Junnie

The morning of Margot's wedding, you were woken up before the sun was even up in the sky.

"Wake up, my lady," Daisy said, already laying out three different gowns across the end of your bed, "we have a great deal to do and very little time to do them."

"I am aware of the wedding, Daisy," you said, burying your face back into the pillow, "I have been aware of it for months."

"Yes, well, my lady, then you should know you need to be dressed for this occasion."

You groaned into your pillow and let yourself exactly four more minutes of being glued to the bed. You knew you had to wake up soon either way since Daisy would simply stand there patiently, holding your dressing gown for as long as it takes you.

The gown Daisy had chosen for you was a soft blush pink, embroidered along it was small silver dots that caught the light whenever you moved, and you had to admit that it was a lovely dress even if you resented slightly how much effort was needed to attend your sister’s wedding.

"You look beautiful, my lady," Daisy said, stepping back to admire her work once your hair was done, "Lady Margot will be very pleased."

"Lady Margot is getting married today," you said, "I doubt she will spare a single thought for what I am wearing."

"Perhaps not," Daisy agreed before smiling and said, "but Captain Jungkook might."

You gave her a look with which Daisy immediately busied herself with your gloves instead, though you noticed she did not seem the least bit sorry.

Outside your room, the servants were already hard at work preparing for the wedding. Your mother stood in the front hall directing two footmen struggling with an enormous arrangement of white roses. Your father came out of his study, already dressed, looking overwhelmed by the constant stream of instructions flying around him.

You made your way down to join them, smoothing your dress as you went.

"There you are," your mother said, turning to look at you, “you look lovely, sweetheart. Truly. Though I do wish you would smile more often. It would suit that gown considerably better than the expression you're wearing now."

"I'm smiling, mother."

"No, you are fake smiling my dear, there is a difference," your mother smiled knowingly, "I've been watching your face your entire life, you won't fool me."

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You have already known, of course, that you would be expected to be at the wedding with Captain Jeon Jungkook beside you.

Your mother informed you of this arrangement days earlier, you tried to argue back but your mother had no intention of discussing this matter. When you argued, she just listened, nodded once at you, and carried on as if you had said nothing at all to her.

"It is customary," she said, “for a betrothed couple to attend events together, people will expect it."

"People should find something else to concern themselves with," you said, rolling your eyes.

And that was the end of the conversation.

At half past nine, you stood in the entrance hall of the Ashwell townhouse, staring through the front window as a black carriage bearing the Jeon crest stopped just right outside.

Your stomach turned into knots the moment you saw him.

Captain Jeon Jungkook stepped down in full dress uniform. He wore the same navy coat with polished silver buttons that you first saw him by the fountain, though today every seam was pressed perfectly. And there were more medals pinned to his chest than you remembered.

“You are wearing your uniform,” you said as soon as he entered the townhouse, before Jungkook was even finished bowing to your mother.

“I am a soldier, Lady Ashwell,” Jungkook replied as he straightened himself, “it would be rather strange if I wore anything else.”

“It is your future sister-in-law’s wedding, not a military inspection.”

“I assumed the two occasions required much the same thing,” he said, before adding, “standing still for long periods and making oneself presentable.”

You rolled your eyes at him as your index finger pointed to the medals on his chest, “Sure, but you look as if you intend to frighten the guests into behaving themselves.”

His eyes briefly dropped to the medals on his chest, “Would that be such a terrible thing?”

“Half the room will think we are under attack.”

“If the room is under attack,” Jungkook said, completely unbothered, “I would rather be properly dressed for it.”

“There is not going to be an attack at a wedding, Captain,” you scoffed.

“You would be surprised, my lady. I have heard stories.”

"Name one," you said, raising your eyebrows at him.

“I could not possibly. The officer who told me swore me to secrecy, and I take my oaths rather more seriously than you seem to think,” Jungkook said.

“You could have worn anything in your entire wardrobe, and you chose the one outfit designed to remind everyone that you carry a sword and a gun. I clearly underestimated how much soldiers enjoy showing off,” you stated.

"I do not have the sword or the gun with me," Jungkook said, smiling at you.

"How generous of you," you mocked.

"I thought it might be considered excessive for a wedding," Jungkook said.

"And the medals are not excessive?"

"The medals were earned, my lady. They are not ornaments," Jungkook said, "I would have thought a woman of your intelligence would be able to tell it apart.”

"My intelligence is not in question, Captain. Yours might be, if you think I care to admire your medals," you scoffed, "my sister is getting married today, this is not a military meeting."

"If it troubles you so greatly, Lady Ashwell, you are welcome to inform your future husband precisely what he ought to wear to future occasions. I am told wives do this rather often."

"I am not your wife yet," you said.

"No," Jungkook said, you could see the grin on his face deepening as he added, "you are not my wife yet. I guess you could consider this a preview of everything you have to look forward to."

"How dreadful," you responded.

"I thought you might say so,” he said, smiling at you. 

Your mother cut in before either of you could continue, ushering the two of you towards the second carriage and muttering that she had no intention of arriving late to her own daughter’s wedding.

The journey to the chapel was not a long one, but it felt considerably longer. You spent most of it watching Jungkook from across the narrow space between the seats, trying to understand whether the uniform was meant to intimidate everyone he was about to meet or whether it was simply the only formal clothing he owned.

"You are staring," Jungkook said, still looking out of the window.

"I am trying to decide whether to insult you or allow you the comfort of not knowing what I am thinking," you replied. 

"How generous of you to consider the alternative," Jungkook said with a faint smile, "though I confess I find your insults considerably more entertaining than your silences."

“That is only because you have not yet heard a proper one,” you scoffed.

“I look forward to it, then,” Jungkook said, grinning as he finally turned to face you.

“You should not look forward to it. I may wound what little pride you have left.”

“I was not aware you thought I had so little,” Jungkook replied, acting as if he was surprised.

“I was trying to be generous,” you rolled your eyes at him.

Jungkook laughed softly before answering, “You must stop doing that, it does not suit you.”

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The chapel was already half full by the time you arrived. The sunlight shone through the tall windows and the scent of white lilies struck your nose so immediately that you nearly sneezed as you walked into the chapel. Margot’s wedding was the wedding of the season, and it seemed as if the entire nobles in the city came to judge this for themselves. 

You were seated beside Jungkook, in the second row reserved for family, and you spent the ceremony watching your sister walk down the aisle in a gown so beautiful that you couldn’t help but feel happiness for her. Margot has never once in her life looked so certain of anything until you saw her walking down the aisle towards the Baron of Rohan. 

Despite everything you had said about marriage, you found yourself wondering whether your own wedding might be this joyful. Then you glanced at the man seated beside you and remembered that your wedding would hardly resemble Margot’s.

Of course the Queen had chosen a soldier for you. It seemed fitting, somehow. Margot and your other sisters had always been the proper daughters, while you had spent most of your life as the family’s odd one out. Why should your marriage be any less unconventional?

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The reception was held in the gardens of the Rohan estate, where you spent the first half hour trailing dutifully beside Jungkook as he was greeting what felt like every person in the entire kingdom.

It was exhausting standing beside Jungkook while he charmed an entire garden one guest at a time. You watched as Jungkook bowed to a countess whose name you have already forgotten then he spoke to a retired general about a war he fought thirty years earlier. Jungkook’s questions were so precise that the old man’s face was glowing with the pleasure of being taken seriously. A few moments later, Jungkook complimented a young lord’s coat with such sincerity that the boy’s face turned red and he spent the next several minutes looking back at Jungkook with admiration.

"You are very good at this," you said, once the young lord wandered off far away enough from the two of you.

"At what?" Jungkook asked curiously. 

"Making people feel as if they are the only person in the garden worth speaking to," you answered.

“I am pleased to know you were watching me, my lady,” Jungkook said, glancing at you with a faint smile, “it is a useful skill. You would be surprised how far it carries a man that started with little connections.”

"I am not surprised at all," you said, "I have simply never seen anyone quite so thorough about it."

"Would you prefer I were rude to your sister’s guests instead?"

“I would rather see you behave the same way with everyone,” you said before you could stop yourself, “instead of becoming whoever each of them wishes to meet.”

“Connections are politics, my lady. So are conversations,” Jungkook replied, “if I treated everyone in precisely the same manner, I would not be standing where I am today.”

You did not know how to answer that. And before you could think of a clever way of answering Jungkook, a cluster of young ladies walked towards the two of you.

“Captain Jeon!” called the young woman at the front of the group, a pretty blonde woman you vaguely recognised as some baron’s daughter. She pressed one hand to her chest and smiled up at him, “we simply had to tell you how distinguished you looked during the ceremony!”

“I heard you were very brave, Captain,” said another woman. She was a brunette and she was standing a little too close to Jungkook than necessary. From the way she leaned towards him, making certain Jungkook had an excellent view of her cleavage, it was obvious that she wanted his attention. “My cousin served under a captain in the eastern regiment,” she continued, “he said the northern campaign under Captain Jungkook was the most dangerous one and yet here you are, entirely unharmed and twice as handsome for having survived it.”

“You are too kind,” Jungkook replied.

To his credit, his eyes remained fixed politely on her face. Still, the faint smile at the corner of his lips suggested he was not entirely displeased by the attention.

You let out a small sound before you could stop yourself, something between a scoff and a cough that indicated how disgusted you were at the scene in front of you. You felt three pairs of eyes turning towards you with disapproval, as if you just interrupted a church service.

"Forgive me," you said, "something caught in my throat."

“How unfortunate,” the blonde said, though she did not seem like she believed you even for a second. 

She turned back to Jungkook and lowered her voice, “Captain, I do hope your future wife understands what a treasure she is receiving. You took excellent care of the women fortunate enough to capture your attention. Isabelle told me herself not four weeks ago, and she did not strike me as a woman to exaggerate.”

The third lady, who until this point has said nothing at all, gave a small smile into her champagne glass that told you more than she likely intended, “I am certain whoever marries you will be very well cared for, Captain,” she said, her eyes lifted to his, “in every sense of the word, I can speak from the one night experience I had with you.”

You felt heat across your face, whether it came from embarrassment or anger, you couldn’t really tell. But before you could come up with a response, Jungkook let out a laugh beside you. 

"You are too kind," Jungkook said again, "though I confess, ladies, you have caught me at an unfair advantage. Allow me to introduce you properly to my fiance, so that you might direct your very generous concern for her happiness at the lady herself, rather than at me."

Before you could react, Jungkook placed his hand at your back and pulled you half a step closer to him. The movement somehow felt so familiar, that it startled you into silence.

"Lady Ashwell," Jungkook said, glancing down at you, "forgive me. I should have introduced her sooner.”

Three pairs of eyes swept over you then, from your head to the edges of your gown and back to your eyes again.

"How lovely," the blonde one said, in a voice that suggested she did not find you lovely at all, "we did hear that the youngest Ashwell daughter kept mostly to her books. I confess I did not picture you quite so…” she paused, "...quiet."

"I am considerably less quiet than most people expect," you replied, "though I understand the confusion. I simply prefer to save my opinions for matters important enough to deserve them.”

Beside you, Jungkook turned his face away and bit the inside of his lip, evidently trying not to laugh.

The brunette one smiled at you, entirely unashamed of having spent the last several minutes displaying her cleavage to your future husband in front of you, "Well," she said, "I am sure the Captain will keep you very well looked after."

“I am sure he will try,” you said. Then, with a smile, you added, “Though you need not concern yourselves on my account. I have never been the jealous type. I have no objection to mistresses, provided they are discreet and do not expect me to do anything for them.”

The silence that followed was without question, the most satisfying silence you have had all day.

The ladies’ mouth opened, then closed again, apparently unable to find a suitable reply. While Jungkook went completely still beside you and when you glanced up at him, his expression was somewhere between horror and admiration.

“My lady has a rather strange sense of humour,” Jungkook said smoothly, trying to fix up the mess you have made, “she enjoys making people uncomfortable.”

“I was not joking,” you said.

“Oh, she was,” Jungkook repeated more firmly, and you felt his hand tighten slightly against the fabric around your back.

“Well. How very… modern of you, Lady Ashwell,” the blonde lady said with a stiff smile, clearly not knowing what to make of what you just said, “If you will excuse us, Captain, I believe my mother is looking for me.”

The other two murmured their excuses and followed her, retreating with considerably less grace than they did when they joined the two of you.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

“Mistresses,” Jungkook repeated the word again once the ladies were out of sight. 

He turned to look at you properly for the first time since the word left your mouth, “You have just told three of the most notorious gossips in the kingdom that you would not object to me keeping mistresses.”

“You did not exactly discourage them,” you replied, “you were remarkably gracious to the one showing off her cleavage.”

“I was being polite.”

“You were being admired, Captain, and you seemed perfectly content to allow it.”

“A gentleman simply declines to be rude about where a lady chooses to direct the conversation,” Jungkook answered.

“How very diplomatic of you,” you scoffed.

“I have had a great deal of practice,” he said, looking far too pleased with himself.

“I gathered as much.”

“But whatever you intended, my lady,” Jungkook continued, steering the conversation away, “that remark will be repeated at every dinner table in the city before the evening ends.”

“Good. Perhaps it will finally convince everyone that we are as catastrophically unsuited as I have been saying since the fountain,” you said as you smiled sweetly at him.

“Or it will convince the entire city that you are far more interesting than anyone gave you credit for, and that I am remarkably fortunate in my choice of wife,” Jungkook replied, smirking at you, clearly satisfied with his conclusion.

“That was not my intention,” you let out a small gasp before you could stop it. The most irritating part was that Jungkook might be right. Once the story spread, the nobles would not pity him for being forced to marry you.

They would envy him for it and even found the two of you as being suitable for each other.

“No,” he agreed, smiling again, “I did not imagine it was your intention and yet here we are.”

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

It was not long afterwards, during yet another round of introductions, that you noticed a man standing near the refreshment table. He was watching you with amusement, as if he had been waiting to see how long it would take for you to notice him.

He was tall, dressed in a deep green coat that stood out among the black and navy worn by nearly every other gentleman in the garden. His dark hair was left slightly untidy, some strands of his hair falling across his forehead. 

The moment your eyes met, he grinned at you.

“Taehyung!” you exclaimed, leaving Jungkook’s side without a second thought, “you came.”

“Of course I came,” Taehyung replied, closing the space between the two of you and taking both of your hands in his, “I would not have missed Margot’s wedding for anything.”

His grin widened, “Besides, I heard my favourite Ashwell daughter somehow managed to get herself engaged.”

"I have missed you!" you said, smiling at him. 

“Me too, I have missed you too,” Taehyung replied and smiled back at you.

Taehyung is now living on the other side of the country, where he spent the past several years managing the estate he inherited from his father. Between tenants and the endless demands of the property, he rarely had a reason to return to the capital. You have not seen him in nearly a year, but you exchange letters every month which has been enough to make the distance feel less severe.

What you did not know was that Taehyung had no intention of returning to his home across the country. He came to settle in the capital for good, a decision made shortly after learning that the woman he always believed he would one day marry is now engaged to someone else. Taehyung also knew that you did not choose the match yourself. You never hid your dislike of soldiers, and he could not believe that, given any choice at all, you would have agreed to marry one.

Jungkook, who followed you just a few steps behind, arrived just in time to hear Taehyung’s confession of missing you. He extended his hand to Taehyung as he introduced himself,  “Captain Jeon Jungkook.”

“Kim Taehyung,” the other man replied, accepting his hand, “a very very old friend of the lady’s.”

“Very old?” Jungkook repeated.

“Since childhood,” you explained.

“I see,” Jungkook’s expression remained perfectly composed, but his gaze moved briefly between the two of you.

It did not take Jungkook long to understand. Taehyung was still holding one of your hands, seemingly unaware of it. Even while speaking to Jungkook, Taehyung’s attention continued to drift back to you, his expression softening each time it did.

Jungkook’s smile did not falter. His grip on Taehyung’s hand, however, lasted a moment longer than necessary. Jungkook spent years learning how to read a room, and Kim Taehyung was not particularly difficult to understand. He watched you too closely, smiled too readily whenever you spoke, and seemed to forget Jungkook was standing there each time you turned towards him. 

Taehyung was in love with you and judging by the familiarity between the two of you, he had been for some time, even long before Jungkook’s name ever entered the Ashwell household.

It was an interesting complication, Jungkook thought to himself, “How do you know one another?” Jungkook asked, mostly to see which of you would answer first.

"We grew up together," you said, "our families' estates share a border. Taehyung used to climb over the garden wall to steal fruit, and I used to pretend I hadn't seen him do it."

"She saw me every single time," Taehyung said, "and always ended up telling her governess anyway."

"You deserved it," you laughed before adding, "you also stole my favorite book once and did not return it for an entire year."

"I was still reading it," Taehyung said, “and I wanted to enjoy it properly."

Jungkook watched the two of you argue and it told him more than either of you seemed to realise. And he felt something uncomfortable somewhere behind his ribs, it was not jealousy because being jealous would have required him to want something, and Jungkook did not want you in any form or any way. 

Jungkook was just feeling cautious. 

Taehyung knew you well enough to recognise when you were lying, or when you were keeping something from him. He knew your habits, history and, judging by the way you spoke to him, had earned a degree of trust from you that Jungkook himself was unlikely to receive any time soon. 

And that could very well become a problem, not because Jungkook cared whom you spend your time with, he did not. But the work ahead would depend on discretion, and if Taehyung believed himself to be responsible for your safety and happiness, he would inevitably begin asking inconvenient questions and watching the Jeon household a little too closely. 

If Taehyung remained in the capital, he would likely be the first person you turned to whenever you discovered something you did not understand. And if he was as devoted to you as Jungkook suspected, he would not simply look the other way.

Kim Taehyung was not yet a threat to Jungkook, but he was a man worth watching.

“If you will both excuse me,” Jungkook said after a moment, “I believe I owe your father a conversation, Lady Ashwell, and I would rather not keep the duke waiting.”

“Of course,” you replied. 

He could hear the relief in your voice at his departure, but Jungkook chose not to say anything about it. He gave Taehyung a slight bow, and made his way towards your father at the other end of the pavilion.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

"So," Taehyung said, the moment Jungkook was gone, leaning against the refreshment table, "that is the military man you are being forced to marry."

"That is him," you said with a sigh.

"He seems," Taehyung said, choosing his words carefully, "very composed."

"That is one word for it," you laughed.

"What word would you use to describe him instead?"

"Insufferable," you said, "arrogant, and entirely too pleased with himself.”

"That does sound like exactly the sort of person you would find intolerable," Taehyung said, grinning, "though I confess it also sounds rather more interesting than I expected, given how the letter your mother sent me described him. She made him sound like a noble war hero out of a children's story."

"He is apparently precisely that to everyone except me," you said, "my father adores him, my mother adores him. And I am, apparently, the only person in the entire kingdom and Ashwell household capable of seeing him clearly."

"And what do you see, exactly?" Taehyung asked.

“I do not know,” you admitted, “only that it is not what everyone else sees. He is different with them than he is with me, and I cannot decide whether that is more unsettling than if he treated everyone equally badly.”

“You think he is hiding something,” Taehyung answered.

“I know he is hiding something. I simply do not know what.”

Taehyung studied you for some time, and the amusement across his face turned into something more serious, "You do not have to marry him," he said, "you know that, don't you?"

“I am fairly certain the Queen of Leon would disagree,” you answered as you glanced around the garden. The guests nearby were far too occupied with champagne and other gossip to notice either of you, but you lowered your voice before adding, “But I have three weeks before the wedding and I intend to spend every one of them finding a way out of it.”

Taehyung’s brows lifted as he noticed the look on your face, “You already have a plan.”

“Yes, I may have one,” you smiled at your childhood friend. 

“Of course you do,” he said, grinning, “you never were very good at waiting for someone else to rescue you.”

“I have found it much quicker to rescue myself,” you replied, smiling back at him.

“And considerably more entertaining for everyone involved,” he added, laughing softly.

"There is a convent, the Sisters of Saint Joseph, it is only a ten hours journey from here,” you said, lowering your voice further.

Taehyung’s grin faded, “A convent?”

“My father keeps several old volumes of Church law in his study. No one else in the house has ever bothered to read them, which meant I could.”

“Of course you did,” Taehyung murmured.

You ignored him as you explained the first part of your plan, “If a woman presents herself to a religious order and declares that she intends to commit herself to the church, she cannot be dragged away. Not without the consent of the presiding bishop.”

“Not even by her family?” Taehyung asked.

“Not by her family,” you said, “and, as far as I have been able to understand, not even by the Crown.”

Taehyung stared at you for a long moment, clearly trying to understand what you were suggesting, “You mean to become a nun.”

“I mean to make myself extraordinarily difficult to marry off,” you replied, “The Queen may write as many letters as she pleases, but she cannot order the Church to hand me back without a fight. And I doubt she will want one over a marriage arranged largely for her own amusement.”

Taehyung’s expression remained serious as he asked, “You believe the convent will protect you?”

“I believe it will delay them in marrying me off,” you lowered your voice, “it will give me time to write to Her Majesty myself and explain why I will not consent to this marriage.”

“And you think that will help you?”

“It might,” you said, “at the very least, it will make forcing me to the altar considerably more inconvenient.”

Taehyung said nothing for a moment. A convent was not the future he imagined for you, but it was not a marriage either. In the convent, you would be beyond Jungkook’s reach, and beyond the Queen’s, at least for a time.

And vows to the church did not have to be permanent. If you changed your mind, or found some way to leave the convent later, Taehyung could take you across the country with him, somewhere far from the capital, where no one would think to look for you until it was too late.

Perhaps the convent was not an ending to Taehyung’s love story with you. Perhaps it was merely a place to keep you until he could take you away.

"That is," Taehyung finally said, "genuinely clever and frighteningly so, if I am honest."

"I have had a great deal of time to think about it, and even if I have the idea, I still cannot execute it unless… you are willing to help me.”

"What do you need from me?"

“I need a carriage no one would connect to either of our families,” you said, “and a driver willing to drive me to the convent without asking questions. I cannot hire one myself without attracting attention, and I certainly cannot use one of my father’s drivers,” you looked at Taehyung whose expression grew even more serious, “but you know people. Could you arrange it?”

“I know exactly the man,” Taehyung replied, “he is quiet, discreet, and has done far stranger favours for me without ever speaking of them again.”

“Good, exactly what I needed,” you answered.

Taehyung smiled faintly at you, “Tell me when and where, and I will have him waiting.”

“Two days from now,” you answered, “there is a pastry shop on Fenwick Lane, near the library. I visit often enough that no one would question it if they see me there. If the carriage waits nearby, I could be outside the city before anyone at home realised I was missing.”

“Fenwick Lane,” Taehyung repeated, “I know where it is.”

“Good. Late morning, then. Around eleven,” you lowered your voice, “I will tell Daisy I want to spend the day at the library. From there, it is only a short walk to the pastry shop.”

“And if the carriage is waiting nearby,” Taehyung continued, “then you could be outside the city before anyone realised you were missing.”

“Precisely!” you answered, a little too excitedly. 

"What happens if the Sisters will not have you? If they ask questions you cannot answer, or send word to your father the moment you arrive?"

"Then I will have lost a day and gained nothing," you said, "but I do not intend to fail for lack of preparation. I have already written the letter I mean to present them,explaining precisely what I wish to pursue in the convent and why. I have even practiced more than once, exactly how I mean to say it."

"You have thought of everything."

"I have thought of it a great deal," you said.

"Do you remember," he said, "when we were children, and you decided the two of us should run away and live in the old boathouse by the lake?"

"I remember you eating all the food we had packed within the first hour,” you answered.

"I was a growing boy," Taehyung answered, laughing at the memories coming back to him, "and you were entirely too focused on your book to notice I was hungry."

"We lasted four hours before your mother found us."

"Four glorious hours," Taehyung said, "the finest afternoon of my childhood, and here we are again, planning the same sort of scheme only with considerably higher stakes,” Taehyung’s expression turned even more serious when he concluded, “I will accompany you to the convent, ____."

"Are you certain?" you asked, looking at him anxiously.

"Entirely," Taehyung said, taking your hand and pressing it between both of his, "I promised you, a very long time ago, that I would always come when you needed me. I do not intend to start breaking that promise now."

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The study in the Jeon townhouse was lit by only a few candles. The windows were shut, and the curtains had been drawn tightly across them.

Jungkook returned from the reception an hour earlier, still carrying the faint smell of champagne. He barely finished changing out of his uniform when the first of the revolutionists’ leaders arrived.

Jimin came in first. Seokjin followed soon after, tracking mud across the carpet without the slightest sign of regret. Dennis and Kilian arrived together, still arguing quietly about a shipment. Hana slipped in behind them without drawing attention to herself. And Walter, as usual, came last and appeared to be amused that everyone else bothered to arrive on time.

Owen was already there, seated on the floor beside the fire with his back against the fireplace. He looked far more pleased than he usually seemed. 

“You look rather satisfied with yourself,” Jungkook said, lowering himself into the chair behind his desk. He reached for the small stack of correspondence Jimin had left there earlier, “which usually means something has gone either very right or very wrong.”

“Neither,” Owen replied, “or maybe both. It depends on how you choose to look at it.”

"That is not an answer," Seokjin snorted.

"I will only say it until everyone is seated," Owen said, "I would rather not tell this story twice."

Seokjin, who claimed his usual spot by the fireplace next to Owen, said, "If this is another story about the Duke of Pemberton's new stables, Owen, I swear I will throw you into the fire myself."

"It is not about the stables," Owen confirmed.

“Then I am all ears,” Seokjin said.

Once everyone had settled, Owen leaned forward, looking far too pleased with whatever he had discovered, “You will all remember that I have a man in service at the Rohan estate,” Owen said, “he has been there for a little over two years, mostly pouring wine and pretending not to hear what the nobility says in front of him and as it turns out, they say considerably more than they should.”

“We remember your man at Rohan,” Jimin said dryly, “you have mentioned him once or twice.”

“Yes, well, tonight he earned every mention,” Owen said, overly proud of the man, “he was serving refreshments near the garden this afternoon during the wedding, less than ten feet from where Captain J’s fiance was having a conversation with an old friend of hers, a Mister Kim Taehyung. If I remembered correctly.”

Jungkook was going through the correspondence with only half his attention but at the mention of Taehyung’s name, he stopped and set the letters down, “Go on,” Jungkook said.

"My man did not think much of it at first," Owen continued, "young people talk, and he had a tray of champagne to attend to. But then he heard the word convent, which is not a word young nobles typically mention and he had the good sense to linger a moment longer than necessary."

"A convent?" Dennis repeated, glancing towards Jungkook.

"The Sisters of Saint Joseph," Owen said, “ten hours journey from the capital. Apparently your lady has spent her free time reading Church law in her father's study, and has arrived at the conclusion that a woman who presents herself to a religious order, cannot be dragged away from it. Not by her family, and as far as she has been able to find out, not even by the Crown."

The room went silent.

"She means to become a nun," Kilian slowly said.

"Yes," Owen said, "or to make herself inconvenient even for the Crown to marry her off.”

Seokjin let out a long whistle, "That is genuinely brilliant for a noble lady to come up with," he said, “Captain, your future wife has found a loophole, and she stumbled upon it in her father's study out of what, boredom?"

"Is it true? Could it really work?" Hana asked, turning towards Kilian, who has the closest thing among them to formal legal training.

“It is true,” Kilian said, “the law has fallen out of common use, but it was never formally removed from Church law and no monarch in the last two centuries has cared to challenge it publicly, not when doing so would risk an unnecessary conflict with the church.”

Kilian glanced towards Jungkook, “If Lady Ashwell presents herself willingly and the bishop agrees to accept her, the Crown would need his cooperation to remove her. Forcing the matter could provoke a conflict with the Church, and I doubt the Crown cares enough about this marriage to risk one.”

“So it would work,” Dennis said, “Lady Ashwell could avoid the marriage.”

“It could work,” Kilian agreed, “provided the bishop has no particular loyalty to the Crown and that is not something any of us can determine from this room tonight.”

"I am this close to writing to the woman myself and offering my services," Seokjin said, "purely out of interest. It is not every day one meets a noblewoman capable of citing Church law to inconvenience the Crown."

"You would be wasting the paper," Jimin replied, "she despises soldiers, and I imagine she would despise you within the first three sentences you say to her."

“I am remarkably charming in writing,” Seokjin protested, “far more charming than I am in person.”

Jungkook ignored their bickering and leaned back in his chair, resting one hand against his mouth. For a long moment, he said nothing, but the look in his eyes made it clear that he was considering the matter far more carefully than his silence suggested.

"Well, Captain?" Seokjin said, after the silence stretched long enough, "you have gone very quiet. Should we be concerned?"

Jungkook let out a short and unexpected laugh that startled everyone into glancing up to look at him.

"Look what we are up against," Jungkook said, shaking his head slightly, "she is clearly an intelligent noble lady.”

Jungkook lowered his hand from his mouth, “I have spent the better part of the week wondering whether she might eventually discover what goes on in this house. Now I find she has already devised a way to outplay the Crown, entirely on her own with nothing more than books.”

"You sound almost proud of her," Seokjin said. 

“There is more,” Owen continued, “she does not intend to travel alone. Her friend, Kim Taehyung, has agreed to accompany her. And he will be arranging the carriage and driver through a contact of his own. They are meeting the day after tomorrow, late in the morning, outside a pastry shop on Fenwick Lane. From there, they intend to travel directly to the convent.”

"A driver," Walter answered, speaking for the first time that evening, "did your man happen to overhear a description of this driver?"

"Kim Taehyung apparently described him as someone who has done far stranger favors for him before and never once spoken of them again."

Walter went silent for a moment, and then, slowly, a smile began to spread across his face, "That," Walter said, "sounds a very great deal like Theo."

Every head in the room turned towards Walter.

"Theo," Jimin repeated, "our Theo?"

"How many discreet men in this city do you imagine go about arranging carriages for young lords who cannot be seen doing anything themselves?" Walter said, "Kim Taehyung has used him three times before, to my knowledge. Theo has been moving things and people around the capital for nobles for half a decade which is precisely why he has been useful to us for nearly as long."

"You are telling me," Jungkook said slowly, "that the very driver Kim Taehyung intends to hire to help Lady Ashwell move out of the city already belongs to the revolutionists."

"Yes," Walter confirmed, " the city is smaller than any of the nobles ever care to admit, and that discretion from a servant is a rarer trade than they assume. There are only so many men in the capital willing to drive a carriage and ask no questions.”

Seokjin let out a delighted laugh and clapped his hands together, "This is the finest turn of luck I have heard in months," he continued, "the woman devises a plan clever enough to trouble the Crown, and it will be for nothing because the driver she has actually works for us."

"Here is what I believe we should do," Jungkook said, standing up from his chair, “first, Kim Taehyung cannot be permitted to travel with her. If he is present, he will become a pain in our plan. He clearly cares for her, which means he will not simply stand by and allow anything to happen, however carefully we stage it."

"You want him delayed," Dennis said.

"I want him to be occupied by something else," Jungkook corrected, "somewhere convincing enough that he won’t suspect it was arranged. Otherwise, he will go straight to her, and everything that has just fallen into our hands will become considerably more difficult.”

“An emergency,” Owen interrupted, “something urgent enough to demand his assistance.. an accident, perhaps or a stranger in distress.”

"He strikes me as precisely the sort of man who cannot walk past someone in need without stopping to help," Jungkook said, "arrange it for the morning of. Somewhere along his route to Fenwick Lane, close enough that he will still believe he has time to reach her afterward, and far enough that by the time he realises otherwise, it will already be too late to matter."

“How long a delay are we aiming for?” Dennis asked, already reaching for a scrap of paper and pencil, as he always did once a plan began to take a shape.

“Thirty minutes. She may wait that long, but no longer, she does not strike me as the sort to wait indefinitely when something of this nature is concerned,” Jungkook replied.

“Then we should also think of the possibility that she might not pick Theo’s carriage at all, without Taehyung present,” Dennis said, “if her patience runs out, she may simply hire the nearest available coach herself. In that case, Theo may never be the man who drives her.”

“Then Theo should not be the only man we rely on,” Kilian said, “I shall speak to others besides him, men I trust to take her where she is to be taken. Better more nets than one, Captain, considering how clever she has already proved herself to be.”

"See to it," Jungkook said, "I would rather spend the day bribing every coachman on Fenwick Lane or making sure they are all part of the revolutionists than risk losing track of her because we assumed she would behave predictably. What concerns me is what becomes of every person in this room and everything we have spent years working toward if she succeeds in leaving. because the future of the revolutionists are relying on this marriage.”

“I can deploy two men to delay Kim Taehyung, so consider him handled,” Jimin said, still scratching notes across his his paper.

“Good,” Jungkook said, before turning his attention to Walter, “I shall leave Theo to you. He is to do precisely as Kim Taehyung expects until it no longer serves us for him to do so. She must not suspect the carriage itself, and she is not to be taken to the convent at all.”

Jungkook paused, his expression turning even more serious, “I want her to be brought somewhere more convenient for us, and I would prefer that she discover the change of plans only when it is far too late to alter her own.”

"You are enjoying this," Seokjin said, teasing his Captain.

"I am doing what is necessary," Jungkook said, though the corner of his own mouth curved into a small smile, "the fact that I might also find it entertaining is a separate matter."

Seokjin held up both hands in surrender, grinning as he made his way toward the door, "For what it's worth, I would pay a great deal of money to see her face the moment she realises."

"So would I," Jimin admitted.

Jungkook thought to himself for the second time that week, that it was a great pity you would never know how much your intelligence have impressed him.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The next two days you spent behaving exactly as you always do. But your mother, it turned out, could somehow see straight through you regardless.

Breakfast the following morning was  quieter than usual, Margot already moved to the Rohan’s household, and your father was already gone to his study with a stack of correspondence relating to your marriage. 

Your mother was the only one present, sitting just across from you, "You have not touched your eggs," she said.

"I am not hungry,” you answered.

"You are never hungry the morning after you have decided to do something," your mother said, setting her cup down, "I have watched you do this since you were seven years old, ____. You go quiet, you push your food around your plate, and then, within a week, something will happen."

"Whatever do you mean, mother?" you asked, before adding, "I am simply tired. The wedding required a lot of standing, socialising, and smiling, and I am not naturally suited to these."

"Mhmm..” she answered, “well, what you said to those ladies at the refreshment table, half of the society was still discussing it by the time the reception was over."

You felt your face warming up slightly and busied yourself with the tea in front of you, of course the words have reached your mother, you thought to yourself.

“It was nothing but a misunderstanding," you said.

"Mhm.." your mother said, in a tone that suggested she did not believe you, "you know, I was rather like you once, before your father."

This was, you have to admit, not where you expected the conversation would go, and you looked up properly for the first time since sitting down, "You were never like me, Mother."

"I was more like you than you imagine," your mother said, "I was seventeen, and my own mother arranged a match with a man I met twice, and I spent a full month convinced I would rather run off and live with my aunt in the countryside than marry a stranger."

"Then what happened?"

“Your father saved me, which is not the same thing as what you are going through," your mother said, before continuing, "I am not encouraging you to fall in love with Captain Jungkook. I am only telling you that I understand better than you seem to think I do. He does not seem like a bad guy, it is better than being married off to someone twenty years older than you. Just try to hate him less."

"I do not hate the Captain," you answered, "I find him arrogant and infuriating, and I do not trust him, but I do not hate him."

"That is how a great many marriages begin," your mother said, "and a surprising number of them end rather better than anyone expected."

"This may not end up like one of those marriages, Mother."

"Maybe," your mother agreed, reaching across the table to briefly cover your hand with her own, "but I would ask you, whatever you have decided, whatever it is you are not telling me this morning, to be careful, ____. You have always been the clever one of my daughters. But being clever does not always keep a person as safe as they believe it will."

You held her gaze a moment longer, wondering how much your mother truly suspected, and how much she simply chose, out of some motherly kindness, not to ask outright.

“I will be careful,” you said.

"See that you are," your mother said, releasing your hand, "now eat your eggs. You will need your strength for whatever it is you are not telling me, and I would rather not spend the next fortnight explaining to your father why his youngest daughter has fainted from an empty stomach."

You laughed and picked up your fork.

Your mother did not press the matter further, though you caught her watching you once or twice more over the course of the meal, with an expression you could not entirely read, it was something between concern and a resignation that oddly looked almost like pride.

You spent the rest of the day exactly as you always do: reading in the library, taking tea, eating lunch with your parents, all the while turning your plan over and over in your mind until every detail has been perfected.

You would tell Daisy that you intended to spend the morning at the library, as you so often do that the excuse would not be suspicious at all. From there, you would walk your usual route to the pastry shop on Fenwick Lane, where Taehyung would be waiting with the carriage and the driver he had arranged would arrive around the same time. Together, you would make the journey to the Sisters of Saint Joseph.

Your parents would be searching for you, of course. But by the time they discovered where you were gone, you would already be within the convent walls, under the protection of the Church and beyond their power to bring you home.

You packed a small bag the night before and hid it under your bed, taking only what you think will be necessary: a modest amount of coin, several pieces of jewellery that might fetch a handsome price if needed, two changes of clothing, and the book you have been reading.

And inside of the bed, folded carefully was the letter you have written and rewritten more times than you cared to admit. You intended to place it directly into the hands of whichever Sister welcomed you first. It explained precisely what you meant to pursue and why, leaving no room for anyone to send you home before you have been given the chance to be heard.

You did not sleep well that night, whether from nerves or anticipation you could not entirely say.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

Taehyung was planning to arrive at Fenwick Lane earlier. He was dressed in plain clothing to attract less attention from his surroundings. 

What Taehyung did not know, and had no reason to suspect, was that he had been followed for the last two days by a man who reported everywhere Taehyung went, everyone he spoke with, and the hour at which he planned to leave his estate.

He made it exactly four streets before a man stepped directly into his path, breathless with an expression of alarm across his face that stopped Taehyung mid-walk.

"Sir," the man said, "forgive me, I would not trouble a stranger under normal circumstances, but there has been an accident, just around the corner, a woman has fallen and struck her head badly, and I cannot find anyone willing to help me carry her to a physician."

"Where?" Taehyung said, already turning his full attention towards the stranger.

The man led him down a narrow side street, where, sure enough, a woman lay slumped against a wall. Another man knelt beside her, pressing a cloth to what appeared to be a wound at her temple. The entire scene looked urgent and tense that it did not occur to Taehyung, not even for a second, that any part of it might have been staged.

“She needs a physician at once,” the kneeling man said, “there is one only three streets from here, but I cannot carry her alone, and my friend has a weak back. If you would lend us your strength, sir, it should take no more than a few minutes.”

“Of course,” Taehyung was already taking his coat off, folding it carefully beneath the woman’s head, “here, allow me.”

“Bless you, sir,” the woman murmured, her eyelids fluttering weakly, “bless you, truly. I feared no one would stop.”

“You may thank me once we have delivered you safely to the physician,” Taehyung said, “for now, let us get you there.”

Only then did Taehyung think of you, waiting at the pastry shop and searching the street for him. Just a few minutes, surely a few minutes would make no difference. 

This shouldn't take long, please wait for me, I will not take long, I promise, Taehyung thought to himself as he lifted the woman carefully between himself and the kneeling stranger. 

in the end, it took longer than a few minutes. 

The physician's office was further than promised, the streets were more crowded than expected, and once they arrived, the woman herself insisted on thanking Taehyung at such length and with such tearful gratitude that he could not simply turn and leave her mid-sentence. 

It did not occur to Taehyung that the woman’s injury appeared less severe once the cloth was removed from her temple nor did he notice that both men vanished the moment the physician’s door closed behind them.

Once the woman was finally safely delivered into competent hands, Taehyung realised with horror that nearly forty minutes had passed.

"Forgive me," he said to the physician, already backing towards the door, "I am terribly late for an appointment," and did not wait to hear the reply.

He ran the entire way to Fenwick Lane, and when Taehyung arrived at the pastry shop, he only found the street outside it empty.

"____?" he said, to no one, looking for you at every corner of the street. Taehyung then checked inside the shop itself, asked the woman behind the counter whether she saw a young lady waiting outside, and received only a sympathetic shake of her head in response.

He stood there for a long moment afterwards, his hands pressed to his knees, catching his breath. 

Wherever you have gone, Taehyung understood that you have gone there alone.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You waited exactly ten minutes before you started becoming anxious.

Taehyung has never once in all the years you have known him, failed to arrive when he said he would, and you reminded yourself of this fact with each passing minute.

You tried to divert your focus by pretending to examine the pastries in the shop window, by walking slowly, and by checking the small clock mounted above a shop nearby.

"Will you be wanting anything, miss?" the shopkeeper asked, for the second time in the past ten minutes now.

"No. Thank you," you said, "I am waiting for someone."

Taehyung is coming, you told yourself, he promised.

Ten minutes became twenty and twenty became closer to thirty, and you were doing your best not to count. But you have chosen this street at this specific hour because it would not draw attention, but the longer you stand there, the more aware you became of every person who glanced your way and every possibility that someone might recognise the youngest daughter of the Duke of Ashwell standing alone on a public street with a small bag at her feet.

A woman leaving the bakery looked at you twice, a delivery boy looked at you as if he recognised who you were, and even the shopkeeper started to stare at you from behind the glass of her store.

You could not wait much longer. 

Every minute was a minute in which your absence from home might be noticed. Daisy might begin to wonder why you brought your small bag to the library, even after you told her it’s filled with books. Your mother might send someone after you, worse, your father might learn of it before you could travel far enough.

You looked once more towards the far end of the street and there was still no sign of Taehyung.

A coach stood near the corner, its driver leaning against one wheel. And for one brief moment you wondered whether waiting a little longer might be wiser.

You made your decision and there was no time left to waste. You grabbed your bag, you and walked across the street towards the driver, “I need to travel north, along the river road, to the convent of Saint Joseph,” you told the driver, “as quickly as you are able to get me there.”

The driver was a large man dressed in a plain black coat. He tipped his hat, took your bag from your hand, and opened the carriage door without asking a single question.

At the time, you mistook his silence for discretion.

What you did not notice was the glance he exchanged with a man standing across the street.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The driver slowed down the horses and glanced back at you through the small window between the carriage and his seat around one kilometre into the journey.

“It is a long journey to Saint Joseph, miss,” he said, “almost a day in good weather, but it would take almost twelve hours since the roads became poor due to yesterday’s weather.”

You leaned forward slightly, “I thought it could be reached in ten hours?”

“It can, ordinarily. But I would not advise travelling the northern roads after dark and in this grey weather,” he said, nodding toward the grey clouds, “there is an inn six hours outside the city where drivers making the journey commonly stop. It is a nice inn, and the road beyond it is safer taken in daylight. I suggest we remain there tonight and continue at first light.”

The suggestion was one you didn’t particularly like because right now every hour mattered, and you hoped to be safely within the convent before anyone at home discovered where you were gone.

For one fleeting second, you wished you were able to take one of your family’s private cars instead. It would have been faster, safer, and far less dependent upon the judgement of a stranger. But at this time and age, traveling by car was reserved only for the head of the household, and a disappearance of one of your father’s expensive vehicles could never be done without the whole estate taking notice. 

Hiring a public coach was the only choice that offered you any hope of secrecy.

“Is stopping truly necessary?” you asked.

“I would not recommend otherwise,” he replied, “the road passes through several kilometres of woodland, and there have been robberies there after nightfall. I would rather lose a few hours than place you in danger, miss.”

You looked through the window at the city gradually becoming smaller behind you. Returning was no longer an option, and seeking another coach would only waste more time. The delay was inconvenient, but not unreasonable and by the following morning, you would still be beyond your father’s immediate reach.

“Very well,” you said at last, “we shall stop at the inn.”

The driver tipped his hat at you, “A wise decision, miss.”

You settled back into your seat as the carriage moved forward, telling yourself that the stop was only a sensible precaution.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The lobby of the inn was small and warmly lit.

There was a modest sofa arranged near the entrance, occupied by several men in military uniforms who briefly looked up as you opened the door, and returned to their conversation right after.

Except for one of them, who did not look away at all.

He sat in the centre of the sofa, one of his arms stretched along the back of the sofa. 

He was wearing a white shirt with the top three buttons left undone, revealing his chest. He looked as if he has been waiting there for some time.

For one brief moment, you told yourself it could not possibly be him. But the longer you stared, the less room there was for doubt.

It was him.

His broad shoulders, the composed way he held himself, and the way his eyes found yours the instant the door opened and did not once leave them, there could be no mistake.

The plan you spent days carefully arranging collapsed all at once.

Captain Jeon Jungkook slowly stood up from the sofa, and the smile that spread across his face was without question, the most infuriating smile you have ever seen.

"Oh," Jungkook said, slowly approaching you, "fancy seeing you here, my lady."

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You wanted to run. 

But there was nowhere left to go. The driver was already at the desk, talking to the innkeeper. The sky outside was almost dark, and Jungkook was already walking towards you. 

You were furious, how could he possibly have known? Who told him? 

Only Taehyung knew of your plan, and he would never have betrayed you, not after everything the two of you have shared. So, there was only one reasonable explanation.

“You followed me here,” you said, confronting the Captain in front of his men, “you followed me here.”

"Did I?" Jungkook asked, tilting his head as if the accusation genuinely puzzled him, "I was under the impression that I arrived first at this inn, my lady, which would make it rather difficult for me to have followed you."

"Do not lie to me, Captain," you said, taking a step closer to him despite every instinct urging you to not do so, "I can see right through you."

"I rarely lie," Jungkook answered, "it requires far too much effort to keep track of it afterwards. As it happens, I visit this inn often and many of my men live in the surrounding villages, as you can see,” he said as he nodded towards the sofa, and the men seated there raised and waved their hands in greeting.

You did not greet them back. You hated soldiers too much to spare them more than a passing glance, so your attention remained focused entirely on Jungkook.

"Explain yourself," you demanded.

"Well, if you insist," Jungkook sighed, closing the distance between you, as he looked down right into your eyes, “First, I did not lie. I do come here often, ask any one of my men if you doubt me. Second, your mother came to see me two days ago. She told me she feared you might try to run."

Jungkook was telling the truth. 

Even though the leaders of the revolutionists knew of your plan for two days now, your mother's visit to Jungkook's estate was not something any of them had orchestrated. It was something Jungkook and his men did not expect. It was as if the final piece of their plan had simply fallen into their hands.

You remembered your mother across the breakfast table, watching you for far longer than usual. And you clearly remembered the strange warning she gave you about how being clever is not always enough to keep a person safe.

You knew she suspected you running away, but you didn’t realise that your mother would act on her suspicion. It was very out of her character to do so.

You felt as if you have been betrayed. Your mother, who let you keep to your books, silences and excuses, had gone behind your back to the one man in the kingdom you least wanted informed of your plans. 

And yet, she also did not go to your father who would have gone through even greater lengths to prevent you from running away. And you realised, what your mother did was its own kind of protection, but simply was not in the form you hoped for. 

"You should not run from your own house and leave your poor mother to suffer her anxiety alone," Jungkook said, "she was quite beside herself, my lady. I have rarely seen a duchess so sad."

"My mother's mental state is none of your concern, Captain," you said.

"It became my concern the moment she cried in my living room," Jungkook said, "you may resent me for many things. But I came here because a woman who is about to be my mother in law, asked me to make sure that her daughter did not get herself killed travelling alone. 

“Did you even have a plan, my lady?” Jungkook asked, you could tell he was teasing you and it infuriated you even more, “or did you simply just trust the coachman to bring you somewhere far enough?”

"I had a plan," you said, rolling your eyes at him, aware of exactly how little that plan was worth now with your soon to be husband standing three feet away from you.

"Oh?" Jungkook said, tilting his head with what looked like genuine curiosity, "so what was your plan, exactly? I confess I am rather eager to hear how far you intended to run away before someone recognised a duke's daughter travelling alone."

You sighed again. 

There was little point in trying to keep your plans a secret now.

Since you would never have another chance like this. The moment you returned, the estate would be placed on high alert, guards would follow your every step, servants would report your movements, and every door beyond the grounds would be watched.

There would be no second escape.

You have admitted your defeat.

You will soon be marrying the man in front of you, and there was no way for you to escape.

"There is a convent, just ten hours north of the capital and if a woman presents herself and asks to commit to the Church, she cannot be removed from the convent, not by her family, and as far as I could understand, not by the Crown either.”

"You meant to become a nun," Jungkook said, before adding, “and act against a royal decree.. that is the most reckless yet intelligent idea I have heard from a noblewoman.”

"It hardly matters now," you said in defeat.

“You are correct,” Jungkook agreed, with a smile so smug you had to stop yourself from slapping his face.

You suddenly became aware of the innkeeper hovering near the two of you, waiting with an apologetic look of a man who had bad news, "Captain," the innkeeper said, playing with his hands, "forgive me, but I have only just been informed. With the weather tonight, we have considerably more travelers than usual, and I am afraid we have exactly one room left in the house."

"One room?" you repeated.

"One room," the innkeeper confirmed, looking between the two of you, "I truly am sorry, my lady, and Captain Jungkook. I would offer you my own quarters, but my wife would have my head."

You were now even more annoyed and furious at the universe for turning your evening this way. A perfectly good escape plan, days in the making, was reduced to this; an inn, a fiance you did not want, and now, apparently, a single room the two of you have to share.

But beneath the annoyance, you could not entirely erase the satisfaction the moment you noticed the irritation across Jungkook's face at the innkeeper's announcement. 

This was clearly the one thing the Captain failed to anticipate, and you found yourself taking pleasure in watching him realise it.

"Ah," the innkeeper added quickly, sensing the tension, "but the room is an ensuite, it is very spacious. And there is a sofa in the room itself, it is large enough to be used as a bed if the Captain does not mind sleeping on it for a night."

"How reassuring," you stated.

I cringe when I realize I might’ve thrown the perfume bottles a little too harsh. I might be doing good financially, but unfortunately my signature perfume retails for almost four freaking hundred dollars. And this specific bottle of Parfums The Marly Valaya was a birthday gift from Jungkook earlier this year. So I carefully readjust it in the mini bag, a lot more gentle this time.

“Are you seriously packing two big makeup bags? You’re a makeups artist with a huge suitcase full of makeup. Do you really need to overpack that much?” Jungkook’s voice travels through the phone. He’s talking to me on the phone while packing himself.

He sent a photo of himself earlier, sitting in the middle of a big pile of clothes on the floor of his room, telling me to learn and get my ass up to pack.

My heart skipped a beat when I opened that photo. Exclusively because he was shirtless and was wearing a loose pair of black sport shorts.

I ignored the butterflies flying around in my belly at the sight of his slightly damp long hair, his bare chest and tattoos and his beautiful bare face, and sent him a picture of myself, sitting in the middle of a messy disaster of my makeup while trying to fit them into only two makeups bags and showing him my middle finger.

I captioned it with “Way ahead of you, fucker.”

He responded with laughing emojis and decided to call me after.

“I don’t use those makeup myself, Jungkook. I’m telling you that for the thousandth time. And I don’t know what kind of look I might want to do, so I need all kinds of options.” I grunt as I push the fifth eyeshadow palette into the bag.

And that’s a lie. I will probably do the same look everyday throughout the whole trip, but I still need my options with me.

“You are insane, Viv. The first thing you’re gonna do when we land in Paris is to go to their Sephora anyway. What’s the point of packing so much?” He argues like he knows me so much.

And yes. He does.

I will most definitely do exactly what he said.

“Leave me and my dozens of makeup bags alone, Jeon. Just like I’m leaving you and your tenth black hoodie alone.” I give up and throw the rest of the makeup in a third bag.

Don’t judge me.

“You talk like you’re literally not the person who have stolen twenty of them already.” He yells from a distant, probably busy moving around his house as we talk. “You always pack girly tops and shit, but you always end up stealing my clothes. Half of these hoodies will be missing from my suitcase by the end of this trip.”

Since he’s not here to see my giddy look, I let myself smile at that.

I probably have six of his hoodies in my closet right now. And he knows he’s not getting them back from me.

“Your clothes are big and comfy. And don’t talk like you literally don’t give them to me yourself.”

He likes complaining about me stealing his clothes all the time, but he never made a move to stop me from doing that. He gave two of them to me himself.

“That’s because you always go out with little tops and strapless outfits and end up freezing. And I end up giving them to you because I’m not a heartless monster.” I can hear the cocky tone and the smile even on the phone. “My mama raised a gentleman.”

My smile only widens. I push my hair back from my face and adjust the phone between my shoulder and ear.

“Okay. Now that you are such a perfect gentleman, how about you pack me one of your long sleeve shirts, too?”

“Get away from those, Viv.” He threatens me playfully. “I’m warning you.”

I’m probably gonna take one of those, too. And he fully knows that.

I burst into chuckles as I bring all my bags and pack my suitcases.

The staff and tour managers would go into a cardiac arrest if they saw the number of suitcases I’m bringing, but they are all already familiar with me.

We spend the rest of the day time talking and packing, making sure that the other one doesn’t forget anything, until I receive a call from Dionne.

We finally say our goodbyes before I hang up on Jungkook and take Dionne’s call.

Dionne is one of the tour managers, meaning she’s very strict on organizing and planning. So she has had her suitcases and bags packed and ready in days.

She’s my closest friend, but we could never share a room in a hotel and that’s the reason why. She would probably hit me with one her heels and throw me and my dozen bags out of the room three hours into our stay.

“No way you guys just finished packing.” She tells me dramatically after we talk for a while. “How can you guys sleep at night not fearing you forgot something? Even Jimin packed faster than you guys.”

“Did he, Now?” My tone teasing.

“Yeah. I’ve been on the phone with him for the past three days, making sure he has packed everything already.”

“Yeah, but I don’t exactly think he packs that quickly because he has OCD.” I smirk, and Dionne catches into my tone quickly.

I can actually feel the roll of her eyes through the phone. “Shut your damn gate, woman. Stop relating everything to anything.”

“Okay, whatever you say.” I feign nonchalance. “But I know you’re full of shit, D. I’m pretty sure that you didn’t even help him through the phone.” She opens her mouth to say something but I cut her off. “Tell me, D. How much time did you guys actually put in for packing when you were on your breaks between fucking each other?” I ask with a devilish grin.

She breathes out to give me a hard response, but she comes empty. “Just shut up, V.” She mutters with a sigh.

I giggle as I bring my feet up on my coffee table.

This is the last day I can have peace in my own apartment before our departure. We leave Chicago and fly to Paris tonight at nine pm.

I know the privilege that comes with working, and being friends with Indigo is that we’ll be staying in the best hotels, but taking a long bubble bath in my own tub can’t be topped — that’s a lie, this is nothing compared to bubble baths in European luxury hotels.

So now, I’m resting on my couch in my silk pajama set and drinking my tea.

In order to be safe from a jet lag, we need to stay awake so we can get some sleep on the plane. So me and Dionne make it our mission to stay on the phone and talk until we’re out of breath.

D is the one hanging up on me, saying she wants to take a shower before she starts to get ready to leave for the airport.

We say our goodbyes as I lay down on my couch and cover my body with a thin blanket.

There’s still a good hour or two before we have to get ready and leave, so my guess is that she wants to get on the phone with Jimin for some time.

I hang up the phone with a smile as I play Friends on the TV. It’s my favorite sitcom, but I don’t necessarily want to watch. Just some noises in the background so I don’t accidently drift into a slumber.

I woke up pretty early this morning and I made it my mission of the day to make myself exhausted throughout the day so I can sleep on the plane. I already feel tired, but I’ve had enough flights to be able to keep myself awake when I need it.

I slip my hands under my head as I relax. My eyes drift away from the TV screen when I hear a text notification from my phone.

I stretch my hand out and pick up my phone from the coffee table. I see Jungkook’s name pop on my screen.

Jungkook: You’re not sleeping, right?

I smile as I start typing a reply.

Me: Nope. Wide awake, busy watching Rachel and Ross fighting.

Me: What are you doing?

Not thirty seconds later, I get a text from him again.

Jungkook: Ross and Rachel again? Are they ever not fighting? Which season is it this time?

Jungkook: I got bored and out of things to do, so I’m deep cleaning the kitchen.

I burst into giggles when I see him sending a sticker of a clown with an apron and plastic gloves.

Me: It’s season four this time. Ross is yelling at Rachel for making him read nineteen (!!!) pages of rambling at five am.

Me: And you need to send a pic of yourself! Right now!

I turn on my spot and lie on my back, staring at the three dots while Jungkook types on the other end of the phone.

Jungkook: Ahh. That fight. Of course. I mean, I would read ninety pages of letters if Rachel ever wrote me one. Unfortunately Ross isn’t our strongest soldier.

I giggle again. Jungkook never fails to mention his crush on Rachel and how much of a simp he is for her.

Jungkook: Sure. But I gotta warn you, since I know you want a pic of me in an apron just to torture me with it later, but I’m not wearing one.

Jungkook: In matter of fact, I haven’t put on a shirt since the last pic I sent you.

My breathing starts to get labored as I read his text again, needing to make sure I read it right.

Why do you torture me like that, Jungkook?

I write a reply, trying to sound as playful as I can but honestly, my brain is as horny and needy as between my legs.

Me: Well, now I have to see it.

I add another text to make sure it doesn’t expose my eagerness to see him shirtless again.

Me: It’s honestly a dirty fantasy come true if you have neon pink plastic gloves on, too.

Jungkook: Hm. So you really find men in neon pink gloves sexy, Viv?

No, I find a shirtless you sexy. But who’s counting.

Jungkook: Interesting.

Jungkook: Unfortunately, mine are neon green. So your fantasies are kinda ruined now.

I roll my eyes as I grunt desperately into a throw pillow.

That motherfucking tease!

He’s sexually torturing me without even knowing it.

I just end up with a simple text this time, sulking because I didn’t manage to get another random shirtless picture of him.

Sometimes, he sends me those randomly. A picture of him while doing something random, and he happens to not be wearing any shirts in it.

He walks around his apartment shirtless a lot when he’s alone, so that’s nothing out of the ordinary or weird between us. Shirtless Jungkook is not something I haven’t seen a hundred times already. He sometimes takes his shirt off on the stage.

But there’s something belly-warming and mind-fucking about the random photos he sends me sometimes.

Because those photos are taken only for me. I’m the only one seeing them. He’s walking around his big apartment, and he thinks about sharing that moment with me. And that means a lot to me. Not mentioning that I’m probably the only person seeing him naked this many times —I’d like to think.

Me: That’s a shame. I was really counting on watching that fantasy come true. A pink apron would’ve been the cherry on top.

Jungkook: What’s with you and the color pink? Do you happened to have a pair of pink fuzzy handcuffs, too?

I choke on my own spit and bursts into disbelieve laughter.

Me: No, I don’t. But I wouldn’t be too surprised if you’re into those. Are you…?

I watch my phone screen with anticipation and a fast beating heart as I wait for Jungkook’s response while he types.

Jungkook: I mean, they don’t necessarily need to be pink… Although that sounds like something you would like. [evil emoji]

Okay that’s enough. I need to stop this conversation before it goes somewhere that I don’t have the self-control to stop.

My clit is already pulsing and I want to scream into a pillow from frustration.

Just like all the times where our shameless flirts start to go out of hand, I make an attempt to kill the mood and bring us both back to reality.

Me: You’re getting out of hand, Jeon. Finish your deep cleaning before we have to leave, and please, for the love of god, don’t get me a pink pair of fuzzy handcuffs for my birthday.

He responds with multiple laughing emojis. And we say our goodbyes after that.

I’ve successfully kept myself awake, and we need to be at the airport in an hour. So I get up from the warm and comfortable embrace of my soft beige couch and get dressed.

It’s at least an eight hour flight, and I’m probably sleeping though most of it anyway, so I wear something comfortable and simple. Just a pair of soft pastel pink sweatpants and sweater set. I make sure everything I might need throughout the flight is packed and organized in my travel bag as I push my luggage to my front door.

It takes a lot of effort, but I do my best to carry everything as much as I can, before I see the bus which is supposed to take the staff to airport parks at my building’s entryway.

Dionne and a man get out of the bus as they enter my building’s lobby.

“Hey, pretty.” Dionne wraps her arms around me as the man carries most of my luggage. Dionne’s eyes follow him, before she turns to me with narrowed eyes. “I thought I told you to pack lightly, girl. Why do you always have to stress me out?”

She isn’t wearing any makeup, but her dark gorgeous skin doesn’t need any makeup to look as stunning as she looks right now, even as she looks at me with dirty eyes.

She came in a similar comfortable set as mine, except her clothes are cool beige. Her hair is perfectly styles as always, and she’s already wearing the earbuds she’s so fond of.

I shrug innocently. “I’ll let you use my stuff?”

She rolls her eyes and sighs before walking for the door. She follows her staff and instructs him on how to fit my “ridiculous amount of suitcases” in to the bus. She reminds him to be extra careful about my make up luggage. Honestly, that suitcase is more expensive than half of my life.

I leave my building with my carry-on and the bag I’ll have with me through the flight, and step inside the bus.

There are still some of the staff that need to be picked up on the way to the airport, but half of the seats are already filled.

I break a sweat trying to push my heavy carry-on in the spot above the seats. Dionne gets on the bus, and she doesn’t forget to scold me one more time about the numbers of suitcases I’m brining with myself.

I tell her she should’ve known better to expect anything else from me. She has traveled with me enough times to know that.

We sit next to each other on the ride to airport.

It takes a little less than an hour, and I’ve already taken out my neck pillow as I listen to my audio book. While everyone else, like D, entertain themselves by their phones and iPads or laptops, my motion sickness refrains me from doing anything but looking out of the window. Seriously, it’s the worst curse. I always need to remember my pills for when I get on the plane.

The bus stops at the airport’s private terminal. D moves quicker that everyone, stepping out of the bus first to make sure they unload the luggage correctly.

“Honestly, I should’ve gotten one on these neck pillows, too.” I hear Airi speak next to me as she drags her carry-on with her. “My neck already feels like cramping.” She speaks as softly as she looks.

I laugh awkwardly. “I know. After flying so many times, you’ll become an expert with time.”

“Yeah.” She chuckles. “I need to get one for the next flight.” She steps out of the bus before I follow along.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be way more comfortable on the flight itself.”

Since this is where the most important part of Dionne’s job begins, I try to stay out her hair and let her do her job peacefully.

Airi stays by my side as we enter the terminal and check in and go through the security and deliver our luggage.

She hasn’t joined the staff for long. That can make her feel out of place or overwhelmed. She tries to seem confident and unaffected and talks cheerfully about the start of this tour, but I can see how nervous she looks as we sit at the airport’s cafeteria and order some drinks and sweet pastries.

I honestly feel like I’m in a dilemma. We haven’t made a strong and close friendship since she started working for Indigo. Not saying that we’re not friends or friendly, but the relationship comes nowhere near my friendship with Dionne or Jimin and Jungkook. So I feel slightly taken aback when she nervously opens up to me about her worries.

“I’m not saying I’m not excited. I really am.” She holds her cup of hot chocolate with her palms as she looks down at her steaming drink with unsure eyes. “It’s just that I feel like a baby walking alone in New York city.” She chuckles awkwardly. “You know what I mean?”

The sound of D pacing around the area and talking loudly to different people is covered by the lady in the speakers, announcing flights and asking people to do the required steps.

I smile at Airi as I stir my own cup of hot chocolate. I would prefer a cappuccino, but I need to get a few hours of sleep on the plane. I ordered one with a lid for D too, but hers is sitting here next to mine and untouched. I knew she wouldn’t have the time to drink it now anyway.

“Yeah, I do. Don’t worry. You don’t sound silly or anything.” I look at the rest of the crew and staff sitting around the lounge. This part of the airport is less crowded and more silent and private. Only Indigo’s crew for the tour, and some other people who I guess are a sports team or something. Everyone are sitting in comfortable waiting area, enjoying a snack or working with their phones and laptops. “I think it’s normal to feel that.” I speak calmly. “I remember the early days when all of these were new even to the members themselves. He would probably scold me for telling you this, but Jimin actually got sick the first time we flew abroad for a show.”

Airi’s eyes widen a little in shock, as she leans forward in curiosity. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. He was really nervous. It was a huge thing for them back then. He was worried he would sing badly or make a mistake in front of their first foreign crowd.” I smile softly at the memories of all the early days I experienced with them.

“What happened? Did he feel better until the show? How did he do?”

“Oh, he rocked the show. He performed amazingly and the crowd went crazy for them. They truly started to get discovered after that.” I can’t help the warm feeling I get in my belly at the memory as I take a sip of my hot chocolate.

Jimin and Jungkook came a long way since founding Indigo. They formed the band together, being the original members. And I feel truly blessed and lucky to have been with them as their friend through every stage.

I was one of the very few people that was with them since the start, and I can say with confidence, that they deserve every amount of successes and popularity they have now. They earned every single bit of it.

“I tried to make you feel calmer with that story, so please don’t bring it up in front of him. He hates that I know it.” I tell her playfully.

“Don’t worry.” She chuckles. “Your secret —actually his secret— is safe with me.”

I grin as I look down at my drink.

Some little moments like this make me forget why I never formed a closer friendship with Airi ever since she joined the crew. Until I remember.

Jungkook showed signs of interest in her from the start, very shortly after she became an employee.

I still remember the gut-wrenching feeling I felt when he asked me what I thought about Airi.

I didn’t catch onto his meaning at first, so I shrugged and said I think she’s really nice. And I meant it. I still think she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. And unfortunately, one of the prettiest ones too.

I’ve watches Jungkook date for short periods of time or hookup —a lot— throughout the years, but the way he spoke about her that day when it was just the two of us, the way he seemed like he was already smitten and enchanted by her, it all suddenly felt like a bucket of ice-freezing cold water thrown all over my body.

I stared at him for several moments, my brain failing to come back to reality. All I could think about, or hear, was that Jungkook is interested in that girl. And not just like a hookup interest. A real interest. Like he’s already picturing them on dates and in an actual relationship.

It took me a lot of effort to make my lungs take in oxygen again. My mind still felt like it was in a haze as I tried to answer Jungkook and act normal again. And he, the oblivious man that he is, didn’t notice anything about how I looked like I was having a stroke.

Nope, he was fully focused on Airi.

I swallow the tiny lump in my throat and shake the painful memory out of my head.

It doesn’t matter anymore. There’s nothing I can do. I’m only his friend. He never had any interest in me, and he never will. If I can’t find happiness with the person I love, why shouldn’t he? Why shouldn’t she?

If they ever decide they want to start dating each other, there’s nothing I can do but wish them happiness. And maybe disappear from their lives.

Because as much as I want to wish happiness for the man I love, I just can’t stay and witness that happening with someone else. It may seem like it sometimes, but I’m not a freaking masochist.

We sit with each other and exchange small talks as we finish our drinks and wait until our flight.

Soon after, D runs to the entry way, telling her assistants and the other managers that the band has arrived and is going through security and passport control.

I feel Airi’s body straightening up and she starts to look more on alert. After the members enter the waiting lounge, there’s only a short waiting time before we board the plane rented for us.

I keep sipping my drink as I check my phone, my carry on and the big travel bag next to me.

I always try to activate a somewhat indifferent mode when I’m around Jungkook. I’ve figured it’s easier to cover up the little moments of yearning or even pain with nonchalance acts and acting like he’s walking on every single nerve I have.

Now, it has turn into a defense mechanism.

The members and their managers walk into the lounge as they say their hellos and greet some of the staff. D stands next to their manager and start talking as Jimin stays by their side and listens.

I don’t know what they might be talking about, and honestly is doesn’t matter a lot. They will all probably go into private room to make some calls they need to make before they join the rest of us in here.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Jimin and Dionne take a little longer to get out of that room. Those idiots fuck whenever and wherever they get a chance, and they think they’re super discreet about it.

Airi perks up and smiles softly at the figure approaching us on our table.

“Hi.” She greets sweetly.

“Hey. How are you guys?” I hear Jungkook’s gentle voice, sounding even softer than usual when he’s talking to Airi.

“We’re good.” Answers Airi.

“Did you guys save this seat for me?” I see him pointing at the empty seat on our table. His tone goes back to the way he always talks to me, to his normal voice.

“Nope. We didn’t.” I tell him as I keep my eyes down and drink my hot chocolate.

“Aw. Thank you guys.” He says in a fake sweet voice, ignoring my comment as he sits down on the chair. “You’re so sweet.”

He makes himself comfortable at our table with a goofy smile. I try to make my face seem cold and ignorant, but a tiny grin slips on my lips which I cover with my cup.

Airi softly chuckles at our exchange. “You guys are truly silly.”

“The word you’re looking for is charming.” Jungkook tells Airi with a sexy smile.

I softly roll my eyes at him, but it’s mostly to cover the pang of hurt in my chest at him looking at her with such a warm and lovely smile.

She giggles at him again, before she checks her watch and excuses herself for few minutes, saying she needs to use the restroom before we board.

Jungkook and I sit in comfortable silence until Airi, and everyone else are out of our hearing range.

Jungkook slowly turns on his chair a little and talks to me in a whispered tone.

“You’re such a liar, V.”

“Huh? I beg your pardon?” I look at him with confusion.

“Wearing a pink fuzzy set, I’m seeing.” He remarks playfully while pointing at my outfit. “Oh, you are so getting those handcuffs for your birthday.”

I roll my eyes at him when I realize what he meant, and deliver a kick to the leg of his chair. The chair scratched against the airport tiles, making a displeasing noise. Jungkook bursts into laughter as he leans back on his chair.

“I swear I don’t try to tease you. You give me the materials yourself.”

“My matching set is beautiful. Get your head out of the gutter, Jeon, and stop comparing it to a kinky sex tool.”

“You’re into neon pink plastic gloves, and handcuffs are kinky for you?” He chuckles again, enjoying taunting me a little too much.

“I am so done with you.” I sigh. “Please take a melatonin now so I don’t have to deal with sitting next to you on the plane for eight hours.”

He chuckles again before D walks to us and informs us that we need to start getting on the plane now.

I get up from my chair and gather my stuff. I start to move before I’m stopped by Jungkook’s voice.

“I think I should stay here.” He explains when I look at him with confusion. “I’ll stay by Airi’s stuff until she comes back from the bathroom.”

I look at his figure standing by the table as a little wave of nausea shoots into my stomach.

And at that moment, Airi gets back to us jogging, apologizing and thanking us for staying with her luggage.

She gives me a smile, and honestly, I start to feel a faint guilt. Jungkook offered to stay back for her, but maybe I should’ve thought about that, too.

But I was ready to leave, completely forgetting about Airi for a second.

I see Jungkook smiling sweetly at her before I start to drag my heavy suitcase and walk towards the boarding section.

Airi stays close to me as we get on the plane, and Jungkook stays close to us, helping us with our bags whenever we need help.

Most of the guys and staff already know where they’re sitting, almost as in a silent arrangement we’ve formed after traveling together for so long. But there are still a lot of new staff and employees on this tour that aren’t fully familiar with our rituals, so Dionne and her assistants stay on their feet until the last minute, helping them and making sure everyone is seated where they should be.

The workers closer to the band always stay in first class with them. The sitting arrangement is a silent agreement now.

Jungkook and I ended up sitting together on our first flight because we wanted to watch Friends together on that flight. Now, the fact that we always sit next to each other is an unspoken fact.

Airi takes her own seat on the other side of our aisle when Dionne instructs her to settle in next to Jimin’s manager.

We automatically walk to aisle four. Jungkook walks ahead of me before he turns around to take my carry on suitcase and places it for me.

He takes his own seat by the window, and I take mine next to him.

He has barely been seated for five seconds before he starts bickering and throwing Jimin’s neck pillow at his head on the row in front of us.

Jimin turns in his seat and looks at Jungkook with narrowed darkened eyes.

“Let me have peace for five minutes, man. Will you?”

“Keep your silly neck pillows on your own aisle and I’ll leave you alone.” Jungkook complains as he picks up the pillow that has fallen on his table in front of him and throws it at Jimin with a grunt. This time, the pillow doesn’t hit him in the head, but lands perfectly on his lap.

Jimin gives him the middle finger without turning his head.

“Don’t call them silly. They’re really practical and useful.” I give Jungkook a dirty look before taking out and adjusting my own neck pillow.

He sighs and leans back on his seat. “I’m surrounded by so many lame people.”

D finally takes her seat next to Jimin and in front of me before the plane takes off.

“Oh, shoot. I forgot. Have you taken your pills, Vi?” Jungkook’s voice travels between our open space seats as he looks at me like a mom tending her little baby.

Since we usually sit next to each other on planes, Jungkook is well aware of how I get sick the minute I sit down on the plane. So he never forgets to remind me to take my pills.

“No, I haven’t yet. Thanks for reminding me.” I grab my bag and start looking for the tablet in the mini bag of skincare and essentials I packed for the flight.

“Fuck.” I breathe out as I fail to find the pills.

“What?” Jungkook looks up at me with distraught eyes.

“I can’t find my pills.” I search the bag again. “I can’t believe I forgot them. I always have them with me.”

I start to panic because eight hours in a plane without those pills means an experience out of hell.

“What’s going on?” Dionne turns her head when she hears me whine and complain.

“She doesn’t have her pills with her.” Jungkook answers for me while I basically shove my head into my gigantic bag.

“I swear I put them here or something.”

“It’s okay, Vi.” Jungkook soothes me. “You can take my seat, if sitting by the window helps.” He offers.

I look at him with unsure eyes. “You sure?”

Jungkook doesn’t love long flights, so we agreed on him always staying by the window. But he doesn’t hesitate as he gets up from his seat and switches places with me.

“Try to sleep for most of the flight. You probably won’t get sick like that.” He tells me gently.

After we switch our places, it doesn’t take us long to make ourselves comfortable and lay down on the flat beds.

The first thing I do is doing a little skincare routine and a face mask, before taking out my kindle and my small travel blanket out of my bag to make myself even more comfortable.

Jungkook takes out his headphone and starts working on his laptop. Jimin and Dionne have already tuned out the world by putting their own headphones on as well.

We don’t usually close the dividers between us, mostly not even when one of us wants to sleep when the other one is still awake. So there’s a fully open space between me and Jungkook as we lay down and chill.

After half an hour so, I slowly get hooked on reading my eBook, already feeling tired and sleepy. I raise my head from my kindle to check on Jungkook before I drift off to sleep.

I see him leaning his whole body on the edge of his seat, his headphones around his neck and his laptop long forgotten, as he chuckles and talks with Airi on the other side of the aisle between them.

They’re both deep in conversation as they laugh about silly things.

Seeing him trying to suppress his strong urge to laugh while he speaks to Airi makes my heart aches with a familiar bruise of jealousy and longing.

I swear I’m not a horrible person, or a friend who gets upset when I see him happy with other people.

And I can’t make sense of this little sharp pain in my chest. The stupid little traitor just decides to hurt.

I ignore their little happy moment as I turn on the bed. I turn my back onto them as I try to distract myself with my kindle.

It doesn’t work. The thought of them in their happy little bubble doesn’t let me focus on what the characters I’m reading about are saying. The sound of them laughing and giggling doesn’t help, either.

I give up on my book and put my kindle aside. I put on my noise-canceling headphones on as I hide under my blanket, like I’m hiding from a terror under my security blanket, and try to let unconsciousness take me away for a while.

Fortunately, I fall asleep for the rest of that flight.

a/n : no particular notes, except for thanking everyone who read this. Commenting a feedback if you enjoyed it is really appreciated. Rebloging is even more helpful. 🥹💕

Definitely stay tuned in for more of this story. They have a long run. You can join the taglist for this series, or even my other works if you'd like.

It takes you an hour, mostly because you keep going back and forth regarding the layout, but when everything's transferred, you can't help but grab your favorite graphite pencil. It glides over a fresh page, depicting something you've had a hard time letting go since you saw it.

Another hour, maybe one and a half, and they're there: Jeongguk's laser-focused black eyes. Not pictured: the paperclip.

You keep going, and not long after, the next page contains a profile portrayal of his upper teeth. The central incisor, the lateral one, and then the long, thin, clearly superhuman canine. Behind it, you can glimpse the regular canine.

At nine-thirty pm, you're unlocking the heavy door, peering around carefully. There are no inpatient animals tonight, meaning the clinic should be entirely empty. Also meaning: you have no business inside the building.

Thus, it's dark as you enter, and you only turn on what light you absolutely need as to not risk being found out if any of your colleagues were to drive past—or God forbid, return to retrieve something forgotten—and see the place lit. Walking through the quiet corridors, you note that you have approximately twenty-five minutes to prepare.

At five minutes to ten, your phone dings. Since your outfit for once consists of something other than scrubs, you grab the device from your jean pocket to read the text displayed on the screen.

Jeon Jeongguk: I'm here

You don't reply, just stand from the chair you've been sitting on to note down some things, and head toward the entrance.

Like so many times before, you spot the tall, dark shape waiting just outside the door as soon as you enter the reception area, your heart skipping an excited beat.

With quick fingers, you unlock the door, and then you're peering up at him.

"Hi," you greet, backing up and watching as he steps inside, a tiny gust of wind accompanying him and making goosebumps rise on your arms.

He's wearing black again. A black leather jacket over a black shirt, and dark-wash jeans of the looser kind.

"Hi," he echoes, smiling down at you. His hair is windswept, and you swear his eyes might be even darker than last time you saw him.

You'd say you're quite a talented artist, but God, your drawing of his eyes is nothing compared to the real thing. You almost want to ask him whether all vampires are beautiful because you do remember his friends at the bar, and they were gorgeous as well.

"This way," you say, turning around.

Wordlessly, Jeongguk follows as you lead the way back to the room where he first apologized with the empty crate. Should someone, for some reason, visit the clinic, you'll be safest from discovery hidden away in the farthest room.

Keeping a distance of around a meter or so, Jeongguk's boots thump heavily against the floor as he trails behind you, a sound you're almost starting to find comfort in.

The door to the exam room is open, just like you left it, the light from inside pouring out into the otherwise dark hallway. You enter, shutting the door behind you when Jeongguk's through as well. You're not surprised to see him take his usual spot on the exam table, removing his jacket and folding it to lay beside him.

"You know, you can say no to this, right?" you ask, grabbing the sterile sheet of supplies you've prepared from the counter and placing it on the table next to him.

"It's fine. Consider it my apology for scaring you," he smiles warmly at you.

You return his gesture, pulling on some nitrile gloves.

"I'm very grateful. This is like…." you don't even know what to say as you drag the chair closer to him with your foot, sitting down and grabbing an antiseptic wipe to wipe down the inside of the elbow he wordlessly offers you. His skin is warm, radiating heat even through the gloves. "I feel like I'm the vampire, essentially vibrating at the thought of your blood."

He laughs at that, a lovely deep sound that goes straight to your heart.

"Well, I definitely don't need a tourniquet," you then mumble as you focus on his thick arm, pressing two fingers to the biggest vein and feeling it react almost like that of a human. It does give under pressure—but much less than a human's—quickly filling back up when you let go.

"Do you think this will work?" you ask, grabbing a needle and holding it up for him to see. It's one designed for the largest of dogs; the next step up in strength from a human grade needle.

"I don't know? I've never had my blood drawn."

Your eyes widen. "Really?"

You guess it makes sense, but it's still a surprise to hear.

"Yeah. Not really any use for it. And it wasn't really a thing when I was human."

"You sure you want to?"

"Yeah. How bad can it be? I'm not scared of pain or anything."

"Okay. Then I'll try with this one. It's usually a straight forward process, especially with veins like yours when you don't have to search for them. Or in my case, shave and search for them while holding the patient still."

Jeongguk grins.

"I'll try sticking you, and if it works, then I'll fill a few of these," you nod toward the vials on the blue sheet. "When I'm done, I'll remove the needle."

"Sounds good."

"Great."

Biting your lip, you focus on the needle as you angle it properly against the thick vein. You can't tell if Jeongguk is looking at your hands or your face, but you try not to think about his eyes on you.

Even though you've established that his skin doesn't feel too different from a human's besides the temperature, the needle is met with a surprising amount of resistance.

"Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?" you mumble, a little worried by the amount of pressure you're slowly forced to apply. You really don't want to accidentally stab him if his skin suddenly gives way.

Jeongguk only hums, clearly not that bothered. Slowly and very, very carefully, you increase the pressure, and then, the needle finally pierces through.

Relieved, you turn to the gathered equipment, reaching for some tape to fasten the needle against his skin, and then you're grabbing the first vial, attaching it.

Immediately, there's blood. It trickles in quicker than it would for an animal, or how you've seen your own blood do whenever you've had it drawn, and when you lean in, you notice that it's almost black. The gears inside your head are turning as you consider what it might mean. There's still a slight hint of red—a very dark red, which makes you wonder if his red blood cells are simply so tightly packed that—

Barely having time to finish the thought, you have to reach for the next vial, seeing the current one practically already filled to the brim.

Removing the full vial, you attach the new one, glancing up at his face when you're done. "Feeling okay?"

He nods and smiles softly, as if he realizes your (most likely very unnecessary) words are meant to be caring and not infantilizing.

"God, it smells of iron." You point out, blinking in surprise.

Jeongguk laughs. "Yeah. The iron also makes it a lot darker than human blood."

"I can see that," you say, replacing the second vial with the third and last one. "It looks like it's slightly more… viscous too," you comment, turning that second vial upside down. As you do, the blood pools at the new bottom, leaving a coat of dark red behind. Although it moves slower, its consistency is far from that of syrup; just a tiny bit less watery than your own blood.

"What are you going to do with them?"

"I'm bringing them home with me just so that no one sees them. I'll be looking at… Well, whatever I can see. Usually, putting a drop of blood under a microscope will let you see the red and white blood cells—which carry oxygen and keep one's immune system working, respectively—and then the platelets and plasma.

"Platelets can show things like how quick the body can heal a wound and plasma is basically the liquid that holds the proteins and electrolytes. So I'll be looking at shapes, amounts, and behaviors of the cells. Other than that, I can't really plan ahead because I have no idea what I'll see."

He nods, and you remove the last vial, placing it next to the other two on the sheet beside him. Giving him a quick warning, you then swiftly remove the needle, prepared to wipe any escaping blood with a bit of gauze. But there isn't any; not even a tiny pink dot remains as evidence.

"Uh…" you continue, trying to find your thoughts again as you peer between his flawless skin and the needle you definitely know you just pulled out. "Right… And if I can manage to do it without anyone noticing, I'd also love to analyze some of your blood here at the lab.

"I won't be able to look at the proteins themselves with my microscope at home, but I am particularly curious about them and why you can be so warm without the proteins in your blood essentially cooking. And also whether the lead poisoning you described has left any visible traces. And, of course, to see just how much iron is in your blood and whatnot."

You stand up, disposing the needle in the sharps container and remove the gloves to throw them in the trash. When you're done, you grasp two of the three vials from the table, backing toward the door. "I'll be right back, I'm just gonna put these in the centrifuge."

"Alright."

The dark hallways don't pose a problem for you, knowing every door and every turn like the back of your hand. Therefore, it doesn't take you more than a minute or two to locate the lab with the desktop centrifuge, popping the two vials in and starting the machine. It comes to life with a hum, and you leave the room to let it work in peace.

When you return to the exam room, Jeongguk is standing in front of the ultrasound machine you rolled into a corner prior to his arrival. It's an older model, bulky and ancient compared to the portable ones you take out into the field.

While he's watching that, you're watching him, having an embarrassingly hard time tearing your eyes from his wide, muscular back. And even though you just got to sit eye to eye with his veins, your gaze trails those veins spanning the back of his forearms almost hungrily. God, you can't remember the last time you had a crush like this. Wait, what?

"You wanted to use this one, right?" Jeongguk interrupts your thoughts as he gestures toward the machine, still inspecting it curiously.

"Yeah…" you confirm. He keeps looking at the machine as you retrieve the rest of the blood draw supplies, setting them on the counter along with the third vial; the one you're keeping un-centrifuged for your microscope at home.

"…But what?" he asks when he notices the slight hesitancy, looking back at you to see you leaning back against the counter, crossing your arms and biting your lip as you think.

"Well… your heart was a little hard to hear with the stethoscope, and considering everything—like how strong you evidently are—I'm just wondering if… maybe your muscles are somehow so dense that it's harder for sound to penetrate them?"

"Which would… make it difficult to see anything on an ultrasound as well?" he fills in.

Momentarily, your eyes lose their focus, staring into nothing but the air. "Realistically, they should still be soft enough to ultrasound 'cause, you know… they're not solid, but that bad boy over there is getting up there in age," you nod toward the ultrasound machine. "The portable one is with Yoongi, who's on call."

Jeongguk hums, dark eyes watching you and patiently waiting for your decision.

A thought hits you.

"Would you—" you start, gesturing toward the exam table before you have time to really consider whether your spontaneous idea will help or not. Unbothered, Jeongguk returns to his seated spot.

You approach, looking at his arm (entirely professional this time). You're curious about his muscles, and well, the arm he used to lift the car with is as good as any.

"Do you mind if I…?" you reach carefully for him.

He shakes his head, lifting his arm slightly toward you. You grasp it by the elbow as you consider where to start. God, it never stops surprising you how warm he is.

"Okay, relax," you mumble.

Besides warm like a radiator, his arm is so incredibly heavy, almost to the point where you lose your grip on it when he obeys your request and lets it go limp. Adjusting the hand under his elbow for support, you move the other to the inside of that same joint. All the while, you feel his curious gaze on you as you get to work.

"Not sore?" you ask, referring to how you just stuck a needle into that same spot.

"No. What are you searching for?" he asks, eyes on your fingers as you work them as gently as you can into the crease of his elbow.

"Your distal biceps tendon. Can you do this for me real quick? Make a fist and flex your arm, just a small bend at the elbow?"

He copies your brief demonstration, the contrast between your flexed arms almost comical. Still, it works, and you feel the tendon pop out under your thumb, its thickness and strength very obvious. The question is only: to what extent?

Using both hands again, you move one up his semi-flexed, very impressive biceps, and you try your best to trace the underlying anatomy, your eyes focused on the wall behind him. He's… firm. That's the best way you can describe him. Warm and firm.

"Can I fold this up?" you ask, tugging a little on the sleeve of his t-shirt in order to get to his shoulder.

"Yeah. Or I can just—?"

You take a step back when he grabs the shirt by the back of his neck and yanks it off.

"Yeah. Or that," you smile, trying not to stare at his golden chest. He just has to have your absolutely favorite body type, doesn't he? Wide shoulders, overall muscular but without too much, stringy definition. And that itty-bitty waist, complete with two tiny skin rolls as he sits? Not to mention the veins, but those practically never leave your mind anyway, spanning his hands and running all the way up his shoulders, even. And that's just his body; his face is even more gorgeous.

Oblivious to your infatuated thoughts—or maybe not, but you're not even going to consider that—he puts the shirt beside him, once more offering you his arm.

"Flexed? Or relaxed?"

"Relaxed. I'm just trying to locate some of your tendons and see if, for any reason, I wouldn't be able to ultrasound them."

"What would that reason be?"

"Not sure," you shrug, putting your hands back on his upper arm. "Maybe they're covered by super dense muscle? Maybe you have bone-plated armor covering weak spots like the crease of your elbows? Actually, nevermind; I wouldn't have been able to draw your blood if that were the case, but you get my point."

He grins, amused, eyes focused on your hands again as you start to move them, feeling the top of his shoulder.

"The two biceps heads go here," you explain, pressing your thumb near the front of his shoulder joint and your middle finger just a bit higher and inward. "Should be able to see them on the ultrasound as well. And the muscle, itself… It's definitely soft when relaxed," you murmur, running both hands down his relaxed arm again, palpating the thick tissue.

"While you have your shirt off… Can I..?" Slowly, you let go of his arm, pointing to his side.

"Yeah, go ahead. Whatever you want."

You laugh quietly at his complete compliance. "I appreciate it. Your sacrifice for science."

He chuckles too, moving his arm out of the way as you pull the chair closer with your foot again, sitting down. With your right hand, you feel his side, where multiple layers of muscle cover his ribs.

"I heard your heart better from here, and… while your serratus anterior is quite dense and strong—yeah, I can barely feel your ribs under these muscles—those are probably the real problem," you nod toward his pecs. "But I think I'll be able to see your heart as well, unless there's an internal aspect causing issues. If I can get a probe between your ribs, that is."

"Between them?" he lifts an eyebrow.

"I'm not gonna jam something between them or anything," you're quick to explain, placing two fingers against his side, in the space between two ribs. "I'll put the probe here in an intercostal space, against your skin, and hopefully the sound waves make it between the ribs."

"Hm," he leans back on his arms, and you remove your hand from his skin. "Well, you're welcome to try whatever you want."

Why does he always have to say things like that? Why?! Simply pretending like he said something that didn't make your chest warm, you offer a grateful smile and stand up.

The ultrasound machine squeaks as you roll it over to where you want it, positioning it next to the exam table.

"Do I lie down? People lie down for these, don't they?"

Walking over to the light switches, you flick one of the two main ceiling lights off. "You can, but it might not be very comfortable—"

Turning, you see him already flat on his back, his lower legs hanging freely off the edge and toward the floor.

"It's not so bad," he comments, earnestly.

"Heart this way, though, please," you smile as you approach, even more so when he sits up to lie the other way.

"Is there a reason you turned the lights off? Or just for coziness?"

You laugh. As if you—trying so hard to be professional in the most unprofessional situation ever—would turn the lights off for 'coziness.'

"It makes it easier to see the screen. These old screens aren't as powerful as the new ones."

Spending a moment in silence going through the probes available, you then settle for one and reach for the gel on the little tray.

"This can be a little cold," you warn, squeezing an appropriate amount onto the probe.

He doesn't say anything, his eyes focused on the ceiling.

"I'll start with your heart," you add, sitting down and adjusting the long white cable attached to the probe.

But then you realize that his arm is in the way. "Could you… put your arm either above or under your head?"

"Sure," he agrees calmly, lifting his arm and putting his hand under his head. It gives you a whole new angle of not only his thick and defined arm but his side and abdomen as well. Naturally, your eyes do a quick scan. There's a dark tuft of hair growing in his armpit, something you find unreasonably attractive.

Jeongguk doesn't react when you put the gelled-up probe to his pec. Using your left hand to angle it against his skin, you push the old, worn-down buttons on the machine's small desk with your right, trying to find not only the best angles but also settings.

You mutter your slight frustration when the display merely shows a foggy outline of a mass. Even though this particular machine still performs well enough on animals, it might just have met its match in Jeongguk's pectorals.

"Try to relax as much as possible for me, okay?" you say, eyes locked onto the screen as you hope a slightly softer muscle will be easier to see through.

It doesn't work though, and you're forced to give up. But only after another few minutes of double checking angles and settings, of course; you don't admit defeat that easily.

Jeongguk lets you work in silence. It's comfortable and calm, not awkward in the slightest. He breathes slowly and evenly, taking the odd deep breath when you ask him again to please do his best to relax as much as possible.

Moving the probe to his abdomen, right below the junction of his ribs as you try to tilt it up and underneath them, you spot something.

"Well, your liver looks rather… normal," you state quietly, watching the organ show up on screen like that of any human. At least as far as you know; you don't do ultrasounds on humans, but there shouldn't be that much of a difference.

"Oh—and there's your heart."

Jeongguk turns his head, and the movement has you losing the angle. "Wait. Hold on, lie still; I'll show you."

He keeps his head turned, his eyes warming your face as you adjust the probe, trying to find the image again. It takes you a few seconds, and then you feel yourself light up.

"Look," you say, carefully turning the machine to face him while trying not to move the probe. "It's not the best image, and it's from below, but there it is."

It's fascinating, the small, grainy glimpse of the powerful organ that graces the screen. It beats just like you've heard it, slowly, every contraction precise. Even watching it, a sense of calm washes over you. There's no rush; it does what it's done since long before you were born and what it will continue to do for however long Jeongguk lives. Another few centuries? Millennia?

"Cool."

You chuckle. Jeongguk grins youthfully when you meet his gaze. Of course, he's not as impressed by his own heart, maybe more so the technology that actually lets him see it.

"Yeah. And even though the image is kinda… meh, look here," you trace the faint outline of the heart wall with your finger. "See how thick it is?"

"Uh…" he watches but doesn't seem to quite understand your fascination.

"Okay, hold on," you say, removing the probe from him, and with a little more gel on the top of it, you grab the lower hem of your shirt and move the probe underneath. It doesn't take you nearly as long to find the corresponding angle on yourself—your abs aren't made of steel…—and there it is, only sharper and clearer.

"Do you see the difference? The walls of your heart—the muscle itself—are much thicker than mine," you trace the same shape on your own visualized heart; almost pathetically small compared to Jeongguk's. Not only that, but it beats fast, contracting quickly as if you're in the middle of a marathon. The contrast is almost absurd.

"Yeah," he smiles. "Seems like you're excited about something?"

You huff and remove the probe from your skin, watching the screen go dark. "Mean. And here I was going to show you my condition."

He tilts his head, his curiosity having lost that teasing edge, the tone bordering on worried. "You have a condition?"

"Kinda."

"Well, show me."

You give him the sternest look you can muster.

"I'll be nice, I promise."

"Fine."

Luckily, the shirt you chose to wear today is of the looser, boxier kind, allowing you to slide the probe back under it and against your side. You breathe slowly, trying to calm your heart at least a fraction.

Jeongguk sits up, dark eyes glued to the sight of your beating heart. It thumps evenly—if only faster than his—until it doesn't.

"Wait, that beat was much quicker?"

"Yeah."

"Is that not… dangerous?"

"Keep looking."

He returns his focus to the screen, watching intently. "It happened again. Your rhythm isn't even like mine."

"No. I have 'regular irregularities,'" you explain softly. "It's not dangerous since the rhythm doesn't deviate. Or at least from what's normal for me. It's more like a little quirk."

He bites his lip, and, for a long second, looks at you.

"Can I feel?"

"Feel?"

"Your pulse."

"Uh," you start, more surprised than unwilling. "Sure."

Before you know it, he's reaching his large hand out, gently grasping your neck—the back of it, at least—and with his thumb on your artery, immediately finds your pulse. You guess that's maybe even more of his expertise than it is yours, so you don't bother reminding him that it's generally best to feel for someone's pulse with a finger other than the thumb, which has its own pulse, easily confused with the subject's.

You try desperately to calm your poor heart, willing yourself to breathe slowly as every thump beats against his thumb.

"Relax," he mumbles.

"Be nice—"

"I didn't imply anything," he defends. "I think I have yet to meet even one human whose heart doesn't race when a vampire feels for their pulse. It's instinctual."

Maybe also because you're hot, you almost want to say.

It's only because he's staring into the air as he feels your pulse that you manage to lower it even slightly. A moment passes. And then another; the room enveloped in a thick silence, Jeongguk's warm hand still around the back of your neck, and his thumb on your carotid artery.

"Interesting. I'm not… new to wacky heartbeats, but I don't think I've ever felt one that's… regularly irregular."

He lets go of your neck, and you look at him. "Well, do you listen often? To someone who's not scared you'll eat them?"

"No, not really. Not that I eat humans, cause I don't—you saw the powdered blood I use—I just don't really listen to heartbeats," he explains, which has you nearly rolling your eyes. It's sweet, how he still really doesn't want you to misinterpret him. "Do you feel anything? Is it noticeable?"

"No, I don't feel it," you answer. "I've probably always had it. It's just the rhythm my heart has."

He hums, accepting your answer before he lowers his gaze to the probe in your hand. "…You're not done with me, are you?"

You grin. "No."

Admitting defeat with a smile of his own, he lies back down. You reach for the gel again, turning the screen back.

"Arm up, please."

He lifts his arm and tucks his hand under his head again. This time, you touch the probe to his side, trying to find another view of his heart.

Just like you hoped, a few moments of quiet searching later, and you have the clearest side view of his heart yet. The resolution still leaves quite a lot to be desired, but you're grateful nonetheless, your fingers tapping the buttons to activate the color Doppler mode.

"Do you want to see more? How your heart moves your blood?" you ask, smiling brightly but realizing that far from everyone is as nerdy as you.

"Sure," he answers. Having learned from last time, he doesn't move a muscle, instead waiting patiently for you to turn the screen toward him.

"So, this setting visualizes the blood flow as colors; red is the blood coming toward the probe. Blue is the blood going away from it."

"That's interesting."

"You think so?" you ask. You wouldn't be surprised if he's mostly pretending to be polite.

"I mean, yeah? It doesn't really tell me much, but it's fascinating to see. And I can tell that it makes you happy."

You turn the screen back, eyes locked onto his grainy, slightly foggy heart. With every slow beat, a portion of the screen lights up in red, then blue. You think that's when another realization hits you; not one that douses you in ice water, whispering that you're prey in the presence of a predator, but a calm excitement that… you found something. You found something amazing, something out of this world, and for all you know, you're one of few to ever have a heart like this under your ultrasound probe.

Calm yet powerful like nothing else, his heart moves what must be an immense amount of blood with every contraction.

"Have you ever had your blood pressure taken?" you mumble, pressing another button on the control pad.

"No. It's the tube that goes around your arm, right?"

Nodding, you turn your head to watch him. Or more specifically, his arm. "I'd love to measure yours," you admit almost longingly. "But we don't have any cuffs here that would fit you. We typically measure a horse's blood pressure around the base of their tail, so that's just a human cuff, but it's in the field bag with Yoongi. The canine cuffs we have here won't even clear your forearm."

"Well, if you find a way…" he says, still watching you with that calm, slightly curious look.

You return your attention to the screen, taking the chance to see Jeongguk's heart from every angle possible.

Ultrasonography is a skill learned through time and experience: lots of it. Still doesn't mean it's easy for you or that you can just slide the probe around willy-nilly and find what you're looking for simply because you've got hundreds of them under your belt. You need a light yet stable hand and the knowledge of where to go. Also a bit of luck.

"Do you need me conscious?" Jeongguk's low voice asks after a few more minutes. "Cause I might fall asleep."

"It's that boring?" You look at him, endeared and smiling. "Wait. You sleep?"

You're not sure why you're so surprised, staring at him like he just told you he can levitate. It would be exponentially weirder if he didn't sleep; it just never crossed your mind that he would. He chuckles.

"Yeah. It's not boring, it's just that I'm lying down, in a quiet and dark room. That… touch is pretty soothing, and you keep ordering me to relax."

You try not to blush, removing the probe from his skin and looking around for the tissues to remove the gel. "Do you want to stop? Or at least continue another day?"

"No. I don't mind," he yawns. "Continue. Test me, stick me, feel me up; I don't mind."

You pause, forehead creasing. "While you sleep?"

"Yeah? Just a warning, I sleep pretty heavily. If you need me awake, just… shake me. I'll wake up sooner or later."

"Okay," you snicker. That is such an apex predator advantage. No one is going to eat you, so why bother be on guard?

Not even five minutes later, he's out; his eyes closed and his breaths slow and even. Not entirely satisfied, you're still looking at the blood flow from his heart on the monitor, moving the probe around ever so slightly.

When you were in university, your class got to visit a zoo. The on-staff veterinarian demonstrated how they sedate their animals—large predators, mostly—by dart, and then they opened the enclosures and let you all inside. You particularly remember the lion, who they suspected had torn a ligament, and the brown bear requiring dental work.

It's a feeling like no other, working on a sleeping predator—the sleeping bear, quite literally—and with your elevated heartbeat, hoping to God they don't wake up before you're done and safely outside.

Working on Jeongguk while he sleeps feels similar in ways you can't really explain. While he's not a 200 kg lion, he's huge, lying on the table in front of you with his legs hanging down. And even if you're not actually scared that he'll wake up because you don't think he'll eat you, it's there regardless; the deep, subconscious knowledge that everything he lets you do to him, even if it's essentially whatever you want, is on his terms and his terms alone.

So while the smallest change in Jeongguk's breathing doesn't scare you shitless like the tiny groan the lion let out as you touched its paw, you're still aware of it.

Twenty minutes later, when you suspect you've seen everything the machine can show you of his heart, you carefully wipe the gel from his chest and move toward his abdomen. The moment you put the probe to his skin again, you wait, eyes on his face and awaiting a reaction of some kind, but there's nothing.

Considering his words of consent, you continue, moving the probe around to locate his organs. In humans and most animals, the intestines are always—to some extent—noisy. Food, liquid, and gas are constantly processed by the interior muscles, and it creates a steady background hum of activity. But from what you can see of Jeongguk's abdomen, it's entirely silent and still.

You see the organs relatively clearly through his abdominal muscles, which—despite being thick and surely strong as hell—aren't quite as dense as his pecs. And his organs are there; blood is circulating to and through them; they're just…dormant.

But as you glide the probe over to where his bladder should be, you don't find it. Only on the third pass do you spot it, appearing entirely empty and therefore tiny. It confirms what he said about his near-perfect closed-loop system, where his kidneys don't really output urine unless to get rid of excess fluid.

Quietly amazed, you wipe the gel from his abdomen and some stray streaks that you previously missed on his chest.

Your next target is his arm, but before you do anything else, you quietly stand from the chair, softly padding out of the exam room to pay the locker room a quick visit. Considering everything Jeongguk is doing for you and your curiosity, you can at least make it as comfortable as possible for him. That's the reasoning behind bringing him your personal pillow, carefully putting a hand under his head to slide the pillow in under it.

Just like the lion's paw, Jeongguk's limp arm is—besides warm—incredibly heavy. Struggling a little more than you care to admit, you maneuver it to hang off the edge of the table and into your lap, where his body heat radiates straight through your clothes.

Holding onto that big, heavy, veiny arm, you touch the probe to his biceps, and what you find is so, so interesting. While his heart looked a tad bit bigger than that of a regular man his size, it appeared disproportionately strong, the muscle responsible for its contractions dense and thick, almost like his pecs.

Similarly, the muscles in his arm show up bright on screen, so dense that you barely see through them. It explains perfectly why he's quite a bit heavier than he appears.

You don't rush, feeling alright about taking your time since Jeongguk is sleeping either way. Besides the muscle bellies themselves, you spend quite a while inspecting the different tendons in his arm. As well as you can, at least.

Where the tendons are exposed, like the biceps tendon on the inside of his elbow, they're thick and bright on screen. Clear and sharp. But where they disappear in under too much overlaying muscle, they blur as the soundwaves scatter. You can't conclude much more than that they're thicker than a human's, but you felt that even when you palpated him earlier.

The biggest discovery, however, is probably when you move the probe to the inside of Jeongguk's biceps and over his brachial artery. It's the arm's main blood supply, and it should be well-developed for any relatively fit and strong man. In fact, its size shouldn't be that much of a surprise when you can feel the outline of Jeongguk's even while he sleeps.

But the moment the artery is centered under the probe, and you see the on-screen numbers measure the diameter to be 5.6 millimeters wide, you blink in shock. Almost dropping the probe, you scramble to dig your phone out of your pocket and open the browser, searching for the average brachial diameter for a human man.

3-4 millimeters. Ish. Apparently, an exceptionally strong climber measured at 4.4 millimeters and attributed his almost superhuman strength to his wide arteries. And Jeongguk's is 5.6 millimeters.

His arm rests limply in your lap as you note the numbers down on a nearby stray piece of paper, underlining it twice, as if you'd possibly forget. That has to be one of the big explanations, right? For his super strength? His muscles and tendons are disproportionately strong on their own, yes, but they can generate so much more force and for so much longer because his body can provide them with an almost endless supply of oxygen.

God, now all you need to know is what the hell is in his blood. With that additional puzzle piece, you feel like you're one step closer to solving the mystery that is his strength.

When your own heart finally calms down from the discovery-induced adrenaline high, you find yourself simply watching the flow of his blood for a few minutes. For some reason, it's very soothing, like watching waves hit the shore on an empty beach.

Before you turn off the machine and clear Jeongguk's skin of the remaining gel, the last thing you do is adjust the settings to also thoroughly inspect the uppermost level. His skin.

As expected, and aligning with what you've already seen, it is noticeably thicker. There's not much fat, but the skin itself is thick. You reach for the pen again, writing down a question.

'Sensitivity?'

You power the machine off, the absence of the low humming suddenly making the room almost eerily quiet. Jeongguk is still fast asleep, his handsome face so youthful. You smile to yourself; he wasn't lying when he said that he was a heavy sleeper. Still, you don't watch his face for too long, for some reason convinced that he, at any second, will open his eyes and stare at you. You don't know what you find scarier: him suddenly and unceremoniously staring at you, or finding you staring at him.

Pushing the ultrasound cart away slightly, you settle back into your chair again, carefully grasping his arm. It's one thing to see something on screen—pretty badly portrayed, at that—it's another to feel it. In your line of work, your patients can sometimes show you what's wrong, even if they can't outright tell you. But they can also be entirely stoic or just simply unreliable, and so you've learned to rely a lot on your hands, feeling for whatever's not right.

Rolling your chair just a tad closer, still with his hand in your lap, you run your hands softly up to his shoulder, planning to get a better feel than the previous preview. Throwing a quick glance at his face, you confirm that he hasn't reacted.

You start by tracing your fingers over his shoulder cap, feeling exactly where the thick muscle fibers anchor onto his collar bone. Lifting one hand from his skin, you trace the same part on yourself just to compare. While your attachments are distinctly human; still relatively strong but with a certain degree of "give," Jeongguk's feel much harder. It makes sense because, as established, a muscle can't be stronger than its bone attachments allow it to be.

Returning your hand to his shoulder, you slide your fingers down a little further, carefully prodding the inside of his armpit for the lymph nodes.

There's a sound.

Almost like a quick exhale of air. Your gaze snaps to Jeongguk's face, but he hasn't moved a muscle, still entirely quiet and relaxed. You must've imagined it, or it was the ultrasound machine finally powering down completely. Old things like that make random sounds, after all.

You let your hands move again. Just like the lymph nodes in his neck, the nodes in his armpit are harder than normal, for a human at least.

Continuing further down, your hands reach his biceps and triceps. You've seen the thickness of his upper arm before, even had your hands on him briefly earlier tonight, but it's another thing to really get to feel. You won't deny that palpating the dense muscles makes your heart skip maybe an extra beat, but you'd absolutely keep that fact to yourself. Besides increasing the inevitable attraction you feel toward him, the curious scientist in you is thrilled.

Jeongguk's biceps is incredibly well developed, no surprise there, but you're almost surprised at just how dense his triceps is. Additionally, as you prod the muscles, eyes unfocused on the wall, you note that there's basically no intramuscular fat, or at least you can't feel any. You continue to trace the three heads of the triceps, mapping where they anchor to the elbow.

Concluding that, yeah, he's got a physique rather similar to human men, just leveled up and engineered to withstand more force—like… a lot more—you slide one of your hands down to his wrist, grasping it and lifting.

Struggling just a little, you move his heavy lower arm slowly back and forth, folding it at the elbow, just to get a glimpse of his range of motion. You think perhaps it's a little greater than what's considered normal in a human, but flexibility in humans is highly individual. It could be for vampires as well? You wouldn't call his range of motion unnatural, at least.

With that out of the way, you continue your descent, feeling for the elbow's attachments in the other direction, toward his forearm. They feel just as strong, no surprise there. With your left hand, you feel for the right spot in the middle of his forearm, carefully digging your thumb into the flesh. There's not a lot of give, and it takes a quite a lot of pressure, but then you see it; how his middle finger twitches. Moving your thumb a little to the side and pressing, you get the index finger to react, too.

His wrist is thick and so are the veins running on both sides of it. Actually, all sides of it. You lift his hand again, gently rolling his wrist to test the range of motion of that joint as well. There's zero friction, no sounds or jumps, just fluid motion.

The results remain consistent when you move on to feel the muscles in his hand and his fingers, very gently stretching and curling them. Your own wrist pops occasionally—something it's always done—a reminder that you, at least, are human.

"What are you feeling for?"

The low voice breaks the silence just as you're done with his pinky. It startles you, and your wide eyes flit to his face to find his dark eyes watching you.

"God, don't scare me like that," you complain, exhaling. But you also feel your cheeks heat. His voice didn't sound… newly awoken. "How long have you been awake?"

"Uh, since you started feeling me up," he grins lazily.

"I wasn't feeling you up," you defend, groaning internally. You've been 'feeling him up' for way too long. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Don't worry, I said that you could, didn't I?" he continues, and you can tell he doesn't mind. "And it felt nice; I didn't want you to stop."

You roll your eyes, cheeks very warm.

"So did you learn anything?"

You nod, excitement overriding your embarrassment because you did. "Yeah. So, in conclusion: your muscles are dense. So much so that it does make it more difficult to see past them on the ultrasound. And probably why it was a little harder to hear your heart as well. Your heart is a little bit bigger than what I'd consider normal in a human man, but it works roughly the same, only stronger and capable of moving more blood around. Your brachial artery, however," you say, lightly tapping the spot on his inner biceps. "Is insane."

Jeongguk lifts his eyebrows and sits up, stretching briefly. "How is it insane?"

"The average brachial diameter for a human man is around 3 to 4 millimeters; some peaking at roughly 4.5. Yours is not only thick and extra muscular, but it's 5.6 millimeters in diameter; that's a lot. Logically, that would mean that not only is your heart pumping a lot of blood around, but your veins and arteries are better equipped to deliver that blood to your muscles. And to your other organs, of course."

Jeongguk listens intently, quietly curious, as you continue.

"So not only are your muscles denser, your heart bigger, and your veins and arteries thicker to handle the added pressure, your tendons are crazy thick as well. If they weren't, you'd probably risk tearing the muscles from your bones with how strong you are. You also seem to have a slightly wider range of motion? I don't know if that is a vampire thing or a you thing? For humans, it varies a lot, even among those that don't have connective tissue disorders like Ehlers-Danlos."

"Never thought about it."

You shrug. "Then it's probably not a big deal. The movement of your joints, at least your elbow, wrist, and fingers, is very smooth. No clicking or incongruence."

"Like you have?"

"You noticed that?"

He smiles and nods. Then he tilts his head. "What… was it that you did when you pressed on my forearm?"

"I was feeling the tendons that control your fingers. Seeing if I could manipulate them."

"My fingers?"

"Mhm. Look," you say, holding your hand out.

Jeongguk fulfills your request, holding out his forearm and watching as you trace his warm skin to find the spot again. "Relax your hand. Hold on. Okay, see?"

With your thumb pressing down, his middle finger moves, curling slightly.

"Oh? That's cool."

"Yeah. A bit of a party trick," you grin, letting go of his arm and leaning back. "Oh, almost forgot. Your abdomen is very… quiet. Not a lot going on there as you probably knew. And your bladder is practically entirely empty, which supports what you said about your mostly 'closed loop' system."

"Yeah. That, I knew," he smiles widely.

With your cheeks burning yet again, you reach for his shirt, handing it to him. "Thanks for… letting me do all of this."

Telling yourself that it's not weird to be fascinated by him and his anatomy doesn't make you feel any less of a perv, unfortunately.

"No problem. If this is how it is going to the doctor, I kinda wish I could go too."

You laugh. "This is not how it is at the doctor's. And if it is, you need to report the doctor."

"Why?" he smiles, and fuck, you dug a grave and stepped right in.

Why? Because it's inappropriate?

"Well… for one, I'd say we're… friends? I don't have the responsibility to treat you for something like a doctor would for their patient. I'm actually not even a doctor; I'm a vet, and the way I work is a bit different than how a doctor would with human patients."

"You go by touch?"

"Yeah. I use my hands to evaluate a lot. Besides, you're not a human, and you shouldn't be asleep at the doctor's."

He puts the shirt back on, amused.

A thought hits you. "You don't have any doctors of your own? Vampire doctors?"

It's still odd to say the word out loud.

"We do, but not a lot since we rarely need them. We have a few different… services, but they're more like caretakers. Like, if someone gets poisoned or actually dehydrated, they can help take care of them. Quite a few vampires live in solidarity, so it can be hard to survive things like that if you don't have anyone to take care of you."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"Those friends you were with, at the bar that night?"

"Also vampires," he grins. "They're not from around here but Tae—Taehyung—is thinking of renting a house here for a few months."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

It makes you wonder…

"There aren't any other vampires here. At least not right now," he says, clearly having realized your train of thought and met you at the station.

"Oh."

He tilts his head. "Are you relieved?"

You think about it. "Uh… I don't know? I guess that makes the chances of being killed by something supernatural… lower, but… I mean, you're nice."

He laughs, lifting his arm to look at his watch. "Oh, shit. I have to go."

"You have… plans? At ass o'clock?"

"Uh… yeah. Vampire plans," he starts, eyes however widening slightly at his own words. "…That definitely do not involve hunting humans for food."

It's your turn to laugh. Does he sound like a bad liar? A bit, but it sounds more to you like he just wants to make sure you're not getting the wrong idea and trips a little over his words in the process.

"Okay. Have fun? And, uh, thank you again for… you know, letting me do all of this."

He grins. "Anytime. Text me when you're home."

Your cheeks get no break tonight, it seems. Still, you nod as you watch him throw the jacket back on as well.

You drive home, falling asleep right after putting his blood in the fridge. And you dream about his warm body and dark eyes. And it hits you as you wake up, that you weren't scared. Nervous and... aware, sure, because you inevitably like the very handsome and charming vampire, but even as he joked about his vampire plans, you were never truly scared.

<previous | next>

            Beep. Beep. Beep.

It was cold, the surface beneath sturdy and slippery almost, my body pressing heavily into it. Nothing made sense, I couldn’t open my eyes, I couldn’t call out for help, and it felt like I was endlessly falling into the void. My lips parted but apart from a pained whine nothing managed to come past, vocal cords heavy and aching from the lack of hydration, from having screamed too loud and too much. It was hard to breathe, something was pressing down against my chest, heavy and cold to the point my heart started pumping blood faster, my eyelids fighting against my brain as I tried to open them.

            Beep. Beep. Beep.

The burn in my left calf was excruciating, I tried to hold onto something, fingers flexing, trying to reach for anything to no avail. My head was thumping painfully and my nostrils stung from the sanitised air I was breathing in, mouth parting when a violent cough shook my body, forcing me to turn onto my right side. Feeling nothing underneath me all of a sudden, my eyes flew open with a loud gasp, fingers curling around the edge of the surface I was lying on. Cold, hard, metallic tables were all around me, the white lights blinding as they made my head ache more violently.

            Beep. Beep. Beep.

Another harsh cough shook my body and I started trembling as I realized just how cold I was, the gown I was wearing was thin and almost sheer, making me whip my head around to search for clues as to where I could be at the moment. I could have sworn I was in the Arena just seconds before, dirty ground shaking underneath my feet as I tumbled to my knees, an arrow slicing my calf open as my arms burned as I mustered up my last power and threw the axe ahead. There was a sickening crack, but I couldn’t see as my vision was darkening, my body begging for a good rest. Perhaps it was finally over, perhaps the suffering would be gone if I let go now.

            Beep. Beep. Beep.

But I realized I wasn’t in the Arena anymore as my right arm burned where different IV drips entered it, liquid entering my body and making me shudder as the sight of the tubes made me feel sick to my stomach. My chapped lips hurt as I tried to lick them, trying to sit up and call out for help, but my head was too dizzy and my body complained at every minuscule move as I rolled onto my back, whining again as pain surged throughout my whole body. I couldn’t breathe for a second, lungs heaving for air as another violent cough tore through my throat, making my eyes widen when I felt liquid trail down the side of my face.

            Beep. Beep. Beep.

My fingertips were red when I lowered them, my skin covered in goosebumps as my eyes fixated on the white ceiling. Was this what others called Heaven? Was I dead, or perhaps tethering on the line between life and death? This year was my last entry to the Hunger Games, I shouldn’t have been reaped, but that’s not how these games worked. I gulped, eyes filling with tears when I realized I would be the Capitol’s slave now if I survived this last trial, wired up to machines in a white place that made my body shake and call out for a name that only brought more pain than protection. San.

“The winner of the 73rd Hunger Games is the female tribute from District 4. Congratulations, Miss Kwon, your journey was long and strenuous, you may rest now.” I tried to fight it, to tell them to let me go, to let me succumb to nothingness, but the pounding in my head worsened and the lights only became brighter, all force and will leaving my body as I lay limply on top of the metallic table. A weak attempt at a cry for help left my lips as my eyes succumbed to the haze coating my mind, kidnapping any thought and free will.

I was nothing but a pawn in a greater game.

            Beep. Beep. Beep.

I was back home, in District 4. The ocean was by my feet as I blinked my eyes open, confused and disoriented as I looked out towards the never-ending water, lips trembling when I realized I was home. I inhaled shakily as I crouched down, fingers reaching out for the oncoming wave. The water was cold and soaked the ends of my white dress, my feet sunk into the wet sand now, steady but nerves shaky as I raised my wet hand to my nose and lips. I was home. The water was still as salty as ever and it smelled of home. My heart lurched as I shakily stood again, gripping my dress tightly as I stepped towards the water, wondering whether the waves would engulf my whole being and turn me into foam, returning me to where I had come from.

My eyes stung the longer I stared out towards the horizon, the sun hidden behind white clouds. The beach was eerily empty apart from myself and the seagulls, and I took a shaky breath when the bell of a fishing boat chimed out in the distance. My heart felt less heavy, less afraid of a future that promised certain death. I was home and I was free, I was myself again, I could pick up where I had left off, and I could live the life I always wished for. I could get inside my father’s fishing boat and go out onto the water with him, I could collect pearls and braid pretty bracelets and sell them at the day market, I could roam the busy streets again and I could see my loved ones, hug them and tell them how much I had missed them.

But I had learned that our lives were never predictable, no matter how much we planned and how much we thought ahead, something—or someone—always managed to stir it up, it would always find ways to disturb the mundane and change your whole perception of an ever-changing future. I didn’t hear him, the waves were loud and downed out all sounds beside my breaths, and I gasped when I felt strong arms circle around my waist, pull me back into a strong chest, cold nose buried in my neck as hot breath fanned over my skin. I froze for a second, scared and uncertain, wondering who would hold me so dearly, so lovingly, so tenderly despite the power he held in his hands. And then it clicked, his honey-like cologne mingling with the salty air of the ocean, I knew it was him. It was San.

Muscles tensing and body freezing, my eyes widened as my mind didn’t know whether it wanted to turn around and hide against him, or push him away and run as far away as possible. In the end, the longing and burning want had won the battle as I grabbed his warm arms, exposed as he wore a sleeveless tank top, and I turned in his loving hold, facing him. His tan skin seemed to come alive under the evening light of the tired sun, and his face remained void of worry or fear as a single dimple appeared on his cheek when his lips pulled to the side. His naturally sharp and small eyes became even smaller as they creased with his smile, turning into nothing but friendly and loving slits as San hugged me closer to himself.

“I have missed you,” His deep voice was nothing but a rumble in his chest, soft and careful as his expression didn’t falter, “You returned to me.”

I gulped, hands shaking as I wondered whether this was a dream, San’s presence was too strong for it to be something made up by my mind. I had never held him like this before, it would’ve been impossible to dream of a man that was never mine to begin with, “San.”

“Yes, my love—”

“San.” It seemed like I couldn’t say anything else, hands raising as I gripped the collar of his tank top tightly, yanking him down as my eyes ran over his features, looking for any tale-tell sign that he wasn’t real. But he was here, he was holding me, he was smiling at me, and his eyes held kindness as he raised his hand, cupping my cheek as his thumb swept over my bottom lip once, then twice.

“I’m here, my love, forever here.” And unable to hold back anymore, I grabbed him by the nape and pulled him down, pressing his red lips against mine, hungry to claim what should have been mine from the beginning. It felt like anything I had previously experienced, his lips were warm and they seemed to sit perfectly against mine, careful but eager to explore my own lips as if he were a starved man. I gasped as I felt San pull me against his body, tilting my head back for better access, our lips parting as we took a second to gasp into each other’s mouths. It felt freeing, it felt safe to be held like this by him, to be loved and to know you had someone waiting for you, someone you could return to no matter how much life had changed you.

“Don’t leave me, please.” I managed to whisper when our lips parted for another breather, close enough to brush together when one of us spoke. San hummed, running his fingers through my short hair, a motion that was calming and assuring that he was here with me and for me. He smiled again and nodded once, nuzzling his nose against mine as I finally felt the tension ease from my muscles, letting me enjoy my freedom. I would never have to return to the Arena or the Capitol, Snow couldn’t do anything to me now. But as if my words were heard by some deity, or President Snow itself, the sky darkened unnaturally fast, waves high as they crashed against the shore, forcing San and I to move away, closer to the rocks and the pathway that led down to the beach. My eyes furrowed as I faced the ocean, the sky menacing as lightning struck in the distance, and I turned my head to look at San when I felt him release me.

His expression was one of ease, as if nothing bothered him, as if the weather seemed normal to him. He chuckled as his eyes settled on the horizon, “There’s something soothing about a storm, don’t you think?”

Storms out on the ocean were terrifying, but I couldn’t find my words as the wind tousled his dark hair, his white clothes clinging to his sturdy body as I tried to hold the skirt of my dress down. It was cold, I could see my breath and that was unnatural too, but I couldn’t peel my eyes off San, enraptured by the vision of him in the eye of a storm. He didn’t look out of place here, by my side, in District 4. His beauty might have been over the top, but with all the makeup gone, he looked like he could belong here, with the people of the district. Cheeks warming at the thought, I opened my mouth to answer his question, but two things happened at once. Thunder cracked loudly, making me flinch as it shook the ground and made my ears ring even after it was over, and San’s eyes suddenly steeled, arm reaching out as he aggressively pushed me back.

My eyes widened in confusion as I watched his stance become defensive, small eyes turning dangerous as he sneered, the cross necklace hanging between his pecks just a show since people like him believed in no gods, they were the gods, “San?”

But when his mouth opened, lips curling into words, no sound came out, just a loud gasp and small eyes turning so wide they could’ve popped. Confused for a few more seconds, I yelped when something warm sprayed onto me, dripping down the side of my face as it covered my hair, face, and even dress, slowly dripping down. Half of an axe stuck out from the back of San’s head, lodged in perfectly to kill him not quite instantly but certainly painfully. Something gurgled left his mouth, something I couldn’t understand as his body shook, eyes becoming hazy when he fell to one knee. My body shook as I stood frozen in shock, our white clothes coated in San’s hot red blood, dripping and tainting our hands. I couldn’t do anything as I watched his limbs grow heavy, his skin turn sickly pale until nothing was left of the man, just a lifeless body which was now crumbled into the sand, seeping red everywhere around us.

I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t even see anymore as the metallic scent of blood invaded my senses, making me gag before I could stop myself, throat tight as bile rose higher and higher. No, who had done this? Who wanted to strip me of my last thread of happiness? I couldn’t lose him, not San. And before I knew it, a scream so loud it ruptured my vocal cords tore through my throat, blood pooling in my mouth until I couldn’t breathe and feel anymore. Not San too, what did they want from me? I yelped as I felt cold knuckles pressing against my hot cheeks, chest rising and falling rapidly as I tried to push at the hands, body shaking and mind reeling.

“It’s alright, hey,” The feminine voice was gentle, but I couldn’t calm down, where was I, “Y/N, it was just a bad dream, it’s alright, I’m here now.”

I didn’t understand. What was a bad dream? Where was San? Where was I? What’s happened to me? What’s happened to everyone?

“Focus on my voice,” The feminine voice spoke up again as finally the darkness was replaced with a faint golden glow, forcing my eyes to adjust to the light and my surroundings, “You’re back in the Capitol, in your room at the training centre, you’re safe. It’s me, your mentor, Joohyun.”

Joohyun, yes, I knew her. I shoot up in a sitting position, gripping her hands frantically as my mind felt scrambled, all over the place while I still couldn’t quite breathe, “Where—what happened? Why am I—San?”

My mentor just sighed and beckoned me over, pressing my head against her chest despite my reluctance, “You won the Games, Y/N, you’re the new victor of District 4. It’s going to be okay, I promise, I’ll be there for you and so will be everyone else who knows what it means to win the Games.”

“But San?” I asked in a whisper as I finally relaxed against Joohyun, letting her cradle me against her chest as if I were a baby who needed soothing.

“San is…here.” Joohyun spoke calmly but her tone was strained, “You’ll see him tomorrow, you need to rest now, Y/N.”

I hummed, mind filled with the image of San’s lifeless body lying at my feet. It made my lungs constrict and I gripped at the sheets, trying to prevent a panic attack as Joohyun sighed, gently pushing me back by the shoulders, “You should have some water first.”

I nodded and took it from her wordlessly, downing the cup of water as my throat felt parched, my eyes burning from how dry they were. Joohyun watched me wordlessly as I fiddled with the cup in my hands, breaths regulated but my mind still wasn’t present, lost in the vividity of the bad dream.

“I know you won’t be able to sleep, but you must try.” Joohyun spoke up when she realized I wouldn’t say anything to her, she looked tired, older than she was, as if the Games had worn her out too, “It might feel suffocating at times, but you’re not alone in this, so don’t be afraid to reach out. Your interview, it’s…tomorrow, I’m sorry, I couldn’t stall it, President Snow wants you up and running for the public as soon as possible. You gave everyone quite the scare when you passed out, the Capitol thought they wouldn’t have a victor to celebrate this year.”

“Maybe it would have been better like that.” I found myself muttering as I looked down at the cup in my hands. Joohyun gulped, looking towards the huge windows that had been darkened so the city lights wouldn’t bother me. I missed the ocean, I wanted to go home. With sadness ridden in her eyes, Joohyun leaned forward and took the cup from my hands, patting them gently before she stood.

“I’m glad you returned.” She said quietly, eyes avoiding mine when she looked up, “The real Games start only now, Y/N.”

I didn’t know what her answer meant, but I didn’t want to find out as my mind screamed for me to sleep, my muscles protesting when I reached out for the remote control to change the blackness of the window into one of the ocean that resembled District 4 rather accurately. Alone in a room that bore only unpleasant memories, a reminder of the life I was stripped of, I lay on my side, facing the sparkling blue water foaming at the top as the waves crashed, and I couldn’t help but hum to myself a lullaby that only the sailors of District 4 knew.

            I wasn’t ready. My heart thundered in my chest as my makeup artists fluttered around me, making sure everything was perfect, eyeshadow staying in place as my skin felt like melting off by how much product had been put on it. I stayed silent and parted my lips when Mingyu, an intimidatingly tall man, leaned down to tap a red-coated thin brush against my lips, coating them in a sickening red as I watched myself through the mirror. It reminded me of all the blood I had to spill in the Arena, of my own blood that seemed to constantly cling to my body, the smell reminding me of the monster I had become. I flinched when Hinata’s hand patted my bare shoulder encouragingly, a small tiara now placed on top of my head, nestled into the unnatural bun she and her assistant, an Avox, managed to somehow pull together despite the short length of my hair.

I felt cold despite the warm temperature of the room and my throat seemed to constrict each time I tried to respond to the people surrounding me, who were genuinely happy to have me back. I hadn’t had the chance to grow close with them as we only had a few days to prepare for the Games, but I appreciated the effort they put into making me look presentable. After all, their job mattered a lot since they had to make me look desirable to the public, for the Capitol. And still, as the white fabric clung to my body tightly, a net-like brown fabric draping down from my hips well below where the skirt of my dress ended, I was reminded of my stylist’s gentle touch anytime he had to dress me. Today he wasn’t here to help out, to soothe my nerves with quiet words and a sharp gaze that was filled with regret but also admiration. The desperate need to see San was maddening as Joohyun stormed inside the dressing room, her eyes slightly wide as she was panting. She wore an elegant white suit, matching her petite form well.

“Is she ready?” She addressed the team still fussing around me, Mingyu, now frowning as he added more blush to my cheeks, spoke up.

“Last minute touch-ups, Flickerman can wait another few minutes.”

“But I’m afraid President Snow can’t.” Joohyun’s voice dropped as Mingyu stiffened, looking over my head at Hinata, who looked just as displeased as her teammate.

“Fine, but I still need to clip the pearls—”

“I’ll do it.” The room fell silent as I stiffened in my seat, eyes widening just a little bit as the man that’s been haunting my every thought since I had met him appeared in the doorway. I gulped, watching Joohyun’s expression settle into unease as she nodded towards the door, Mingyu and Hinata stepping away from me as they understood Joohyun’s implication, “Leave us alone.”

“Don’t take too long, San.” Joohyun’s voice held a warning and I gripped the edge of the seat harshly, long fake nails sinking into the leather. Hinata offered San a smile as she handed over the pearls to him as she passed by him and it felt like all air left the room when the door closed behind San and only the two of us remained inside. I gulped, eyes boring into his through the mirror, and I couldn’t help but let the harsh words tumble past my red-stained lips.

“I hate you.” A beat of silence passed as I stood, still watching San through the mirror, taken aback by his beauty and elegance in the white suit he wore, highlighting his sharp features and tan complex. His blazer was low cut and placed everything the Capitol found desirable on display, his pants long enough to obscure his shoes, and his coat was long too as it hid his large build fairly well. My breath caught in my throat when San took a tentative step further inside the room, grip tightening around the pearls.

“I know.” And as always, his tone was soft and his face was ridden with guilt and worry, and I couldn’t hold back anymore as my mind screamed at me to move towards him, to touch him, to feel him. It was maddening how much I yearned for the stylist, for a man who was from the Capitol, for the first person who had faith in me and encouraged me to never give up, even when the odds seemed to be against my favour. I gulped, licking my lips as I came face to face with him and the need to hold him was strong enough to make me cup his cheeks, watching as his eyes fluttered closed. He exhaled loudly, jaw clenching when I stepped closer, and before he could open his eyes and I would get lost in their depth and warmth, I pressed my lips against his hungrily. I hadn’t given in previously to the want, I feared that if I did so, I would be a dead woman the second the canon went off in the Arena. And I hated myself because I was ridden with regret the whole time, thinking back on what we could’ve had in the few days that I had before the Games. And I hated myself even more for wanting to return because of him, because of San, to hold him and be held, to kiss him and be kissed, to be his if he wanted me too.

His lips felt warm, a little wet as I couldn’t control myself and sped up the kiss, our lips smacking together loudly as San finally touched me, gripping my hip harshly as he yanked my body into his. It felt unreal to be so close to him, to feel his body warmth and to smell his expensive and sweet cologne, to inhale the air he exhaled. His lips were just as eager as mine, parting in invitation and moulding perfectly against mine when I considered pulling back, remembering Joohyun’s words, but San chased after my lips like a starved man, a whine leaving his mouth when I finally caved in and let my tongue press against his tentatively. Something fell to the floor and then I felt San’s other hand hold onto my nape as his tongue lapped at mine, pushing and pulling, exploring my mouth as he held onto me like he was afraid I would disappear, and I could’ve sworn he’d consume my whole being until nothing was left of me. I didn’t want him to let go, I was afraid if he did the door would open and Peacekeepers would yank us away, and tell us that we’d be punished for our actions. But my lungs were on fire and I felt tears prick at my closed eyes and I couldn’t let Mingyu and Hinata’s work go to waste, so with a gentle hand against his exposed chest, I pushed him away, making San gasp.

I gulped, struggling to find my breath as San’s forehead came down against mine, arms moving so that I was in his embrace now. A shuddered breath left my mouth as I clung to him, fingers gripping his coat' tightly at his sides as we remained silent, basking in the other’s warmth and scent, which had become familiar by now.

“I was afraid,” San muttered lowly, gulping as if he had to pause to collect himself, “so afraid I’d lose you.”

I shuddered, the horrors of the Arena still fresh in my mind as I could still see the lifeless faces behind my eyes whenever I closed them. Hands slightly shaking, I blinked my eyes open when it felt like my lungs tried to prevent me from breathing and I looked at San’s perfect face, forever mesmerized by his beauty.

“I fought really hard to come back,” I whispered, my heart clenching when San’s eyes opened, boring into mine sharply, “I wanted to survive so desperately, I—I had to come back to you, I—what had you done to me, San? Why do I want you so badly?”

San gulped, eyebrows furrowing as his jaw clenched again, and I knew I must’ve said the wrong thing because his face became devoid of any emotion, however, his embrace only tightened as he shook his head, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I was just trying to be supportive, I didn’t mean to make you—care for me.”

“Do you not care for me back?” My voice sounded weak, and I hated the disappointment that followed when San failed to answer me. I nodded wordlessly and untangled my tight grip from San’s coat, trying to step back, but San hadn’t released me yet from his embrace. He looked conflicted like he didn’t know what was right to say at the moment, and I preferred him not to say anything if he was so uncertain.

“I care for you, of course, I do.” His voice was a whisper as he leaned forward, lips brushing against my ear and it made goosebumps appear on my skin, “But it’s dangerous, I shouldn’t care and neither should you.”

I knew this, of course, I did, but I couldn’t help it. Not when he was the reason I stood here, alive and frightened beyond my mind about what the future had in store for me. Joohyun was right, the Games were just starting and I was defenceless in front of an enemy that could destroy me just with simple words.

“Let’s not keep President Snow waiting, hm?” San’s arms disappeared at once from around my body and I shivered, taken aback by the sudden change of temperature as he had an easy smile on his lips, dimple on his cheek. He crouched down and grabbed the fallen pearls, standing in front of me with a professional look on his face. The first time I had seen San he was at the train station, ready to welcome the tributes of District 4 with a wide friendly smile on his lips and a stance that screamed confidence. He was dressed to the nines, in burgundy satin pants and a sheer black blouse tucked in, a cropped fur coat draped around his wide shoulders. His already sharp eyes were accentuated even more by the dark purple smokey eyeshadow and his lips were a burgundy red, matching his pants and his nails, which resembled blood as they were tainted in peculiar patterns. I knew I couldn’t trust the man, he was just a flashy asshole from the Capitol, only here to doll me up and make me look desirable to the public, and probably for his own sadistic tendencies. But I was wrong, San was a soft-spoken and emotional being, eyes expressive even when his face remained blank.

He was the first one to tell me I was stronger than I looked, that he saw the shimmer in my eyes turn into fire when it came to survival. He told me he would bet on me if he could, that he knew I had it in me to become a victor. He said he wasn’t ready to let me go just yet, not when he had never met someone quite like me before. Apparently, my eyes were big and full of wonder, eager to discover more despite my predicament. And the night before the Games, when I couldn’t sleep and felt on the verge of a panic attack, he stumbled through my threshold in a drunken stupor, confessing his adoration for me and his desperate need to have me, to hold me and truly know me. I couldn’t promise him anything, but I told him I’d try to return, that I’d do my best to come back to him, then he broke down crying and as he hiccupped while I held him, I heard him mutter that he’s never seen anyone as radiant and beautiful as me before. And he doomed me from that second on, because all I wanted moving forward was for him to hold me when I returned.

The sheer fabric was sparkly as the beads were sewn into it and it sat loosely around my shoulders, chest and back, stopping just above my stomach. It felt heavy as San walked around me to clip the back together, adjusting it until it sat against the rest of my dress the way it was supposed to. San’s designs were beautiful, I had been sceptical of them at first, but when I realized he didn’t intend to make me something the Capitol would lust over but rather admire, I grew to trust him and thanked him for making me feel beautiful if even for a fleeting moment, “Hold onto me.”

And he offered me his arm as we both faced the door, my hands trembling in fear as San pushed it open, walking us towards the stage with flashing lights, the TV anchor’s voice all of a sudden booming as he spoke into his microphone. He was saying something, but I couldn’t hear it as I felt frozen, holding onto San for stability when Joohyun and the rest of the makeup team appeared next to us. Joohyun’s eyebrows were furrowed when she looked at us and she gently coaxed my fingers away from San’s coat, holding my hand instead as she guided me towards the stage, just to where the backstage wall ended. It caught Caesar Flickerman’s attention and his eyes lit up at once, a high-pitched sound escaping his throat as he faced the audience with eagerness.

“Don’t let them see.” Joohyun’s voice was harsh as she turned her head to look at me, “And remember, you are lucky to be alive, for having been offered this chance to participate in the Games, and you are proud and honoured to be standing on this stage again.”

I took a shaky breath as I nodded my head, Joohyun’s words from this morning still fresh in my mind. The Capitol wasn’t allowed to see the turmoil in my head, the struggle, the fear and the pain which hid just underneath the surface. I had to keep up a strong front, to smile and gloat about my victory as if all the lost lives meant nothing to me, as if killing all those innocent children didn’t bother me at all. My throat tightened and I tried to grip Joohyun’s hand harder, but Caesar was calling out my name and the crowd was roaring loudly, and before I could even think about running back to the dressing room, a warm hand on my lower back pushed me forward.

The lights were blinding and the cheers and claps deafening, and I froze when I felt the TV anchor’s cold fingers graze my arm, run down to my wrist and then hand as he raised it to press a swift kiss against my knuckles as a greeting. I didn’t flinch, and before all the fear could swallow me whole, I plastered a big smile onto my face, laughing gently when Caesar lowered my hand from his face but still held onto it once he noticed I was wearing really high stilettos.

“Oh, my!” He exclaimed as if he was a child who just got their present on their birthday, “You look absolutely gorgeous, Miss Kwon.”

I chuckled and looked away abashed as he led us towards the two fancy armchairs, “Thank you, but it’s mostly thanks to my makeup team and my stylist—”

“Ah, yes!” He exclaimed before I could even finish my sentence, and I was glad I could hold onto his hand for stability because my ankles threatened to give out once I faced the crowd, “Choi San! What a man he is! Everyone loves him, I bet you do too, Miss Kwon?”

There was a mischievous glint in his eyes, but harmless, and I took my seat once Caesar gesticulated towards it, “Yes, he’s really good at what he does. His creations are breathtaking.”

“Well, yes, he certainly overdid himself with this mermaid but sailor-like outfit,” Caesar took a deep breath before he faced the crowd, smiling so widely that it must’ve hurt, “Don’t you just love it?!”

And the crowd cheered, some even standing up to clap, to stick out more as I tried to continue to smile in a way that looked thankful but also abashed. Caesar was referring to my outfit, but I wished to be invisible at this exact moment. My hands shook but I hid them by interlacing my fingers and lowering them in my lap. Silence finally settled upon the room and I gulped, perhaps too loudly, because Caesar chuckled as he looked back at me amused.

“Well, look at our mermaid—can I call you that?” No, I didn’t want to be called a mermaid, I didn’t want to be associated with a mythical creature that was innocent and pure.

“You can call me whatever you wish,” My voice was warm and dripped with honey, I tried not to look surprised by myself, “I do look like a mermaid, don’t I?”

The crowd cheered again and I let my smile widen as I looked towards them, thankful for the blinding lights as I couldn’t see their faces. The people from the Capitol made me sick with their over-the-top extravaganza and the ease they could live with, I didn’t want to see them.

“Well, Miss Kwon, now that we’ve settled that you are our little mermaid,” Caesar leaned in with a worried expression, lips downturned and eyebrows furrowed, he looked genuine, “Tell us, how do you feel?”

I gulped, suddenly the silence making my skin itch as everyone waited for my answer. I smiled as I tried to look back to where I knew Joohyun stood, but then her words rang through my mind and I leaned back in the chair, trying to look casual, “Well, how am I supposed to feel? I just won the Games, Caesar, and it wasn’t easy. I’m on cloud nine, actually, I got a good night’s sleep and now I’m ready to tackle whatever the Capitol throws my way next.”

“Brilliant!” Caesar shouted, making me flinch, but I laughed as the crowd cheered once again, I could see the camera zoom in on my face, so I made sure my smile was wide and as genuine as possible, “You have a way with your words that just keeps me on my toes, you know, Miss Kwon? I bet the people love it too! Tell us, is there anything you cannot wait to do now that you’re out of the Arena?”

I took a deep breath as I faced the camera, my next words genuine, “I miss my parents and I miss the ocean, so I cannot wait to return home, actually.”

“Ah, yes,” Caesar had a compassionate look on his face as he reached out to pat my hands reassuringly, “District 4 became a richer district thanks to your contribution to their victors’, I bet they can’t wait to meet you.”

“And I cannot wait to meet them too,” I gulped, hoping I sounded genuine to those who were watching us, “I’ve always looked up to our victors, they are strong and brave and they’ve made our District shine every chance they could.”

“And now you are part of them too,” Caesar had a cheeky grin on his face as he mirrored my stance and leaned back into his armchair comfortably, “But before you return, you’ve still got a few days in the Capitol. Aren’t you just excited to meet everyone at the party?”

I was dreading that moment, but I tried to look as enthusiastic as possible as I perked up, sitting up straighter, “Yes! I’ve heard of these parties ever since I was a little girl, I cannot wait to meet everyone. And I’m also overly curious about my outfit too.”

“San will certainly overdo himself again,” Caesar was beaming as he spoke of my stylist, everyone in the Capitol was head over heels for San, “I am so excited to see what he has in store for us, do you reckon he’ll wear something pompous himself?”

I chuckled as my fingers tightened against each other, “Well, when has he not?”

The crowd and Caesar laughed and I smiled too, wanting to glance back to where I knew the team was watching me, but my body felt stiff as suddenly Caesar turned serious, licking his lips as he crossed one leg over the other, “I bet everyone would love it if we talked more about our beloved San, but this day is about you, Miss Kwon, and I have to mention your amazing kills. You have a sharp precision that’s hard to miss and even I was amazed by them, despite having seen many Games before. What’s your secret? I bet no one expected you to pick an axe as your weapon of choice since you are from District 4.”

“I—” I gulped, my body suddenly becoming cold as my mind reeled at the vivid memories flashing behind my eyes. The scent of blood, the vision of tearing flesh and the screams that haunted my nightmares, it was too much. My heart was pumping blood fast and my ears were ringing as the lights became too bright, Caesar's voice seemed distant when he called my name and I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry, but then I remembered Joohyun’s words and I knew I had to keep it together, it was all for the show, “Well, first of all, thank you, Caesar. I am honoured that you think so highly of my skills, I cannot say I worked hard to gain them, but I did train as much as I could before the Games, you know? My father is a fisherman so I would often help him out with cutting up the fish, I—I just associated the axe with a butcher’s knife.”

“Fascinating.” Caesar's eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as he paid close attention to my words, and I resisted the itch to scratch at my neck, which felt on fire, “You keep on impressing me every time you speak, you’re truly full of surprises, Miss Kwon, we haven’t had a victor like you quite in a while.”

“You’re too kind.” I averted my eyes and realized they were burning from being too dry, the lights made my head thump and the corset was too tight around my torso, I felt like I couldn’t breathe anymore.

“Nonsense,” Caesar chuckled and then grinned mischievously, “Before I let you go enjoy your victory, let’s rewatch my favourite kills! They are truly marvellous.”

I gasped quietly as a small screen suddenly appeared in front of us, and Caesar clapped his hands, the lights dimming as the video was played on the big screens behind us as well. My eyes fixated on myself in the video, on the frantic look in my eyes as I grabbed the axe from the Cornucopia and flung it towards the way too young child when he tried to sneak up on me. My jaw clenched and I flinched every time I watched the axe I was gripping tightly make contact with human flesh, drowning out the gasps and cheers of the crowd as well as Caesar's elated yelps whenever I took out someone again. It felt like my own personal hell to watch myself kill someone, to watch the lifeless look in my eyes, the elated expression on my face whenever the canon went off. I was covered in blood, it was matted to my hair, and it had ruined my clothes too, but I failed to notice it as I roamed around aimlessly, eyes cold and crazed as I searched for my next victim. I looked desperate, I had felt desperate, and it made tears gather in my eyes when the footage shifted to my last kill, the one of which I barely had any recollection of, but my body reacted so viscerally that I feared I would empty my stomach’s contents right in front of everyone.

I continued looking at the screen but I wasn’t seeing anything anymore, my brain had given up on my surroundings, on what was happening to me and around me. I was there, merely a shell of who I used to be, and I didn’t want to see even one more second of the monster that slayed everyone without remorse on her face. At last, Caesar finally clapped his hands and the lights were strong again and he was squealing and yelping, but I couldn’t hear anything. I felt hands grip my arm and help me stand, then it was raised in the air and everyone cheered again, people standing up as they clapped loudly for me. Caesar's shrill voice called my name again and announced me as this year's victor, and when it was time for me to finally get off the stage, I turned emotionlessly and gave a last wave to the camera as I tried not to tumble while I walked to where I knew Joohyun stood at.

“And thus, I had been Caesar Flickerman, thank you for your attention and see you really soon, don’t forget to tune in for the Hunger Games’ lotto that I’ll be hosting in just a few hours!” And then my legs finally gave out as a sob tore through my throat, knees shaking as I fell to the cold ground, making everyone gasp as Joohyun sprung towards me, hissing at the staff to bring me a blanket and for the lights to be turned off so that nobody would see us. She called my name but I couldn’t hear her, the dress was suffocating and my face felt heavy with all the makeup on it, I needed to be somewhere far away from here. I gripped the beautiful pearl top and gave it one tug, making it fall apart and spread all over the floor as Hinata and Mingyu gasped, crowding around me. My hands were trying to undo the corset before anyone could react, and then I felt a warm presence behind me grip my arms painfully, shaking me to the point I had to look up in a daze.

San’s face was coated in worry as I exhaled ragged, only now realizing that I was hyperventilating, “Don’t make me wear white—I don’t—San, I don’t want to wear white ever again, please.”

He kneeled in front of me, and with a sharp nod of his head Mingyu and Hinata were gone, only Joohyun remaining close by with the blanket in her hands, eyebrows furrowed and gaze sharp as she watched San collect me in his arms, “I know, my love, no more white. I promise. “

I couldn’t bear to see something so innocent and pure get tainted by blood again.

            Being at the Victor’s Party was possibly as bad as being forced inside the Arena. It was filled to the brim with pompous Capitol people who drank until they couldn’t stand on their feet anymore, eating until they had to throw up just to eat some more. Their voices were loud and they were constantly laughing, clinking their glasses together and asking me to exchange quick words with them, which would turn into an excruciatingly long conversation that made my skin itch and my disgust show as I struggled to control my facial expressions. I wanted to go home, I couldn’t stay any longer in this wretched place, and I could’ve cried in happiness when I noticed Finnick Odair, District 4’s youngest victor, approach me with a charming smile. He was, surprisingly, covered from head to toe, his dark blue suit tailored to his body, enhancing his sun-kissed complex, his blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. He looked handsome and he knew it as he carried himself with a confident aura, eyes twinkling with mischief and lips always pulled to the side into a smirk or an amused grin. I had never spoken to him before, but he was a very popular victor and so I knew him from seeing him from time to time on the TV or at the market back in District 4.

“My, my, my,” Finnick’s tone was amused as he came to a stop next to me, towering over me, much like San, “you’re hounding our victor and you aren’t even ashamed of it.”

As if Finnick had just said the joke of the year, the five people surrounding us broke out in loud laughter, throwing their heads back as Finnick threw me a sneaky glance. It wasn’t hard to miss the irritation he managed to mask well in that split second and I felt myself relax for being seen, for being understood by such an important person. I would’ve never guessed Finnick hated the Capitol just as much as any other person from the districts, but it was reassuring to know he wasn’t so different from us after all.

“If only they were just hounding me,” I muttered bitterly as the other five were still busy giggling behind their champagne glasses, my eyes fell on Finnick, “and not asking me to bed them as well.”

Finnick’s jaw ticked but he didn’t react to my comment as his smile became wider when the lady standing next to him touched his arm, Finnick gave her a flirtatious look. Her eyelashes were unnaturally long and she reeked of alcohol, her lips pink and way too plump, but Finnick didn’t flinch away, instead he reciprocated her flirty look, “I hadn’t seen you in a while, Odair.”

“Such a shame, isn’t it?” He said with sadness in his tone, and I watched him curiously as the lady rubbed his bicep for a second too long.

“Are you free tonight?” Finnick’s smile stayed in place as he pretended to think, then leaned closer to the lady and lowered his voice.

“I might be,” The lady’s cheeks flushed instantly as she averted her eyes, “Have you missed me a lot?”

“Yes, so much.” She bit her lower lip provocatively and I averted my eyes as I felt bile rise in my throat. My empty glass was suddenly snatched from my hands and replaced with another one filled to the brim with champagne, and I tried to hide my nausea at the thought of having to drink another sip of that bitter liquid.

“Maybe we’ll meet again, then,” Finnick concluded before his attention was on the men around us, greeting them with handshakes and letting them touch his cheek, making me give them a weird look. They were eager to ask questions from Finnick, but he politely turned them down and instead sneaked his arm around my bare shoulders, pulling me into his side with a cheeky grin.

“I’m sure you’d all understand if I stole Miss Kwon away, right?” His eyebrows furrowed in hesitance, and I was amazed by his acting skills, “We never got the chance to speak properly, I’d like to show her around as her elder from the District.”

“Yes, go ahead!” The people exclaimed and even pushed us away, not before one man grabbed my hands and pressed a disgustingly wet kiss against my knuckles, his teeth yellow despite his fancy way of living, his eyes filled with lust as they raked over my body. I pretended I didn’t see as I gripped Finnick’s arm and allowed him to lead us away, somewhere quieter, he took my glass of champagne away too and threw it in the trashcan, surprising me.

“Never drink anything they hand you,” His voice was low so that no one would hear, his perfectly charming smile still on his lips. I tried my best to look just like him, at ease with a flirty smile on my lips, “You can drink what you take from a tray or table, but never what they hand you, understood?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said with a grateful smile as I turned my head to face him, wanting to ask so much more, but I knew now wasn’t the time or place. We’d have plenty of time back in District 4, “And thank you for saving me, I didn’t know what excuse to come up with to get away from them finally.”

“Never say you’re going to the bathroom either,” Finnick smiled widely at someone who waved at him from the crowd as we came to a standstill next to a white pillar, “They find it as an invitation to go somewhere secluded with you, and you don’t want that.”

“I really don’t,” I sighed frustrated as my scalp itched from how tight the braids Hinata had done were, “Thank you, Finnick, really.”

He finally looked at me with a knowing look on his face, his charming smile finally dropping as his eyes hardened. He looked tired and fed-up, but his voice remained soft and careful, “I’ll protect you as much as I can, just as Joohyun has been doing, but even we are powerless at times, I’m sorry. Another friendly advice, however, is if you want to ditch someone here, just say you saw someone you know and take off before they can speak up. They won’t follow you, they are too lazy to do that.”

“Do you enjoy these parties?” The question bubbled past my lips before I could stop myself and I averted my eyes when Finnick’s filled with amusement, a dimple forming on his cheek when he smiled genuinely for the first time. He reminded me of San, Finnick’s smile was beautiful too but never to San’s extent. San was here too somewhere, swept up in the crowd, with the people he belonged to. His outfit was revealing, all black and fitting his body like a second skin. I felt like I couldn’t look at him when we met, feeling like I was sinning just by letting him lace up my dress. He had listened to my request, my dress was a dark blue, much like Finnick’s suit, and the fabric bunched under my knees into ruffles, fading into ivory to resemble the foam of the ocean. It was beautiful, San had said this style was called ‘mermaid’ as he wished to play into the crowd's likes. Apparently, President Snow had also told him to make me wear a dress that fit the nickname Flickerman had given me, and I was nervous when I found out about this. Joohyun’s face was stern and her eyes a silent warning when we arrived at the scene, one nod of her head was enough to tell me to watch myself and not to cause a scene.

I was doing fine so far, it got hard at times and all I wished for was to hide and go to bed, but I was doing better than I thought I would. I managed not to hyperventilate nor sob when a couple approached me and asked me to reenact one of the kills I had done in the Arena, apparently, it was their son’s favourite from this season. Schooling my expressions was the hardest, I managed not to throw up once they finished talking, but I couldn’t help but glower at them with disgust, managing to scare them off when I showed them just exactly what they wanted to see. Apparently, it wasn’t so entertaining to watch someone kill another when they were standing right in front of you, gripping a knife with a twisted look on their face. The hypocrisy these people lived with flew past my mind as I was unable to understand or relate to them.

“I loathe these parties, Y/N, everything you see on TV,” Finnick paused for a dramatic effect as he leaned towards me, eyes wide, “if fake. You’ll learn with time how to manage everything, but it’ll never get easy.”

“I should’ve died in that Arena,” I whispered under my breath, watching pity reflect on Finnick’s face as he released a long sigh.

“Maybe we all should’ve, but think about your family.” I felt a hand grip my shoulder, so I looked up at Finnick, “They are happy and glad to have you back, so even if we should be dead, knowing you’ll be able to see them again should bring a little joy while you’re cooped up in the Capitol.”

“I am happy, as much as I can be at the moment.” I said with conviction, “But I’m a monster now, and I don’t think they are ready to face me yet. I’m not—I don’t feel like I’m the same person anymore.”

“Because you’re not.” Finnick’s tone was hard but harmless at the same time. His eyes were void of any emotion, he seemed absent from the conversation as his hand fell from my shoulder, “You’ll never be the person you were before you stepped foot into the Arena, and you’ll have to learn to accept it. We might be monsters, but don’t forget the biggest one out of all of us.”

I gulped, not missing the implication of Finnick’s words. President Coriolanus Snow. He was the biggest monster, our biggest enemy, a tyrant who only took and took from the Districts without giving anything back, who tried to make the Capitol flourish despite the blood on their hands. It was unfair, but who was I to make a change? I was too insignificant to start a spark for which the people from the districts were desperately waiting.

“Hello,” Both Finnick and I tensed as a deep voice spoke up behind us, a little bit hesitant, “Sorry to bother you, President Snow asked me to fetch the new victor…”

Finnick and I turned our heads, coming face to face with a man who was taller than even Finnick. He towered over the both of us, skin ashen and cheeks hollow as his small and sharp eyes were obscured by his black hair falling over his forehead. His shoulders were hunched forward and the skin of his neck was red where the collar of his white shirt ended. I knew him, I saw him on the TV last year. He killed his own district’s female tribute to win.

“Ah, Mingi!” Finnick, springing forward and hugging the man as he ignored the other victor’s clear discomfort, was beaming all of a sudden, “I had been wondering all night long where you were hiding now.”

I watched the two as Mingi looked down at his shoes, not attempting to step out of Finnick’s side hug, “The bathroom was cramped so I found a nice balcony—until Snow found me, of course.”

“Oh, no,” Finnick whispered, lips pulled into a tight line, “did he say anything?”

“Nothing bad, surprisingly.” Mingi shrugged and looked relieved when Finnick finally released him, “Just inquired about my well-being and—her.”

“I see.” Finnick’s voice was compassionate and my eyebrows furrowed as I didn’t quite understand what they were talking about, but I realised it wasn’t my place to pry. Eyes falling on me, I tried to smile at the tall man but he looked like he wanted to die, and it made me anxious as I didn’t know how to approach him, “Well, I’ll leave you two be. See you around, yes?”

“Yes,” Mingi muttered as Finnick nodded at me before he slipped away, leaving the other man and me in an uncomfortable silence.

“I’m Kwon Y/N, pleased to meet you.” I offered a hand for the man to shake and he reluctantly did, his handshake surprisingly firm despite his tame behaviour.

“I’m Song Mingi, you—you did well, I’m sorry.” His words were confusing but they made complete sense somehow, and I felt tears prick at my eyes all of a sudden. But I couldn’t let them fall, not right as I was about to meet President Snow, and Mingyu worked for two hours on my makeup.

“Thank you,” My voice was hoarse and Mingi looked at my face for the first time, surprised, “I did my best even though I wish I hadn’t.”

Understanding passed over Mingi’s features as he nodded once, then pointed reluctantly towards the stairs I failed to notice when Finnick and I had stopped next to the pillar, “You shouldn’t keep President Snow waiting.”

I nodded and followed after Mingi as his long legs took hurried steps, making me have to run to catch up with him on the stairs, but I remained silent as I realized he wasn’t much of a talker. He looked like he didn’t want to hide the turmoil going on inside his mind, and I admired him for it as he wasn’t afraid of what the people would think. I wanted to do the same, but Joohyun instructed me against it, telling me that if the Capitol didn’t find me desirable, I’d be thrown to the side, and that never meant good. I wondered whether Mingi had been thrown to the side too, but seeing him here made me realize I had heard people whisper about him while I was forced to mingle with them.

“Is he—do you think he’ll punish me?” I found myself asking as Mingi led us down a long corridor with plenty of doors on both sides.

“Did you do anything bad?” He asked as he glanced over his shoulder. I bit my lip and shrugged.

“I don’t think so.”

“Then no, he won’t.” Mingi’s answer was curt and it felt like he wanted to say more, but he abruptly stopped in front of a door and sighed heavily, “This is President Snow’s office, I’ll wait for you here.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.” For the first time, Mingi looked in my eyes with concern coating his features, and I gulped as I stepped forward and knocked on the sturdy wooden door. If Mingi didn’t want to leave me, I wouldn’t ask him to, too scared that I wouldn’t leave Snow’s office ever again. At least one person knew where I was if anything were to happen to me. The door opened before I could push it open and my muscles tensed as I took a deep breath and pushed it further open, stepping inside. It was cool inside the office and my mind blanched at the avid stench of blood in the air, I tried to keep my composure and my heart from racing. My skin itched when President Snow’s lips pulled into an amused grin, beckoning me further inside with his hand. The door closed behind me and I jumped, glancing back and wishing Mingi would’ve entered with me.

“Miss Kwon,” President Snow smiled, flattening his hands on the surface of his table. The colour matched the door’s, “Congratulations on becoming a victor, you’ve certainly done your utmost best. You’ve impressed quite a few people here.”

“Thank you, President Snow.” I bowed my head respectfully, glad that my voice didn’t waver like every particle of my body did. I pushed my hands behind my back to hide their tremor and looked into President Snow’s dark eyes.

“How do you find the Capitol, little mermaid?” I hated that nickname and it was probably easy to tell as President Snow chuckled, leaning back in his chair nonchalantly. His office was huge, bookshelves lined the walls to my left and right and the lights were dim despite it being dark outside. A vase of white roses sat in the corner on top of Snow’s desk, and I didn’t miss the one tucked in his suit’s pocket.

“It’s—different.” I gulped, trying to sound nonchalant, “It’s big and beautiful, full of life, I suppose.”

“But you miss District 4, yes?” Snow quirked an eyebrow, expression turning serious. I nodded wordlessly and he hummed, looking sideways and out the window. The partygoers were visible from here and as I followed his line of sight my eyes widened slightly when I spotted San, who was leaning into a velvet cushion as hands roamed his chest, a silver cross dangling between his pecks. Everyone seemed to be taken with him as he laughed and drank champagne, smirking with a flirtatious look on his sharp features at both men and women alike, “And you wish to still return home, don’t you?”

I gulped and tore my eyes away from the sight, freezing with President Snow’s eyes fixated on me with a curious glint in them, “Yes, I would really like to return home. I miss the ocean and my parents.”

“And you won’t miss anything from the Capitol?”

What was I supposed to say? Was this a trap? I gulped and cleared my throat, scavenging my brain for an answer.

“Maybe—the pretty dresses?” President Snow’s head fell back as he started laughing, eyes holding an amused twinkle when he looked back at me.

“And not the one that makes those dresses?” I felt my blood run cold as President Snow had a knowing smile on his lips as he leaned forward in his chair, arms coming to rest on his table.

“I—I’ll miss Hinata and Mingyu, and San—San too, of course.” I hated how vulnerable I sounded, my voice weak and shaky, “They were my team and they—they made me pretty, so I—”

“Miss Kwon,” President Snow’s tone was tired and low as he interrupted my pitiful stammering, “People like Mr. Choi and you don’t belong together. He was born here and you were not, if you can bear heartbreak then I have nothing else to say, but look at him. Don’t you think you’ll never be enough for him? That he’ll always see you as a dirty little thing from a fishing district that reeks of seafood?”

I gulped, throat constricting as tears sprung to my eyes. I couldn’t turn my head, I couldn’t look at San again. President Snow was right, I had always known this, I had never even thought further about whatever could be between us. I knew this, but hearing the words said out loud only made it sting more, “Get yourself together, Miss Kwon. You’re a smart girl and if you know what’s best for you, forget about Mr. Choi now. You know it’ll never happen, and if you don’t want to believe it, then let me tell you this. I’ll never allow it, Miss Kwon, you can’t have Mr. Choi, he’s mine and the Capitol’s.”

I exhaled forcefully and bit my tongue as I looked up, blinking away the tears rapidly as my jaw clenched, “You can’t own a person, President Snow.”

“Can’t I?” He snickered as he leaned back in his chair once again, “Speak to Finnick Odair again, perhaps, ask more questions this time. I’m sure he has lots of tales about me and the Capitol. Or perhaps you could tell Mr. Song that the fence he likes to climb could be re-electrified any second—”

“Why are you threatening others when this is about me?!” My voice raised as my eyebrows furrowed and President Snow smiled, tapping his cheek as he grabbed a handkerchief out of his pocket.

“Because it’s not just about you, Miss Kwon, it’s about everything I own.” A cough ripped through President Snow’s chest, and I watched with furrowed eyebrows as he pressed the white handkerchief against his mouth. Was it possible for him to catch a cold? He was still human, after all, “And you, victors, are my propriety. I can do whatever to you, whenever I want to. And you are not to see Mr. Choi after tonight ever again, do you understand me?”

My body went rigid and I gulped, the voices in my head screaming at me to grab a pencil and stab him through the neck, to end the man’s life who has caused so much anguish to all of us. My heart pumped fast and my hands shook as anger seemed to flame underneath my skin and I gulped, trying to clear the red fog inside my brain, the insatiable thirst to get rid of the person that was such a threat to not just me, but everyone. But it also scared me how violently I would react now, how my first thought at a little inconvenience was to kill—this wasn’t me. The me before the Games would’ve never resorted to murder, and it scared me to the point I felt my breaths turn uneven as President Snow’s eyes continued to bore into mine curiously, a wondering expression crossing his features. My throat was tight as I opened my lips to speak, and I clenched my hands into fists as I raised my head higher and looked into the man’s eyes, “I understand.”

And whatever he seemed on my face must’ve been satisfying enough because with a flick of his wrist, he dismissed me, and I turned without any respect or pleasantries as I stormed towards the door and ripped it open, letting it slam behind me. I stepped into the corridor, male voices fading into silence as my chest raised and fell rapidly, my hands shaking as I stared ahead and out the big windows, eyes fixated on San as he leaned towards a red-head and whispered in her ear, making her giggle and lean into him, a hand placed high on his thigh.

“Y/N?” An unfamiliar voice snapped me out of my thoughts as I sharply turned my head, eyes falling on the man standing next to Mingi. He was taller, just barely, and his features were soft and cautious as he tried to offer me a smile, “Uh, sorry, I’m Jeong Yunho, Mingi said he’d wait for you so I did too.”

Mingi remained silent as he looked between us and I took a deep breath to try and calm my nerves, to forget everything President Snow had just said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to storm out like that, I—the conversation was rather unpleasant.”

“Yes, it usually is with him.” Yunho said with a chuckle and grabbed Mingi’s arm as he nodded towards the end of the corridor, “But I don’t think we should discuss that here out of all places.”

That managed to bring a small smile to my lips and I nodded in agreement as I turned to head down the corridor. The two men caught up with me and walked next to me with Yunho in the middle.

“The whole place is full of cameras, Yunho, it doesn’t matter where we talk about it,” Mingi grumbled and Yunho shrugged, glancing at me.

“Well, yes, but I think Snow finds it more exciting if we talk about him ‘behind his back’, you know?” His tone was amused and I felt my tense muscles ease a little as we started descending the stairs. Something about Yunho was calming, he had an air about him which made you feel at ease. I was glad he was here even though I had no idea who he was minutes ago. His Games weren’t as popular as the other ones so people tended to gloss over him, even though now I could recall them.

“Thank you for waiting for me, you didn’t have to,” I spoke up as we arrived at the bottom of the stairs and the two tall men faced me with smiles on their faces. Mingi’s was miniscule but it was there as Yunho just shrugged and threw an arm around the other one, and I watched with surprise as Mingi didn’t flinch nor look uncomfortable with the touch. They seemed to be familiar with each other.

“Sure, it was no biggie.” The way Yunho spoke wasn’t familiar, but I welcomed it as his whole persona felt safe and friendly, “If you want a good hiding spot, you’ll find Mingi and me behind the sweets table.”

Mingi rolled his eyes but didn’t interject and only nodded, eyes lowering, “Yunho has a sweet tooth, but it’s a surprisingly good hiding spot. Everyone is too busy looking at all the delicacies to notice us.”

I chuckled and nodded, grateful for their friendliness and offer of a good hiding spot, I happened to also have a sweet tooth, “Thank you, I might as well just go now and—”

“Excuse me,” A voice I knew too well spoke up from behind me and I stiffened, eyes averting when Mingi and Yunho shared a look, “Do you mind if I steal Miss Kwon for a dance?”

“Not at all!” Yunho said beaming and patted Mingi’s back before they both bowed their heads and hurried away, Yunho whispering to Mingi furiously as Mingi just shook his head. I let my eyes follow the two until I couldn’t see them anymore, Snow’s words echoing in my mind when I felt a gentle hand wrap around my bicep. I flinched and then hated the look of hurt and confusion on San’s face as he turned me around to face him, lowering his head as I avoided looking into his eyes.

“Talk to me, Y/N, what happened?” He whispered softly and my jaw clenched, skin burning where he touched me. I yearned to hold him, to step closer and close the gap between our bodies, but Snow was watching. Everyone was watching.

“Nothing.” I lied and finally looked into San’s sharp eyes which were filled with worry. His hand slowly slipped from my bicep, tracing my skin, and I shivered as he found my hand and intertwined his fingers with mine. I refrained from pulling away, Joohyun’s warning echoing in my head, I couldn’t cause a scene. Not here and not right now.

“Will you dance with me?”

“Yes.”

When I was with San it felt like the world disappeared around us, like nobody but him and I existed. It was a peaceful feeling, but also frightening. I could lose myself in his eyes and then I would lose track of everything around myself. It was daunting, but also a feeling which filled me with hope and warmth, making my heart beat faster. I couldn’t focus on the crowd as San walked us towards the orchestra, couples dancing all around as they laughed and conversed, paying little attention to San’s and my presence. My skin flared when San smiled softly and gently held my waist, guiding me closer to his broad body, his features relaxed despite my own tense muscles. Even though I couldn’t peel my eyes off him, I was rather aware of all the people that surrounded us, of the whispers and pointed fingers towards us. I suppose dancing with your stylist wasn’t a foreign thing to do, but said stylist was Choi San, of course, the whole world watched on curiously, making assumptions and pointing fingers.

“Focus on me, my love.” San’s voice was barely a whisper, mindful of all the eager ears surrounding us as a couple came rather close. I couldn’t nod but I offered him my hand as I placed my other one on his shoulder, his sheer shirt’s fabric rough against my skin. He held me firmly as a soft smile appeared on his lips, feet taking off as he led the dance, whirling me around with an ease that surprised even me. People made way for us as I stared up into San’s eyes, my heart thumping so fast it felt like I was on the verge of fainting. But I knew I wasn’t, I was aware that I felt like this because of San, because he was here, looking at me deeply with a gentle smile on his lips, ignoring everyone else around us, holding me close as if he was afraid I’d disappear if he didn’t. His cologne was sweet and had become a familiar scent by now, I couldn’t help but lower my head until I was able to inhale it, muscles finally softening as the ringing of my ears finally ceased too and I could focus on the tune of the classical music.

“Where had you gone to? I couldn’t find you.” San’s deep voice carried a hint of worry, and I took a quick look around before looking back up into his eyes.

“President Snow requested to see me,” I answered, bile rising in my throat as suddenly I felt like a jester, here to parade myself around with someone whom I didn’t belong with. President Snow was right. It was clear as day that San and I had nothing in common, that San could never love a person like me. His skin was soft and free of blemish, he smelled sweet like honey and vanilla, and his clothes were of the finest quality. I, on the other hand, had unruly hair and skin that was neither soft nor scar-free, and my clothes looked like they had seen better days. But tonight, due to San’s immense talent, I felt like a princess, like someone worthy to stand in front of him even if it wasn’t real. I failed to notice the quick flash of fear on San’s face as I was lost in my thoughts, but then a squeeze to my waist and a chuckled apology as we almost collided into a couple brought me back to the present.

“Did he say something that felt threatening?” San asked with an amused chuckle, eyebrows slightly furrowed. There was nothing funny about what he had just asked and I knew he realized that when my jaw clenched, and I turned my head away to gaze at the couples around us. Unfortunately, President Snow was out on his balcony, watching the party closely, and our eyes met. The breath caught in my throat and I averted my eyes quickly, looking back at San as I felt myself press harder against him. It was irrational how quickly fear spread through my body, the desperation to keep San close at all costs back, and my fingers fisted his shirt as my eyes shook.

“He—he—San—” And San’s expression fell when he realized his words were true, and his face lowered as he looked at me with panic written all over his features, “He knows, San, President Snow knows that we—he knows.”

I couldn’t say it, my hands shook and my throat felt tight as I tried to take deep breaths. It felt like everyone was watching us, like everyone had a vicious grin on their lips and had their fingers pointed at us, taunting us with words that never left their mouths but my brain didn’t fail to conjure them up still. San made a sudden move and whirled us around so my back was facing President Snow, then, almost with a scowl on his face, he raised his head and stared up. My irrational fear only grew as I whispered his name, afraid of what he’d do next, knowing that President Snow would do something bad to perhaps the both of us. But San just grinned, wide from ear to ear, and then nodded his head in Snow’s direction, almost tauntingly.

“I know that he knows,” His tone was harsh as he looked back down at me and stopped moving, his hand creeping lower until it pressed against my lower back harshly, “And I don’t give a fuck, because if he as much as touches me, the Capitol will turn against him.”

“What about me?” I whispered, aware of how beloved San was by everyone here. But I wasn’t, despite being a victor, I’ll always be just a girl from District 4 from a fisher family.

“If anyone damages anything precious to me, I’ll destroy them.” San’s jaw was set tight as he lowered his head, and for a second, I was afraid he’d kiss me. But his hand slipped from mine and instead, he curled a stray strand around his finger before he pushed it behind my ear, fingers brushing against my jaw as he smiled at me softly, “I’ll keep you safe.”

“Nobody is safe from him, San,” I whispered as San’s face fell, eyes darkening as he averted them and started moving again, albeit paying less attention to those around us. And I couldn’t help but glance back and find President Snow’s eyes narrowed at us before he cocked an eyebrow, making my heart race against my chest as I gulped and faced ahead again, eyes meeting Joohyun’s. She looked displeased as she subtly shook her head at me, and then her cold eyes fell on Yunho as he offered to dance with her, she didn’t turn him down.

We were all just Snow’s pawns, figures on his chessboard he played with when he got too bored of those in his vicinity.

            The bare trees seemed endless as I weaved through between them, frostbite chilling my bones as my thick jacket was undone and the zipper of my sweater was unzipped too, making my chest ache from both the cold and exhaustion. My hiding spot had been discovered when I foolishly fell asleep last night by the small fire I managed to conjure, teeth chattering and fingertips numb to the point I had tears streaking down my face, wondering whether I’d survive another night in the Arena. If the other tributes didn’t get me, then the relenting cold certainly would. And now, in the early hours of the morning with dawn upon the fake horizon, all I could do was flee and pray for a miracle as my pursuers howled and continued taunting me as they sprinted after me, gaining on me each minute.

The axe was heavy in my hand as my feet tangled in the dry weed of the forest floor and I yelped as I slipped and nearly tumbled to the ground, straight into my axe. My heart was thundering in my chest as I gasped for air, whimpering when I realized my mistake as I frantically looked for a hiding spot. Anything would’ve been good at this point, a cave, a fallen lodge big enough to hide my body, or even a tree that I could climb. Being from District 4, where it was always warm and the only thing I had to climb were the ropes of a ship to reach the mizenmast, I was at a great disadvantage compared to the districts that came from familiar scenery. The cold seemed to be the most unbearable thing out of everything, covering my body in constant goosebumps as I yearned for the warmth of the sun and the breeze of the ocean. Each day that passed, however long or short due to the Gamemakers' choices, felt like I was living in hell, feeling like it would never end.

I didn’t consider myself a religious person, but I found myself praying for something, asking for salvation, if there was anyone out there listening to me. And it felt wrong, especially when I had to fight for my life, to think of the one man that’s been plaguing my thoughts ever since I had met him, but if there was a god, I knew it would be him. My eyes fell on a tree large enough to offer shelter and I quickly hid behind its trunk as my chasers gained on me, their mocking louder and louder. My chest was rising and falling rapidly, my hands shook uncontrollably, and my face felt frozen despite the adrenaline that kept my blood fizzling, my cheeks burning from both the biting chill and the fear that coursed through my veins. With numb fingers, I managed to zip my sweater together and felt instant relief even at the little warmth it offered for my exposed chest, but then the voices got louder and I froze, pressing my free hand against my mouth to try and be as quiet as possible as I was on the verge of hyperventilating.

“Where are you, little fish?” The male voice was amused as it taunted, soft in a way that made me sick to my stomach. I bit my bottom lip to bite back the whimper that threatened to leave it, terrified now that the three career tributes had closed in on me. They were right there, somewhere behind the tree I hid by, “Come on out now, don’t make us look for you.”

“Yes, fishy, we just want to talk.” Despite the warm timbre of the female tribute, my muscles cramped up and my mind screamed at me to take off running again. But they were too close and one of them had throwing knives, I couldn’t outrun three people, not when they had a male with them who was twice my size.

“You are a career tribute too,” The third voice, harsh and impatient, spat out, “so why are you running? We’ve been in the Games for four days now and we’ve been looking for you, but you keep running!”

I gulped, trying to take deep breaths as quietly as possible as my grip tightened around the handle of my axe. They had stopped moving too and were no doubt trying to spot me, and suddenly I was thankful for having a smaller build despite being someone who worked on a ship on the daily. My parents had always wanted a boy who could help out my father and take on the family legacy, and instead, they had a small girl who cried too much and whose skin bruised too easily. But I didn’t want to disappoint them, so I steeled my nerves and went out on the ocean with my father, learning everything I had in order to become a good fisherman. It was hard, and sometimes too demanding for someone who lacked muscle and sheer force, but it taught me that nothing was impossible as long as you had your mind set to it. And when I had been reaped as a tribute for the 73rd Hunger Games, all I could think about was the ocean and how I wasn’t ready to die just yet, not when I hadn’t even fallen in love yet. I had too much to lose yet nothing at all, and when the stylist assigned for my district looked at me with sharp eyes but a simple smile and told me that I could do it, that I could come back to him, that he trusted me and believed in me, some sick and twisted part of me clung to his words like they were my own personal prayer, as if it would save me from my fate, from doom, and the Arena that would kill twenty-three innocent lives.

“We want you on our team, little fish, your score wasn’t impressive but I saw you kill that little boy at the Cornucopia, we know you’re strong.” The male tribute spoke up again, making me inhale as I contemplated my next move, knowing that I just signed myself up for my death.

With a sharp exhale I knew they have heard me, I disclosed my hiding spot willingly, “Fuck you.”

And the next thing I knew was a throwing knife lodged into the bark of the tree, close to my ear as my eyes widened, but the simmering rage was back underneath my skin, making my blood boil as it overshadowed my terror. I wanted to live, I didn’t want to die. I wanted to go home, I wanted to hug my mother and help my father again, I wanted to swim in the ocean and I wanted—I wanted to see San again, I wanted to return to him. I wasted no more seconds as I gripped the handle of the throwing knife again and yanked it out of the tree, twisting around the trunk and sending it hurling mindlessly. I didn’t wait for another reaction as I took off again, thighs burning from exertion and knees aching as the soles of my feet hit the ground with force, propelling me forward more and more. I wouldn’t stop, I wouldn’t look back. More howls and screams followed after me, instructions barked out as the three tributes chased after me, but I wouldn’t stop, I wouldn’t look back. There was a bridge that looked too old not far from here, my only hope lay in that bridge, that it would collapse under their weights if I managed to outrun them and not fall to my death with them.

But at the next turn, a sharp pain shot up from my left calf and I yelped, losing my footing as I tumbled to the ground, twisting and rolling until I hit the side of a boulder. White mist left my mouth as I breathed through it, my axe had fallen somewhere next to me as pain spread through my spine, my left calf pulsing. I dared take a glance at it and sucked in a harsh breath when I realized a throwing knife was lodged deeply into it. I was bleeding, it made my hands shake as I grabbed the handle and bit down on my bottom lip, yanking it out at once before I could chicken out. My pursuers were suddenly around me, surrounding me with wicked grins on their faces and I grit my teeth, looking them dead in the eyes as my fingers tightened around the handle of the throwing knife that didn’t belong to me.

“Sweet girl, what are you going to do now?” The female with a harsh tone, a tribute from District 2, sneered and took a taunting step toward me, “Didn’t they tell you fishes out of water die?”

I scoffed, unamused and pained as my left side ached where I had hit the boulder, but I lifted my chin and surveyed her face, looking for a flicker of regret, but when I found none, I made up my mind for good this time. Fishing gave you a certain precision, you had to know when to throw the net in the water, when to yank it up, where to cut and how to clean the fish of its scales, it was all about timing and making it quick. So, without wasting any more minutes, I rose to my knees as I flung the throwing knife towards the tribute from District 2 and watched as she blinked at me with confusion written all over her face, eyes slowly looking up to her forehead as the knife was lodged perfectly in the middle of it, a scream dying on her lips as she fell forward with a hollow look on her face. Nobody moved and nobody said anything as my chest fell and raised quickly, my pants loud as the male tribute watched with an open mouth, the whisper of her name leaving his lips as the other female screamed out in rage, her eyes furious as she pounced on me without a second of hesitation.

I groaned as my head hit the ground when she pushed me down, and despite having all those weapons on her, her hands curled around my neck in a deathly grip, making my eyes widen as my fingers curled around her wrists, trying to pry them off. The male tribute was saying something behind us, but I couldn’t focus on him as I realized just how quickly the air was leaving my lungs, my body thrashing around as I tried to force the female off me. It wasn’t working and my throat felt like it would be snapped in two as I tried to gasp for air, eyes bulging as the female tribute looked at me with spite, saliva coating her lips as her face was red from the brute force she was using. I couldn’t die, no, I hadn’t gotten this far just to die at the hands of a career tribute. I was desperate too to survive, just like them, but I didn’t taunt those I killed, I didn’t chase them around and mocked them before I finally put them out of their misery. They didn’t deserve kindness or mercy, and I wasn’t going to give it to them.

One hand abandoning the girl’s wrist, my fingers twisted into the hair that was on the side of her head and despite the black spots covering my vision, I mustered up all my power to push her head to the side, crashing it against the boulder. She gasped loudly and her grip around my throat weakened for a minuscule second, I wasted no more time as I yanked her head away and then slammed it back against the boulder, gasping loudly as the air scraped the back of my throat and sent me into a vicious coughing fit, my eyes watering when the tribute’s hands loosened even more. The aggressive air flow made my lungs ache as I coughed even louder, finding more power in my body as I could finally breathe, and I slammed the girl’s head into the boulder once again before pushing her limp body off me. The canon went off two times as I lay on the ground numbly, staring up at the fake sky as I tried to breathe even again, craving water to wash the burn down in my throat.

But if the canon only went off twice, it meant the male tribute was still alive, and as my head snapped up to look for him, his teary eyes fell on me before they steeled, becoming cold and void of emotion. Realizing I couldn’t do anything now but fight, I sprung to my feet despite the state of my body, despite my desperate need to succumb to nothingness. And when my fingers touched the handle of my axe and its familiar weight settled in my hands, reminding me where I was and who I was, my eyes fell on the male tribute with hatred and spite as I staggered on my feet, watching as he also grabbed his weapon. It was shorter than a sword but longer than a knife, and I gulped but didn’t let it deter me. Not even when he came running towards me and I had to dodge his raised arm last minute, realizing frantically how small and easily disposable I was against him.

And as desperation grabbed at my throat, my body shaking in terror but determination as well, I realized something. I wanted to live, I wanted to survive and I wanted to return home, but not to District 4, no, into the arms of the man I had fallen for in the few days I had been at the Capitol, the man who made me look beautiful and desirable for the first time in my life, the man who believed me and begged me to do my best and return to him. I wanted to live for Choi San and I wanted to know what his lips felt like pressed against mine, what his cologne smelled like, and what being wrapped in his big, but comforting, arms felt like. My emotions were conflicting, I wanted to hate him, to curse his name and scream at him—he was from the Capitol, part of the reason why I was forced to live my life in fear each year The Reaping came around, ultimately falling victim for their wicked games—I knew we didn’t belong together, it was shameful to fall for a man like him, but at the same time I couldn’t help but recall the tenderness in his eyes, in his touch, in his words, and I’ve never felt safer, freer and happier.

I wanted to see San again.

With a memory that was hazy and a numb mind, I only came to it when I heard the third canon go off, warm blood dripping from my hands and face, stench unbearable as I crumbled next to the dead body and heaved for air, bile rising in my throat as I vomited whatever little my body had inside my stomach. And I cried as I dragged myself away from the gruesome scene, now four innocent lives hanging over my head, their deaths bloodying my hands and forever burned inside my memories, a weight I could never get rid of. We were all victims in a greater game, and all we could do was endure and continue living, if not for ourselves, then for the lives we had taken.

            Now that the moment I had been waiting for came, I wasn’t so enthusiastic about it anymore. I wanted to go home, of course, I did, but going home meant not seeing San until the next Hunger Games. It meant being separated from the man I had grown attached to in an alarmingly short time, the only man who’d ever managed to make my heart beat faster. I didn’t understand what part of San made me so enraptured with him, and no matter how much I thought about it, I couldn’t figure it out. It made no sense, it felt twisted and somehow sick too, shameful, but I couldn’t stop myself as my eyes found his, my whole being feeling alive when a small dimpled smile appeared on his face. The makeup team was here to say their last goodbyes and the vast train felt empty without the male tribute I had arrived with. It felt colder and scarier than on our arrival, and I didn’t want to go, not yet. I needed more days, perhaps even weeks, with San. But President Snow’s words were ever present in the back of my mind and his threats frightened me. I knew I had no choice but to live a lowkey life if I wanted my loved ones safe.

“Ah, I always hate this part,” Mingyu said with a sigh, his face fallen, “but we’ll see each other soon, no?”

“For the Victory Tour.” San’s voice was smooth and emotionless, but I noticed the way his eyes didn’t move on from me, the way his Adam’s Apple bobbed with every gulp he took.

“Which will be next month.” Joohyun’s sharp voice cut through as she looked between San and me, her jaw set tight. Hinata just sighed and turned towards my mentor with a sullen face, and to my surprise, Joohyun opened her arms and beckoned her over for a hug.

“Take care,” She said quietly as Hinata stepped back, a tear rolling down her cheek, “We’ll see each other in no time.”

“Please use the facial masks I have given you,” Hinata pleaded as Mingyu offered Joohyun a hesitant hug as well, her petite form disappearing in his huge arms, “Your skin is literally perfect, I’m afraid the salt water will destroy it.”

“It won’t.” A smile played at Joohyun’s lips, but she nodded still, “But I’ll use them, for your peace of mind.”

“Thank you!” Hinata’s eyes lit up and I faced my two makeup artists as they hugged me at once, making me chuckle and shy away when Mingyu ruffled my short hair fondly. San and Joohyun exchanged no words, but an understanding look passed between them before Joohyun sighed, taking a look at her wristwatch.

“The train leaves in fifteen minutes, San.” And to my surprise, I watched as my makeup team and Joohyun walked over to the compartment’s automated door, knowing looks passing their faces.

“See you soon, Y/N, let Joohyun help you wear your facial masks, please!” Hinata seemed to be obsessed with keeping our skin hydrated and moisturized, terms I learned only upon my arrival to the Capitol, and I nodded so that she’d leave with a peaceful heart.

“Take care!” Mingyu called before the doors closed in front of them, leaving San and me alone in the compartment which was bigger than my old bedroom. I interlaced my fingers in front of me and looked at the floor, wanting to say so much yet unable to do so. San moved first, approaching me with hurried steps and I didn’t expect to feel his warm hand cup my cheek and raise my head. His dark eyebrows were furrowed and worry was written all over his face, his skin clear of any cosmetical product. He was glowing underneath the natural light, he looked gorgeous. My body seemed to relax at the close proximity and I nuzzled my face into his palm, turning my head to kiss his wrist as San’s eyes softened, lips downturned.

“I don’t want to go just yet,” I whispered and held San’s other hand, our fingers intertwining.

“We’ll meet soon again,” He tried to reassure us, but it only made me long for him more, even if he was standing right in front of me, “Until then, you have Joohyun and even Finnick to help you if something is amiss. Don’t be afraid, I know your family cannot wait to see you, you’ll be fine, my love.”

“How can I be fine if you’re not there, San?” He gulped hard, jaw clenching as tears sprung into my eyes. The thought of being separated from him sounded excruciating, I really didn’t want to go. I wanted San to hold me, reassure me, and be there for every waking moment of mine, otherwise, it felt like I couldn’t breathe.

“You’ll be, no—I’ll find a way to be there, my love, if not physically, I’ll try to send pieces of myself to you.” He cupped my face as he leaned down, breath ghosting over my face as our eyes bore into each other deeply, “I promise, I won’t abandon you. I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”

“Will you write to me?” I asked in a whisper, feeling a flicker of hope spark in my chest and San licked his lips, his eyes falling on my parted ones.

“I’ll try, I really will.” He whispered and then leaned in, eyes fluttering closed as our lips brushed together, hesitant at first, almost coaxing. I stepped closer and leaned into him, my arms around his torso holding him firmly as my fingers twisted into the flannel white shirt he wore, my body now wrapped in his honey-like cologne. San’s grip turned surer, more secure, as he tilted my head back, our lips moving languidly, taking our time as if we weren’t in a hurry. And for a split second, I managed to forget all my insecurities and fears as San’s whole being consumed mine, his lips moulding perfectly against mine as he sucked my bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it and kissing me with more fervour. One hand slipping into my hair and fisting the short strands firmly had me keening as I held San’s jaw, the pace of our kiss quickening as he walked me backwards until my thighs were pressing against something hard, forcing my knees to bend slightly as I tried to stabilize myself by a hand behind me, pressed firmly on the surface of the table.

And it felt as if San was trying to steal not just my breath but my soul too when his mouth parted, tongue asking for permission as it swept over my bottom lip. I had never been kissed like this before, neither held nor desired so fervently, and my mind swam in a daze as San’s body pressed against mine, firm and demanding, as my lips parted just slightly, hesitantly. But San’s tongue was insistent as it licked against my teeth and then finally into my mouth as I gasped in the back of my throat, holding onto his broad shoulders when a calloused hand on my lower back made it arch, leaning my upper body back as my lungs burned in a way I never wanted it to end, not painfully but longingly. His tongue was hot and sharp as it glided against mine, alternating between sucking and just simply exploring my mouth, coaxing more sounds out of me as my body started shaking, stimulated in a way it hadn’t been before. I didn’t want us to separate as San pulled slightly away, making me chase after his lips with a desperate need settling deep in my bones, my fingers slipping up to his neck as our lips met again, my fingernails pressing marks into his tan skin. But we didn’t have enough time, we never would, and when my lungs started screaming for air again and San had to pull back, he pressed his forehead against mine, panting loudly while he peppered kisses all over my cheeks—I felt at ease. For the first time in my life, my mind was silent, my body was relaxed, and I felt indestructible.

“I’ll find a way to you, I promise,” San whispered when the train whistled and my heart suddenly lurched into my throat, bringing that deep-rooted desperation back.

“I love you, San.” The words slipped past before I could even ponder on them, making San’s eyes widen as he froze, hands gently holding my waist as he helped me stand up straight. My eyes shook as I stared into his wide eyes, desperate to hear an answer, to hear him say the words back to me, to confirm that he cared for me just as deeply as I did for him.

His swollen red lips pressed against my forehead with a quiet hum and I felt on the verge of tears when I heard the compartment’s door open behind San, his body big as it obscured my view, “I love you too, Y/N.”

His words were quiet but firm, assuring, and definite as he looked me in the eyes with a sad smile, thumb rubbing my cheek when the train whistled again, giving its final warning before it took off. And I wanted him to stay, but I had to let go. San belonged in the Capitol and I didn’t. I was just a simple girl from District 4, our love never to be consumed as it should’ve been from the very beginning. But I found the strength to smile, to hope for a future by San’s side as he detached himself from me, our fingers grazing together still when I stole a swift last kiss from him. Joohyun had her eyes fixated on the floor as she stood by the entrance, but when San walked towards her, she looked up. She seemed tired, the coldness was gone from her eyes, and she looked at us with pity—it hurt.

“Stay safe, Joo.” San patted her cheek before he was out of the compartment, never once looking back. I gulped, eyes falling onto the window as Hinata and Mingyu were now joined by San, a few Peacekeepers standing behind them to ensure everyone’s safety. Tears threatened to gloss over my eyes but I stopped them, fearful that I wouldn’t see San’s face anymore as I hurried towards the window, feeling the train lurch forward. Hinata and Mingyu waved as Joohyun joined me, her lips pulled into a small smile as she waved back, but San just watched with a stoic expression on his face, turning his back when the train lurched forward again, slowly taking off this time. Something in my chest felt heavy as San took off, never once turning back to look at me, taking both Hinata and Mingyu off guard as they looked at the retreating stylist with confused expressions. And when I couldn’t see them anymore, Joohyun’s cold fingers wrapped around my bicep and pulled me away from the window, guiding me towards a couch as my legs finally gave out and I crumbled into the soft cushion, tears rolling down my cheeks.

“The ocean awaits us, Y/N,” Joohyun whispered as I felt her manicured fingers in my hair, gently petting my head, mind lost somewhere as she stared ahead mindlessly. I was finally going home.

3 months later

            Adjusting to the life of a Victor came easier to me than I had expected. My parents welcomed me home with open arms and tearful eyes, holding me as my mother sobbed loudly while my father pressed kisses against my hair, telling me how happy he was that I was standing in front of them once again. I couldn’t tell them all the terror that came with standing in front of them, the mental torture I had endured because I was alive, I just couldn’t. So, I never let them know, that whenever I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see myself but a girl covered in blood from head to toe with a sinister smile on her lips, eyes dazed and hungry to kill. It was a monster staring back at me, not the innocent eighteen-year-old girl I was before I left for the Games. The District welcomed me back warmly as well, with people patting me on the back and congratulating me while Finnick stood with a bouquet in his arms when our train arrived at the station. Joohyun didn’t say much as the Peacekeepers led us towards a tinted car, ushering us inside as then I realized we were headed towards the Victor’s Village. My parents had been moved to the house when I was announced as the winner, apparently. All of my belongings were there, yet my room felt foreign, impersonal.

But over time, I learned to accept this new lifestyle as I slowly started adjusting to the small changes. People now greeted me on the streets, bowing their heads and asking whether they could talk to me when I had a little free time. At the market, everyone seemed to be wanting to buy our catch of the day, leaving the other vendors with grimaces on their faces. It was odd how suddenly everyone wanted my attention, wanted to befriend my parents even, calling us over for dinner or even lunch on Sundays. But I didn’t wish to mingle with those I wasn’t important to before the Games and kept to myself while remaining respectful towards everyone. Joohyun, unsurprisingly, wasn’t around as much, but she checked in every week and would sometimes come knocking on our door late at night, asking whether I would walk with her on the beach. Our walks were always filled with silence and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore was soothing and familiar. I was home, I finally felt at ease, away from the prying eyes of the Capitol and the curious people who had no idea what having privacy meant.

Yet still, something was missing. A big part of my heart was constantly aching, yearning, wishing for the one person I couldn’t have. San was in the Capitol, living his life like before, thriving each day as he released a new collection, called ‘The Little Mermaid’. Everyone theorised it was about me, but San denied the gossip and said he was merely inspired as it had been a long time since a tribute he worked with had won the Games. Apparently, San has always wanted to see the ocean, to let his feet sink into the cold and wet sand, lay down on a blanket and let the sun kiss his skin, warming it until he couldn’t bear it anymore and would have to cool down in the cool ocean. I hung onto his every word as he spoke, eyes gleaming and jewellery shining underneath the artificial lights of the studio with a backdrop of the ocean from District 4. I could feel my mother’s eyes on the side of my face as my eyes welled with tears, and unable to take the yearning inside my body, I stormed off before San could finish his interview.

But he had kept his promise. He sent almost every second week something that was his, a little piece of himself. I couldn’t help but look forward to it, anticipating the moment Mr. Yoon would knock on our door late at night, slipping San’s letters through underneath the door. Mr. Yoon was risking his job by receiving San’s letters and delivering them to me, but apparently, the two had grown up together and were good friends. Mr. Yoon became a Peacekeeper at a young age, following his father’s footsteps, and he was doing his best to rise in the ranks. He was granted more freedom due to his father’s status among the Peacekeepers, and he only took advantage of it when it came to delivering San’s letters. I was forever grateful to Mr. Yoon, rewarding him with baked goods whenever we would cross paths at the market or in the square.

Today had been a similar day, my blood was simmering underneath my skin and I had been fidgety all day long, trying to help my mother around the kitchen as it’s been a stormy day and my father and I couldn’t sail out onto the water. Finnick was over too, conversing with Annie in our living room as the TV was on. Apparently, Mags wanted to air out the whole house and sent the two out for a walk, but Annie ended up remembering she hadn’t seen me in a while, so, they decided to stop by. Despite Joohyun having been my mentor, I was closer to Finnick and Annie as they both seemed to understand my heartbreak and unspoken longing. Annie was a young healthy woman, but she wasn’t completely sane anymore, and she needed Finnick by her side at all times. Whenever he had to go to the Capitol, she’d isolate herself and not talk to anyone for days, but surprisingly she had allowed me inside her room one morning when I had made her breakfast together with Mags. She didn’t speak to me, she didn’t look at me and she didn’t get out of bed, but her hand shot out from underneath the blanket and held my wrist for a few seconds, squeezing it. I knew she was there for me in her own way, and I did everything I could to be there for her in my own way.

The house we lived in was massive and clearly too spacious for three people only, so my mother would often invite over either the other victors or our relatives, who had an envious glint in their eyes each time. If only they knew the sacrifices that came with living a lavished life, still controlled by the Capitol, even more so than before.

“Honey, should we add more carrots?” My mother asked with confusion as she stirred the soup, one hand on her hip. I put the knife I was holding down and walked up to her, glancing inside the pot.

“No, unless you plan on having over the whole district?” I raised an eyebrow at her and she chuckled, looking over her shoulder towards where the living room was. Annie was giggling and Finnick’s hushed words were audible but intangible.

“I did invite Mags and Joohyun too for lunch, so maybe I’ll add two more carrots.” My mother mused to herself as I hummed, leaning my hip against the counter. There was a TV in the kitchen too and it was on, volume louder than the one in the living room. Ceaser Flickerman was on, blabbering about whatever hot news that concerned the Capitol, some gossip about victors from Districts 1 and 2 before he mentioned San’s new collection again, talking about a party held not long ago to celebrate his new release. My ears perked up at that as I walked towards the table, grabbing the remote control to give it more volume, eyes glued to the TV as San’s grinning face appeared on it.

He was dressed in loose leather pants and a white, with an intricate design, adorned his torso, pulled in at his waist to make his shoulders seem even broader. His bare arms were kept warm by a thick fur coat that reached his ankles, and big golden necklaces and rings complemented his outfit. His eyebrows were black and sharp, and his dark hair was gelled back too, sharpening his features even more as it gave him a dangerous look. His eye makeup was completely black and his lips weren’t their usual red colour, but a more muted coral. And despite San always wearing jewellery that was big and chunky, his ears were adorned with pearls, giving his whole look an unusual touch. He looked masculine and dangerous, commanding almost, but the pearls decorating his ears somehow softened his features, especially when he laughed or smiled. It was endearing, breathtaking, and hard to look at without feeling my body shake, wanting to crumble to the floor.

Because Snow was a vicious person, San and I never met for my Victory Tour. He wasn’t allowed to come, apparently cooped up with designing ten dresses for President Snow’s niece, rendering him unable to accompany the team for the tour. His designs were sent with Hinata and Mingyu, and Momo, one of San’s apprentices, came as a replacement for him. I knew Snow had done this on purpose, but I couldn’t help but cry when the team came and there was no sight of San, my whole world breaking as my longing only worsened. Being this far away from him had started feeling painful, and I didn’t know for how much longer I could go on like this.

“Would you look at that!” Caesar's shrill exclamation snapped me out of my thoughts as my mother flinched too, glancing over her shoulder in wonder, “That’s Choi San, everyone, look at him!”

His laughter drilled inside my mind as more footage of San was shown as he drank glass after glass of champagne, accepting them from others as they handed it to him, Finnick’s warning ringing in my ears. You weren’t supposed to accept any drink that was handed to you, but perhaps it was different for San because he was from the Capitol too. But the more images flashed across the screen, the hazier his eyes became, his smile wider and lazier, movements sluggish as he danced around women and men, laughing and stealing food playfully off of others' plates. I gulped, my heart thumping loudly when Caesar's smirking face came into view, his microphone held close to his mouth,

“And would you look at that, had our lovely bachelor finally found a sweetheart?” It felt like the world stilled around me when the images shifted and it showed San cradling the face of a woman with fiery red hair, wild and short, face heavily clad in makeup as her eyes were unnaturally yellow. She wore a white dress, barely covering her cleavage as it glinted like diamonds under the lights. She looked at San with awe in her eyes, mesmerized by my stylist as he spoke to her words we couldn’t hear, hiding her further in the corner as he crowded against her body, “Ah, young love, I still remember what it feels like. It’s intense, raw and so rejuvenating, it was about time our beloved San found his match, no? I just hope we can still have him to ourselves from time to time!”

Caesar's shrill laughter echoed in my ears as I felt my blood simmer underneath my skin, ears ringing as my eyes remained glued to the screen where images of San sitting in a chair surrounded by ladies could be seen, even men flaunting around him. My jaw hurt and I hadn’t even realized just how tightly I was clenching it together, my body trembled as uncontrollable rage shook it. I saw red in front of my eyes, so vibrant that it blinded me as I heard something crash loudly, my breaths coming out in loud puffs as I felt the desire to hold something until I broke it with my bare hands, smashing it into tiny bits, destroying it until nothing was left of it. My chest felt tight and my thoughts were jumbled as I heard someone call my name, but I couldn’t focus, I just wanted to—kill. Kill whoever touched San, whoever dared separate us, whoever denied our love. And I knew I could do it, all I had to do was grab a— “Y/N!”

I jumped, gasping loudly for air as I felt my face burning, my eyes wide as I looked around myself, oblivious to my actions. Finnick’s face was contorted in worry as he stood the closest to me, hands held out in front of himself as he kept his distance as if I was a dangerous animal ready to pounce on him.

“Y/N.” My mother’s scared whisper finally snapped me out of my confusion as my eyes frantically surveyed the kitchen, widening when I realized the knife I was using to cut vegetables was now tightly gripped in my hand, held in a way that could easily harm anyone. As if burned by the silver, I released it from my tight grip, letting it clatter to the ground as my eyes settled on the remote control that was now broken into bits and pieces.

“I—” I tried to steady my breathing, but my body shook and I was scared. Scared of myself and of what I would’ve done if Finnick hadn’t managed to snap me out of my crazed thoughts. I wasn’t like this before the Games, something was wrong with me, I was a monster now, “I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to, I—I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” It was Annie who spoke up, her voice light and her face surprisingly understanding. She walked inside the kitchen, avoiding the broken remote control as she passed Finnick and nodded at my mother, “There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Her words hit hard, breaking the wall surrounding my mind and the emotions I tried to keep intact all this time, especially in front of my parents. I wanted to cry, to sob, but no sound left my mouth as Annie’s arms came around me, holding me tightly against her. I wanted to react, to scream, break more things, but I was numb and unable to move as she started humming a song I didn’t know. My mother had tears in her eyes when I looked at her but she didn’t look disgusted or afraid, she just looked like she didn’t know what to do as she turned her back to me, hunching over the counter as she continued to cry. I let Annie hold me as Finnick kneeled and gathered the broken pieces of the remote control, grabbing the knife too as he went over to my mother to offer her a side hug, muttering something to her quietly.

“You’re not broken even if you think you are.” Annie’s words seemed to only cut deeper into my heart as she had an absent look on her face when she finally detached herself from me, “If you give in to the monsters crawling inside your head, it means Snow wins. Don’t let him win, Y/N, you’re stronger than that.”

I nodded wordlessly as Annie smiled brightly and genuinely for the first time since I had known her. Finnick watched her closely, eyes holding affection, only making me remember San and the warmth of his eyes, of his embrace. I missed San, so much, and it felt like I broke apart a little bit more each day we spent apart. My mother wiped at her cheek with the sleeves of her blouse and continued cooking like nothing had happened, asking Finnick to set the table. The rain had stopped hours ago and my father had left for the market, he was supposed to return any time now for lunch. As I wanted to walk over to my mother and apologize, the bell of the front door rang twice. My heart leapt into my throat and I raced towards it, disregarding Finnick and Annie’s confused looks. It was Mr. Yoon, San’s letter had arrived. Nobody besides my mother knew that I was exchanging letters with somebody from the Capitol, and it was supposed to stay like that. I grabbed the letter off the floor and paid no attention to the rest of the people as I raced up the stairs towards my room, tearing the envelope apart as my hands shook with anticipation, eyes running over San’s familiar handwriting. It was elegant and beautiful, just like him.

My love,

I shall tell you this each time I write to you, even if it hasn’t changed, but I miss you dearly. I dream of you nightly and I fantasize about you daily. I miss your laughter, your pouty red lips, your eyes full of wonder and love, your skin which glints under the lights like they were meshed with gems. I miss your flowery scent, the gentleness of your touch, and the adoration in your eyes whenever you as much as glanced at me. Sometimes I miss you so much that I lose myself in my thoughts, in my memories, for hours on end, thinking about you, about your day, wondering how you are doing and what you are thinking of. Unfortunately, I still haven’t found a safe way for you to write back to me, and I know it must be so much harder for you than it is for me, but please wait for me. I’m looking for ways, searching endlessly to find a way to hear your words too, but at least I sleep assured knowing that my letters reach you, that I can fulfil my promises.

I haven’t been sleeping much lately, but fear not, I am well, I’m just trying to keep up with the deadlines. I wanted my new collection to come out before this month ends because summer doesn’t last forever and it’s themed after you, yes, my little mermaid. I know you hate the nickname, but to me, it’s like having a little part of you with me, just like what the letters are for you. I don’t know when this letter will finally reach you, hopefully before the Capitol shows anything of my collection and of the after-party, but know that every single pearl adorning my body was imported from District 4, specifically from your family. I know you love to collect pearls, you’ve told me so multiple times, so I asked my dear friend Yoon Jeonghan to only buy those that have been yielded by your hands, this way it’s even more meaningful, more personal. I wish the pearls could carry the warmth of your hands until they reach me, letting me feel you despite the distance between us. This whole collection…it’s to show my devotion to you, to tell you that I am yours and that I cannot wait to see you. I miss you, Y/N, but I have told you that already. I do not know when we’ll meet again, but just know that no man, status, rule or distance can keep us separated for much longer. Times are changing, my love, I can feel it in the air. Something is brewing and I’m afraid once it hits us, it won’t be pretty. I do not wish to wait around for it to happen, but I cannot disclose anything else, I’m afraid. I do not wish to put you in danger if this accidentally ends up in the wrong hands, although I trust my dear friend, Jeonghan. Before I end my thoughts, I shall ask you to ignore everything you might see or hear through the TV, whatever Caesar Flickerman and the other anchors speculate, they are not true. I do not care for anyone else but you in this world, and whatever you see is for publicity, it’s because I must keep up a front. If I didn’t, it would raise suspicion, it would sabotage me from seeing you before the next Games. Have faith and a little trust in me, even if I’m not deserving of it, I promise nobody owns my heart like you do.

I shall end my letter here, sitting by my window under the lamplight, wishing for you to be by my side. I hope the victors and your parents treat you well, and that Joohyun didn’t shut herself away from you like she usually does with everyone. It might not seem so, but the two of us are friends, and I worry about her frequently. Finnick is an honourable man too, I know he’ll take care of you if hardship arises, perhaps let him know when you can that the marigolds were prettier this year than last. Of course, do not say I have told you this, just let it slip during one of your conversations. I must go now, but remember, I love you. Until we shall meet,

Your beloved,

Choi San.

            Every muscle burned as I tried to lift the fork, even my fingers felt like they weighed kilos. My chest ached and despite my stomach growling, I couldn’t seem to gulp my food down, the orange juice in the cup by my hand my only hope as it washed down the unchewed food I still forced inside my mouth. It was sickening and I tried not to look disgusted as everyone seemed to be enjoying their dinner. Today had been horrible, it’s been only the second day of training, but I already knew that I wouldn’t survive past the second day in the Games. I had watched the other tributes, specifically those from Districts 1 and 2, and concluded that if I came face to face with them in the Arena, I’d beg them to kill me fast so that I could go painlessly. It was a frightening thought and it made my whole body shake as I somehow veered away from them and tried to learn something new, something I wasn’t good at to ensure my survival even if for just a little longer.

The table had been silent at the beginning, but the male tribute who sat to my left had spoken up about how he learned how to correctly hold throwing knives and was thinking of choosing those as his main weapons. The mentor in charge of him, not Finnick Odair as apparently Snow didn’t let him partake in the Games this year, was sceptical of Jisung’s, the male tribute, weapon of choice and told him to go for something bigger and stronger. My mentor, Bae Joohyun, just sat in silence as she ate the bloody beef on her plate, her lifeless eyes glancing up from time to time when her mentor partner would crack insensitive jokes about all the children that died in the Arena and would keep on dying. Jisung was just a child too, barely sixteen years old, but he didn’t react to the comments, only placed more meat on my plate despite me not touching it. The makeup team and the stylist stayed over for dinner tonight after they took our measurements and discussed with us what we wanted to wear for the parade.

The stylist, Choi San, was unlike any man I had seen before. He was intimidating and cold, his small eyes were sharp and bore into yours with an alarming intensity. Whenever I looked at him, he was already looking at me with a blank expression on his face, but his eyes felt like they could read my mind, like he could see right inside it and tell just how scared I was. I couldn’t hold his gaze for too long, shy, and also slightly animus towards him since he was from the Capitol. It was very obvious he lived a lavished lifestyle, his clothes expensive and his cologne sweet and strong. He also had no shame as he wore a mesh shirt, completely see-through and showing off the nipple piercings he had in both buds, a cross necklace hanging between his well-built pecks. His shoulders were broad and yet his waist was small, he wasn’t the tallest man but he still towered over my smaller form. He was breathtaking and I felt ashamed whenever my eyes strayed towards him, looking and admiring him, wondering what type of person he was underneath all that makeup and the pompous clothes.

“Well, Y/N,” One of the stylist’s apprentices spoke up suddenly, her name was Jurin, “Why aren’t you eating? You are already very thin.”

Silence settled upon the table and my muscles stiffened as I felt put on the spot, but she just continued, “There’s no reason to fit in your clothes if you cannot lift a simple sword to protect yourself in the Arena.”

“Can you lift a sword?” I didn’t mean to snap, I didn’t even want to answer her, but my fatigue and waves of nausea got the better of me, tipping me over the edge as I looked at her expression full of judgment, her purple eyes narrowed.

“I’m not required to lift one,” Her tone was snobby, I watched as my stylist lowered his fork from his mouth, eyebrows furrowed as he turned his head to look at Jurin, “but I probably could, if I had to.”

“Why don’t you go into the Arena, then, Jurin?” I asked with a wide smile, letting my fork and knife clatter against my plate loudly. Tense silence fell over the table as Jisung curled into himself, Joohyun’s glare was sharp as she looked towards Jurin, and Jisung’s mentor only chuckled, throwing back a shot of whiskey.

“Because I’m not a disposable rag.” That said everything about the people from the Capitol, about what they thought of us, how they viewed us. It was enough to make my blood boil as I pushed my chair back, standing up with a clenched jaw. Choi San’s fork clattered against the plate loudly too as his head whipped around, eyes glaring at his apprentice.

“Not yet, anyway.” I hissed, eyes narrowing into slits as Jurin paused, one eyebrow raising in a taunt, “Your cakey makeup will eventually melt your face off, and all those fake things on you that you call beautiful? Yeah, they’ll make you look like a rag at some point, not that you don’t look like one already—”

“How dare you!” Jurin screeched as she raised her knife, springing up to her feet with an appalled expression. Joohyun scoffed with an irritated look on her face and eyed the other woman, her tone eerily calm.

“Sit down before I make you, wench.” Jurin screeched again as if the world was ending, and despite how unwell I was feeling, it satisfied me to hear my mentor defend me against the delusional and disrespectful woman.

“You disgraces think that—”

“Enough!” I flinched when the stylist’s voice boomed, making tears spring into Jurin’s eyes. She looked at San as if she was betrayed, then she started sobbing loudly as she slammed her chair onto the floor while turning around to storm out of the dining hall. Poor Jisung sat frozen, and I gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as his mentor started laughing loudly, eyes falling on Jisung.

“See? I told you women are sensitive, all you have to do is comment about their appearance in the Arena, and they’ll turn against each other without you doing anything.”

“Not now, Jongin.” Joohyun hissed as Jongin chuckled, holding his arms up in mock innocence. With my stomach churning and bile rising to my throat, I took a shaky breath and lowered my eyes, feeling ashamed and on the verge of throwing up. The makeup artists looked like they didn’t know how to react, the tall guy called Mingyu was mid-bite as he shared a confused look with the blue-haired girl, Hinata.

“I’m sorry, I’ll be in my room,” I muttered under my breath as I bowed my head and took off, pressing my hand against my mouth as I took deep breaths, rushing towards my room. The doors were automated and they opened by themselves as I reached the end of the corridor, taking off into a sprint as I felt like I’d throw up anytime now. My mind was a jumbled mess and my emotions were all over the place. I was terrified, and I didn’t know what to do anymore to become the strongest, the smartest. I had no idea how to become appealing to the Capitol so that they’d sponsor me and help me survive, I had no idea whether I was capable of killing or not.

My knees ached when I finally reached the toilet and kneeled rather harshly, heaving but not throwing up. My mind was only torturing my body, proving just how weak I was, incapable of doing anything to save myself. After flossing my mouth and washing my face with cold water, I tied my short hair in a low ponytail and headed back to my room to change into my pyjamas, however, I halted when I realized someone was inside my room. A frightened gasp left my mouth and the figure whirled around, looking sheepish as his hand slowly pushed the little notebook I brought with me away from him. It was something my mother had made for me. Ever since I was born, she’d note down my days, she’d draw for me in it, and tell me how she had felt that day. It was heartwarming and sweet, it brought me comfort when I was terrified and saw no light at the end of the tunnel.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry or enter your room without permission, but I—” My stylist, San, gulped nervously, “I was worried about you. You barely ate anything and you look sickly, is something wrong?”

I released a shuddered breath and leaned back against the closed door of the adjacent bathroom, “I’m terrified.”

My words hung heavily between us as San gulped again, looking at the floor before he slowly looked back up at me, into my eyes, “What Jurin had said…I apologize. She’s spoiled and very insensitive, you shouldn’t listen to her.”

“And you shouldn’t apologize for her.” I muttered as my arms circled my torso, holding myself to bring a little comfort, “But thank you…San.”

He sighed loudly, licking his lips as he took a tentative step towards me, making me freeze. Jurin had been the one to take my measurement while San stood back and watched, noting down the numbers, sometimes instructing Jurin where to measure again and which body parts to skip. I could feel my heart slowly quicken, flushing my cheeks a light red colour as San walked closer and closer.

“I’m sorry you have to be here,” Before I could tell him that it wasn’t directly his fault, he continued with a big inhale, “I’m sorry I can’t do anything to stop this from happening. Jisung is barely sixteen years old and you are eighteen, you’re both so young, and all I can do is dress you up to make you look desirable for the Capitol. I’m a horrible person, but I—I want them to see how gorgeous you are, Y/N, I want them to look at you and want you to win. I want them to fall in love with you and root for you, and I want—I want you to return to me. I believe in you, I can see it in your eyes, the way you move and think, you’re strong, Y/N, let Joohyun coach you and you will live, I know you will.”

My eyes were round as I stared up at San in surprise as he came to a standstill in front of me, eyebrows deeply furrowed and voice raspy as he took a big breath, gulping as his hands curled and uncurled at his sides. I didn’t understand where this was coming from, but I felt my heart race as I stared at San dumbfounded, arms dropping from around my torso as I gulped, slowly nodding my head.

“I—I’ll do my best,” I whispered, unsure of what I was supposed to say as San’s eyebrows furrowed more, face contorting into an emotion I couldn’t read. His left hand reached out, but he stopped before it could touch me.

“May—may I hug you?” He asked quietly, lowering his head so that I couldn’t look into his eyes anymore. My eyebrows raised in surprise and I froze, confused, but not opposed to the idea. I nodded slowly, trying to relax when he grabbed my arm and gently guided me towards himself, his sweet cologne engulfing my senses as my eyes fluttered closed, taken aback by his warmth as San’s arms circled my shoulders and pressed my head into his chest. He released a shaky breath as I stood in his arms, frozen, heart racing in my chest as I slowly raised my hands, hugging him around his middle. I hadn’t been hugged like this before, not by anyone who wasn’t my father, and yet, this embrace felt different. It was charged with something I couldn’t name yet, it felt warm and full of silent promises that I didn’t fully understand. And when San’s lips pressed against the top of my head, I understood that this ran deeper, that he needed me to return to him, that he was here because he couldn’t go back to his apartment without telling me all of that. And I knew it was wrong that I was letting him hold me like this, he was from the Capitol and he was just like the others, probably, but I couldn’t help but melt into his arms, a small smile grazing my lips.

That is until I heard the slash of something, warm and red liquid dropping onto my head until it slowly started streaming down my face, getting into my eyes, nose, and lips. I gasped and tried to pull myself out of San’s embrace, but his arms only tightened around me and a very familiar cackle could be heard behind him. He was too big and I couldn’t see past his shoulders, but when his arms finally fell limp and I pushed him backwards, a scream ripped through my throat. The front of my clothes was coated in blood—in San’s blood and the person who still held onto the handle of the axe that was lodged into his skull was—me.

“Y/N!” The alarmed voice that called my name made another scream freeze in my throat as I gasped, eyes flying open. My heart was beating frantically and it was pitch dark inside the room, only instilling more fear into me as I grasped for whoever was inside the room with me, gasping and yelping when warm arms grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up into a sitting position, “Y/N, it’s me, it’s okay now, shh.”

I was crying, I realized as I buried my face into my mother’s chest, letting the sobs wrack my body as I clung to her, her hands patting my back and shushing me as she rocked us back and forth. I could still feel San’s blood coating my body, the smell nauseating and its taste even worse as it got into my mouth when I screamed. What was a memory, something that had happened, was twisted by my sick mind and turned into a nightmare, into something I would’ve never done to San.

“Baby, I’m so sorry,” My mother muttered into my hair as my sobs turned into hiccups, “you never said anything so I thought you were fine, I’m so sorry for not noticing it. I’m here, I’m always here for you, and so is your father, Y/N, you can tell us anything.”

I sniffed loudly as I raised my head and hugged my mother tightly, resting my head on her shoulder. She let out a loud sigh and hugged me back just as tightly, pressing a kiss against my temple, “I didn’t want you to worry. I can carry this burden on my own, mom, I didn’t want you to see the monster I had become—”

“You’re not a monster, my baby.” My mother’s voice broke and she pulled back, holding my head as she looked me in the eyes. I could see her now that my own eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and her eyes were filled with tears as I continued to sniff loudly, “You are courageous and smart. You did what every other victor had done before, Y/N, you’re not a monster. I love you, your father loves you, nothing can change that, ever.”

I sniffed and nodded, her words soothing despite the storm still raging inside my mind. I couldn’t hold it in anymore, the longing was too much, the memories and my actions were haunting me. I felt incomplete without him here, I was slowly breaking more and more, “I’m in love with San, mom.”

“With Choi San?”

“Yes, I love him.”

“Oh, my baby,” A sad smile crossed my mother’s features, “It’s okay, it’s okay. Come here.”

And she released me as she crawled further onto the bed, pulling the covers back as she got underneath them, laying on the empty side of my king-sized bed. She opened her arms and smiled softly as I turned towards her, pulling the covers over our bodies as I let her hug me and lull me back to sleep with her soft singing.

I never saw Jurin again after that evening.

            A week passed since my confession and nothing has changed, proving my fears fruitless. My mother never brought up the subject again, she didn’t tell my father either, but she did ask one evening while we watched the sunset from our back porch whether the letters I kept receiving were from San. She looked worried, like she wanted to advise me against meddling with San, but she knew too that it was too late for that now. I was in love with San, nothing could change my heart’s desires anymore. It was saddening how badly I was taking his absence. I had started seeing his face in others, hearing his voice when he wasn’t even there, trying to recall his touches only to panickedly realize they weren’t as vivid anymore. It was horrifying how quickly my thoughts were spiralling, sending me into something I would call depression. I didn’t want to see anyone anymore, yet Joohyun’s presence brought me comfort. Perhaps it was because she had been there for me, watching out and helping me during my Games, perhaps it was because she had seen me and San together, a reminder that it wasn’t just something my mind had made up.

And despite how obvious it was that I wasn’t doing well, my parents never left my side, not even when I yelled at them to leave me alone. They were understanding and as loving as ever, and they didn’t let me wallow in misery. Today I had little to no force or willpower to get out of bed, but my mother needed a few vegetables and my father was out on the ocean, sailing his boat without me. I had to go to the market whether I liked it or not. The cacophony of the place was disorienting and the sun was too hot today, making it hard to breathe as I tried to avoid crashing into anyone. The basket hung from my arm as I paid the vendor for the eggplants I had bought, and feeling self-conscious, I let my eyes survey the market. Something felt amiss, like eyes were constantly following me. Many people looked at me given that they knew who I was, but there was one set of eyes that remained on me constantly, watching from the shadows, from someplace I couldn’t see. My heartbeat picked up as I thought about the worst-case scenario. Maybe San had been caught, his letters were found, and now whoever President Snow had sent after me was here to torture my family and me.

I tried to remain calm as I hurriedly left the market, hoping that the insistent eyes would go away, but as I rushed through the busy cobbled streets of the District, I realized someone was following me now. I gulped and tried to find a path that was fast yet intricate so that my pursuer wouldn’t be able to keep up with me. It felt like I was back in the Arena, chased and mocked, reminded of how fragile I was, of how easily I could lose my life to others who were bigger and more powerful. I took a left turn, breaking off into a sprint when I heard footsteps echo behind me, and realized the streets were becoming deserted as it was noon and nobody was outside unless they were headed for the market. I didn’t dare look back as I turned onto an alleyway, gripping the basket firmly as I ran down the narrow pathway, turning to my right as I had foolishly forgotten that it was a dead-end. My chest fell and rose quickly, making me stop in the middle of the alley as I was forced to face my mistake.

The footsteps came to a stop behind me and my muscles tensed up, my jaw gritting as I gripped the basket’s handle tighter, wondering whether I could use it to defend myself. If I hurled it at my chaser, then maybe I could escape while they were too busy dodging the heavy basket. Realizing that I had been through worse in the Arena, I took a deep breath and then swiftly turned around, ready to throw my basket towards the person, until I realized who stood in front of me. I froze, eyebrows furrowing and my mouth falling open the longer I looked at the man facing me, breathing hard from having had to chase me. He looked nothing like the stylist I had met in the Capitol all these months ago. He wore simple beige trousers and a white shirt which was buttoned down to the middle of his chest, which was glistening with sweat due to the hot air of District 4. His black hair fell over his forehead, some strands falling into his sharp eyes. His face was devoid of any makeup and he looked like any other man, blending in well with those from District 4, his complex tan and beautiful.

Basket tumbling to the ground, I didn’t even notice my legs take off without my command, carrying me towards San as I leapt into his arms, gasping when our bodies collided together. He was real, he was here. San was in District 4, holding me tightly against his body as my arms circled his neck, thighs squeezing his hips as my ankles hooked together. He still smelled the same, still as sweet and honey-like, his skin was hot and his embrace warm as San staggered for a second, his hands fisting my blue dress as one of my hands tangled into the soft hair on the back of his head.

“My love.” His voice was low, but still warm and filled with longing, with care, “Oh, Y/N, I have missed you—so much.”

His voice broke at the same time my tears fell down my cheeks and I thought I couldn’t hold him tighter, but I did as I pulled my head back just enough to press kiss after kiss against his neck. San shuddered against my body, his chest rising and falling rapidly as I felt my mind settle, my thoughts finally silent, and my heart void of the ache and longing I have felt ever since we parted ways.

“San.” My voice broke as he pulled his head back until we could look into each other’s eyes and I didn’t wait any longer, I crashed our lips together as San groaned, holding me even tighter against himself. I didn’t care who happened to see us, I didn’t care if we were caught as our lips moved frantically, insatiable, and desperate to press together more and more and more. I whined when our tongues met, and it felt rushed and painful when our teeth clinked together, but I didn’t care because I was in San’s arms—San was here, with me. Our breaths were ragged when we finally parted, foreheads pressed together as my eyes remained closed, just drinking in the emotions swirling in my chest, so powerful that it felt like my heart was about to burst, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” San answered before I even finished my sentence and I opened my eyes, unable to let go of him yet, but he didn’t seem to mind as he adjusted his grip around me, holding me more comfortably.

“How—just—what are you doing here?” My mind was reeling with scenarios, I needed an answer. I had to know that everything was alright, that President Snow hadn’t done anything to him.

“It doesn’t matter how,” San’s eyebrows furrowed and mine did too when I realized he looked anxious, “but we can’t stay here for any longer.”

I nodded, gulping, “Of course, let’s go to my house, it’s safer—”

“No, Y/N.” San’s voice was serious, sharp, as he shook his head, “We can’t stay in District 4 and we can’t stay in the Capitol either.”

“What do you mean?” I asked in a whisper, feeling dread take over my body as San carefully lowered me to the ground, cupping my cheeks as he raised my head. My hands held onto his arms as I looked up into his warm eyes, now filled with worry and unease.

“I broke many rules while coming here, I…” He sighed and bit his bottom lip, averting his eyes for a split second, “I disobeyed Snow’s orders. If he finds us, he’ll kill you as a way of punishing me—or worse, he’ll kill me and your family to make you hurt knowing it would hurt me more than anything that I left you on your own—”

“I don’t understand,” I shook my head, cutting San off, “Where can we go if we—we’ll die, San, it doesn’t matter—”

“No, Y/N, you have to listen to me.” He gulped and pushed a strand of hair behind my ear, voice shaking slightly as he continued, “I know it will sound crazy, but District 13 wasn’t destroyed by the Capitol. We can—we must go, I have it arranged already. Do you trust me, my love?”

“I do, San, of course, I do, but—” I gulped, feeling uncertain, “This sounds impossible, it’s crazy. If we get caught, we’ll both—”

“We won’t get caught.” San’s tone held determination, like he was completely sure that we wouldn’t get caught, “Jeonghan is coming with us, we have a boat waiting for us, he can get us out. I have spoken to President Coin, District 13th’s leader, she’s waiting for us. We can do it, Y/N, please. I’m sick of Snow, I’m sick of the Capitol, I just want to live the rest of my life with you by my side, happy, and free. Come with me, my love.”

A free future, a future where President Snow couldn’t control us anymore, tell us what to do or separate us from each other. A future where I could be by San’s side, far away from the scrutinising eyes, from the people who would never approve of our relationship. I was in love with San, so much so that I couldn’t bear the thought of letting him leave me behind. I couldn’t live without him anymore, I couldn’t let him walk away again, I couldn’t be on my own anymore, surrounded by people who would never understand me like San does. He believed in me, he cheered me on, he knew I could return—he loves me.

“Okay,” I whispered, nodding my head as San’s eyes widened as if he had thought I wouldn’t go with him, “Yes, I will go with you, my love. I trust you.”

San’s whole face lit up at my words and the biggest smile I have ever seen on his face appeared, eyes filling with tears as he pulled me into his arms, his embrace tight and suffocating. Just like his love for me.

“I love you so much that it hurts, Y/N.” San said as he released me, intertwining our fingers, “The boat leaves in an hour, we can’t take too many things with us, but maybe a few—”

“No.” I shook my head, smiling at him, “I have everything I need right here, in front of me.”

A tear rolled down San’s cheek as I pressed up on my tip toes and kissed it away, pressing our cheeks together as my heart felt like it couldn’t be contained inside my chest anymore, bursting and racing so hard it felt like I was having palpitations while my ears started ringing. And I meant what I had said, San was the only thing I needed, nothing and nobody else. Our eyes met as San pressed a kiss against our intertwined fingers, the basket long forgotten on the ground as we rounded the corner, headed towards the port where Jeonghan was waiting for us on our getaway boat,

“May the odds be ever in your favour.” ~ Suzzane Collins.

Mini-series M.list, check out the other member's stories too ^^

↳Perm. taglist: @orshii @jjoongstar @tinyelfperson @thestarskiller @zuuhaa

@aaa-sia @gong-fourz @a-tinycarat @sooberryworld @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad

@anastasiamin860 @yunhogrippers @vcutparis @tunaasan @blvckarabixnvoid

@yusalterego @arigakittyo @slowee00 @jaerisdiction @hey-syia

@vnessalau @oddracha @chatsgotmytongue @potatos-on-clouds @yunhowooyo

@watermelon2319 @yoongzsmile28 @klllerwaifu @apriecotte @hwasbbyg

@kyeos4ng @samiiy20 @woosanhobros @aswho1estuff @khjoongie98

@ateez-main-yapper @kang-ulzzang @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @ginger-mingi @redzie02

@unholywriters @autieofthevalley @roomsofangel @peachyy-joonie @baeksofty

@tunafishyfishylike @syubseokie @jycas @fandom-freak-geek @intaksfav

@itswaffleberry @e3ellie @skz1-4-3 @hoe4yunho @kyeomooniee

@winklehwa @eyesonlyformingi @khjssss @torieisawesome99 @amrose8

@faeriehwa @hongjoongsprincess @iceteainsummer @lac3ybow @aurorajoye

@londonbridges01

The moment he looked up at the grand entrance, lined with press and security, his stomach plummeted. Cameras flashed as reporters whispered among themselves. Then, right by the entrance, he spotted a display showcasing the event’s purpose—complete with a blown-up image of the host.

The prime minister.

Your father is the prime minister.

Jeonghan went rigid. The weight of realization crashed down on him like a damn tidal wave. His mind scrambled, trying to recall every conversation he had with you, every small clue he should have picked up on. The ease with which you carried yourself, your careful yet casual way of speaking, your quiet but unmistakable air of authority—it all made sense now.

Ji Y/n. Ji Jaekyung.

He should’ve connected the dots. He should’ve questioned why someone as well-educated and sophisticated as you chose to teach at a cram school. Instead, he had been too preoccupied judging your practical outfit and your unpretentious behavior during your first date. Now, he was standing in front of a nationally broadcasted event, fully aware that he had walked straight into the lion’s den.

And he still had time to run. He always ran.

Running was easy. It had saved him more times than he could count. But as his feet itched to turn back, he hesitated. Because now that he knew who you really were—now that he had seen you not as the prime minister’s daughter, but as someone warm, self-assured, and unexpectedly real—walking away felt... wrong.

He had promised you he’d come.

Jeonghan was no one. Just a man who navigated the world of the elite through charm and carefully crafted interactions. His life revolved around dating the daughters of the wealthy, women whose mothers he conveniently befriended in art and culinary classes. A charming conversation, a well-placed compliment, and he’d find himself indulging in designer gifts, chauffeured rides, and exclusive experiences. It was a delicate game—one he played flawlessly.

When the relationship inevitably fizzled out, he stayed just long enough to soak in whatever luxury he could before moving on. It wasn’t about love. It was about survival.

He had never met you before, only your mother, who had gushed about you during a cooking class.

"My daughter is really pretty! She's also a very intelligent woman. You two would get along well!"

And then that night, you stood before him—dressed in a crisp yet simple blouse and slacks. Your hair was slightly disheveled, and the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead suggested you had rushed to get here.

"Thanks for waiting," you said, a polite smile on your lips as you caught your breath. "The commute was a nightmare."

Jeonghan blinked. Commute? His past dates never commuted. They arrived in sleek black cars with drivers waiting outside.

With a deep breath, Jeonghan climbed the ballroom stairs, nodding at the suited staff by the door. He gave his name, expecting them to glance at a guest list and wave him through. Instead, they barely checked before stepping aside with smooth efficiency, as if he were someone important.

It wasn’t until he caught a glimpse of the guest registry that his breath hitched.

His name was written under the family list.

Not as a guest. Not as a friend.

Ji Y/n’s plus one.

A sudden weight settled onto his shoulders. His fingers twitched at his sides. He was no stranger to high society, but this was an entirely different league. A world of power, scrutiny, and unspoken rules.

He schooled his expression, squared his shoulders, and walked inside. If he was already in this deep, he might as well make it look like he belonged.

Your mother was the first to greet him, her poised smile barely masking the subtle scrutiny in her gaze. She wasted no time in informing him that you hadn’t arrived yet, her tone carrying a hint of exasperation as she sighed.

"That daughter of mine," she muttered, shaking her head. "Always prioritizing those students of hers over her father’s business. She should be here already."

Jeonghan hummed in response, unsure whether he should agree or defend you. He had barely opened his mouth when she looped her arm through his, effortlessly pulling him into the crowd.

Before he knew it, he was being paraded around the room, introduced to your mother’s circle of socialites. Wealthy figures, business moguls, and politicians—each one scanning him with polite curiosity, trying to place him in their world. Jeonghan smiled when necessary, nodded at the right moments, but his mind was elsewhere.

Then he saw you.

The moment you stepped through the entrance, the noise around him faded.

Gone was the casual, practical look from your date. Tonight, you carried yourself with quiet elegance, dressed in a modest but effortlessly stunning gown. The soft lighting of the ballroom caught the delicate shimmer of your makeup, accentuating the natural beauty he had already memorized.

For a second, Jeonghan forgot to breathe.

Because this—this poised, graceful version of you—was the one that belonged in this world. And he was just starting to realize how many time you had surprised him just by tonight

"Jeonghan," you called, your voice smooth yet carrying a warmth that was out of place in such a formal setting.

He straightened up instinctively, feeling more exposed than he ever had. You looked so different, so composed—so belonging in this world. And yet, your smile when you reached him felt exactly the same as the one from your date.

"You actually came," you said, tilting your head slightly, amusement flickering in your eyes.

"I did promise," Jeonghan replied, trying to appear unfazed. But the weight of his name being listed under your family’s guest list was still pressing down on him. "Though, I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting… all of this."

You laughed softly, leaning in just enough that only he could hear. "You thought it’d be a small charity gathering, didn’t you?"

He exhaled, shaking his head with a lopsided smirk. "I really should’ve done more research on you."

"Probably," you teased, then slipped your hand through his arm with ease, guiding him further into the event.

"Come on, my father would like to meet you."

Jeonghan stiffened. Meet your father?

Yeah, he was so, so screwed.

*

"Your dating game has officially reached Ji Jaekyung level."

Seungkwan slid a file across the café table with the kind of flourish that made Jeonghan’s stomach twist. He knew that look—pure mischief, the kind that ended with him either losing money or losing his dignity. Probably both.

Jeonghan didn’t touch the file. Instead, he took a slow sip of his coffee, giving Seungkwan a blank stare over the rim. "You couldn’t possibly be threatening me. I practically rescued you in college, remember?"

Seungkwan scoffed. "Rescue? Please. You groomed me, hyung."

Jeonghan choked on his drink. "Don’t say it like that, you little menace." He set his coffee down with a thunk, glaring. "That makes it sound illegal."

Seungkwan only grinned, completely unbothered. He tapped the file again. "Go on. Open it. I promise it won’t explode. Just a little light reading. Oh, and a delightful photo of a power couple moment.."

Jeonghan sighed but flipped it open anyway, already bracing himself.

There it was. A nightmare in high resolution.

A perfectly timed shot of him and you, walking arm-in-arm out of the event, looking like a picture-perfect elite couple. Elegant. Respectable. Utterly fabricated.

Jeonghan tapped his finger against the page, then flicked his gaze up to Seungkwan.

"This—"

"Yes?"

"Burn this before I burn your entire journalism career."

Seungkwan burst out laughing. "Hyung, you can’t even burn calories properly. What makes you think you can burn my career?"

Jeonghan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated that Seungkwan had a point.

"You know," Seungkwan continued, stirring his drink with exaggerated nonchalance, "people are very interested in the life of the mysterious son of Yoon Group. And now that you’re linked to the prime minister’s daughter? Oh, the clicks, the engagement, the public fascination—it’s all very compelling. The media lives for this kind of narrative, and you, my dear friend, are the perfect headline."

Jeonghan let out a long, suffering groan, rubbing his temple. "You are insufferable."

"But I’m employed, though," Seungkwan shot back with a smug grin.

Jeonghan scowled. He knew where this was going, and he already hated it.

Seungkwan leaned in, lowering his voice to something much more devious. "How about a deal?"

Jeonghan really didn’t like the way that sounded.

"Help me get some inside details on the election," Seungkwan said smoothly, "and I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day. I can be very discreet. Your name? Wiped clean. No suspicions. No drama."

He paused, letting his words settle before adding the final blow.

"Especially from your family."

Jeonghan stiffened. His fingers curled slightly on the table, the weight of the threat pressing down harder than he wanted to admit.

Seungkwan just smiled knowingly.

Jeonghan exhaled slowly, narrowing his eyes. "You think I’d trust you with something this sensitive?"

For the first time in the conversation, Seungkwan’s expression turned serious. He met Jeonghan’s gaze without his usual playfulness, leaning forward until their faces were inches apart. Then, with all the dramatics of a third-rate romance drama, he reached across the table and placed a hand over Jeonghan’s.

"You can trust me this time, hyung," he whispered, eyes glinting.

Jeonghan stared at him for a long moment.

Then, with a heavy sigh, he muttered, "I hate you so much."

Seungkwan beamed, squeezing his hand like they’d just exchanged vows. "Love you too," he chirped before casually swiping a fry from Jeonghan’s plate.

Jeonghan sighed, yanking his hand away from Seungkwan’s grip like he had just touched something contaminated. He picked up his coffee and took a long sip, as if the caffeine could somehow prepare him for the rest of this conversation.

“For the record,” he muttered, “I just found out about her father last night.”

Seungkwan blinked. “You just—hold on.” He set down his drink, looking utterly baffled. “You’ve dated the prime minister’s daughter and you just found out?”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes. “I don’t Google people before I date them, Seungkwan.”

“You should start.”

“Noted.”

Seungkwan leaned back, still trying to process it. “But, she's like… I don’t know, humble?”

Jeonghan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “That’s because she is.”

Jeonghan exhaled slowly, staring into his coffee like it held all the answers to his problems. “I might have to end things with her.”

Seungkwan raised an eyebrow. “You want to end things without ghosting her?”

He tapped his fingers against his cup, gaze softening for just a second. “She’s not caught up in all of it. She teaches because she wants to, not because she has to. She doesn’t use her father’s name to get ahead, doesn’t expect special treatment. She’s just… her.”

Seungkwan eyed him, a slow smirk forming. “You sound suspiciously fond right now.”

Jeonghan shot him a look. “Shut up.”

“I won’t shut up,” Seungkwan said gleefully. “Because this—” he gestured between them, “—this is very interesting. Yoon Jeonghan, the guy who never gets emotionally involved, actually likes someone?”

Jeonghan groaned, rubbing his face. “I will burn your career.”

Seungkwan leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Alright, hyung. Let’s make this easy for you.”

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes. “I doubt that.”

"Stay with her for a little while," Seungkwan said, his tone almost too casual. "Just long enough to get some information about her father’s election plans. I mean, she’s his daughter—she must know something useful." He tapped the file on the table, the sound deliberate, calculated. "And in return, I’ll make sure this never sees the light of day. Your family stays blissfully unaware."

Jeonghan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. This was getting way too complicated.

Seungkwan, ever perceptive, leaned in, resting his chin on his hand. "Come on, hyung. You’re already halfway in. Might as well make it worth your while."

Jeonghan shot him a look. "You make it sound so easy."

Seungkwan grinned. "Because it is easy. You charm people for a living. Just do what you do best—stick around, ask a few innocent questions, and when it’s over, you walk away. No harm, no foul."

No harm. No foul.

Jeonghan exhaled through his nose. “So you want me to spy for you?”

Seungkwan grinned. “Oh, spy is such an ugly word. I prefer exchanging favors.”

Jeonghan clicked his tongue. “You’re a little monster.”

“And you like it.” Seungkwan shrugged. “Look, you’re planning on leaving her anyway, right? Might as well get something out of it. Once you give me what I need, you can walk away, clean and easy. No drama, no messy emotional entanglements. Just another chapter closed.”

*

“You’re Yoon Jeonghan, right?”

After the meeting with Seungkwan, there had been no real conclusion—no agreement, no refusal—just Jeonghan leaving with the weight of a choice he wasn’t ready to make. Not yet, anyway.

Then fate, in its twisted sense of humor, shoved him a little closer.

He’d crossed paths again with your mother during one of his classes, her arrival as poised and deliberate as everything else about her. Without much preamble, she handed him a neatly wrapped package—an assortment of meticulously prepared, nutrient-balanced meals from the town’s most exclusive chef. The kind of thing that cost enough to pay someone’s monthly rent.

It wasn’t just food. It was… an opening.

At that moment, Jeonghan realized something dangerous—maybe, just maybe, he could make this work. Keep the charade alive for a while. At least two months, enough time to enjoy the perks before he quietly severed all ties.

So when your mother invited him to her birthday party—completely unprompted, with you blissfully unaware—he accepted without hesitation. He didn’t tell you, of course. This was no longer just about you. The connection was shifting, evolving into something more strategic… a mutually beneficial arrangement between him and your mother.

He told himself it was just another role to play. Another part in the game.

A game he controlled.

Or so he thought.

And then—

“Yoon Jeonghan! Long time no see!”

He froze.

That was Kim Jeni. Senior high school classmate.

And she was standing in the middle of your mother’s birthday party.

Why is she here? Is she related to you?

His mind raced through worst-case scenarios like flashcards. What if she remembered too much? What if she casually mentioned his less-than-polished past to the wrong person? What if she recognized that he didn’t exactly belong here?

And seriously—why did she have to remember him at all? It had been years. People were supposed to blur into the background after high school.

But no. Here she was, smiling like they were about to swap embarrassing memories over champagne.

And here he was, wondering if tonight was about to turn into a very public disaster.

Jeonghan’s first instinct was to look away, pretend he hadn’t heard.

But that was how amateurs got caught—by making the wrong move at the wrong time.

So instead, he smiled. The easy, slow kind of smile that said of course I remember you, even though in reality, he barely did.

“Kim Jeni,” he said smoothly, sliding into the familiar rhythm of a man who’d never been cornered in his life. “You look… exactly the same.”

Jeni laughed, touching her hair in the way people did when they weren’t sure if it was a compliment. “I should hope so. Although, I did finally grow out of my bangs phase.”

He chuckled like he remembered it perfectly. He didn’t.

“What brings you here? Are you…?” He gestured vaguely toward the crowd, buying time.

“Oh, my aunt is friends with Mrs. Ji,” she said, tilting her head toward your mother across the room. “I didn’t expect to see you here, though. Still in touch with our old classmates?”

Danger. That question was danger dressed in small talk.

“I move around a lot,” Jeonghan replied lightly. “Not much time to catch up.” Which was true, if “move around” meant hopping from one wealthy circle to another like a very well-dressed nomad.

Jeni’s gaze sharpened—not hostile, just curious. “And here I thought you’d left all this behind.”

His pulse ticked up. “All… what?”

She smirked. “The social scene. The handshakes, the networking, the pretending to care about canapés. You used to hate it.”

Jeonghan gave an easy shrug, as if the question amused him. “Hate’s a strong word. Let’s just say I’ve learned to… appreciate the art of it.”

Before she could dig deeper, your mother swept by with a glass of wine, laying a hand on Jeonghan’s arm.

“Darling, there you are! I want to introduce you to someone.”

Jeonghan flashed Jeni an apologetic smile. “Excuse me. Duty calls.”

And just like that, he was pulled back into the current, leaving Jeni in the eddies of polite conversation.

Still, he could feel her eyes on his back—curious, maybe suspicious.

One wrong move tonight, and she could turn from a harmless blast from the past into a problem he didn’t need.

Jeonghan hated mirrors at events like these.

Not because he disliked his reflection—he’d sculpted that image to perfection—but because they had a habit of showing the man beneath the polish. And tonight, his eyes betrayed him. They were restless.

When Jeni drifted away, her perfume fading into the hum of conversation, a shadow trailed behind her in his mind. She’d been there—at that party, the one after his graduation. The one that ended his place in the Yoon family like a guillotine blade.

It had been a warm June night.

The kind of evening where expensive champagne flowed like tap water, and music bled into the gardens. She was there—the woman—draped in pearls and wearing a smile that could make a man think dangerous thoughts. She was also the second wife of one of his father’s board members, the kind of man who wore power like a tailored suit.

He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Or maybe he had. The line blurred somewhere between flirtation and defiance. But there had been a camera. A flash.

And in a family where reputation was currency, one picture was enough to bankrupt him.

“Leave quietly,” his father had said, not even looking at him. “Before you take our name with you.”

That was six years ago.

Since then, the Yoon son became a ghost—spoken of in murmurs between wine sips. A scandal in a silk suit.

He learned to live by trading charm for survival. Socialites were his currency now. Wealthy, restless women who wanted a man to make them laugh between luncheons and look devastatingly good on their arm. In exchange, they gave him access—rooms he had no right to enter anymore, deals he could skim a percentage from, networks he could weave into a safety net.

And the first time he’d met you, he’d assumed you were naïve. A daughter shielded by privilege, unaware of the games her parents played. But he’d watched you—just a little—and realized that wasn’t it. You weren’t ignorant of this world. You simply refused to play by its rules.

He couldn’t decide if that made you foolish or dangerous.

It intrigued him, in a distant, intellectual way. Not attraction—Jeonghan had long outgrown such things—but curiosity. The same kind of curiosity that had once ruined him.

So when your mother had invited him tonight, he’d said yes out of calculation. A good connection, a potential ally, a well-placed woman with influence. You were a variable, but not a threat. Not yet.

Except now, as the evening unfolded, you were nowhere to be seen.

Guests murmured your name lightly—something about work, or disinterest, or perhaps distance between you and your parents—but no one seemed certain.

Jeonghan swirled the wine in his glass, watching the room’s glow blur through the deep red.

He didn’t look for you.

But he did wonder—what kind of daughter avoided her own mother’s birthday party?

For a man who’d spent years mastering the art of appearances, that question alone was enough to make him uneasy.

*

By the time the orchestra switched to slower jazz and most guests had migrated toward the dessert table, Jeonghan had already pieced together what he needed to know.

You weren’t coming.

It wasn’t just that you were late—your absence had settled into the air, quietly acknowledged, politely ignored. Your mother laughed too brightly whenever someone mentioned you, deflecting with graceful excuses about your “tight schedule.” The kind of lie polite people told when they were embarrassed.

Jeonghan understood that kind of silence.

He’d lived in it.

He took another sip of wine, watching the reflections ripple in his glass.

He didn’t care where you were. He told himself that twice, just to be sure. You were another variable, a missing piece in a puzzle that didn’t concern him.

And yet—somewhere deep down, under the weight of years and cynicism—Jeonghan wondered what could drive a daughter to abandon a mother who still smiled for her in front of a hundred people.

He stayed until the cake was cut, clapping when everyone else did, smiling at the right moments, before quietly excusing himself.

No one noticed him leave.

The next afternoon, the same corner café buzzed with weekend chatter, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air. Jeonghan arrived first, as usual, claiming his preferred seat by the window. He liked the anonymity the place offered—dim lighting, a soft hum of conversation, nobody who cared enough to recognize him.

He was halfway through his espresso when Seungkwan arrived, slightly out of breath, a camera bag slung over his shoulder and the same smug grin plastered on his face.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” Seungkwan said, sliding into the seat across from him.

“I didn’t,” Jeonghan replied, voice flat. He stirred his coffee idly. “You told me to keep an eye on her family. I did.”

Seungkwan’s grin faltered. “And?”

“She didn’t show.”

The journalist’s brows furrowed. “At all?”

“Not a glimpse,” Jeonghan confirmed. “Her mother covered for her all night. Smiled, laughed, pretended nothing was wrong. But people noticed. They just pretended not to.”

Seungkwan leaned back, rubbing his jaw. “Weird. Ji Y/n’s not exactly the rebellious type. At least, not publicly.”

Jeonghan arched a brow. “You’ve done your research.”

“I’m a journalist, hyung. I research before I blackmail.”

“Charming as always,” Jeonghan muttered, setting down his cup.

Seungkwan ignored the jab. “So, what do you think happened? Argument? Scandal? Secret boyfriend?”

Jeonghan scoffed softly. “You think I care about that?”

“Usually, no. But you’re the one who noticed her absence before anyone else.”

He hated when Seungkwan said things like that—too perceptive, too accurate.

Jeonghan leaned back, gaze drifting out the window. “Her parents—both of them—they move like people who can’t afford to blink wrong. Every word, every smile, measured. And then there’s her.”

Seungkwan tilted his head. “Her?”

“She doesn’t fit,” Jeonghan said simply. “She’s polite, grounded, but not… conditioned. You know? Like someone raised in that world but refused to be molded by it.”

Seungkwan studied him quietly. “You sound almost impressed.”

Jeonghan’s lips twitched faintly. “I’m curious, not impressed.”

“Curious,” Seungkwan echoed, dragging out the word like it was an accusation. “That’s how it always starts with you. You get curious, then suddenly you’re knee-deep in something you can’t crawl out of.”

Jeonghan met his gaze evenly. “Don’t romanticize it. I don’t get involved.”

Seungkwan smirked. “You say that now.”

They fell into a brief silence, broken only by the clinking of cutlery and low music playing in the background. Jeonghan’s phone buzzed once—an unread message from your mother, thanking him for attending the party. No mention of you.

He stared at it for a long moment before sliding it face-down on the table.

“Whatever’s going on,” Seungkwan said eventually, lowering his voice, “it’s not public yet. But it will be. If the prime minister’s daughter disappears from a major event, the press will dig. I can’t stop that.”

Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately. He swirled the last of his coffee, expression unreadable. “Then let them dig.”

Seungkwan frowned. “You’re not worried she’ll drag you into it?”

“She doesn’t even know I was there,” Jeonghan said with a shrug. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

Seungkwan hummed thoughtfully. “You’re playing with fire again, hyung.”

Jeonghan smirked, finally standing and reaching for his coat. “Fire’s warm, though.”

Seungkwan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re planning something.”

“I’m planning to stay out of trouble,” Jeonghan replied smoothly. “But if she keeps disappearing like that…” He trailed off, glancing out the window again. “…I might need to find out why. For safety. Yours, mine, and your precious headlines.”

Seungkwan’s grin returned, slow and knowing. “Sure, hyung. For safety.”

Jeonghan ignored him, dropping a few bills on the table before heading for the door.

But even as he left, that image lingered—the way your mother smiled too brightly, the way your name sat unspoken between everyone.

For a man who didn’t care, Jeonghan found himself thinking about it far too much.

*

By the time Jeonghan returned to his apartment that night, the city outside had quieted. The glow of streetlights painted long shadows across his floor, and the half-finished glass of whiskey on his counter had long since gone warm. He stared at his phone for a long while, thumb hovering over your contact.

He shouldn’t.

You hadn’t texted him since before the charity event. He’d already decided to stay detached, to play this role carefully until he could slip out clean.

But curiosity—it was always his undoing.

He finally typed,

“Are you free tomorrow?”

The message hung there for a moment before he hit send. No greeting, no context. He wanted it to sound casual, like a man with time to waste, not one caught between intrigue and necessity.

He set the phone down and exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

Because truthfully, he didn’t just want to see you—he needed to understand.

A daughter who skipped her mother’s birthday in a family built on image and influence? That wasn’t rebellion. That was strategy.

And strategy always came with motive.

His phone buzzed.

One unread message.

“Depends. Who’s asking?”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. You hadn’t changed—still sharp, still unbothered by his evasive way of speaking.

“The man who made it through your mother’s party alive.”

“You owe me coffee.”

A few seconds passed before your reply came through.

“I don’t remember owing you anything.

But sure. Tomorrow, 2 PM. Same café.”

Jeonghan set the phone aside, the small, humorless smile still lingering on his lips.

He told himself it was for Seungkwan.

For leverage. For the information that might keep his name out of a journalist’s headlines.

But beneath that, quieter and harder to ignore, was something else—an itch under his skin that demanded answers.

He glanced at the window, where the reflection of his tired face stared back at him.

“If there’s such a rumor like that in the prime minister’s family,” he murmured to himself, echoing Seungkwan’s earlier warning, “it’ll be lunch for the other party.”

And he couldn’t afford to be on the menu.

*

Jeonghan hadn’t meant to care about what he wore.

At least, that’s what he told himself as he buttoned the crisp white shirt that fit a little too perfectly across his shoulders. The navy trousers were pressed to a sharp line, his hair neatly styled back, and his wristwatch—an heirloom he rarely used—gleamed faintly in the café light.

He looked like a man who belonged somewhere better. Someone who hadn’t been exiled. Someone who still mattered.

The watch on his wrist pointed to ten minutes past the agreed time.

His other hand held his phone, thumb scrolling absently through old headlines, articles, and photos of you.

Ji Y/n — The Prime Minister’s Daughter Chooses a Life of Service

From Politics to Education: How Ji Y/n Stays Grounded Amid Power and Privilege

Each headline painted the same narrative: the ideal daughter, the humble prodigy, the perfect contrast to her family’s glittering political image.

Seungkwan was right. He needs to do some research before saying yes to a date.

Seungkwan’s voice echoed in his head.

“You’re too tempted by all the money and glory. You might be the most materialistic conglomerate son in the world.”

And Jeonghan had countered without hesitation.

“I was kicked out of the family, remember? I’m technically nobody’s son.”

It had shut Seungkwan up, but the words lingered even now—an echo of something he’d never quite recovered from.

The low hum of the café faded when he saw you.

You entered in a rush, phone pressed to your ear, brows furrowed, your expression tight with focus. You muttered something into the receiver, nearly colliding with a customer before catching yourself. The moment you hung up, you exhaled deeply—then your eyes found him.

Jeonghan stood automatically, hand lifting in a small wave. For a fleeting second, something unfamiliar flickered in his chest—relief, maybe. Or recognition.

You crossed the room quickly, still slightly out of breath.

“I’m so sorry, Jeonghan,” you said, sliding into the seat across from him. “One of my students fell from the stairs and broke his leg.”

Your voice carried that same calm warmth he remembered, even under stress. No embellishment, no dramatics. Just quiet concern.

Jeonghan’s brows lifted slightly. “Is he alright?”

You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He will be. I just came from the hospital.”

Of course you did. The prime minister’s daughter, tending to an injured student instead of attending a political luncheon. It didn’t make sense—and that’s exactly why Jeonghan found it so hard to look away.

He leaned back in his chair, studying you with the cool composure of a man who pretended not to care. “You’re quite dedicated, aren’t you?”

You smiled faintly, eyes weary but genuine. “Someone has to be.”

Jeonghan hummed, gaze dropping briefly to the faint ink smudge on your wrist, the kind teachers always had from grading papers. You didn’t belong to the world he’d seen in headlines. You didn’t fit the image. And that mismatch—it fascinated him.

He studied you a moment longer, curiosity tugging harder now. There was something in your tone—an edge beneath the politeness, a shadow behind the smile.

Jeonghan didn’t know yet if you were someone he could trust, or someone who could destroy him.

But for the first time in a long while, he wanted to find out.

The conversation had begun to flow more naturally than either expected. Between sips of coffee and light bites of cheesecake, Jeonghan found himself watching you more than he should—how your expression softened when you talked about teaching, how you smiled politely even when dodging questions about your family. You weren’t evasive, exactly. You just knew how to draw a line.

He liked that.

“You don’t talk much about politics,” Jeonghan remarked, stirring his coffee lazily. “That’s unusual for someone who grew up surrounded by it.”

You shrugged, lips curling slightly. “I prefer things I can actually change.”

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. “You sound idealistic.”

“I sound tired,” you corrected, smiling faintly.

Before Jeonghan could respond, a familiar perfume hit him—a sharp mix of jasmine and expensive regret.

“Jeonghan?”

The voice was sweet, practiced, and far too loud for the cozy café. Both of you looked up to see a woman in her forties approaching the table, dripping in luxury—diamond earrings, a glossy handbag that cost more than a small car, and a smile that belonged to someone who’d never been told no.

For a second, Jeonghan froze.

What should he call her?

A past companion?

A benefit from a darker time?

A victim of his own charm?

Whatever she was, she wasn’t supposed to be here.

“Wow,” she breathed, eyes raking him over with unhidden satisfaction. “You look more handsome than last year.”

You glanced between them, curiosity flickering behind your calm expression. Jeonghan straightened slightly, the easy mask sliding over his face. “Good to see you,” he said smoothly, voice stripped of warmth.

She leaned closer, manicured fingers brushing his shoulder. “I need to go, but call me if you need some entertainment, okay?”

Her wink was quick, practiced—too public to ignore, too intimate to explain.

Then she was gone, heels clicking like a punctuation mark on his past.

Jeonghan exhaled slowly, but before he could say a word, you let out a small, amused chuckle.

He looked at you, brows lifting. “What’s so funny?”

You shook your head, biting back a smile. “Nothing. It’s just… you didn’t strike me as someone who’d need entertainment.”

His mouth twitched. “I don’t.”

“Mm,” you hummed, unconvinced. “You just look like you used to.”

Her words, your tone—it all tangled somewhere in his chest. He leaned back, forcing a smirk to cover the discomfort. “You talk like you’ve known me longer than a week.”

You met his gaze evenly. “Maybe I’m just a good observer.”

That silenced him. For a moment, neither spoke—just the faint clink of spoons against porcelain, the quiet tension threading between curiosity and judgment.

And Jeonghan realized that for the first time in a long while, someone wasn’t dazzled or intimidated by him.

You were simply watching—reading him.

And that unsettled him more than any scandal ever could.

*

The relationship between you and Jeonghan had begun to bloom—unexpectedly, almost naturally. The two of you talked more often now, your texts weaving into his days like quiet background music. He wasn’t sure when it started, but he found himself looking forward to your messages.

It was ironic, really. Because when he wasn’t speaking to you, Jeonghan was living a life that couldn’t be further from yours.

His nights were spent drifting between yachts owned by bored socialites, women who craved charm more than truth. He knew exactly what they wanted and how to deliver it—a smile, a word, a presence. It was easy. Meaningless.

And yet, in between champagne laughter and the clinking of glass, his thoughts would always circle back to you.

What were you doing right now?

Had you eaten?

Were you still awake, reading, or lost in thought like you always were?

He hated how natural it felt to care.

“You look distracted, honey.”

A woman’s voice pulled him back. She was beautiful—of course she was—dressed in silk, her manicured fingers tracing the rim of her glass.

Jeonghan blinked, forcing a smirk. “Do I?”

She tilted her head. “You’re not feeling well?” she asked, recalling what he’d said last night about being under the weather—an excuse to avoid following her to her room.

The ocean breeze rolled over the yacht deck, soft but cold, brushing his hair and cooling the drink in his hand. He looked at her, sitting on his lap with the practiced ease of someone used to being wanted.

And suddenly, he felt sick.

Because in that flicker of a second, he imagined you there instead.

Crazy.

Absolutely insane.

You, with your clear eyes and deliberate words, would never set foot in this world. And even if you did, you would never look at him the same way again.

You were the Prime Minister’s only daughter—an emblem of grace, the family’s shining jewel.

And he…

He was the son who had been exiled.

Cast out after a scandal that nearly ruined his father’s reputation. He’d paid for it with his name, his home, and every shred of privilege he once had.

“How about going back to your family?” Seungkwan asked one night, his voice echoing through the line.

Jeonghan sighed, eyes fixed on the dark waves outside the yacht window. “It’s complicated.”

“Too complicated, or too cowardly?”

He chuckled dryly. “I’m still a man, Seungkwan.”

“Yeah?” Seungkwan shot back. “Then act like one. A man keeps his promises. You promised me a cup of tea and the full story about Prime Minister Ji.”

Jeonghan leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “And you promised to stop nagging me.”

“Not until you tell me why the Prime Minister’s daughter texts you at midnight.”

Jeonghan’s lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because she doesn’t know who I really am.”

And maybe, he thought quietly, that was the only reason you still did.

The morning broke harshly—sunlight slicing through half-drawn curtains, the faint hum of the city seeping into the luxury suite he’d fallen asleep in. Jeonghan’s head ached faintly from the night before; too much noise, too much pretending.

His phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.

One call after another, a stream of names he didn’t want to see—women he barely remembered, old acquaintances from the club scene, and one from Seungkwan.

He rubbed his face, groaning. “What now…”

Then his screen lit up with a notification from a news outlet.

And his world stopped.

‘The Yoon’s Mysterious Son Revealed — Never Leaving the Scene: Living a Life Among Socialites’

The headline sat above a collage of photos—him on a yacht, laughing beside women in designer dresses, champagne in hand. The shots weren’t just candid—they were curated. Deliberate. Someone had been watching him for months.

The phone rang again.

“Jeonghan!” A familiar female voice burst through the line. It was one of the women from the article, her tone both scandalized and gleeful. “You didn’t tell me you were that Yoon! Do you have any idea how many reporters called me this morning?”

He hung up.

Another call came. Then another. Each voice brought the same mix of curiosity and accusation. His pulse quickened with every word, the weight of exposure sinking into his chest.

And then—Seungkwan’s name flashed on the screen.

Jeonghan answered immediately. “You wrote about me?” His voice was low but sharp, every word laced with accusation.

“What?” Seungkwan sounded genuinely startled. “No—Jeonghan, I would never!”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not!” Seungkwan’s voice cracked slightly, the sound of hurried typing in the background. “I just saw it too! It’s everywhere! Someone leaked your pictures. The article’s not even signed—it’s a ghost drop, probably from an independent outlet.”

Jeonghan stood up, pacing across the room, the floor cool beneath his bare feet. His thoughts spun faster than he could control.

He’d worked for years to stay off the radar. To bury the name Yoon Jeonghan under layers of half-truths and fleeting company.

And now, everything was out.

His hands clenched. “You told no one about me?”

“Of course not,” Seungkwan shot back, indignant. “You think I’d ruin my own source? Jeonghan, listen—this isn’t my doing. But someone knew where you were and who you were with. Someone’s feeding this.”

Jeonghan’s jaw tightened. He turned toward the window, the city sprawling beneath him, glittering and cold.

He hadn’t even finished processing the article when another call came through.

This time, the caller ID froze him mid-step.

“Secretary Min — Father’s Office.”

Jeonghan’s pulse kicked hard against his ribs. It had been years since anyone from that number dared to call him. For a moment, he considered letting it ring out, pretending he hadn’t seen it. But curiosity—or maybe masochism—won.

He answered.

“Kim— I mean, Jeonghan speaking.”

The secretary’s voice was clipped, businesslike, but there was a tremor beneath the tone.

“Mr. Yoon. The Chairman would like to have a word. It’s urgent.”

Jeonghan’s throat felt dry. “About what?”

There was a pause, then the quiet rustle of papers.

“About the news. Not only the one from this morning.”

His heart sank. “There’s another one?”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary replied. “Apparently, the Prime Minister’s daughter was mentioned. You were seen together at an event. The headline reads—”

Jeonghan could almost hear the man hesitate, as if choosing the least damaging way to say it.

‘Disgraced Yoon Heir Seen with Prime Minister Ji’s Daughter — A Scandal in the Making?’

He went still.

Completely still.

The ocean outside, the faint hum of the city, even his own breathing—all of it faded into a dull, buzzing silence.

“I see,” he said finally, his voice even, detached—like a man already used to ruin.

“The Chairman requests you come in immediately,” the secretary added, his words precise but cautious. “He said… if there’s even a grain of truth in this, it could cost both families dearly.”

A bitter laugh escaped before Jeonghan could stop it. “He cares about the family’s name now?”

“Sir, I’m just relaying the message.”

“Of course you are.”

He ended the call before the man could say another word. For a long moment, he stood in the middle of his room, the phone still in his hand.

It wasn’t just about him anymore.

Your name was in it.

You—who had nothing to do with his past, who had only shown him quiet kindness—were now tangled in his chaos.

And that realization hit harder than any headline ever could.

*

You swiped the incoming call from Jeonghan to the left without hesitation, the screen dimming just as your reflection caught in the polished surface of the dining table.

It wasn’t the first call you’d ignored tonight. Or this week.

You had done it deliberately, under Mrs. Ji’s strict orders.

“Don’t you dare mess this up,” she had said earlier, her voice carrying that cold, commanding edge she never let her socialite friends hear. The kind of tone that could freeze air.

Now, sitting across from her and the Prime Minister, you kept your hands neatly folded in your lap. You hadn’t touched the food. The clinking of silverware and the low hum of polite conversation between your parents filled the silence that wrapped tightly around you.

Mr. and Mrs. Ji looked perfectly composed, pleased even. They were savoring their dinner, their expressions calm and satisfied—the unmistakable faces of people whose plans had unfolded exactly as intended.

“With his son’s scandal, Yoon Daemun will never be able to enter politics,” Mr. Ji said, cutting through the air with calculated satisfaction. His tone was casual, but his words were sharp, deliberate. “The timing couldn’t be better.”

Mrs. Ji dabbed the corner of her lips with an embroidered napkin, her expression softening with the kind of smile she reserved for strategy. “We’ve prepared a statement for your response, Y/n. Make sure you show up in public looking… a little heartbroken, perhaps?”

You stared down at your untouched plate, the gleam of silver cutlery blurring in your vision.

‘Victim of manipulation.’ That was the phrase they’d chosen for you. The headline they had already fed to the press.

You—the fabricated daughter of the Prime Minister—were to be portrayed as the naïve woman deceived by Yoon Jeonghan, the disgraced heir.

It was all theater. Every word, every tear, every silence rehearsed. And just like every performance before, you would play your part. Because that was the role you had been chosen for.

It had been ten years since you first met Mr. and Mrs. Ji. Back then, Mr. Ji was merely a Seoul mayoral candidate, still polishing his image. They were looking for a bright, idealistic student from the National Seoul University to elevate their campaign—someone with a clean past, a sympathetic story, and a face the public could love.

They chose you.

A parentless girl raised in a foster home. No blood ties. No history. No one to ask questions. A perfect daughter for a perfect family.

“You’re Ji Jae Kyung's daughter? Woah…”

You could still remember the awe in their voices—the way their eyes gleamed with admiration. Compliments came easily, falling like confetti around you. Some went to him, the respectable politician who raised such a brilliant daughter with perfect manners and flawless grades. The rest went to you—the quiet, low-profile daughter of a man everyone wanted to impress.

But none of it was real.

It was all staged.

Every smile, every headline, every carefully constructed image.

And behind it all stood Ji Jaekyung and his wife—the masterminds who turned you into what the public wanted to see.

You were never their daughter.

You were the performance.

The story they wrote to complete their picture-perfect life.

Ten years later, the role still clung to you like a second skin. You’d played it so long, you weren’t sure where the lie ended—or where you began.

*

You were just about to put on your coat when a voice stopped you near the cram school gates.

“Excuse me—Miss Ji?”

You turned. A man you vaguely recognized from Jeonghan’s circle stood a few meters away, his expression unsure yet determined. The streetlight above flickered faintly, painting both of you in amber.

“I’m sorry for showing up like this,” he began, hands tucked into his coat pockets. “I’m Boo Seungkwan. I’m… Jeonghan’s friend.”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I know who you are.”

He nodded, a faint sigh escaping him. “Then I’ll be quick. I just—wanted to ask if what the news said about him was true.” His voice softened. “That he manipulated you. That he used you.”

You said nothing.

Seungkwan studied your face for a moment, as if searching for a flicker of the girl Jeonghan used to talk about—the one who laughed too easily, who didn’t care about names or titles.

“I don’t mean to be disrespectful,” he continued carefully, “but… Jeonghan doesn’t deserve this. He might have his flaws, but that’s not who he is.”

You looked down at your shoes, at the way the shadows of the streetlight split across the pavement. Every word he said pressed against the guilt you had tried to bury since dinner.

“He hasn’t been the same since the article came out,” Seungkwan said quietly. “He keeps saying it doesn’t matter, but we both know it does. That kind of lie—” He paused, catching himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume it’s a lie.”

You finally met his gaze. His tone wasn’t accusing—just heavy with confusion and the quiet plea of someone who wanted to believe the best in his friend.

“I didn’t write it,” you murmured.

“I believe you,” Seungkwan replied almost immediately. “But maybe you can tell the truth. Even a little of it. It might help him stand again.”

His words lingered in the cold air long after he bowed politely and walked away. You stood there for a long while, watching his figure fade down the street, your throat tightening.

You wanted to tell him that it wasn’t Jeonghan who manipulated anyone.

It was you—

or at least, the version of you that the Jis had created.

You glanced at Seungkwan’s face — he looked too sincere, too out of place standing in front of a cram school after hours, holding nothing but good intentions. That made it worse.

“I think there’s a misunderstanding,” you said finally, voice calm but distant. “Jeonghan and I… we were just friends.”

Seungkwan blinked, as if trying to make sense of it. “Just friends?”

“Yes.” You tightened your scarf. “We met a few times, talked about work, shared coffee. That’s all.”

There was no tremor in your voice, but something in your eyes must have betrayed you, because Seungkwan’s expression shifted—disbelief shadowed with pity.

“I see,” he said slowly. “Then the pictures, the dinner, the event—”

“Coincidence,” you cut him off. “The press twisted it.”

He looked at you for a long moment, weighing whether to push further. But there was something in the way your gaze avoided his—composed, but fragile—that made him stop.

He exhaled softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just… Jeonghan’s been through a lot. I wanted to understand what really happened.”

You froze for a fraction of a second.

But before he could say more, you bowed politely, murmured, “Good night, Mr. Boo,” and walked past him into the drizzle-soaked street.

He stood there for a while, watching as you disappeared into the blur of city lights. Something about your words didn’t match your expression—the kind of contradiction that Jeonghan had mentioned before.

When Seungkwan finally pulled out his phone, he hesitated before typing.

“She said you were just friends.”

*

The chauffeur’s eyes in the rearview mirror said everything Jeonghan didn’t need to hear. Pity. Disgust. Fear of being associated with the wrong Yoon. The mansion hadn’t changed — white pillars, too much marble, the smell of money and order. Yet when Jeonghan stepped inside, he could almost hear the echo of that night six years ago, the one that tore his name from the family register.

The housekeeper didn’t greet him. She bowed, eyes lowered, and walked away. In the dining room, his father was already seated, posture like a statue carved from ice.

Yoon Daemun, the man the country admired, the man Jeonghan could never please. “Sit,” his father said, without looking up from the newspaper.

The headline lay sprawled across the front page:

THE YOON HEIR SCANDAL CONTINUES — LINKED TO PRIME MINISTER’S FAMILY. Jeonghan took the seat across from him, his movements deliberate, controlled.

“So,” Daemun began, folding the paper neatly. “You managed to humiliate me again.”

Jeonghan’s lips quirked upward. “I’d say the timing was convenient for you. The Prime Minister’s name on the same line—good distraction for the party board, isn’t it?”

Daemun’s gaze sharpened, the kind that used to make Jeonghan feel twelve years old again. “Still the same. No shame. No sense of consequence.”

“You taught me that, didn’t you?” The silence that followed was heavy. Only the faint ticking of the antique clock filled the room.

His father finally leaned back. “Do you know what happens when your name appears next to a politician’s scandal?”

Jeonghan didn’t answer.

“It ruins both sides.” Daemun’s tone was calm, almost too calm. “But it’s not you they’ll remember. It’s me. The man who couldn’t control his own son.”

Jeonghan clenched his jaw. “I didn’t ask to come back.”

“No. You were summoned because I’m still cleaning up after you.” His father’s voice rose a fraction. “And this time, Jeonghan, there won’t be a next time. You’ve already cost this family enough.”

“I stopped being part of this family six years ago,” Jeonghan said quietly. “You made sure of that.”

Daemun stood. The air between them felt sharp enough to draw blood. “You’ll fix this,” he ordered. “You’ll meet with the press, issue a statement—say you lied, that it was all fabricated to harm the Prime Minister’s reputation. They’ll buy it if it comes from you.”

Jeonghan let out a humorless laugh. “You want me to destroy myself for your seat in Parliament?”

His father’s lips tightened. “For once in your life, do something useful.”

The words sank deep, the same as they always had.

When Jeonghan left the mansion, the night air hit him hard. He stood by the gate, hands trembling around a cigarette he didn’t light.

He had promised himself never to come back here again. And now, he realized, nothing had changed — not even the way his father still called him son only when it served a purpose.

Across the street, reporters were already gathering, their cameras flashing faintly in the dark. He straightened his collar, tucked his hands into his coat pockets, and walked away from the house without looking back. This time, he wouldn’t run. He would play the game his father started — but on his own terms.

*

An exclusive interview with Yoon Jeonghan appeared on the front page of The Daily Standard, written by none other than Boo Seungkwan — a name the political and corporate world had learned to both admire and fear.

The article was a masterpiece of restraint and precision. Seungkwan had fought tooth and nail with his editor-in-chief to have it published uncut. It wasn’t a defense piece, nor was it an attack. It was simply truth, stripped of bias — and that made it all the more dangerous.

“He was just a man looking for love one night,” the article began, “and somehow became a family scapegoat by morning.”

Through Seungkwan’s words, Jeonghan’s story unfolded not as a scandal, but as a slow dissection of how narratives were manufactured by power. The way a single whisper could become a headline. How a name could be tarnished to save another.

Every paragraph carried Seungkwan’s voice — calm, analytical, and sharp as glass. He wrote about Jeonghan’s fall from grace, about the exile that followed his first scandal, and how his father’s silence had been louder than public condemnation.

But what caught everyone’s attention wasn’t Jeonghan’s tragedy — it was the twist.

“Mrs. Ji herself had insisted Jeonghan meet her daughter,” Seungkwan wrote. “Even sent gifts, meals, and handwritten notes — tokens of gratitude, or perhaps, persuasion. Who does that for a stranger?”

It was phrased like a question, but the implication was clear. The spotlight had shifted — subtly, cleverly — from Jeonghan’s so-called manipulation to the Ji family’s orchestration.

By the second half of the article, Mrs. Ji was no longer the grieving mother of a deceived daughter; she was a woman who had played the public like a symphony.

The nation devoured the story. News anchors repeated excerpts with caution, as if afraid the words themselves might bite. Political commentators speculated whether Boo Seungkwan had overstepped, or whether he had just cracked open something no one dared to question.

And Jeonghan — sitting alone in his dim apartment with the paper spread across his coffee table — couldn’t decide how to feel.

The world was finally hearing his side of the story.

But the irony was, it didn’t feel like victory. It felt like standing in the eye of a storm that was only beginning to turn.

After the article, Jeonghan disappeared again — not in shame this time, but in pursuit of something real. For the first time in years, he stopped attending events with rich women's names printed on the invitation. No more charity galas where everyone smiled with their teeth clenched. No more private dinners where the wine was expensive but every conversation was a transaction.

He sold all of his luxury things and moved into a smaller apartment on the edge of Mapo. The windows were cracked, and the heater worked when it felt generous, but it was quiet. His kind of quiet.

He started from the bottom — as a project consultant for a small local architecture firm that took contracts no conglomerate would touch. His job wasn’t glamorous: long meetings, stubborn clients, coffee that tasted like burnt wood. But there was a strange comfort in it. Each blueprint, each rejected proposal, each late-night revision — it all belonged to him.

He refused to take calls from people who once claimed to be friends. When invitations from the “rich circle” arrived — networking parties, art auctions, political birthdays — he left them unopened. He no longer wanted to be someone’s favorite scandal, someone’s well-dressed pawn.

For months, Jeonghan worked in silence. He kept his hair shorter, his words simpler, his gaze level. He didn’t try to charm anyone anymore. He didn’t need to. People at work found him odd — polite, reserved, sometimes intimidatingly composed. They whispered about his past, about the man who once made headlines. But they couldn’t deny his efficiency. He had a way of solving problems others didn’t even see.

And when a construction site mishap almost cost the firm a major deal, Jeonghan was the one who stayed overnight, reorganizing the logistics report by hand. The next morning, his boss found him asleep on the office couch — tie loosened, pencil still in hand, a faint trace of graphite on his jaw.

For the first time, Jeonghan’s value wasn’t built on his last name. It was built on effort. Still, every now and then, he caught himself looking at the city skyline — the one his father’s empire had helped shape — and wondered if redemption meant cutting ties completely, or learning how to stand on his own without hating where he came from.

“Do you want to hear what I just found?”

Seungkwan’s voice came through the phone one quiet night. Jeonghan answered without much thought, assuming it was another late update — a joke, a story, something light to end the day.

But Seungkwan’s tone was different. Too steady. Too careful. “There was a report that Ji Jaekyung’s daughter had passed away.”

The words didn’t register at first. They hung in the air like smoke — shapeless, heavy, unreal. Jeonghan froze, the pen in his hand slipping onto the desk.

“What?” His chest tightened. His mind went blank — except for the image of you: laughing behind a cup of coffee, brushing your hair from your face, the way you used to hum when you thought no one was listening.

“Y/n… had passed away?” The words barely escaped his mouth, trembling, as if speaking them might make them true.

“It’s not what you think,” Seungkwan said quickly, his voice low. “It wasn’t her. Not Ji Y/n. The report says a girl — eighteen years old — died by suicide ten years ago. The attending physician confirmed it.”

Jeonghan’s pulse roared in his ears. “What are you trying to say, Seungkwan?” He spun in his chair, the room suddenly too small, too bright.

“I’m saying,” Seungkwan breathed out, almost afraid to finish, “Ji Y/n isn’t Ji Jaekyung’s real daughter.”

Silence. The world seemed to tilt — slow, then all at once. Jeonghan sat there, hearing nothing but the echo of that sentence. Every moment he’d spent with you — every glance, every half-truth, every piece of you he thought he knew — cracked open in his mind.

If you weren’t Ji Jaekyung’s daughter… then who were you?

*

“I wake up every day thinking I’m nobody’s child. Just myself, doing the things I’m best at — teaching, meeting my students, seeing my friends. That’s the real me.”

That’s the real you…

Jeonghan could still hear your voice — soft, certain, echoing in the quiet of his memory. It had started as a casual conversation, one of those late-night talks that drifted aimlessly until he’d asked, almost teasingly, “What’s it like to be Ji Jaekyung’s daughter?”

You laughed faintly before answering, “Whosever child you are won’t define you. Your own work will.”

Those words had stayed with him longer than he expected.

He’d spent years buried under the weight of his family name, letting it dictate who he was supposed to be. When the burden grew too heavy, he rebelled — escaping through decadence, luxury, and fleeting attention. Drowning himself in everything that dulled the ache of being a Yoon.

But none of it had ever defined him.

“Hyung, you’re one of the smartest, most quick-witted people I know,” Seungkwan once told him. “You just need to use it for yourself — not to prove anyone wrong.”

And that was what he finally did.

He started small — late nights, small contracts, learning the bones of the business from the ground up. Day by day, Jeonghan built his own name, one that carried no trace of his father’s shadow.

“This,” he murmured to himself one morning, staring at the blueprint on his desk, “this is what defines me.”

A few months later, his phone rang. It was Seungcheol.

“I need your help with a new building for our firm,” he said.

Jeonghan didn’t know it then, but that call would change everything — the first stone on the path that would carry his name further than his family ever imagined.

Katalk …

Seungkwan: You need to see this.

He frowned, clicking the link. The screen opened to a live stream — a press conference, crowded with reporters and flashing cameras. And there you were, standing behind the podium, composed but pale under the harsh light. The banner above you read:

“Prime Minister’s Daughter Addresses Identity Revelation.”

Jeonghan’s breath caught.

Your voice trembled at first, but you steadied yourself, eyes gliding across the sea of cameras.

“I was raised under the Ji family for ten years,” you began. “But I am not Ji Jaekyung’s biological daughter. The truth is—” you paused, swallowing hard, “the real Ji Y/n passed away ten years ago. I was… chosen to take her place.”

A low hum of whispers rippled through the room. Cameras clicked like rain. Jeonghan leaned forward, his heart pounding, his hand gripping the edge of the desk.

You exhaled shakily before continuing, “I was an orphan. I didn’t have a family or a name that mattered. I was offered a home, an education, a life that didn’t belong to me. And I was too young to understand what it truly meant.”

Reporters began raising their hands, their questions overlapping into chaos.

“Who orchestrated this?”

“Was the Prime Minister aware?”

“Why are you revealing this now?”

You didn’t flinch. “Because the lies have gone too far. And someone else has paid the price for them.”

Jeonghan could feel his chest tightening. You didn’t mention his name — but everyone knew who “someone else” was.

He could barely hear Seungkwan’s voice over the call when it came seconds later.

“She’s doing this for you, hyung.”

But Jeonghan couldn’t answer. His mind was spinning. You — the woman who once told him not to let his family name define him — were now standing in front of the world, tearing down the false identity that once defined you.

The screen flickered as the conference ended, replaced by a headline that felt like a scream in his chest:

“Prime Minister’s Daughter Admits to False Identity — Public Shock Ensues.”

The room was silent after the live broadcast ended.

Jeonghan sat still, staring at the frozen image on his screen — your bowed head, your shoulders straight despite the weight of everything you’d just confessed.

You didn’t defend yourself.

You didn’t accuse anyone.

You simply told the truth.

And somehow, that humility hit him harder than any scandal ever had.

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair, the city lights flickering against his tired eyes. For the first time, Jeonghan realized how small his own pride had been — all those years spent hiding behind charm, rebellion, and fleeting company. He’d called it freedom, but it was just fear wearing expensive clothes.

You, on the other hand, had stood in front of the nation stripped of everything — your name, your protection, your image — and yet you looked freer than he ever had.

“She doesn’t owe them anything,” he murmured under his breath. “And she still chose to be kind.”

It humbled him.

It changed something inside him that no lecture or consequence ever could.

That night, Jeonghan opened his window to the chill of the city air. The same wind that once carried gossip about his downfall now felt strangely cleansing. He poured himself a drink, not out of habit, but to think.

He replayed your words in his head, line by line.

“I’m just myself, doing what I’m best at.”

He understood it now.

It wasn’t about running away from a family name. It was about building a life so honest that no one could ever take it away again.

A small smile tugged at his lips. “You win, Y/n,” he whispered, half amused, half proud.

For the first time in years, Yoon Jeonghan didn’t feel like the son of anyone — not Daemun’s mistake, not society’s scandal. Just a man finally ready to start living right.

*

Jeonghan swore he wasn’t imagining things when his eyes landed on a woman he hadn’t seen in years, running across the school field with a group of children. His client—perhaps the principal, or maybe the chairman of the school foundation—kept talking, explaining how they wanted to preserve the school’s historical character.

“This school was founded before the war. We’d be grateful if your team could— Jeonghan-ssi?”

The two of them stopped walking. Jeonghan remained still, his gaze fixed on the field. His client probably assumed he was simply watching the children.

“Who’s that woman?” Jeonghan finally asked.

The chairman followed his gaze before smiling, seemingly misunderstanding the reason for the question.

“She’s new here. She moved from Seoul. Oh—aren’t you from Seoul as well?”

Jeonghan nodded absentmindedly. “Yes…” But he couldn’t tear his eyes away. He had seen it all unfold.

The media had talked about it relentlessly—and perhaps they still were. Ji Jaekyung had fallen from his political pedestal. It had become the nation’s biggest headline. Questions spread everywhere—from conversations between neighbors to comment sections and online forums.

How long had Ji Jaekyung replaced his real daughter with another girl to play the role of the perfect daughter?

Seungkwan had made sure to send Jeonghan countless articles and conspiracy theories. Some claimed the real daughter had been assassinated. Others insisted she had escaped years ago.

Jeonghan had eventually called him. “Isn’t a journalist supposed to be busy?” Seungkwan had stopped sending them. At least for a few days.

If Jeonghan was being truthful, he had been terrified for you. Proud—but terrified.

What you did was incredibly risky, especially so close to Ji Jaekyung’s election campaign. It wasn’t because you could ruin his chances of winning. It was because it could cost you your life. Ji Jaekyung had turned out to be a complete psycho—someone who wouldn’t even spare his daughter.

So Jeonghan had tried to find you. To contact you. Maybe offer whatever help he could. But he couldn’t. You had disappeared. And that frightened him even more. Because he had no idea whether you were safe or not.

Now, you were only a few strides away. Yet Jeonghan couldn't find the courage to walk over and say something as simple as hey.

Because hey was never simple when it came to you. It could never be, not after years of searching, asking around, following every lead he could find… And, perhaps, missing you.

Maybe Seungkwan had been right all along. Jeonghan really was a great pretender whenever your name came up.

"You know," Seungkwan had once said, "you deny it better when we talk about her than when your neighbor asks you to fix their toilet."

"She thought I was a handyman!" Jeonghan had shot back immediately. Another denial.

His phone rang while Jeonghan was driving home.

It was the grandmother from next door—the one who particularly adored, or perhaps nagged, him so much that he had started wondering whether she genuinely liked him or simply pitied him. Somehow, she had convinced herself he was a handyman with no real job, just a man who stayed home all day.

"Yes, Grandma?"

He was greeted by a suspiciously sweet voice. Too sweet. Not the usual one that told him to eat more or complained that he worked too slowly, but the gentle voice she reserved for her own grandchildren.

"There's a young woman who just moved in next door, and her gate isn't working properly. Could you help fix it?"

She continued, enthusiastically explaining what a reliable handyman he was.

For heaven's sake. He had studied engineering, not so his elderly neighbor could recruit him as the neighborhood repairman.

Jeonghan sighed. "I'll take a look. I'm on my way home anyway."

He heard her chuckle. She must be in a good mood, he thought. She had been oddly pushy yesterday while handing him containers of side dishes. Kind, as always—but with an unusual edge to it.

"Go check on her," she insisted. "She looked worried because the gate won't lock properly."

Very pushy.

By the time Jeonghan reached the house next door, he immediately crouched to inspect the gate. The lock was rusted beyond repair. It had needed replacing for quite some time. Pulling out his phone, he ordered a replacement lock online. He'd rather spend the money now than endure another week of the grandmother pestering him about it.

He was still standing by the gate, scrolling through the order confirmation, when the sound of footsteps behind him pulled his attention away from the screen. He turned, expecting to see the new homeowner. He was already rehearsing what to say—that the lock would hold for tonight, that he had arranged for someone to replace it in a few days, and that there was nothing to worry about.

But the words never came. His mouth went dry. His eyes widened. God really had a twisted sense of humor.

"...Jeonghan?”

*

After getting help from a very reliable lawyer, you finally received the compensation you had demanded from the Ji family.

It was finally time to find a place of your own instead of continuing to stay in the tiny studio apartment Minseo had generously lent you. You had been her unexpected roommate for almost three months now, and although she had never complained, you knew you couldn't impose forever.

Or maybe she didn't mind. Her boyfriend, on the other hand...

So, after weeks of searching, negotiating, and stretching your budget as far as it could go, you finally found a place at a reasonable price. A house, even. You can only afford a detached house in this economy if something's terribly wrong with it, you thought. The suspicion was confirmed the moment you saw it in person.

It definitely needed a lot of work.

...Or maybe your eyes needed fixing too, because standing in front of your new house was a figure you never expected to see again.

"Y/n?"

He sounded just as surprised as you were. Thank goodness.

"You're the handyman Grandma from next door was talking about?"

Jeonghan immediately shook his head. Then nodded Then shook it again, waving both hands in surrender.

"No—I mean... she thinks I'm a handyman."

You nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense. She told me all about how you fix things around her house."

Jeonghan let out a defeated chuckle. He glanced between you and the old house before asking quietly, "So... you live here now?"

You stepped closer, following his gaze toward the weathered building. "Yeah." You sighed. "The listing forgot to mention it's one strong wind away from collapsing."

He studied the house for another moment, hands tucked into his pockets. "It's surprising someone actually bought this place."

"Because it's me, or because it's the house?"

The question escaped before you could stop it. The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted to take them back. Obviously because of the house. What a strange thing to ask.

Jeonghan looked at you. Then back at the house. Then at you again. "...Both." A beat passed. "But mostly because it's you.”

That night, your phone buzzed just as you were unpacking another box.

"Hello?"

It was your lawyer. Or rather, your old junior high school friend. Choi Seungcheol. He called to check on your settlement after the case had officially concluded, but mostly to give you an update on the Ji family's situation following the trial and the media storm.

"I'll send over the final documents," he said. "Legally, you're Choi Y/n now."

You laughed softly. "So... we share the same surname now."

"Hey, I don't mind." Seungcheol chuckled. "I told you before—it's an honor to handle your case. Having you share my surname? That's just a bonus."

Despite the joke, his voice carried genuine warmth. Seungcheol had been the first person to reach out after your televised confession. The moment he saw the broadcast, he called. The next day, he was standing at your door with a briefcase in one hand and coffee in the other.

"I'm taking your case."

There hadn't even been room to argue.

Known for his razor-sharp arguments and quick wit in court, Seungcheol had built quite a reputation as one of the country's most formidable young lawyers. And just as he had promised… He won.

You still weren't sure how to thank him properly.

"You helped me first," he said, as if reading your mind. "I'm just returning the favor."

Back in junior high, Seungcheol had been the stereotypical chaebol heir. Spoiled. Reckless. Completely convinced that money solved everything.

Until one afternoon, when a group of older students cornered him behind the gym.

You hadn't been strong enough to fight them. So you'd done the next best thing. You blasted a fake police siren from your phone. The bullies scattered before realizing it wasn't real. Seungcheol had laughed until he cried. Then he decided you were the coolest person he'd ever met.

"I also have a friend living near your new place," Seungcheol said, pulling you back to the present. "He's an architect."

"Oh?"

"Want me to introduce you?"

You glanced around the old house, where peeling wallpaper practically waved at you.

"He might actually faint when he sees this place."

"He'll probably renovate it for free."

You raised an eyebrow. "...For free?"

"Sure." His grin was audible through the phone. "If the two of you end up dating."

You sighed dramatically. "We both know I already have enough on my plate after everything that's happened."

"Fair point." His teasing faded, replaced by the quiet sincerity that had always made him such a dependable friend. "Then just focus on settling in."

You smiled to yourself. "I will."

"I have a feeling good things are waiting for you there."

*

Definitely not a good thing.

Seungcheol burst out laughing the moment he saw you and Jeonghan freeze like statues. His plan to visit his college friend, Jeonghan, and check in on his client, You, a week after you moved in had somehow turned into his favorite comedy show.

"How do you two know each other?" he asked, feigning innocence.

The moment Seungcheol had mentioned that his client lived nearby, Jeonghan's expression had changed ever so slightly. That was all Seungcheol needed.

Interesting.

He knew Jeonghan's history. He knew Jeonghan's "game." And judging by that reaction… Maybe you weren’t just another woman from Jeonghan's past.

Jeonghan let out a quiet sigh. "We met years ago."

"Yeah..." you echoed with a polite smile.

Neither of you elaborated.

Seungcheol looked from one to the other, a knowing grin slowly spreading across his face.

"Well then," he said, clapping his hands once. "Since we're all here, how about lunch?"

You smiled apologetically. "I'd love to, but I already promised to meet someone."

"No worries," Seungcheol replied easily.

After exchanging a few more polite words, you excused yourself and walked away. The moment you disappeared around the corner, Seungcheol slowly turned toward Jeonghan.

Then, with the biggest grin imaginable. "So..."

Jeonghan already knew what was coming.

"...Who was she to you, Yoon Jeonghan?"

He sighed so deeply it almost sounded painful before casually draping an arm over Seungcheol's shoulder.

"Let's get you something to eat first." He gently steered him toward the opposite direction. "You ask strange questions when you're hungry."

Seungcheol frowned in protest as he was dragged along.

"I do not."

"You do."

"I absolutely don't."

"You once asked a judge if he'd skipped breakfast."

"...He looked hungry."

Jeonghan laughed despite himself. "Exactly my point.”

Once the food arrived, the conversation drifted into comfortable silence. Jeonghan absentmindedly stirred his stew before finally speaking. "Do you remember lending me your car a few years ago?" he asked. "I told you I had to attend some political event."

Seungcheol frowned, trying to remember. "The one where you made me pick it up the next morning because you said you were 'emotionally exhausted'?"

Jeonghan let out a quiet laugh. "That one."

A beat passed.

"It was her."

Seungcheol froze, his chopsticks suspended halfway to his mouth. "...You're kidding."

Jeonghan shook his head. "I met her there. Mrs. Ji introduced us herself and invited me to the Prime Minister's event. I met her parents."

For a long second, Seungcheol simply stared at him. Then he slowly lowered his chopsticks onto the table. "Not her parents," he corrected quietly.

Jeonghan's smile faded. "I know." His gaze dropped to his bowl. "I only found out after everything was over."

A heavy silence settled between them.

Then Seungcheol's eyes widened as another thought struck him. "Wait..." He leaned forward. "So she was the woman from the scandal."

Jeonghan answered with nothing more than a small nod. He still remembered those headlines.

The photos of the two of you standing side by side. The articles that turned a few dinners and conversations into a fabricated romance. One picture after another, each one adding more fuel until the entire country caught fire.

"It didn't end well, then?" Seungcheol asked carefully.

Jeonghan gave a small shrug. "I don't even know if there was anything to end." He smiled bitterly. "Her mother was the one who insisted we meet in the first place."

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. "...That's strange."

Jeonghan looked up.

"What's strange?"

"I was her lawyer." His voice became noticeably more serious. "I know almost everything that happened inside that house."

He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Her relationship with Ji Jaekyung and his wife wasn't normal."

Jeonghan's brows slowly knit together.

"They forced her to become someone she wasn't."

"They dictated how she dressed, what she studied, who she met, what she said in public."

Jeonghan's fingers tightened around his spoon. The words lingered heavily between them. Neither spoke for a while. Finally, Seungcheol frowned, more to himself than to Jeonghan.

"Which is exactly why none of this makes sense."

Jeonghan looked at him.

"If Mrs. Ji controlled every aspect of Y/n's life, why was she so determined to introduce the two of you?"

Jeonghan replayed those evenings in his head. Mrs. Ji invited him to events. Mrs. Ji encouraged you to accompany him. Mrs. Ji smiled every time they talked. At the time, he had assumed she simply wanted her daughter to meet someone.

Now, that explanation felt too simple.

"There had to be a reason," Seungcheol murmured.

"A woman like Mrs. Ji never does anything without expecting something in return."

Jeonghan stared at the untouched food in front of him. For the first time in years, he wondered whether meeting you had ever been fate at all, or just another move in someone else's game.

*

“So,” Minseo began after swallowing a spoonful of soup, “your lawyer came to visit… and the ‘architect friend’ he mentioned turned out to be him?”

She calmly flipped a slice of beef on the grill as though this kind of ridiculous coincidence happened every Tuesday.

You nodded weakly. “Apparently.”

Living with Minseo for three months had stripped away every layer of privacy you once had. She wasn’t even your closest friend from university. Yet somehow, she’d become the one person who knew everything.

Minseo had been there the night you confessed the truth—not to the nation, but to her. That you weren’t Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. Never had been. Just an orphan the Ji family had paid to become one. You still remembered the way she’d stared at you, speechless, before quietly asking only one question.

“Where are you staying tonight?”

When you admitted you had nowhere to go, she’d answered without hesitation. “Pack your things. You’re staying with me.” No pity. No unnecessary questions. Just a spare key pressed into your palm.

“It isn’t supposed to be a big deal, is it?” Minseo said, pulling you back to the present. “Meeting him again, I mean.”

You rested your forehead against your palm, your elbow nearly knocking over your glass of water.

“I know…” You sighed.

“But I still can’t shake the guilt. I dragged him into all of this.”

Minseo looked at you for a moment before laughing softly.

“Girl, you told me he used to be a player with no direction in life.” She pointed at you with her chopsticks.

“And now? He’s an established architect. From everything you’ve told me, he rebuilt his entire life after the scandal.”

“If anything…congratulations?” She shrugged.

You stared at her. “What kind of conclusion is that?”

“My conclusion is that you accidentally gave the man a character-development arc.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escaped. Minseo smiled triumphantly. “There she is. You’ve been making that guilty face ever since the trial ended.”

The smile quickly faded from your lips. “I still ruined his life.”

Minseo shook her head. “No.”

She spoke so firmly that you looked up. “Your mother did. That woman intentionally introduced the two of you because she knew exactly who Yoon Jeonghan was.”

You lowered your gaze. “She was trying to get rid of his father.”

“Exactly.” Minseo pointed her chopsticks again, this time for emphasis.

“She leaked your photos together and controlled the narrative. She made him the villain. Every single step was planned.”

You quietly stirred your soup. The words settled between you.

“You weren’t the one calling the photographers.”

“You weren’t the one writing the headlines.”

“And you certainly weren’t the one trying to destroy a political rival.”

You remained silent. Minseo sighed before reaching across the table to nudge your bowl toward you.

“Eat.”

You obediently picked up your spoon. After a few bites, Minseo spoke again, much more gently.

“You know what I think? I think Mrs. Ji underestimated the two of you. She expected you to keep playing the perfect daughter forever.”

She smiled to herself. “But she never imagined her ‘perfect daughter’ would bring down an entire political dynasty with one press conference.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “She definitely didn’t see that coming.”

“No.” Minseo grinned. “And judging by the way you described your reunion… I don’t think she expected you two to become neighbors either.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto the table. “Please don’t remind me.”

Minseo laughed. “Oh, I’m absolutely reminding you.”

She raised her glass. “To the terrible house…and even more terrible coincidences.”

*

On his way home, Jeonghan noticed a few familiar faces working on your house. They were contractors he had hired before—people whose work he trusted enough to recommend without hesitation. Seeing them there, he couldn’t help wondering which developer you had chosen. Apparently, it was one he knew well.

The fact that the two of you still hadn’t spoken since Seungcheol’s visit last month proved just how hopeless you both were. Or perhaps it was just him.

Every morning, Jeonghan rehearsed countless conversations in his head. A greeting. A joke. Maybe even an apology. Yet the moment he saw you, all he managed was a polite bow and a small smile. Pathetic.

Night fell.

He had just finished dinner when rain began hammering against the windows. Within minutes, the entire neighborhood was swallowed by darkness as the power went out.

Jeonghan didn’t even have to think. He opened a kitchen drawer, took out a few candles, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped outside.

“Grandma? I brought some candles.”

The old woman shuffled carefully from her room to answer the door, smiling as she welcomed him inside. While Jeonghan lit the candles one by one, she complained nonstop about the blackout.

“Is it already the rainy season?” she grumbled. “Why didn’t they announce it on TV? If it rains this hard every day, I’ll go crazy!”

Jeonghan laughed quietly. “I think the TV is the least of your worries right now, Grandma.”

“Hmph. Easy for you to say.”

As she continued talking, his eyes drifted toward the window. Your house stood completely dark. Not a single light. He glanced down at the few candles still left in his hand.

“Grandma, you’re all set.” He picked up his umbrella again. “If you need anything else, just call me.”

The old woman nodded.

“Nari? Are you home?”

A few seconds later, the door opened. “Jeonghan?”

You blinked at the sight of him standing on your porch, rain dripping from the edge of his umbrella. “It’s pouring. What happened?”

He held up the candles in his hand. “I brought these.”

It took you a second to realize the entire house was dark. “Oh…” A sheepish smile crossed your face. “I completely forgot the power went out.”

Jeonghan chuckled quietly. “I noticed.”

You stepped aside, opening the door wider. “Come in before you catch a cold.”

He hesitated for only a moment before stepping inside, carefully folding his umbrella near the entrance.

Your house looked even older from the inside. Half-unpacked boxes lined the living room. Rolls of wallpaper leaned against one wall, while paint samples and renovation sketches covered the dining table. It was messy—but lived in.

“I’m sorry,” you said, noticing where his eyes wandered. “I’m still unpacking.”

“It’s fine.” His gaze settled on the exposed ceiling beams. “They’re in better condition than I expected.”

“You can tell just by looking?”

“I’m an architect.”

“…Right.”

The corner of his lips lifted.

“So…”

You rubbed the back of your neck. “I guess you’re not actually a handyman.”

He let out a laugh. “I’ve been trying to convince Grandma of that for years.”

You laughed too.

For the first time since meeting again, the silence between you no longer felt heavy.

You took one of the candles from his hand. “Thank you.”

“It’s nothing.”

He lit the candle with a lighter from his pocket, shielding the small flame with one hand until it steadied. The warm glow slowly spread across the room, softening the unfinished walls and the distance that had lingered between the two of you for weeks.

Rain continued to drum against the roof. Neither of you seemed in a hurry to break the quiet.

“You’ve done a lot already,” Jeonghan said after a while, glancing around the room.

“I’ve had help.”

“The contractors outside earlier?”

You nodded. “They’re good.”

“I know.”

You looked at him curiously. “You’ve worked with them before?”

“A few times.” A small pause followed. “I trust their work.”

You smiled. “Good.”

The room settled into silence once more, but it no longer felt empty.

Between you, the candle gave a small, wavering pulse of light, its flame bending whenever the wind pressed against the old windows. The glass panes gave a soft, uneven rattle in their frames, as if the house itself were listening in. Outside, rain moved steadily over the roof and down the eaves, a constant hush beneath the occasional sharper tap of a branch against the siding.

Jeonghan’s gaze drifted toward the windows, his expression thoughtful in the candlelight.

“You should replace those before winter.”

You followed his line of sight, watching the faint tremor in the glass.

“I know. I've been telling myself that for the past two weeks.” A sheepish smile touched your mouth, small and apologetic.

He let out a quiet chuckle, the sound low and warm in the dim room. “I can make you a list.”

“You’ll charge me, won’t you?”

“I thought I was the neighborhood handyman.”

“Right.”

You tipped your head, pretending to consider it, though the corner of your mouth was already giving you away. “So… free?”

Jeonghan laughed, a little more openly this time, and for a moment the tension in the room loosened with it. “I walked right into that one.”

The laughter faded as naturally as it had come, leaving behind something gentler. For the first time, the quiet between you didn’t feel strained or careful. It simply existed, soft and unhurried, the kind of silence shared by two people who had run out of things to say and found they didn’t mind. The rain filled the spaces around you, and the candlelight moved over the table in slow, trembling gold.

“You’ve changed,” you said at last, your voice quieter than you intended.

Jeonghan looked up from the candle, his eyes catching the light. “I have?”

“You smile differently.”

He blinked once, as if turning the words over in his mind.

“I used to think you smiled because you enjoyed teasing people.”

“And now?”

“Now…” You hesitated, searching his face for the right shape of the thought. “It feels quieter.”

His gaze dropped to the candle flame, and for a moment the light softened the line of his mouth. “I got older.”

“I suppose we both did.” A faint smile crossed your lips, brief but real.

“You still bow every morning.”

“You never miss returning it.”

Another pause settled between you, but this one carried no sharp edges.

“I wasn’t sure if I should talk to you.” The confession slipped out before either of you could stop it, and once it was spoken, it seemed to hang there in the warm, dim air.

Jeonghan lifted his eyes to yours. “…Neither was I.”

A small laugh escaped you, half relief and half disbelief. “So we’ve been greeting each other like strangers for an entire month.”

“Apparently.”

“That’s embarrassing.”

“It is.”

Outside, the rain thickened, drumming harder against the roof. Somewhere beyond the windows, the lights remained dark, the world reduced to weather and shadow. You traced the rim of your mug with your thumb, the ceramic cool beneath your skin.

“I thought you hated me.” The words came out so softly you almost wished the rain had swallowed them before they reached him.

Jeonghan didn’t answer right away. He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable at first, then slowly shifting into something more honest, more tired.

Then he shook his head. “I did.”

You went still.

He seemed to notice your reaction and continued before the silence could harden into misunderstanding. “For a while.”

His fingers tightened slightly around the mug, the warmth of it lost beneath the tension in his hand. “I blamed you.”

“I blamed myself.” His eyes lowered for a second, then lifted again, steady and clear.

“It was easier than accepting I had no idea what had really happened.”

You swallowed, the weight of his words settling somewhere deep and quiet inside you. “I wanted to apologize.”

Jeonghan’s gaze sharpened, as if that had reached him more than anything else you’d said. “I looked for you.”

Your breath caught.

“I couldn’t find you. I asked people. I even asked Seungkwan if he’d heard anything. He worried too, you know.” A small, reluctant smile tugged at his lips, softened by memory.

The room fell silent again, but this time the quiet felt different. It wasn’t the silence of distance or uncertainty. It was the silence of two people standing at the edge of something old and painful, finally beginning to see it clearly from both sides. The candle burned lower between you, its flame smaller now, but steadier somehow, as if it had settled into the shape of the night.

Outside, thunder rolled across the sky in a long, distant rumble. Inside, neither of you seemed to notice that the candles had already burned halfway down.

*

The final school bell rang just as Jeonghan and the principal finished their last inspection of the newly restored building. Jeonghan couldn’t help but chuckle every time a fourth grader came running over to complain.

“The tiles near the stairs are too slippery!”

“The sink by the football field is too tall!”

The principal immediately shooed them away with a laugh. “Off to class. You can file your complaints later.”

Jeonghan watched the children disappear down the corridor before turning to the principal. “They’re definitely the toughest clients to please.”

“They always are.”

“Teacher Y/n.” At the principal’s call, Jeonghan turned.

You stepped out of your classroom, your bag slung over one shoulder, clearly finished for the day. You bowed politely to both of them before smiling at Jeonghan.

“Amazing work, Architect Yoon.”

The principal blinked in surprise. “Oh!” He laughed. “I was just about to introduce the two of you.”

He looked between you and Jeonghan. “So… you already know each other?”

Jeonghan smiled and nodded. “Yes, sir. We’ve known each other for years.” He glanced at you before adding, “We’re neighbors.”

The principal’s eyes widened. “Neighbors?” He looked genuinely delighted.

“Then the two of you should’ve been going home together this whole time! No need for Teacher Y/n to take the bus anymore.”

Jeonghan smiled. “That works for me.”

You nodded, unable to hide a small smile of your own. “Then let me grab my things from the teachers’ room first. Excuse me.”

As you walked away, the principal let out a quiet sigh of relief before turning to Jeonghan. “To be honest, I still don’t understand why someone like Teacher Y/n chose our little school.”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow.

“Her résumé is remarkable,” the principal continued. “We’re lucky she even accepted our offer.”

Jeonghan smiled to himself. “She’s always been like that.” He remembered the woman who had once told him that a person’s work—not their family name—was what truly defined them.

The principal nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! She just came back from volunteering in Africa, and this was the very first school she applied to.”

He shook his head with an admiring smile. “Sometimes I wonder what kind of life she’s lived.”

Jeonghan watched as you disappeared down the hallway. A quiet smile settled on his face. “…An amazing one.”

The principal followed Jeonghan’s gaze before smiling to himself. “I suppose so.”

After parking the car, the two of you still had to walk another five hundred meters to the neighborhood. Jeonghan carried the box of materials you had brought home from school while you explained they were your students’ art projects.

For most of the walk, neither of you spoke. Then you turned to him. “I read it. Seungkwan did a good job.”

Jeonghan looked over and smiled. “He did almost too good of a job. My father must be pleased.”

“Your father is a good politician,” you murmured.

“He is.” A small smile lingered on his lips. “Not a very good father, though.”

You nodded. “That’s true.”

He looked ahead as the afternoon breeze rustled through the trees. “But… thanks.”

You turned to him.

“Because you were willing to tell the truth—even knowing how much it would cost you—my relationship with him finally got better.”

You smiled faintly. A month ago, Seungkwan had visited to ask for an exclusive interview for his feature, The Fall of Ji Jaekyung’s Legacy. It told the whole story. How the Ji family’s real daughter had been hidden. How you had been forced to take her place. How they had manipulated the media and used both you and Jeonghan in their attempt to bring down Yoon Daemun and several other political rivals.

“That was the least I could do,” you said quietly. “After everything I put you through.”

Jeonghan let out a small laugh. “Didn’t we agree to stop feeling guilty about that?”

You smiled apologetically.

“Besides,” he continued, “your mother was unbelievable.” He shook his head in disbelief. “How she even found out I was Daemun’s estranged son is still beyond me.”

You laughed. “I have no idea either. The whole family was… something else.”

Before either of you could continue, a familiar voice called from across the street.

“There you are!”

Grandma waved excitedly from her front yard. “I’ve been waiting for you two to come home!”

She pointed at Jeonghan. “Jeonghan! Help me with the plumbing. It stopped working again.”

Jeonghan groaned dramatically. “Grandma… I’m not a plumber.”

“You’ll figure it out.”

“I’m not a handyman either.”

Ignoring his protest entirely, Grandma grabbed his wrist and started pulling him toward the house.

You couldn’t hold back your laughter.

Jeonghan sighed in defeat before handing you his bag.

“Which pipe is it this time?”

As he rolled up his sleeves, Grandma happily led him inside.

“He complains every single time,” she whispered to you with a grin. “But he always fixes it.”

You smiled. “Grandma… He’s not a handyman. He’s an architect.”

Grandma blinked before breaking into a sheepish smile.

“I know.”

You looked at her in surprise.

She pointed toward the house next door. “There’s a big sign in front of his house.”

You laughed. “So you’ve known all along?”

Grandma simply shrugged. “Architects know how to fix things too.”

You glanced toward the kitchen window, where Jeonghan was already crouching beneath the sink, muttering to himself while trying to figure out the plumbing.

Maybe Grandma had been right after all. Some people didn’t just build houses. They made them feel like home.

"Can I sleep with you?" you mumble tiredly when you realize that he's in the middle of carrying you to your room.

"On the first date?" his low voice teases, and it's so close it makes goosebumps rise on your arms.

"Are you slut shaming me?"

"Yes. That's kinda dirty."

In contrast to his words, he changes course, walking past your bedroom and instead toward his.

Sleep hangs over you like a weighted blanket, and by the time Jeongguk lowers you onto his bed in the dark room, you're almost drifting off again. With only one eye open, and by a sliver at most, you lift your head to see Jeongguk head over to his closet, pulling out a big t-shirt and some shorts which he then turns around to lay on the bed.

Your heart skips a beat and your skin warms because… you have your own sleepwear. They're a few steps away, in a room with so many of your things and clothes, and there's literally no need for you to sleep in his clothes. You know that, and he knows it too.

Without a word, probably figuring you're halfway to the Night Garden already, Jeongguk approaches the door.

"Where are you going?" you mumble.

He pauses, peering back at you softly. "To blow out all the candles."

You nod, your eyes already closing again. But before you can comfortably fall asleep, you realize somewhere that you'd actually prefer to change. Even in your nearly comatose state, you manage to reach for the oversized black shirt and clumsily change into it—intentionally leaving the shorts untouched—and burrow further into the bed before Jeongguk returns. There were a lot of candles after all.

You don't think he realizes that you're still awake when he returns, but since he most likely doesn't care if you watch him undress, you don't feel bad for the way you observe him as he pulls the shirt over his head. Facing the closet, he gives you the perfect view of his broad, naked back. A certain kind of awe and even pride fills your chest. You're always impressed by him, but sometimes, it definitely hits differently.

"How do you even get those muscles?"

"Hm?" Jeongguk turns, his eyebrows raised slightly.

"Those," you nod lazily. "On your back. Like, low, almost on your side. No. Come here."

Still holding his shirt in his hands, he walks over to your side of the bed. You reach an arm out, touching his lower side, a little further back. It's so attractive how wide his back is and how it slowly tapers into his tiny little waist. "These."

"Those are called 'Latissimus Dorsi,'" he informs, clearly amused.

"Oh. The 'lats,'" you nod, recalling the name. You know a few; bicep, tricep, gluteus maximus, hamstring, lats…

"Right," Jeongguk smiles. "And these," he lowers his hand to just underneath. "Are called 'external obliques.'"

Well, you've definitely heard of those too. While you still visit the gym occasionally—or at least you did until a few months ago—you've never taken the rabbit hole down into the deeper knowledge. Or… scratched more than the very surface, really.

"You can train lats by doing any kind of pull-downs," he states, showing how he'd pull a bar or something down in front of him. And while there's no weight, you can see the muscles flex ever so slightly.

"And obliques, you train effectively by twisting. Weights or body weight or whatever. Easy."

You watch him demonstrate by holding some kind of invisible dumbbell in front of him while twisting his upper body. Again, you can't help but glance a little extra at the muscle and how it moves.

You grin lazily. "Oh, so you're a nerd nerd. Got it."

Rolling his eyes endearingly, Jeongguk steps back, grabbing the folded shorts and changing into them, himself. He doesn't mention that he knows you're pantless in his bed.

A second later, he's lifting the duvet to get under it, but if you thought he was just lying down, you were mistaken. Instead, he remains upright as he scoots closer and places one hand on either side of you, carefully leaning over you.

“So I did okay?”

Your heart beats heavily because he's clearly really wondering. Like it's important to him. So, you bring your hands to his sides, running your nails over his skin, and wrapping your arms around him loosely.

He's so warm and so firm, and he smells so, so nice. It's the hint of masculinity and safety again, something so contradicting to you but feeling so right when it comes to him.

There's hope and curiosity and maybe a trace of uncertainty in his dark eyes as he smiles down at you. Even his dimple makes a show-stealing appearance. Your gaze travels over all of him briefly, from the tattoos to the scar on his chest. Everything you can see.

“You did okay," you confirm even though it's the understatement of the century. "Thank you. I don't remember the last time I… I don't remember ever feeling like this."

You've never felt wanted like this. Desired. Like you could be special in any remotely positive way to someone. If ever singled out from a crowd, it's only ever been bad. Or neutral at best. Jeongguk's expression fills of understanding, softening further.

"But don’t… unless you happened to find the roses on the side of the road for close to free, that’s too many flowers.”

He shakes his head, opening his mouth to argue, but you're quicker.

“Yes," you say, nodding determinedly. "Once was okay, but you can’t waste that much money again.”

“It’s not a waste if it makes you feel good.”

“Yeah, it is a waste if you do it more than once. I’ll feel bad instead.”

He pouts, and it makes your already warm chest even warmer. Instinctively, you pull him closer, smiling dumbly to yourself. As if trying to convey your gratitude by more than words, your fingers knead his back, eliciting a surprised yet deep groan from him.

“Can I… is this okay?” you ask, just to make absolutely sure. If you've expected something from him, you want to give him the same kind of consideration in return.

He breathes in deeply, clearly enjoying your hands on his back. “You don’t have to ask. As long as you touch me cause you want to and not because you feel like you should or because I expect you to.”

"Okay," you say quietly, admiring him, high on the content sounds he makes as he closes his eyes. In another setting, they'd turn you on, but at this time, they only make your heart soar. "…You don't have to be scared to touch me either."

"I will not take that responsibility lightly."

And while you can tell by his light tone and closed eyes that he's keeping it… easy, you don't doubt that he's very much serious.

You move your hand to the back of his neck, feeling his black hair between your fingers. "Kiss me?"

The next morning is a lazy one. It starts with you waking up, head resting on Jeongguk's tattooed bicep, his chest moving calmly against your back, and his slow, deep breaths in your hair. His other arm hangs limp from your waist.

You're happy. Content. Not even the fact that your—his—shirt has ridden up, exposing your blue cotton panties, worries you. Sure, Jeongguk is very much asleep but you don't think he'd make a big deal out of it.

Maybe that's what you need the most? Not necessarily positive affirmations because while it's nice to hear him say that you're pretty—and you definitely needed to hear that first—letting him see you however vulnerable sometimes feels easiest when you're not expecting any kind of reaction.

You wonder if he realizes that or if he's just winging it; choosing his actions and reactions as they come. After all, he said he consciously didn't comment on your looks when you first came to live with him so that you wouldn't second-guess his motives.

You stay where you are, your left hand softly tracing the inked designs in front of your face. Jeongguk sleeps for a few more minutes, until you hear him yawn behind you. He happens to move at the same time you adjust, and your lower halves bump into each other.

"Sorry," he mumbles, moving back a little.

"No need to apologize."

You shut your eyes for a moment. Waking up hard is definitely not his fault, and although you appreciate his consideration, knowing exactly how he feels in your hand—big and hard—nearly has you turning around, offering to help.

You do roll over though, but only to look at his sleepy face. Although tired, you've at least had a few more minutes to wake up.

Jeongguk's dark hair is messy, endearingly sticking out in multiple directions, and you raise your hand to gently brush it out of his face.

Sighing deeply, he shuts his eyes again. "I dreamed about you."

"Hm?" you voice, amused.

"Not… It's not why I have a boner," he clarifies after realizing your logical conclusion. "I dreamed that Jihyo had a new mission for us, and I got to have you as my wife again. Well, at first, she insisted that Jimin go with you? As your husband? But I fought tooth and nail and told her how good we look as a couple, and she finally gave in."

"Sounds toxic."

"Mhm. Only for you."

"And she really let you go with me because we looked good as a couple?" You chuckle. "No other qualifications?"

"Yes. Dream logic."

"Right. I mean Jimin's a good looking guy as well."

Jeongguk opens one tired eye, staring at you in silent warning.

"What? He's not my type, but you can't say that he's even remotely ugly."

"No, you're right. He's handsome. But what's your type then?" Jeongguk asks, smirking… curiously?

As if thinking about it, you let your fingers trace his features. His eyebrows, his nose, his cheekbones and jaw. But you know that he sees the admiration you can't keep from your gaze as it moves over his face, and he closes his eyes for another moment, satisfied and happy.

He's so clearly your type, there's no need to say it. But you do anyway, heart beating. "You've always been my type. At least physically."

"But not enough to remember when we first met," he questions lazily.

You think back to those months. They were all very dark for you. "When was it? October? I knew who you were even before you came, but I probably just didn't recognize you. I was under a lot of stress back then."

"No, I know," he says, his voice losing its teasing tone. The hand he's kept hanging off your waist strokes your back.

"The first time I remember seeing you at the station, you were talking to the Chief outside his office. I was sitting at Sana's desk, and she had just gone to the bathroom."

It feels like three lifetimes ago, how you straightened your back to peer over the monitor in front of you to catch a careful glimpse of the new intimidatingly handsome officer.

"You were wearing your uniform, and I think you'd just come back from your first shift after transferring. I'd seen pictures of you, including after you won the Officer Olympics, but I remember thinking that even the pictures didn't do you justice. Then you looked around, and I ducked behind the monitor."

"I didn't see you," he concludes. "Do you… remember the second time we met? Like actually interacted?"

You lick your lips, revisiting another memory. "I think so. Like a week or so later? You were entering the station with Hoseong and Ryung a few steps behind me, and I slammed the door in Ryung's face? And you asked me what my problem was and told me to grow up?"

You smile a small smile. Knowing now that they'd just started slowly and carefully putting their claws into Jeongguk, you don't blame him.

"Yeah. Sorry about that. They'd just told me that you couldn't accept that Hoseong didn't want to date you. It sounded so unrealistic that you would've actually shot him—and they had to convince me for like a week straight not to bring it up to the chief—but when you seemed so angry, doing stuff like that, seemingly unprovoked? And then looking at me as if you were surprised I was daring to speak up, but then giving me the finger? I guess I started buying it."

You remember his face; frustration overflowing when neither Hoseong nor Ryung told you off for your 'unprovoked' attack. A show of innocence for the gallery, of course. And then more frustration when you flipped him off.

You trace his jaw with feather light fingers. "Honestly, it was a bit out of character for me because you and I hadn't really talked yet. But they'd been calling me from unknown prepaid sim cards, just breathing and not saying anything, for like five consecutive nights, and I was just so tired. And you were a man in law enforcement and clearly already friends with them, so why would I even bother giving you the benefit of the doubt?"

Despite knowing everything you'd been subjected to, maybe it feels different to hear your side actually intertwined with his because he pulls you closer, hugging you tightly. He's so warm against you, so strong.

"So while I wish you would've talked to me about it, I don't blame you for that," you continue.

You imagine him pulling you aside, alone. The thing is that you could tell that he wasn't… mocking or taunting you in any way when he called you out for slamming the door, but he was frustrated and agitated, and it didn't make enough of a difference. But if he had asked one or two questions that would've clued you in on the fact that he wasn't aware of the full story, the actual reason you shot Hoseong…

If he either would've asked in a calmer voice why you felt the need to slam that door, or even if he'd just outright questioned why you shot his new-found friend or if it even ask whether it was true that you had…

"I'm sorry," he mumbles into your hair.

"I know. But it turned out alright in the end anyway, right?"

"Did it?"

"I'd say so? I mean… I'm in your bed?" you chuckle.

"Imagine we got to go undercover now though? Or if we'd been… civil while we were? Maybe that was the reason for the boner. The dream."

You burst out laughing, leaning back to look at his face. "Because you got to play house again?"

Jeongguk grins happily. "Yes. I can't believe how out of my mind I was, not realizing the opportunity I had."

"Opportunity to do what, exactly?" you quirk an eyebrow.

"To make things right? Say we were shipped out now instead of then and told to pretend to be married? Would you not have an at least alright time?"

You choose not to misunderstand his words. "I would. Being undercover is always a bit nerve-racking, though."

"Yeah, but pretending to be married to me?"

"Not having to be scared you'd kill me?"

"Yes," he says, pulling you just a little closer again as if he can't help it.

"I would have a better time, yes. A good time, even. Do you think they'd believe us, though?"

"They already did?"

"Hoseok outright asked me if you were abusing me."

"Yes, but he was reading you, not me. You were scared, understandably, but I was never even thinking about hurting you in any way."

"Oh, so it was my fault that they didn't believe us?" you tease.

"No? Because I still think everyone but Hoseok and Yoongi bought it. I mean, even they bought that we were married. I'm also sorry for making you have that conversation with Eunha and Hyeji. At least they seemed to believe you, and I also thought it was very sweet the way you spoke about me."

You let out a loud, painful groan. "Do not remind me. You know what, I think I'm still angry at you for that. Wait—exactly what did you hear?"

Jeongguk snickers, and you both know you're very intentionally skipping the heavier side of the topic, how he essentially but unknowingly joked about your assault when you confronted him about the handcuffs.

"I heard you say that you got a uniform and cuffs for role playing since you enjoy, what was it… 'a man in uniform,'"

"Jeongguk, domestic abuse or not, I will pinch you."

He continues to laugh, pulling you even closer. "I beg your mercy. But I also heard you say that I wasn't only hot and intimidating but also sweet and kind and your best friend in the whole world. And I think that was sweet, and it was super smart of you because I wholeheartedly think they believed you were just a bit embarrassed."

"You know I wasn't talking about you, though? I didn't consider you sweet, kind, or a good friend in the slightest."

"I know," he says, putting his nose in your hair and breathing you in without any sort of shame.

It feels like you're moving together, like you've wordlessly agreed that you've addressed the deepest issues and can now instead talk about other aspects without always apologizing. It's progress you never expected until very recently, but it feels good.

"Should we get up? Have some cheesecake for breakfast?"

At that, he moves back, stretching his arms over his head. "Yeah."

But then he makes no effort to get up, just looks at you. It's like you so often find yourself looking at him. Dreamily.

"What?"

"You are insanely gorgeous."

"Stop," you say, cheeks heating embarrassingly as you wrestle your way out of the covers. Being complimented into embarrassment isn't something you thought you'd ever experience, but… you've never been this happy.

"Alright. Why don't you go and prepare some cheesecake? I'll be with you in a moment; I just have to decide what to do with… this," he explains, casually putting a pillow over his crotch.

You grin, understanding his dilemma and definitely not jealous regarding it. Waking up hard, just as a bodily reaction, and then talking about matters which won't exactly rile you up further. Do you rub one out if it persists or just let it die down?

It's definitely some kind of torture, cutting up slices of cheesecake while wondering what Jeongguk decided to do. The knife you're using is dull, good enough for cheesecake and the safest choice for your fingers when you can't stop thinking about his hands wrapped around his thick cock, muscles tense, and his eyes shut in pleasure. Did he stay in bed or is he in the shower?

As you wait so that you can eat together, you take the opportunity to send your mom a text, and you look through your unread emails, answering some. By the time you hear his footsteps, you're just finishing pouring two cups of coffee.

"Am I correct in thinking we're not really doing anything today? I'm waiting on a call, but other than that…"

You turn, spotting Jeongguk behind you, his hair a little tamer than before but partially in his eyes. Like a real couple, you're sharing an outfit; he's wearing the black sweatpants to your black shirt, his muscular chest bare. If he in any way stopped to admire your legs, naked from where the shirt ends at right underneath your butt, you didn't see.

"You're working tomorrow right?" you ask. "Patrol?"

"Yeah. Night shift, though. For the entire week if I'm not mistaken."

You meet his eyes, and you can tell that he shares your quiet disappointment. You'll be preparing for the preliminary hearing, so you'll barely see each other.

"Then I think doing nothing today would be really nice."

You don't do nothing.

The cheesecake is just as delicious as yesterday. First, you watch a short Youtube documentary about the possible reasons humans dream, which ends just as the cheesecake does. Not ready to leave the couch just yet, you do some traditional zapping, ending up on a channel showing 'Back to the Future.'

You pay attention for a whole ten minutes, Jeongguk's arm around you and you resting against him, a blanket over your laps. He's wearing a black t-shirt, having gone searching for it after the cheesecake because it was a little too chilly to remain shirtless. You, however, still only wear his shirt that you slept in, satisfied with the blanket's warmth.

While Jeongguk watches the movie, you think about him. His body, his voice, his face, his touch… How he talks to you and how he treats you… The roses are where you left them last night, bouquet after bouquet lining the walls and decorating the surfaces.

The more you look at them, and the more you think about Jeongguk, breathing his scent with every inhale, you fill with something. It's a blend of confidence and… need? Or a want, at least. A desire to be even closer and to show him how good and confident he makes you feel. How grateful you are for him.

Putting your hand on his chest, you glance up when you feel his soft gaze on you and his hand gently tuck your hair behind your ear.

That's it. Nervous, yet more determined than you've felt in quite a while, you crawl onto his lap, straddling him. His hands fall to your naked thighs on either side of his as he watches you curiously, eyebrows raised slightly as to ask what you're up to.

"I want to kiss you," you whisper, admiring him with your heart beating rapidly and butterflies fluttering their wings.

"I'd love it if you did," is what he says, smiling in that way that makes his dimple appear.

So you do. With one hand gripping his shirt and the other at the back of his neck, you lean down, pressing your lips against his.

It's so different this time around. You've been seated on his lap a few times, kissing him, and while you've always wanted to feel his lips against yours, you've been different degrees of terrified.

Undercover, when you kissed on the hammock, thinking that he was planning to kill you, and then after everything, when you merely feared that he was lying about his intentions and feelings, bound to hurt you in one way or another.

This time, you're nervous, yes, but in a different way. It's more biological, a natural reaction to wanting to fit in and not disappoint, rather than thinking he's just with you because he pities you. You can never prove that he feels the same kind of irresistible attraction you feel toward him, but he likes you. Jeongguk likes you.

His hands stay respectful, one on your lower thigh and the other moving to hold your waist. They're both warm because of course they are. He hums appreciatively into the kiss, and you lift your hand that was gripping his shirt to carefully hold his jaw instead, kissing him slowly. God, he's addictive in the best way, letting you explore this kind of affection without the overhanging threat of a border with no return.

Feeling cheeky, you pull the tiniest bit on the hair at the back of his neck, immensely satisfied when he lets out an unmistakably appreciative groan. Grinning against his lips, you do it again.

Despite his still hands, he's not passive. Although letting you lead, he follows enthusiastically, even nipping your bottom lip at one point. You're high on something, maybe the roses or just him and his sounds and his touch, and you're full of something else, that deep and warm want.

Adrenaline fills your veins and your pulse kicks into another gear as you lower your left hand from Jeongguk's jaw to his hand that's resting on your thigh. You take it, placing it between your breasts, right in the middle. Since you're only wearing his thin, black t-shirt, you wouldn't be surprised if he feels every single beat of your heart against his palm.

Slowly, while still kissing him, you lower his hand, just like he lowered yours that time in the shower. But he catches on, stopping just before your hands venture between your spread legs.

"Are you sure?" he mumbles against your lips.

"Yes," you whisper. "I want you to. If you want to."

"Of course, I want to. You know that. But it's up to you."

You nod, closing your eyes and kissing him again as you lower your hands further, in under the shirt but on top of your panties. Your heart beats heavy with anticipation and nerves when you feel his hand right there. At first, he caresses carefully, rubbing with gentle pressure over your slit and to your clit, and it makes you break the kiss, unable to focus.

He watches you, you know that even if your own eyes are closed. Drawing a shaky breath, you grip his shirt at his chest again.

"Okay?"

"Mhm," you bite your lip, almost flinching when he adds pressure to your clit, circling it over the fabric of your panties. They seem to annoy him a little, and next thing you know, he's pulling them to the side, running his fingers through your almost embarrassingly soaked folds.

"You're a literal dream," he states, his words breathy.

"Jeongguk," you whisper quietly into his ear.

"Does it feel good?"

Leaning forward, you nod against the side of his face, whimpering when he rubs your clit again, this time harder. He spreads his legs and in turn, yours, giving him unrestricted access. It's vulnerable, and you feel so exposed, but in a mostly exhilarating way.

"What did I do to deserve you, huh? So beautiful and gorgeous and sexy; you take my breath away."

If you weren't so preoccupied, you would've gladly clued him in, telling him that you're not this fond of him purely by chance. But you don't have nearly enough brain power, and honestly, you hope he already knows.

Slowly, gauging your reaction, he trails his middle finger lower, circling. When you nod in approval, he pushes it in. You're so wet already that it slips right in, and he immediately finds that spot, rubbing against it as he pumps his finger in and out.

"Jeongguk…" you repeat. It's like he already knows everything about you and your body.

He stops, his finger still deep inside you.

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice deep and calm.

"Mhm, keep going," you hum. "Please…"

Something about your breathy pleading makes him groan lightly, but he resumes, even adds another finger to pump in and out.

"You are so pretty like this," he says. "The prettiest. My pretty girl."

Your grip on his t-shirt tightens, and your eyes are one second away from tearing up, feeling him hit your sensitive nerves every time. His other hand warms your waist through the t-shirt, his hold on you gentle but firm.

Every ragged breath you take, his scent is there, clouding your brain. Him, him, him; he's all you feel and all you think about. His big body, his muscular arms and shoulders, the tattoos, veins, his warm, golden skin. And that's not even mentioning his dark, dark eyes, capable of conveying so much strength but also gentleness. Or his long fingers, currently fucking in and out of you at a quickening pace.

His phone rings.

You don't know who's calling, but you don't spare it too much thought, seeing as he doesn't stop. Two seconds is all he needs to decide his next action.

"Can you be quiet?" he asks lowly, pulling his wet fingers out of you to eliminate the worst sounds but keeping them on your clit instead.

You take a deep, shaky breath, nodding, still with your eyes closed and your forehead pressed against the side of his face.

"Hey," he answers the phone, sounding entirely normal.

It sounds like a man on the other end of the line, although you can't discern more than a single word here and there.

"Yeah, okay, good. That's great. Listen, can I call you back in a few minutes?"

You bite your lip, feeling him casually roll your clit between his fingers as he waits for an answer. To stop any sound from escaping your lips without permission, you press them against his warm neck.

"Mhm, okay, I'll call you back. Bye."

You hear the faint thud of his phone hitting the couch further away.

"Sorry, about that," he apologizes, and his genuine words and deep voice has you weaker in the knees than his hand between your legs.

"It's okay," you mumble, because you absolutely don't mind. He wouldn't have answered if it wasn't important.

However, your knees definitely feel even weaker when he puts in another gear, clearly enjoying it when the your thighs shake and your hips move seemingly on their own, trying to deal with the intensity of his touches. It's definitely not ruthless, but he's braver than he was at the start, rubbing both quicker and with more force, alternating the pattern and motion.

"So mesmerized by you," he says, and you grip at what you can reach of his back.

As you hold onto him, your breaths become shorter and shorter as the sharp pleasure builds inside you, threatening to spill over.

"Jeongguk."

"I know, baby," he encourages, turning to kiss your jaw.

It builds and builds and builds, until those shallow breaths become one that you hold, biting your lip while the electricity pulses through your entire body, and you drop your head to Jeongguk's shoulder.

His fingers continue a few seconds longer, softly and smoothly letting you ride out the orgasm before he removes them, your panties snapping back in place. Still keeping your head on his shoulder, you open your eyes just in time to see him casually wipe his fingers on his pants.

A quiet moment passes, a chance for you to catch your breath, Jeongguk stroking your back in the meantime.

"I'm gonna live a long time on that," he admits, making you chuckle. "How are you feeling?"

"Good," you say, sliding off him and to the side. Your skin is warm, both because of the nature of what you just did but also since he made you come in like, what, less than five minutes? "I guess two minutes is all I need," you joke, referencing his words from that day at the station when he desperately wanted you to listen to him.

"If you think that makes you less irresistible…" he comments, his round eyes surprised yet slightly… wild.

You just chuckle again. Sure, men usually only come once and 'premature ejaculation' is a different 'problem,' but it still feels embarrassing. To show your gratitude, mostly for his comforting words and how well he treats you in general, you grab a soft hold of his jaw, leaning in to place a gentle kiss on his cheek.

When you straighten up, he takes it as his sign, reaching for the phone.

"Well, I need to make a call," he states, slapping his thighs and standing up. "And then… definitely take care of something this time."

You snort, finding him so incredibly endearing and lovable. You didn't look for the boner, and you don't see it as he leaves the room, phone held up to his ear. What you do see, however, is how he brings the fingers he used to get you off to his mouth, casually licking them clean as he waits for whoever called to pick up.

<previous | next>

You don’t notice him at first, not really.

Just a broad-shouldered man in line ahead of you, sleeves rolled to his forearms, jaw tense like the weight of the world is sitting on it but when he receives his drink and turns a little, you catch his expression.

He looks like someone who hasn’t breathed all day. You don’t even think before you speak.

“Is it good?”

He blinks, faintly startled. His eyes flick to yours.

“…yeah. Good.”

You smile. Bright, uncomplicated, like he just told you something wonderful.

“Great. Then I’ll try the same.”

He just stares for a second, like he can’t tell if you’re serious, before stepping aside to let you order. You don’t notice the way his gaze lingers a little longer than necessary when you go past him, humming softly under your breath.

The second time it happens, you’re half convinced fate is bored. Same café chain, different branch, different day. Same man. Still serious. Still quiet. Still nursing what looks like the same drink.

“You again,” you say, amused.

He nods once in greeting. Reserved, cautious, but not dismissing you either.

“You try anything new today?”

“No,” he answers, the corners of his mouth tightening like he’s only barely stopping himself from smiling. “I liked what I had last time.”

You grin. “Creature of habit?”

“Something like that.”

You don’t realize you’re sunshine to him yet  but he notices the way your presence pulls the air a little lighter.

The third time is when you finally ask.

You’re walking in and nearly collide with him because he’s pushing the door open at the exact same moment. You stumble, he steadies you,  palm warm against your elbow, brows pinched in faint alarm.

You laugh, breathless. “At this point I’m starting to think you’re my barista-assigned guardian angel.”

He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. Almost.

There’s a tiny beat, a pause that feels like an invitation you didn’t plan to take but somehow do anyway.

“So…” you say, tilting your head, “do I finally get a name? Or should I just keep calling you ‘serious coffee guy’ in my head?”

He hesitates. Then— “Seungcheol.”

You taste the name on your tongue.

“Seungcheol,” you repeat softly — like you’re pocketing it for safekeeping.  His gaze flickers.

“And you?” he asks.

Your name leaves your lips like sunshine spilling across a quiet morning. He doesn’t smile fully. Not yet but his shoulders drop half an inch, like the world got a little lighter.

The fourth time, it’s morning. Too early for coincidence, but you tell yourself sure, why not, fate can be an early riser too. You’re halfway through adjusting your scarf when you see him already at the counter, profile familiar now: straight shoulders, clean lines of a pressed coat, hair slightly mussed like he’d run his hand through it too many times on the walk over. Serious. Focused.

The same quiet gravity as always.

He turns just as you approach, and his eyes flicker—recognition first, then something softer, almost resigned amusement, like the universe really is determined to push you into his path.

“You again,” you say, smiling.

He huffs out a quiet breath. “…seems like it.”

You don’t see it, but his ears turn a shade pink when you stand beside him instead of behind him. You both wait for your drinks, standing side by side in that little gap between the counter and the pickup station. You’re fiddling with your phone, scrolling restaurant posts, chewing your lip thoughtfully.

You steal a glimpse at him. He looks like he actually lives here, you think. He probably knows so you do a brave thing you might have overthought on any other morning.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

He turns to face you. “Sure.”

You take a tiny breath “…do you maybe know any good dinner places around here? I just moved here a month ago and I’m getting tired of convenience store ramen and trial-and-error google reviews.”

He raises a brow. “You moved here alone?”

You nod. “Yeah. Still figuring things out.”

His answer is immediate, tone flat—“Don’t go wandering into random places at night just because they look nice from the outside. This area has a few restaurants that only look decent on the surface.”

You blink. “…that sounded like a lecture.”

“That was a lecture,” he replies without hesitation.

You laugh, shoulders shaking. “You’re very—”

“Blunt?” he supplies.

“I was going to say intense,” you grin. “But sure. Blunt works too.”

He doesn’t smile, but there’s a small flicker in his eyes, like he’s recalibrating you

You look up at him again. “So? Recommendation?”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can see the moment he weighs whether this is a conversation he wants to open further and the second his jaw ticks, you know he’s made a choice.

“There’s a place two streets down. Quiet, traditional, not flashy. Food’s good. Not overpriced.”

Your drink is called out. His too.

You take yours, turning back to him with a little nod. “Okay. Two streets down. I’ll go tonight.”

He holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary. “Don’t sit near the windows,” he adds, adjusting his coat.

You blink. “Why—?”

“Draft comes in. You’ll freeze.” It’s such a practical warning that your chest warms, not cools.

“You really observed everything, huh?” you tease.

He shrugs lightly. “I know this town.”

“And I’m new to it,” you say quietly.

“Clearly.”

You chuckle. “Thanks, Seungcheol.”

You start heading toward the door, waving your drink. “See you around?”

He doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either.

=

The place is exactly as he said it would be. quiet, traditional, the kind of restaurant that doesn’t bother competing for attention because it doesn’t need to. Paper lanterns hang low, gentle light pooled over neatly set tables. The smell of broth and simmered soy hits you the second you open the door.

“Ah, welcome,” the old man behind the counter greets, voice warm and unhurried.

You bow politely and take a seat closer to the back, away from the windows remembering his warning without meaning to. The room is calm. No flashy decor. Just the steady clinking of ceramic and the soft hum of a radio murmuring old trot music in the kitchen.

When the food arrives, piping hot, you taste it and think… he was right. Of course he was.

It should be a peaceful evening. But then your gaze drifts to the empty seat across from you. You were supposed to have a wedding dinner tasting last week.

Not… this.

You left behind reservations, dress fittings, wedding seat plans with your name already printed next to his. You left behind congratulations that now taste like ashes. And worst of all, you left behind people who kept asking what you did wrong, as if heartbreak required a confession.

He ran off with his coworker he told you not to worry about. So you moved cities because staying meant having every street corner remind you of what you almost had.

You breathe in slowly, forcing the sting down. This is supposed to be a clean beginning. A reset. 

A page turned.

When the old woman comes by to refill your tea, she studies you with eyes that have seen too many lives shift under their own weight.

“You’re a sweet girl,” she says softly in Korean, voice fond and unfiltered, “but you have sad eyes.”

You freeze then laugh. A small one, surprised out of you. Most people don’t look close enough to notice.

“Do I?” you ask lightly.

She doesn’t hesitate. “Mm. Like someone who just finished crying, but forgot to wipe it from the heart.”

The words hit somewhere you don’t let people reach. You swallow and smile, gentle, grateful.

“I’m… figuring things out,” you say quietly.

“That’s good,” she replies, patting your hand. “Sad eyes don’t stay sad forever. They just need time to remember light again.”

You nod, letting her walk away before your throat tightens too much. You didn’t tell anyone your story because you don’t want pity. You just want to exist without being defined by what broke.

But somehow, this old woman saw it anyway without diagnosis, without prying just a small truth placed gently in front of you.

You finish dinner slowly, letting your breathing match the rhythm of the quiet room. When you finally leave, you pause outside under the night air.

The city feels big again but for the first time it doesn’t feel like it’s trying to swallow you whole.

=

He hadn’t noticed at first. Three mornings pass.

No smile waiting at the pickup counter, no soft “good morning,” no bright curiosity poking at his self-contained world. He doesn’t look for you.

At least, that’s what he tells himself because his life is ruled by rhythm: gym, office, meetings, late nights, sleep, repeat. He assumes he’ll just bump into you again the way he always does.

Except he doesn’t.

And when a small part of him wonders why, he shuts the thought down. He doesn’t chase people. Life has taught him that if someone wants to show up, they will.

A few nights later, work runs late enough that he misses dinner. He doesn’t think twice before heading to the familiar restaurant. He’s been coming here long before habit became comfort. The old couple knows him, knows what he orders, knows he doesn’t make small talk unless he has to.

They welcome him the same way they always do. He sits. He loosens his coat. Silence lingers in the quiet way he prefers.

Halmeoni brings his tea and sets it down with her usual soft clink.

Then she says, half idly: “There’s a new girl living around here lately. Started coming by.”

Seungcheol glances up, only mildly curious. “Mm.”

“She’s polite. Sweet. But she walks like she’s trying to remind her feet they still belong to her.”

He says nothing, but a faint, unreadable shift passes through his expression.

“Pretty smile,” halmeoni adds, “but sad eyes. Same kind you used to have.”

That gets an actual reaction. A low, humorless chuckle escaping him before he can help it. He leans back slightly, gaze dropping to the table.

“…that obvious back then?” he murmurs.

“Oh, terribly,” she chides softly. “You came in every night pretending you weren’t grieving something. But hearts don’t listen to pride.”

He doesn’t reply at first because he remembers  vividly the version of himself she’s talking about. 

The ring burning a hole in his pocket. The rooftop proposal. The way his then-girlfriend looked at him when she said she couldn’t do it.

The silence after.

Worse than a fight. Worse than betrayal.

He exhales slowly, rubbing a thumb across the rim of his cup.

“A year already,” he mutters.

“Time doesn’t mean much to the heart,” halmeoni shrugs. “Only direction.”

He huffs softly. “You sound like a poet.”

“I’ve outlived enough heartbreak to collect metaphors,” she jokes lightly. Then she adds, more casually than she lets on:

“When I see her, I think of you. The way you looked before you remembered how to stand again.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. Not recognition but discomfort.

Because he knows exactly what she means and because he suddenly has a good idea who she’s talking about.

Sunshine girl. Bright voice. Hopeful smile. Eyes that lingered a little longer than strangers usually do.

He doesn’t comment. Just nods faintly and goes back to his food, pretending indifference while something inside him quietly shifts out of its resting place.

Not sympathy. Not attachment either. Just a kind of awareness  like the universe elbowed him once and whispered, look closer next time.

He runs into you again by accident  two days later, early morning. the exact kind of timing he would’ve brushed off as coincidence before.

This time, he sees you before you see him.

And it’s different now.

Before, you were “too bright” to him. all soft laughter and warm greetings and earnest energy he never knew how to meet halfway. A bit overwhelming, like sunlight through a window he wasn’t ready to open.

Back then, he saw only surface. Now he can’t unsee what halmeoni said.

Sad eyes.

It’s subtle. invisible to everyone else but he recognizes it instantly because he once carried the same look: a quiet heaviness sitting just behind the iris, tucked neatly under practiced gentleness. Pain that learned to fold itself down into something presentable.

You spot him and your smile lifts, instinctive.

“Morning,” you chirp softly.

He doesn’t know why it bothers him. Doesn’t know why his chest goes tight.

He nods. “Morning.”

You order your drink, chatting with the barista, shoulders loose and light  but he’s watching now, and he sees the second your expression dips when you look away, something flickering over your features before you tuck it neatly out of sight.

You shouldn’t remind him of himself. But you do and that unsettles him more than he wants to admit.

When you both wait by the counter again, you rock lightly on your feet, unaware of the shift in him.

“Not working today?” you ask

He glances down at you. “Meeting later.”

“Oh.” You nod, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Hope it goes well.”

It’s such a simple wish, small, unassuming, it nudges something in him. Most people make conversation out of obligation. You say things like you mean them.

And now he knows you’re saying them even while you’re hurting. 

He shouldn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. But he does.

Why? Because pain is familiar. Because you’re carrying it quietly the way he used to. Because something in him bristles at the thought of you going through it alone.

He finds himself asking before he thinks: “You eat at that place again?”

You blink, a touch surprised. “Ah — yes. I did. It was really good.”

“You went alone?” he asks.

Your smile softens but not in a happy way. More like you’re used to that question. “Yeah. I go alone a lot lately.”

There it is again. A flash of truth behind the brightness. He feels it like pressure in his chest.

You turn back to your cup when it’s handed over, bowing politely to the barista. He watches you thank her, then cradle the drink like warmth is a thing you’re still teaching back into your hands. 

Even after you disappear down the street, his eyes stay on the space where you used to be.

And to his annoyance a single, unwelcome thought settles quietly in his head:

She shouldn’t have to walk through that alone.

=

It’s one of those evenings where the apartment feels too quiet, too hollow, too much like an echo chamber for thoughts you don’t want.

So you go back to the little restaurant. Not because you’re hungry. Not really. Just because being around warmth feels better than being alone with silence.

You pick the same table in the corner not by habit, but because familiarity has started slipping its fingers around you. You wait for your food, phone untouched, elbows on the table as you stare down at the wooden grain like it might tell you how to breathe easier.

The bell over the door rings once.

You don’t look up. Not interested in company, not tonight. Then the empty seat in front of you shifts.

The chair slides out.

A coat folds over the backrest. A familiar silhouette lowers into the seat across from you. You blink, startled, lifting your gaze slowly.

Seungcheol.

He doesn’t say hi, doesn’t ask can I sit there? He just… does. Like the decision was already made by the time he walked through the door.

You open your mouth— “Oh—”

He cuts in, calm, matter-of-fact. “This table’s warmer than the ones near the front.”

“You come here a lot, huh?” you say softly, trying for lightness.

He nods once. “It’s quiet.”

You swallow. “Yeah. I… like that part, too.”

His eyes flick up then just briefly, catching the meaning you didn’t say out loud.. You expect him to change the subject, or retreat back into his stillness, or eat and go.

“I didn’t see it then,” he continues, voice low, steady, brutally honest the way only someone who’s lived through grief can be, “but I recognize it now.”

For a moment you forget how to build walls.

You should deflect. Make a joke. Smile through it. But nothing comes out.

He doesn’t pity you. He doesn’t look sorry for you. He just… sees you. And somehow, that is more disarming than any softness could’ve been.

You manage, after a beat, a quiet: “Is that why you sat here?”

His gaze doesn’t shift. “No,” he answers.

“Then… why?”

A long pause. Then, simply:

“Because no one should have to eat dinner alone when they look like they’re trying not to fall apart.”

The words land in your chest like something deep enough to unsettle the ground you’re standing on.

Your lips pull into a small, unsteady curve. A smile that looks like memory instead of joy.

“That bad?” you murmur, trying to joke but landing somewhere fragile instead. “I swear I’ve… been trying to get better.”

You laugh after you say it but it’s a brittle sound, thin like glass stretched too long. The kind of laugh people give when they’re holding themselves together with string. And he hates it.

Not you, not the vulnerability but the pretending. The way you’re trying to perform ‘fine’ for a world that doesn’t even deserve the act.

His jaw flexes very slightly “Not bad,” he says quietly. “Just… real.”

You blink, caught off guard.

“We feel what we feel,” he continues, voice low, grounded, patient in a way you didn’t expect from him. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

You just stare for a moment because this is not the man you thought you understood. The stoic, tightly sealed, no-syllable spared guy suddenly offering something that sounds like… room to feel. Permission, even.

You swallow. “I didn’t think you were the… comforting type.”

“I’m not,” he says immediately.

You almost laugh again  but this time it’s a softer sound, genuine enough to unwind some of the ache.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“I’m just telling the truth,” he replies simply. And somehow that makes it feel even more sincere. No sugar-coating. No rehearsed sympathy. Just honesty — steady, unembellished.

“Still,” you murmur, voice easing into something a little smaller, “thank you.”

His eyes meet yours again “I didn’t do anything.”

“You sat,” you counter softly. “That’s… more than most people do.”

Another flicker crosses his expression, gone as quickly as it comes  like he heard you deeper than you meant it. The halmeoni arrives with your food then, setting down two bowls instead of one. You look up, surprised.

She smiles knowingly. “He’ll have dinner with you. Whether he admits it or not.”

You wrap your hands around the warm bowl, a little steadier now. For the first time in weeks, dinner doesn’t feel like a chore or a distraction. It feels like breathing.

You scoop a little broth, blow on it, then glance at him sideways with a tiny half-smile. “So… do you always sit with strangers who look emotionally constipated, or am I just special?”

He exhales, something between a scoff and a very reluctant laugh. “You’re chatty,” he mutters.

“I’ve been told,” you grin, undeterred.

“Frequently, I’m guessing.”

“Every report card from elementary school,” you reply dryly. “‘She’s bright, social, and talks too much.’”

“Sounds accurate.”

You squint at him. “Wow. Brutal.”

“You asked.” No apology. No hesitation.

You shake your head, amused and a little relieved that the heaviness from earlier has… loosened. For a few minutes, you just eat quietly. Then curiosity tugs at you again.

“So do you usually come alone?”

He doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”

“You prefer it that way?”

“I prefer not wasting time with people who talk to fill silence.”

You lift a brow.  “And yet you’re… here.”

His chopsticks pause mid-air. A beat of stillness. “…you don’t talk to fill silence,” he says finally, eyes flicking to you. “You talk like you’re trying to keep yourself standing.”

The words slip straight into your ribcage, deep and uncanny. You stare at him for a soft second. “…you really don’t miss,” you murmur.

“I don’t aim unless I mean to.” He really is the no-frills, straight-to-the-root-of-it type.

The conversation drifts after that, almost without permission — not heavy, not probing, just… easy. You talk about the neighborhood baker who puts too much sea salt in his cookies. He tells you it’s because his wife’s family runs a salt farm and he’s stubbornly loyal. You ramble about how confusing the subway map still feels.

He explains which lines to avoid at rush hour and which exits dump you into a shopping maze with no mercy. You joke that you’re directionally challenged.

He says, completely deadpan, “I assumed.” 

You talk about nothing and yet something in your chest loosens, loosens, loosens, like seams being unknotted carefully, not ripped open.

You take another sip of soup and smile into your bowl.

“This is the first normal conversation I’ve had in… a long time,” you admit without planning to.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t dramatize it, doesn’t offer pity. He just nods once, like he gets it more than he’ll say aloud.

“Normal is underrated,” he says quietly.

“And rare,” you add.

His gaze holds yours across the small table, steady and unreadable — but warmer than before.

“Then don’t lose it,” he replies.

And somehow, it feels less like advice and more like a promise.

By the time your bowls are empty, your mood is lighter in a way you didn’t plan fo. Not happy, not fixed, but unburdened. Like someone helped you hold the weight for a little while, even if he never touched it.

You reach for your wallet. He reaches for his first. “Wait— no, I can pay for my own dinner,” you say quickly, already fumbling for bills.

“I know.” He’s already standing, already moving toward the counter. “I’m still paying.”

“But—” Halmeoni appears before you can chase after him, wiping her hands on her apron with a smile far too wise for the argument you’re about to stage.

“Let him,” she says sweetly, patting your arm. “He’s the man.”

Your mouth falls open a little. “That is… outdated logic,” you murmur, but she only chuckles and shuffles back toward the register.

You stand there, awkward and flustered, hovering like you might still win this battle — but you already know you won’t.

You stood outside, waiting for him while he pays. Halmeoni gives him his change, then tilts her head.

“You’re going to marry that girl one day,” she says casually, like she’s talking about tomorrow’s weather.

Seungcheol lets out an incredulous breath — half laugh, half scoff. “No.”

“Oh don’t you ‘no’ me,” she sniffs. “I knew before you did last time too, remember? And I knew when she wasn’t it.”

He gives her a dry look. “This is a dinner bill, not fortune telling.”

She folds her arms. “You’re laughing again. I haven’t seen that in a year. And you’re sitting with someone instead of eating like a lonely, stoic scarecrow in the corner.”

“You read too much into people.”

“I read what’s in front of me,” she counters, completely unfazed. “You look at her like someone who recognizes a wound  and wants to stand guard beside it.”

He freezes just half a second too long — a stillness only someone who knows him could spot.

“…it’s not like that,” he mutters.

“Mmhmm.” She waves him off like he’s a stubborn child. “I’ve seen seeds longer than you’ve been alive. Some sprout quiet.”

He sighs resigned, unamused, but not actually irritated. Mostly because she isn’t wrong and he knows it.

=

He pushes open the café door, same as always: same hour, same routine, same seat by the corner window.

He’s halfway through reaching for his card when the barista nudges the cup across the counter.

“Already paid for.”

He pauses. Slowly blinks. “…what?”

The barista grins like she’s been waiting for this exact moment. “Your coffee. The girl earlier covered it.”

He stares, brows pulling together. “What girl?”

“She didn’t leave a name,” the barista shrugs, “just said—” she holds up her fingers in air quotes, voice pitching up just slightly—  “‘That one scary guy who orders black coffee, yeah that one.’”

Silence.

The barista is smiling. The guy behind him in line is smiling. The world might as well be smiling. Seungcheol just stands there, card still in hand, processing. Then he exhales through his nose, the softest, most reluctant laugh.

He looks down at the lid of the cup like it’s suddenly foreign. He finds himself saying, quieter than he intended,

“…of course she did.”

He turns, taking his usual seat, but the coffee tastes different this morning, warmer than its temperature, sharper than its roast. 

Not pity. Not fate. Just… someone seeing him back. 

He glances toward the door, half-expecting you to walk through it again. He shakes his head at himself. Ridiculous.

But he’s smiling.

The next morning you don’t even get to order. The bell over the café door jingles, you step in with your usual sunny “hi” to the counter and the barista’s eyes immediately light up like she’s been waiting.

“Oh! You’re the girl.”

You blink. “…I’m the… which girl?”

She laughs like she knew that was coming. “The scary-guy coffee girl.”

Your face heats. “Oh God— I— okay maybe I am that girl.”

She leans forward on the counter, grinning. “Thought so. I’ve been waiting for you to come back.”

You don’t even have time to be embarrassed before she slides a drink your way.

“Your coffee’s already covered.”

Your brows lift. “What—?”

“Yup. He left instructions. Said—” she clears her throat and imitates his low tone, “‘If she comes back, put it on my tab.’”

Your heart thuds so loudly you’re sure everyone hears it.

“And…” She reaches behind the counter and plops an oversized, chocolate-chip cookie on top of a napkin “He said to give you this too.”

“…a cookie?” you breathe, completely caught off guard.

The barista nods, cheeks puffing as she tries not to outright beam. “‘Something sweet for someone who tries so hard to be.’ His exact words.”

You go red so fast you feel it in your ears. The girl behind you in line actually squeals, whispering harshly to her friend, “OH MY GOD HE’S LIKE A GRUMPY FAIRYTALE MALE LEAD.”

And you? You want to sink into the floor.

“He wasn’t even here today?” you ask softly.

The barista shakes her head. “Nope. Left it in advance. I think he figured if you paid his, he should… return the gesture?”

You’re quiet for a moment, fingers curling around the warm cup. You don’t have his number. You don’t know where he lives. You don’t know his schedule. But this, this strangely thoughtful, quietly tender thing? It sits right behind your ribs and refuses to move.

You mumble, barely audible, “…I don’t even know how to say thank you.”

The barista smiles knowingly. “Trust me — he’ll find you again.”

And as fate would have it, a few nights later. It’s late, too late for you to realistically be wandering the streets without a plan. The restaurant’s lights were off, chairs all stacked, door locked.

You waited a minute longer than you should have, then another, like maybe someone would suddenly appear and let you in. But no.

So you just kept walking.

Now it’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your footsteps sound lonely. Street lamps hum overhead. Your phone battery’s dying. You don’t even know where you’re going, just away from thinking.

You hug your coat tighter. Then headlights sweep across you as a car passes.

You don’t look up. Two seconds later those same headlights reappear, making a U-turn sharp enough to be intentional. The car slows. Stops. Driver’s door opens. And there he is.

Choi Seungcheol.

Still in his work shirt, tie loosened, jacket tossed in the passenger seat. Hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hand through it all night. He doesn’t ask why you’re walking alone. He just approaches you with that steady, unreadable sort of calm and says,

“…You know it’s midnight, right?”

You blink up at him. “Is it?”

He gives you a look — the kind that’s both exasperation and concern threaded together.

He holds your gaze for a beat, hands in his pockets, shoulders squared. Then, without ceremony, without hesitation: “Come on. I’ll take you somewhere to eat.”

Your mouth opens — “Oh no, you don’t have to—”

“I’m not letting you wander around hungry at midnight,” he says flatly.  It leaves no room for argument.

He turns slightly toward the car. “Let’s go.”

“…You just decided that?”

He glances over his shoulder. “If you wanted gentle suggestions you befriended the wrong guy.”

Your lips twitch, a tiny smile despite everything. “Bossy.”

He starts walking again, a breath of a laugh escaping his nose.

“Hungry,” he corrects.

He takes you first to a tiny pojangmacha tucked behind a row of mechanic shops. Nothing fancy, plastic stools, steam rising from pots, an old ajusshi half-asleep behind the counter. You’d never have found it on your own.

He orders without even looking at the menu, clearly a regular.

You sit across from him, hands wrapped around the warm bowl, and slowly… your shoulders start to unclench. He doesn’t fill the silence, he doesn’t pry he just exists beside you, and somehow that’s more comforting than anything.

You talkabout small things, harmless things, nonsense things. He lets you go on, nods here and there, mouth tugging faintly upward at your tangents.

When you finish eating, he drives again. Not home. Somewhere further out by the river, quiet and nearly empty this late. A little lookout spot facing the city lights scattered across the water like constellations.

He leans back against the hood of his car, arms crossed loosely, and you stand beside him, sipping the canned drink he bought from a vending machine.

You glance at him sideways, and the question slips out before you can stop it. “…so who’s the girl?”

He nearly chokes, coughing once like he swallowed wrong. 

“—excuse me?”

You blink innocently. “I thought you don’t pull your punches. Did I hit a nerve?”

Your tone isn’t sharp or mocking just gentle curiosity wrapped in quiet empathy. He looks at you like he’s trying to decide if you’re bold, insane, or both.

“…that’s not—” he starts, rubbing his jaw. Then he scoffs faintly. “You really just ask things like that, huh?”

You lift a shoulder. “Better than guessing.”

He goes quiet. A breath. A long exhale through his nose. Then, low and measured:

“There was someone.”

“She left.” His voice is steady, but his thumb presses hard into the aluminum of his drink can.

“The night I proposed.”

You look down at the water, letting the silence sit without rushing to fill it.

After a moment, you say softly almost like you’re talking about yourself as much as him— “That kind of leaving feels like someone dying. Except there’s no funeral. Just… nowhere to put the grief.”

His eyes flick to you. He studies you. Really studies you. No bright mask, no chirpy shield just truth meeting truth in the dark.

“I was supposed to get married last week.”

He stills. You don’t look at him. If you do, you’ll fold.

“He called it off the night before the rehearsal dinner. Said he ‘realized his heart belonged to someone else’… which is poetic, I guess, until you realize ‘someone else’ was his coworker he swore I shouldn’t worry about.”

You keep going, not fragile, but raw.

“I spent months planning a life with someone who was planning an exit strategy. And then he left, everyone apologized for him like heartbreak had paperwork and signatures, and I got to stand there and watch people pity me like I was something someone dropped.”

A punch. Another. And you don’t even see them land  but Seungcheol does. You exhale, voice shaking but not cracking.

“So I packed a bag. I left the city, the apartment, all the places with ghosts. I figured maybe if I worked hard enough at… being okay, eventually I would be.” You give a small, humorless laugh.

“And I have been trying. I really have. But trying doesn’t stop quiet from getting loud.”

He looks at you like he’s hearing his own memories through your mouth.

“And I don’t tell people,” you finish softly, “because they always look at me like I broke wrong. Like I’m a vase they want to glue back together so they don’t have to stare at the cracks.”

That... that is the one that does something to him. His fingers tighten on the railing behind him. He’s not expressionless anymore; he’s fighting the urge to go find somebody by the collar.

He takes a slow breath before he speaks, voice lower than before.

“He threw away a whole future.”

You blink, turning to him. He’s not looking at you with pity. He’s looking at you like someone staring at a priceless thing left out in the rain.

“And he wasn’t worth the air it cost you to picture it,” he adds, firm, grounded, real.

He shifts, angling toward you slightly, gaze steady.

“You lost someone who didn’t choose you,” he says quietly, “but he lost someone who would have stayed. Someone who still opens her chest every morning and shows up in the world even when it aches.”

There it is again  that gentle truth he never dresses up, never sugars. It hits harder than comfort ever could. You don’t respond right away because if you do, your voice might break.

And he sees that too.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t fill the silence. He just stays there, shoulder a breath away from yours, holding the space steady while you breathe through the weight of being truly seen.

After a long moment, he murmurs softer now, almost like he’s thinking aloud “…No wonder your smile looked tired.”

You close your eyes briefly. But when you open them, they’re a little clearer. You look at him and for the first time, you don’t feel small. You feel… understood.

Your tears fall quietly not dramatic, not breaking just the kind that finally escape when someone doesn’t look away. He shifts like his instinct is to reach out, to thumb them away, to steady your chin so you don’t have to hide your face but he stops himself.

Not because he doesn’t want to but because he understands touch can feel like collapse when a person is still learning how to hold themselves up again.

So he just stays there. Close enough to catch you if you fall, far enough to let you stand on your own.

You sniff lightly and laugh under your breath, embarrassed at how raw it feels.

“…this is the first time I’ve actually… said it out loud. “First time talking about it again. I thought if I don’t talk about it… it won’t be real.”

“Silence doesn’t make things unreal, It just makes you carry it alone.”

You breathe in, unsteady “I kept thinking if I just ignore it long enough, eventually I’d forget I ever—”

Your voice hitches, quiet but honest. “—that I ever wasn’t enough.”

That is the moment his jaw clenches. Not carelessly but visibly. Like someone said the unforgivable in front of him.

“Say it again,” he murmurs, eyes sharp, serious.

You blink, confused. “Say what?”

“That you weren’t enough.”

You freeze. He shakes his head once, firm.

“Because I want to make sure you hear how wrong it sounds.”

You stare at him, breath catching in your chest. He doesn’t soften the words. He doesn’t cushion them. He delivers truth like a drop of iron:

“Someone else failing to love you right doesn’t mean you were lacking. It means they were small.”

He looks away then, giving you space to feel without being watched. “But for a while,” he adds quietly, “we all think it was us. I know I did.”

There’s no pity in his voice. Just recognition, two wounds hearing each other in the dark.

The night breeze moves gently through your hair. The lights flicker across the river. And for the first time since it all fell apart, you don’t feel like you’re holding the pieces alone.

“I thought it was me too,” he says, voice low and steady. “For a long time.”

“She left the night I proposed. No warning. No fight. Just… gone.” His thumb runs along the edge of his drink can, “I spent weeks replaying every second of the years we spent together. Asking what I missed. What I wasn’t. What I could’ve fixed if I’d just—”

He exhales through his nose. “—been better.”

Your chest tightens because it is painfully familiar.

“I’d go to work. Pretend I was fine. Then come home and just… sit in the dark like maybe the silence would give me answers she didn’t.”

He laughs once — short, humorless — not looking at you, but not avoiding you either.

“Everyone said I dodged a bullet. But no one tells you that relief doesn’t erase grief. That losing someone by choice hurts a different way than losing someone to fate.”

He pauses

“It’s not just heartbreak. It’s… being rejected from a future you already started living in your head.”

“And eventually, I stopped asking why she left and started asking why I thought her leaving meant I wasn’t worth staying for.”

He turns then  slowly meeting your eyes under the streetlamp glow. “It took time. And a lot of nights like this. Sitting with the ache until it stopped being a wound and just became… a scar.”

His voice lowers. “Scars don’t disappear. But they don’t bleed anymore either.”

You swallow  because god, that is the first thing that has sounded like hope in months.

He watches you, gaze steady but warm. “I didn’t forget,” he admits. “I just… stopped letting it name me.”

You don’t speak for a moment you just breathe, letting his words settle in you like a weight you didn’t know you could put down for a second.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t fix. He simply stays and staying is the most gentle thing anyone has done for you in a long, long time.

=

You don’t heal overnight. Neither does he try to make you.

Instead your life just... shifts. Quietly. Gradually. Like sunrise sneaking up through the blinds.

Those “closet monsters”, the shadows of what should’ve been start losing their teeth. Day by day, you stop expecting ghosts behind every new thing. One morning you open your closet and there’s no grief waiting, just shirts. Just clothes. Just your life, not the ashes of an old one.

Some days still sting but the difference now is you don’t face them alone, even when you choose to stand alone.

If he’s there, you breathe easier. If he’s not, you’ve learned you still can. He becomes this steady constant never crowding, never assuming, just present. A place you can rest near without ever being asked to perform.

Sometimes it’s a text at 9 a.m.:

[Cheol]: museum by the station opened a night exhibit. you’ll like it.

Sometimes a photo of some street cat sprawled over a bookstore windowsill with:

[Cheol]: looks like your energy. chaotic & warm.

You pretend to be offended. You absolutely aren’t. And then there’s the weekends what halmeoni calls “your little adventures,” though neither of you has labeled them out loud.

No plans, no itinerary just: “hey, there’s a park by the river” or “heard about a rooftop garden downtown” or “you said you’ve never tried this place, get in the car.”

And you go.

A new café, a trail, an art exhibit tucked into some old building You take pictures of flowers, of sky, of street corners, and you always catch him smiling when you’re not looking.

Healing stops feeling like ripping bandages and starts feeling like breathing again. You exist without bracing for collapse.

And he watches all of it proud in that silent, understated way he keeps everything sacred. Somewhere along the way, it becomes easy. Natural. Like this friendship, this quiet tether between you, was always meant to exist. Two people orbiting the same wound, slowly teaching each other how to live past it.

And then one afternoon he drives you somewhere more remote than usual. No restaurants. No parks. Just trees, winding road, late sun filtering through branches.

And your heart beats different.

The road narrows into a small gravel lane, pine trees bowing overhead like a hushed archway. For a moment you think you must be lost until the path opens into a clearing.

A cottage.

Tiny, ivy-kissed walls, warm lamplight glowing through lace curtains, smoke curling from a chimney like a breath in winter. Not modern. Not polished. Lived-in. Cherished.

You stare for a long second. “It looks like something from a book,” you whisper.

He gives a small nod. “Found it by accident years ago.”

Inside, there are only a few tables. Old wooden floors, shelves of mismatched teacups, handwritten stories displayed between dried flowers. The air smells like roasted beans and soft vanilla.

You read one framed note by the window a little plaque about the cottage’s origins:

He built a home for the morning light,because she loved coffee at dawn.They never got their lifetime together,but this place is the life he still shared with her.

Your heart pinches. Before you can speak, he says quietly beside you,

“It’s not supposed to make you sad. I hope.”

You look up at him. Gentle eyes, thoughtful brow, hands tucked in his coat pockets.

“When I first heard their story,” he continues, gaze drifting toward the hearth, “I thought it was tragedy. Loving someone and never getting the time you should have had.” His voice softens, something old passing through it.

“But the owner told me — he didn’t build this to mourn her. He built it because he learned to love what life is without her, instead of grieving what it wasn’t. And look how beautiful it turned out, even without the ending he imagined.”

You take that in slowly. A life not defined by loss… but by what remains tender, even after. 

“It’s strange,” you breathe, barely above a whisper. “I thought places like this would feel like salt in the wound… but it doesn’t.”

He tilts his head, watching you. “What does it feel like?”

You think for a moment. Then:

“Proof.”

“Of?”

“That life keeps going… even when we don’t know how to “finish” it.”

He studies you. That quiet, unreadable Seungcheol gaze that sees more than you say. 

“…Yeah,” he murmurs. “Exactly.”

For a while, you just sit there the way sunlight sits on old wood, unhurried, real. You’re leaning close to the glass, palms lightly pressed to it, eyes sparkling at every tiny tart and mousse like you’ve just discovered treasure.

You’re not even deciding, you’re just letting yourself marvel. And him?

He doesn’t even try to look away. Hands inside his coat pockets, shoulder resting lazily against the wood beam, he just watches you that quiet, slow-blooming smile tugging at his mouth. The one no one really gets to see. The real one. 

The one that says I’m exactly where I’m meant to be — even if she doesn’t know it.

You mumble under your breath, “They’re all so cute I don’t even know which one to pick,” like you’re choosing life-altering decisions instead of pastries.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Pretty sure the lady behind the counter is afraid you’re about to adopt those cakes.”

You ignore him, pointing at another. “That one looks like a tiny garden. And that one has a little caramel flower— wait look at the bunny, oh my god that’s so precious—”

He doesn’t interrupt. He simply absorbs because somewhere in the middle of your pastry excitement, his brain just… settles. That restless ache he carries most days, the old wounds that never fully closed for a moment they quiet. 

You’re not doing anything extraordinary you’re just existing. And it feels like peace in motion.

He’s not falling fast. He’s falling steadily.

The kind of fall that builds roots.

When you finally look up at him you catch him staring, dead quiet, expression soft.

“…what?” you laugh, shy without knowing why.

He shakes his head lightly, voice low “Nothing. Just… you look happy. It suits you.”

You blink once, small, startled. Then you smile and he can practically feel the ground tilt a little beneath him.

And neither of you name it yet but it’s there.

=

It’s raining, jjust the kind that makes the whole world feel hushed and tucked in.

You’re standing under the small awning outside the kalguksu place, hood up but still a little damp at the edges, bouncing lightly on your heels with both hands wrapped around your phone.

He spots you the moment he turns the corner. And you don’t even see the way his shoulders drop in relief first. all you see is him striding up, hair dotted with rain, jacket half-zipped, breath a little rushed.

“Why are you out here?”  Half-scold, half-exhale.

You grin like it’s obvious. “Waiting for you.”

He gestures toward the door. “Inside is literally dry. And warm. And has chairs.”

You just shrug, eyes bright. “Yeah, but you weren’t inside.”

He stops. For a second, all that scolding just… dies quietly in his throat. He looks at you, something unbearably soft flickering across his face before he tries to cover it with a sigh.

“What am I gonna do with you…” he mutters, but he’s already sliding a warm hand to the top of your head to dust off the stray droplets, fingers lingering a beat too long.

You don’t move away. You don’t need to. Instead, you nudge his arm lightly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“C’mon. I’ve been thinking about this soup since lunchtime.”

Inside, the windows fog from the heat and he orders the dumplings without asking because he already knows you’ll want to steal some. You rest your hands around the warm cup of barley tea like it’s saving your whole soul from the cold, and he watches you with that same fondness he’s nowhere near ready to name.

No confessions. No lightning-strike epiphanies. Just rain, kalguksu, soft laughter, and two people learning that sometimes the heart doesn’t need fireworks to choose. It just needs someone who shows up.

Again and again.

He watches you practically hop your way to the nearest empty table while he’s still standing by the door, holding his half-damp jacket like a parent whose child just ran off in a grocery store.

By the time he catches up, you’re already half-seated, half-wiggling in your chair from excitement. He sets his jacket on the back of the other seat, still frowning, still wiping the lingering drops from your hair with the sleeve of his sweater.

“You’re way too chipper for this weather,” he mutters, brushing off your shoulders next.

You grin up at him like he’s absurd.

“Are you kidding? I love the rain.”

He huffs a little  not irritated, just baffled. Thumb sweeping one last stray bead of water from your cheekbone before he pulls back.

“Most people like blankets and roofs,” he deadpans “You like…. cloud leakage.”

You gasp, offended but dramatic on purpose “It’s romantic!”

“It’s wet,” he counters

“It smells nice.”

“It floods sidewalks.”

“It makes the streetlights pretty.”

“It gives you a cold.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you like this.”

His mouth twitches, that quiet almost-smile that means you’ve already won but he refuses to surrender out loud. Then he sits across from you, leaning back, arms folding loosely over his chest as he just… takes you in.

The flushed cheeks, the sparkling eyes, the damp hair you haven’t quite realized is still sticking to your temple all glowing with joy that’s so alive it almost feels contagious.

“So,” he finally says, calmer now, voice lower, gentler, “you dragged me through the rain because—”

“Kalguksu,” you answer immediately.

He blinks. “Kalguksu.”

“And dumplings.”

He laughs under his breath. The fond kind. The of course you did kind. On a different night, a different timeline, this would look like a date.

But here, now  it’s something softer, steadier. A ritual forming without either of you naming it.

He just sits there watching you glow under cheap fluorescent lighting, and thinks quietly 

Yeah. If this is where she wants to be, then so do I.

The food comes out tray after tray: banchan, extra banchan, side rolls, another small plate you definitely didn’t read on the menu but pointed at anyway because “it looked good.”

Seungcheol watches the server arrange it all on the table with this look that says:  …she is absolutely not finishing this.

And when the server leaves, he just slowly turns to you. “You’re aware we’re two people, right?”

You beam. “Yeah, I’m compensating for the weather.”

“It’s rain, not famine.”

You’re already picking up a roll. “Semantics.”

He sighs exaggerated  but his chopsticks are already in his hand because he knows how this goes. The first two bites: yours. The next thirty-seven: his.

You place the second half of the roll neatly into his bowl like you’ve done this a hundred times before automatic, unconscious and he just… accepts it. Doesn’t comment. Doesn’t pretend to protest.

But when the bowl of kalguksu arrives, the transformation is instant. You straighten in your seat like a soldier hearing a war drum. He almost wants to laugh.

You’re focused. Reverent. Chopsticks poised like you’ve entered some sacred realm of noodle devotion.

“This is my moment,” you whisper, unnecessarily dramatic.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs back but he’s smiling and it slips out before he catches it

Dumplings follow and you’re suddenly in your own world  content, warm, rain drumming against the windows while you fill yourself with broth and soft laughter. You have noodles in your bowl and crumbs on your sleeve and your feet swinging lightly under the table like you forgot adults are supposed to keep them still.

He watches you shovel noodles with the kind of happiness he never uses words for. The kind that fills a room by just existing.

“You don’t even breathe between bites,” he mutters.

“I do,” you say around a dumpling, “…spiritually.”

He’s mid–bite chopsticks halfway to his mouth when you ask it. Not joking. Not in your usual babbling way. Soft. Real.

“Hey, Cheol.”

He hums barely looking up because he assumes you’re about to ask if you should also get dessert.

But then you ask, “Are you happy?”

He freezes.  Like something inside him pauses to listen. He looks at you then, properly, and you’re wearing the smallest smile, tentative, a little shy but clear. The first one he’s seen that didn’t look like you were performing being okay.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes dropping to your bowl.

“I am,” you say quietly.

“It’s… silly, maybe, to be happy over dumplings and too much food and rain and all this but—” You exhale, a tiny breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“—I am. I’m happy.” You lift your gaze again, gentle, uncertain.

“That’s okay, right?”

He should answer fast, he always has a quick answer but this time he doesn’t. Because something in his chest loosens. Because he remembers the girl with the sad eyes, and this is not her.

He doesn’t speak immediately so instead he reaches for your bowl, nudging it closer when your noodles start slipping dangerously over the edge.

Then, quiet, low, more sincere than anything he’s said in years, “It’s more than okay.”

You blink maybe surprised that he didn’t tease you, didn’t scoff and he watches your eyes soften a second time. He sets his chopsticks down.

“You’re allowed to be happy,” he adds, gaze steady “Even over dumplings. Especially over dumplings.”

There’s a tiny laugh from you and he feels it like a match striking inside his sternum. And because he still can’t help himself, he gently nudges your ankle under the table with his.

“You don’t need a reason,” he says “Happy is enough.”

And the surprising thing? It feels like he’s saying it to himself too.

The rain has stopped by the time you two step out and you’re rubbing your belly like you just finished a personal food war you absolutely won. He’s unlocking the car when you suddenly gasp.

“Ice cream.”

He pauses mid–motion. “Now?”

You nod earnestly, like this is a moral decision.

“I won’t survive another fifteen minutes in this weather without dessert.”

He just stares at you.

“You had two bowls of kalguksu.”

“And dumplings,” you remind him proudly.

“…and half the menu.”

You grin. “Balance.”

He mutters something under his breath that sounds dangerously like you’re unbelievable but three minutes later he’s parking near a tiny late-night ice cream stall anyway, because of course he is.

You’re licking your cone happily when curiosity slips out of you.

“So…” you say lightly, but your voice isn’t careless, “…what did you do with it? The ring?”

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t tense just exhales through his nose, a small huff of a laugh.

“Sold it,” he answers simply.

You blink. “Really?”

He nods. “Donated everything to a sanctuary outside the city. Figured something should come out of… all of that.”

It clicks. Not gradually all at once.

Your lips part. The sanctuary he took you to weeks ago. The day he barely spoke, letting you run around and take photos with little rescued animals and trees and flowers while he lingered at the back.

“You… donated it there,” you whisper.

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but nothing about it is nothing.

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t say that.”

“Why would I?” He glances at you sideways. “It’s not a story I like dragging around. I just… didn’t want the last thing tied to her to be sitting in a box. Better to put it somewhere it can breathe, do something useful.”

You stare at him. That’s why the caretaker hugged him. That’s why he stood there with that complicated look on his face. Not haunted, just… closing a door without slamming it.

And suddenly the whole day rewrites itself in your head.

“You were quiet,” you murmur “That day. I thought you just… knew them.”

His jaw softens. “I do now.”

 “You… turned something painful into a place that heals.”

He doesn’t answer at first just looks at the road ahead, eyes soft in the streetlight glow.

Then gently he says, “Some things don’t vanish, they just… become something else.”

You’re quiet for a moment, watching his profile the way he says heavy truths like weather reports, like he doesn’t realize the weight of them.

“And you took me there,” you whisper.

His thumb taps the steering wheel once. “I wanted you to see a place that didn’t stay broken.”

The breath you let out isn’t sadness it’s something closer to gratitude, something closer to knowing.

“Cheol?”

He hums the same soft, unthinking answer as earlier.

“Next time… let me buy the ice cream for your good deed.”

He huffs a tiny laugh.

“You already did,” he says.

You blink. “When?”

He glances at you, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“When you smiled walking out of there.”

You go quiet again for once  because there’s nothing to joke about, nothing to deflect. Just warmth filling the space between you. The streetlamp flickers, a car passes, and somewhere under all of it something shifts. Subtle, sure, and unhurried.

Not a confession. Just another door quietly opening. You make the joke without thinking, ice cream dripping dangerously close to your fingers.

“I should’ve kept mine, then. Could’ve bought a car. Or a trip to Disneyland. Maybe both if I pawned it at the right place.”

He snorts under his breath.

But then his head tilts slightly. “Why did you return it?” Not harsh just curious

You laugh but it comes out a little jagged.

“Return it?” you scoff lightly, shaking your head. “More like he asked for it back.”

His expression immediately darkens, just a fraction. You continue, eyes fixed on the street ahead.

“I think I threw it at him,” you say, a small huff of disbelief leaving you. “Then I walked out. I don’t… remember much after that.”

You lick your ice cream mechanically, not tasting it.

“It was like I was drowning. Everything was loud and far away at the same time. I kept thinking.. this can’t be happening but it was. And I remember looking at myself like… like I wasn’t even inside my own body anymore. Just watching some girl fall apart from outside the glass.”

A beat of silence. You exhale slowly.

“I think that’s why I don’t remember the ring,” you murmur “To me it wasn’t a thing I ‘gave back.’ It was just... gone. Same as everything else in that moment.”

He turns slightly in his seat, eyes on you instead of the windshield now.

“People call it heartbreak,” you add, voice soft, “but it doesn’t feel like breaking. It feels like… disappearing while your body keeps moving.”

There’s another quiet pause.

“I remember that feeling.”

The weight of it lands between you gently, not suffocating, just shared. LIke confirmation you weren’t crazy, that you didn’t imagine it, thatsomeone else has been to that drowning place too and came back breathing. And for the first time it doesn’t feel like reliving a wound, just healing.

=

He’s exhausted. The bone-deep kind. The kind that doesn’t go away with sleep. He grabbed takeout on autopilot, mind already half shut down as he drove home until he sees you.

At first he thought you’re out doing your midnight snack runs again. But there’s something in your posture that isn’t the bright version he’s used to.

He doesn’t even realize he’s pulled the car over until the engine is off.

You turn the corner into a small, dimly lit side street and he follows. Not calling out yet, keeping his distance. He’s about to say your name when he hears it. A sharp breath, a broken swallow then a small, muffled sob.

He freezes. Not because he doesn’t know what to do but because something in his chest drops, hard, like he just missed a step off a cliff.

You fold down to the sidewalk, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you’re trying to keep from falling apart faster than gravity can drag you down.

For a second, he can’t move.

You. The sunshine girl, all open smiles and gentle defiance against sadness. You’re shaking. And it feels like watching the sun flicker out.

He crosses the distance in seconds, footsteps rough on pavement, no hesitation left in him now.

“Hey—” his voice is softer than he intends, “…hey.”

You don’t look up right away. You swipe at your face, like embarrassment is faster than breath but your shoulders are trembling.

He crouches in front of you slowly, grounding himself before grounding you. He says your name quietly, steady, like an anchor thrown in deep water.

When you finally lift your head, your eyes are red and wet and furious and broken all at once.

Your voice cracks through the tears, “He called.”

That one sentence is enough to set something heavy in his jaw. You laugh a painful, stunned sound like you can’t believe you’re the one explaining.

“He wanted ‘closure.’” your fingers fist in the fabric of your jeans.

“Except closure apparently means telling me I made him feel small, and I pushed too hard, and I was… what was the word— demanding.” Your voice shatters halfway through the last syllable.

“I defended myself,” you say, wiping angrily at tears that keep coming. “I did. I’m proud of that. I didn’t let him spin it. I didn’t take it.”

Another breath, sharp, wounded.

“It’s just— I never thought I’d have to defend myself from someone I once picked as my home.”

That hits him. Deep. Ugly. True. Because he remembers the first time he realized love could also feel like betrayal from the exact person you built your shelter around.

You let out another choked breath, hugging your knees tighter, shrinking  not because you’re weak, but because pain still has muscle memory.

He hates it. He hates that you’re here alone on a cold pavement, carrying a hurt you didn’t deserve. He doesn’t touch you yet he’s careful but his voice shifts, lower, almost gravel as he tries to pull you back from that collapsing edge.

“Look at me.”

You do, eyes wet, expression raw, shaking with a pain you didn’t want anyone to see tonight.

He meets your gaze, steady, grounded, solid in all the places you’re breaking.

“You shouldn’t have had to defend yourself,” he says quietly “Not from someone who claimed to love you.”

“And the fact that you did — that you stood up for yourself —” his jaw tightens, not with anger directed at you, “that doesn’t make you weak.”

His voice softens. “It makes him the one who finally had to face himself and everything he lost”

Your breath comes out ragged like his words knock something loose in your chest. For a moment, you’re not alone on that sidewalk anymore.

For a moment, something in you remembers how to breathe again.

He watches you fight the next tremor in your chest, the one you’re trying to swallow down because you think if you crack again you won’t be able to stop and that’s when something in him clicks.

No second guessing. No careful distance.

He shifts forward, plants one knee to the ground, and opens his arms fully. Solid, steady, unmistakably there.

Soft voice, no room for doubt “Come here.”

It’s not pity. It’s not rescue. It’s permission to not be strong for one damn second.

You hesitate — half a heartbeat — then it breaks through you all at once and you’re in his arms before your mind even catches up. You hit his chest hard enough that he stumbles back a little, one hand bracing behind him on the pavement, but he doesn’t care. Not even remotely. He wraps both arms around you like he means to shelter each trembling breath.

He holds you tight, unwavering, like he doesn’t care if you come apart in pieces or melt entirely. Like there’s no version of you he will flinch away from.

And you cry. Not because of your ex. Not because of the hurt but because now finally you realize there is nothing left of that story to mourn.

The grief was for someone you don’t belong to anymore. The ache was for a home you outgrew long before it burned. You bury your face into his shoulder, and his palms move slowly up and down your back grounding, not soothing, as if saying you don’t have to make sense right now.

He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t shush you. Doesn’t tell you you’re okay before you choose it. He just lets you be, shaking and breathing and unraveling everything you’ve carried alone.

You in his arms, finally letting go instead of holding on. And when your breathing evens his chin rests briefly atop your head, an unspoken vow tucked between heartbeats:

You don’t have to mourn what you survived.

Your eyes are puffy, lashes still damp, the tip of your nose pink from crying and cold  and when you finally pull back from him, the very first thing out of your mouth isn’t some profound reflection…

It’s a tiny, wobbling: “…can we get dumplings? And kalguksu?”

He just stares at you for a second part disbelief, part soft amusement, mostly affection that he doesn’t dare let slip too loudly. And he thinks how can he say no, and the truth:

There was never a universe where he would.

Now you’re seated across from him in a quiet corner booth of a tiny late-night noodle shop, a soft yellow lamp hanging overhead, steam from your bowl misting the air between you. Your cheeks are still blotchy, but your shoulders are loose again, your breathing steady. 

He doesn’t touch his own food much. Too busy just watching you rebuild yourself one bite at a time. Elbows on the table, fingers laced, thumb absentmindedly brushing his lower lip like he’s containing something unsaid.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low not stern, not possessive, just sure.

“Next time…”

He pauses, and you catch the little exhale through his nose. The kind a man lets out when he’s making sure emotion doesn’t outrun patience. 

His eyes lift to yours. “…if he so much as tries to contact you again—”

Another breath. Controlled. Measured. Protective to the bone.

“You don’t answer. You don’t give him room. You let me handle it.”

You blink at him, chopsticks halfway to your lips. He isn’t angry. He isn’t jealous. He isn’t threatened. He’s drawn a line around you: quiet, clean, absolute.

You swallow, small voice “You’re… serious.”

He nods once.

“Tired-serious,” he clarifies softly. “Of watching you flinch when you shouldn’t have to. Of someone who lost his place acting like he still has a right to knock.”

He leans forward then, elbows off the table, hands flat as if grounding the words between you. “You’re done paying emotional rent on something you don’t live in anymore.”

“And if he pushes,” he adds, voice lower now, almost a promise more than a warning, “I’ll make sure he understands exactly how unwelcome he is.”

No threat in his tone. Just certainty. A man who knows what he’ll protect, and what he won’t allow.

You look down at your bowl, cheeks warm, stirring your noodles with a soft little sniff.

“…you’re kind of bossy when you care,” you murmur.

He huffs a gentle laugh, soft smile tugging the corner of his mouth. “And you’re kind of oblivious to how cared for you are.”

You try to hide your face with another spoonful of broth. He lets you.

Because there under noodle shop lights and steam and quiet breathing is the first moment you aren’t looking backward anymore. Only forward and he’s sitting across from you when you do.

=

It doesn’t happen in a cinematic moment. There is no dramatic switch, no sunrise epiphany, no “now I’m healed.”

It’s slow. Unremarkable in the way real healing always is  hidden inside little days that feel ordinary until suddenly you look back and realize they were anything but.

The crying stops first. Then the flinching. Then the bracing-for-impact feeling you didn’t even know had become default.

Weeks slide into months, and the ache that used to live in your ribs becomes something smaller, softer. A ghost instead of an anchor.

And Seungcheol… remains. Some days he sits beside you in silence while you fold laundry or scroll aimlessly on your phone.

Some days he just texts “eat.” Some days it’s just a hand hovering near your lower back when the world gets too crowded. He never asks for anything back.

Never corners you with definitions. Never rushes you toward something he already decided he’d wait for. You don’t name it. Whatever this is. But it lives in the spaces between you anyway.

It lives in the way you show up with his exact coffee order without asking. The way he slows the car an extra second so you don’t have to walk alone to your door. The way his voice softens almost unconsciously when he says your name. The way he always leaves the last dumpling for you like it was never his to begin with. 

It’s the way you stop apologizing for needing things and he never once treats you like you’re too much for wanting them.

By the time a year passes, the city that once felt like a half-borrowed life becomes yours.

Somewhere in those months, you built a whole life without realizing you were building one.

New cafés you’re a regular at. Little markets where the owner already remembers your favorite jam.

Plants that somehow survived because you started watering them the way you started watering yourself. And then there’s your latest obsession: Sunday sourdough club.

You text him a picture of your first loaf. Lopsided and imperfect and yours and he swears you’ve never looked prouder of anything in your entire existence.

Then you bake one for him.

He pretends to taste-test it like a critic. Nose scrunched. Slow chew. Humming thoughtfully like he’s judging a Michelin plate but he finishes the slice too fast to play it off.

He doesn’t say you’re back, because the truth is you’re not you didn’t return to an old self. You became a new one. One that isn’t surviving anymore. One that chooses things. One that isn’t afraid of wanting.

And watching you, not guarded, not bracing, not stitched together by grief but stitched together by living that’s what gets him.

It’s the fact that you let yourself exist fully again. He loves it. He loves you in it.

He loves the way your world made room for him without either of you naming it.

You didn’t rebuild the life you lost. You built a life that finally fits.

He watches you talk. Hands moving, eyes shining, that soft little bounce in your voice when you’re excited and it hits him the way it always does.

This is his favorite version of you.

You’re sitting there rambling about some next Sunday thing. A pottery class? another bake? a greenhouse tour? you haven’t decided and he isn’t even really listening to which thing it is.

He’s listening to the way your voice lifts when you say “I wanna try—” because there was a time you didn’t try anything.

So he just lets you talk. Lets you glow.

Sometimes he tags along. Sometimes he sits on a bench outside with a coffee like the softest, quietest entourage. People pass by and assume he’s waiting for his girlfriend. Some assume he’s waiting for his wife.

And he never corrects them.

Because in his chest? That’s exactly what he’s doing. Not yet. But eventually.

=

He isn’t afraid of admitting it. That you’re the best part of his day, that he’s already in deep, that somewhere along the way he stopped watching over you and started choosing you.

The only thing holding him from saying it out loud is making sure you arrive at the feeling in your own timing, not because he rushed you there. He’s already on that page, farther down the chapter, if he’s honest but he waits.

The way a foundation waits for the house that will be built on top of it. When you lean forward animatedly describing this Sunday’s plan, he smiles without even realizing he’s doing it. That quiet, fond, slightly helpless kind of smile that only belongs to someone already yours.

You have no idea, and somehow he loves that too. Because he gets to love you in every quiet moment before you know you’re already loved.

Before it becomes official. Before definition. Before titles.

And he’ll stay right here, until you finally turn the page and find him already waiting on the next one.

You squint at him like you’re trying to telepathically drag the words out of his brain.

“…lights?”

“Lanterns, Cheol.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose and leans back in his chair like he wasn’t just staring at you for the last three minutes straight.

“You weren’t listening again,” you accuse, poking your straw at him like a weapon.

“I was,” he says, and the little tilt at the corner of his mouth betrays him, “you said something about… lights.”

You glare. He’s absolutely enjoying it.

“Lanterns. Lan-terns. There’s this lantern lighting thing, and we should go. I wanna go. Let’s go.”

All said in one breath, enthusiasm bundled right into the plea. He doesn’t miss a beat.

“When?”

“Saturday.”

He hums, like he’s checking a schedule he already knows he’ll clear. “…We’re going then.”

You brighten immediately like you were personally solar powered by being agreed with and go back to your drink, already talking about designs and wishes and floating lanterns across the water.

And he watches you again, just as distractingly, just as helplessly because you don’t even realize you just casually said “we” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t correct you.

If anything, he files it away like it’s going to live in his pocket for a long time.

Come Saturday evening, you’re standing in the middle of an open field. The lantern leaves both of your hands at the same time and it drifts upward through the crowd of glowing amber lights that slowly pepper the night sky.

People gasp and cheer around you. Kids are pointing, couples are holding hands, someone plays music off a portable speaker somewhere far off but Seungcheol doesn’t see any of it.

He just watches you, face bathed in warm lantern light, smiling like your heart has finally found a place to rest.

Your breaths puff out in soft white clouds in the cool air as you follow the lantern with wide eyes.

“You know what I wished for?” you say, voice quiet but somehow the loudest thing he’s ever heard.

He doesn’t even look away from you when he answers,  “You’re not supposed to say it, you know.”

You laugh soft, bright, unfiltered — and god, he feels it hit somewhere deep in his chest.

“I’m gonna say it anyways,” you murmur, still tracking the lantern as it floats higher with the others.

“I wished for more days like this… with you.”

He pauses. Like someone pressed a hand right to the center of his spine and told him stay here… feel this.

You’re still not looking at him, too busy watching the sky, completely unaware of how your words just reoriented his entire world. Then you breathe in, and the rest slips out of you like something that’s been waiting months to be spoken 

“You know what I think?”

Another lantern rises, the glow catching in your lashes.

“I think you’re the apology the universe sent me… for the bad things that happened to me.” Your throat works gently, but your smile doesn’t fade “Like — a correction. Like the universe went: ‘oops, sorry you didn’t deserve that. Here, this is actually what you deserve.’”

You don’t see it the way he breaks a little right then. Not in a painful way but in that aching, stunned, holy kind of way. The kind where a man who’s spent most of his life trying to stay soberly grounded suddenly realizes there are things worth floating away for.

He swallows once, eyes fixed on you like he’d lose something catastrophic if he ever let himself blink.

He thinks of the day he met you. That soft smile at a stranger who barely grunted a response. He thinks of dumplings and borrowed warmth and your first unfiltered laugh after months of hurting. He thinks about every time you showed up to your own life again, piece by piece, even when you didn't notice he was quietly rooting for you.

And his hand drops to rest against the small of your back, gentle, grounding, like he needs to touch you just to confirm this is real and not some afterimage his heart invented.

You finally turn toward him. The lanterns glow behind you like a halo.

“You really wished that?” he asks quietly voice lower, rougher than he intends

“I did.”  Your smile doesn’t shake this time. “More days like this. More… us.”

 You don’t notice the way he leans in just slightly like gravity changed directions and forgot the rules. 

He exhales before he speaks not out of hesitation, but because some truths deserve a steady landing.

“You know what I think?” His voice is low, warm, like the night has made room just for the two of you

You look up at him, curious, lantern light flickering along your cheek.

“You’re the one who finally made me forgive the world,” he says slowly, carefully, like each word is something he’s been holding in the palm of his hand for months.

“How was I supposed to keep resenting anything… when you’re here learning to live again? Choosing yourself even when it hurt? Trying, even on days that tried to break you?”

Something in your face softens. The kind that settles right behind the ribs and says oh. you see me. Fully. And before he can even finish processing the way your eyes shine, you move.

Two small steps forward. A shift of weight. The rise onto your toes and then your arms are around him.

Like all the gravity in the world is exactly where it should be.

He doesn’t even blink before he’s wrapping you up just as tightly, one hand splayed warm between your shoulder blades, the other settling around your waist like he was always meant to be holding you in a crowd full of light.

The lanterns keep floating above, the crowd keeps murmuring and laughing, but he feels there’s only one thing happening here:

A man who thought he’d been surviving on quiet, learning he’s allowed to live loudly again.

And you, on your tiptoes in his arms, finally letting yourself be held.

When you finally pull back slowly, reluctantly, like the world would be more reasonable if it just stayed still a little longer. He keeps his hands on you, thumbs brushing warmth through your coat.

You look up at him, eyes bright, cheeks still pink from the cold and the moment and he doesn’t even think before he leans in.

Not for your mouth — not yet — but a soft press of lips to the tip of your nose.

It startles a tiny breath out of you, that little surprised sound you make when you’re caught off guard by tenderness, and he feels it right down to the ribs.

You scrunch your nose at him, that same look you give him when you argue about who pays the bill,  or when you’re trying to convince him to get dessert, or when you’re too happy and can’t hide it and he smiles.

Actually smiles. The real one, the one that rounds his eyes and melts the edges of him.

You don’t move away. If anything, you lean closer. So he follows instinct. A soft kiss to your cheek, then the other, your temple, the spot just beside your brow.

Every touch light, careful, like he’s memorizing where joy lives on your face.

You laugh quiet, breathy, full and he can feel your smile against his jaw when he dips to kiss the curve of it.He pulls back just enough to see you again, framed in amber lantern glow, and you’re smiling bigger now. The kind that comes from getting something you didn’t know you were allowed to hope for.

Above you, lanterns drift like soft-burning constellations, but he can’t look away from the one thing that outshines all of them:

you, right here, choosing him back without even needing the words.

=

It’s late. The kind of late where the street outside is nearly empty and every shop light except this one has already flipped dark and Seungcheol is standing at the counter of the little restaurant with his hands in his coat pockets, waiting for a take-out bag that is… absolutely not for him.

Halmeoni is watching him like she’s been waiting a whole year for this exact moment. She doesn’t even bother to hide the smirk.

“Midnight craving again?” she asks, voice full of knowing.

He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose “Something like that.”

“She make the eyes at you over the phone?” The teasing in her tone is merciless.

His ears tint red betrayed by his own skin  “…She asked nicely.”

“Ah,” halmeoni nods slowly, pleased, “so she did make the eyes.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling, helpless.

She packs the dumplings into a paper bag and when she comes back she just… studies him for a second. Soft, but sharp in the way only elders who have seen too many lives can be.

“You know,” she says, handing it to him but not letting go just yet, “I told you the first time I saw her. The sadness was going to change, not stay. And you…”

She pats the back of his hand, “you were going to be part of that change.”

He meets her eyes and this time he doesn’t brush it off, doesn’t scoff, doesn’t pretend it was coincidence.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, “I know.”

She lets go of the bag. “And you still think I was wrong about the other thing?” she asks, smug smile blooming again.

He blinks once. “…What other—?”

“You’ll marry that girl.” She folds her arms “Still think I don’t know?”

He doesn’t answer at first. But it’s not denial. It’s the kind of pause a man takes when he realizes someone has said the thing his heart already knows — out loud.

His gaze flickers down, and without meaning to, a slow, undeniable smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

“No,” he says softly, almost under his breath, “I don’t think you’re wrong.”

Halmeoni beams — the full victorious grin of a woman who has never missed.

“Good,” she nods, satisfied. “Then don’t be late. Warm food waits for no girl, even one that makes the sun jealous.”

He nods, tucking the bag carefully into his arm like it’s more important than anything else he could be holding.

As he turns to go, she calls after him “Tell her I said hello and next time bring her with you. I like seeing her happy. Makes you easier to look at too.”

He laughs and gives a small bow before heading out the door.

The night air is cold, the steam from the dumplings curling out the top of the bag, and all he can think, walking back to his car, is that there was a time he ate here alone and now he’s driving home to someone who will be waiting barefoot in the doorway for him, smiling like he’s the warmest thing she knows.

Halmeoni wasn’t making a guess. She was making a prophecy.