Que Lo Que?

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the silence, not because it was unusual but because it never changed. The apartment had a way of swallowing sound, twenty-two floors up, with soundproofed windows your father had insisted on installing before you'd even moved in, it didn't creak or groan or rattle the way older buildings did when the wind pushed against them. Sunlight spilled through the gap in the heavy curtains, cutting a golden line across the pale wood floor and stopping just short of your bed, like even the light knew better than to get too close before you were ready for it.

You reached for your phone without opening your eyes, 8:17 a.m and three missed calls.

One from Jeonghan and two from Jihyo, your self-appointed best friends. There was also a handful of messages, stacked on top of each other in the group chat like evidence being filed.

[Devil’s Disciple 😈]

You alive?

Ji says you're probably dead

I say you’re just ignoring us

You smiled despite yourself, the corner of your mouth twitching before you'd even fully surfaced from sleep.

[Wifey 🥰]

If you're dead, I'm calling dibs on your expensive ass espresso machine.

Typical, you think to yourself as your fingers hover over the keyboard.

[The Devil 😈]

Touch my espresso machine and I'll haunt you 😘

You hit send before dragging yourself upright, blanket pooling around your waist and sat there for a moment just breathing in the particular stillness of a space that was entirely, exhaustingly yours. Your bedroom alone was larger than most student apartments in the city combined. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a walk-in closet you'd never managed to fill and a bathroom with a soaking tub you used maybe a handful of times throughout the year. Yet another thing your father insisted on.

You'll be safer there.

Safer than where? Safer from whom? You'd stopped asking years ago when you fully comprehended that your father had lots of enemies and well, the answer never changed no matter how the question was phrased.

Trust me. He’d said, which was convenient, considering trust required significantly less effort than an actual explanation and your father had never once in your life shown any particular interest in the effort column.

The apartment had come fully furnished before you'd so much as chosen a paint color, wired with wards you'd never seen cast and could only assume were there because nothing had ever gotten in that wasn't supposed to. Three bedrooms, a kitchen large enough to cater a dinner party you'd never once hosted.

You lived there alone. Well, as far as everyone else knew, you lived there as just a witch, in an apartment paid for by a father who was—depending on who you asked—either wildly overprotective or completely absent. Both were technically true but neither was the whole story.

You padded barefoot across the cool floor and pushed open the bedroom door. Silence greeted you again, all the way down the hall, past the sitting room no one ever sat in, toward the kitchen at the far end. The refrigerator hummed when you opened it. Milk, eggs, fruit you'd bought with vague intentions of eating healthier and had, predictably, not touched. Enough food to comfortably feed four people who did not exist.

You closed it again, coffee first and then everything else later. The espresso machine hissed to life, and while it brewed, your eyes drifted toward the dining table by the window—four chairs, four place settings you'd never once used all at the same time. A table sized for company you never kept, in an apartment designed by a man who apparently pictured a fuller life for you than the one you actually lived. You'd never quite understood why he'd bothered with all of it, when he could have put you somewhere smaller and called it done.

Then again, he wasn't really in your life either. At least, not in the ways that would have made the space make sense. Money appeared in your account on the first of every month without fail. The building's fees were somehow always paid before the notices arrived. Every now and then you'd come home to discover something had quietly been fixed—a flickering light in the hallway, a sticking window latch, a crack in the bathroom tile that had simply stopped being there.

No note, no phone call, just fixed; like the apartment had its own guardian angel with excellent taste and terrible communication skills. It was almost funny how some daughters got bedtime stories and you got maintenance requests resolved before you'd even filed them.

Your phone buzzed again, breaking the thought before it could go somewhere you didn't want it to.

[Devil’s Disciple 😈]

Class starts in 50mins

You stared at the message, then at your coffee and then back at the message.

[The Devil 😈]

You're assuming I plan on attending

His reply came almost immediately, like he'd been waiting with his thumbs hovering.

[Devil’s Disciple 😈]

Professor Attacca

Right…damn. You sighed dramatically, entirely for your own benefit since no one was around to appreciate it, before typing back.

[The Devil 😈]

I hate that you're being academically responsible today 🙄😒

Campus buzzed with the familiar chaos of a Monday by the time you crossed the main quad, another coffee in hand, hair still slightly damp from a wash and go you'd rushed through more out of principle than actual urgency. Students drifted between lecture halls in clusters, balancing coffee cups and half-finished assignments while magical creatures of every variety occupied the walkways with practiced indifference to each other's existence.

 A pair of werewolves argued loudly over whose turn it was to buy lunch, the argument clearly a decade-long tradition rather than a real disagreement. Two witches sat cross-legged beneath an oak tree comparing spell notes, one occasionally setting her own sleeve on fire and putting it out without breaking eye contact. A vampire walked past wearing sunglasses despite the overcast sky and absolutely no one questioned it, because questioning it would have taken more energy than anyone had before their first coffee.

That was just university life, in all its unbothered and faintly absurd glory.

You spotted Jeonghan immediately, mostly because he looked like he'd stepped out of a luxury magazine shoot rather than an 8 o'clock lecture. White button-up, sleeves rolled—with an exactness that had to be deliberate—black slacks and his hair styled to look effortless in a way that took considerably more effort than he'd ever admit to. Not a wrinkle in sight, not even after presumably sleeping in an actual bed like a normal person.

It was irritating, mostly because you knew for a fact, he did nothing to earn it.

"You look insufferable."

His head lifted, unbothered, already smiling before he'd even finished turning toward you. "And good morning to you too."

"You knew what I meant."

"I do." His smile widened. "I chose to ignore it."

Jihyo looked up from her coffee with the long-suffering expression of someone who had, at some point in her academic career, voluntarily chosen to become friends with two idiots and had never quite forgiven herself for it.

"There she is."

"Here I am." Jihyo's eyes narrowed—sharp and immediate—the way they always did right before she said something you weren't going to enjoy.

"You left your date."

You took a slow sip of coffee, buying yourself exactly as much time as the sentence required. "It wasn’t exactly a date though."

"You didn't even text him."

"I didn’t think I had to, nor did I think he still reported everything back to you."

Jihyo blinked, coffee cup pausing halfway to her mouth. "You know?"

"I’ve known since the first time he asked me out Ji. The only reason I haven’t said anything is because I knew you were only looking out for me when you set us up but let’s be honest, we know why I kept him around."

Jeonghan snorted into his own coffee, badly enough that he had to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. "You are a terrible person."

"So I've been told."

Jihyo set her cup down entirely, giving you the full weight of her attention now, which was somehow worse than the questioning had been before. "Okay, but what actually happened? You seemed like you were having a good time. You said he’s cute."

"He was fine."

"Fine isn't a reason to bail mid-dinner."

You exhaled, tipping your head back to look at the gray morning sky like it might offer better answers than you were prepared to give. "It wasn't about him nor was it mid-dinner."

"Then what was it about?"

You hesitated for exactly as long as it took to decide there was no version of this explanation that made you look less unhinged and then decided you didn't particularly care.

"My emotional support incubus called."

Jihyo closed her eyes—slow and deliberate—like she was praying for patience from whatever deity handled friendships this exhausting. "No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"That's not a sentence." She says shooting you a glare.

"It is now."

Jeonghan nodded thoughtfully, entirely too pleased with himself. "I've accepted it as canon."

"You just keep encouraging her." She turns on Jeonghan, but you know she’ll circle back to you.

"I absolutely do." He grins

Jihyo pointed between the two of you, coffee cup still in hand, gesturing like she was presenting evidence in a trial only she seemed to be taking seriously. "You're both exhausting and I can’t believe you left a date cause Choi called."

"One, you love us and two it was not a date." You rebut.

"I tolerate you and that’s not what he said."

"Same thing."

She sighed, long and put-upon, the sigh of a woman resigned to her fate. "I hate it here."

"No, you don't." A comfortable silence settled over the three of you as students streamed past in both directions, everyone moving with the particular urgency of people who'd underestimated how far the walk to their first class actually was.

Jeonghan glanced sideways at you, the teasing dropping just slightly out of his expression, replaced by something quieter—not quite concern, more like the specific attentiveness of someone who'd had this exact conversation with you enough times to know when it mattered and when it didn't.

"So." He says propping his cheek on his hand.

"So?"

"How hungry was he?" he questions like he hadn’t been friends with said man for far longer than he’s been yours.

You took another sip of coffee, considering the question with more care than it probably needed. "The fact that he called."

Jeonghan's expression shifted, understanding settling in immediately. "Ah, I see."

Jihyo frowned between the two of you, clearly aware she was missing something and equally clearly deciding whether it was worth the effort of chasing it down. "I feel like I'm missing context."

"You are." Jeonghan adds.

"Are you going to explain?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Because then I'd have to explain why I willingly answer calls at two in the morning from an incubus who isn't even my boyfriend, dip out on a Netflix and chill I was actually enjoying and go let him feed like it's the most normal thing in the world."

"Okay…fair."

"You see my dilemma."

Jihyo pinched the bridge of her nose, the universal gesture of a woman who had officially given up trying to understand her friends' lives and had instead resigned herself to simply witnessing them. "I genuinely don't know if either of you is joking anymore."

Neither you nor Jeonghan answered which somehow only made it worse.

The lecture hall was nearly full by the time you slipped through the doors, Jeonghan peeling off toward your usual section with a look that very clearly said good luck.

Of course, Professor Attacca was already standing behind the podium, spine straight, sharp-eyed, watching your approach with the particular patience of someone who had been waiting for exactly this opportunity since the syllabus was first handed out.

"There you are."

You smiled, polite and entirely unbothered. "Here I am."

A few students chuckled, quickly muffled as her lips tightened, the smallest fraction. "Late."

"By thirty-eight seconds."

"Late is late." She snaps back.

"So is your watch."

Another laugh, barely contained this time, someone near the front actively biting down on their own knuckle to stop it. Her smile grew sharper, the kind of smile that promised this wasn't over. "Since you're clearly paying such close attention to details..."

Here we go.

"...perhaps you can answer something for the class."

She turned and wrote an ancient protection sigil across the whiteboard in quick, precise strokes, chalk dust drifting down like snow. Half the class groaned in unison. No one liked Old Magical Theory before midday, least of all on a Monday.

"What is the origin of this variation?"

You glanced at the board, unhurried, taking your time in a way you knew would grate on her nerves more than any actual delay would. "Which century?"

She blinked. "What?"

"There are four recorded versions."

Silence.

"You'll have to be more specific." Someone coughed into their sleeve to hide a laugh and Professor Attacca's jaw tightened, the muscle there flickering once. "The second."

"Second according to who?" you rebut not missing a beat.

"Excuse me?"

"The Continental Archives classify them differently than the Eastern covens do. Different centuries, different provenance and honestly, different amounts of credibility depending on who you ask."

Another beat of silence, much heavier this time but you continued before she could recover.

"If you're referring to the Continental version, it dates to the ninth century. If you're using the Eastern classification, it's late eighth and if it's the reconstructed variant that's in most of the standard textbooks..."

You tilted your head, unable to fully keep the satisfaction off your face, "...that one was proven to be a forgery fourteen years ago. Full retraction, published in three separate archival journals."

The room went completely still and a student in the front row slowly lowered his pen, like putting it down too fast might draw attention to how hard he was trying not to smile. Professor Attacca said nothing, because she couldn't. The textbook currently open on the podium in front of her—the one she'd assigned at the start of the semester, the one half the class had spent good money on—still listed the forgery as authentic.

Someone near the back let out the tiniest snort, quickly disguised as a cough as she erased the board in three sharp strokes, chalk squeaking against the surface.

"We'll move on."

You sat down, very much satisfied and didn't so much as glance her way for the rest of the lecture. Jeonghan didn't even try to hide his grin, propping his chin on his hand and looking entirely too delighted for someone who wasn't the one currently on Professor Attacca's list.

When class ended, students spilled into the hallway in a slow, loud tide, bags slung over shoulders, everyone already halfway into conversations about lunch or the next class or whatever gossip had made the rounds over the weekend. You barely made it three steps before someone called your name.

Professor Attacca.

You turned, unhurried. "Yes?"

"I'd appreciate it if you refrained from undermining me during lectures."

"I answered the question you asked." You reply.

"You embarrassed me." She continues.

You considered that, tilting your head slightly, genuinely turning it over. "I don't think I did."

"You corrected me in front of my students."

“They’re not really yours though, are they? The university owns the classroom. You just happen to get paid to be in it at the same time as we are.”

Her expression hardened, the professionalism slipping just slightly at the edges.

“You have a lot of nerve.”

“I answered a question.” You adjusted the strap of your bag. “Accurately.”

She knew exactly what you meant. She just didn’t particularly enjoy hearing it said out loud in a hallway where anyone could overhear.

“Have a good afternoon, Professor.”

You didn’t wait for a response and as you turned to walk away, you caught a flash of red hair farther down the corridor. He was leaning against the wall outside another classroom, half-listening to one of his fratmates complain loudly about an assignment, arms crossed, looking exactly as unbothered by the start of the week as you felt.

He looked up and your eyes met across the slightly crowded hallway. He noticed Professor Attacca standing a few feet behind you before you'd even said anything and then noticed the particular expression on her face—the tight jaw, the sharp set of her shoulders.

Again? he mouthed.

You sighed dramatically and mouthed back, Not my fault.

The corner of his mouth twitched. Just once. So quickly that anyone else in the hallway would have missed it entirely, filed it under nothing, moved on with their day.

Professor Attacca didn't miss it, her gaze followed his, tracking the exact line of his attention and it landed back on you. Suddenly, something in her expression shifted—not confusion exactly but more like a puzzle piece sliding into a place she hadn't wanted to see completed.

It wasn't just that she disliked you. It was that every single time she looked at him, expecting—hoping, maybe, in some small, unguarded corner of herself—that his attention might land somewhere else for once, it never did. He was looking at you instead. He was always looking at you instead.

Not with longing. Not even—as far as you could tell—with anything he'd have called affection if you'd asked him directly. It was more familiarity than anything, the kind that couldn't be manufactured or performed for an audience. The kind built slowly over years, out of two a.m. phone calls and inside jokes and a hundred small moments too unremarkable to name individually but too consistent to be anything but real.

By ten o’clock, the fraternity house had reached its usual state of controlled chaos. Music bled from every room, competing with laughter and shouted conversations that carried over the bass. Someone had enchanted the lights to pulse in time with the beat, bathing the living room in shifting blues and purples, the kind of cheap party charm that always burned out by midnight and left half the ceiling dark. A pair of witches argued over a card game at the kitchen island, slapping hexed tarot cards down like poker chips. Mingyu stood beside the refrigerator, arms crossed, complaining—not for the first time—that someone had stolen his labeled blood bags again, as if a Sharpie and a strip of masking tape had ever stopped a single person in this house.

No one paid much attention, it happened every other weekend or so. Someone in the backyard shifted halfway into a wolf before immediately being shoved back behind the fence by his friends, all elbows and panic.

“Not again, Intak!”

“It was an accident!”

“Bullshit!”

The party carried on as if nothing had happened because it hadn’t, not really. Supernaturals had been attending Sopro University for almost two centuries, ever since the founding charter quietly amended itself to admit “students of exceptional and varied nature,” which was as close to an honest sentence as any university document had ever produced.

By now, a partially transformed werewolf on the back lawn ranked somewhere below a spilled keg on the list of things worth interrupting a conversation for. Leaning against the arm of an old leather couch that had survived at least three generations of pledges, he watched the room through half-lidded eyes.

There was always a rhythm to parties.

Excitement, Alcohol, Magic and Desire.

Every emotion had its own texture if you knew how to taste it, its own particular weight settling against the back of your throat. Most people walked through a crowded room and felt only the noise. He walked through and felt the room itself,  each cluster of bodies its own small climate, distinct enough to name blindfolded.

Fear tasted metallic, a coin held too long on the tongue. Jealousy was sharp, citrus gone sour. Pride was warm and heavy, like standing too close to a fire. Lust, when it came, didn’t have a taste so much as a pull. It didn’t sit on the tongue more so it moved through the room like perfume drifting from an open door and it found him whether he was looking for it or not.

Tonight, it found him early and it found him easy. Someone settled onto the arm of the couch beside him, the leather creaking under new weight, a glass of something sugary-sweet balanced between two fingers.

“I was wondering when you’d finally notice me.” He looked up and there she was, conventionally pretty, confident. A second-year witch, if he remembered correctly, dark curls pinned back on one side, a green dress that had clearly been chosen with tonight in mind rather than comfort. She’d spent the better part of an hour finding reasons to wander into his line of sight; refilling a drink she hadn’t finished, laughing a half-beat too loud at a joke two feet from where he stood and angling herself so the light from the kitchen caught her jaw just right. He’d clocked it twenty minutes ago and let her work for it anyway. It was only polite.

“I noticed.” He replied playing up the glamour.

“You gonna do something about it?”

One corner of his mouth lifted, unhurried. “Depends.”

She laughed. “There he is.”

“There who is?”

“The guy everyone keeps warning me about.”

He sighed, dramatic, a hand pressed briefly to his chest like she’d wounded him. “They really need new material.”

“So it’s not true?”

“Depends on what part you’re talking about?”

She leaned closer, close enough that he could count the shimmer of glitter someone had charmed into her eyeshadow. “That you’re trouble.”

“I think that’s subjective.”

She rolled her eyes but she didn’t move back. “You flirt like you rehearsed it.”

“I don’t rehearse.”

“No?”

“It comes naturally.”

“You say that to everyone?”

“I don’t have to.”

She laughed again, something easy, bright and unguarded in the particular way of someone who’d already decided how her night was going to end and was simply enjoying the walk there. The emotion unfurled around her, warm enough that he could almost feel it settle against his skin like sun through a window.

Almost.

Not yet, it never quite landed the way it was supposed to. It hovered just out of reach, close enough to smell and too thin to actually hold onto and he’d long since stopped letting that show on his face. Across the room, movement caught his attention anyway, the way it always did. A familiar figure stood near the dining table, balancing a plastic cup in one hand while half-listening to someone recount a story that required far more hand gestures than the story warranted. You weren’t the loudest person in the room, you never were. People simply gathered around you anyway, drawn in without seeming to notice they’d been drawn, the way moths don’t notice the specific moment they start circling.

Someone bumped your shoulder, one too many drinks into the night to apologize properly. You nudged them back without even glancing over, more reflex than annoyance. Another student tried—and failed—to steal the chips you’d claimed and set possessively on the table in front of you. Without missing a beat in your own conversation, you smacked his hand away and the guy retreated looking genuinely wounded, like he hadn’t seen it coming despite it being, statistically, the single most predictable outcome of the night, at least to him anyways.

He knew how long he spent looking at you, counted them and then looked back at the woman beside him.

“You’re distracted.”

“Hm?” He hums lightly.

“The party’s over here.” She replies shifting just a bit closer to him.

“My mistake.”

“It better be.”

He smiled, easy and practiced, the kind of smile that had gotten him out of more trouble than it had ever gotten him into. “No one’s ever accused me of having good attention.”

“Really?”

“Frequently.”

She leaned forward and hooked a finger through one of his belt loops, tugging just enough to make her point without needing words for it.

“So…”

“So?”

“You gonna kiss me or keep talking?”

He looked at her for a moment—just a moment, just long enough that if she’d been paying closer attention she might have noticed it wasn’t quite the look of a man who’d already made up his mind—before standing.

“Come on.” Her smile answered for her, and she slid off the arm of the couch and followed him toward the stairs, already reaching for his hand.

He led her up the stairs, past the second-floor landing where the music still thrummed through the floorboards like a second heartbeat. She kept her fingers laced through his, her pulse already quickening against his skin. He didn’t take her to any of the bedrooms, those were off limits unless you lived in the house or you were dating one of the members, for the few fragile hours when the house pretended to be ordinary. Feeding required distance, control and privacy that only the upper ranks of the house truly understood.

At the far end of the third-floor corridor, behind a heavy oak panel carved with the fraternity’s original crest, was the hidden room. Only seniors and a handful of trusted pack members knew the charm to open it, the right combination of pressure and whispered intent. To everyone else it was just another stretch of wall. The door slid open soundlessly at his touch, revealing a low-lit space that felt more like a secret lounge than a closet; deep leather seating built into one wall, heavy velvet drapes, a single antique mirror and enough enchanted wards to muffle every sound. The air carried the faint trace of old incense and power.

The lock sealed behind them with a soft, final click. A few witch-light orbs drifted overhead, casting a warm, intimate amber glow. She turned toward him immediately, eager, already rising onto her toes to chase his mouth. He lets her have a kiss—slow, controlled, the kind that promised everything and delivered nothing. When she tried to deepen it, he pulled back just enough to speak against her lips.

“Greedy tonight.”

Her responding laugh was breathless. “You started it.”

He guided her backward until her legs met the edge of the wide leather bench and she sank onto it willingly, tugging him with her. The green dress rode high on her thighs as she parted them for him to settle inbetween—one knee braced beside her, the other foot still planted on the floor—close enough for heat but not close enough for mercy.

Her hands moved fast, sliding down his chest, tracing his belt before cupping the growing bulge in his jeans. She stroked him with confident, hungry pressure, palm rubbing firmly over the hard line of him, thumb teasing the ridge. He let her feel how much her touch affected him physically, but he gave nothing back except the steady weight of his gaze.

He fed.

The first curling threads of lust rose off her like warm smoke—sweet, heady, shimmering with the belief that this was mutual. He drew it in slowly, letting it coil in the hollow of his chest, never enough, never real but delicious, nonetheless. She squeezed him harder, stroking with clear expectation which he answered by sliding one firm thigh between her legs, pressing the muscle right against her heated core through the thin barrier of her panties. She gasped, hips rolling instinctively.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice low and edged with mockery. “Use my thigh like a desperate little slut. You haven’t earned anything more.”

Her eyes widened, then darkened with unmistakable arousal. She liked the bite. She rocked against him again, grinding down with deliberate friction, her hand still working his cock through his jeans in tight, needy strokes. He rocked his thigh up to meet one particularly needy roll, then went still.

She whined, a desperate little sound from the back of her throat as her hips bucked up towards him.

“Problem?” he asked, brushing a curl from her flushed cheek with false gentleness. “You think you deserve my cock after twenty minutes of batting your lashes downstairs? You haven’t worked for it at all.”

She shook her head, then nodded frantically, hips moving faster. The lust pouring from her thickened, shot through with sharp, delicious frustration. He drank it greedily, letting the power warm his veins while his expression stayed cool. He built her up slowly; small, controlled shifts of his thigh that gave her just enough pressure to climb, watching her mouth fall open as her breathing turned ragged. When her thighs started to tremble and her strokes on him grew erratic, he pulled back just enough to deny her.

“Not yet.”

“Please—” she gasped, chasing his leg.

“Please what?” He leaned in, lips brushing her ear. “You want to come? You think you’ve earned it?”

He edged her twice more like that—bringing her right to the shaking, whimpering edge with the firm pressure of his thigh and the low, cruel words in her ear and then stopping cold each time. Each denial made her lust spike brighter, richer, more desperate. She was begging properly by the third climb, voice breaking.

“P-please, I’ll do anything—please let me come, I need it—”

Only then did he finally give it to her. He pressed his thigh up hard and held it there, rocking in tight, relentless little movements while she ground down frantically. When she shattered—thighs clamping around his leg, a broken, keening moan spilling from her throat—he drank down the bright, explosive surge of her release like cool water after a drought. The feeding flooded through him, warm and heady, filling the hollow for a few precious seconds.

He held her through the aftershocks, one hand steady at the small of her back, letting her tremble against him. Her hand had gone slack on his still-hard cock, still trapped behind denim. When her breathing finally slowed, he eased back and gently removed her fingers.

“Good girl,” he said, the praise laced with cool amusement. “You begged so prettily, maybe next time you’ll actually earn my cock.”

She blinked up at him, dazed, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy with satisfaction and lingering want. He brushed his thumb across her swollen lower lip, almost fondly, then made himself comfortable on the couch. “Fix your dress before you go back down. Wouldn’t want everyone knowing what kinda fun you got up to.”

He sat there on the leather couch and watched her flushed and already craving more expression while she fixed herself up before she slipped back into the hallway. The feeding hummed under his skin, pleasant but already thinning.

When he came back down twenty minutes later, the party hadn’t changed. That was the strange mercy of a house like this—time moved differently upstairs than it did in the living room but the living room never seemed to notice the gap. Someone had started karaoke. Badly. A werewolf pledge was murdering an old pop song with more enthusiasm than pitch and a small crowd had gathered less to appreciate the performance than to film it for later blackmail purposes.

A gargoyle had somehow ended up asleep on the pool table, stone-still in the literal sense, one wing draped over the eight ball like a blanket. His friends were crowded around the television arguing over a football game none of them actually cared about, the kind of argument that existed purely to have something to yell about.

He accepted a beer someone handed him out of habit, but he didn’t drink it, just held the cold of the can against his palm and let the noise of the room wash over him while he took stock. The warmth settling beneath his ribs should have been enough, but it wasn’t. Barely a flicker, a single match struck in a room built for a bonfire. He’d felt more from a genuinely good song than he had from twenty minutes upstairs, and that fact alone told him more than he wanted to know about how the rest of the week was going to go.

His expression didn’t change. It never did given that he’d had a long time to practice that particular kind of stillness. He’d learned a long time ago not to expect more.

“You disappear a lot.” Chan, one of his fraternity brothers dropped onto the couch beside him, sprawling the way only someone with nothing left to prove could sprawl.

“I come back.”

“Fair.” Silence settled between them for a moment, comfortable in the specific way built over years of living in the same house, eating the same terrible late-night food, covering for each other’s worst mornings.

“You look disappointed.”

“I’m thinking.” He responds.

“Dangerous.” The younger man grins before taking a sip of his drink.

“It usually is.”

Chan laughed, low and easy. “Someone reject you?”

“No.”

“Worse?”

“…maybe.” He left it at that because there was no good way to explain it that rejection would have been simpler, in a way. Rejection had a shape you could brace against but this was something else entirely, something with no edges to hold onto and there wasn’t a version of the explanation that didn’t end with someone looking at him like he’d grown a second head.

I fed, I should feel full but I don’t. It’s not her fault…it’s never anyone’s fault but no one would understand, so he didn’t try. He finally set the untouched beer down on the side table, condensation already pooling beneath it and let the noise of the room fill the silence where an explanation should have gone.

Monday mornings were universally terrible, a fact that transcended species, ancestry and however many centuries a person had walked the earth. The lecture hall buzzed with low conversation as students shuffled through the doors carrying coffee, notebooks and varying degrees of regret. Somewhere near the back, a witch was very obviously nursing a hangover cure that smelled faintly of burnt sage and orange peel and not doing a particularly convincing job of hiding it.

He claimed his usual seat halfway up the auditorium, the same seat he’d had since the first week of the semester, close enough to look attentive and far enough back that no one expected him to answer questions. Two rows behind him, someone whispered loudly enough for half the room to hear. That was the thing about a campus this size, nothing stayed contained, least of all gossip.

“Didn’t you leave with him Saturday?” He hears but doesn’t turn around, he doesn’t need to because he knows he’s who they’re talking about and who they’re interrogating given that he had only disappeared with one person last Saturday night.

“Who?” Comes a soft voice, trying to sound coy.

“The incubus from Sector 17.”

“Oh, uh…nothing happened. We just talked.”

A pause, the kind that always came loaded with more judgment than the words themselves.

“Wonder how long that lasted, Choi Seungcheol doesn’t do talking.”

He ignored them. He’d gotten good at that, too; filing the comments away in some back room of his mind where they could sit alongside all the others and gather dust, undisturbed, uncounted. The professor arrived precisely on time—the same rigid punctuality every Monday—as if daring the room to be late and give her a reason to make an example of someone.

Attendance, announcements an the beginning of another lecture that would blur within the hour, into every other lecture he’d sat through that semester. He copied notes without really seeing them, pen moving on some kind of muscle memory while the rest of his attention drifted somewhere just outside the room, then it came. A dull ache beneath his ribs—small, familiar—the kind of ache that started as background noise and only grew louder the longer it went ignored.

He straightened almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring on instinct, not now. The feeling lingered anyway, indifferent to his schedule, the way it always was. His father’s voice surfaced from memory with infuriating clarity, uninvited, the way it always managed to arrive exactly when he had the least patience for it.

An incubus who cannot govern his appetite has already lost the battle.

He kept writing, pen moving steady across the page even as the words on it stopped meaning anything.

Control is discipline.

The ache sharpened, a slow twist just under the sternum.

Need is weakness.

His pen snapped, the sound echoed louder than it should have in a lecture hall of almost a hundred people, a small crack that felt enormous in the half-second before conversation swallowed it back up. Several students looked over, more curious than concerned.

“…Sorry,” he muttered, setting the broken halves down and reaching for another pen from his bag like this happened to him all the time. It did, more than he’d ever admit out loud.

The professor continued talking, entirely unbothered and no one asked questions. He spent the rest of the lecture with his jaw tight and his hand steady around a fresh pen, counting down the minutes, doing the math he always did on days like this—how long he could reasonably last, how long he should have to last and how wide the gap between those numbers had already grown by nine in the morning.

The fraternity house was unusually quiet by midnight, the kind of quiet that only ever settled in after a weekend loud enough to earn it. Most of the others had gone to bed hours ago. Someone had left a pizza box open on the kitchen counter, one sad slice curling at the edges inside it. Vernon was asleep on the couch downstairs with a documentary still playing, the narrator's voice droning on about deep-sea creatures.

He tried reading, it didn't work, he’d read the same paragraph, four times, none of it landing. Tried watching television, that didn't work either; he made it through half an episode of something he couldn't have named five minutes later. By one-thirty, he'd walked the length of the upstairs hallway enough times that Minghao cracked open his bedroom door, hair sleep-flattened on one side, squinting into the hall like a man personally offended by consciousness.

"Hyung." He calls rubbing his eyes.

"What?"

"Either commit to the haunting or go to sleep."

"I'm fine."

"You've paced up and down the hall at least five times already."

"I'm still fine."

The door closed, unconvinced and his Minghao’s footsteps retreated back toward his bed with the particular grumbling of someone who'd get over it by morning and probably not remember the conversation at all. He stood in the hallway a moment longer, then gave up the pretense of pacing and went back to his room. He looked at his phone, the screen was too bright in the dark and he squinted against it out of habit rather than necessity.

He could call someone else. There were names, numbers; people who would answer and wouldn't ask questions, those who'd assume exactly what they were meant to assume and be more than happy to help with it. That was usually the easiest math to do at one-thirty in the morning but tonight it wasn't.

He stared at the screen for a long moment before scrolling farther down, pass names he could have called with no hesitation at all until he reached the one name his thumb always seemed to find its way to eventually, no matter how long he tried to talk himself out of it.

Your name.

He frowned at it, like the frown might make him change his mind but it didn't, it never did and so he pressed call. You answered before the second ring which was either a very good sign or a very bad one, depending on what you'd been doing.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, gatinho?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose before he sighed heavily. "Don't call me that."

"You respond awfully fast to it for someone who claims to hate it."

Before he could get a word in edgewise, he heard movement on the other end of the line—fabric shifting, a chair scraping—followed by a man's voice, low and a little breathless, somewhere in the background.

"Who is it?"

There was a beat of silence just long enough to be suspicious before you replied to the person.

"My daddy."

There’s another beat of silence much longer this time and then he laughed despite himself, the sound surprising even him, some of the tightness in his chest easing just from the sheer absurdity of it. 

"You're insufferable." He says to you, not hearing what the person with you replies with.

"Thank you, it’s a cultivated the skill."

He let the humor fade because there was no point drawing it out any longer than he had to. "...I'm hungry."

The teasing dropped out of your voice instantly, replaced by something else. Not concern, exactly but recognition—the particular kind that only came from years of learning to tell the difference between the version of that sentence that meant I could eat and the version that meant something closer to I am running out of road.

"Mmm." A thoughtful hum, considering. "Bit inconvenient, I'm kinda busy." There’s more rustling on your end and a low murmur he couldn't quite make out.

"Seriously?" the man in the background asked, not quite managing to keep the disbelief out of his voice. "You're leaving? Right now?"

"You'll live, daddy needs me." A door opened and closed followed by brisk footsteps already moving somewhere. You sighed into the phone, the sound equal parts exasperated and fond. "Okay. my place, twenty minutes."

He leaned back against the headboard, some of the tension finally easing out of his shoulders for the first time all day, like a held breath finally allowed to go. "Not so busy anymore, Princess?"

"You don't get to sound smug about this."

"I wasn't trying to."

"You absolutely were, Choi."

He smiled to himself, alone in his dark room and in a way he wouldn't have let anyone else see. For the first time all day, the hunger didn't feel quite so unbearable, it wasn’t gone—not even close to gone—but bearable, in the way that knowing help is twenty minutes out makes almost anything bearable.

He never examined too closely why it was your name his thumb found first. He'd learned better than to open that particular can of worms while he was still hungry. It never ended anywhere good so he waited a bit before he pulled on a hoodie over his tshirt and left for your place. You lived a bit away from campus which he liked and he knew that wherever you were coming from you'd most likely shower before you let him near you.

You stepped out of the shower, skin still warm and damp, towel wrapped loosely around you. Twenty minutes exactly. You knew he’d be on time, he always was when the hunger got bad enough for him to call. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside your window when he let himself in without knocking.

You had heard the sound of your keypad unlocking, then his measured footsteps crossing the living room. When he appeared in your bedroom doorway, his pretty face was composed but his jaw was tight and his eyes lingered too long on the water still sliding down your collarbones.

“Gatinho,” you drawled, leaning against the bathroom doorframe with a smirk and deliberately letting the towel slip an inch. “You look like you’re starving.”

“Don’t start,” he warned, voice already rough at the edges but he stepped closer anyway.

You laughed softly and reached out, tugging at the front of his hoodie until he was in your space. “Why not? It’s just so easy to rile you up and you came running to me, didn’t you?”

He exhaled through his nose, hands settling on your hips, fingers digging in. “You’re infuriating.”

“You like it though.” You let the towel drop completely and his gaze darkened as it dragged over your bare skin. You pushed him backward toward the bed and he let you; until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat, pulling you down to straddle his lap in one smooth motion.

Your mouths crashed together. The kiss started heated and only got messier, years of this dance letting you skip straight to the good parts. You nipped his bottom lip hard and he answered by sliding a hand into your damp hair and tugging your head back so he could mouth down your throat.

“You always come running when you’re hungry,” you teased, rocking your hips against the growing hardness in his pants. “Makes a girl feel special.”

“Shut up,” he muttered against your skin but you felt him smile. You worked his belt open with practiced fingers, slipping your hand inside to wrap around his cock. He was already rock-hard, hot and heavy in your palm. You stroked him slowly, thumb circling the head on every upstroke exactly the way you knew made his control fray.

He groaned quietly, hips pushing up into your fist. One of his hands cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbled. The other slid between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. He pushed two fingers into you without hesitation, curling them just right while his thumb circled your clit with perfect pressure.

You moaned, pressing closer, stroking him faster. “That’s it…fuck, you’re so needy tonight.” He fed as you touched each other—slow, controlled pulls at first that quickly turned deeper. Your lust hit him like thick, golden wine laced with cinnamon and brown sugar much richer and stronger than any he’d had before. It always filled the hollow inside him better than anyone else’s, settling heavy and lingering for days. He hated how much he needed it, needed you.

You rode his fingers shamelessly, grinding down while your hand pumped him. “You gonna ask me yet?” you breathed, nipping at his ear. “Or are you just going to pretend you don’t care who I was with?”

He thrust his fingers deeper, a sharp, possessive edge to the motion. “Why would I? After all, you left someone else just to come spread your legs for me, didn’t you?”

You laughed breathlessly, even as pleasure coiled tighter. “Maybe. Are you jealous, baby?”

“No.” He nipped sharply at your collarbone. “Just reminding you who makes you fall apart like this.”

He edged you once, then twice, bringing you right to the trembling brink with his fingers and the steady grind of his cock against your thigh and then slowing until you were snarling and digging your nails into his shoulders.

“Stop being a bastard and let me come,” you hissed, eyes flashing with that fiery temper he secretly craved.

He smiled against your neck, sharp and dangerous. “Beg nicer.”

You did, bratty and filthy and sweet all at once, calling him every name you could think of between gasps until he finally gave it to you. He curled his fingers just right and kept the pressure on your clit until you came hard, shuddering and clenching around him. The fresh wave of your pleasure crashed into him and he drank it down greedily, eyes half-lidded but he wasn’t finished.

He flipped you onto your back, settling between your thighs. His mouth found your breasts, sucking and biting while his fingers worked you up again. You arched into him, nails raking down his back, legs wrapping around his waist. His jeans were shoved down just enough for you to keep stroking him—long, firm pulls that had him breathing harder against your skin.

“You always unravel so fucking prettily for me,” he said, voice dark.

“Only because you’re so fucking greedy,” you shot back, squeezing him tighter. “Wouldn’t want you wasting away on cheap little party snacks.”

He growled and nipped your nipple in retaliation but his fingers never stopped. He brought you right to the edge again, then slowed just enough to draw it out, savoring the way your lust spiked brighter with frustration. When you finally begged—reckless and perfect—he let you tumble over a second time.

The second orgasm hit you harder. Your vision blurred, limbs going heavy but you didn’t tell him to stop. You never did, only gripping him tighter, stroking him with sloppy determination until he spilled hot over your fist with a low, guttural groan.

He kept feeding through all of it, deep, steady pulls that left him fuller than he’d felt in weeks. The constant ache inside him finally quieted but he could feel the toll it was taking on you. Your pulse was slowing, your responses turning sluggish. He eased his fingers out of you and gently cleaned you both with the discarded towel and then he pulled you against his chest, your head lolled against his shoulder, your eyes fluttering.

“…Too much?” he asked quietly, the lethal edge of his nature carefully hidden behind that pretty face as his hand stroked down your spine.

You hummed, already half-gone, voice sleepy and defiant. “As if. Don’t tell me you’re worried about me, asshole…”

He didn’t get a chance to bite back as your breathing evened out into sleep, holding you closer than he would ever admit. He brushed a kiss against your temple—too light for you to remember—then carefully disentangled himself. He pulled the blanket over you, dressed quietly and slipped out the way he came, now fuller, steadier and already dreading how much he’d want to call you again the next time the hunger crept back in.

He stared at the screen for a long moment before scrolling farther down, past names he could have called with no hesitation at all until he reached the one name his thumb always seemed to find its way to eventually, no matter how long he tried to talk himself out of it.

Your name.

He frowned at it, like the frown might make him change his mind but it didn't, it never did and so he pressed call.

You answered before the second ring which was either a very good sign or a very bad one, depending on what you'd been doing.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, gatinho?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose before he sighed heavily. "Don't call me that."

"You respond awfully fast to it for someone who claims to hate it."

Before he could get a word in edgewise, he heard movement on the other end of the line—fabric shifting, a chair scraping—followed by a man's voice, low and a little breathless, somewhere in the background.

"Who is it?"

There was a beat of silence just long enough to be suspicious before you replied to the person.

"My daddy."

There’s another beat of silence much longer this time and then he laughed despite himself, the sound surprising even him, some of the tightness in his chest easing just from the sheer absurdity of it.

"You're insufferable." He says to you, not hearing what the person with you replies with.

"Thank you, it’s a cultivated the skill."

He let the humor fade, because there was no point drawing it out any longer than he had to. "...I'm hungry."

The teasing dropped out of your voice instantly, replaced by something else. Not concern, exactly but recognition—the particular kind that only came from years of learning to tell the difference between the version of that sentence that meant I could eat and the version that meant something closer to I am running out of road.

"Mmm." A thoughtful hum, considering. "Bit inconvenient, I'm kinda busy." There’s more rustling on your end and a low murmur he couldn't quite make out.

"Seriously?" the man in the background asked, not quite managing to keep the disbelief out of his voice. "You're leaving? Right now?"

"You'll live, daddy needs me."

A door opened and closed followed by brisk footsteps already moving somewhere. You sighed into the phone, the sound equal parts exasperated and fond. "Okay. my place, twenty minutes."

He leaned back against the headboard, some of the tension finally easing out of his shoulders for the first time all day, like a held breath finally allowed to go.

"Not so busy anymore, Princess?"

"You don't get to sound smug about this."

"I wasn't trying to."

"You absolutely were, Choi."

He smiled to himself, alone in a dark room and in a way he wouldn't have let anyone else see. For the first time all day, the hunger didn't feel quite so unbearable, it wasn’t gone—not even close to gone—but bearable, in the way that knowing help is twenty minutes out makes almost anything bearable.

He never examined too closely why it was your name his thumb found first. He'd learned better than to open that can of worms while he was still hungry. It never ended anywhere good so he waited a bit before he pulled on a hoodie over his tshirt and left for your place. You lived a bit away from campus which he liked and he knew that wherever you were coming from you'd most likely shower before you let him near you.

You stepped out of the shower, skin still warm and damp, towel wrapped loosely around you. Twenty minutes exactly. You knew he’d be on time, he always was when the hunger got bad enough for him to call. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the city outside your window.

He let himself in without knocking. You had heard the sound of your keypad unlocking, then his measured footsteps crossing the living room. When he appeared in your bedroom doorway, his pretty face was composed but his jaw was tight and his eyes lingered too long on the water still sliding down your collarbones.

“Gatinho,” you drawled, leaning against the bathroom doorframe with a smirk and deliberately letting the towel slip an inch. “You look like you’re starving.”

“Don’t start,” he warned, voice already rough at the edges but he stepped closer anyway.

You laughed softly and reached out, tugging at the front of his hoodie until he was in your space. “Why not? It’s so easy to rile you up and you came running to me, didn’t you?”

He exhaled through his nose, hands settling on your hips, fingers digging in. “You’re infuriating.”

“You like it though.” You let the towel drop completely and his gaze darkened as it dragged over your bare skin. You pushed him backward toward the bed and he let you—until the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sat, pulling you down to straddle his lap in one smooth motion.

Your mouths crashed together. The kiss started heated and only got messier, years of this dance letting you skip straight to the good parts. You nipped his bottom lip hard and he answered by sliding a hand into your damp hair and tugging your head back so he could mouth down your throat.

“You always come running when you’re hungry,” you teased, rocking your hips against the growing hardness in his pants. “Makes a girl feel special.”

“Shut up,” he muttered against your skin but you felt him smile.

You worked his belt open with practiced fingers, slipping your hand inside to wrap around his cock. He was already rock-hard, hot and heavy in your palm. You stroked him slowly, thumb circling the head on every upstroke exactly the way you knew made his control fray.

He groaned quietly, hips pushing up into your fist. One of his hands cupped your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple until it pebbled. The other slid between your legs, fingers finding you slick and ready. He pushed two fingers into you without hesitation, curling them just right while his thumb circled your clit with perfect pressure.

You moaned, pressing closer, stroking him faster. “That’s it…fuck, you’re so needy tonight.”

He fed as you touched each other—slow, controlled pulls at first that quickly turned deeper. Your lust hit him like thick, golden wine laced with cinnamon and brown sugar—richer, stronger than any he’d had before. It always filled the hollow inside him better than anyone else’s, settling heavy and lingering for days. He hated how much he needed it, needed you.

You rode his fingers shamelessly, grinding down while your hand pumped him. “You gonna ask me yet?” you breathed, nipping at his ear. “Or are you just going to pretend you don’t care who I was with?”

He thrust his fingers deeper, a sharp, possessive edge to the motion. “Why would I? After all, you left someone else just to come spread your legs for me, didn’t you?”

You laughed breathlessly, even as pleasure coiled tighter. “Maybe. Are you jealous, baby?”

“No.” He nipped sharply at your collarbone. “Just reminding you who makes you fall apart like this.”

He edged you once, then twice—bringing you right to the trembling brink with his fingers and the steady grind of his cock against your thigh, then slowing until you were snarling and digging your nails into his shoulders.

“Stop being a bastard and let me come,” you hissed, eyes flashing with that fiery temper he secretly craved.

He smiled against your neck, sharp and dangerous. “Beg nicer.”

You did, bratty and filthy and sweet all at once, calling him every name you could think of between gasps until he finally gave it to you. He curled his fingers just right and kept the pressure on your clit until you came hard, shuddering and clenching around him. The fresh wave of your pleasure crashed into him and he drank it down greedily, eyes half-lidded but he wasn’t finished.

He flipped you onto your back, settling between your thighs. His mouth found your breasts, sucking and biting while his fingers worked you up again. You arched into him, nails raking down his back, legs wrapping around his waist. His jeans were shoved down just enough for you to keep stroking him—long, firm pulls that had him breathing harder against your skin.

“You always unravel so fucking prettily for me,” he said, voice dark.

“Only because you’re so fucking greedy,” you shot back, squeezing him tighter. “Wouldn’t want you wasting away on cheap little party snacks.”

It started innocently enough or at least that’s what Yunho told himself.

The problem began three months ago when he’d made that stupid comment to Lee Chan. He hadn’t meant anything by it, just venting about how you were always there, always in his space, always making things difficult when he tried to have any semblance of a personal life. He’d called you annoying, a yapping nuisance, had said it was good riddance when you went quiet. He hadn’t known you were listening, hadn’t known you’d finally mastered the size manipulation you’d been working on for years, probably wanting to surprise him.

And now, well now he was paying for it in the most torturous way possible.

Because you—his Isabel, his familiar for ten god-damned years—was suddenly human-sized and walking around the shared quarters like you owned the place. Which, technically, you kind of did. Mingi had insisted on giving you the guest room years ago, filling it with tiny furniture and trinkets that you loved back when you were palm-sized and would curl up in his hair while he worked.

Back when things were simple.

Now you were tall enough to meet his eyes. Curved in ways that made his mouth go dry and you’ve decided that clothes were optional.

“It’s not my fault neither of you have taken me shopping,” you said with a shrug when Mingi had stammered something about modesty on day three of this new arrangement. You had been wearing one of Mingi’s shirts—just the shirt—and the hem barely covered the tops of your thighs.

Yunho had left the room before he could say something stupid. The worst part was that you knew exactly what you were doing.

He’d catch you watching him sometimes, those luminous eyes that glowed with elemental magic tracking his movements with predatory focus. The same possessive energy you used to radiate when you would chase off anyone who got too close to him, now redirected into something that made his skin prickle with awareness. You had always been possessive. He’d just never realized how much he liked it until you stopped directing it at him. Now, you were directing it at Mingi instead.

Yunho had walked in on them twice more since that first night. Nothing as intense as that initial discovery, but enough. You perched on the kitchen counter while Mingi cooked, your legs wrapped around his waist. You braiding Mingi’s hair while sitting in his lap, your fingers gentle and intimate in a way that made Yunho’s chest tight. You laughing at something Mingi said, that tinkling sound he used to hear every day now reserved for someone else.

It was driving him insane.

“You’re staring again,” Chan said during training one afternoon, nearly taking Yunho’s head off with a practice sword.

Yunho snapped back to attention, parrying the next blow. “I’m not staring.”

“You’ve been distracted for weeks.” Chan pressed his advantage, forcing Yunho back three steps. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Does it have something to do with Isabel?”

Yunho’s magic flared involuntarily, wind whipping around them hard enough to send Chan skidding backward. “I said no.”

Chan held up his hands in surrender but his expression was knowing. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about what I said that day. I didn’t realize she was listening.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Yunho lowered his sword, trying to rein in his magic. He could feel your power humming alongside his own, that constant presence he’d taken for granted for a decade. You hadn’t broken the bond, hadn’t left him…not really.

So why did it feel like you had?

“Clearly it does matter,” Chan said quietly. “You’ve been a wreck since she went quiet and now that she’s back but different—”

“Drop it.” Which Chan wisely did but that night, alone in his room with the thin wall separating him from the guest room where you slept, Yunho finally let himself acknowledge the truth.

He missed you, not just your presence or your magic or even your incessant commentary on everything he did. He missed you. The way you’d curl up on his shoulder when he was stressed. The way you’d sing old fairy songs when you thought he was asleep. The way you’d been his constant companion through everything—every mission, every injury, every lonely night at the magic knight base.

You’d chosen him, out of everyone in the kingdom, every mage you could have bonded with, you’d chosen him. A nobody from the church with dreams so big he sometimes wondered if him and Mingi were in over their heads. He’d called you annoying, he’d said it was good riddance when you went quiet.

God, he was an idiot.

The problem—the real, fundamental problem—was that he couldn’t figure out what he actually wanted from you now, because yes, he missed your old dynamic, missed having you buzz around his head and tease him and be his partner but he also couldn’t stop thinking about the way your body looked in Mingi’s shirt. The curve of your waist, the length of your legs, the sound of your gasps when Mingi had kissed you.

He wanted you back, but he also wanted…more. Which was insane because up until three months ago, you’d fit in the palm of his hand. Yunho groaned, pressing his palms against his eyes. This was wrong. You were his familiar. His spirit partner. There were rules about this kind of thing, weren’t there? Ethical concerns? Power dynamics to consider?

Except you had never been under his power. You were one of the most powerful elemental spirits in existence, choosing to share your magic with him out of what? Partnership? Companionship? Love? His heart kicked hard against his ribs at the thought.

All those years of you flirting with him, being possessive, chasing off potential lovers. He’d thought you were just being territorial about your chosen mage. Spirits were known for being protective of their bonded partners but what if it had been more than that?

What if you’d been trying to tell him something and he’d been too blind—too convinced that nothing could happen between them because of the size difference—to see it?

Through the wall, he heard you laugh at something. Probably Mingi saying something stupid and the sound sent warmth cascading through their bond, your joy bleeding into his awareness like sunshine. You were happy, even mad at him, even pointedly ignoring him, you were happy here and he’d almost lost you completely. Yunho stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet sounds of life from the room next door and acknowledged the truth he’d been avoiding for weeks now.

He had a thing for his possessive little familiar. More than a thing. He wanted you back by his side, wanted your attention focused on him again, wanted to be the one making you laugh like that.

Wanted to know what your lips tasted like. What sounds you’d make if he—

Stop.

Yunho cut off that train of thought before it could go any further. This was complicated enough without adding sexual tension to the mix. Even if the sexual tension was very much already present, at least on his end. Even if he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the way you’d looked straddling Mingi’s lap, the way your body had moved, the little sounds you’d made.

Even if a very possessive, very primal part of him kept insisting that you were his and he should do something about Mingi putting his hands all over you. Yunho had never been the jealous type. Had never understood people who got territorial about their partners but apparently, when it came to you, he was discovering all sorts of things about himself he hadn’t known. Like the fact that watching you with someone else made him want to burn the whole building down. Like the fact that he’d apparently been halfway in love with you for years and too stupid to realize it.

Like the fact that he was absolutely, completely, thoroughly screwed because you were still mad at him. Still avoiding him, still directing all your attention and affection at Mingi, who was a good enough friend not to rub it in but definitely aware of what was happening and Yunho had no idea how to fix it.

Hongjoong was trying to kill him. It was the only explanation why the Captain of their squad had been assigning them back-to-back missions for the past month, leaving Yunho barely any time to eat or sleep, let alone deal with his you situation. Which meant you were still wandering around the living quarters in varying states of undress and Yunho was losing his mind.

“We need to take her shopping,” he told Mingi one morning, pointedly not looking at where you were curled up on the couch in nothing but one of his oversized shirts, your legs tucked under you as you read through one of the grimoires from the shared library.

“When?” Mingi asked reasonably, shoving supplies into his pack for their next mission. “We’ve barely been home.”

“I don’t know, but—” Yunho gestured vaguely in your direction. “This can’t continue.”

You looked up, one delicate eyebrow raised. “Am I bothering you, Yunho?”

It was the first time you’ve directly addressed him in weeks. Your voice was sweet, innocent. Absolutely lethal.

“You’re—” He couldn’t say what he wanted to say. That yes, you were bothering him. That he couldn’t think straight when you were around. That he’d started taking cold showers twice a day and it wasn’t helping. “You need clothes.”

“I have clothes.” You gestured down at the shirt. “Mingi’s been very generous.”

The emphasis on Mingi’s name was deliberate. A reminder of exactly who was taking care of you while Yunho floundered.

“Proper clothes,” Yunho ground out.

“Then take me shopping.” You returned to your book, effectively dismissing him. “Oh wait, you’re too busy.”

Mingi winced. “Isa—”

“It’s fine.” You turned a page, still not looking at Yunho. “I’m used to it.”

The words hit harder than any physical blow could have.

“That’s not fair,” Yunho said quietly.

“Isn’t it?” Now you did look up, and the hurt in your eyes made his chest constrict. “Ten years, Yunho. Ten years I’ve been by your side and you couldn’t even be bothered to learn enough about me to know I was working on size manipulation. Couldn’t be bothered to wonder why I might want that.”

“Isabel—”

“I’m not finished.” Your magic flared, the temperature in the room dropping several degrees as frost spread across the windows. “I chose you. Out of everyone, I chose you and you called me annoying. You said it was good riddance when I went quiet.”

Yunho felt like he’d been punched. “I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, you did.” You stood and even barefeet you were tall enough to look him almost in the eye. “You meant every word and that’s fine. You don’t owe me anything just because we’re bonded but don’t pretend you suddenly care about my welfare now. We both know you’re just annoyed that I’m not making your life easier anymore.”

“That’s not—” Yunho started, but you were already walking away, heading back to your room.

“We should go,” Mingi said softly. “Hongjoong’s waiting.”

Yunho wanted to argue. Wanted to follow you and make you listen, make you understand that he did care, that he’d been an idiot but he was trying to fix it.

But Mingi was right, they had a mission. So he left and the whole time he was gone, all he could think about was the hurt in your eyes.

The pattern continued. They’d come back from missions exhausted, and you would be there. Sometimes reading. Sometimes cooking or sometimes just existing in their space, comfortable and confident and completely ignoring Yunho.

You’d help on missions when necessary, your magic would flare alongside his, amplifying his abilities the way it had for ten years but the moment the danger passed, you’d retreat again and Yunho was starting to understand what he’d lost. All those years of easy companionship. Of your constant presence and of knowing someone had his back no matter what. He’d taken it for granted…worse, he’d taken you for granted.

“You should apologize,” Chan said one night when they were posted on watch duty together.

“I tried. She won’t listen.”

“Did you actually apologize, or did you just try to explain?” Chan gave him a knowing look. “Because I know you, Yunho. You’re great at justifying your actions. Less great at admitting when you’re wrong.”

Yunho wanted to argue, but Chan wasn’t wrong.

“I don’t know what to say to her.”

“Start with ‘I’m sorry’ and go from there.” Chan stretched, his joints popping. “And maybe figure out what you actually want from her before you do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come on, man. You’re not subtle.” Chan’s grin was wicked. “You’ve been watching her like a starving man watches food. Either you want her back as your familiar, or you want her back as something more. Figure out which one it is before you talk to her.”

“It’s not—” Yunho stopped. Because what was the point in lying? “It’s complicated.”

“Why? Because she used to be small?” Chan shrugged. “She’s not small anymore and from what Mingi tells me, she never wants to be that small again. Something about finally being able to interact with the world properly.”

That was news to Yunho. “She told Mingi that?”

“They talk. You should try it sometime.”

Yunho filed that information away. You didn’t want to be palm-sized anymore. Which meant this wasn’t temporary. Wasn’t something you’d reverse once she forgave him. This was who you were now. Human-sized and independent and apparently done with him. Unless he could figure out how to fix this.

The breakthrough came three weeks into the month from hell. Yunho came home early from a mission—some low-level demon that had barely required his attention—and found you in the kitchen. Actually in the kitchen this time, not draped over Mingi.

You were trying to cook from the looks of it as there were ingredients spread across every available surface, and you were frowning at a recipe book like it had personally offended you.

“Need help?” The words were out before Yunho could stop them.

You stiffened, not looking at him. “I’m fine.”

“You’re about to add salt instead of sugar to that batter.”

You glanced down, then huffed in frustration. “These human recipes are needlessly complicated.”

“What are you trying to make?”

“Cookies.” You said it like a challenge. “Mingi mentioned liking them, so I thought—” you cut yourself off, like you’d revealed too much.

Something warm unfurled in Yunho’s chest. You were trying to do something nice for Mingi. Of course you were but also, you didn’t know how to bake because why would you ? You’d been palm-sized for most of your existence.

“Let me help,” Yunho said before he could think better of it.

“I don’t need—”

“I know you don’t need my help. I’m offering anyway.” He moved into the kitchen slowly, like approaching a skittish animal. “Please?”

You studied him for a long moment, your expression unreadable. Then, finally, you  stepped aside. “Fine but only because I don’t want to waste the ingredients.”

It wasn’t much but it was more than he’d gotten from you in weeks. You worked in silence at first, Yunho measuring out ingredients while you followed the recipe instructions. It was awkward, both of you hyper-aware of the other’s presence, but it was also…nice. Familiar in a way Yunho hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

“Why cookies?” he asked eventually.

“I told you. Mingi likes them.”

“But why do you care what Mingi likes?”

The question came out sharper than he’d intended. Your hands stilled and when you looked at him, your expression was carefully neutral.

“Because Mingi’s been kind to me. He doesn’t treat me like an inconvenience.”

Yunho flinched. “I never—”

“You did.” You turned back to the mixing bowl, stirring with more force than necessary. “You do. You always have, you just hid it better before.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” You slammed the spoon down. “Ten years, Yunho. Ten years I’ve been with you and you never once asked me about my life before the bond. Never asked what I wanted. Never even bothered to learn that I was trying to master size manipulation because I wanted to be able to stand beside you properly instead of being your pocket-sized accessory.”

“You were never just an accessory—”

“Then what was I?” You whirled to face him, eyes blazing with elemental magic. “Because from where I’m standing, I was convenient. Useful. Someone to amplify your magic and chase away people who got too close but the moment I went quiet? You were relieved.”

“I wasn’t—” But he had been, hadn’t he? At least at first, before he realized what he’d lost.

“You were.” Your voice softened and somehow that was worse than your anger. “And that’s what hurts the most. Because I thought—” She stopped, looking away. “Never mind what I thought. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“Since when?”

“Since always,” Yunho said desperately. “I was just too stupid to realize it.”

You laughed but there was no humor in it. “You’re only saying that because I’m not small anymore. Because now I’m the right size for you to actually notice me.”

“That’s not—”

“Isn’t it? Be honest, Yunho. If I’d stayed palm-sized forever, would you have ever seen me as anything more than your familiar?”

The question hung between them like a guillotine blade.

And Yunho, desperately trying to find the right answer, realized he couldn’t lie to you.

“I don’t know,” he said finally, the words painful to admit. “Maybe not but that doesn’t mean—”

“It means everything.” You turned away, your shoulders tight. “You should go. I can finish this myself.”

“Isabel—”

“Go, Yunho.”

And because he was a coward, because he didn’t know what else to say, he did.

But as he left the kitchen, he made himself a promise. He’d figure out the right words. He’d make you understand that he was sorry, that he wanted to fix this, that you mattered to him more than he’d ever been able to articulate.

Even if it killed him.

Hongjoong was definitely trying to kill him.

The mission assignment came down three days after the kitchen incident. High-level demon nest two cities over, estimated duration of two weeks minimum.

For Mingi.

Solo.

Which meant for the first time since you had become human-sized, Yunho would be alone with you. He wasn’t sure if he should thank Hongjoong or strangle him.

“Are you sure you don’t need backup?” Yunho asked for the third time as Mingi shoved supplies into his pack.

“I’ll be fine,” Mingi assured him. “It’s a standard containment job. Will you?”

“Well considering the amount of reports I have to write—”

“I wasn’t asking about the paperwork.” Mingi’s look was pointed. “I meant with Isabel.”

“I’ll be fine,” Yunho repeated, though he was far less certain about that.

“Just—” Mingi paused, like he was trying to figure out how to phrase something delicate. “Be careful with her, okay? She’s more fragile than she lets on.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Mingi’s expression was serious. “Because she’s been hurt, Yunho. Really hurt and I don’t think you fully understand how much damage you did.”

Yunho’s jaw tightened. “I’m trying to fix it.”

“I know. Just…” Mingi sighed. “Don’t make it worse.”

After Mingi left, the apartment felt too quiet, too empty. Yunho wandered through the common areas, hyperaware of your presence in the guest room even though he couldn’t see you. The bond hummed with your magic, that constant connection that had been his companion for a decade but there was a distance to it now that hadn’t been there before. Like you’ve pulled back from him energetically as well as physically.

He needed to fix this but first, he needed to figure out what he actually wanted. Chan’s words echoed in his head. Figure out what you want from her before you talk to her.

The problem was, Yunho knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted everything, wanted you back by his side as his familiar and partner. Wanted your attention focused on him again, wanted to be the one you smiled at, the one you cooked for, the one you—

Wanted to know what your lips tasted like. What sounds you’d make with his hands on your body. What you’d look like falling apart beneath him.

God, he was so screwed because wanting your familiar like that was—

Was what? Wrong? You were sentient, powerful, had chosen him of your own free will. The bond didn’t make you subservient. If anything, you had more power in the relationship than he did. You could break the bond anytime you wanted, leave him magically crippled but you hadn’t.

Even mad at him, even hurt and angry and directing your attention elsewhere, you’d kept the bond intact. Which meant something. It had to mean something.

Yunho was still puzzling over that when he felt it. A pulse of magic through the bond. Familiar but different. Stronger, more insistent and he was moving before he’d fully processed what he was feeling, following the pull straight to your door.

He knocked. “Isabel? Are you okay?”

Silence.

Then, in a voice that sounded strained, “Go away, Yunho.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I’m fine. Just—” Another pulse of magic, this one making Yunho’s skin prickle with awareness. “Just leave me alone.”

He should listen, should give you your space. He definitely should not be thinking about the way your voice had sounded, breathless and needy and…

Oh.

Oh, that was not good.

Because Yunho had been with you long enough to recognize the signs when he felt them. The particular flavor of your magic right now, all heat and want and desperate need. He’d just never experienced them directed at him before.

“Isabel,” he said carefully. “Is it…are you—”

“Mating season,” she gritted out. “Didn’t realize it would hit this hard in human form. Just—go away. I’ll handle it.”

You’d handle it. Alone. While he was on the other side of the door imagining exactly what handling it might entail and trying not to combust from the images his traitorous brain was supplying.

“Do you need—” He stopped. What was he even offering? “Can I help?”

“No.” The word came out sharp. “You can’t. You don’t—this isn’t—” You made a frustrated sound. “I was going to ask Mingi.When’s Mingi coming home?”

The possessive snarl that erupted from Yunho’s chest surprised them both.

Through the door, he heard your sharp intake of breath. “Yunho?”

“You’re not asking Mingi.” The words came out rougher than he’d intended, edged with something primal that he didn’t fully understand.

“That’s not your decision.”

“The hell it isn’t.” Yunho pressed his palm against the door, feeling your magic pulse against his skin. “You’re mine, Isabel.”

Silence. Then, so quiet he almost missed it, “Am I?”

The question broke something in him.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “You are, you’ve always been. I was just too much of an idiot to realize it.”

“Yunho…”

“Let me in.”

“That’s a bad idea.”

“I don’t care.” He did care. He cared desperately but the thought of you suffering alone, or going to Mingi for help with this, was making him insane. “Please, Isabel. Let me help.”

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“Then explain it to me.”

Another long silence and then the sound of the lock clicking open. Yunho opened the door slowly, not sure what to expect.

What he found was you curled up in the center of your bed, wrapped in blankets despite the warmth of the room. Your hair was disheveled, eyes fever-bright and skin flushed. You looked miserable and desperate and so beautiful it hurt.

“It’s a biological imperative,” you said without preamble. “Happens once a year. Usually I’d just…handle it myself but in this form, it’s more intense. The need to—” you cut yourself off, looking away. “You should go.”

“What do you need?” Yunho asked instead of leaving.

“I just told you—”

“What do you need from me?” He took a step into the room. “Not Mingi. Not anyone else. What do you need from me?”

Your eyes snapped to his, wide and vulnerable. “Why does it matter?”

“Because you’re mine,” he repeated. “And I take care of what’s mine.”

“Since when?” But there was hope in your voice now, fragile and tentative.

“Since always. I just didn’t know how to show it.” He moved closer, slowly, giving you time to tell him to stop. “I’m sorry for what I said, for taking you for granted and for being too blind to see what was right in front of me.”

“Yunho…” you were trembling now, though whether from fever or emotion, he couldn’t tell.

“Tell me what you need,” he said again, kneeling beside the bed so they were at eye level. “Please.”

You stared at him for a long moment and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, “You. I need you.”

The words punched through him like lightning.

“You have me,” he said hoarsely. “You’ve always had me. I just…I didn’t know it was allowed.”

“Allowed?”

“You were—” He gestured helplessly. “Small and I thought that meant we couldn’t—that it would be wrong to want…”

“But I’m not small anymore.” Your hand emerged from the blankets, reaching for him. “And I’ve wanted you for so long, Yunho. Even when I was small, even when I knew nothing could happen, I wanted you.”

Your fingers brushed his cheek and Yunho felt something in his chest crack wide open.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, catching your hand and pressing it against his face. “I’m so sorry I didn’t see it. Didn’t see you.”

“You see me now, don’t you?” you whispered.

“I do.” He turned his head, pressing a kiss to your palm. “And if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of our bond making up for lost time.”

Your breath hitched. “The mating heat—”

“I don’t care about the mating heat.” He did, desperately, but not for the reasons you thought. “I care about you and if you need me for this, I’m here but you have to know that I’m here regardless. For whatever you need. However you need me.”

“I need—” you pulled him closer, your forehead pressing against his. “I need you to make me forget about everything else. Need you to remind me why I chose you. Need you to—”

Yunho kissed you. It was clumsy and desperate and years overdue but  it was perfect. You made a sound against his mouth—surprise or relief or want, maybe all three—and then you were kissing him back with an intensity that stole his breath. You tasted like magic and starlight and home, and Yunho wondered how he’d ever thought he could live without this.

“Is this okay?” he managed when you broke apart, both of you panting.

“Okay?” You laughed, the sound edged with hysteria. “Yunho, I’ve been in love with you for eight years. This is so far past okay I don’t have words for it.”

Eight years. You’ve loved him for eight years and he’d been too blind to notice.

“I’m the worst mage in history,” he said.

“Yes,you are,” you agreed and then, softer, “But you’re my mage.”

“Always,” he promised, kissing you again. “I’m yours for as long as you’ll have me.”

You pulled him onto the bed, your hands fisting in his shirt. “Then prove it,” you said against his mouth. “Because this heat isn’t going away, and I need—”

“I know.” He did know. He could feel it through the bond, the desperate ache that was consuming you. “I’ve got you. I promise.”

The first thing Yunho noticed when you pulled him onto the bed was the temperature. Your skin was burning beneath his hands, fever-hot in a way that would have been concerning if he didn’t know what was happening. The second thing he noticed was the way your magic was spiraling slightly out of control.

Frost crept across the windows even as small flames flickered to life on the candles scattered around the room. The air itself seemed to pulse with energy, responding to your emotional state in ways that made Yunho’s own magic rise in answer.

“Hey,” he said softly, catching your face between his hands. “Look at me.”

Your eyes were nearly glowing, the usual warm brown overtaken by elemental magic. Fire flickered in your irises, chased by swirls of water and air and earth. You looked wild. Feral. Absolutely beautiful and completely overwhelmed.

“I can’t—” your voice broke. “It’s too much, I can’t control it.”

“You don’t have to.” Yunho pressed his forehead to your, letting his magic twine with yours through the bond grounding and anchoring you. “I’ve got you. Just let go.”

“If I let go, I might hurt you.”

“You won’t.” He said it with absolute certainty, because in ten years, even when you’d been angry with him, even when you’d had every right to lash out, you had never once hurt him with your magic. “I trust you.”

You made a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh. “You shouldn’t. Not right now, not when I’m like this.”

“Like what? Desperate?” He kissed your jaw, your throat, feeling your pulse jackrabbit beneath his lips. “Needy? So far gone you can barely think straight?”

“Yes,” you gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders hard enough to bruise. “It’s never been this bad before. I don’t understand why—”

“Because you were always small before,” Yunho realized. “Your body couldn’t generate this much need in that form.”

“Fuck.” Your head fell back as another wave of heat rolled through you . “Fuck, that makes sense. God, Yunho, it hurts.”

The pain in your voice galvanized him. “Tell me what you need.”

“I need—” you squirmed against him, seeking friction. “I need to be filled. Need to be bred. It’s all my instincts are screaming at me. That I need to mate, need to be claimed, need—”

You cut yours off with a whimper as Yunho’s hand slid beneath the shirt you were wearing, spanning the heated skin of your stomach.

“Need this?” he asked, voice rough.

“Yes. Please. I was going to ask Mingi because I thought—I didn’t think you’d want—”

“I want.” The possessive growl that rumbled through his chest surprised them both. “God, baby , I want so badly I can’t think straight. The thought of you going to Mingi, of him touching you like this—”

“Jealous?” Despite your state, there was a hint of satisfaction in your voice.

“Furious,” Yunho corrected, nipping at your throat hard enough to make you gasp. “You’re mine. My familiar. My partner. Mine.”

“Prove it,” you challenged, nails digging into his back. “Claim me properly. Make me yours.”

Something primal unfurled in Yunho’s chest at the words. Some instinct he didn’t know he possessed roaring to life. He wanted to mark you, wanted everyone to know you belonged to him. He wanted to bury himself so deep inside you that you’d never forget whose you were.

“Are you sure?” he managed, even though it took every ounce of control he possessed to ask. “Because once we do this—”

“I’ve been sure for eight years,” you said fiercely. “I’ve wanted this, wanted you, for so long. Please, Yunho. Please don’t make me wait anymore.”

That was all the permission he needed.

Yunho stripped the shirt off you in one smooth motion, baring you to his gaze and you were perfect. All smooth honeyed skin, luscious curves and flushed arousal. He wanted to map every inch of you with his hands and mouth, wanted to learn what made you gasp and moan and fall apart but you had other ideas.

“No,” you said when he tried to slow down, to savor. “Later…you can explore later. Right now, I need—” you reached for his belt, fumbling with the buckle in your desperation. “Need you inside me. Need to feel you. Need—”

Yunho caught your hands, pinning them gently above your head. “I know what you need but if I don’t prep you properly, I’ll hurt you.”

“I don’t care—”

“I do.” He kissed you deeply, swallowing your protests. “Trust me, love. Let me take care of you.”

The endearment slipped out without thought, but your entire body shuddered at the word. “Say it again.”

“Love?” He kissed down your throat, your collarbone, the valley between your breasts. “Is that what you want to hear? That I love you?”

“Do you?” Your voice was small, vulnerable. “Or is this just the effects of my heat talking?”

Yunho looked up at you, making sure you could see the truth in his eyes. “I love you. Have loved you longer than I care to admit. The heat didn’t create this, Isabel. It just gave me the excuse to finally admit it.”

Tears tracked down your temples. “I love you too, so much it scares me sometimes.”

“Don’t be scared.” He released your hands so he could touch you properly, his palms skimming over heated skin. “I’m not going anywhere, you’re stuck with me.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He sealed it with a kiss as his hand slid between your thighs, finding you already slick and ready. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”

You whimpered, your hips bucking into his touch. “I told you. The heat, it’s been building for days. I’ve been trying to handle it alone but it’s not enough. Nothing’s enough except—”

“Except me,” Yunho finished, circling your clit with his thumb as he slid one finger inside you. You were tight, hot and so wet he could feel it soaking his hand. “Only me.”

“Only you,” you agreed desperately. “Always you. Even when I was angry, even when I wanted to hate you, it was always—ah!”

Your words dissolved into a cry as he added a second finger, stretching you carefully. You were responsive in ways he’d only dreamed about, your body arching into every touch, magic sparking across your skin in response to the pleasure.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, working you open with patient precision even though his own need was becoming painful. “Take what you need, love. Use me.”

Your hands fisted in the sheets, head thrashing as you rode his fingers. “More…p-please, I need more.”

“Not yet.” He curled his fingers inside you, finding that spot that made your whole body jerk. “Need to make sure you’re ready.”

“I am ready. I’m so ready I could scream.” To prove your point, you did scream when he pressed hard against that sensitive bundle of nerves. “Yuyu, please. If you don’t fuck me right now I’m going to—”

“Going to what?” he teased, even as he added a third finger. “Come all over my hand? Do it. Show me how desperate you are for yuyu.”

The command in his voice did something to you as your eyes flew wide, the lights in the glowing so brightly he had to squint against them and then you were coming with a cry that shook the windows.

Your magic exploded outward, ice raced across every surface as the flames grew from the candles. The bed lifted several inches off the ground, suspended by air currents and through it all, Yunho felt the earth itself trembling beneath them.

It should have been terrifying, instead, it was the hottest thing he’d ever witnessed.

“Holy fuck,” he breathed, watching you fall apart. “Baby,”

You yanked him down into a bruising kiss, your body still trembling with aftershocks. “Inside me,” you demanded against his mouth. “Now. Right now or I swear I’ll—”

Yunho didn’t make you finish the threat. He kicked off his pants with fumbling hands, then positioned himself at your entrance.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

Your eyes locked with his, wild and desperate and full of love.

“Mine,” Yunho said as he thrust home. The feeling of being inside you was indescribable. Perfect, like coming home after a long journey. Like finding something he hadn’t known he’d been missing.

You screamed—in pleasure, not pain or maybe a mix of both because Yunho was a big boy—your cunt clenching around him so tight he saw stars.

“Move,” you begged. “Please move, I need—”

“I know, baby.” Yunho started to rock into you, slow and deep, giving your body time to adjust. “I’ve got you, just feel.”

But slow wasn’t what you needed.

With a snarl, you used your superior strength to flip your bodies putting yourself on top. Then you were riding him with abandon, taking what you needed with single-minded determination.

“Fuck,” Yunho gasped, his hands flying to your hips. “Isa,”

“Mine,” you said fiercely, echoing his earlier claim. “You’re mine, Jeong Yunho. Say it.”

“Yours,” he agreed readily. “Always yours. Only yours.”

“Good.” You leaned down, your teeth finding his throat. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

The bite sent pleasure-pain shooting through him, so intense he nearly came on the spot. “Do that again.”

You did, marking him deliberately and possessively. Your nails raked down his chest, leaving red lines in their wake.

“Mark me back,” you demanded. “Show everyone I’m yours.”

Yunho didn’t need to be told twice. He surged up, flipping you again so he was on top, and proceeded to leave his own marks across your throat, your collarbone, the tops of your breasts.

“Yesssssss,” you moaned. “Yes, like that. Harder.”

He bit down harder, sucking bruises into your skin while he drove into your messy cunt with increasing force. You were so tight around him, your cunt gripping him like it never wanted to let go.

“I’m close,” you gasped. “So close, touch me. Please.”

Yunho slid his hand between your bodies, finding your clit and circling it with firm pressure. “Come for me, love. Want to feel you.”

“Come with me,” you countered. “Want to feel you fill me up. Want your—”

You cut yourself off but Yunho understood what you didn’t say. The heat was demanding more than just pleasure. It wanted conception, it wanted him to breed you properly and god help him, some primal part of him wanted that too.

“Can I even breed you?” he asked and though it was meant to tease you, he was genuinely curious.

“You’re teasing me,” you pout before you pulled him down for a desperate kiss. “I’m begging to fill my cunt and you’re teasing me?”

“Maybe a little,” he grins. “And I will but first you gotta come for me again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He thrust harder, deeper, chasing both your releases. “Now come for me. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You shattered with a scream that definitely woke the other members of the crew that lived in the building, your magic detonating in a cascade of elemental fury. The room became a maelstrom—fire and ice and wind and earth all swirling together in beautiful chaos.

The sensation of you clenching around him, combined with the surge of magic through your bond, pushed Yunho over the edge. He came with a shout, spilling inside you while your body milked him for everything he had. For a long moment, you stayed locked together, both of you trembling and gasping for breath and then reality reasserted itself.

The ice melted, flames extinguished, winds dying down while the earth settled and then you burst into tears.

“Hey, no, what’s wrong?” Yunho carefully pulled out, immediately gathering you close. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” You buried your face in his chest, your whole body shaking. “That was perfect. You’re perfect. I just—it’s overwhelming. The heat and the emotions and everything—”

“Shhh.” He stroked your hair fingers getting tangled in the curls while pressing kisses to your forehead. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” you hiccuped. “I don’t know why I’m crying. That was amazing, you were amazing. I just…”

“It’s a lot,” Yunho said gently. “We don’t have to talk about it right now, just rest.”

“Can’t rest.” Even as you said it, your body was melting against his, exhaustion from the magical expenditure catching up with you. “The heat will come back soon. Maybe an hour or two.”

Yunho’s eyes widened. “An hour or two?”

“Sometimes less during the peak.” You yawned. “It lasts about three days. I’m sorry, I should have warned you.”

“Don’t apologize.” He settled them more comfortably on the bed, pulling the blankets around you both. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You might regret that,” you mumbled, already half-asleep. “I get demanding and bratty when the heat spikes.”

“I look forward to it,” Yunho said honestly because after years of wondering, of wanting without realizing he wanted, he finally had you exactly where he’d always needed you.

By his side, in his arms and his bed.

His.

And he was going to make sure that you never doubted that again.

An hour and fifteen minutes later, Yunho woke to you grinding against his thigh, small desperate sounds falling from your lips.

“Need you,” you whimpered, still more asleep than awake. “Please, need you again.”

“I’m here.” His voice was rough from sleep as he rolled so you were beneath him. “How do you want it this time?”

“Hard.” Your nails dug into his shoulders. “Fast. I need…I can’t think when it gets like this. Just need to be full.”

Yunho was still sensitive from the first round but his body was responding to your need regardless. “On your knees then, lemme take care of you.”

You scrambled into position, presenting yourself to him in a display that made his mouth go dry. You were still so slick from before, his release mixed with your own arousal creating an obscene picture that he couldn’t help but lean forward for a taste.

“Please,” you begged through a moan looking back at him over your shoulder. “Don’t make me wait.

He didn’t, promising himself to taste you better later; he straightened up, lined the leaking angry red head of his cock up to your entrance and slid home in one smooth thrust. This angle was deeper, hitting spots that made you cry out and clench tightly around him with every stroke. Yunho set a punishing pace, giving you exactly what you’d asked him for—hard, fast and merciless.

“Fuck, yes!” You pressed back into each thrust, matching his rhythm. “Just like that. Don’t stop, fuckkk please don’t stop.”

“Never,” Yunho promised, one hand fisting in your hair while the other gripped your hip. “I’ll give you everything you need, as many times as you need it.”

“Mean it?”

“Always.” He tugged your hair, pulling your upper body up so your back was against his chest. “You’re mine now, that means I take care of you…in every way.”

You moaned, head falling back against his shoulder. “Even during the heat?”

“Especially during the heat.” He bit down on your shoulder, making you clench around him. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to touch you. Just me.”

“Jealous,” you teased breathlessly.

“Possessive,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“Tell me more.” You were rocking desperately now, chasing your pleasure. “Tell me all the ways you’re going to keep me.”

Yunho’s hand slid down your stomach finding your clit. “Going to mark you so thoroughly everyone knows you’re taken. Going to learn every sound you make, every spot that drives you crazy. Going to keep you in my bed until you can’t remember ever wanting anyone else.”

“Never wanted anyone else,” you gasped. “Only you. Always you.”

“Good.” He circled your clit faster, feeling you start to tighten. “Because you’re not getting rid of me now. I’ve spent years being an idiot. I’m making up for lost time.”

“Yunho—”

“Come for me, love. Let go.”

You did, your magic erupting again in a smaller but no less intense display. Yunho followed you over the edge seconds later, his teeth finding your shoulder as he filled you again.

You collapsed together, both breathing hard.

“We’re not going to make it three days at this pace,” Yunho panted.

You laughed weakly. “Told you I get demanding.”

“I’m not complaining, trust me.” He pressed a kiss to your temple. “Just making an observation.”

“We should eat something, hydrate. Build up our strength.”

“In a minute.” He pulled you closer, unwilling to let go just yet. “Just let me hold you first.”

You melted against him with a contented sigh. “I could get used to this.”

“Good,” Yunho said firmly. “Because this is how it’s going to be from now on. Heat or no heat.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He sealed it with a kiss. “You’re stuck with me, Isabel. For better or worse.”

“Sounds like marriage to me but I’ll take it,” you say softly. “I’ll take all of it. As long as it’s with you.”

And lying there in the wreckage of your room, surrounded by the lingering traces of your magic, Yunho finally felt like he’d found his place.

Lee Felix doesn’t smoke often, but his friend Jisung does—as religiously as he deals—which is exactly how Felix ended up incorporating Jisung’s product into his baking. It started innocently enough; cookies, brownies, blondies. Then he moved on to infused butters and oils, experimenting with anything he could create in his kitchen. Pretty soon, word spread about the quality of his edibles, and Felix found himself splitting Jisung’s profits fifty-fifty. Not that either of them needed the money—it was more of a hobby than anything else, a side hustle that kept things interesting.

You met Felix on an ordinary Tuesday that becomes decidedly less ordinary the moment you slide into the black Jeep Jisung had sent you a picture of. Except it’s not Jisung waiting for you. The driver’s seat is occupied by possibly the prettiest person you’ve ever seen in your life; long blonde hair cascading past his shoulders in waves so lustrous you briefly wonder if Jisung sent his girlfriend to do the drop. He’s wearing a black and white striped sweater that somehow makes him look even more angelic and when he turns to look at you, you’re struck by delicate features that belong on a runway or in a K-drama, not in a dealer’s car.

“You must be—” he starts and then he speaks, and you swear to God you feel your soul leave your body.

His voice is deep. Impossibly, unfairly deep—like molten lava poured over gravel, like whiskey and honey and sin. It doesn’t match that pretty face at all and the cognitive dissonance is so extreme that you just sit there, frozen, while he smiles knowingly and hands you a carefully packaged bag.

“First time meeting me?” There’s amusement in those dark eyes, like he’s used to this reaction.

You manage to nod, accept the package and somehow exit the vehicle without making a complete fool of yourself, though it’s a close thing. You’re sure—absolutely certain—that you felt a heartbeat between your legs that had nothing to do with your actual pulse.

Your text to Jisung that night isn’t even about the edibles.

You: who the FUCK was that You: your pretty friend with the voice You: does he have a girlfriend Hanji 🍃: lmaooo you met Felix Hanji 🍃: no gf Hanji 🍃: but good luck he’s picky You: the pretty one, right? blonde hair?

You have to be specific because you’ve met Jisung’s friends Chan and Changbin before and they’re both objectively hot but Felix is something else entirely.

Hanji 🍃: yeah, that’s him Hanji 🍃: why are you interested? You: why do you THINK?

After that, you start seeing Felix everywhere. At your favorite café, where he’s always ordering something complicated and sweet. At bars and clubs on nights out with your friends, where he’s inevitably surrounded by his own crew—you’ve learned their names by now, apart from Chan,Changbin and Jisung there’s Minho, Hyunjin, Seungmin and Jeongin. They’re loud and chaotic and clearly close, the kind of friend group that makes other people want to be part of their orbit.

Nobody at those cafés or clubs would ever guess what Felix does in his free time. Nobody would believe that the boy with the sweet smile and the expensive sweaters is the one creating those edibles that has half the campus obsessed and they definitely wouldn’t believe what you eventually discover. That behind that baby-faced exterior is someone who fucks you silly on the regular, talking you through it in that devastating voice of his, telling you what a good girl you are while you fall apart beneath him.

But that comes later, first, there’s the slow burn.

Felix doesn’t usually do drops, that’s Jisung’s domain but ever since he met you, he’s been volunteering every single time an order comes through with your name attached. Jisung and the others tease him mercilessly about it.

“Just admit you like her,” Changbin says one night while they’re playing video games at Chan’s apartment.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Felix replies, not looking up from his phone, where he’s absolutely checking to see if you’ve texted.

“You literally never did drops before,” Hyunjin points out. “Now you’re doing them weekly.”

Felix just shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. If you end up with extra goodies in your orders—an additional brownie here, a free chocolate bar there—that’s nobody’s business but his.

The first time you really flirt with him—not just awkward stammering but actual, intentional flirting—he shows up to the drop with his hair in braided twists. A few pieces have escaped to frame his face, but the rest is pulled up in a bun that shows off an undercut you didn’t even know he had. It’s unfairly attractive and you tell him so.

“You look like you’re straight out of my favorite books,” you say, leaning against the Jeep’s door frame instead of immediately leaving like usual.

His eyebrows rise with interest. “Yeah? Which book?”

“A court of thorns and roses or The Mortal Instruments,haven’t decided,” you admit, then immediately feel your face heat because that sounds ridiculous out loud but Felix just grins, devastating and dangerous.

“Should I be flattered or concerned?”

“Depends. Have you read either?”

“Not yet,” he says, and there’s a promise in those two words that makes your stomach flip.

Later, you’ll learn that he downloaded all the books that very night. That he read ACOTAR in four days and that he has opinions about Rhysand and Cassian. He definitely thinks he could pull off that Jace Wayland character too.

After that, something shifts.

Felix starts showing up in rings, thick silver bands on his fingers that catch the light. You’re pretty sure he caught you staring at his hands once and now he’s doing it on purpose. He’ll drum his fingers on the steering wheel while you count out cash or run a hand through his hair in a way that draws your attention exactly where he wants it.

He uses his voice like a weapon, dropping it even lower when he says your name, dragging out syllables until you’re practically squirming in the passenger seat.

“Enjoy these,” he’ll say, handing over your order with a knowing smirk. “I made them extra strong.”

The flirting becomes a game. You show up in his favorite color—you’ve done reconnaissance—he wears that cologne that makes you want to lean closer. You laugh at his jokes a little too enthusiastically, he lets his fingers brush yours when exchanging packages, contact lingering just a second too long.

Jisung finally gives you Felix’s number after weeks of this mutual torture.

Hanji 🍃: im sick of being the middleman Hanji 🍃: just text him Hanji 🍃: [Contact: Felix ☀️]

You stare at the number for three days and don’t text him. It’s a power play, maybe, or self-preservation because texting him feels like admitting something, like crossing a line from customer-dealer into something far more complicated. Felix notices, of course he does and at the next drop, he calls you out on it.

“Han said he gave you my number,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.

“He did.”

“But you haven’t used it.”

“Nope.”

A pause. Then that devastating smile. “Scared?”

“Of you? Please.”

“Then what’s stopping you?”

You don’t have a good answer for that, so you deflect. “Maybe I like the mystery. The anticipation.”

“The anticipation,” he repeats slowly, and the way his voice wraps around those syllables should be illegal. “Interesting strategy.”

“Is it working?”

He laughs, low and rich and entirely unfair. “What do you think?”

It’s another two weeks before things finally, finally come to a head. You run into him at a club—not a planned drop, not a business transaction, just pure coincidence. You’re with your friends, he’s with his and there’s definitely enough alcohol in your system to make you brave.

You approach him at the bar.

“Felix.”

He turns, recognizes you immediately, and his whole face lights up in a way that makes your heart stutter. “Hey.”

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Could say the same.” He’s drinking something amber-colored and there’s a slight flush to his cheeks that makes him look even more unfairly pretty. “Having fun?”

“I am now.”

It’s a terrible line but it works. Felix’s eyes darken with interest and he shifts closer—close enough that you can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off him.

“You’re flirting with me,” he observes.

“I’ve been flirting with you for weeks.”

“I know.” His smile is absolutely wicked. “I’ve been waiting for you to do something about it.”

“Like what?”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Like text me. Like ask me out. Like stop playing games and admit you want this.”

Your breath catches. “Want what?”

“Me.” He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes and the confidence there—the absolute certainty—is intoxicating. “You want me.”

He’s not wrong.

“Maybe,” you breathe, and his laugh vibrates through your chest.

“Liar.”

And then he kisses you—or you kiss him, honestly, it’s hard to tell who moves first—and it’s everything you imagined and nothing like you expected. He tastes like whiskey and something sweet, and he kisses like he’s trying to prove a point, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while the other slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“So,” Felix murmurs, thumb tracing your lower lip. “About that text…”

You pull out your phone with him looking, open a new message to his number, and type: Hi

His phone buzzes in his pocket. He doesn’t check it, just grins. “Hi yourself.”

“Take me home,” you say and it’s not a question.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

The drive to his apartment is charged with tension. Felix keeps one hand on the wheel and the other on your thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles that make it very hard to think straight. Every time you hit a red light, he looks over at you with dark eyes and that small, knowing smile that promises everything.

His apartment is nicer than you expected; clean, modern, smelling faintly of whatever he’d been baking earlier. You barely get a chance to take it in before he’s on you, backing you against the door the moment it closes, mouth hot and insistent against yours.

“Been thinking about this,” he murmurs against your lips, hands sliding under your shirt. “Since the first time you got in my car.”

“Liar,” you gasp as his mouth moves to your neck. “You didn’t even know me.”

“Didn’t need to.” His teeth graze your pulse point and you actually whimper. “Knew I wanted you.”

He walks you backward toward his bedroom, leaving a trail of discarded clothing in your wake. By the time the back of your knees hit his bed, you’re down to your underwear and he’s shirtless, and the sight of him—all lean muscle and golden skin—makes your mouth go dry.

“You okay?” he asks, and there’s genuine concern beneath the desire in his eyes.

“More than okay,” you assure him, reaching up to pull him down to you.

What follows is honestly transcendent. Felix is attentive and thorough, learning exactly what makes you fall apart and then exploiting that knowledge ruthlessly. And that voice, God, that voice.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs as you arch beneath him, his fingers working between your legs expertly. “Let me hear you. Let me hear how good I’m making you feel.”

You can’t help but obey, your sounds getting progressively louder as he builds you higher and higher.

“Look at you,” he continues, voice dropping even lower. “Taking my fingers so well. Gonna take something else for me soon?”

You nod frantically, beyond words at this point.

“Use your words. Need to hear you say it.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Lix, I need—”

“I know what you need.” He withdraws his fingers and you actually sob at the loss but then he’s positioning himself and slowly, torturously slowly, pushing inside. The stretch is perfect, overwhelming, and you grip his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

“Breathe,” he instructs, voice strained. “Just breathe, baby. You’re doing so good for me. Taking me so well.”

He sets a rhythm that has you seeing stars, and he doesn’t stop talking—praising you, telling you how incredible you feel, how perfect you are, asking what you need and then giving it to you before you can even answer.

“There you go,” he says when you finally shatter, clenching around him. “That’s my good girl. So beautiful when you come for me.”

The possessive tone in his voice combined with the praise sends aftershocks through you, and he follows shortly after with a broken groan that you file away in your memory to revisit later. After, he takes care of you; gentle and sweet, cleaning you up and pulling you against his chest. His fingers trace idle patterns on your skin.

“Stay,” he says quietly. It’s not really a question, but you answer anyway. “Okay.”

It becomes a regular thing. Not every night, but often enough that you start keeping a toothbrush at his place. Often enough that his friends start giving him knowing looks when you show up. Often enough that when you place an order through Jisung, Felix shows up with a separate bag.

“What’s this?” you ask, taking the unmarked package.

“Yours,” he says simply. “Made you your own batch.”

You blink at him. “Felix, I haven’t paid you for—”

“I know.” He cuts you off with a kiss. “You’re not going to.”

“But—”

“Not up for debate.”

Later, when Jisung finds out, he corners Felix at Chan’s apartment.

“Dude, you made her a separate batch? And you’re not charging her?”

“So?”

“So? So that’s girlfriend privileges, boyfriend behavior, Felix.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Does she know that?” Changbin chimes in from the couch. “Because you two are together, like, all the time.”

“We’re just hooking up,” Felix insists, but even he can hear how weak it sounds.

“Sure,” Hyunjin says, not looking up from his phone. “That’s why you read an entire fantasy series because she mentioned it once. Very casual.”

Felix flips him off but doesn’t deny it.

The thing is, he’s right, you’re not dating. You’ve never had the conversation, never put labels on whatever this is. You just…exist in each other’s spaces. He comes to your place; you go to his. You meet up at parties and leave together. Your friends know him, his friends know you.

Everyone assumes you’re together. You’re not.

You’re also not seeing anyone else, and neither is he but that’s semantics. It works, this arrangement. It’s easy and comfortable and the intimacy is incredible. Felix knows your body like he’s studied it—knows that you like when he pins your wrists, when he uses that voice, when he takes his time working you up until you’re begging.

“Please,” you whimper one night, writhing beneath him as he edges you for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Please what?” His voice is velvet and sin. “Use your words, sunny.”

“Please let me come. I’ve been so good, haven’t I?”

“You have,” he agrees, thumb circling but not quite hitting where you need it. “You’ve been such a good girl for me. Think you’ve earned it?”

“Yes, please, Lix, I need—”

“I know, baby, I know.” And then he finally, finally gives it to you, and you come so hard you see white.

After, while you’re both catching your breath, he pulls you against his chest and presses a kiss to your temple. It’s intimate in a way that feels different from the sex—softer, more tender.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs into your hair.

You want to ask what this is, what you are to each other, but you don’t. The words stick in your throat, too heavy and too frightening.

So you just burrow closer and let it be.

Five Months In

The problem starts at a club on a Saturday night.

You’re there with your friends, Felix is there with his, and everything is normal until you come back from the bathroom and see a girl practically draped over him at the bar. She’s gorgeous—model-tall with perfect hair and a dress that should be illegal and she’s touching his arm, leaning close to say something that makes him laugh.

Your stomach drops.

You have no right to be jealous, you’re not together. You’ve never established exclusivity. For all you know, he’s been seeing other people this whole time; he hasn’t. You know he hasn’t because you’re together almost every night but logic has no place in the jealous spiral you’re currently experiencing.

One of your friends, Mina, follows your gaze and winces. “Oh, babe…”

“It’s fine,” you say, voice brittle. “We’re not dating.”

“You’re basically dating.”

“Basically, isn’t the same as actually.” You turn away, ordering a shot you don’t want and downing it anyway. Then another and another.

“Maybe you should talk to him,” your other friend suggests gently.

“And say what? ‘Hey, I know we never discussed being exclusive, but I’m irrationally jealous of that girl you’re talking to’? That’s insane.”

“It’s not insane if you have feelings for him.”

You don’t want to examine that too closely, so you do what any rational person would do, you head to the dance floor to forget about it. You lose yourself in the music, letting the bass drown out your thoughts. You’re several songs deep when someone comes up behind you, hands settling on your waist.

“Hey,” a voice says—not Felix’s voice, but nice enough. “You’re a great dancer.”

You turn to find a guy with sharp features and a playful smile. He’s attractive—not Felix-level attractive, but who is?—and more importantly, he’s interested in you and not draped over some other girl.

“Thanks,” you say, matching his energy. “You’re not bad yourself.”

His name is Wooyoung, you learn, and he’s funny and charming and keeps making you laugh. When he pulls you closer, you let him. When he suggests getting some air, you very much intend to say yes and maybe go home with him and forget all about pretty boys with deep voices and no-strings-attached arrangements.

You’re just starting to say yes when a hand wraps around your wrist.

“Sorry,” Felix’s voice cuts through the music and even though he’s addressing Wooyoung, his eyes are locked on you. “I need to borrow her.”

“Dude, we’re kind of in the middle of—” Wooyoung starts but Felix isn’t listening. He’s already pulling you away, threading through the crowd with single-minded determination. You stumble after him, anger starting to override the alcohol in your system.

“Felix, what the hell—”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps walking until you’re outside, the cool night air a shock after the heat of the club. He leads you all the way to the back of the parking lot where his Jeep is parked, away from everyone else. Only then does he let go of your wrist.

You wrench your arm away. “What the fuck was that?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” His voice is level, but there’s something dangerous underneath. “Who was that guy?”

“Are you serious right now?” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You’re jealous?”

“Yes,” he says bluntly. “I’m jealous. You were going to leave with him.”

“So what if I was?” The words come out sharper than you intended, fueled by hurt and too much alcohol and three months of refusing to define whatever this is. “We’re not together, right? You can talk to whoever you want. That girl at the bar seemed really interested.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Is that what this is about? Yeji?”

“I don’t know her name—”

“She’s Changbin’s cousin. She just moved here and wanted recommendations for apartments.”

Oh.

“You’re an idiot,” he continues, stepping closer. “You know that?”

“I’m an idiot? Who stands that close and touches on you to ask for apartment recs? Plus you’re the one who dragged me out of a club—”

“Because I couldn’t stand watching some guy put his hands all over you.” He’s right in front of you now, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. “Because the thought of you going home with anyone else makes me want to break things.”

Your heart is pounding. “Felix,”

“I don’t want this to be casual anymore,” he says, and the vulnerability in his voice cracks something open in your chest. “I don’t want you seeing other people. I don’t want to be just hooking up.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying” He cups your face in both hands, those rings cool against your heated skin. “I want you to be my girlfriend. I’ve wanted that for a while now, but I was too chickenshit to say anything because I thought maybe you liked things the way they were.”

You let out a shaky breath. “You really are an idiot.”

And then you’re kissing him, or he’s kissing you, and it’s different from every other kiss because this one comes with the promise of more. Of labels and commitment and feelings you’ve both been too scared to name. When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard.

“So?” he asks, forehead pressed against yours. “Put me out of my misery. What do you say?”

“I say you’re lucky you’re pretty,” you murmur and his laugh warms you from the inside out.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll be your girlfriend.”

His smile is blinding, boyish and sweet and so genuinely happy that you can’t help but smile back.

“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. “Because I really would have fought that guy.”

“Wooyoung didn’t deserve that. He was just dancing.”

“Don’t care. You’re mine now.”

The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down your spine, the good kind.

“Yours,” you agree and the word feels right in a way nothing else has.

He walks you backward until you’re pressed against the Jeep, his body bracketing yours as he kisses you thoroughly. His hands slide under your skirt, relearning territory they already know by heart but somehow feels different now, more significant.

“We should go back inside,” you say without conviction as his mouth moves to your neck. “Our friends will wonder where we went.”

“Let them wonder.” He bites down hard and you gasp. “I’m not done with you yet.”

“We’re in a parking lot, Felix.”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t stop his exploration. “We could be in the Jeep. Backseat’s pretty spacious.”

You should say no. You should be responsible and go back to your friends and celebrate this new development in a mature, adult way.

Instead, you hear yourself say, “Get your keys.”

His laugh is pure delight as he pulls them from his pocket.

Later—much later—when you’re both thoroughly disheveled and satisfied, he leans his forehead against yours again.

“For the record,” he says, voice rough, “it’s always been you. Since that first day. There’s never been anyone else.”

“Good,” you say, stealing another kiss. “Because I’m not sharing.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sunshine.” And when you finally do make it back inside, hand in hand, the knowing looks from both your friend groups are entirely worth it.

Because he’s yours now—officially, publicly, completely.

And pretty boy Lee Felix, who nobody would ever suspect is a dealer, who fucks you silly on the regular and talks you through it in that devastating voice of his?

Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.

Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.

His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.

“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”

He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.

“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”

His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”

You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.

You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.

“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.

“What happened?” he asks, voice low.

“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”

He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.

You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”

A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”

The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.

“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”

He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.

“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.

“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.

Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.

“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.

He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”

“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”

“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”

Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.

His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.

Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.

“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.

Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.

“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”

“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”

You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.

“I said hold still.”

“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.

“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”

You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”

“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”

“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”

“Ooh, would you—”

“No.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”

“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.

“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”

“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”

“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”

His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”

“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”

He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.

“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”

You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.

“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.

“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”

The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.

“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”

“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”

“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”

“No promises.”

He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.

“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”

“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.

“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”

“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”

Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.

“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”

“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”

“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”

He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”

“Really?” you sniffle.

“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”

A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”

“But am I prettier?”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”

Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”

“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”

“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”

“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”

“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”

“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”

“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”

“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”

You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”

“That’s not how marriage works.”

“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”

Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”

“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”

“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”

You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.

“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.

“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”

“We’re literally married.”

“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”

“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”

“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”

He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”

“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”

“I’m begging you to stop.”

“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”

He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”

“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”

“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”

He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.

“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.

You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”

“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.

You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.

“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.

“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Cheol?” you whisper.

“Mm?”

“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”

His lips twitch. “Good to know.”

“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”

“Woman, I swear to—”

“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.

“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”

You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.

“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”

You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.

“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”

Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.

Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.

“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”

“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.

“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.

“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.

“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”

“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”

“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”

His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.

“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”

“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.

“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”

“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”

“Third date,” he repeats faintly.

“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”

Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.

“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.

“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”

But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.

Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”

“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.

“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.

“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”

His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”

“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”

There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”

You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”

He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”

“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”

“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”

“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”

“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.” 

But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.

But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.

But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.

Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.

He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.

You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.

“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.

Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—

Your eyes fly open.

“Oh no.”

The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.

“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.

He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.

“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.

“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”

“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”

His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Cheol.”

“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”

You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”

“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”

“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”

“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”

“I was a disaster.”

“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”

“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.

“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”

“Seungcheol.”

He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”

“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”

Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.

“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.

“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”

“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”

“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”

Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”

“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”

“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…

“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”

The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,

“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”

“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”

Your breath catches.

“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”

“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”

“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”

“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.

Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.

You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.

“Cheol?”

“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”

You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.

“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”

“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.

“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”

Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.

“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”

“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”

It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”

His grip tightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”

He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”

You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,

“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.

“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”

“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”

He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”

You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.

“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”

When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.

“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.

“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”

You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”

“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”

This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.

His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”

You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”

“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”

His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.

“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”

You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.

“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”

“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.

“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”

“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”

Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”

“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”

“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.

“What’s not fair?”

“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”

“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”

Your breath catches. “Are we?”

“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”

“Seungcheol—”

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”

You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.

“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”

“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”

“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.

You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.

“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”

“Yes, god, yes—”

His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”

“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…

“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”

His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.

“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.

“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”

“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”

“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”

“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”

You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”

So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.

About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.

“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.

“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”

“You’re a fein.”

“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”

“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”

“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”

“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.

“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.

“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”

You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.

“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.

“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”

One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.

“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”

“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.

“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”

“Need what, baby? Use your words.”

“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”

He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.

“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.

“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”

“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.

“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”

His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.

“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.

“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.

“You really did research.”

“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”

Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”

“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”

“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”

His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”

“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.

“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”

And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.

Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.

Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.

“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”

And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.

“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”

“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”

“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”

“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”

“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”

The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.

“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.

He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.

“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.

“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”

“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”

“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”

“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”

“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”

“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.

You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“And if not?”

“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”

His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”

“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”

“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”

Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”

“And then?”

“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”

“Again?!”

“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”

You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.

“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”

“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.

After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.

The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”

“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”

“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”

“That’s not—oh—”

His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”

“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”

“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”

“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.

This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.

“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”

“Cheol, baby please—”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”

You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.

The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.

You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.

You made it halfway through your sandwich.

“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.

“I’m eating—”

“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”

“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.

“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”

“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.

The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.

“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, god, anywhere—”

“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”

The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.

“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”

You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.

“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.

“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.

When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.

“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”

“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.

“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”

The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.

“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”

You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.

When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.

You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.

“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.

“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”

“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”

He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”

“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”

“Into what?”

“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”

He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”

“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”

“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”

“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”

“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”

“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”

You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”

“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”

And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?

Well.

You’d had worse problems.

“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”

“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.

Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.

You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.

“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”

“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.

What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.

You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.

The office after hours? Check.

The car in the parking garage? Check.

The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.

But this—this was a new level, even for him.

“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”

“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”

“That’s not the point—”

“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”

“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”

“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”

You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”

The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.

It was romantic. Just also obscene.

“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”

There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.

“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”

“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.

“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”

His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”

The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.

“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.

“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.

“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”

You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”

“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”

“You’re counting?”

“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”

His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.

“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.

“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”

“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”

His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”

“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”

He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”

“We literally just finished—”

“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”

It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.

“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.

“Anything.”

“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”

His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”

“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”

He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.

This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.

“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”

He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”

“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”

“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”

“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”

But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.

Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.

You didn’t make it to dinner.

Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.

“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”

“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”

He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”

“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”

“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”

You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”

“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”

“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”

His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”

“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”

“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”

“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”

“You’ve been planning this.”

“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”

And he did.

You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.

Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.

“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”

“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”

“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”

Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.

“Cheol, this is going to tip—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.

“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.

“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.

His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.

“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”

“Cheol! You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”

“Someone could see—”

“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”

“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”

His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.

“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”

You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”

You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.

“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”

You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.

The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.

“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”

“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.

“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”

“Kids, plural?”

“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”

“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”

“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”

“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”

You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.

“Morning,” you murmured.

“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”

“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”

“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”

“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”

“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”

The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”

“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”

“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.

You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.

“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.

You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”

“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.

“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”

His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”

He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?

Totally worth it.

The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.

You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.

“Did I forget something?”

You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.

“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”

“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”

“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”

“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”

His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”

“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”

Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”

“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”

His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”

“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”

“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.

“You’ve been counting?”

“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”

“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”

“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”

“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”

“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”

“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”

“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”

“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”

“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”

Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.

Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.

“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”

“To seduce me before dinner?”

“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”

His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”

“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”

He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”

“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”

“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”

“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.

“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”

“We haven’t even finished dinner.”

“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”

You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.

“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

“About the baby thing.”

That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”

He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”

You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”

“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”

“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”

“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”

He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”

“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”

“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”

“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”

“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.

You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.

Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” you repeat.

And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.

Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.

Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.

“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.

“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”

The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”

“Que?”

You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.

“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”

Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”

“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…

“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”

Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.

“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”

Your own heart seems to stop entirely.

“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”

“How early were you testing?”

“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”

“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”

The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.

Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.

“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”

“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”

Your baby.

“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”

“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.

“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”

“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”

“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”

“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”

Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.

“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”

“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”

Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.

“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”

“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”

“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”

“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”

“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”

“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”

“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”

“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”

“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”

The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”

Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”

“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”

“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”

“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”

“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.

“Little bit. You?”

“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.

“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.

“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”

“So spoiled.”

“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”

“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”

“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”

“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”

“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.

“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”

“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”

“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”

“Planning what?”

“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”

You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.

“Let’s go home,” you say softly.

Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.

“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”

“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.

All those months of trying.

All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.

Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.

Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.

You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.

Pure, overwhelming joy.

You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.

Best surprise ever.

You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.

Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.

“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.

“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”

You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”

“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”

“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”

“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”

“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”

“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”

You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.

“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”

Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.

His baby. The thought still makes him feral.

“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”

And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.

“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.

“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.

“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”

“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”

You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.

“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.

“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”

“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”

“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.

“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”

“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”

“You just…we literally just—”

“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.

Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.

He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.

You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.

He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”

His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.

“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”

“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.

He does.

“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.

“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”

“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.

“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”

“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.

“I look pregnant.”

“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”

You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”

“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”

“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”

Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”

“Cheol.”

“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”

“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”

“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”

“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”

“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”

“Exactly, very responsible.”

“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”

“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.

“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.

The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.

This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.

This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.

Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.

Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.