy finger up your cheek, caressing your skin with a slow, filthy stroke meant only to taunt sunghoon. meant to show dominance. meant to mock the helplessness of a kingdom's daughter under their touch.

you flinched violently, choking on a whimper as you tried to twist away, but his grip only tightened. his fingers dug into your jaw to force your head back toward him. your breath hitched, fear shining unmistakably in your eyes.

sunghoon's world narrowed into a tunnel. he didn't just feel fury, he became it. the kind that silenced sound and thickened the air. the kind that promised violence so absolute it bordered on divine.

his pupils dilated to a cold, predatory black and the vein in his temple throbbed. every muscle in his body coiled so tightly it looked like even breathing had become a threat to those in front of him.

but he didn't move, not yet. not until he was sure the strike would be fatal.

"remove your hand from her." he said quietly. so quietly that the nomads paused.

his voice wasn't yelling anymore. it was worse. the kind of voice men heard in their nightmares right before they died.

the nomad smirked, brushing his finger slowly down your jawline as though testing the limits of sunghoon's restraint.

"pretty princess." he mocked crudely. "ours now."

sunghoon's vision flashed white.

you saw it — the moment the last shred of reason snapped, what looked to be the calm before the storm ended, the moment the red knight stopped being a protector and became something much, much more dangerous.

his lips curled back just enough to show the barest hint of teeth.

"you made a mistake." sunghoon whispered, every word vibrating with the promise of violence. "a mistake i will not allow you to walk away from."

the nomads exchanged glances, a smug, oozing confidence passing between them like a shared joke. they had the look of men who believed fate itself tilted in their favor. men who had killed without consequence, who thought a single knight, regardless of rank and whoever he was, would cower before their numbers. one of them, broad-shouldered and scarred across the brow, let out a dark chuckle, rolling his neck as he circled slightly to sunghoon's right.

"one of you. three of us." he said, his thick accent dragging over the words, as if the situation were laughably simple.

the second nomad, wiry and twitchy, brandished his blade and tapped its edge against the stone floor, letting the metallic scrape echo mockingly through the corridor. "you fight all?" he sneered. "alone?"

the third — the one gripping you — tightened his arm around your torso, dragging you in closer so sunghoon could see just how helpless you were in their grasp. his breath reeked of blood and stale sweat, and you recoiled, turning your head away with another whimper. his hand slid up your side, deliberately slow, deliberately taunting, until a grimy finger grazed your cheek in a revolting parody of tenderness.

sunghoon's expression visibly fractured subtly and dangerously.

"too late." the nomad murmured, baring his teeth in a grin. "princess now ours."

you felt your stomach drop as you shook your head desperately, struggling against his hold even as fear locked your limbs. your eyes found sunghoon's for a brief, piercing second that glistened with terror but also trust.

trust that he would do something. trust that he would get to you.

something inside sunghoon clicked at that.

he straightened slowly, as if shedding the last trace of restraint from his body. his jaw flexed, sharp and unyielding. his gaze, once merely cold, transformed into something that made the air itself seem to contract. an intensity so focused it bordered on inhuman.

when he finally spoke, his voice slid across the hall like the edge of a blade dragged over marble.

"you think you've already won?"

the laughter from the nomads faltered. the one circling him paused mid-step. even the one holding you seemed to stiffen slightly, his grip faltering for the briefest moment.

sunghoon stepped forward. just a single step reverberating with a weight none of them could ignore.

"you think numbers matter." he continued, his tone low and resonant, as if the castle itself were listening. "that having three against one makes you untouchable."

his hand lowered deliberately to the hilt of his sword, merely resting there, a silent declaration of confidence. the torches lining the corridor flickered as though stirred by some unseen shift in the atmosphere.

"you truly have no idea." he said, eyes narrowing with a mixture of contempt and chilling amusement, "who you're standing in front of."

the men exchanged looks. their earlier arrogance met the first cracks of uncertainty. their weapons lowered just a fraction, not out of choice, but instinct.

and sunghoon saw it. he tilted his head slightly, almost pityingly.

his entire posture changed. the transition was fluid but unmistakable, like watching a sheathed predator reveal the sharp glint of its claws. his stance lowered by a hair, weight settling into his heels, core tightening. the calm that rolled off him was not the calm of a man at peace, but the stillness before a storm breaks. quiet, lethal, and suffocating in its promise.

the air grew heavier, as if gravity itself bent around him. you felt it. the nomads felt it.

sunghoon's gaze settled on the man holding you, and a small, slow breath escaped him, one that sounded almost like resignation. or warning.

"you wanted to know who I am?" he said.

then his eyes sharpened, dark and merciless.

"let me enlighten you."

the corridor fell unnervingly silent for half a heartbeat until finally sunghoon moved. and impossibly fast at that.

his body blurred in a controlled burst of power, his foot slamming into the stone floor with enough force to crack the surface beneath him. the sound echoed like a cannon blast, startling the nomads out of their arrogance.

the first nomad, broad-shouldered and overconfident, lunged at him, dagger aimed straight for the chest. sunghoon didn't flinch. he stepped slightly off-line, hand shooting up in a motion so subtle it almost looked lazy, and snapped the man's wrist backward. a sharp crack echoed, making the nomad howl in pain, his dagger clattering uselessly to the stone floor.

sunghoon's knee met the man's abdomen in the same motion, driving the breath from him, and with one controlled shove, sent him careening into the wall. the impact reverberated through the corridor like a drumbeat, a warning to the others.

"one."

the second guy, wiry but fast, charged, his teeth bared in a snarl. he thought he could overwhelm sunghoon with sheer speed.

he was wrong.

sunghoon shifted his weight effortlessly, pivoting on his heel, and the nomad's axe barely grazed his shoulder. sunghoon's hand shot out, grabbing the man by the wrist and elbow simultaneously, twisting with precision honed from years of sparring with men twice his size.

the man's arm bent unnaturally, a scream tearing from his throat, and sunghoon followed with a brutal, sharp strike of his knee to the sternum.

the nomad folded, hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud, but sunghoon didn't pause. he spun him onto his stomach, pressed his boot against the man's back, and whispered coldly into his ear,

"two."

the third nomad who was holding you began to panic. you felt his grip tighten painfully around your waist as he jerked backward, dragging you behind him like a living shield, his dagger pressing against your ribs. his heart was pounding so hard you could feel it through his clothes.

"stay back!" he yelled, voice cracking in terror. "stay back or she dies!"

sunghoon stilled, his breathing deep and controlled, chest rising and falling. he lifted one hand, a gesture that should've been disarming, but somehow made the air feel even more dangerous and pointed at the last nomad, almost threateningly saying 'you're next'.

your captor took another shaky step back, feet dragging clumsily. his blade pressed harder against your side, enough to sting.

"don't come closer! d-don't move!"

sunghoon's gaze dropped to the sword at your ribs and then to your face, your eyes wide and wet, begging without words.

his jaw flexed tighter once and you felt something shift in the air again. deeper... darker... as if the walls themselves sensed the fury he was holding back.

when he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it forced the nomad to listen.

"you hurt her," he murmured. "even by accident… and you won't leave this hall alive."

your captor bared his teeth. "she hostage! she belong—"

he didn't finish because sunghoon vanished. one blink, and he was simply gone from where he stood.

you didn't see him move. you only felt the sudden rush of air, the swirl of displaced wind as he reappeared behind the nomad. one hand already closing around the man's forearm, the other gripping the back of his neck with crushing force.

your captor froze, feeling ice sinking into his bones

sunghoon leaned in, voice quiet, lethal, and steady.

"let her go."

the nomad trembled violently, but before he could respond, sunghoon twisted his arm, just enough to loosen his grip on you. you stumbled forward but sunghoon reached out to grab you and pulled you around the nomad and towards him, making you fall into his chest. his arm immediately swept around your waist to stabilize you.

the nomad, freed of his hostage but not of sunghoon's grasp, tried to swing wildly with his remaining hand. but sunghoon didn't spare him a glance. without shifting his stance or releasing you, he kicked backward — a brutal, powerful heel thrust directly into the man's sternum.

the nomad flew. actually flew as his body slammed into a decorative pot across the hall, sending porcelain clattering loudly as he crumpled beneath it and cutting into his skin.

sunghoon's arm tightened around your waist, stabilizing you, shielding you, even as his dark eyes never left the first two nomads. he inhaled sharply, the adrenaline vibrating through him like a live wire.

they tried to recover, tried to flank him, but sunghoon was already moving. he gave your waist a frim squeeze before letting you go. he was everywhere and nowhere, a storm contained in human form. one nomad tried to throw a punch but sunghoon caught the arm midair, twisting it with bone-snapping precision. another attempted to draw a knife from his belt but a harsh strike of the elbow across the jaw sent him crumpling into the wall.

he moved with terrifying efficiency, each action deliberate, each strike a combination of skill, rage, and calculated control. the corridor echoed with the grunts of pain, the scuffs of boots against stone, and the metallic clang of discarded weapons. it was over almost as soon as it began, yet the space seemed thick with every ounce of violence, every measure of his ferocity.

sunghoon finally stood, towering over the defeated, groaning nomads, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

he turned slowly to look at you, his expression impossibly sharp, yet there was something softer in the shadow of his eyes — relief, worry, care.

for a long moment, neither of you moved. then, you choked out a sob and sunghoon snapped out of it, marching over to you. he lowered his head towards you when he came closer, grabbing your forearms as his eyes scanned your face and body, checking for wounds.

"did they hurt you?" he asked, voice rougher than you'd ever heard it.

you swallowed hard, shaking your head, though your voice cracked when you tried to speak. "i-i—"

he didn't let you finish. instead he pulled you in fully. not gently, not delicately. not like the slow dance in the hallway days before. this was instinctive, fierce, a protective hold born from the terror of almost losing you. his arm wrapped around your upper back, the other cupping the back of your head as he pressed you into him, chest heaving with lingering fury.

your breath hitched. you had never felt him tremble before.

but he was trembling now. not with fear, but with the aftershocks of knowing how close he'd have been to arriving too late.

"you're safe." he muttered into your hair, his voice low, tight, as if trying to convince himself. "you're safe… i've got you."

you clutched at him instinctively, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as your own body sagged with delayed terror.

the aftershocks of adrenaline buzzed through both of you, a thick, tangible energy hanging in the quiet corridor. you clung to him, pressing into his chest, feeling the hard plane of his body, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. it should have been grounding, comforting… yet there was a brittle edge to the moment, a residual tension from the violence that had just erupted.

you let out a soft, involuntary whimper, and sunghoon's head snapped up at the sound. his eyes, dark and stormy, immediately swept over you.

and then he saw it.

a thin line of red, staining the fabric of your dress at your waist.

"no…" he muttered, voice low, thick with disbelief and horror. he was on you in an instant, hands gentle but unyielding as he cupped your face, eyes scanning every inch of your skin with frantic precision. "princess… this—this can't be… y-your hurt!"."

your vision blurred as the adrenaline drained from your body, leaving your limbs heavy, your stomach lurching. your hands clutched at his chest weakly as your knees threatened to buckle. "i'm… okay…" you tried to murmur, voice faint and shaking.

sunghoon didn't allow it. he pressed a hand firmly to the cut, just above the fabric of your dress, his fingers steadying you. his other hand stayed on your cheek, thumb brushing lightly across your temple as if to anchor you to him, as if sheer force of will could keep you upright. his eyes, usually so controlled and unreadable, were wide with fear and disbelief.

"hey." he said, his tone softer now, almost strangled, roughened by concern. "look at me! stay with me. breathe."

you tried to nod, but your vision danced, edges of light fracturing into the stone corridors as your strength ebbed. it hit you then, the lingering fear, the toll of the fight, and the sheer terror of what could have happened. your grip on him slackened, and you felt yourself sway.

"y/n…" sunghoon growled under his breath, his body stiffening as he wrapped his arms around you completely, supporting every ounce of your weight. "you're safe now, you hear me? i'm here." he pressed his forehead to yours, breaths ragged, and for the first time you caught a flicker of the man beneath the armor — raw, unrestrained panic for your safety.

just as your consciousness began to flicker at the edges, heavy and soft, the clamor of boots echoed through the corridor. the rest of the knights arrived in a flurry, catching sight of the aftermath: the bodies of the incapacitated nomads, the broken weapons, the chaos of the fight frozen in the hallway.

"tie them!" sunghoon barked sharply, voice slicing through the dim air like a blade. "restrain them, now! and get the medics here. the princess is hurt!"

he didn't let go of you as the knights scrambled, moving with the mechanical precision of a trained army. you could barely focus on the commotion around you. all that registered was the closeness of him, the strength in his arms, the low rumble of his voice so close to your ear.

"i enjoyed dancing with you."

sunghoon's heart stuttered and he bit his bottom lip hard enough that it almost drew blood.

"you won't get hurt again." he hissed, jaw tight, eyes blazing as he shifted slightly to shield you even as the knights worked. "i swear my life on it. my life, princess, do you hear me? no one—no one—will touch you again."

you tried to form words, to reassure him, but your lips trembled and the sentences refused to come out. his grip softened fractionally, just enough to let you lean into him, still upright yet cradled, his concern radiating in palpable waves.

he glanced once toward the bound nomads, cold fury still evident, before his gaze returned to you, scanning every inch of your face, your eyes, your breathing. his sharp intake of breath punctuated the corridor as though the world itself had narrowed to this one moment, this one responsibility he refused to relinquish.

your eyelids fluttered again, and this time you felt the edge of unconsciousness tugging at you. sunghoon's hand came up to tilt your chin slightly, forcing your eyes to meet his even as your strength waned. "stay with me." he ordered, low and insistent, the steel in his tone mingling with a brittle undercurrent of fear. "you hear me? stay with me."

your head rested against his shoulder, trembling, and your chest rose and fell unevenly. you could barely see the movements of the knights behind him, could barely register the sound of their organized chaos, the clanking of armor, the cries of the subdued intruders. all that existed in the moment was him. his dark eyes, sharp with intensity, softened only in the way of someone who would do anything to keep you alive.

the adrenaline of near-loss faded into your veins, leaving weakness but also an unexpected warmth. sunghoon's presence was a tether, a lifeline, a shield he refused to relinquish even for a heartbeat. you felt the weight of everything that had happened — the terror, the fight, the aftermath — and yet there was an unspoken promise in the way he held you. unyielding, unstoppable, but most importantly, utterly resolute.

and the last thing you saw before the world threatened to tip into darkness was that face: furrowed brow, clenched jaw, dark eyes flashing with worry, and the unshakable declaration in every line of him that he would never let this happen again.

"you're safe," he repeated, the words almost a growl. "i swear it. not a scratch. not a hair. not again. i will protect you, princess… i swear it with my life."

and then, finally, as your vision dimmed, those words became the last anchor to reality you clung to.

you groaned softly, blinking against the soft morning light that crept through the curtains. your body ached in the familiar ways of waking, but there was something… different. a faint tug at your side, subtle yet insistent, made your chest tighten as fragments of last night came rushing back. the chaos, the sounds, the weight of fear, and the way his presence had dominated every corner of your awareness.

carefully, as if every movement might shatter the fragile hold on yourself, you pushed the blankets aside. the soft fabric pooled at your your lower waist, and the cool air brushed against your skin. your fingers trembled slightly as you lifted the soft night shirt you had been changed into, revealing the neat bandage wrapped snugly around your waist.

a small, involuntary hitch of breath escaped your lips. the bandage a silent reminder of everything. of the fight, the fear, the hands that had pulled you to safety, and the shadow of anger that had followed him.

and then you became aware of a presence, subtle but undeniable.

your head turned, slowly, cautiously, and there he was. a few feet away, seated on a chair just far enough that the space between you felt like a chasm, yet close enough that the air seemed charged with tension. he was still crouched slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped around the hilt of his unsheathed sword. his dark eyes were hidden beneath the sweep of his hair, and though he didn't look at you, the sharp line of his jaw and the tight set of his shoulders spoke volumes. every inch of him radiated a controlled storm contained within a human frame.

"... sunghoon…" your voice was soft, almost a whisper, threading through the quiet. it wavered slightly, caught between relief and the strange pull of lingering fear.

he didn't shift. didn't acknowledge you. the room seemed impossibly still, heavy with the quiet of unspoken things, the faint rustle of the curtains blowing by the wind from the open window being the only sound in the space between you.

"you… you're here." your voice barely rose above a murmur this time, fragile yet insistent, seeking connection across the tense distance.

still, nothing. only the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed. the way he held himself, taut and unmoving, made the air feel thick and charged, almost palpable. your heart pounded in your chest, each beat loud in the silence, a drum of confusion and curiosity. you

you pulled your shirt down and pulled up the blanket and shifted slightly, hesitating on whether to close the distance or remain where you were. memories of the previous night of the danger and the way he had moved, every calculated motion meant to protect you sent an involuntary shiver down your spine. the fear, the awe, and something tender, fragile, quietly dangerous, all tangled together.

"it's… okay." you said softly, more to him than yourself. "you saved me…" your hands flexed over the sheets, clutching at the fabric as if anchoring yourself against the swirling thoughts in your head.

he remained motionless, but you caught the subtlest change. the tiniest inhale through his nose, a hint of awareness, a pulse beneath the tension that told you he had heard you.

your lips parted again, voice softer, vulnerable. "sunghoon… can you… can you look at me?"

nothing. yet this time, you felt it in the air, of the faint shift in his presence, a tightening in the way he held himself, like a bowstring pulled taut. he didn't answer, but he didn't leave either. he stayed, a silent sentinel in the quiet room, his energy pressing against your chest, grounding you even as it kept you trembling.

you sank back against your pillows, heart fluttering and thoughts spinning. the bandage against your waist reminded you of what had happened, of what could have been lost, and yet, he was here. he hadn't left. he was still watching, waiting, protecting.

the quiet between you and sunghoon hung heavy, a fragile veil barely disturbed by the soft breath you drew. he still hadn't lifted his head. his fingers remained curled around the hilt of his sword, white-knuckled, unmoving, as if letting go would mean losing whatever control he had left.

you opened your mouth ready to try calling his name again, but the door slammed open.

you startled, shoulders jerking. sunghoon's hand twitched instantly toward his sword, but he held himself back when familiar and panicked voices filled the room.

"my sweet girl!" your mother exclaimed, rushing forward in a flurry of skirts and worry, almost tipping a chair as she crouched beside your bed. she took your hands in hers, fingers trembling as she pressed them against her cheeks, as though she could somehow anchor herself to your presence. "you're awake! you're truly alright! oh, thank the heavens!"

your father loomed behind her, shoulders heavy with the weight of command and worry alike. his voice was rough with emotion, booming in relief as he leaned closer. "by the stars, you had us all worried my daughter!" his usual sternness melted into something soft, something vulnerable, and it pulled at your chest, making your own heartbeat hitch.

sunghoon's presence, which had been a tense shadow by your bedside, receded slightly and remained hunched a few feet away, hands still clasped around the hilt of his sword, eyes dark and unyielding as ever, but you couldn't help noticing the slight stiffening of his shoulders as your parents fussed over you.

"what happened?" you managed, your voice hoarse as your fingers unconsciously brushing at the bandage around your waist. your eyes darted between your mother’s worried face and your father's tight-lipped concern.

"good-for-nothing nomads." your father began, sharp and full of fury. "snuck into the castle, hoping to—" he paused, shaking his head as if the very thought of it made his teeth grit, "—to take you as ransom, to sow chaos. injuring my knights and workers." he gave a short, grim nod. "and jungwon… he'll be alright. he was gravely hurt, but he'll recover."

your mother pressed a hand to her chest, still clutching your hands. "but you… my brave girl, staying behind… making sure he wasn't left alone… you had Wonyoung run for help. oh, the courage!" her eyes sparkled, shining with pride so bright it nearly blinded you. "you risked yourself, but you saved him! you were… heroic, darling, utterly heroic."

you swallowed hard, cheeks warming at her words, but your relief at hearing that jungwon was safe was sharper than any praise. your chest still thumped, and for a brief moment, the world seemed impossibly bright and warm despite the horrors of yesterday.

'and yet…" your father's tone softened only slightly, carrying that mix of pride and exasperation that always made you feel simultaneously loved and scolded, "—you were reckless, utterly reckless! you could have been taken. you could have been—" he faltered, swallowed, then continued, "—but your bravery… your presence of mind… it saved a life. you must understand, child, that there's a fine line between courage and foolishness. and you… you walked it.”

you exhaled shakily, trying to reconcile the duality of their words, the worry and pride mingling in your chest, when suddenly their attention shifted toward the figure that had been lingering silently, ever-watchful, in the corner of the room.

"and sir… park." your mother said, her voice trembling with relief and gratitude now directed at the knight, "wh-who saved our daughter! who fought valiantly to make sure she wasn't taken away from us!"

your father's eyes were fixed on him, acknowledging the lethal precision, the unwavering courage of the man who had been by your side, invisible and yet impossibly present. "he is a knight of unmatched skill." he said, his voice low, nodding in appreciation.

sunghoon remained motionless, jaw tight, eyes lowered to the floor, the briefest glimmer of acknowledgment hidden beneath his stoic exterior. he said nothing.

"he fought well." your mother whispered now, almost to herself, brushing a hand over the edge of her sleeve. "he… he saved you."

you glanced toward sunghoon, suddenly aware of the tension coiled in his frame, the silent acknowledgment that he had done what he must, and the unspoken worry that lingered in the space between the soft light of the morning and the hard shadow of his figure. your chest tightened once again, and your heartbeat seemed to echo against the walls of the room, louder than before.

he did not look at you. he did not look at your parents. he simply remained, unwavering, as though the act of his protection had ended with the night, but the weight of it still pressed against him. it was not for praise that he acted, but out of a steadfast sense of duty with the safety of the one he had sworn to protect.

you, caught in the swirl of relief, pride, and confusion, let your gaze fall back on your shirt that covered the bandaged cut at your waist. your heart softened with gratitude for him, even as your mind tried to grasp the intensity of the night and the overwhelming presence of the man who had stood between you and danger.

for a long moment, there was only the quiet hum of the morning, punctuated by your parents' whispered reassurances, and the unyielding shadow of sunghoon, brooding and silent, yet undeniably present. the room felt impossibly small, yet vast, filled with everything that had happened and everything that had been survived.

the castle room felt impossibly quiet after your parents left, the remnants of their relief still lingering in the air like a fading perfume. the sun slanted low through the tall windows but the warmth did little to ease the tension that filled the space. it was just the two of you now. you, still wrapped in the covers, and sunghoon sitting several feet away, silent, hunched, unreadable as ever, yet every inch of him coiled with a power that seemed ready to spring.

you swallowed, your throat tight, and the words that had been curling in your chest all morning finally escaped.

"please look at me sunghoon..." you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, hesitant but earnest. your gaze stayed on his form, trying to see him through the shadow of his brooding, trying to pull him closer from afar.

he heaved out a long, unsteady sigh, one that carried a weight of the world. slowly and deliberately, he lifted his head, eyes dark and stormy, and finally... finally... met your gaze. the intensity of it made your stomach flutter and your chest tighten.

"you don't understand." he began, his voice low but sharp, slicing through the quiet, "i should have been there. it's my fault you got hurt. how could this have happened?" the words spilled out in a rush, fierce and jagged, like jagged stones tumbling from a cliff. his eyes darkened, jaw tight, every muscle in his body taut, and the fury behind them was unmistakable. it wasn't just anger at the situation, it was anger at himself, and a thread of something closer, more personal.

you held up a hand, breaking the tide of his words, your voice quieter but insistent. "it… it wasn't your fault, sunghoon." you said gently, though your own heartbeat raced. "you assigned someone else to stand guard while you were training… and then the nomads—no one could have seen it coming. it was just… bad luck. it wasn't on you. i don't blame you."

sunghoon's lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed, almost as if he were trying to bite back a growl that hovered on the edge of sound. he hissed, low and feral, the words sharp with restrained fury. "bad luck?" he echoed, the coldness of his voice chilling the space between you. "my duty is to know. to anticipate. to protect. and I… I failed. i should have been aware. i should have—" his fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight, the self-directed anger practically radiating off him. "i failed… and you… you could have been taken. or worse... been killed.”

you flinched under the weight of his words, not out of fear of him, but from the raw intensity he carried. yet, you tried to argue, softly, your voice breaking slightly against the force of his presence. "i… i stayed because… because jungwon was hurt… i had to… i couldn't leave him…" your words faltered, and you looked down at your hands, trembling slightly, your voice fading against the strength of his rage and disappointment.

he finally stood up, sword falling to the floor with a clank as he took a step forward, closing the distance between you, though his movement was not violent—it was controlled, predatory in its precision. "and yet." he said, his voice colder now, like steel sliding over ice, "you had a chance… a chance to run, to keep yourself safe, and you didn't. you put yourself in danger. do you understand what that could have cost us? what it could have cost you?" his eyes bore into yours, black and unflinching, and the raw edge of worry behind the coldness made your chest ache.

you tried to speak again, weakly, "i… i didn't think—"

"don't." he cut you off sharply, the word a whip of authority and control. "don't try to reason it. you… you don't get to put yourself in harm's way like that. not ever." the words came out cold, measured, but the intensity behind them throbbed like a pulse in the room, the weight of them pressing against your chest.

your throat went dry, your words failing against the force of his gaze. you wanted to argue, wanted to defend yourself, but his presence was overwhelming, a living wall of intensity that left you feeling both terrified and strangely secure.

"i enjoyed dancing with you."

sunghoon's jaw tightened further, the faintest tremor betraying the storm he kept pressed tightly beneath the surface. "i swear." he growled, the words low, dangerous, almost vibrating through the air, "i will not fail again. not you. not anyone else. you… you will never leave my sight again, as long as i am alive." the coldness in his voice settled into a steel-edged promise, his walls of control building back up around him, yet wrapped in an intensity that was almost painfully intimate.

you swallowed, heart hammering, chest tight, and for a long moment, the room was silent except for the faint rustle of your blankets and the quiet, measured breaths of the man who had just, in one swift motion, reminded you of his unwavering, unyielding presence. the storm of fury and concern that had erupted a few moments before was now tempered by resolution, the walls rising, cold and impenetrable.

you nodded, wordless, the weight of his words sinking in. your chest ached with a mix of frustration and some small flicker of helplessness beneath the towering force of the man before you. the world felt smaller, sharper, narrowed to the two of you in the quiet aftermath of something that had tested everything.

sunghoon turned his body to face the open window. though his posture remained taut, it felt as though his cold, controlled shell had fully reasserted itself—frozen around you like steel, protective, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. you felt the weight of it settle over you, both terrifying and strangely comforting, knowing he had staked himself entirely on your safety, and that his presence, however cold, would not waver.

"rest." he said coldly, eyes trained to the sky outside. "don't strain yourself."

you stared at his side profile, heart falling into the pit of your stomach when you realized.

his walls were coming back up. all because he thinks he failed you.

the days after the attack had settled into a tense, suffocating rhythm. sunghoon's—walls to your sad realization—had rebuilt themselves around him. steel and shadow encasing the man who had already vowed that you would never leave his sight again, and whatever trace of warmth or teasing that had softened him in recent weeks... had vanished. he no longer allowed the small smiles, the gentle jabs, the moments of shared levity. instead, he was measured, every step and glance heavy with intent and full on tension. nothing in the room escaped him. every shadow, every shuffle of a foot, every whisper of movement was noted, cataloged, and judged. the servants that came in every now and then to offer you your meals and whatever else you desired became cautious in his presence, careful not to disrupt the almost palpable tension that radiated from him.

he followed your every move as you healed with eyes that never seemed to rest, guarding your room like a fortress. the idea of leaving your side—even for a moment—filled him with a knot of dread that he could not shake. the mere thought of you alone again in the castle without him, even with others present, churned his stomach and tightened his chest. each servant or knight passing through was met with a sharp assessing glance and the subtle tilt of his body ready to intercept any perceived threat. he treated everyone as a potential danger, and the castle itself seemed a little colder, a little quieter, as if it too had bent to his vigilance.

two days later, the appointed doctor arrived to check on you, change your bandages, and ensure your wound was healing properly. the moment he stepped into the room, sunghoon's eyes sharpened, his posture went rigid, a silent warning that even the air was his to control. he hovered at your side, shadowing every movement of the doctor.

the doctor's hands shook slightly as they reached to examine the bandage, evidently nervous with the feeling of sunghoon looming over him, and the faintest flinch from you, pain from the wound or just residual tension, set sunghoon off.

"careful." he snapped, his voice low but sharp enough to make the doctor flinch. "don't make her hurt more than she has to." his dark eyes bore unrelentingly into the man, as though willing the doctor to do everything perfectly under his scrutiny.

intimidated but professional, the doctor attempted to continue, yet the rigidity in his movements grew.

sunghoon's jaw was clenched so hard that you could see the faint twitch along his temple, the quiet, simmering storm beneath his exterior. every motion, every hesitation, was magnified in his mind. he could not bear the thought of you suffering even just a tiny bit under someone else's hands.

finally, after one particularly cautious move that made your breath hitch and eyes slightly water, sunghoon's patience snapped. not in anger at you, but at the doctor.

"get up." he barked, startling the doctor who stepped back immediately. he knelt beside the bed, carefully taking your hand, the other steadying the bandage around your waist. sunghoon worked slowly, each movement precise yet gentle, as though the coldness in his eyes softened when touching your skin. every tug of the fabric, every repositioning of the dressing was deliberate, careful to avoid causing you pain, his earlier anger and vigilance giving way to a tender attentiveness he seldom allowed himself.

you watched him in quiet awe, struck by the paradox of his presence. lethal, uncompromising, and yet now delicately protective. the way his fingers grazed your side, the way he adjusted the bandage just so, held more warmth than the clipped responses he has been giving you since you regained conscious.

once he secured the dressing, sunghoon lingered, his hand still resting lightly on your waist, the heat from his palm seeping through the fabric, over the wound, and over you. he leaned slightly closer, not to speak, but to ensure, silently, that you were ok, that he could physically feel your presence even though he could visibly see you. the intimacy was subtle, unspoken, yet it pressed against your chest like the quietest, most insistent heartbeat.

the doctor who had been watching with a mixture of professional curiosity and relief, cleared his throat,breaking the spell.

"she's recovering well." he said, noting the slight improvement in the wound. sunghoon's gaze, which had been fixed entirely on you, lifted just enough to acknowledge the words. a subtle relaxation crossed his features, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally, a quiet exhale he hadn't permitted himself since the attack.

as soon as the doctor left, you couldn't resist, reeling slightly into the warmth between you. "you're really overprotective, you know that?" you teased lightly, a small smile at your lips.

sunghoon's gaze stayed fixed on the bandage he had just finished securing, his thumb brushing over it idly, almost unconsciously ensuring it was comfortable.

you let him, allowing the moment to linger, the quiet intimacy of his presence grounding you. his thumb traced the line of the dressing in a steady, calm rhythm, and the faintest touch of softness in his hand contradicted the coldness in his expression.

finally, when he seemed satisfied that nothing would disturb you, sunghoon leaned slightly away, letting go of your waist and breaking away from the building warmth.

"lay back down." he said, his words clipped but final. the warmth in his actions had been real, but the coldness returned to the tone, reclaiming the boundaries he imposed over you, the room, and himself. he straightened, sword still at his side, his gaze sweeping over you one last time before stepping back, the guardian and sentinel of every heartbeat and breath you took.

you let out a small, wistful sigh, the shadows of the room doing nothing to ease the ache in your chest. the warmth and ease you had once felt with sunghoon, those moments of teasing, gentle smiles, the subtle lightness in his voice felt so far away now, like a memory from another life. your fingers traced the edge of the blanket around your waist absently, and your gaze drifted toward him. he remained just a few feet away, upright and unwavering. the distance between you felt painfully familiar. the protective barrier that had returned in full force made your heart tighten, leaving you yearning for the small moments of softness you had once shared.

you had just begun to ease yourself back against the pillows, your body sinking gratefully into the softness, when a quiet knock broke through the stillness of the room. the sound wasn't loud, but sunghoon reacted instantly. he moved before you could even turn your head fully, his steps silent but swift.

when he opened the door only a crack, his shoulders lowered slightly—just enough to show recognition. you watched the back of his figure, tall and imposing, blocking most of the doorway. you could hear a low voice outside, muted half by the knight's body and by the wood. sunghoon's response was hushed but firm, a soft reprimand laced with concern.

"you shouldn't be walking around." he murmured sharply, the tone protective in a way that wasn't meant for you this time. "i told you—your wounds aren't healed yet."

you frowned faintly, pushing yourself up a little despite the way your side protested. "sunghoon?"

he exhaled, a short breath tinged with annoyance and reluctant acceptance. then he stepped aside.

jungwon walked in.

the sight of him standing upright and conscious but most importantly, moving on his own, sent a flutter of relief through your chest. his steps careful and despite the bandages peeking beneath his shirt, he still carried that unmistakable warmth in his eyes—soothing, sincere, and so very relieved to see you awake. he paused just a few feet from your bed, a look of utter relief washing over him the moment his gaze found yours.

"princess…" his voice cracked slightly before he steadied it with a breath. "how are you feeling? is recovery going well?"

you smiled faintly, your hand moving instinctively to rest near your bandaged side. "better now. sore, but… better."

he nodded, though his expression shifted as though a weight settled back onto him. something sober and remorseful.

"i heard everything from the knights." he said quietly, almost reverently. "what you did… staying with me, trying to protect me… even when you should have run."

you opened your mouth to speak, but jungwon lifted a hand just slightly—a gentle request to let him finish.

"it was reckless," he admitted with a sad smile, "but it was also—" he swallowed thickly, his eyes softening. "it was something i'll never forget. you could've died because of me. and yet you stayed."

his voice lowered to a whisper filled with sincerity. "i'm grateful. truly. and even if the situation was bad… the intention behind it meant everything."

for a moment, neither of you spoke until you finally asked, "and you? how's your injury?"

jungwon's eyes brightened just slightly, and with a small laugh, he lifted the edge of his shirt, revealing fresh bandages wrapped neatly around his side. "healing,” he said proudly, "slower than i'd like, but healing well."

before you could respond, a voice cut sharply into the air.

"it won't keep healing if you keep wandering around."

sunghoon's tone wasn't loud but it was just as stern as how it was with you. he stood back at the side of your bed, arms folded and gaze fixed on jungwon with the unyielding sternness, reprimanding his fellow comrade.

"i told you." sunghoon continued, "your wound could reopen. you were told to rest for a reason."

jungwon lifted both hands defensively, laughing softly. "i know, i know. i just… needed to see if our princess was all right."

"and now you've seen her, so you can go back and lie down before you tear your stitches."

jungwon chuckled again but fondly this time, scratching the back of his neck. "yes hyung. i hear you. i'll rest, i promise."

then he turned to you again, expression gentle. "i'm really glad you’re alright, princess. please heal well. and… thank you once again."

you nodded, smiling. "you too, jungwon."

he bowed slightly before turning to leave, offering one last peaceable grin towards his friend despite sunghoon's frown. the door closed quietly behind him, and the room fell still once more.

when the door clicked shut behind jungwon, the room seemed to exhale with him. sunghoon stayed standing for a moment longer, shoulders rising and falling in a heavy sigh that carried exhaustion and frustration.

then he lowered himself back into the chair beside your bed. he sat stiffly, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely steepled near his chin as he stared at the floorboards like they held answers he was desperate to find.

you lay back down, letting your head sink into the pillow, eyes fluttering shut with the intention of drifting off. but your mind remained restless, refusing to quiet. every time you tried to relax, the images of that day kept pressing in. the echo of shouting, fighting, the grip on your arms, and of sunghoon's figure that carved through the chaos.

your breath caught when one particular memory surfaced. him fighting, not with the elegance of swordplay, but with his bare hands all brutal and unrelenting.

you turned your head slowly, your eyes landing on him.

sunghoon hadn't noticed you looking. or maybe he had, but he made no sign of it. he still stared downward. you swallowed once, then spoke in a quiet voice that barely broke the silence.

"…i didn’t know," you murmured, "that you were that good with fighting with your hands."

his head lifted slightly, though his eyes remained fixed downward, like he couldn't quite bring himself to look at you directly just yet.

"you didn't even use your sword." you continued softly. "not even once."

a shadow crossed his face. not fear or embarrassment, but something closer to anger burning under his skin like a coal pressed too long in the palm. it wasn't directed at you, but the memory itself seemed to sour the air around him.

still, he answered.

"a knight," he started in a deep tone, "is useless if he can only fight with a blade."

the words were clipped but instructive, almost like he was reciting a lesson he'd lived through countless times.

"weapons can be lost. they can break. be taken." his fingers curled slightly in his lap as if remembering the grip around a hilt. "when that happens, your hands are all you have left. so every knight is trained—relentlessly—until their body itself becomes a weapon."

you nodded slowly, though the memory of how he effortlessly fought three men with nothing but fists and instinct still left your pulse uneven.

the room went quiet again. but the thought gnawed at you, refusing to go unspoken.

"but…" you began, hesitantly, eyes lowered to the blanket pooled around your waist, "you did have your sword. that night. i saw it. you could've used it."

sunghoon didn't immediately respond.

silence stretched between you all heavy and taut. his jaw shifted once almost uncomfortably, a brief tightening before he exhaled through his nose, the air sharp with restraint. when he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before. rougher. like each word scraped against something raw inside him.

"i know i had it."

you lifted your eyes to him.

sunghoon's gaze remained fixed ahead, but there was a visible change. his shoulders stiffened, his fingers gripping the fabric of his trousers as though trying to anchor himself.

"every instinct i've trained for," he continued, "every lesson i've mastered… everything told me to draw it."

his throat bobbed with a hard swallow. "to end them. fast. clean."

the darkness in his voice made the air colder. "but using my sword…" he paused, breath hitching almost imperceptibly. "that was the last thing i wanted you to see."

your brows furrowed, confusion softening your voice. "what do you mean?"

for the first time since the conversation began, sunghoon's eyes shifted. not toward you, but away from you. toward the wall, toward the shadows collecting near the window. anywhere except your face.

when he spoke again, his voice dropped to a near-whisper, harsh and cracked around the edges.

"i didn't want you to see the monster i become when steel is in my hands."

your breath stilled, but sunghoon continued before you could speak.

"rage." he said quietly. "that's all there is sometimes. rage and... instinct. to kill or be killed." he shook his head once sharply, hand clenched so tight a muscle pulsed along the side. "and you were right there in their hold. one wrong strike... one slip... and—"

his voice broke for the first time. just enough for the word to fracture.

"…you could've been hurt."

you felt the truth of it. the weight. the fear coiled beneath all that anger and precision.

"i couldn't risk it." he finished, each word thick with loathing—loathing directed entirely at himself. "i didn't trust myself. not with a sword. not with them holding you like that."

your lips parted, but no words came out. there was nothing you could say, nothing that would ease the barbed wire tangled in his chest.

so you stayed quiet.

sunghoon sat there, face turned away, breathing slow but unsteady, as though confessing that had cost him something real.

the silence stretched and remained between you two until your eyes finally drooped shut, whisking you away hesitantly into dreamland. and for the first time, you felt the faintest understanding of just how deeply his fear — and his anger — ran.

yunjin slips into the room sometime after you've drifted in and out of a shallow nap, her steps light enough that you don't realize she's there until she's already at your bedside. the soft clatter of the basin she'd carried yesterday is notably absent.

"good. you're awake." she says with a relieved smile. "i think it's finally time for a proper bath. you’ve been smelling like medicine and old gauze for days, and i'm not about to let you stew in it any longer."

you blink, still foggy, and then nod, trusting her judgement. she's been hovering over you with a hawk's patience ever since you were brought back to the castle. "okay… i can get up."

the moment you push your palms against the blankets, a faint sting blooms across your healing side. it's not unbearable, but it jars you more than expected. your breath catches without your permission.

sunghoon notices before you can even disguise the reaction.

he stands from the chair beside you so abruptly that the wooden legs scrape sharply against the floor. the sound startles both you and yunjin. his posture is tight as he crosses the space in two swift strides.

"don't get up like that." he mutters, voice low enough that it feels almost like a reprimand directed at himself rather than at you.

you open your mouth to tell him you're fine, but he doesn't give you the chance. suddenly his arms slide under your knees and behind your back, lifting you effortlessly off the bed.

your breath rushes out in a startled sound that isn't quite a gasp. it's been a while since he touched you like this. no... it's been longer than that, and yet the memory of his grip when he pulled you out of danger, when he shielded you with his own body, when his hands trembled after he carried you, sits vividly in you.

sunghoon hesitates only once.

a brief pause. a flicker of uncertainty shadows his eyes, a split-second where he almost seems to consider putting you down. but then he tightens his hold carefully and deliberately before gathering you fully to his chest.

your arms instinctively curl toward him, fingers brushing the edge of his collar as your cheek hovers embarrassingly close to his shoulder. you can feel the unsteady thump of his heartbeat through the layers of his uniform, and it sends warmth rolling up your neck.

he turns slightly. yunjin stands by the door, eyes wide but wisely silent, falling into step behind him.

the walk to your bathroom feels both too long and too short. every step jostles you gently, not painfully, but enough that you remain acutely aware of how securely he holds you. how firm his grip is, how careful his movements are, how easily he could have chosen not to do any of this but still did.

when the door closes behind the three of you and the warm scent of floral soap fills the small room, sunghoon kneels to lower you onto your feet, but his hands don't leave you immediately.

his fingers stay curled around your waist far longer than necessary, thumbs pressed lightly against your sides, as though testing for any sign of hurt. the proximity makes your heart pound against your ribs, loud enough that you pray he can't hear it.

"will you be alright?" he asks quietly. the chill in his tone from earlier is softened now, but you can still hear the restraint, the tension. the memory of what he admitted before your nap lingers somewhere between you both.

you swallow, nodding once.

his gaze travels down to your healing wound, and without thinking, he ghosts the pad of his thumb over your loose shirt that hid the bandage. so lightly that the touch barely registers, yet the feather-soft contact sends heat flooding up your body.

he doesn't look at your face, but down at your covered injury thinking about the mark that nearly took you from him.

in all honesty, the wound wasn't that serious, but to him, it was everything. and there is something… aching in the way his expression hardens.

sunghoon held back a low growl and his brows draw in just a fraction. the storm in him stirs again—quiet and controlled, but undeniably dark. then slowly yet almost reluctantly, he lets his hands drop away from your waist.

the absence feels too cold.

"i'll be right outside." he murmurs, voice rough at the edges. "call me if you feel lightheaded. or if it hurts. or if... you need anything."

he steps back and doesn't turn his back on you until the very last moment, until he's certain you're steady on your feet and convinced you won't fall.

as he reaches for the door, the tension still wraps thickly around him, like he's holding an entire tide back with sheer force of will.

just before he steps out, sunghoon pauses. he doesn't look back, but his voice drops to something barely above a whisper.

"and… don't push yourself. you've already worried me enough."

it's the closest he's come to sounding vulnerable since the attack.

the door closes behind him with a soft, final click.

yunjin waits just long enough for sunghoon's figure to disappear when he closed the bathroom door before she turns to you with a look that is absolutely, unmistakably triumphant.

you don't even need to see her whole face. the grin consuming half of it is enough to make your ears burn.

"don't." you warn under your breath.

she lifts both brows, hands folding behind her back as she sways innocently. "don't what? i didn't even say anything yet."

you scoff, heat crawling up the sides of your neck. "you're thinking it loudly."

"oh, i'm thinking many things loudly." she hums as she steps forward and begins unfastening the ties of your outer layer. "like, for example: i didn't know our oh-so-stoic knight could carry someone like that without turning into a stiff board. impressive."

"yunjin—"

"and did you see his face? he looked like someone had personally offended him by daring to injure you. i swear, if he could he'd wrap you in ten layers of steel and still think it wasn't enough."

the blush you've been trying desperately to suppress finally spills onto your cheeks. yunjin's grin softens into something more affectionate as she helps you ease out of your clothes, careful not to strain your healing side.

she helps you step into the tub, warm water lapping up to your calves, then your thighs as she lowers you slowly. the heat wraps around you in a comforting embrace, easing the tension you didn't realize had taken root in your shoulders.

yunjin sits beside the tub with a cloth in her hands, wringing it out before brushing it carefully along your arms and back. the motion is gentle and patient, giving you space to speak if you want to.

you do, because you need to. the words have been pressing at you for days now, all tangled and unspoken.

"he…" you start, voice small. "sunghoon's been… different. since the attack. or maybe he's always been like this and i just never noticed he could be this intense."

yunjin tilts her head, but she doesn't interrupt. she just keeps brushing warm water over your skin, encouraging without pushing.

you stare down at the ripples in the bath.

"when he saved me," you murmur slowly, "h-he didn't even use his sword. i thought it was just instinct, but when i asked him… he said he didn't want me to see what he turns into when he fights with it. that he'd be… someone else. someone he didn't want me to look at."

yunjin went completely quiet. no teasing, no grin, just listening.

your chest tightens. you twist your fingers together under the water.

"he talked like he was afraid of himself." you whisper. "like he thinks he's some kind of monster. and i just… i hate that. i hate that he sees himself that way."

the water laps gently as you shift, trying to find words for the ache that's been growing quietly inside you. "and ever since then, he's been watching me like... like he's terrified i'll vanish the moment he blinks." your throat tightens. "he barely leaves the room. he barely sleeps. he's always next to me. and when he looks at me now, it's like he's fighting everything inside himself just to keep a distance."

yunjin sets the cloth down and gently cups your cheek, guiding your gaze up to meet hers.

"and how does that make you feel?" she asks softly.

you inhale shakily.

you think back to every moment, to sunghoon's trembling hands when he carried you to safety, the fury he swallowed when he saw your wound, the softness he tried so hard to hide when he brushed his thumb over your bandage, the heaviness in his voice when he said he didn't want you to see him as a monster. and the way your heart responded each time. beats that were too quick. breaths that were too shallow. warmth that settled too deeply.