KarmaGhostJess👻

You wouldn't be able to say exactly at what moment you crossed the line.

You know it was about a year ago, because you remember it by that silly thing with the cake: it was the night after Hongjoong’s birthday. Everyone had already left the apartment, the empty bottles were still scattered across the living room table, and only the two of you were left, sitting on the floor, eating the leftovers of the cake straight from the plate because neither of you had the strength left to clean up.

"I can't believe you're still eating," you told him, leaning your back against the couch, your legs stretched out, a little tipsy from the wine.

"I can't believe you're still here," he replied, with that tired half-smile that always disarms you. "The others left ages ago."

"Because I actually like you," you retorted, raising your fork to pierce a piece of cake and holding it up to his mouth.

He leaned in, caught it with his lips, and as he did, his eyes lingered on yours for a second too long. It was something so minimal, so seemingly insignificant, that you could have ignored it. You could have looked away, made a joke, said goodnight.

But you didn't.

You don't remember who leaned in first. You don't remember who kissed whom. You only remember the sensation: sweet with chocolate, bitter with alcohol, Hongjoong's hand gripping your waist as if he had been wanting to do it for a while now. You remember how you both laughed briefly against each other's mouths when you almost fell sideways, how that one kiss turned into several, how the living room faded into the background until you found yourselves in his room.

That night, everything began. And, in a way, it was also the night you both decided not to give it a name.

You aren't a couple.

You are friends.

That is what you always repeat whenever anyone gets too close to the truth.

That is what he told you with an almost cold clarity one of the first times:

"I don't want to commit to anyone," he warned you, lying flat on his back in his bed, his chest still heaving. "I don't have... right now I just can't."

You pretended it didn't hurt. You turned to your side, the sheet covering you up to your waist, a light laugh ready on your lips.

"Don't worry, leader," you replied, searching for his eyes in the dim light. "I'm not looking for a boyfriend either."

And at that moment, it even sounded convincing. Because you believed it. Because it was easier that way.

Since then, the same scene has been repeated too many times to count: late-night messages, impromptu visits to his bedroom, hangouts that "coincidentally" end with the two of you alone and you sitting on his lap, his mouth on your neck, your hands tangled in his hair.

Tonight is no exception.

You are in his apartment again, although it shouldn't surprise you; in the end, his place has slowly become your second home over the months. The other members are out due to schedules, practices, commitments. You knew he would be alone. And he knows perfectly well that you know.

"You shouldn't keep coming over so late," he murmurs, as you close the door behind you. It doesn't sound like a real complaint; the way he looks at you contradicts it.

"You could just not open the door," you reply, leaning against the door with your arms crossed.

Hongjoong holds your gaze for a second too long.

"You know I'm not going to do that."

Neither are you.

You walk over to the couch, where he was sitting with his laptop on his knees, headphones hanging around his neck. The usual: work, music, something he never completely leaves behind. He sets the computer on the coffee table as soon as you are close, as if prioritizing you were a reflex he doesn't need to think about.

"Have you eaten dinner?" you ask, just to fill the air.

"Something," he replies, but his hand is already on your hip, pulling you, making you drop to your knees on the couch in front of him. No more conversation is needed.

The first kisses are soft, mechanical, almost familiar. You know how he moves, where he will place his hands, when he will bite your lower lip. You know the exact moment he is going to let out that raspy sigh that always gives you goosebumps. You grab his T-shirt, pulling it upward, feeling his fingers slide beneath the fabric of yours, as if you were following a script learned by heart.

You don't think. That is the rule. Don't think too much. Just feel, at least while it lasts.

Only, this time, something slips in between the kisses.

It was in the afternoon.

At the studio, with everyone.

You remember Hongjoong’s face perfectly, leaning against the wall, while you laughed out loud at something Yunho had said. Yunho imitating someone, gesturing exaggeratedly, you almost doubled over from how funny you found it. Yunho’s arm resting casually over your shoulders, leaning in to add another comment closer to your ear.

You didn't think anything of it. Because Yunho is Yunho. That’s just how he is. With you, with everyone.

But when you looked up, you saw Hongjoong. That look. The same one that repeats itself every time you accidentally touch someone too much, or someone gets too close to you. That slight twitch in his jaw, the way his fingers close around the glass in his hand. The fleeting tension in his eyes before he looks away, pretending to listen to Seonghwa with all the attention in the world.

You kept it to yourself. As always.

Until now.

His hands hold you tightly as he pins you down on the couch, his lips moving down your neck, his fingers gripping you with something you aren't sure is desire… or repressed anger. And, for the first time in many nights, that nuance bothers you.

"You were acting strange today," you let slip, almost without thinking, right between one kiss and the next.

You feel him freeze. Just for a second. Long enough.

"Strange?" he repeats, pulling back a bit to look down at you, his breath heavy, his hair messy.

"At the studio," you clarify, trying to make it sound casual, but your fingers are still gripping his T-shirt. "When I was with Yunho."

His eyes narrow slightly. There it is. That look.

"I wasn't acting strange," he says, too quickly.

"Hongjoong."

You aren't stupid. And he knows it.

He scoffs, lowering his gaze to your neck as if he wanted to go back to what you were doing before and not get into this conversation. But you don't let him; you place your hand on his cheek, forcing him to look back at you.

"If you're going to get like this every time I laugh with someone," you continue, feeling something light up in your chest, "just say it clearly."

"I'm not..." he starts, but cuts himself off, tilting his head, annoyed. "I'm just saying Yunho has been very... touchy-feely with you lately."

You can't help but laugh. A short, incredulous laugh.

"And? You know how he is. He’s like that with everyone."

"No, not with everyone," he retorts, serious, lowering his voice. "With you, it's different."

You fall silent for a second. You notice your heart beating a little faster, but no longer because of the hand he has on your waist.

"Even if it were," you reply, slowly, measuring your words, "you don't have the right to say anything."

His expression hardens slightly. He pushes himself up a little, resting one hand on the back of the couch, close to your head.

"Excuse me?"

"Exactly that," you insist, holding his gaze. "You have no right to say anything. You don't want commitment, remember? That's what you've been saying from the beginning."

The atmosphere changes. You feel it. Like a cold draft crossing the room.

"It's not that," he mumbles, looking away for an instant, as if searching for something to hold onto. "I just... I don't like seeing it."

"Seeing what? Me having a good time with your friends?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. "Because that is what we did today: laugh. Nothing more."

A tense silence falls. He clenches his jaw, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek, that gesture you know by heart when he is holding back something he doesn't want to say.

"Sometimes it seems like you forget that you and I..." he starts, but trails off.

And you finish the sentence for him in your head: sleep together.

"You made it clear yourself what we are," you reply, lowering your voice, feeling the weight of your own words. "Friends. Just friends. You repeated it to me so many times that I even ended up believing it completely."

There is a flash in his eyes. Guilty. Annoyed. Hurt.

"Don't say that," he murmurs.

"Say what? The truth?"

For a second, neither of you moves. You are still underneath him, his hands haven't completely let go of you, but you no longer feel just the burning sting of desire. You feel the sharp edge of something you know is going to cut both of you sooner or later.

And yet, after that awkward silence, he leans in again, reaches for your mouth, and you give it to him.

Because you aren't ready to solve it. Because it’s easier to argue a bit, pretend everything cools down, and let your bodies take control again.

Because you’ve been doing exactly that for a year: inflicting small wounds on each other that never fully heal, only to cover them up with caresses, kisses, and nights that begin and end in the same bed.

Because you are both hooked on something neither of you dares to name.

And because, even though you promised yourself you wouldn't feel this much… the truth is, it's already too late.

The afternoon begins with a message like so many others, one of those you can almost anticipate before your phone even vibrates.

Tomorrow we're having dinner at the dorm, you coming? San wants to grill some meat, he says it's no fun if you don't come (and me too)

You stare at that last line for a moment.

In parentheses.

As if writing it that way made it hurt less to admit it.

Of course I'm coming. I wouldn't miss San's meat even if you weren't there :)

You feel the reply almost instantly.

Come earlier if you can

You don't ask why. You don't need to.

You end up arriving a bit early, just like every time he asks you to. The dorm's hallway feels so familiar by now that you could walk down it in the dark. You knock on the door a couple of times before stepping inside, knowing that someone probably left it unlocked anyway.

"It's me," you announce, poking your head in.

"In the kitchen!" San’s voice echoes, lively, followed by the rustling of pots and the rich scent of garlic and sauce.

You drop your coat over the back of the couch, greet Yunho and Yeosang, who are deeply engrossed in a video game, and head toward the warmth of the kitchen almost by instinct.

San is in front of the stove, wearing an apron that is clearly not his—it must be Seonghwa's—and his hair tied up messily. The moment he sees you, his face lights up.

"Hey!" he exclaims, setting the spatula down for a second to come over to you. "I thought you'd get here later."

He hugs you without a second thought, wrapping you in that kind of physical affection that is practically his trademark. Warm, tight, with no hidden motives.

"I came to make sure you don't burn anything," you reply, laughing, as he sways you a little from side to side.

"I never burn anything," he protests, letting go of you only to cup your cheeks with his hands and squish them. "You believe me, right?"

You make an exaggerated face of doubt, speaking with your mouth all squished:

"I d-don't b-believe you aaaat all."

San lets out a loud laugh and releases you.

"You chop the vegetables and don't get in my way," he sentences, gently nudging you toward the counter.

You take your place beside him, grab a knife, and start slicing peppers while he takes care of the meat, passing by you time and again, brushing against your arm, leaning over you to grab things he could just ask you to hand him. The conversation flows back and forth: silly things about the day, anecdotes from practice, inside jokes you only get because you've been around them for so long.

Everything feels light. Easy.

Until, out of the corner of your eye, you see him.

Hongjoong appears in the kitchen doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. His hair messy, an oversized sweatshirt, an apparently neutral expression.

Apparently.

Because you know him. And you recognize that tiny twitch at the corner of his lips, that slight tension in his posture. He is looking at you. At San. At the narrow space between your bodies.

"Oh, look who came out of the cave," you comment, smiling to break the moment. You raise the knife in a clumsy greeting. "Done saving the music world yet?"

"Taking a break," he replies, without moving from the spot. His eyes travel from your face to San's hand on your shoulder, and then back to you. "Smells good."

"Because I'm cooking," San says proudly, resting his chin on your shoulder for a second now, as if he needed to emphasize it.

You feel the weight of Hongjoong's gaze on that tiny gesture.

"Sure," he murmurs, in a tone that could pass for neutral… if you didn't know him.

San, oblivious, keeps doing his thing: he explains how he's going to marinate the meat, makes you taste the sauce from the pan with your finger, wipes the corner of your lip with his thumb when you get a bit messy, without thinking much of it. To you, it's natural; to Hongjoong, observable.

And he observes everything.

"You taste it too," San says, raising the spoon toward where the leader is standing. "See if you like it."

Hongjoong finally walks over, leans in, and tastes the sauce. He nods.

"It's good," he admits, and then adds, almost as if he couldn't help himself, "You have our guest working as your kitchen assistant, I see."

"She's my star assistant," San proclaims, wrapping an arm around you again. "Without her, this would be a disaster."

You smile. You are used to that kind of affection from him. You consider him almost like a hyperactive little brother.

What you don't expect is what comes out of Hongjoong's mouth next.

"Surprising she hasn't run off with Yunho already," his comment is thrown out with a little smile, but there is something uncomfortable underneath. "They've been spending a lot of time together lately."

The air seems to change density.

San raises his eyebrows, looking at you and then at him.

"Jealous, hyung?" he jokes, with no malice.

You laugh, trying to brush it off.

"Please," you reply. "Yunho only tolerates me because I'm good at that game of his."

From the living room, Yunho’s drawn-out voice carries over:

"It's true! Otherwise, I would've traded her for Wooyoung already."

The laughter comes muffled, but you still feel that thread of tension in the way Hongjoong runs his tongue over his lower lip, not letting his gaze wander too far from you.

"I'm going to go help in the living room," he says at last, turning around without another word. "Don't burn yourselves."

Hongjoong’s back disappears from your line of sight, but it stays etched in your mind for quite a while.

San shoots you a sideways glance.

"He's acting strange," he says in a low voice, focused on the pan.

"He's tired," you lie, with practiced ease.

"I didn't mean that," he responds, casually, but he changes the subject right away, without pushing.

You try to do the same. Not think too much. Not read into things where there's nothing.

But you know there is.

Dinner, at first, is a pleasant chaos.

Everyone talks at once, plates pass back and forth, San complains that you all don't appreciate his culinary gift enough, Mingi makes bad jokes, Jongho complains that he always gets served the smallest piece, and a whole scandal breaks out because Yunho steals meat from his plate.

You laugh. A lot.

Especially with Yunho, who decided to sit right next to you, and with Mingi on his other side, setting up a sort of corner of chaos. Every time Yunho tells you something, he leans toward you; every time you reply, you playfully swat his arm. It’s an easy dynamic, with no weight to it.

Only, every now and then, you catch yourself looking across the table.

Hongjoong is between Seonghwa and San. He talks, yes, and laughs when appropriate, but his eyes keep coming back to the three of you, time and again. To you, to Yunho, to Mingi.

"Hey, look at this," Yunho says, pulling out his phone. "I have a video of Mingi from rehearsal that nobody should miss."

"Don't show it," Mingi protests, stretching his long arm over you to try and grab the phone. "Delete it!"

You end up caught in the middle of the scramble, half-leaning over Yunho while Mingi pulls from the other side. Someone in the background lets out a "careful" amid the laughter. The phone passes from hand to hand over your head.

From the outside, the scene must look simply fun. From where Hongjoong is sitting, all he sees is your body pressed too close to Yunho's, your laughter in his ear, Mingi’s hand brushing your back as he tries to recover the phone.

"STOP IT!" Mingi exclaims, finally managing to snatch the phone away. "Show's over."

"You get really nervous, huh?" you tease, settling back into your seat. "Let's see what it was that you didn't want us to watch."

"Nothing," he replies, blushing, and everyone laughs.

When you look up again, you lock eyes with Hongjoong directly. He looks away immediately, attacking his plate as if he had suddenly become ravenous.

You feel something twist in your stomach. You don't know if it's from the meat, the tension, or both.

Later, when most of them are too full and lazy to move, the impromptu plans begin: some move over to the couch, others clear the table. You offer to take plates to the kitchen, more to have a moment of peace than anything else.

You are placing a couple of glasses in the sink when you hear the door close softly behind you.

"I didn't know you were everyone's nanny now," Hongjoong’s voice comments behind you.

You turn around. He is leaning against the doorframe again, just like at the beginning. This time, without a smile.

"I can't compete with San in the kitchen, so I'm doing logistical support," you reply, trying to keep your tone light.

He doesn't laugh.

He takes a few steps into the kitchen, just enough for the door to shut completely behind him. The noise from the living room becomes a bit more distant.

"You're having a good time," he says, and it doesn't sound like a neutral statement.

"Yeah," you answer honestly. "The usual, right?"

He leans against the counter opposite yours, crossing his arms.

"With Yunho. With Mingi," he adds, as if he needed to specify.

You blink. You take a slow breath.

"With everyone," you correct him. "We are all together, Hongjoong."

"Right," he murmurs, lowering his gaze for a moment, as if he were deciding whether to say what's on his mind or not. "I just… I didn't remember you being so… close with them."

He spits the word out as if it tasted bitter.

You stand there looking at him for a few seconds, leaning your hands on the edge of the sink. Tiredness is starting to mix with irritation.

"Close?" you repeat. "What exactly do you mean? Because if you're talking about laughing with them, or Mingi almost killing me trying to get his phone back…"

"You know what I mean," he cuts you off, finally looking up. And there they are, those heavy eyes, that shadow of jealousy you already know all too well.

You sigh, setting a glass aside with a bit more force than necessary.

"What I know," you say slowly, "is that you're doing this again."

"Doing what?"

"This," you wave vaguely at the space between you. "Glaring at me every time someone gets too close. Seriously, I'm starting to feel like I'm on a dating show and you're the judge."

He frowns.

"I'm not judging you."

"No?" You arch an eyebrow. "Because from where I'm standing, it feels exactly like that. Every time I laugh with Yunho, you make a face. Every time San hugs me, you make a face. Today, because I talked to Mingi for more than five minutes, more faces."

"I'm just saying that sometimes it feels like you forget that you and I..." He leaves the sentence floating again, just like always.

You feel something fracture inside you.

This time, you aren't letting it slide.

"No," you interrupt. "I'm not going to let you imply it again without saying it clearly."

He falls silent, surprised by your tone.

You take a step forward, closing the distance.

"What are we, Hongjoong?" you ask, holding his gaze. "You tell me. Because when it suits you, it feels like we're something. But when I ask for clarity, then we are 'just friends.'"

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. He rubs the back of his neck, uncomfortable.

"You know I can't right now..." he starts.

"Commit?" you finish for him with a dry laugh. "Yeah, I know it by heart. You've been repeating it to me for a year."

Your voice hasn't risen too much, but it's heavy with emotion. You feel your blood boiling beneath your skin.

"It's not that simple," he murmurs, unable to completely hold your gaze. "The work, the group, privacy, everything that comes with it... I can't just say, 'she's my girlfriend' and that's it. It doesn't work that way for me."

"I get it," you reply, and you know you truly do. You have always understood. "I've told you a thousand times: I understand your reasons. What I don't understand is this," you point to the space between you again. "That you don't want to be with me officially, but you act like you are every time someone else makes me laugh."

A heavy silence falls. The murmur from the living room feels too distant for how much this moment weighs.

He presses his lips together.

"I don't like seeing you like that with them, okay?" he blurts out at last, with blunt honesty. "I don't like it. Period."

"I know," you admit. "I've noticed it this whole time."

You take another step; you are close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne.

"That's why I'm asking you," you continue, your voice lower. "If you're always going to get like this… why don't we make it official?"

The question hangs suspended in the air.

It’s not the first time you’ve thought it.

It is the first time you’ve said it like this, straight to the point.

You can clearly see the pulse fluttering in his throat. His hands close into loose fists at his sides.

"You and me," you repeat, just in case it wasn't clear enough. "For real. Not just 'friends who sleep together.' If you're going to hold these things against me, at least have the right to do it."

He closes his eyes for a second, as if the proposal hurt him physically.

"I can't," he answers at last, just like always, but this time it sounds rougher. "I've told you."

"Give me something that isn't the exact same line as always," you plead, feeling your patience falter a bit. "Something new. Anything."

He looks at you, his eyes shining with a mixture of frustration and fear that you can't quite decipher.

"If I say yes," he begins, his voice low, "everything will change. Not just for me, but for you too. People will look at you differently, they’ll talk, they’ll judge, you could get hurt… I don't know if I could protect you from all of that. I don't know if I'm even ready to see it myself."

"And yet," you interrupt, with a lump in your throat, "you're fine with this. With us sleeping together, with whatever happens between us… but without calling it anything. That is easy to manage."

He swallows hard.

"It's not that it's easy…" he whispers.

"It feels that way to you," you cut him off. "Not to me anymore."

You realize that you have completely closed the distance without meaning to. You could reach out your hand and touch his chest. He could lean in and kiss you right now. Just like so many other times, after a mild argument, you’ve ended up tangled in the same old thing.

But this time, you don't move.

"Look at me," you plead, as you see his gaze drift toward the floor. "If you aren't going to be able to say we're something, at least stop acting like we are only when it suits you."

He raises his eyes slowly. His eyes are full of something that hurts you to see: desire, guilt, affection, fear. All mixed together.

"I don't want to lose you," he confesses, barely audible.

The sentence pierces right through you, and for a moment, you feel like you could surrender. Go back to the usual pattern: argument, half-confession, kiss, night together, silence. Repeat.

But you are sick of it. And you know that if you keep going like this, you're going to lose him anyway, just more slowly.

"If we keep going like this, we're going to lose each other anyway," you reply, as if you had read your own thoughts out loud.

He shakes his head, a tiny, almost childish gesture.

"I don't want you to be with anyone else," it slips out suddenly, brutal. "I don't want to imagine you with Yunho, with Mingi, with anyone. I can't."

There is a second where his honesty leaves you breathless. You feel like screaming at him that you only want him. That the others are just friends. That you are here, arguing about this with him, precisely because you care too much.

But you force yourself to remember the phrase:

"I don't want to commit to anyone."

The one he had been repeating to you from the very beginning.

"Then decide," you say, with a calmness you don't fully feel. "Either we keep being what we are now, with everything that implies, but you stop making up scenarios in your head every time I talk to someone. Or we do it right and make it official. But like this… I can't do it anymore, Hongjoong."

Your declaration hangs between the two of you.

He looks like he's about to say something, but suddenly, voices can be heard approaching from the hallway.

"Are they finishing up a soap opera in there or what?" Wooyoung jokes from outside.

The doorknob moves, and you instinctively take a step back. Hongjoong pulls away from the counter, recomposing himself in a second.

The door opens and Mingi’s face pokes in.

"Ah, you were in here," he says, smiling, completely unsuspecting. "We're looking for more sauce."

You step aside, feigning normalcy.

"In the fridge," you point out, forcing yourself to sound casual. "Bottom right."

While Mingi bends down to look, you slip out discreetly, leaving the kitchen with an automatic smile plastered on your face. You feel Hongjoong’s presence behind you, but you don't look at him.

In the living room, you return to your spot between Yunho and Mingi as the chaos, the jokes, and the laughter resume. It’s as if the conversation in the kitchen didn't exist to anyone but the two of you.

For you, however, it has left an echo that won't go away.

Because, for the first time, you voiced what you had been swallowing down for so long.

And even though he gave the same reply as always… you know that something inside you has already begun to change.

When it’s time to leave, you have already gathered your coat and bag. Everyone is half-sprawled out across the living room, a yawn here and there, the echo of laughter still floating in the air.

"I’m heading out," you announce, standing up.

"Are you going alone?" Jongho asks, half-buried in the couch.

"I’ll catch a bus, don't worry," you reply, putting on your coat.

"I’ll walk you to the door," Hongjoong says immediately, as if he had been waiting for the moment.

You don't think much of it. You are used to saying your goodbyes separately. You walk down the hallway, he opens the dorm door, and the cooler air of the building hits your face.

In the elevator, he looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

"I'll drive you," he says, as if it were the most obvious thing.

"No need," you answer bluntly. "A bus is coming in no time, I checked earlier."

"I'll drive you," he repeats, firmer this time. "It's late."

"Hongjoong, seriously, I can go by myself."

"I'm not asking you," he cuts in, but his tone isn't harsh—it's… insistent. Stubborn.

You sigh.

"You know that sounds a little controlling, right?"

A faint smile slips out.

"Call it whatever you want. You're still coming with me."

And you do.

In the car, the tension floats silently for the first few minutes. The city lights pass through the windshield in intermittent flashes. You look out the window; he looks at the road.

"The meat was really good," he says suddenly, looking for something to break the ice.

"San is going to let it go to his head if you keep repeating it," you reply, leaning your head against the glass.

"It's already gone to his head," he counters, and for a second, he sounds just like always.

He makes a small comment about Yunho almost dropping his plate, about Mingi hiding his phone… things from dinner. Light anecdotes. You notice the effort: he is trying to tone down what happened in the kitchen, sealing it under a layer of normalcy.

You go along with it, but without putting too much energy into it. Short answers, an occasional laugh. You aren't explosively angry; you are just tired.

Even so, the simple fact of being alone with him keeps your body on high alert, all too aware of his every gesture—the soft clicking of his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, the brush of his tongue wetting his lower lip as he concentrates on a turn.

When he finally parks in front of your building, you unclick your seatbelt.

"Well… thanks for the ride," you say, already opening the door.

"Wait."

His hand closes firmly around yours before you can even touch the handle. You stop, turning your head back toward him.

His eyes are fixed on yours—dark, serious.

"Can I come up?" he asks, unadorned.

Your heart does a foolish flip, the kind you should be immune to by now. You call yourself an idiot in your head. An idiot for knowing what this implies, for knowing the pattern, for smelling what’s going to happen a mile away… and still feeling something in your chest say "yes" before logic can even chime in.

You swallow hard.

"You shouldn't," you murmur, though your voice doesn't sound very convincing.

He squeezes your hand a little tighter.

"I'm asking you if I can," he repeats, softly.

And, just like so many other times, you are the one sabotaging your own good intentions.

"All right," you give in with a sigh. "For a little while."

The smile that forms on his face isn't one of triumph; it's a mixture of relief and need.

"For a little while," he confirms.

The elevator goes up slowly, reflecting the two of you in its metallic walls. You watch the glowing numbers change, avoiding looking at him too much. You feel his shoulder brush against yours in the narrow space.

When you reach your floor, the silence grows denser. You walk down the hallway to your door. Your hands search for the keys in your bag; when you finally find them, you struggle a bit to aim for the keyhole because you feel his gaze pinned to the back of your neck.

"Do you always take this long to open up?" he whispers, stepping just a fraction closer.

"Always, when I have half my apartment stuffed in my bag, yes," you reply without turning around.

The lock gives way. You push the door open, step inside, and turn on the hallway light.

"Come in," you murmur, dropping the keys into the bowl by the entrance.

The moment the door closes behind you, the world shrinks. Your small apartment, the silence, the insistent throbbing in your temples.

You are about to leave your bag on the table when you feel his fingers firmly grasp your wrist.

He spins you around to face him.

There is no prelude.

His lips fall onto yours with an urgency that catches your breath. This isn't the timid kiss from the dorm’s living room; it's direct, hungry. He presses you against the hallway wall, one hand on your waist, the other cupping your jaw as if he were terrified you might slip away.

You moan against his mouth, more out of surprise than anything else.

"Hello to you too..." you mumble between kisses, trying to inject a tiny bit of humor.

He doesn’t answer. He only deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue in, pressing you a bit harder against the wall. His body covers yours, fitting together perfectly, and you internally curse how easy it is for you to surrender to his touch.

His hands slide beneath your coat, clumsily pushing it back until it drops to the floor. Your fingers cling to the folds of his sweatshirt, searching for an anchor.

You could stop him now. You could tell him to leave.

But you don't.

You let yourself be dragged under.

His lips move down to your neck, finding that sensitive spot just beneath your ear. He sucks, bites, marks you. You feel the heat pooling there, knowing that tomorrow a purple bruise will remain.

"Hongjoong..." you whisper, a mixture of warning and surrender.

"Mine," he murmurs against your skin, his voice raspy. "Only mine."

The words pierce through you like an electric current. One part of you trembles with pleasure; the other shrinks back.

His hand travels down to your hip, gripping it tightly, pressing you closer to him. You can clearly feel his erection, hard against your stomach, his ragged breathing in your ear.

"Nobody else gets to have you like this," he adds, with an intensity that is almost frightening. "Nobody."

Your back brushes the wall as his lips trace down your collarbone, his fingers already sliding under your shirt, slowly pulling it up. You nearly stumble when he pulls you away from the wall, gently guiding you further into the apartment without stopping the kisses.

The path to your bedroom is a blur of soft stumbles, muffled laughter, and impatient hands. You bump into the edge of the table, into the back of a chair. He holds your waist to steady you, but he doesn't slow his pace.

When you finally step into your room, you both nearly tumble onto the bed at the same time. He positions himself over you, a knee between your legs, his mouth on yours again, as if he needed to reaffirm every single second that you are there, beneath him.

He pulls away only to yank your shirt over your head. He looks at you for a second, his breathing heavy, his dark eyes sliding over your exposed skin. He bites his lip.

"Only you drive me this crazy," he confesses, raspy. "Only you."

He leans in again. His hands map your torso, your sides—repeated memories, yet always new. He unclasps your bra with practiced ease, his fingers trembling slightly as he pulls it away and tosses it aside. His lips descend, kissing, sucking, marking.

Every time you moan, he seems to hold onto you even tighter. As if every sound confirmed something he is terrified of losing.

"Look at what you do to me," he whispers, forcing you to meet his eyes as his hand glides down your belly. "Nobody is going to touch you like this. Nobody."

A part of you wants to talk back, to tell him that there is nobody else. That there never has been since this whole thing started. But the words dissolve into a gasp as his hand reaches exactly where you need him most.

You lose yourself.

What follows are fragments: his naked body against yours, the burning friction, broken whispers in your ear. You notice how he repeats "mine" between his teeth when you arch beneath him, how his hands don't let go of you for a single second, digging his fingers into your hips as he moves inside you.

And you, as always, give him everything. Your body, your sounds, that part of your heart you've been trying to deny for so long.

You end up tangled in the sheets, breathing wild, skin slick with sweat. He falls beside you, flat on his back, his arm still wrapped around your waist. For a few minutes, the only thing that exists is the sound of the two of you trying to catch your breath.

Then, inevitably, the moment arrives when his fingers relax, his hand pulling away from your body.

He props himself up on one elbow.

"I have to go," he murmurs, with that familiar mix of apology and habit.

"I know," you reply automatically.

It’s always the same. You know it by heart: he can't stay too long. He knows they’ll ask questions. He knows he’ll have to make up a "I went out to clear my head" or some variation.

You don't ask. You never do.

"We have an early start tomorrow," he adds, as if he needed to justify himself further.

You just nod, already sitting on the edge of the bed, searching for your shirt on the floor.

He gives you one last fleeting kiss, almost chaste compared to before, and gets up. He dresses quickly, in silence. You open the apartment door for him, both of you with your hair still messy, your lips slightly swollen.

"Get some rest," he says before leaving.

"You too."

And he's gone.

He closes the door behind him, and the echo of his footsteps fades down the building's hallway.

You lean against the wood for a moment, wearing your shirt inside out and your heart weighing more than it should.

You slide down to the floor, pulling your knees up against your chest, and let the silence hit you full force.

You think about what happened in the kitchen.

About his "I can't," repeated like a mantra.

About how, just ten minutes ago, he was telling you "only mine" with a conviction that makes you tremble.

About how he left without looking back, just like always.

You don't know how much longer you can hold on like this.

You know this isn't sustainable. That it isn't healthy. That the little arguments are turning more bitter. That you love him enough to fear that, at this rate, one day the two of you will break something that can't be fixed by even the best sex in the world.

You swear to yourself, once again, that you have to set a boundary. That next time you will say no. That if he can't give you something clear, the only thing you can be is friends.

You swear it to yourself.

And you know that, sooner or later, the moment will come when you'll have to keep that promise.

That moment begins to take shape one night, months later.

You went out with your coworkers. You had spent months preparing a complicated campaign—overtime, lost weekends, stress. Today, finally, it went well. Really well. Success, congratulations, collective relief.

First came dinner: toasts, laughter, glasses of wine. Then someone suggested continuing the celebration at a nearby bar. "Just one," they said. It ended up being several. Nothing out of the ordinary: music, photos, people dancing, victory hugs.

You posted a few Instagram stories: the team around the table, the typical crowded selfie, another blurry video on the dance floor. In one of the photos, a coworker wraps his arm around your waist to fit into the frame, smiling. There’s no mystery to it for you.

To Hongjoong, it's something else entirely.

But you don't know that yet.

At four in the morning, half-drunk, you step out of the taxi, swaying a little. You walk into your building, greeting the security guard with a clumsy smile, and ride the elevator up, already feeling the hangover brewing at the base of your skull.

It’s only when you open your apartment door that, out of habit, you pull your phone out of your bag.

The screen is full of notifications from him.

How was your day? Haven't heard from you today. Are you busy? Do you want to meet up later?

All of them from early in the evening. Then, moving down the timeline:

Ah, I see you're having a good time. Nice photos. Looks like you aren't thinking much about me today.

And further down, more blurred, almost as if he had been fueling his own anger:

Who is that guy holding your waist? I hope you get home safe. Answer me when you can.

Your first reaction, with the alcohol still in your veins, is profound exhaustion.

You can't do this. Not at four in the morning. Not in this state.

You leave your phone on the nightstand without replying. You half-undress, crawl into bed, and let sleep drag you under.

The next day, the light streaming through the window deals the final blow to your head.

You spend almost the entire morning trying to "look like a human being again": water, coffee, ibuprofen, a long shower. Around noon, you sit on the couch, pick up your phone, and re-read his messages with a clearer mind.

The shift in tone is obvious: from worried to irritable, from affectionate to passive-aggressive. As if he had had an argument entirely with himself, with you absent on the other side.

You sigh and, instead of feeding into that mood, you choose a different path. You don't want to start the day with a fight that you know, deep down, you don't deserve.

You reply simply, keeping it light:

We were celebrating yesterday, the campaign went great :) Today I'm just trying to look like a human being again, even my soul hurts haha

You send it and set your phone aside, determined to watch some mind-numbing show to distract yourself. He doesn’t reply right away. An hour passes, then another. You grab a bite to eat, tidy up the apartment a bit, answer a few emails.

It’s close to nine in the evening when his response finally arrives:

Are you home? Can I come over?

You feel a tight knot in your stomach—a mix of anticipation and nerves.

Yeah, I’m home. Come over if you want.

Part of you wants to see him. To tell him how well everything went, to share the relief. And, while you're at it, to clear up his messages. You aren't expecting what comes next.

It doesn’t even take him ten minutes to arrive.

When you open the door, you barely have time to say hello.

He enters like a whirlwind.

He kicks the door shut, his hands already on your face, on your waist. He pushes you back gently until you're pinned against the hallway wall. His lips fall onto yours with a fury you’ve never felt from him before; it isn't the warm urgency of other nights, it’s something rougher, more desperate.

"Hongjoong..." you mumble against his mouth. "Hello to you too..."

He doesn't listen.

His body presses you against the wall, one hand on your hip, the other at the base of your neck, holding you in place. He kisses you as if he hadn't seen you in months, as if he wanted to erase any trace of anyone else from your skin.

His mouth moves down to your neck, to your collarbone. He bites hard, more than usual. You feel him leaving marks without bothering to soften them.

His hands grip you with too much force: fingers digging into your sides, into your thighs as he tries to lift you a little. There is a point where pleasure and pain blur together, and you don't know which one is winning.

"Wait," you murmur, trying to pull your mouth away from his.

He doesn't. He kisses you again, rougher.

"Hongjoong, wait," you repeat, gently pushing against his chest.

Nothing.

You have to raise your voice, cutting through the moment like a knife:

"Hongjoong, stop for a second!"

He stops, finally. He stays incredibly close, his breathing ragged, his chest rising and falling fast. His hands are still on your body, but their grip loosens a bit.

You look into his eyes. You see them clouded: desire, yes, but something else too. Something dark, thick. Badly digested jealousy, anger, fear.

"My God..." you exhale, still trying to catch your breath. "Just wait a moment."

He tries to pull himself together. He runs his tongue over his lips, averting his gaze for an instant.

"It's fine," he says. "I just... wanted to see you."

He leans in to kiss you again, as if that were enough to justify everything.

This time, you place your hands firmly on his chest, stopping him.

"No," you whisper, serious. "You can't pretend like nothing is wrong. It's written all over your face."

His eyes meet yours, surprised by your resistance.

"What is wrong with you?" you ask, without stepping away, but without letting him get any closer.

He swallows hard. His automatic reflex is to deny it.

"Nothing. I just got worried, I didn't hear from you yesterday and…"

"No," you cut him off, hardening your tone. "Don't lie to me. Not with me."

He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more. He seems to be debating internally between continuing to deny it or offering you the truth.

In the end, the truth wins.

"I saw the photos," he confesses, his voice lower. "Your stories. The dinner, the party. That guy holding your waist…" He clenches his jaw. "I couldn't stop thinking that you could end up in bed with someone who wasn't me."

There it is. Everything, all at once.

Anger rushes up to your throat so fast it almost makes you dizzy.

"Seriously?" you ask, incredulous. "Is that what you thought?"

"What was I supposed to think?" he snaps, taking a step back, but not going very far. "You were drunk, with people I don't know, one of them glued to you in the photos…"

"That I was having a good time with my coworkers after months of busting my ass," you reply, feeling indignation mix with sadness. "That’s what you were supposed to think."

He shakes his head, frustrated.

"You don't know what it was like to see all of that and hear nothing from you," he admits. "You weren't answering, and then those photos, and…"

"Have I ever asked you to give me explanations when you go out with the guys?" you interrupt him, locking your eyes onto his. "When you post photos with fans hugging you, with girls at events, with people I don't know either?"

"It's not the same," he answers immediately, almost defensively.

"Of course it is," you retort. "It is exactly the same."

You step away from the wall, crossing your arms over your chest, putting a little more space between the two of you. You need air.

"And the worst part isn't even what you thought," you add, calmer now, but colder. "The worst part is that you seem to not know me at all."

He blinks, stung.

"I know who you are."

"No, it doesn't look like it," you counter. "Because if you truly knew me, you’d know I wouldn't just sleep with someone like that. Much less when you and I..." you gesture between the two of you, "when you and I have something, even if you don't want to call it anything."

He opens his mouth to protest, but you keep going:

"From the very beginning, we agreed on something, remember?" Your voice hardens. "That if someone else came along, if either of us started something with someone else, we’d stop this. Out of respect. Because neither of us is that kind of person."

His silence is confirmation enough that he remembers.

"And do you honestly, seriously think that I would go to bed with someone else without telling you? Just like that? From one day to the next, drunk, at a work party?"

He closes his eyes for a second, a pained expression crossing his face.

"I didn't want to imagine it," he admits, clenching his fists. "But I couldn't stop myself from doing it."

"Well, that's your problem, not mine," you answer clearly. "Your jealousy, your insecurities… they aren't my responsibility, Hongjoong. Not when, officially, 'we are nothing.'"

A tense silence falls over the room. His eyes search yours, desperate to hold onto something.

"I don't want to end this," he says at last, with that broken honesty that always turns you inside out. "I don't want to lose what we have."

It hurts. A lot.

"And I don't want to ruin what we have," you reply, feeling your throat tighten a bit. "But if we keep going like this… we're going to destroy it anyway."

He takes a step toward you, as if he wants to touch you. You raise your hand, stopping him.

"I can't live having to give explanations every time I go out," you continue. "I can't be worrying about whether posting a photo is going to make you invent scenarios in your head. I'm not your girlfriend, Hongjoong. You make sure to remind me of that yourself every time I bring it up."

You look down for an instant, gathering your strength.

"And you can't live like this either," you add. "Angry, irritated, jealous, making up stories every time I don't reply instantly or when you see me laughing with someone else. That’s no way for you to live. And it's not fair to me."

He takes a deep breath, as if every word you say were a physical blow.

"I don't want this to end," he repeats, almost in a whisper.

You look up. You make sure he sees exactly how serious you are.

"I don't want to lose you either," you confess. "But I’d rather lose this… than lose you completely. I’d rather we stop sleeping together, stop crossing that line, before we reach a point where we hurt each other so much that we can't even be friends."

The word hangs heavy: friends.

He leans against the opposite wall, as if his legs are about to give out.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, his voice barely a thread. "To end… us?"

You swallow hard.

"I want to end this," you clarify, gesturing to the space between you, charged with restrained electricity. "The sex, the jealousy, the arguments we only have because we're in a limbo you refuse to define. I don't want to stay in something that hurts me."

A pause.

"But I don't want to end us," you add, softer this time. "I don't want to stop being in your life. I don't want to stop seeing all of you. I don't want us to look at each other one day and see nothing but resentment."

He covers his face with both hands, exhaling sharply.

"I don't know how…" he murmurs. "I don't know how to separate one thing from the other. I don't know if I'll be able to look at you and… and act like it's nothing."

"I don't know either," you admit. "But I know that I can't keep going like this. And you shouldn't either."

He looks up. Your eyes meet at a midpoint between wounded pride and resignation.

You know that, inside his head, he is fighting. That a part of him wants to tell you he'll try, that he'll change, that he won't get jealous anymore—but you know him, and you know that wouldn't be entirely true.

In the end, he nods. A small, almost imperceptible gesture.

"All right," he says, raspy. "If that's what you need…"

"It's what we both need," you correct him gently.

A dense silence falls. You feel something break, even if it doesn't make a sound.

"Then… I guess I should go," he murmurs, taking a couple of steps toward the door.

You don't try to stop him. It's the first time in a very long time that you don't feel that urge.

You only add, before he reaches for the doorknob:

"I don't want us to stop talking," you say. "Or for you to stop inviting me to things. I need… for us to still be us. Just… without this."

He stands still for a second, his back turned to you.

"I'll try," he finally answers.

You aren't sure if it's a firm promise or just a wish spoken aloud. But for now, it's the only thing you have.

He opens the door, steps out, and closes it quietly behind him.

You are left alone in your living room, with the fresh mark of his hands still on your skin… and the distinct feeling that you have just let go of something that, for a year, had been almost an addiction.

You don't know what it will be like to see him from now on.

You don't know if you will truly be able to go back to being "just friends."

The only thing you know is that, for the first time, you have chosen to stop hurting yourself.

Even if, right now, it hurts just the same.

The days following your conversation feel strange.

There is no big, final fight, no slammed door, no "I never want to see you again." Just silence.

You wake up in the mornings and your phone is… empty. No "did you sleep well?" texts, no three-minute voice notes telling you about something that happened in the studio. The hours tick by and you don't receive a single complaint from him about the company’s catering, no silly photo of San goofing around, no random text like "listen to this song."

You catch yourself staring at the screen more than you’d care to admit.

At first, you think it’s just a matter of days. That you both need space. That it’s normal not to know how to rearrange the pieces so quickly.

Then two weeks pass. Three.

The texts dwindle to nothing. The calls are nonexistent. And as for seeing each other, forget it.

The absence begins to feel heavy.

A part of you—the logical part—reminds you that you were the one who set the boundary. That this is what you decided. That it's better this way. Another part, the one that stays up staring at the ceiling at night, burns with anger.

Because, in the end, it seems you were right about what you yelled at him: without sex, he has vanished. No friendship, no nothing. As if you were just another chapter in his life that has simply been archived.

And that hurts you so much more than you want to admit.

The message that breaks the inertia doesn't come from him.

San:

Have you forgotten about us or something? We haven't seen you in forever Come to the dorm, seriously We have a few hours off tomorrow afternoon I promise not to burn anything down (I think)

You laugh out loud reading his texts. You miss him. You miss all of them.

I miss you guys too I'll drop by in a couple of days, okay?

If you don't come, I'm deleting you from the official Ateez meat registry.

You don't hesitate anymore.

Two days later, you are standing in front of the dorm door.

From the hallway, you can already hear the noise: laughter, overlapping voices, the occasional exaggerated shout. Everything sounds exactly the same as always, yet at the same time, incredibly distant.

You knock.

Seonghwa opens the door. His eyes widen the moment he sees you.

"Thank God," he exhales, reaching out to grab your arm and pulling you inside. "I can't deal with this alone."

He drags you into the living room almost as if you’ve just arrived to put out a fire. Inside, it’s the usual chaos: Yunho and Mingi wrestling over a remote, Wooyoung yelling that it's a foul, San laughing from the floor, Jongho with a bowl of popcorn bigger than his head.

"HEY!" San shouts as soon as he spots you. "Look who decided to remember us!"

The rest of them look up almost simultaneously.

"You came!" Yunho jumps up, hugging you tightly, nearly lifting you off the ground.

"I thought you had new friends already," Wooyoung teases, coming up to hug you from behind.

"You've missed way too much drama," Mingi adds, smiling.

They welcome you with the same warmth as always. Hugs, jokes, questions about your work, comments on how long it took you to visit.

You answer, you laugh, you let yourself be wrapped up in it. But you can't help it: between one face and the next, you search for another.

Hongjoong isn't there.

You don't ask at first. You force yourself to enjoy the moment a bit, to catch up: they tell you about work, the upcoming comeback, the hours spent practicing, a new choreographer who is a demon disguised as a human.

You end up sitting on the edge of the couch, with Jongho on one side and Yeosang on the other, talking about movies. But that absence keeps throbbing.

Finally, the question slips out on its own:

"Where's Hongjoong?"

A tiny silence falls—one of those that only lasts a second but feels much longer.

It’s Seonghwa who answers:

"He stayed at the studio," Seonghwa explains with a sigh. "He's working."

"We told him to take a break," Yunho adds from the rug. "To come over, even if it was just for a bit."

"He didn't listen," Wooyoung scoffs.

San chimes in, his expression a bit more serious:

"We told him you were coming," he says. "Even so… he said he had things to do."

The knot in your throat appears out of nowhere. You try to swallow it down with a sip of soda.

It is painfully obvious.

And you can't help but feel… discarded. Avoided. As if your presence were now something he had to run away from.

"He's in misunderstood genius mode," Mingi jokes to lighten the mood. "He'll snap out of it."

You nod, pretending it doesn't affect you.

"Well, as long as he doesn't forget to eat…" you reply, forcing a smile.

You spend the rest of the night putting all your effort into making sure no one notices anything. You laugh, you make jokes, you listen to their stories. You act like everything is fine. Like you are fine.

But every burst of laughter has a strange edge to it. Every time the hallway door opens, your heart races for a second… only to stop when you see it's just someone going to the bathroom or the kitchen.

When it's time to leave, you smile, hug everyone again, and promise not to disappear for so long.

Instead of taking the path back to your apartment, without overthinking it, you pull out your phone and call a cab.

You aren't going home.

You're going to the company building.

You know that building as well as the hallway of your own house. The security guard recognizes you and lets you through with a smile.

You ride the elevator up, each floor lighting up with a soft beep. You know exactly which floor Hongjoong's studio is on. You know which door is his.

You stop in front of it. You can feel your heart beating in your throat. You haven't prepared a speech. You haven't thought of the words. You just know you can't keep going like this, with all of this stuck in your throat.

You knock.

Silence.

You knock again.

The click of the lock echoes. The door slowly opens.

Hongjoong appears on the other side, wearing a black hoodie, his hair a bit messy, headphones hanging around his neck. He smells like the studio: coffee, a long night, deep focus.

For a second, both of you freeze.

He wasn't expecting to see you. That much is obvious. His eyes widen slightly, bare surprise written on his face.

"Hey," he says, finally, his voice barely a thread.

"Can I come in?" you ask, gripping the strap of your bag tighter than necessary. "It'll only take a second."

He hesitates for just an instant. Then he nods and steps aside to let you in.

The studio is the same as always: monitors, the desk cluttered with papers, a half-empty mug, the lights dimmed. You stand right in the middle of the room, your back to the door, refusing to sit down.

You don't give him any time.

"Is this what it is now?" you blurting out, with no preamble, without even taking a breath.

He blinks.

"What...?"

"Are you going to ignore me for the rest of your life?" you continue, the words pouring out of you, completely unfiltered. "Are you going to hide every time I go to see the guys?"

His expression tightens. He closes the door behind him, but he doesn't come any closer.

"I just..." he starts.

"I thought we could be friends," you keep going, cutting right through his sentence. "That that was what you wanted. That if we ever ended this, nothing would be ruined between us. That’s what you said, remember?"

You feel something break in your voice. You don't stop.

"And I’ve realized it was all a lie."

He stays quiet, as if your words had completely stripped him of his script. He opens his mouth, but you don't give him any room.

"You don't text me, you don't call me, you don't even come to see me when I'm with everyone else," anger warms your cheeks. "Since we stopped sleeping together, it feels like I don't matter at all in your life. As if I only mattered as long as you could come to my bed."

Saying it hurts, but it's also exactly how you’ve felt these past few days.

"It's not like that," he finally manages to say. "That's not it."

"Well, it doesn't look like it," you fire back, refusing to let anything soften. "Because it looks like I only mattered while there was sex. Now that there isn't… silence."

You take a deep breath, your chest burning.

"Tell me straight," you add. "Was I just something to use and throw away?"

The question drops like a stone between the two of you.

He furrows his brow, deeply hurt.

"No," he says, with firmness for the first time. "No, not at all. Don't say that."

"Then what?" you retort. "Explain it to me, because all I see is that you vanished the moment what interested you was over."

You feel the sting in your eyes. You don't even know at what point the tears started to form. You blink hard, as if you could hold them back that way.

"I’ve been processing everything," he blurts out, taking a step toward you. "It’s hard for me too, it has hurt me too. It's not easy to act normal from one day to the next."

"Processing?" you laugh without humor. "And while you process, what? What am I supposed to do? Because for you, 'processing' seems to mean erasing me from your daily life."

He steps a little closer, his hands half-raised, without quite touching you.

"You aren't something to use and throw away," he says slowly, looking directly at you. "You were and you are important to me. Much more than you think."

The tears have already escaped. You feel one slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away.

"You aren't showing it," you answer, your voice broken. "All I see is that I seem to make you uncomfortable now. That it’s easier for you not to see me. As if my existence outside of your bed annoys you."

He shakes his head, desperate.

"It's not that. It's just that I didn't know how to be around you without…" he gestures, searching for the word, "without the other thing. I was scared of screwing up even more. And I screwed up anyway."

"Well, congratulations," you spit out. "You did it."

You brush the back of your hand over your eyes, angry at yourself for crying in front of him.

"If you want me to disappear from your life, just tell me," you add, your voice trembling. "If you want me to pretend we’re nothing, not even acquaintances, I’ll do that too. But say it clearly. Don't make me fill in the blanks with your silences."

"I don't want that," he answers quickly, as if you had put a knife to his throat. "I don't want you to disappear. I don't want… I don't want to lose you."

"Well, you're doing a fantastic job," you retort, your volume rising without you even realizing it. "Because with every passing day, I feel less and less like a part of your life."

You don't know at what point you started raising your voice. You just feel everything rushing out all at once: the anger, the sorrow, the exhaustion of months.

He tries to get closer, to say something, but you are already too far gone, too overwhelmed.

"Have a nice life, Hongjoong," you spit out, a mix of anger and pain.

You turn around, open the door before he can react, and walk out, slamming it shut behind you—a sound that echoes down the hallway.

You don't give him time for anything. Not for an answer, not for a "wait," not for an "I'm sorry."

All you know is that if you stay for even one more second, you are going to break down right in front of him. And the only thing you want right now is to breathe far away from that studio, far away from everything.

The next day, your phone vibrates.

We need to talk when you calm down a bit. Please don't just interpret things your own way.

You read the texts, and you feel shame rushing up from your stomach—shame for having cried, for having shouted, for having been so brutally honest. You don't know how to process what he’s telling you. You don't even know where to begin to reply.

So, you don't.

You leave him on read. You turn off the screen. You put it off "for later."

Later turns into days. Then, into weeks.

Then, into a month.

Some of the guys text you: San asking if you're still alive, Wooyoung sending you memes, Yeosang sending a photo of a coffee, saying it reminds him of the one you always used to order. You reply with short excuses: "I'm busy," "I can't this week," "Another day, okay?"

Hongjoong, however, you never answer. You don't know what to say. You don't know if you're ready to hear whatever he has to say.

Time keeps passing.

You try to move on with your life.

You force yourself to.

At work, inertia helps: new projects, meetings, deadlines. Your boss talks about how well the previous campaign went. Your coworker—the guy from the photos—is still kind, funny, and attentive.

One day, after an especially long meeting, he suggests grabbing a coffee.

"To decompress," he says, smiling.

You accept. You want to get out of your own head for a bit. Coffee turns into a beer after work. You laugh, you talk about things that have absolutely nothing to do with campaigns or clients. It’s easy.

Easier than you thought.

Weeks go by, and he pushes a little further. He invites you to a dinner—"like a date," he says it clearly, without beating around the bush. You hesitate. You think of Hongjoong. You think of your promises, of your agreement to stop if someone else came along.

But you also think about what has happened this past month. The emptiness. The slammed studio door. The fact that, officially, you are nothing.

You decide to give yourself a chance. To yourself, not to him.

The date is good. Nice. He is considerate, he listens to you, he makes you laugh. The restaurant is pretty, the conversation flows. You could say you enjoy it.

Or, at least, you put on a very good act.

When you reach the front door of your building, there is a short silence, heavy with expectation. He looks at you, stepping a bit closer.

"I had a really great time," he says, with sincerity.

"Me too," you reply, because it would be cruel to say anything else after all the effort he put into it.

He leans in. He kisses you.

It’s a soft, respectful kiss. His lips are warm, his hands gently resting on your waist. There is no rush, no overwhelming urgency, no whispered "mine" against your skin.

And right there, you notice it.

You don't feel even half of what you used to feel with Hongjoong.

You don't feel that jolt in your chest, or that electric current down your spine. You feel affection, maybe the possibility of something… but not that immediate fire that consumed you every single time he looked at you.

You let the kiss last for a few seconds, then pull back with a slight smile.

In the following days, your coworker tries to suggest more dates. He texts you, he proposes plans. It’s hard for you, because he isn't a bad person. You don't want to hurt him.

In the end, you decide to be honest.

You meet at a café. You take a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," you begin. "You're great, truly. But… I'm just not in the right headspace. I'm not interested the way I should be. I don't think we have as much in common as you think."

He nods, disappointed but dignified.

"Thanks for telling me straight," he answers. "I prefer that over being led on."

You leave with a mix of relief and sadness. You don't know if you’ll ever be able to feel that way for anyone who isn't Hongjoong. You don't even know if you want to.

One afternoon, weeks later, your phone finally shows his name again.

The guys are asking about you They say it's about time you drop by I want to see you too I'll be there We could… give it a chance. To do it right this time. To be real friends.

You stare at those texts for a long time.

Part of you wants to ignore them, to keep going the way you have been. Another part—the one that has spent entire nights missing his silly messages—softens.

You think about it. A lot. For several hours, mentally replaying what happened in the studio, what you said to him, what he wrote to you afterward. There is no clear apology, but there is an attempt to reach out.

In the end, you decide you don't want to keep running away.

When you arrive at the dorm, the welcome is the same as always: shouting, jokes, open arms.

"Finally!" Wooyoung exclaims, hugging you as if years had passed. "I thought you’d switched groups."

"We hate your boss," Mingi says, completely serious. "We’re going to go tell him to let you breathe."

"You should quit your job and join the staff," San adds. "That way we’d see you more."

"Yes, please," Yunho pipes in. "We need emotional reinforcements."

You laugh. They make it easy, despite everything.

Hongjoong is there.

He greets you with a measured, somewhat tense, but genuine smile.

"Hey," he says, softly.

"Hey," you reply, just as restrained.

There are no hugs. Just a nod. But in that second, your eyes lock, and you feel the weight of everything left unsaid.

It’s obvious there is tension. You both notice it. The others do too, even if they pretend to be distracted.

You try to handle it normally. You really try. Or, at least, you force yourselves to.

The following weeks find a sort of strange stability: you start texting again, but less. Neutered, more careful messages. You share memes, some random anecdote from your day, but you avoid those late-night, exhausted confessions.

You still hang out with everyone, go to dinners, watch movies as a group. Little by little, you get used to this new reality: being in the same room, inevitably searching for each other’s gaze, always feeling that underground connection… and yet, keeping your hands to yourselves.

It’s not like before. Neither of you pretends it is. Something has irremediably changed. But for the first time in a long while, it feels like you are close to that "just friends" you both talked about so much but never actually managed to be.

Until one day, you have a few too many drinks again.

It’s one of those nights when everyone is exhausted but happy. A small, improvised celebration after a long recording session. You order food, someone brings out bottles. The laughter grows louder as glasses are filled and emptied.

You drink too. Not much at first, but enough to feel the warmth in your cheeks.

The usual dynamic takes over the living room: Yunho yelling at Mingi for cheating, San trying to sing, Wooyoung interrupting every sentence with a comment. Hongjoong is at the far end of the couch, quieter than usual, glass in hand, his eyes brighter than normal.

The night wears on. Conversations blur together. You’re talking to Mingi about a show, laughing at something absurd, and he throws an arm over your shoulders in a gesture that is completely innocent, comfortable—the way they all always do.

That’s when you hear the words, hurled from the other side of the living room, soaked in alcohol and something much uglier.

"Are you going to fuck Mingi now too?" Hongjoong’s voice says, clear, cutting right through the air.

Silence drops like a lead weight.

Everyone freezes. Mingi lets go of your shoulder instantly, as if he’s been burned. Yeosang’s eyes widen. San whispers a warning "Hyung..."

You feel the blood completely drain from your face.

You look at him.

Hongjoong holds your gaze for barely a second, his eyes glassy, his expression twisted between jealousy and self-destruction. He immediately drops his gaze back to his glass, as if he hadn’t said a thing.

"What did you just say?" you ask, your voice so cold it surprises even the others.

He makes a vague gesture with his hand.

"Nothing," he mutters. "Forget it."

But you can't. You won't.

The humiliation and rage surge through you all at once. You feel something snap in a place where there was barely anything left to break.

You stand up without a word.

"I'm leaving," you announce.

San sits up a bit.

"Already? But..."

"I have an early start tomorrow," you lie, grabbing your coat. "I got a text from work, I have to be in early."

No one stops you. Everyone feels that something heavy just happened. Seonghwa shoots Hongjoong a look that could kill.

He says nothing.

You leave the dorm with your hands shaking. You hail the first cab that passes and give the driver your address, your voice cracking. The driver asks no questions.

The moment you walk into your apartment, your phone vibrates. And vibrates. And vibrates.

Texts from Hongjoong, calls, a chain of notifications.

You don't answer. You don't pick up.

You fall asleep late, your jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Over the next few days, he tries everything.

He calls: your voicemail picks up every single time.

He texts: the messages are never delivered.

He suspects the obvious: you’ve blocked him.

He doesn't give up right away. He waits a little, in case it's a glitch, in case you turned off your phone. He tries again. Nothing.

In a moment of desperation, he approaches Yeosang in the studio.

"Have you talked to her lately?" he asks, trying to sound casual.

Yeosang looks at him for a second, reading the room.

"Yeah," he replies. "We were texting a little while ago."

The sentence is a sharp knife.

They don't get through to him. They get through to Yeosang. The conclusion is clear: there is no technical error. There is a decision.

You are genuinely done with him.

That night, without overthinking it, he shows up at your building. He doesn't warn you. He doesn't send a text beforehand that could be left on read or ignored.

He goes up. He rings the doorbell.

When you open the door and see him on the other side, your entire body tenses up.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, not giving him much room.

He swallows hard. His eyes look tired, with dark circles under them.

"Can I come in?" he asks. "Just for a second. I want to apologize."

The temptation to slam the door in his face is strong. You cross your arms, leaning slightly against the doorframe.

"No."

He takes a step forward, not invading your space, but closing the distance.

"Please," he insists, his voice dropping lower. "Just a moment. I'm really asking you."

You look at him. You see the regret pinned in his eyes. You also see all the damage he has done to you. Everything you’ve let him put you through.

You sigh. You open the door a bit wider.

"Come in," you concede, your tone dry.

He crosses the threshold. You close the door behind him and stand facing him, your arms still crossed.

"I'm listening," you say.

Hongjoong takes a deep breath, as if preparing to step onto a difficult stage.

"I'm sorry," he begins, straight to the point, without beating around the bush. "For the other night. For what I said. There's no excuse. I was drunk, yeah, but… I thought it. And the fact that I even thought it is already wrong."

He looks down for a second, then looks back up at you.

"These past few months have been absolute shit," he confesses, unadorned. "I tried to act like it was nothing, to go on with my normal life, to focus on work. But I can't. I couldn't."

His hands clench and unclench, nervous.

"You occupy my thoughts most of the time," he continues. "Every single damn day that has gone by without a text from you, without one of those calls where you’d tell me how your day went… it’s been a torment. I'm not exaggerating. I couldn't focus. I can't focus."

The raw honesty of his words hits you harder than you want to show. You keep your expression serious, even though something inside you stirs.

"I tried to convince myself that we could just be friends," he goes on, "that I could handle that. But I’ve spent months lying to myself. To me. To you. To everyone. And the harder I tried, the more… I rotted inside every time I saw you with someone else, every time I thought you might be better off without me."

He pauses. He takes half a step closer, not enough to touch you.

"It’s not a justification," he adds. "There’s no justification for what I said to you. I disrespected you. I crossed a line I should have never crossed. And I know it."

He lowers his voice a bit.

"I just… needed you to know that you were never 'something to use and throw away' to me. Never. That I didn't vanish from your life because we stopped sleeping together, but because I didn't know how to handle anything I was feeling without causing you more pain."

He looks at you, his eyes shining, completely vulnerable.

"I've missed you," he admits, almost in a whisper. "More than I know how to put into words. And I don't know what to do with all of this."

You stay silent for a few seconds, processing.

You are hurt, tired, exhausted. But you also see something you've never seen so clearly before: fear. A lot of fear. And love, even if he hasn't named it yet.

You keep staring at him, your chest tight, your arms still crossed as if they were a barrier.

"You don't know what to do with all of this," you repeat slowly. "And while you don't know what to do, I've spent months trying to piece myself back together from everything you have done."

He lowers his head slightly, but he doesn't defend himself.

"I know," he says. "And I don't expect you to forget it. Or to forgive me right now."

You lean against the wall, sideways, because standing right in the middle of the hallway makes you feel too exposed.

"When I stopped sleeping with you," you begin, locking your eyes on his, "I did it precisely to avoid getting to this point. To avoid ending up shouting things at each other that we don't mean—or that we do mean, but hurt. To avoid losing our friendship."

Silence.

"And yet," you add, "look where we are."

He swallows hard.

"I don't want to keep hurting you," he murmurs.

"But you do," you reply, without raising your tone. "With your silences, with your jealousy, with your comments. And I've hurt myself too, by staying, by putting up with it, by waiting for… something. Anything clear."

You see his jaw tremble just a bit. He forces himself to hold your gaze.

"Then tell me what you want me to do," he finally says. "If you want me to leave and never come back, I'll do it. If you want us to go back to being just friends and try to… I don't know, reset, I'll try. If… if you want something else… that too."

His voice breaks slightly on that last sentence.

You take a deep breath. This time, you actually take a few seconds before speaking. You are tired of reacting purely out of pain.

"First of all," you begin, "we already saw that the 'just friends' thing doesn't work out well for you. Or for me."

A bitter half-smile slips out. He mirrors it, without any joy.

"Second," you continue, "I can't—I truly can't—keep being in something where I have to guess what you're feeling. Or what you want. I'm not a mind reader, Hongjoong. And I don't deserve it."

He nods, very slowly.

"And third..." you let your breath out. "I need you, for once, to be the one to say things clearly. No 'I can't,' no 'it's complicated,' no beating around the bush. What do you want with me? Not in general, not in theory. With me."

He stays incredibly still. All the noise in the world could vanish right now and you wouldn't even notice. You only hear your own heart and his as he takes a deeper breath than usual.

"I love you," he says.

He had never said it like that before. Not like this.

It’s not an "I like you," it's not an "you matter to me a lot." It’s simple. Raw. Almost brutal because of how clear it sounds.

"I love you," he repeats, just in case. "I have for a while. Longer than I’ve known how to admit. I’ve been hiding behind excuses, behind work, the group, everything… because I’m scared of what it implies to say it. Because I know what’s being put on the line. Because I know it’s not easy to be with me, to be… with someone like me, with my life."

He runs a hand through his hair, nervous.

"I don't want you to be 'something more' or 'a special friend' or 'the girl I sleep with,'" he continues. "I want you to be my girlfriend. I want to be with you for real. With everything that comes with it. Even if it scares me. Even if I have to learn how to manage what I feel without screwing up your life."

Your mind goes blank for a second. Not because you hadn't dreamed of it, but because you didn't expect to hear it right now, after everything.

"And if after everything I’ve done…" he adds, his voice dropping lower, "you can't believe in that anymore, I understand. Truly. But I didn't want you to be left with the idea that you were just… that. Just sex. Because you never were."

The tears, which you had barely managed to keep under control, threaten to surface again. You hold them back by pressing your lips together.

"And why now?" you ask, not quite trusting him. "Why right when it feels like I’ve already grieved, when I had already blocked you, when I was finally trying to move on with my life?"

"Because when I saw you leave the dorm that night," he answers without hesitation, "after what I said about Mingi… and then I saw that you had genuinely disappeared. That this time you really might not come back. I realized I was playing at losing you bit by bit. And that if I kept going like that, I was going to succeed."

He looks at you with a sincerity that almost hurts.

"And losing you as a friend was already killing me. Imagining losing you entirely…" he shakes his head. "I couldn't handle that."

The silence that follows isn't comfortable, but it isn't the same as before either. It’s not the silence where everything is an evasion. It’s a void waiting for a decision.

You uncross your arms without realizing it. You feel the weight of everything: of the year you’ve been dragging this out, of the arguments, of the good nights, of the bad ones, of the last few months without speaking.

"I’ve hated you a little," you confess, quietly. "These past few months. For keeping quiet. For being jealous. For being a coward."

"I deserve it," he admits, making no attempt to justify himself.

"And I’ve missed you like crazy," you add immediately, because that is also true. "It hurt that you weren't there. I tried to… " you make a face. "I tried other people. And it only made me feel worse."

His gaze softens, but he says nothing. He lets you speak.

"But loving you doesn't erase what happened," you continue. "It doesn't erase that you made me feel small, that you disrespected me, that you vanished when I needed you to at least be my friend the most. That doesn't just reset with an 'I love you.'"

"I know," he says right away. "And I'm not asking you to reset it. Or to say yes right now. I just… want to give you the truth I didn't give you before. What you do with it… is up to you."

You bite the inside of your cheek. You think.

You think of the boy opening the studio door for you with a lost look in his eyes. Of the leader, the perfectionist, the stubborn man who locks himself away to work until the early hours. You think of the friend who used to tell you his insecurities. You think of the man who told you "mine" without daring to say "I love you."

And you think of yourself. Of how much you’ve been forgetting who you are just to accommodate his doubts.

"If I do this," you begin, and you already know you’ve made a decision, at least to try, "it has to be different."

He holds his breath.

"I can't go back to that limbo," you go on. "If we're going to be together, we're together for real. All the way. I'm not going to ask you to shout it to the world, I know perfectly well what your job is and what it implies. But I do need to know that, at least in our own lives, I'm not some shameful secret or a half-hearted option."

He nods quickly.

"I don't want you to be a secret," he says. "I want you to be a part of my life, not a corner I hide away."

"And there's one more thing," you add. "Your jealousy. I am not going to back down or justify going out with my friends, laughing with people, living my life anymore. If you can't handle that, we might as well leave it right here."

He swallows hard, but he doesn't back away.

"I’m going to work on it," he answers. "I’m not going to promise you that I won't have moments of insecurity, because I’d be lying. But I do promise you that I won't use them to attack you ever again. And if I screw up, I want you to tell me, not swallow it down."

You study him, searching for the slightest trace of self-delusion.

You don't see absolute certainty. You see fear. You see doubts. But, for the first time, you also see a clear choice: he is choosing something, even if it gives him vertigo.

"And if I say no?" you ask, one last time. "If I tell you that I can't, that it's just not in me…? Are you going to keep pushing, or are you going to leave me alone?"

He bites his lip, thinks, and answers with an honesty that completely disarms you:

"It will hurt like hell," he admits. "But I would leave you alone. I don't want to be anything in your life that isn't good. If being with me only hurts you… I’d rather learn to live with that, even if it’s hard."

You stay quiet. The weight of the choice falls on you.

You know you could close the door right now, leave it at a "thanks for the truth, but no." It would be a clear, clean ending, even if it hurts.

You also know you could leap without a net again, trusting that now, at least, both of you know exactly what’s at stake.

You realize, with a sort of tender exhaustion, that you still love him. That neither the slammed door, nor the blocking, nor the date with someone else, nor his jealousy have erased that. They’ve just covered it in layers of fear.

"I don't know if I'll be able to forgive you for everything all at once," you say at last. "Or if I'll be able to trust you one hundred percent starting right now."

"I'm not asking you to," he answers quickly.

"But I do know," you continue, "that if we don't try for real now, I’m going to spend my whole life wondering what would have happened if you’d just had the courage sooner."

His eyes widen slightly. Hope creeps in, restrained.

"So…" you sigh. "We can try. For real. Just this once. All the way. If we screw it up again, if we go back to hurting each other like before… then that's it. No more second, third, fourth chances."

His voice breaks a little as he answers:

"I won't waste it."

You take a step toward him. It’s tiny, but it’s everything.

"One more thing," you add, almost with a tired smile. "I never want to hear you say a line like the one about Mingi in front of anyone ever again. Never again."

Shame flushes across his face.

"Never again," he reassures you. "I swear."

He is right in front of you. Close, but still not touching you. It’s strange: you’ve been so physically close before, yet now this single meter of distance feels like an ocean.

"Can I…?" he begins, barely lifting his hand toward you, without quite brushing against you.

You nod.

His palm finds your cheek with a softness that contrasts with everything your story has been up to this point. There is no urgency. There is no possession. Just a trembling, almost reverent touch.

He looks at you as if you were something he doesn't want to break ever again.

"I love you," he repeats, quieter, just in case you hadn't believed it before.

You close your eyes for a moment, leaning your cheek against his hand. It’s not complete forgiveness, it’s not forgetting. It’s a first step.

"Don't screw it up," you whisper. "Please."

"I don't plan to," he replies.

When he kisses you, for the first time in a long while, there is no anger, no fear, no running away. There is care. There is clumsiness. There is an implicit promise to go slow, even though you know each other's skin by heart.

You don't know if it's going to turn out well. You don't know if months from now you'll look back and think you were brave or you were foolish.

The only thing you know is that, for the first time, you are making a choice with all the information on the table. And he, for the first time, is too.

The rest, only time will write. And this time, both of you are going to be wide awake while it does.

@little-mix-fan-forever @emeraldgem22 @honeyyyy21 @doliveiraa @blackbrumous @ stellasays45 @iconicallyher @nebugalaxy @ karlee10261990 @susu6944 @parkairis18 @quokkahansung @wheresangel @bunbunbl0gs @lostinmusicals @euonna @nebugalaxy @karmaghostjess93 @hanniesbubuwife @blindspotquokka @idkimobsessed @newlifepaths @embobema @majessticallyme @hiraelis @0felixsfreckles0

The concert backstage was a familiar whirlwind: flickering lights, the echo of screaming fans in the distance, and that scent of sweat and adrenaline that clung to your skin. You had been working as part of ATEEZ's staff for months, and in that time, your life had taken an unexpected turn. Choi San wasn't just the charismatic idol you saw on stage; he was your boyfriend, the man who had claimed you in secret, far from the prying eyes of managers and fans. His duality drove you crazy: the sweet, playful San in public, and the relentless, dominant one when you were alone.

Tonight, after the encore, you saw him walk off stage with that post-show energy that made him glow. Sweaty, with messy hair and that tight black shirt that highlighted every line of his toned torso. Your eyes met, and a wolfish grin crossed his face. You knew what that look meant: he was in predator mode, and you were his favorite prey.

"Everything ready for the afterparty?" you asked, stepping closer while adjusting some cables in the hallway. You tried to sound casual, but your voice betrayed your racing pulse. It had been a few days without any alone time due to the tour, and the built-up sexual tension was palpable.

San stopped beside you, his hand discreetly brushing your waist while he pretended to check his phone.

"Yes, but first, come here" he murmured, his voice low and authoritative, for your ears only. He subtly led you toward a dimly lit corner of the backstage area, where the bustle was muffled. "You've been a good girl today, working hard. But I saw you watching me during the performance. Thinking about something inappropriate?"

Heat rushed to your cheeks. He always did that: reading your thoughts, exposing them with that mix of teasing and control.

"Maybe" you admitted, lowering your voice. "It's hard not to when you dance like that."

He laughed softly, but his eyes darkened with that intensity that made you tremble. He leaned in, his warm breath against your ear.

"Rule number one: you don't provoke me in public unless you want a punishment later. Do you understand, princess?"

You nodded, feeling a shiver of anticipation. You had established those "rules" at the beginning of your relationship, after that first wild night in a similar hotel. San was a natural-born hard dom: possessive, demanding, but always attentive to your limits. And you loved surrendering to him.

"Good" he said, his hand moving up your back in a possessive touch. "Finish up here and meet me in the hotel lobby in half an hour. We’re going to my suite. I have plans for you tonight."

The rest of the staff was busy, so no one noticed as you slipped away. Half an hour later, you were in the lobby, your heart pounding. San was already there, chatting with some of the group members, but as soon as he saw you, he excused himself and walked over. He took your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours casually, but his grip was firm—a subtle reminder of who was in control.

In the elevator, alone at last, he pressed you against the wall with his body.

"I’ve been thinking about you all day" he confessed, his voice husky as his lips brushed your neck. "Thinking about how you’re going to beg me tonight." His hands moved down to your hips, squeezing just enough to leave a mark, but not enough to hurt... yet.

"San..." you murmured, but he interrupted you with a finger to your lips.

"Sir" he corrected, his tone firm. "Remember the rules, or I’ll have to remind you the hard way."

The elevator stopped on his floor, and he led you down the hallway to his suite. The door closed behind you with a definitive click. The room was luxurious: a king-size bed, dim lighting, and a view of the city at night. San turned toward you, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Strip. Slowly. I want to watch you."

Your pulse skyrocketed. This was what you loved about him: the way he took charge, turning every moment into a power play that left you breathless. You began to take off your clothes, piece by piece, under his hungry gaze. He didn’t move; he just watched, his expression a mix of approval and raw desire.

"Good girl" he said when you were finished, his voice deep. "Now, kneel and wait for my instructions."

You were on the threshold of what promised to be an intense night, your body already responding to his dominance. You knew what would come next: the playful punishments. But for now, it was all about surrendering to him completely.

Kneeling on the floor of the suite, with the soft carpet beneath your knees and the cool air of the room raising goosebumps on your naked skin, every second of anticipation felt like an eternity. San watched you from above, his imposing silhouette framed against the dim light of the lamp. He was still wearing his post-concert clothes: the black shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal the sheen of sweat on his chest, and those pants that hugged his muscular thighs. His eyes, dark and possessive, roamed over you as if you were a piece of art he had created himself.

"You've been patient" he finally said, his voice deep and controlled, breaking the silence. He took a step closer, crouching down so his face was level with yours. His fingers brushed your chin, tilting it up so you would look him directly in the eye. "But I remember you breaking a rule today. I saw you watching me on stage, touching your neck like that... provoking me. Did you think I wouldn't notice?"

You swallowed hard, heat rising through your body. It was true: during his dance solo, you had let your hand wander to your neck, imagining it was his fingers. You knew he would see it; it was part of the game.

"I'm sorry, Sir" you murmured, your voice trembling but excited. "I couldn't help myself."

San clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips.

"You couldn't help yourself, huh? That means you need a reminder of who's in charge." He straightened up and walked around you, like a wolf circling its prey. His hands reached for your hair, entangling gently at first, then pulling firmly to tilt your head back. "Stand up. We’re going to play a bit before your punishment."

He helped you to your feet, his touch firm but not painful, guiding you toward the bed. He sat you on the edge, and before you could react, he pulled a pair of soft velvet handcuffs from his suitcase—one of his favorite "toys" he always brought on tour.

"Hands behind your back" he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You obeyed, feeling the soft click of the cuffs closing around your wrists. You were bound, exposed, and the simple act made you gasp. San stood in front of you, his body blocking the light, and slowly removed his shirt, revealing his sculpted torso, marked by the stage lights and dried sweat.

"Rule of the game: you cannot touch me unless I say so. You can watch, you can beg, but if you try to break free, the punishment will be worse. Do you understand, princess?"

"Yes, Sir,ç" you replied, your voice shaky. That nickname made you melt; it was his way of mixing tenderness with dominance, reminding you that you were his.

He knelt between your legs, spreading them with his strong hands. His palms moved up your thighs, stopping just before reaching where you needed him most.

"Look at how wet you are already" he murmured, his warm breath against your inner skin. "All for provoking me. You're a naughty girl, aren't you? Say it."

"I'm... I'm a naughty girl, Sir" you repeated, the words coming out in an embarrassed whisper but heavy with desire.

"Good" he purred, rewarding you with a light kiss on your inner thigh. His lips were soft, but his playful bite left a pink mark. "Now, let’s play a bit. I want to hear you beg." His fingers traced slow patterns around your center, brushing but never touching directly. Every touch was a delicious torture, making your hips arch involuntarily.

"Please, Sir... touch me" you pleaded, tugging at the handcuffs. The restraint only heightened the excitement, your body trembling under his control.

San laughed, a low, guttural sound.

"Not so fast. First, a little punishment for your provocation." He turned you over with ease, positioning you across his lap, stomach-down against his thighs. His hands massaged your behind before delivering the first strike—not hard, but enough to sting and send waves of pleasure-pain through your body. "Count," he ordered.

"One" you gasped, the heat spreading. Another strike, firmer this time. "Two." He continued until five, alternating with soft caresses to soothe the reddened skin. Every strike was precise, calculated to arouse you more than to hurt, and between them, he whispered degrading yet affectionate words.

"Look at you, so desperate for me. You are mine to punish and to please."

When he finished, he turned you over again, kissing away the tears of pleasure that had formed in your eyes.

"Good girl, you took that so well." Now, his mouth descended, kissing your neck, moving down your chest. His lips captured a nipple, sucking hard while his hand finally—finally—slid between your legs, fingers exploring with expert precision. He penetrated you with one, then two, curving them to hit that spot that made you see stars.

"Oh, God, San—Sir" you moaned, your hips bucking against his hand. The foreplay had made it unbearable; you were on the edge, but he knew it and stopped just before.

"Not yet" he said, withdrawing his fingers and licking them in front of you, his eyes locked onto yours. "This is only the beginning. We're going to roleplay now: you are my obedient submissive, and I am your owner. Tell me what you want me to do to you, and maybe I’ll give it to you."

"I want... I want you to kiss me, to touch me more, Sir. Please, use me however you want" you begged, the words coming out in a torrent, your mind clouded with desire.

He smiled, satisfied, and finally kissed you—a deep, dominant kiss, his tongue invading your mouth while his body pressed you against the bed. His hands explored, the restraint forgotten for a moment in the heat of the kiss, but you knew the real game was just beginning. Tonight, he had absolute control, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

San’s kiss was devouring, his mouth claiming yours with an urgency that left you breathless. He had you pinned against the bed, your hands still cuffed behind your back, preventing you from touching him—a deliberate torture that only heightened your desperation. He pulled away just enough to look at you, his eyes pitch-black with desire, and smirked with that possessive arrogance that drove you crazy.

"Look at you, all wet and begging for me. You’re just a desperate little slut, aren’t you? Say it."

The words hit you like a wave of heat, degrading yet laced with affection in his tone.

"Yes, Sir... I’m your desperate little slut" you repeated, your voice hitching, the flush spreading across your chest.

"Good girl" he growled, rewarding you with another fierce kiss as his hands roamed down your body. He turned you over again, positioning you on your knees on the bed, hips raised high. "But you haven't fully paid for provoking me today." His palm landed on your rear with a firm strike, the sound echoing in the room. The sting turned into pleasure, and you moaned, arching your back. He delivered three more, alternating sides, each more intense than the last, but always followed by a soothing caress.

"Count, princess. And don’t stop until I say so."

"One... two... three" you gasped, your skin reddened and sensitive. The pain blended with pleasure, sending pulses straight to your core. San knew exactly how much to give; he was always watching your reactions, his hand pausing if he noticed anything off.

Satisfied, he leaned over you, his chest against your back, and whispered in your ear: "Color?" It was his subtle way of checking in—green to continue, yellow to slow down, red to stop.

"Green, Sir" you answered without hesitation, aroused beyond words.

"Good." He pulled a small vibrator from the nightstand—one of his favorite toys, with a remote control—and pressed it against your entrance, turning it on low. The vibration made you moan, your body trembling as he slowly slid it inside.

"Don't come until I say so. I’m going to take you to the edge over and over again."

The vibrator hummed against your walls, and San manipulated it with mastery, increasing the intensity only to lower it just as you were getting close. His fingers joined in, rubbing your clitoris in slow circles, pushing you to the limit.

"Please, Sir... I can't hold it" you pleaded, your hips bucking against his hand.

"Yes, you can" he said, his voice husky with arousal. He turned you over again, temporarily removing the vibrator to position you on your knees in front of him. He unzipped his pants, releasing his hard, throbbing erection.

"Now, show me how sorry you are. Open your mouth."

You obeyed, and he guided your head, pushing inside your mouth with a guttural moan. He was rough: his hips moved in controlled thrusts, one hand in your hair to guide you.

"Just like that, good girl... take it all." His words were degrading yet complimentary. "Look at you, sucking me like it’s the only thing you want. You’re perfect for me." He gave you space to breathe, always attentive, but the rhythm was intense, saliva dripping down your chin as you pleased him.

After a few minutes, he pulled out, panting.

"Enough. Now, my turn."

He pinned you to the bed, removing the handcuffs only to reposition your hands above your head, pinning them down with one of his own. He brought his mouth to your center, his tongue licking greedily. He was an expert: sucking your clitoris, penetrating you with his tongue, and then with his fingers, curving them to hit that sweet spot. The overstimulation from the previous game had you on the edge in seconds, but he would stop, kissing your inner thighs.

"Not yet. I want you to beg."

"Please, Sir... fuck me. I need you inside me" you pleaded, tears of frustration and pleasure in your eyes.

San positioned himself over you, his body covering yours completely.

"You are mine" he growled, possessive, as he sank into you in one deep thrust. His hips crashed against yours in a fast, hard rhythm, each thrust hitting deep. One hand wrapped lightly around your neck—soft, just enough pressure to intensify the sensation, never cutting off your breath.

"Tell me who you belong to."

"To you, Sir... only to you" you moaned, your nails digging into his shoulders now that your hands were free. The pleasure was overwhelming: the friction of his body, the mingled sweat, his low moans. He picked up the pace, one hand reaching down to rub your clitoris, driving you to the brink.

"Come for me now" he finally ordered.

The orgasm hit you like a wave, your body convulsing around him as you screamed his name. San followed moments later, his climax intense as he spilled inside you, his possessive grip on your hips leaving marks behind.

"Mine... all mine" he murmured, collapsing onto you with heavy breaths.

They stayed like that for a moment. But San wasn't done there.

The echo of your moans still resonated in the room, but the world had calmed down. San slid out of you carefully, his warm, sweaty body pressed against yours as he caught his breath. He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he held you, his arm wrapping around you possessively but with a gentleness that contrasted with the roughness of moments before. His chest rose and fell against your back, and you felt his lips plant a soft kiss on your shoulder.

"Shh, princess... you did so well" he murmured, his voice now soft, with no trace of his dominant authority. It was as if a switch had been flipped.

They stayed like that for a few minutes, just breathing together, letting the adrenaline rush dissipate. San always insisted on this; the aftercare wasn't optional—it was part of the game, a way to reconnect and make sure you were okay. Finally, he sat up slightly, kissing your forehead.

"Are you okay? Does anything hurt?" he asked, his eyes scanning your body with genuine concern. His fingers gently traced the pink marks on your rear and then the light ones on your hips from his grip.

"I’m okay... more than okay" you replied, your voice raspy but content. You felt like you were floating—that post-scene subspace where everything felt warm and secure. "Just a little sensitive, but in a good way."

He smiled—that sweet, genuine smile he reserved only for you.

"Good. Let’s get you cleaned up." He rose from the bed with feline grace, disappearing into the suite’s bathroom for a moment. He returned with a warm, damp towel, a bottle of water, and a soothing lotion he always kept in his suitcase—small details that showed just how much he cared for you. He helped you sit up, his movements slow and attentive, as if you were something precious.

First, he cleaned between your legs with the towel, gentle and unhurried, wiping away the evidence of your union with touches that were almost reverent.

"Relax, let me take care of you" he whispered, kissing your knee as he worked. Then, he applied the lotion to the reddened areas: his hands massaged your skin in gentle circles, soothing any residual sting from the strikes or the restraints. Every caress was a reminder of his tenderness, a perfect contrast to his earlier dominance.

"You’re incredible, you know? So strong, so beautiful when you surrender to me."

The flush returned to your cheeks, but this time it was from emotional warmth. You snuggled against him when he finished, and San wrapped you in a soft blanket from the bed, pulling you to his chest. He offered you the water bottle, making sure you took a few sips.

"Hydrate, princess. I don't want you feeling unwell tomorrow." His fingers combed through your messy hair, undoing knots with infinite patience.

As you lay there, wrapped in his arms, the conversation flowed naturally, as it always did after an intense scene.

"Talk to me" he said softly, his chin resting on the top of your head. "What did you like most tonight? Was there anything you want to change for next time?"

You thought for a moment, feeling safe enough to be completely honest.

"I loved the way you played with me... it drove me crazy, but in the best way possible. And maybe, more kisses." You smiled, looking up at him.

San laughed softly, a warm sound that vibrated in his chest.

"Noted. More kisses, and more play if you ask for it. You are my priority. I never want you to feel anything but pleasure and safety with me." His words were sincere, and he kissed your temple, lingering there for a moment. "You know you can use the safety code at any time, right? Red, and we stop everything."

"I know" you replied, snuggling closer. "That’s why I trust you. You make me feel loved, even when you're being... you know, the bossy Sir." You teased, and he joined in your laughter, but his eyes softened with vulnerability.

"That’s what matters most to me" he confessed, his voice dropping to a more intimate tone. "On stage, I'm San the dancer, the idol. But with you... I'm just me. You see all parts of me: the dominant one, the tender one, the insecure one at times." He squeezed you tighter, as if afraid to let go. "This tour has been tough, with the schedules and keeping us a secret. But nights like this remind me why it's all worth it. I love you."

The words melted you.

"I love you too, San." You kissed him softly—a slow kiss full of emotion, without the urgency of desire, just pure affection. You stayed like that, chatting about nonsense—the tour, funny stories about the staff, plans for when you’d finally have a day off—until sleep began to claim you both.

San turned off the light, pulling you close to his side like a big spoon, his arm draped around your waist.

"Sleep well. Tomorrow, I'll wake you up with breakfast in bed" he murmured, his warm breath against your neck.

You fell asleep feeling safe, loved, and whole. Your relationship had deepened a little more that night, a bond forged in trust and vulnerability. But you knew the game didn't end here; San always had more plans, and you were ready for whatever came next.

You shut yourself in.

The next two days feel suspended in a strange limbo. It’s not like you’re dramatically dragging yourself across the floor, but you’re not a hundred percent yourself either.

You only go out for the essentials: some food, a bit of fresh air. The rest of the time, the world is reduced to your apartment: the table, the laptop, the bed, the coffee mug, the half-burnt candle.

Felix doesn’t text.

There are no notifications from him, no “are you okay?”, no poorly timed jokes. The silence from his side is heavy, but it’s also proof that he’s respecting what you said: that you needed to leave, to think.

You pour yourself into the book.

You open the document and, this time, you don’t get stuck on a single sentence. On the contrary—the words pour out as if you’d been holding them back behind a dam for too long.

You write about a human who accidentally walks into a vampire club. About a vampire who smiles as if he’d been waiting for her. About battles, rooftops, bad decisions, and broken necks. About stolen kisses in breakrooms and building entrances.

The more you write, the more obvious something becomes: you aren’t describing “a character.” You’re describing him.

You realize it in the details: in how you talk about the way his hair falls over his forehead, how he listens to heartbeats, how he laughs when he tries to downplay something that hurts. You find yourself sketching entire paragraphs about the way he walks you home, about how he looks at you when he thinks you aren't noticing.

And, between one line and the next, you know it’s not just attraction. It’s not just curiosity. It’s not just that you like him.

It hits you all at once one afternoon: while editing a dialogue, you reread a scene where your protagonist writes, “I think I’ve fallen in love with a monster,” and you feel your stomach drop. Because you’re writing it with yourself in mind.

You had never been in love. Not for real. You’d had crushes, guys you liked for a while, paper characters that kept you up at night. But there was always a distance—a safe barrier between your inner world and the outside. With Felix… there is no barrier.

You think about your life up until now: always tucked away in books, in fantasies, in stories of worlds that don’t exist. Always feeling like there was something beyond the mundane, as if the universe were keeping a secret from you that you couldn't quite reach.

And suddenly, that “something more” has looked you in the eyes, has held your hand, has kissed you, has put you in danger, and has saved you.

You aren’t “normal.” Your world isn’t just this one. You always suspected it, even if it was in a whisper, between pages. Maybe, subconsciously, you had been asking for exactly this for years: for the fantasy to cross to the other side of the looking glass.

The problem is, you’ve discovered that on the other side, it hurts.

You take those days to weigh it all.

You wonder if you can live knowing that, on any given night, an enemy clan could walk through a door and catch your scent. If you can look at someone who breaks necks to protect you and still see him as the guy who holds your coffee while you talk about books.

And the answer, over and over again, is that you don’t know if you can… but you know that you want to.

You don’t warn him.

One night, you simply get dressed, put on your coat—his coat, the one you never gave back—and head out. You know the way to the club so well you could almost do it on autopilot. Every corner brings back a memory: here is where you ran through the rain that first time; here is where you walked with him after that first coffee; here is where you almost tripped while laughing at some nonsense Han said.

The metallic symbol above the door shines just as it always does.

You push it open.

Inside, the atmosphere is like any other night. Music, conversations, laughter, the glint of bottles. But there’s something about the way the place welcomes you that feels different.

Changbin is by the door, arms crossed, keeping watch. When he sees you, his expression shifts from neutral to genuinely surprised.

"Well" he says. "I thought you’d forgotten vampires even existed."

"I’ve been... busy" you reply.

You let out a small smile. He tilts his head.

"You were missed around here" he admits, half-grumpy, half-sincere. "Welcome back."

That disarms you a little more than you expected.

You move toward the bar. Instinctively, you look for Felix... but he’s not there.

In his place stands Jeongin.

He’s drying glasses, changing kegs, moving with his usual quiet efficiency. When he looks up and sees you, his eyes literally light up; the smile that spreads across his face is instantaneous.

"Hey!" he exclaims, dropping everything for a second. "I thought..." He cuts himself off, but his face says it all: he thought you weren't coming back.

"Hi" you greet him, leaning against the bar. "How’s it going?"

"Better now" he replies, without filters.

He leans in a little closer to you.

"The others were already getting used to having you around" he adds, confidentially. "It felt weird only seeing you in Felix’s stories."

Your heart skips a beat at that.

"And him?" you ask, trying to sound casual.

Jeongin rubs the back of his neck.

"Upstairs" he says. "In the breakroom. Lately... he hasn’t exactly been in the best mood."

He looks at you for a second longer, as if weighing how much information to give you.

"It’ll do him good to see you" he adds finally, with a small smile.

He doesn't need to tell you twice.

You walk through the club, head up the short flight of stairs toward the quiet area, and move down the hallway. Every step feels both too short and too long at the same time. You pause for a second in front of the breakroom door, take a deep breath, and carefully turn the knob.

You open it.

Inside, the light is low. The TV is off. On the sofa, lying down, is Felix.

He has one arm over his eyes, as if he wanted to block everything out: the light, the ceiling, the world. His other arm rests on his chest. There is an ancient tiredness in his posture—not physical, but... of the soul.

The first thing he does, without moving his arm from his face, is grunt:

"Han, if you come back to bother me one more time, I swear..."

He cuts himself off.

Not because he sees you—his forearm is still covering his eyes.

Because he smells you. Because he feels you. Because he hears you.

There is a second where the air itself changes. Then, slowly, he lowers his arm.

He sees you.

He sits up a bit, leaning against the back of the sofa, as if he needed to see you from another angle to make sure you aren't a product of his sleep-deprived imagination.

His eyes, usually so bright, have faint dark circles under them, but they widen as he recognizes you.

He says nothing at first.

Because he doesn’t know what to say.

Because, during these last few days, he has spent entire nights with his phone in his hand, the chat with you open, his fingers hovering over the keyboard without daring to type. Waiting to see your name appear on the screen. Waiting for anything to break that silence.

And nothing.

Until he almost surrendered to the idea that he would never hear from you again. That that night in front of your doorway had been the silent end of something far too dangerous.

And now you’re there.

You approach him slowly.

You sit down beside him, leaving a small space between the two of you. You could throw yourself into his arms, you could kiss him, you could apologize through tears, but the words that come out are much simpler.

"Hi."

Felix looks at his own hands for a second. He clasps them together, his thumbs playing nervously with each other. He swallows hard. When he responds, his voice sounds... timid.

"Hi."

You can notice his nerves in the little things: in how he stares at his fingers, in how he keeps his back a bit straighter than usual, in the slight trembling of the leg closest to you.

He can't look at you directly at first.

That pulls a soft, unexpected laugh from you.

He looks up, confused.

"What?" he asks.

You shake your head, still smiling.

"It’s just..." You take a good look at him. "I never would have imagined a vampire being as human as you are right now."

Felix blinks, then lets out a short, almost relieved laugh.

"You’re ruining my image as a creature of the night" he jokes.

"You already ruined it yourself" you counter. "With your fake coffees and your tablet at the bar."

The joke relaxes something in the air. He leans back a bit, resting against the sofa. Now, he truly looks at you head-on.

You decide not to beat around the bush anymore.

"I came to talk to you" you say, point-blank. "And to apologize."

His expression changes, but he doesn't interrupt you.

"I’m sorry for leaving like that" you continue. "I’m sorry for going so many days without a word. It wasn’t to punish you." You bite your lip. "I had things to think about. A lot of things. About you, about me, about... all of this."

He nods slowly.

"You had every right" he responds. "To be scared. To need space. To be angry with me. To feel everything."

You notice how he says it: there is no reproach, no "but I...", no guilt-tripping. Just acceptance.

That pushes you to keep going.

"I’ve written a lot these past few days" you confess. "I had to get everything that was eating at me out before I could see clearly."

You look at him, swallowing hard.

"And the more I wrote about you, the more I realized that..." You search for the right word. "...what I feel isn't just attraction or curiosity."

His eyes widen a bit more; his almost imperceptible breath hitches.

"For me..." you continue, your heart pounding hard, "...this is already falling in love."

The words hang between the two of you, naked.

It’s your first time saying it like that, for real, to someone. Not in a story, not in a fictional dialogue, not in your head... but looking him in the eyes.

It takes Felix a second to react.

His hands, still clasped together, loosen. He lets his arms fall onto his legs, as if suddenly the weight he’d been carrying had shifted.

"I’ve spent nights" he says, very slowly, "thinking you’d left because... it had been too much. Because you’d seen the worst of me, of us, and you’d decided the price was too high."

He pauses for a moment.

"And yet, part of me was glad" he adds, honestly. "Because if you didn't come back, it meant you were far away from all this. Far from trouble. Far from… death."

It hurts, but you understand.

"I don't want to be far from you" you respond. "I want to be far from being killed, from being used, from becoming a trophy..." You give a humorless smile. "But I don't want to be far from you."

You say it calmly, because you’ve thought about it a thousand times.

"My life has never been… safe" you continue. "I’ve always lived in my head, in books, in fantasies, because the 'normal' world felt too small for me, or it hurt in other ways. And now… it turns out the universe has put everything I used to read about right in front of me: vampires, clans, danger, impossible love." You look at him, directly. "Did it really expect me to say no?"

Felix lets out a broken laugh, a mixture of relief and fear.

"You are the least practical human I’ve ever met" he murmurs.

"You are the least terrifying vampire I’ve ever met" you fire back.

"You’ve only met one."

"I know Han" you point out.

"He doesn’t count" he says automatically. You both laugh.

The laughter fades slowly, leaving a different kind of silence: soft, not as tense.

"I can't promise you there won't be more nights like the other day" Felix says sincerely. "I can't promise you no one else will come looking for what you smell like. I can't promise you I won't do things that scare you again."

He lowers his gaze slightly.

"The only thing I can promise you is that..." He searches for your eyes again. "...every time I have to choose, I’m going to choose you. Even if I have to break rules. Even if Chan yells at me. Even if it costs me everything."

You feel something tighten in your chest.

"I don't want you to lose everything for me" you murmur.

"I was already losing it before I met you" he responds. "In slow motion. Between bar shifts, fights, and centuries that look far too much like one another. The only thing you’ve done is..." He gives a lopsided smile. "...remind me that there are still things worth doing stupid things for."

Silence.

His fingers move slowly toward your hand on the sofa. He doesn’t force them; he just leaves them close, only a few millimeters away, waiting for a signal.

That signal has to come from you.

And, although everything in your life has always been cautious and measured, this time your hand moves without hesitation. You close those final millimeters and interlace your fingers with his.

The contact is simple, warm, but it’s charged with everything you’ve just said. There is no going back after this. And there’s no need for it.

Felix gives a gentle squeeze.

"I missed you" he confesses in a low voice. "Far more than makes sense for such a short time."

"I missed you too" you admit. "Even if I didn't text you."

He keeps looking at you, a mix of disbelief and tenderness.

"So..." He clears his throat. "What do we do now?"

You don’t have a master plan. But you do have one certainty.

"Learn to survive in your world without ceasing to be me" you say. "And have you be in mine without ceasing to be you." You squeeze his hand. "The rest... we’ll write it as we go."

Felix smiles—slowly, deeply. And this time, he doesn't seem like a vampire, or a human, or a monster, or a hero.

He seems, quite simply, like someone who is also falling in love with you.

You squeeze his hand a little more, as if securing the connection.

"We could..." you begin, looking at him, "go to my apartment. Talk more quietly. Away from the noise. And the chaos. And Hyunjin and Han lurking around."

Felix lets out a soft laugh.

"Believe me, right now they’re closer than you think" he murmurs.

You frown.

"What do you mean—?"

He tilts his head toward the door, without letting go of your hand.

"Han, if you dig your elbow into me one more time, I swear I’ll be the one who..." he mimics in a whisper, with surprising accuracy.

The moment he says it, you hear a faint, muffled voice from right outside the door:

"Move over a bit, you're the one who won't let me hear properly" Han says, sounding offended.

Then, another, more irritated whisper:

"Shut up already, I can't hear a thing" Hyunjin snaps.

And immediately after, Jeongin’s voice, also in a desperate murmur:

"Both of you, shut up. Seriously. You're impossible."

You cover your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.

Felix shakes his head, somewhere between amused and resigned.

"Their hearing is a curse" he says. "Mine too. And yet, they sometimes forget we can all hear just as well."

He stands up, pulling you gently so you stand too.

"Let's go, before they come in with some excuse" he adds.

He opens the door.

On the other side, sure enough, there are the three of them.

Han is pressed against the wall, Hyunjin has his arms crossed trying to look serious, and Jeongin is in the middle with a glass in his hand that he clearly wasn't washing a second ago.

As soon as the door swings open, all three of them snap into different poses, as if they were suddenly very busy.

Jeongin turns toward the small improvised bar in the room and starts scrubbing the glass with exaggerated energy.

"I... I was cleaning" he murmurs.

Hyunjin smooths out his shirt.

"I was just... passing by" he says, as if he doesn't constantly "pass by" everywhere.

Han looks at the ceiling.

"I’m innocent" he adds, without any context.

Felix looks at them one by one, incredulous.

"I can't believe you sometimes forget we're vampires" he sighs. "I could hear you behind the door perfectly."

Han opens his mouth to protest but ends up laughing. Hyunjin does too. Jeongin covers his face for a second, caught between embarrassment and laughter.

"Idiots" Felix huffs, though a smile escapes him.

"Are you taking her home?" Jeongin asks softly, but loud enough for you to hear.

Felix nods.

"Yeah. Today... I’m off duty."

Hyunjin makes a theatrical gesture with his hand, as if giving you his blessing.

"Go, go" he says. "We'll stay here with the blood, sweat, and tears. You get the romance. Unfair."

Han leans toward you with a crooked smile.

"If he misbehaves, let me know" he jokes. "I'll pull his fangs out."

"You couldn't even pull a fast one on him" Minho cuts him off from the hallway, without even looking.

Laughter eases the tension for a few seconds.

Felix squeezes your hand.

"See you later" he says to the others.

You leave the club.

The street air hits your face, fresh. This time, as soon as you take a few steps, Felix interlaces his fingers with yours without overthinking it, without hiding.

He walks by your side in silence for the first few meters. The awkwardness from days ago no longer weighs on you; what’s there now is a tense, almost sweet calm: that of two people who have said what mattered and finally need a quiet place.

Every now and then, his fingers squeeze yours a bit tighter, as if he needed to make sure you’re still there. You squeeze back.

"Are you sure?" he asks at one point, as you turn the last corner toward your street. "I can drop you off and head back, you don't have to..."

"I want you to come up" you cut him off, soft but firm. "I want to talk to you where nothing and no one can enter without my permission."

He nods. He doesn’t insist.

You reach your building. You open the door with your key and lead him inside.

You walk up the stairs. Every step brings flashes of that first night, when you arrived soaked, and of all the times you’ve come back alone.

This is the first time Felix walks up with you.

You open your apartment door.

"Come in" you say.

He crosses the threshold slowly, as if stepping onto something sacred. Not so much because of the superstition of "entering a human’s home," but because everything here smells like you.

And you notice it.

His senses sharpen. He breathes in deeply, almost without meaning to. The scent of your coffee, your books, your shampoo, your skin on the sofa fabric… all blended into an aroma that, for him, is as recognizable as a heartbeat.

He looks around attentively: the table with the laptop, the notebooks, the unlit candle, the used mugs, the books stacked in chaotic piles, the half-made bed.

"This place..." he murmurs. "It’s very you."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" you ask, dropping your keys on the table.

"It’s... home" he responds sincerely.

Your chest tightens a little.

You gesture toward the sofa.

"Make yourself comfortable."

He takes off his jacket and leaves it on a chair. He sits on the sofa—at the edge at first, then leaning back little by little, as if testing the waters.

"Do you want something to drink?" you ask out of habit. "Water, tea, coffee…"

He looks at you, a small smile curving on his lips.

"No, I’m fine" he says. "I don’t have to pretend here."

That sentence sounds more intimate than it should.

You sit down beside him, closer this time than in the breakroom, your knees almost touching. You turn slightly toward him.

"I’ve been thinking about... how we can try to make this work" you begin. "For real. Not just with kisses on rooftops and fights in clubs."

Felix nods, attentive.

"If I’m going to be a part of your life..." you continue, "I don't want to always live in fear or with my arms crossed. I don't want to just be 'the human who needs protecting' and that's it. I want to learn to defend myself. Even if I don't have the strength of a vampire, at least... to dodge blows. To know where not to step."

He lets out a long sigh.

"I’m never going to let you be in danger if I or the guys can help it" he responds. "That isn't going to change."

"I know" you say. "But I also know you can't be everywhere all the time. And if someone comes for me like the other day..." You swallow hard. "...I'd rather not be completely lost if they find me."

He thinks it over.

He looks at your hands, your shoulders, measuring something in his head: your human fragility, your stubbornness, his fear, your resolve.

"We can teach you the basics" he concedes at last. "Not so you throw yourself into fights, but so you can get out of them. Dodging, running, using your surroundings..." He gives a faint smile. "Han will be thrilled to show you how to get in and out of trouble."

You laugh.

"I don't want to be a slayer or anything like that" you clarify. "Just... to be a little less defenseless."

He nods.

"We’ll do it at your pace" he says. "And if at any point it feels too dangerous to me, I’m going to tell you, even if you hate me for a while."

"I already hate you a little" you joke.

"I make up for it with my charm" he fires back.

You both laugh.

The conversation starts to ease the gravity of the situation. You move from practical plans to softer things: what a “normal relationship” would look like for you two, who lies to whom at the coffee shop about whether Felix actually drinks coffee, how you’d explain to a hypothetical neighbor why you have such a pale guy coming and going from your apartment at night.

And, as you talk, you begin to realize something.

Felix is tense.

Not from fear. From something else.

You notice it in the way he clenches and unclenches his hands, in the way his eyes drop to your lips every now and then without lingering too long, in how he swallows at the wrong time, in the slight tremor of his knee.

"What’s wrong?" you finally ask.

He wets his lips, looking at an indefinite point in front of him before turning back to you.

"I’ve been holding back since you knocked on the club door" he admits in a whisper. "And long before that, if I’m being honest."

Your pulse quickens, obvious.

"Holding back... how?" you ask, though you already know.

He looks at you head-on now. And he doesn't hide.

"From you" he says. "From touching you more than I should. From kissing you the way I want to kiss you. From..." his voice breaks slightly "...losing control in ways that might scare you."

There is a second where neither of you moves.

Then, as if a cord had snapped, he acts.

He leans toward you and, in a movement that is swift but not rough, his hand slides to the back of your neck. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you with a firmness you hadn't felt before, suddenly closing all the distance left between your bodies.

His lips crash against yours with hunger.

This isn't the measured kiss from the breakroom or the shy first touch on the rooftop. It’s ravenous, urgent, filled with everything he’s been holding in: sleepless nights thinking of you, entire days without a message, the fear of losing you, the relief of seeing you again, the love he hasn't yet said aloud but that pulses in every gesture.

He pulls you flush against him.

His hand on the back of your neck holds you there, fitting your mouth against his, guiding the rhythm. His other hand slides down to your waist, pulling you until you’re pressed against his chest. You feel every line of his body—every inch of muscle, coldness, and contained strength.

The kiss deepens quickly. His tongue brushes against yours, exploring, claiming.

In one movement, he pushes you back gently until your back hits the sofa cushions. He leans over you, his chest against yours, his knee between your own, pinning you in—but making it clear in the way he touches you that you can stop him if you want to.

You feel like you’re on fire.

Your hands cling to his t-shirt, his shoulders, whatever they can grab. You pull him closer. You realize how much you’d missed him in your body, not just in your mind.

In the vortex of the kiss, in a split second when you shift the angle, his fangs accidentally slide against your lower lip.

They sink in.

It’s barely a sting, a sharp line of pain that mingles with pleasure. A moan escapes you before you can help it, muffled against his mouth.

Felix freezes.

He pulls back a couple of inches, his breath ragged, his pupils dilated. You see a tiny thread of red on your lip and another on his.

His expression is a wild mix of desire and fear.

"Stop me now" he says, his voice deep, broken. "If you want me to stop, tell me now. Because if you don't… I won't be able to."

Your heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s going to break through your chest.

You could say "stop." You could say "it’s too much." You could say "I’m scared."

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is something else entirely.

"I don't want you to stop."

You say it clearly, looking him straight in the eyes, fully aware of what it implies.

He closes his eyes for a second, as if those words were the final blow to a dam about to burst.

"I’m afraid of being too much for you," he murmurs. "In everything. In what I feel. In what I... desire. In what I am."

His thumb brushes, with an almost painful tenderness, against the trace of blood on your lip.

"And I’m afraid" he adds, even lower, "of hurting you even when I only want to do you good."

You bring your hand to his cheek, forcing him to hold your gaze.

"I’ve already seen the worst of you" you respond. "And I’m still here. If you can live with what you are... so can I."

He takes a deep breath, trembling slightly.

And there, with him leaning over you on your apartment sofa, with your blood on his mouth and his hands on your body, with everything you’ve spoken of alive in the air—fear, choice, love—it is the exact point where your emotional and physical tension has reached its peak.

His eyes, an almost liquid gold now, fix on yours with an intensity that makes you feel naked before he even touches you. There is no rush. There is none of that wild ravenousness you had imagined in his worst nights of restraint. There is only devotion—raw and trembling—as if he were about to touch something sacred.

"Then... let me love you" he whispers against your lips, his voice so low it vibrates in your chest. "Let me do it right. Let me remind you that you are mine... and that I am yours, even if it’s the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done."

His fingers, cold as ancient porcelain and soft as silk, slide from the back of your neck to the curve of your jaw. He kisses you again, but it’s different now: slow, deep, a touch that tastes like promises. His tongue caresses yours with infinite patience, savoring the faint metallic trace of your blood without swallowing it—simply feeling it as an echo of what you are: alive, warm, his.

His hands move down. Slowly. So slowly that every inch they travel feels like an eternity.

First, the hem of your t-shirt. His thumbs slip underneath, brushing the skin of your waist with a reverence that makes your skin crawl with anticipation. He feels the heat radiating from you, that steady, living pulse beating beneath his fingertips, and he closes his eyes for a second, as if he were memorizing the rhythm of your heart.

"God... your warmth" he murmurs against your neck, kissing it with cold lips. "It’s as if you carry the sun inside you. And I... I’ve been in the darkness for so long that it almost hurts to touch you."

He gently lifts you, sitting you on his lap without pulling away. His hands move up, dragging the fabric upward, inch by inch. He doesn’t undress you: he reveals you. Every fold of fabric that falls is an offering. When the shirt passes over your head and hits the floor, Felix stays still, just watching you. His eyes travel over your shoulders, the curve of your collarbones, the valley between your breasts. His hands follow the same path, but with touch: open palms, fingers spread, as if he were drawing a map of you that only he can read.

He feels every heartbeat. On your throat, where his thumb presses softly. On your ribs, where his hands spread like cold wings. On your belly, where your pulse quickens beneath his palm. Your skin burns against his; he is freezing, but he doesn't chill you. Quite the opposite. His coldness makes every touch feel more alive, more electric.

"You are so… perfect" he says, his voice breaking slightly. "Every curve, every mark, every heartbeat."

He leans in and kisses the center of your chest, right where your heart hammers hard. His cold lips contrast with the fire you feel inside. He moves a little lower, kissing the edge of your bra, and with an expert, reverent hand, he unfastens it. He slides it down your arms without haste, letting the cool air brush against you. His hands replace it instantly: he cups your breasts with a tenderness that borders on painful, his thumbs tracing slow circles around your nipples, feeling them harden under his touch. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn't demand. He only worships.

He lays you back on the sofa again, but now he is over you like a protective shadow. His fingers move down to the button of your pants. He undoes them carefully, as if he were unwrapping a gift he’s afraid to break. He pulls the zipper down with agonizing slowness, and his hands slide over your hips, taking the fabric with them. Kisses follow the path: on your navel, on the curve of your hip, on your inner thighs when he finally leaves you in only your underwear.

There, he stops.

His hands travel the full length of your legs, from your ankles to the junction of your thighs. He feels the pulse in your femoral artery—strong, fast, alive. His breath hitches.

"I can hear it" he whispers, resting his forehead against your thigh. "Your heart. Everywhere. It beats for me. For this. And I… I’ve never felt so much fear and so much desire at the same time."

He removes your final garment with that same devotion. Slowly. As if he were uncovering a treasure. When you are completely naked beneath him, Felix pulls back for just a moment to strip off his own shirt. His skin is pale, perfect, marked only by the lines of muscle that tense with every movement. He discards the rest of his clothes with less ceremony, but without ever breaking eye contact. Then, he returns to you.

His hands travel over your entire body now, with no barriers left. From your shoulders to your toes. He touches every inch as if he wanted to commit you to memory: the softness of your belly, the curve of your waist, the roundness of your hips. His cold fingers slide between your legs, but they don't enter. They only caress, exploring, feeling the damp heat radiating from you—the pulse beating there, too, stronger and more urgent.

"So warm… so alive" he murmurs, his voice nearly a groan. "It burns me. It heals me."

He settles between your legs, propping his weight on his forearms so as not to crush you. His cold body against your warm one is a contrast that makes you gasp. You feel his erection—hard and cold—pressing against your entrance, but he doesn't push. Not yet.

He kisses you again, deep and slow, while one hand moves down between the two of you. He touches you with reverent fingers, opening you gently, circling that sensitive spot with slow movements that make you arch against him. He feels every contraction, every pulse of your pleasure. When you are trembling, when your hands cling to his back and your nails dig into his cold skin, he finally moves.

He enters you with exquisite slowness. Inch by inch. His eyes never leave yours. You feel him fill you—cold and perfect—and the contrast makes everything feel more intense. Once he is fully inside, he stays still, trembling.

"I feel you" he whispers against your lips. "Every pulse. Every breath. You are so alive around me... so warm... so mine."

He begins to move. It isn’t a thrust. It’s a slow, deep sway, as if he were dancing with you. Each time he slides in and out, his hands caress you: one on your chest, feeling your heart; the other on your hip, guiding you. His lips travel over your neck, your collarbone, your breasts—kissing, licking, worshiping. His fangs graze your skin, but they don't bite. They only press, reminding you of what he is—and what he chooses not to be with you.

Pleasure builds slowly, like a rising tide. There is no rush. Every thrust is a declaration. Every moan of yours is met with a whisper of his: "I love you," "You’re perfect," "Don't stop beating for me." You feel his coldness cooling your fire, and your warmth melting his ice. He moves deeper, slower, brushing against that spot inside you that makes you see stars.

When you reach your peak, it’s as if your entire body catches fire. Your heart beats so hard he feels it all around him—contracting, squeezing him. You moan his name, and Felix follows shortly after, burying his face in your neck, trembling as he spills inside you with a muffled groan that sounds like centuries of held-back longing finally released.

He doesn't pull out of you immediately. He stays inside, holding you, his hands still traveling over your back, your sides, your hair. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, your swollen lips.

"Thank you" he whispers, his voice cracked with emotion. "For trusting me. For letting me love you like this. For being my warmth in this cold eternity."

You curl up against his chest, feeling how his skin begins to absorb a bit of your heat, how his heart—even if it doesn't beat—seems to resonate with yours. Outside, the night remains dark. But inside you, with him still inside, everything is light. Delicate. Romantic. Eternal.

Felix notices the shift before you do.

Your breathing slows down; your skin, once flushed and burning, begins to lose its heat. He is still inside you, holding you, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, the corners of your swollen lips—but his instinct kicks in.

"You’re getting cold" he murmurs, almost to himself. "I can’t allow that."

He stays there for just a moment longer, simply to feel complete with you, and then, with all the gentleness in the world, he pulls out. He kisses you one last time—long and soft—before standing up.

In a single motion—so effortless you almost forget how strong he truly is—he gathers you in his arms.

"Felix..." you whisper, half-asleep, half-floating.

"Let me take care of you" he responds, firm yet tender.

He walks through your apartment as if he’s done it a thousand times, but with the reverence of someone stepping into a sanctuary. He nudges the bathroom door open with his foot and flicks on the warm light.

He sets you on the edge of the tub for a second, just to turn on the faucet and adjust the temperature. He tests the water with his hand.

"Not too hot" he says. "Just enough to warm you up."

He helps you stand. Every gesture is patient: he guides you under the stream of water, steps in after you, and slides the shower door shut.

Steam begins to fill the small space.

His hands, which only a short while ago held you with desire, now move with a different intent. He takes the soap, lathers it between his palms, and begins to wash your body with a devotion that nearly steals your breath away.

There’s no rush, no ulterior motives. He washes your shoulders, your arms, your back, your neck—as if every inch of your skin were something sacred entrusted to him. His fingers follow the lines of your body with care, as if memorizing your anatomy from scratch—not to arouse you again, but to make sure you’re okay, that there are no marks, that every part of you is whole.

He gently turns you around, brushing a wet strand of hair from your face.

"Is this okay?" he asks, searching your eyes.

You nod, a lump in your throat that you can’t quite identify as tenderness or sheer exhaustion.

When he’s finished, he turns off the water, slides the door open, and helps you out, holding you by the waist in case your legs feel weak. He grabs a large towel and wraps it around you, patting your skin with soft strokes to dry you off.

Then he dries himself quickly, without much ceremony, and you both leave the bathroom.

He leads you to the bedroom. The room looks different under the dim light of the lamp: more intimate, more yours, more ours.

You let the towel drop onto the bed and pull on your comfortable clothes—an oversized t-shirt, soft pants—your movements somewhat clumsy from fatigue. Felix, meanwhile, stands near the door, as if hesitating over whether he should stay or not.

You turn around.

"Stay" you say simply. "Tonight. Here."

There’s a brief flash of surprise in his eyes, which soon transforms into something warm.

"Are you sure?" he asks, still out of habit.

"More than ever."

That’s enough.

He moves closer, sitting on the edge of the bed with you. When you slip under the covers, he lies down beside you, on top of the blankets, as if he doesn't want to overstep his bounds.

It’s you who lifts one side of the duvet in an inviting gesture.

"Inside" you murmur.

He obeys.

He settles on his side, facing you. When you curl up against his chest, he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. You feel his cold skin starting to warm up, little by little, from your heat. Your ear rests right where his heart should be beating; you hear nothing, but there’s a strange sensation—almost as if your own pulse were being reflected back from him.

"Goodnight," he whispers, kissing your hair.

"Goodnight, Felix."

You fall asleep quickly, exhausted, your breathing falling into sync with his. He stays awake a while longer, watching you, memorizing every feature in the shadows, as if he still can't quite believe you’re there, in his arms, by choice.

When you wake up, the light filtering through the window is soft—mid-morning light.

The bed is warm all around you, but the spot beside you is empty. For a second, your chest tightens, until you hear noise in the small kitchen: the clinking of mugs, the hum of the coffee maker, the soft thud of a cabinet door.

You sit up, pull your hair into a messy bun, and head out.

Felix has his back to you in your kitchen, wearing your ridiculously small apron tied around his waist. His t-shirt is a bit wrinkled, his hair gloriously tousled, and he’s plating something onto two dishes.

He turns as he notices your presence.

"Good morning" he smiles.

On the table, there’s coffee, toast, some fruit. Everything is more organized than you usually have it.

"You’ve..." You blink. "You made breakfast?"

"I had the time" he shrugs. "I don't need much sleep, as you know."

You laugh, moving toward the table.

"I’m still not used to that" you say. "I would've stayed in a coma for twelve hours after last night."

He sits across from you, waiting for you to try the coffee.

You do.

It tastes like home.

"How is it?" he asks, a little anxious.

"Perfect" you respond. "You’re missing the whole 'actually breathing' and 'being mortal' thing, but as a late-night barista, you’re not bad at all."

He laughs.

You eat slowly, talking about light things at first: if the toast is too burnt, if he found everything he needed in your chaotic kitchen, if Han will survive a morning without him.

Then, inevitably, the conversation turns back to last night.

Felix toys with the mug in his hands.

"About last night..." he begins. "It was..."

"Incredible" you finish for him, bluntly.

He looks up, surprised but clearly relieved.

"I’ve never..." you continue, "I’ve never been treated like that. As if I were..." you search for the word "...sacred."

Felix looks down for a second, smiling with that shyness that still melts you.

"Actually... I held back too much," he admits suddenly, like someone confessing to a minor crime.

You arch an eyebrow.

"Too much?" you repeat. "If that was you 'holding back,' I don't even want to know—"

He holds up his hands as if surrendering.

"I’m serious" he insists, laughing. "If I hadn’t held back, my strength would’ve left marks on your body that wouldn't exactly be poetic. And..." He gestures vaguely toward the living room. "...you might not have a sofa anymore."

You can't help it: you burst into a laugh.

"Are you saying you saved my furniture?" you joke.

"I saved your back, your thighs, and your living room" he lists. "And, since it was your first time with me... I didn't want anything to hurt more than it had to."

You lean toward him, elbows on the table.

"So..." you say, a spark of dangerous curiosity in your eyes. "Do I have reason to be curious?"

Felix leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, a lopsided smile on his face.

"All the reason in the world" he responds. "And I’d love to prove it to you..."

Heat rises up your neck.

"We’ll see" you murmur, avoiding his gaze for a second.

"I’ll take that as a 'yes, but not today,'" he chuckles.

You finish breakfast amid jokes, stolen touches, and soft kisses across the table. The atmosphere is lighter, safer—as if last night had sealed something between you that no longer needs to be questioned.

After a while, Felix glances at your phone clock on the counter.

"I have to go" he says with a faint grimace. "They need me at the club. If I’m missing two days in a row, Han will declare anarchy and Hyunjin will hold a parade with the corpses of the bottles."

"Sounds like quite a scene" you respond.

He stands up, helping you clear the table, insisting on doing the dishes despite your protests. Finally, at the door, he stops.

"If you want" he says, "tonight... you could come to the club. Not because you 'have' to go. Just... because I like seeing you there."

A smile curves on your lips.

"I’ll see how this afternoon’s chapter goes," you joke. "If my characters behave, maybe their author will sneak out for a while."

"Threaten them" he counters. "Tell them I’ll change their ending if they don’t let me see you."

He kisses you at the door—a shorter kiss than last night’s, but just as full. Then he walks down the hallway, turning his head one last time to look at you before disappearing down the stairs.

Your apartment smells like coffee and like him. Your bed bears his mark. Your body... does too.

You know you’re going to go.

That night, the club has a different glow for you.

You walk in, and the neon is no longer just the warning of a dangerous world: it’s also the sign that says, "He’s here."

Changbin greets you with a nod, Jeongin nearly drops a glass from excitement at the sight of you, and Han throws you a wink from a table. Hyunjin, as usual, puts on a bit of a show:

"Our protagonist has returned!" he proclaims. "Ready for another season?"

You roll your eyes and head toward the bar.

Felix is there, working, moving with that blend of skill and grace you’ve come to know. When he sees you, his smile shifts. There’s an extra spark, something only you know the source of.

Things feel... right.

Until you see him.

Sitting on one of the high stools by the bar, his back to you at first. Brown hair, perfectly styled, a light-colored jacket, a relaxed posture. He could be just any other customer... until he turns around upon hearing the others greet you.

Your world stops for a second.

You know that face.

Not because you’ve seen him in the club before, but because you’ve seen it on screens, on billboards, in advertisements, in video thumbnails, on playlists. You’ve sung his songs while washing dishes; you’ve written with his voice playing in the background.

Seungmin.

You stand anchored to the spot, staring at him, without blinking.

Felix notices your sudden lack of movement. He follows your gaze, sees Seungmin, and turns back to you. He leans in slightly over the bar.

"This is..." he begins to introduce him.

"Seungmin" you say, without taking your eyes off him.

Felix looks at you, puzzled.

"You know him?" he asks, genuinely confused.

You turn your head toward him, as if he’d just asked you if you knew what the sun was.

"How could I not know him?" you respond, still in a state of disbelief.

Around you, you hear Hyunjin’s soft chuckle. That "we know something you don’t" kind of laugh.

Seungmin, for his part, turns fully toward you.

He smiles.

His smile is beautiful: clean, a bit shy, with soft dimples. But that’s not what takes your breath away.

It’s the flash of fangs when his mouth curves just a little too wide.

Fangs.

Your brain short-circuits for a moment.

You look back at Felix, searching for an explanation—anything to tell you that you aren’t on a hidden camera show.

Felix, instead of speaking, gives you the space.

Seungmin leans toward you slightly, propping an elbow on the bar.

"Nice to finally meet you in person" he says, his voice warm. "I’ve heard… a lot about you."

You open your mouth. You close it. You open it again.

"You’re..." you stammer. "You’re a vampire?"

Seungmin laughs—clear and musical.

"I believe I am" he answers. "Unless someone replaced my fangs with decorations while I wasn't looking."

Hyunjin laughs even harder. Han, from a nearby table, gives you a thumbs-up.

You run a hand over your face, trying to organize your thoughts.

"But… how? I’ve never seen you here. I mean..." You look around. "You’re famous."

Seungmin shrugs, almost modestly.

"I do what I can" he says.

At that moment, Chan comes down the stairs from the upper floor, where he’s usually multitasking on a thousand things at once. He doesn’t seem surprised to see the three of you together; in fact, his expression suggests he’s probably been listening from above for a while.

He approaches the bar.

"Seungmin is one of ours" he says, taking over the conversation. "It’s just that... he isn’t an active part of the clan."

He turns you slightly on your stool, as if inviting you to listen closely. He sits on the stool next to you and gestures to Felix.

"Whiskey on the rocks" he requests. "I’ve earned it today."

Felix nods and begins to prepare it, never failing to follow the scene out of the corner of his eye.

Chan continues:

"Seungmin always had a very clear dream" he explains. "To be a singer. Always. In every era. He’s a great composer, even if he finds it hard to admit sometimes."

Seungmin looks down, half-flattered, half-uncomfortable.

"The fact that we are vampires doesn't mean we have to live in constant struggle, detached from the real world" Chan proceeds. "You’ve seen that for yourself, falling in love with one of them."

He glances at Felix, who at that moment sets the glass of whiskey on the bar with a perfectly placed ice cube.

"I am no one to stop them from fulfilling their dreams" he adds. "I am here to teach them, guide them, and protect them. Not to lock them away."

He takes a sip of his whiskey.

"So when Seungmin decided he wanted to conquer the world with songs..." he gives a lopsided smile, "what we did was help him avoid messing up in... lethal ways."

Seungmin laughs.

"I sing; they remind me not to, I don’t know, bite a host during a live broadcast" he jokes.

"And to make sure you don't sing lyrics that are too literal about 'blood and eternity," Hyunjin adds from the other end of the bar.

"That too" Seungmin admits.

You begin to see the pattern.

Not all vampires live like Chan: in the shadows, in clans, in wars. Some, like Felix, move between both worlds. Others, like Seungmin, have jumped almost entirely into the human scene, using their immortality for something else.

"Fame helps" Chan continues. "Having someone in the public eye who actually belongs to this side gives us... eyes, information, a certain level of influence. And in exchange, he has a network that protects him when human life becomes a little too curious."

Seungmin looks at you again.

"And it’s good for me to have someone to talk to about books and not just hit charts" he says, giving you a wink. "Felix won’t shut up when it comes to you."

You feel Felix’s gaze, soft, on the side of your face. You turn toward him slightly. He has that look of "I’m not going to deny it, but I’m not going to say it out loud in front of everyone either."

Chan takes another sip, watching you over the rim of his glass.

"I know it’s a lot of information" he says. "A famous vampire, another working as a DJ, another being your boyfriend..." He smiles faintly. "The world is stranger than humans believe. But it’s also more... flexible. Fuller of possibilities."

You let all of that sink in.

Seungmin, a global star, sitting in the club like anyone else, showing you his fangs with a beautiful smile. Chan, ancient, leading a clan but encouraging dreams. Felix, at your side, discreetly intertwining his fingers with yours under the bar while talking to a customer, as if anchoring you were the most natural thing in the world.

And you—human, writer—who always thought your life would be limited to imagining impossible worlds... now sitting in the middle of one.

The feeling of "this is too much" mingles with another, stronger one: "this is exactly what I always wanted without knowing it."

The night with Seungmin stretches on longer than expected.

At first, you’re in shock: you have a global star in front of you—someone whose voice has accompanied you through a thousand moments—and now he’s sitting in a vampire club as if he were just any other customer. But the initial surprise quickly gives way to something more natural.

You talk. A lot.

"Do you really listen to my songs?" Seungmin asks, genuinely curious, resting his chin on his hand.

"I have entire playlists of yours" you confess. "I’ve cried while writing with your ballads playing in the background, you know?"

"Now that is pressure" he laughs. "Playing while someone writes important scenes."

Hyunjin jumps in, as usual.

"Don't tell him that; it’ll go straight to his ego" he jokes, giving him a little nudge with his shoulder.

"You’re one to talk about ego" Seungmin shoots back, "Mr. 'No one shines brighter than me in this club.'"

Han lets out a loud laugh from the other side of the bar.

"This is historic" he proclaims. "My favorite singer is a vampire, and my favorite bartender has a girlfriend. What’s next? Changbin smiling?"

"Shut your mouth" Changbin grunts, but there’s a playful glint in his eyes.

Meanwhile, you jump from topic to topic with Seungmin: from music tours to the logistics of it all, from how he composes to how he manages not being able to stay in the sun for too long during festivals, and how he handles hunger in human environments.

"It’s not that hard if you eat before heading out" he explains calmly. "And if you don’t stay alone with anyone in dressing rooms."

"That sounds like a golden rule" Felix chimes in from behind the bar.

"Learned through a few scares" Seungmin responds, shrugging his shoulders.

The others join the conversation whenever they feel like it: Chan corrects historical facts that Seungmin says "from memory," Han suggests ridiculous names for the next album, and Hyunjin proposes impossible choreographies "just to see if you drop dead on stage so we can revive the myth."

Felix watches you.

From slightly on the sidelines—polishing a glass, serving a drink, adjusting something on the tablet—but with his eyes fixed on you. On how you laugh with the others, how your eyes spark while talking to Seungmin, how Chan slips in clan facts between jokes, and how Han and Hyunjin bicker around you.

And for the first time in a long while, he feels... at peace.

The person he allowed himself to start loving hasn't just entered his life: she gets along with his "family." You joke with Han, discuss serious matters with Chan, put up with Hyunjin’s nonsense, get excited talking about music with Seungmin, and listen intently to Jeongin’s anecdotes.

He isn’t watching you "survive" in his world. He’s watching you become a part of it.

And for someone who has spent centuries amidst loss and goodbyes, that is a gift he can hardly even find the words to name.

After that long night, you continued to return to the club regularly.

No longer just as "the special human girl" or "Felix’s girlfriend," but as someone the clan had truly begun to integrate.

And, as you had asked, they started teaching you how to defend yourself.

You didn't train at the club, of course. Too cramped, too easy to break the furniture. Chan found a suitable space: a sort of empty warehouse on the outskirts—covered but spacious, with concrete floors and no windows visible from the street. A wide territory where they could move without drawing attention.

They would take you there occasionally on their "off" nights.

Changbin took charge at the beginning.

"The basics" he said, crossing his arms in front of you. "Block, cover, endure."

He taught you to raise your forearms to deflect blows, to pivot your body instead of resisting head-on, and to lower your center of gravity so you wouldn't fall at the first rush. His teaching style was... direct.

"Harder" he would grunt when you punched the air. "If you hit a vampire like that, he’ll just laugh and thank you for the tickles."

"I don’t want to hit too hard in case I hurt you" you complained.

"Not even if you wanted to" he replied, amused. "But it’s adorable that you’re trying."

Minho, on the other hand, was more technical.

He would lean against a pillar, observing every movement with clinical eyes.

"Bin, you’re too blunt" he would comment. "If you only teach her to hit hard, the first time she misses, she’ll be wide open."

He would walk over to you, repositioning a foot, a shoulder, or a hip with precise touches.

"Think more about dodging than blocking" he’d tell you. "You aren’t going to win a fight of pure strength. Your goal is to not be where they’re going to hit you."

He made you repeat dodges over and over—spinning, ducking, backing away.

"Imagine that every time you fail, Han invites you to one of his 'ideas'" he’d say.

"Now that is motivation" you’d mutter.

Hyunjin… was technically "supporting."

He had brought a beach chair, planted it at the edge of the space, and was reclining in it wearing a ridiculous hat and sunglasses—as if he were at the coast instead of in a cold warehouse.

From a distance, he would toss out comments:

"I say, instead of all this, we just give her a stake and call it a day. Like in the old times. More effective."

Han, who was doing push-ups just for the hell of it, looked up.

"Did you come here to criticize or to help?" he protested. "Because if it’s the former, you could’ve stayed home looking at yourself in the mirror."

Hyunjin readjusted his hat.

"And miss one of the few times we leave the house to do 'normal' things?" he retorted. "Not a chance."

Jeongin, for his part, provided logistical support: he brought water, towels, and gave you sincere encouragement whenever you managed to properly dodge one of Changbin’s strikes.

"She’s getting better" he’d claim. "The first time, she almost tripped over her own feet."

On the other hand, Chan also wanted to ensure your defense wasn't just physical. One day, he called you up to his office.

"Come" he said, opening a door on the upper floor that you had always made a point not to cross. "It’s time you saw another part of the dirty work."

His office was spacious and somber: bookshelves lined with volumes, a large desk, several screens displaying security camera feeds, and maps of the city with color-coded markings.

And filing cabinets.

A lot of filing cabinets.

He opened one like someone opening a forbidden encyclopedia. Inside were photos, reports, names.

"These are the other clans" he explained. "The main ones, at least. The faces you need to remember."

He pointed them out one by one: leaders, seconds-in-command, dangerous pawns.

"If you run into any of these" he repeated, looking you straight in the eyes, "don't try anything. Don't talk to them, don't play the hero, don't try to prove you can defend yourself."

He insisted once more:

"You run in the opposite direction. And you alert us. Always."

You nodded, more serious than ever. No matter how much they taught you to block or dodge, you knew you’d never have the strength or speed of a vampire to actually "defeat" one. Your training was for survival, not for winning battles.

Changbin, meanwhile, took it upon himself to handle his side of things.

"Gym" he said one day, crossing his arms. "It’ll do you good."

"Are you calling me weak?" you asked.

"I’m calling you human" he countered. "And if you have good stamina, you’ll be able to run longer before you drop. It’s simple math."

You ended up going with him to a 24-hour gym where, curiously, no one dared to take the treadmill next to him when they saw him lifting impossible weights. He acted as your trainer: setting times, correcting your form, letting out approving grunts when you held out longer than expected.

"You don't need to be strong like me" he’d say. "Just that your heart can handle the madness you're going to get into by being with us."

Felix got involved too, of course.

His "lessons" were something else entirely.

"I’m going to teach you how to break out of holds" he’d say. "In case someone tries to grab you."

He would take you by the wrist, the waist, the shoulders... always careful, always with a technical excuse. But his hands lingered just a bit longer than necessary; his fingers traced familiar lines on your skin.

"Like this" he would murmur, guiding you. "Pivot here. Shift your weight to this foot. Use my own momentum against me."

Han, as usual, couldn't help but chime in.

"Stop making up moves just so you can touch her" he complained from a corner. "It's not like she's a fool, man."

Felix looked at him with an expression that promised a slow death.

"Do you want to be her practice dummy instead?" he asked, dangerously.

Han raised his hands.

"Me? I'd be delighted" he smirked. "Though if you train her well, I might end up on the floor, and that's not exactly my favorite kink."

"Get out" Felix snapped.

Among them all, bit by bit, you stopped being "the fragile human" and started feeling something more... capable. Never invincible, of course. But you were no longer just someone they’d expect to see running and screaming: you were someone who, if the time came, would know how to dodge, block, and buy time.

And, while your body learned the basics of that world, your heart anchored itself deeper and deeper to him.

Felix continued to see you as what you had been to him from the start: something sacred. Only now, besides kissing you as if you were his light, he also taught you how to move through your shadows so that no one could blow you out without a fight.

You didn't expect to have to put everything you'd learned into practice so soon.

But someone out there seemed to have other plans.

That night, you're all heading back from training together: sweaty, laughing, exhausted from repeating dodges, holds, and teases.

"You moved better today" Minho says, walking beside you. "You don't look like a duck anymore."

"What a... specific compliment" you respond, panting.

Han is out in front, giving little boxer-like hops.

"I say in two weeks she beats Bin in a race" he proclaims.

"Not in your wildest dreams" Changbin grunts, though he clearly looks satisfied.

Felix walks close to you, his fingers brushing yours every now and then—not quite taking your hand only because Chan is nearby. The atmosphere is light, almost normal. Until you turn the corner into the alleyway.

Something shifts.

You don't notice it at first, but they do.

The bodies around you tense up as if they'd been jerked by the same invisible cord. Felix steps half a pace ahead, Changbin side-steps to put you behind him almost automatically, and Minho looks up toward the rooftops.

Chan stops.

The club door is ajar.

Ever so slightly.

Nothing that would catch a human’s attention, but Chan stands still for a second. He breathes. Or rather, he scents. He listens.

He turns to you, his face grave.

"Behind us" he says in a low voice.

Your stomach knots.

At his signal, everyone takes their positions: Han puts his back to the wall, Changbin gently nudges you until he’s standing in front of you, and Minho already has his phone in hand, opening the app connected to the internal cameras.

Chan approaches the door.

He doesn’t go in.

He pushes it just enough to peer inside and see the interior.

What he sees freezes something that should have already been frozen.

In the center of the club, with the lights half-on, are Hyunjin and Jeongin. Gagged, tied to chairs back-to-back, both clearly beaten: split lips, bruises blooming under their pale skin.

Hyunjin’s shirt is torn. If he didn't have tape over his mouth, he’d likely be hurling insults with elegance.

Chan does not cross the threshold.

He stays where he is, using the narrow angle of the door to analyze the scene. His eyes move rapidly, searching for shadows, movements, any slight indication.

"We’re surrounded" Minho informs from behind, staring at his phone. "Two at the bar. One behind the central pillar. One on the stairs. Three on the top floor, spread out. And at least two others outside the camera angles."

Chan processes this.

He wants to get you out of there. It’s obvious. His gaze flits back and forth between the interior and you. But the time for "peek and retreat" has already passed. If you turn around now, those outside will move to block your path.

He sighs, briefly.

"Positions" he says, in a commanding tone.

He turns to you.

"How ready do you feel?" he asks.

You don't answer. Not because you don't want to, but because your throat has tightened.

He nods, understanding.

"It’s okay" he adds, more softly. "Remember what we’ve practiced. You aren’t a hunter. You aren't here to defeat anyone. Just… stay alive."

He turns back toward Changbin and Minho.

"I want your four eyes on her at all times if you can" he orders. "If anything gets too close, you clear it away."

Both nod, their expressions grave.

Finally, he looks at Felix.

"And you" he says. "Don’t let yourself be carried away by your emotions."

Felix clenches his jaw. His eyes flash for a second.

"I’ll try" he responds.

Chan gives a single nod.

He pushes the door and enters.

As soon as you take three steps inside, the shadows materialize.

Several vampires emerge from behind pillars, the bar, and the sides. They surround you with the ease of someone who has already rehearsed the move.

From above, on the second floor, leaning against the railing as if he were watching a play, there he is.

The clan leader.

He smiles upon seeing Chan.

"Well now" he says. "I thought we wouldn't see each other again after that night."

Chan looks up, a hard smile on his face.

"Me too" he responds. "And I would’ve been happy that way."

The leader shrugs.

"You know I didn't like how things ended" he retorts, glancing briefly at Hyunjin and Jeongin, still tied up in the center.

Han, who never knows when to shut up, blurts out:

"You mean losing?"

Hyunjin, even gagged, rolls his eyes dramatically. If he could speak, he’d likely be calling him everything but handsome.

The leader shifts his gaze down toward you.

He scans you: you’re practically pressed against Changbin’s back, with Minho on one side and Felix on the other. His men notice too: they see how everyone surrounds you, how you are clearly the center of a protective circle.

"My, my, Chan" the leader says. "It seems you haven’t learned from past events."

The reference is clear. Painful. It goes straight to the loss of his wife centuries ago.

You feel Chan tense up.

His jaw hardens, his fists clench, and his gaze turns cold instantly.

"That" he says, in a low, dangerous voice, "will never happen again."

He doesn’t wait any longer.

He leaps.

What for you would be impossible—leaping up to the second-floor railing in one go—he does as if gravity were merely a suggestion. His hands grip the edge, he hauls himself up, and lands in front of the leader with effortless elegance.

From below, Han laughs.

"So much for not letting emotions get the best of us" he comments. "The party’s starting."

And without further prelude, he turns toward the nearest enemy and throws a direct punch.

The fight explodes.

You press yourself even closer to Changbin’s back. You feel his muscles moving under your hand, tense and ready. He steps forward, intercepting the first vampire that lunges toward you.

"Move" he says through gritted teeth, never losing focus. "Remember: don't stay in the same spot."

He opens up slightly to deliver a blow that sends an enemy crashing against the wall. You shift with him, just as you’ve practiced, staying at his back but ready to dodge if anything gets too close.

Han streaks past you, laughing as if he were in a common bar fight.

"Let’s go!" he shouts at you. "Show them you’re not just any human!"

Without you knowing where he got it from, he tosses you a short metal bar.

You catch it mid-air out of pure reflex. It’s cold, heavy, familiar; you’d trained with something similar, "just in case."

Chaos erupts all around you.

Hyunjin and Jeongin remain tied up... for only a few seconds. As soon as one of the attackers gets distracted watching the main fray, Jeongin—hands still bound—lands a sharp kick to his knee. The guy collapses sideways, and Hyunjin, using the other's weight, drags his chair back, slamming it against his partner's. Between clumsy strikes and shoves, they manage to topple both chairs.

Moments later, Minho appears and cuts the ropes with a swift motion.

Hyunjin rips the gag from his mouth.

"Great" he complains, standing up. "Now I’m going to have marks on my precious skin."

Jeongin gets to his feet more discreetly, but as soon as he’s free, he lunges at the nearest enemy with cold efficiency.

In the midst of the chaos, an enemy slips through an exposed gap, advancing toward your blind side. You see only a flash of movement out of the corner of your eye.

Before you can react, a hand blocks the blow aimed at your ribs.

Minho.

He appears between you and the attacker, his forearm intercepting the fist. With a twist of his wrist, he wrenches the enemy's arm and flings him to the side.

He looks at you, grave.

"Focus" he says, with nothing more.

You tighten your grip on the metal bar in your hands.

You take a deep breath.

You repeat to yourself, amidst the noise, the blows, the screams: I chose this. No one dragged you here. No one forced you to love a vampire. No one but you crossed that door the first time.

You steel yourself.

Another enemy lunges toward your right, thinking you’re the weak link. You see his face approaching, mouth open, fangs bared.

You don’t think.

You pivot on your lead foot, raise the bar, and drive it with all your strength toward his face.

Metal slams squarely into his cheekbone.

The sound is dull, heavy. He staggers back, clearly dazed, clutching his face.

Han streaks right past you at that moment, letting out a bark of laughter.

"Nice hit!" he shouts. "That’s what I like to see!"

He kicks another one who was closing in right in the chest, sending him to the floor, and continues on his way, laughing as if this were some kind of macabre festival.

The fight, this time, is fierce... but different from the last one.

Chan, on the upper floor, faces the leader head-on. Neither of them seems to want a repeat of how things ended last time. Chan, however, has changed something: he isn’t looking to kill. He’s looking to control.

"Surrender" he tells him, at a moment when he has the leader backed against the railing, a hand at his throat. "Or you’re going to lose too many of your own again."

The leader, panting, looks over his shoulder.

From there, he sees the scene: several of his men are already on the ground, motionless or groaning; others are retreating, clearly outmatched. Your protective circle still stands: Changbin, Minho, and Felix moving like a shifting wall around you; Hyunjin and Jeongin, now free, fighting with elegant disdain; Han enjoying himself far too much; and Seungmin, who came down when he saw what was happening, using a bar similar to yours with almost rhythmic precision.

His expression shifts from arrogance to calculation.

Chan tightens his grip.

"I don't want another massacre" he warns. "Not the one from centuries ago, and not a new one. Take those who can walk and don't come back."

Finally, the leader spits blood to the side and lets his shoulders sag a bit.

"This doesn't end here" he mutters.

"It never does" Chan responds. "But for today, it does."

He lets him go.

The leader falls to his knees, pushes himself up as best he can, and whistles a brief order. His men who are still standing begin to retreat, dragging those they can. Those who are in too bad a shape... stay behind.

No broken necks this time. Not from Chan and his people. There was no need.

The silence that follows is heavy.

Your body begins to notice what it couldn’t feel before.

Your shoulder throbs—a blow you took at some point, perhaps when you mistimed a dodge. Your knee aches when you shift your weight; someone clipped you on their way down. There’s a stinging on your cheek, and you can’t remember where it came from.

The adrenaline recedes.

You remain standing, the bar still in your hand, your fingers cramped. Your legs tremble slightly; you don’t know if it’s from the effort or from what you just did.

Felix appears by your side in a blink.

His eyes scan you visually first, then his hands follow: shoulders, arms, face.

"Did they hit you?" he asks, his voice deeper than usual.

"Nothing... serious" you respond, now truly feeling every small ache.

Changbin, panting, wipes a hand across his face.

"That was good" he says. "For your first real time."

Han lifts the bar you’re still clutching.

"And good aim, Writer" he adds. "They can't say you're just 'the human' anymore."

Minho, on your other side, watches you with that indecipherable expression of his.

"You did well" he admits. "But don't get overconfident. Tonight was a warning. It could have been worse."

You know it.

You feel it in every muscle: this is only the beginning. Choosing to stay in this world means more nights like this. More blows. More fear. And, yes, also more kisses, more dawns with Felix, more breakfasts with coffee and jokes.

You press the bar against your chest for a second and breathe.

You chose this.

And as Felix, with trembling but firm hands, runs a finger over a small cut on your cheek, you know you will keep choosing it. Even if it hurts. Even if it leaves marks.

Because, for the first time in your life, you feel like you are living a story that is as much yours as the ones you always dreamed of writing. And that, no matter what happens, you don't intend to let anyone else write it for you.

The bodies on the floor groan and complain; some try to push themselves up only to fall back down.

Hyunjin, now free of his bonds and with his shirt half-torn, approaches one of the enemies lying face up—breathing, but with no desire to move. He gives him a nudge with the tip of his shoe.

"Come on, don't be dramatic" he says, with that signature blend of laziness and mockery. "Get up and leave on your own two feet. I have absolutely no intention of carrying anyone."

The vampire tries to snarl something at him; Hyunjin doesn't even listen. He moves to the next one, repeating the gesture.

"Up you go, human drama" he continues. "This isn’t a Greek tragedy. If you can groan, you can walk."

Jeongin, with a split lip and a bruise blooming on his cheekbone, approaches Chan with his head bowed.

"I’m sorry" he says. "They caught us off guard. There were too many for just the two of us. We tried..."

Chan places a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Hey" he cuts him off with unusual gentleness. "You did well."

Jeongin looks at him, surprised.

"But..."

"I don’t care if you lost control of the room five minutes before we got here" Chan continues. "The only thing that matters is that you’re alive. You and Hyunjin."

He squeezes his shoulder a bit tighter, as if wanting to anchor that thought in him.

"We’ll have plenty of nights to discuss strategy" he adds. "Not for discussing resurrections."

Jeongin nods, swallows hard, and allows himself a sigh of relief he wouldn't have let out in front of anyone else.

Chan then turns toward you.

He sees you with the metal bar still in your hand, your shoulders tense, your chest rising and falling rapidly. He also sees the slight tremor in your legs, the small wince of pain when you shift your weight from one foot to the other.

He approaches.

"You did great" he says, point-blank.

You feel the recognition like a surge of warmth in your chest.

Then he looks at Felix.

"Take her home" he adds. "And… take care of her."

Felix nods, without argument. He gently pulls your hand to get you moving.

As soon as you take two steps, you limp.

He notices instantly. He moves to your side, wrapping an arm around your waist and draping your arm over his shoulders, taking on most of your weight. Like this, he practically carries you, making it so your feet barely brush the ground.

"If it weren't for the fact that there are still people on the streets" he murmurs with a crooked smile, "we’d be at your place in the blink of an eye."

You laugh, half-exhausted, half-euphoric.

"Right now…" you respond, "I feel like crap. On the outside."

"And on the inside" he asks, "how do you feel?"

You think for a second.

"Alive" you say. "Ridiculously alive."

He smiles and pulls you a little tighter into his embrace.

At your apartment, Felix carefully seats you on the sofa.

"Don’t move" he orders softly.

He disappears for a moment into the bathroom. You hear drawers opening, the rattle of the first-aid kit, the brief rush of the faucet. He returns with everything he needs: gauze, disinfectant, ice wrapped in a cloth.

He kneels in front of you.

"I’m going to lift this up a bit" he warns, sliding his fingers under the hem of your T-shirt.

You nod, raising your arms to make it easier for him. The fabric rises a few inches, exposing your stomach, your sides, and part of your ribs.

As his gaze travels over your skin, he discovers new injuries.

Bruises beginning to take shape on your side, a faint yellowish-green mark starting on your hip, a thin scratch on your thigh. His hand passes very close, without touching at first—as if he were afraid of hurting you just by brushing against you.

He says nothing.

But you see it in his eyes: the way they darken, the glint of mute rage, the guilt piercing him beneath the surface.

You say it for him.

"It’s not your fault."

He looks up, startled.

"I chose this" you add, before he can even open his mouth. "So stop blaming yourself. I can hear your thoughts even from here."

He smiles, but the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"You're hur," he murmurs. "Because of me."

You shake your head, almost indignant.

"No" you respond. "I'm hurt... because there are people who want to harm you. Even if you and I were just friends, or if I were only friends with Han, Jeongin, Changbin... I still would have fought. Because if one thing is clear to me, it's that your family is mine too."

You take a breath.

"I would have fought for you, for myself... and for them."

Felix looks at you in silence for a few seconds.

And, instead of arguing, he kisses you.

A soft, grateful kiss, filled with something you had rarely felt so clearly: pride. Not just for having defended yourself, but for having stayed—for having chosen his people as your own.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I think you’re the craziest human I’ve ever met" he whispers.

"Yes" you respond, without losing your smile. "And that’s exactly why you fell in love with me."

He laughs, this time for real.

"Maybe" he admits.

The rest of the night, he takes care of you.

He puts ice on the ankle you slightly sprained, delicately cleans the scratch on your cheek, and rubs your shoulders with gentle hands. He warns you:

"Tomorrow everything is going to hurt more than you expect. Your adrenaline is still high right now. When you wake up… every single muscle is going to complain."

"Great" you groan. "Exactly what I wanted."

"I'll bring you coffee and anti-inflammatories" he smiles. "And then, if you can move, I'll help you stretch. If you can’t…" he shrugs, "I’ll just carry you."

"You’re abusing your strength" you tease.

"And you’re abusing my heart" he counters.

You finish the night in bed—you, covered in bruises but tucked into his arms, with ice on your knee and kisses on every inch that aches.

The days go by.

At first, you remember every single blow each time you get up: your knee protests as you climb out of bed, your side grumbles when you bend over, and your shoulder creaks as you pull on a T-shirt.

Felix is all over every moan and groan: he gives you a hard look if you try to do things on your own, insists on walking you even to the grocery store, and sends you texts like: "Don’t lift anything heavy, including your own dignity."

But the bruises change color. From deep purple to yellowish-green, to almost nothing. The sharp pain turns into a dull ache when you move. You stop limping. Your body begins to remember it can function without complaining at every step.

One day, you get out of bed, go to the kitchen, bend down to grab something from a low cabinet…

And it doesn't hurt.

You smile to yourself.

Not because you're thrilled about having been hit, but because that small, everyday gesture reminds you of something important: you fell, you got up, it hurt… and you got better.

Just like everything you're experiencing with them.

And, above all, with him.

@little-mix-fan-forever @emeraldgem22 @honeyyyy21 @doliveiraa @blackbrumous @ stellasays45 @iconicallyher @nebugalaxy @ karlee10261990 @susu6944 @parkairis18 @quokkahansung @wheresangel @bunbunbl0gs @lostinmusicals @euonna @nebugalaxy @karmaghostjess93 @hanniesbubuwife @blindspotquokka @idkimobsessed

You stop halfway through the venue, your heart shrinking a little. You had never heard that upper floor so clearly before. There was always music covering everything; now, the words pour down the stairs as if someone had opened a floodgate.

“I’m only reminding you how dangerous it is” Chan’s voice—louder than you’ve ever heard it—hits the air.

You freeze.

“I already know” Felix responds, defensive. “You don’t need to repeat it to me as if I were a child.”

You recognize his voice. The tone, you don’t. There’s an edge to it, a contained rage.

You take a couple more steps toward the center of the club, as if that would clarify what you’re hearing. You don’t go up, but the sound reaches you with more clarity.

“Precisely because you’re not a child” Chan insists. “Because you’ve lived long enough to know what happens when you mix our world with hers.”

A thick silence follows. Then, Chan adds, lower but still audible:

“It’s better if you stay away from her.”

Your stomach knots.

“Her.”

They don’t say your name, but they don’t have to. In this context, it can only be one person.

You.

You instinctively hide behind one of the pillars near the stairs, as if they could see you through the floor. You don't want to eavesdrop, but the words keep falling.

“I’m not doing anything crazy” Felix throws the sentences like stones. “I only see her every now and then at the club.”

“I have information” Chan replies, sharp. “Don’t make me look like an idiot. You’ve been seen outside. In daylight. Moving through public places with her.”

You feel as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over you.

“You’ve been seen.”

“Information.”

That “outside, in daylight” is you, inevitably. The cafe, the bookstores, the walks. All those moments that felt so intimate... they’ve left a trail.

Another voice enters the conversation. Lower, cutting.

“It’s none of my business” he says.

You don’t recognize it at first. Then, when it speaks again, you associate it with a face you’ve seen in passing at the club, always in the shadows, always watching from a corner: Minho.

Felix snaps.

“Seriously, Minho?” you hear him almost shout. “You too? Now you’re spending your time following me around?”

“I’m just following orders” Minho responds calmly, without raising his voice. “I’m not the one who decided to stroll around half the city with a human.”

Chan speaks up again.

“Felix, nobody is saying you can’t…” he searches for the word, “…feel things. I’m not a monster. But you know how this ends when one of our kind grows too fond of one of theirs.”

The pause that follows stifles you.

“She isn’t ‘one of theirs’ like the others” Felix spits out, as if defending himself against something even you don’t fully understand. “And it’s none of your business who I see outside the club, either.”

“It becomes my business when your…” Chan seems to hold back the word for a second, “…attachment puts a spotlight on our door,” he says, his tone hardening again. “Ever since she showed up, everyone else has been talking about nothing else. The clans are noticing. They’re asking questions. They want to know why a human matters so much to you.”

The floor seems to shift beneath your feet.

“Everyone else has been talking about nothing else.”

“Why a human matters so much to you.”

The thumping in your ears nearly drowns out the voices.

Felix responds, and now his voice sounds wounded.

“Because she’s not just another human” he says. “And because, for once in too long, something makes me feel…”

He cuts himself off. He hits something; you imagine him running a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I’m not going to give you explanations about how I feel” he finishes. “I’m not your son.”

“No” Chan agrees, his voice lower. “You’re someone I don’t want to see break over the same story.”

That phrase cuts through you.

The same story.

The idea that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened makes your stomach churn.

Minho speaks again, dryly:

“I’m just saying, if you keep taking her to cafes and going on night walks as if she were your human girlfriend, don’t expect the rest of the world to stay blind.”

That word hits you right in the chest.

“Human girlfriend.”

It isn’t something you have said. It isn’t something he has said to you. But it’s there, in the mouths of others, as if it were already such an obvious possibility that it’s causing concern.

You wanted to leave. To make noise, turn the doorknob, walk out without looking back. But your feet won’t obey. You stay there, caught between curiosity and the guilt of listening to something you shouldn’t.

Felix speaks again.

“Stop talking about her as if she were a strategic risk” his voice trembles with rage. “She is a person. She isn’t a ‘spotlight,’ or a ‘threat,’ or a ‘weak link.’ She is…” he hesitates, and in that void, a thousand possible words slip in. “She is someone I am not going to use or discard for your peace of mind.”

Chan lowers his tone a bit. Even so, it reaches you:

“You are free to think whatever you want” he says. “But your freedom doesn’t erase consequences.”

A longer silence follows.

You feel that if you keep listening, you will hear things you aren’t ready to process yet. And at the same time, you know you’ve already heard enough that nothing will ever fit the same way again.

You take a careful step backward, trying not to make a sound.

Your intention is to leave. Maybe send Felix a message later, pretending you were running late—inventing any excuse so you don't have to look at him with all of this fresh in your mind.

But in that discreet movement, your shoulder brushes against a poorly placed bottle on a side table. It wobbles. It falls.

The crash against the floor sounds far too loud in the silence of the empty venue.

Upstairs, the voices cut off instantly.

Your heart skyrockets. You don't need someone’s hand on your chest to tell you that.

You hear footsteps approaching the stairs.

You don't have time to leave. The street door is too far away. You stay where you are, by the pillar, feeling shame and fear mingle: you’ve overheard intimate, harsh things, and now they’re going to see you there—an accidental witness to a confrontation that revolves around you.

Felix’s silhouette appears at the top of the stairs, coming down fast. His eyes find yours the second he sets foot on the club floor.

For an instant, his expression passes through three clear stages: surprise, concern… and something akin to resignation.

Because he knows you’ve heard, at least, a part of it.

Chan eventually comes down too.

You see him appear at the foot of the stairs, with Minho a step behind him, deeper in the shadows. Chan’s expression is no longer that of the leader you just heard shouting; he has composed himself, but the hardness remains in his eyes.

Their gazes shift from Felix to you. Then they settle on you, fully.

“I suppose you’ve heard more of us than you should have” he says, with a somewhat uncomfortable sincerity.

You’re not quite sure how to stand. You end up nodding, without any embellishment.

“Enough to know you were talking about me” you respond. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to… overhear.”

Chan shakes his head slowly.

“You aren’t the one who should apologize” he says. “We’re the ones who were talking about you like a logistical problem, instead of a person who was about to walk through that door.”

He takes a few steps closer but maintains a respectful distance. Minho stays still further back, watching in silence.

“I didn’t introduce myself as I should have the first time” Chan continues. “I’m Chan. The one who tries to keep all of this—” he makes a gesture encompassing the club, the building, perhaps something even larger— “from falling apart.”

You already knew, but you nod anyway.

“And yes” he adds, without beating around the bush. “We were arguing because of you. Not because you’ve done anything wrong, but because…” he looks at Felix, then back to you, “…because we care too much about what happens to you.”

The choice of the plural catches your attention.

Felix snorts, crossing his arms.

“What he means” he murmurs, “is that I’m an idiot who has let himself be seen with you too much, and now everyone is hysterical.”

“What I mean” Chan corrects with a sigh, “is that there are things that you—” he looks at you, “—don't know yet, and that he—” he points to Felix, “—hasn’t told you either because…” he tilts his head, “well, because he’s Felix.”

The tension between them is still there, but Chan lowers his voice a bit.

“This isn’t a good place to continue this conversation” he adds. “Not now.”

He looks at Felix.

“Take her up to the rooftop” he says. “Talk. Explain to her what she needs to know. I…” he glazes at his watch, “have to deal with suppliers before this turns into a literal soap opera.”

His eyes return to yours once more.

“And for what it's worth” he adds. “I’m truly sorry. You aren’t a ‘risk.’ You’re a person. It’s just that we’ve… lived long enough to see too many times how these kinds of stories end.”

You aren’t quite sure how to respond, so you just nod.

“Thank you… for saying that” you murmur.

Chan nods too, with a slight tilt of his head, and turns to go back up. Minho stays for a second longer, looking at you with those sharp, inscrutable eyes.

“It’s not personal” he says simply. “It’s… survival.”

Then he follows Chan, leaving you both alone on the empty club floor.

Felix runs a hand through his hair, exasperated.

“I’m sorry” he says. “There’s no good way to handle something like this.”

“It could have been worse” you respond, trying to lighten the mood. “They could’ve been talking about what… tastes like—” you stop, wrinkling your nose. “Okay, better not finish that sentence.”

Felix lets out a laugh, brief but sincere. That breaks the tension a little.

“Come” he says. “The rooftop is… more honest.”

The elevator is old and makes a small rattling noise as it goes up, but it works. Felix presses the top button, staring at the floor number with exaggerated focus, as if that would save him from having to look at you and answer prematurely.

You stay silent, too. Every meter you ascend feels like moving a bit further away from the noise of the club… and closer to the heart of something more delicate.

Upon arriving, Felix opens a metallic door and a gust of fresh air hits you both.

The rooftop is spacious, with a couple of industrial fans, antennas, and some potted plants that someone has tried to keep alive. The city opens up around you: distant lights, cars like fireflies, buildings silhouetted against a dark sky with few stars.

Felix walks a few steps toward the railing, gesturing for you to come closer.

“I usually come here when everything downstairs is too much” he says. “There’s no music, no shouting, just… this.”

You lean against the railing beside him. The wind ruffles your hair a little.

For a few seconds, you both just watch the city.

“You heard Chan say ‘The same story’” Felix begins, without beating around the bush. “And I know that if I don’t explain it to you, you’re going to invent ten worse stories in your head.”

You don’t deny it.

“I thought he was talking about you” you confess. “That… something like this had happened to you before.”

Felix shakes his head slowly.

“No” he responds. “I’ve had… complications. But nothing like that.”

He takes a deep breath, as if preparing to pull something ancient out of a drawer.

“The one who married a human was Chan.”

You didn't expect that.

You look at him, surprised.

“Chan… got married?”

Felix nods with a sad half-smile.

“A long time ago. In a time when being what we are was much more… dangerous than it is now. Fewer rules, more chaos. More vampires without a code, fewer ‘neutral’ places.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, looking toward some distant point that you cannot see.

“She didn’t know at first, of course” he continues. “She was…” he barely smiles, “even more curious than you, if you can believe it. And he…” he shakes his head. “He was worse than I am when it came to setting boundaries.”

You imagine it: Chan, younger in appearance, in love with a human, breaking all the rules he now tries to enforce. The contrast tightens your chest a little.

“When he told her, she stayed” he continues. “She believed him. She chose him. Against everything. They got married; they made a life as best they could among shadows, excuses, and white lies.”

A pause.

You know what’s coming. You’ve read enough stories, seen enough traces on Chan’s face not to need a made-up happy ending.

“The enemies we had back then weren’t… ‘civilized’ like some are now” Felix adds. “They didn’t accept neutral ground or deals. When they found out Chan had something to lose…” he grips the railing, “they went after her. Not him. Her.”

You swallow hard.

“They killed her” you say, very quietly.

He nods without looking at you.

“In front of him” he whispers. “To make the punishment last longer.”

The wind feels colder all of a sudden.

“Since then” he continues, “a long time has passed… many years. Chan has seen entire generations die. Humans, vampires. But her… he’s never let go of that.” He finally looks at you. “That’s why he is the way he is. Overprotective, controlling, a pain. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in what we feel. It’s that he knows the price.”

You understand.

Not just with your head, but with something deeper. It doesn’t justify them making you a topic of discussion behind closed doors, but… it explains the fear underneath.

“When he says ‘the same story’” Felix looks back at the city, “he isn’t talking about me. He’s talking about his story repeating with a different face. With yours. Or with mine, broken afterward.”

A knot forms in your throat.

You dare to ask:

“And you? Are you… afraid of that?”

He takes his time to answer.

“I’m afraid of many things” he admits. “Of losing control, of turning you into something you’re not, of you getting hurt because of me.” He shoots you a sideways glance. “And of all that ceasing to matter because…” he falls silent for a second, “…because you matter more to me than every rule I know.”

Your fingers, resting on the railing, tense up a little. You feel the cold metal beneath your warm skin.

You feel a physical need to touch him, to break that half-meter distance that feels like miles.

You don't think about it too much.

You slide your hand bit by bit until it brushes against his. Just with your knuckles, at first. A small touch, to see if he pulls away.

He doesn't.

On the contrary.

Felix turns his hand and intertwines his fingers with yours, firm yet delicate. His palm is cold, but the gesture warms you through and through.

He stares at your hands for a second, then looks up into your eyes.

“You know I didn't start all this for your novel” he says with a sad smile.

“I…” you take a deep breath. “At first, I kept telling myself that. That it was for the story.”

“And now?”

You bite your lip. You could dodge the question, but it wouldn't make sense—not after what you’ve just heard.

“Now I write to have an excuse” you confess. “To keep seeing you. To keep asking things. To keep…” you swallow hard, “…feeling this.”

You squeeze his hand a bit tighter as you say it, without naming it.

Felix closes his eyes for a second, as if those words were something he had been waiting too long to hear… and fearing at the same time.

When he opens them, he takes a step closer. You are even closer now, almost face to face, hands joined between you.

“If I go on with this” he says, very low. “I won’t know how to stop halfway.”

Your heart thumps so hard you wonder if it’s louder than the distant hum of the city.

“Neither will I” you respond.

The tension thickens.

He leans in slightly, his face approaching yours. You can count his eyelashes, see a small blue vein tracing his temple, feel the brush of his cold breath mingling with yours.

His gaze drops to your lips for just an instant, then travels back up to your eyes, as if asking for permission.

You don’t say no.

He takes the final half-step.

His free hand rises, hesitating for a second before brushing your cheek with his knuckles—a gesture clumsily gentle for someone who could break steel.

You feel that if he leans in just one more centimeter, you will finally cross that line.

His nose nearly brushes yours. You close your eyes, unable to help it, breath held.

And then—

“Felix hyung.”

The voice cuts through the air like a snap.

The two of you pull apart suddenly, as if someone had yanked an invisible thread. Your hand remains intertwined with his, but the distance between your bodies increases just enough for the near-kiss to break.

You turn around.

Jeongin is standing at the rooftop door, slightly hunched over, with an expression that clearly says, “I wish I wasn't interrupting this.” He raises his hands, looking guilty.

“I’m sorry” he says quickly. “Really. But…” he looks at Felix, suddenly serious, “they need you downstairs. Han has gotten into trouble with another clan again. Chan says we have to go now.”

The name “Han” rings a bell; you’ve heard it mentioned a couple of times as the group’s walking disaster.

Felix clenches his jaw, the transition from near-kiss to leader-mode being almost painful to watch.

“What happened now?” he asks, still not letting go of your hand.

“He got into somewhere he shouldn't have” Jeongin responds dryly. “Again. They’re ‘talking’ at the east warehouse. And when I say ‘talking,’ I mean that if we don’t go, he’s going to end up with fewer teeth than you.”

Felix lets out a heavy sigh. He glances at your hand in his, then at your face.

In the faint glow of the distant neon lights, you see the internal struggle: to stay, finally, in something that had just begun to open… or to do what he’s been doing for centuries: throwing himself into the fire for his own.

You are the first to let go, slowly, so he doesn't have to choose.

“Go” you say, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “I… I’ll be fine.”

He looks at you with a mix of apology and something far more intense.

“I didn’t want our first…” he cuts himself off, corrects himself, “…I didn’t want this moment to end like this.”

You trace a small smile.

“Maybe it’s even fitting” you murmur. “Nothing between you and me has ever been simple.”

Jeongin clears his throat softly, still at the door.

“Seriously, I’m sorry” he repeats. “But if Han gets his head ripped off, he talks a lot less afterward, and it’s weird.”

Felix lets out a humorless laugh.

“I’m coming” he says.

He gives your hand one last squeeze—quick, like a seal. Then he lets go completely and heads toward the door.

Before crossing it, he turns around.

“Don’t leave the building without letting me know” he asks.

You nod.

“Be careful” you respond.

You watch him disappear with Jeongin down the stairs, urgency clinging to their every step.

You remain alone on the rooftop for a moment before following them, the wind stirring your clothes, the echo of the near-kiss still lingering on your lips, the weight of his story and Chan’s pressing down all at once.

You know that when he returns, none of this is going to be easier.

But you also know, with a newfound clarity, that you’ve already crossed a point of no return: your hands intertwined with his, your feelings spoken—even if only halfway—his fear laid bare to the air.

As Felix and Jeongin leave with the others, Changbin makes sure to lock the main door securely, takes a quick glance at the cameras, and then turns to you.

“No one can cross that door without us seeing them” he says, dryly but calmly. “You’re safe here.”

Hyunjin, already halfway up the stairs, leans over the railing with a lopsided grin.

“Relax, princess” he comments. “Consider this… your temporary home.”

“Don’t call me princess” you protest by reflex.

“Of course” he responds, delighted, before disappearing down the hallway.

Chan, coming down the stairs, adds:

“Seriously, if you need anything, there are cameras and sensors. No one comes in or out without us knowing. If you don't want to stay on the ground floor, the breakroom from before is free.”

You lock eyes with Felix for a second. He hesitates; it’s obvious he’s not thrilled about leaving you alone, but the urgency carries more weight.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can” he promises. “If you get bored, you can look around the place… with common sense.”

You translate “common sense” as: don’t go upstairs, don’t open locked doors, don’t poke your nose where you haven’t been invited.

You nod.

“Be careful” you murmur.

And they’re gone.

The echo of their footsteps fades as they head for the door, and then, after a few moments, the distant vibration of the main entrance opening and closing indicates they’ve stepped outside.

The silence that remains is strange.

Without the people or the music, the club feels larger. The neon is off; only a few warm lights remain on over the bar and at key points around the room. The air still smells of wood, alcohol, and something metallic, but without the weight of so many bodies and mingled perfumes.

You take a deep breath.

You are alone in a vampires' den.

And, curiously, you aren't as afraid as you thought you’d be. A part of you feels… curious. Another feels something akin to a strange sense of belonging: they told you that you’re “at home,” and even though you know it’s an exaggeration, the gesture warms your chest a little.

You take advantage of their absence.

You start on the ground floor, slowly, hands in your coat pockets, eyes alert to every detail usually lost among the shadows.

The tables, now empty, show glass rings, small scratches from rings, the occasional nick that tells stories of previous nights. The bar, impeccably tidy, reflects the light off the lined-up bottles. You see notes taped inside: order lists, schedules, a small sticker of a drawing made by someone—probably Han—in a corner.

Toward the center of the venue, a narrow hallway opens between two pillars. You follow it.

There are several doors on both sides. Some have small, discreet signs: “Restroom,” “Storage,” “Staff.” You test the doorknobs discreetly. Most are locked. The few that aren’t reveal very normal things: a surprisingly clean bathroom, a small room with crates of drinks, another with sound equipment.

You stop in front of a door with no sign, made of thicker metal. The knob doesn't budge a single millimeter. You don't even force it. You know, without needing to see it, that what lies behind it isn't something you have the right to know yet.

You look up toward the upper floor. You know where Chan’s office is; you’ve seen the door at the end of the hallway, but you don't even consider it. It would be crossing a line you don't want to cross—not after what you heard earlier.

You sigh and retrace your steps.

Eventually, your feet lead you to a place you do know: the breakroom.

You open the door.

Inside, everything is calm. The large sofa, the armchairs, the low table. The floor lamp casts a soft light over the rug. In one corner, a small refrigerator hums quietly.

You close the door behind you and allow yourself to let out your breath, as if you had been holding it without noticing.

You hadn’t stopped to look at this room calmly last time; you were too focused on Felix—on what he was saying, on what he was revealing. Now, without him, you notice new details: a couple of forgotten mugs in a corner, a jacket tossed over an armchair, a cushion deformed by the weight of someone who probably fell asleep here far too many times.

On the table, there are a couple of loose pens and a pad of blank paper.

You approach them, almost with the reflex of a predator facing literary prey. You pick up a sheet, feeling it between your fingers. The pen writes well when you test it on a corner.

You smile to yourself.

You sit on the sofa, tuck your legs in, lean your back against the rest, and place the paper on your knees.

You don't have your laptop, but your head is too full to let this pass.

You start to write.

Nothing orderly, nothing clean. Loose phrases:

How Chan sounded when he said “the same story.” The image of Chan falling in love and losing everything. The weight of the centuries he’s been carrying that pain. Felix on the rooftop, telling you about it, his fingers intertwined with yours. The feeling of his hand on your chest, listening to your heart. His laughter in the cafe, the sunglasses perched on his tied-back hair. The streets that seem to belong to him at night. The way he said, “You matter more to me than every rule I know.”

The words come out as they can. Some will be rearranged later; others will stay just as they are—raw—but you don’t have to invent as much anymore. You are transcribing what you feel, disguised as fiction.

You jot down bits of dialogue:

“If I go on with this, I won’t know how to stop halfway.” “Neither will I.” “I don’t want all our firsts to end like this.”

You write his name—Felix—and then you cross it out, substituting it with “him,” with “the vampire,” with anything else that works for the manuscript. But you know who he is.

You concentrate so hard, getting so deep into that writing trance, that time… simply dissolves.

When you finally look up because your fingers and neck ache a little, the silence of the club is no longer there.

There’s noise—voices, footsteps, the none-too-gentle slam of the main door.

You check your phone.

2:07 AM.

You blink.

When Felix left with Jeongin, it was still relatively early. The sheet of paper on your knees is nearly full: loose phrases, scenes that popped into your head, dialogue you didn't want to lose. Between line and line, time had simply unraveled without you noticing.

You quickly tuck the pen back onto the low table, leave the sheet clearly visible so you won’t lose it, and head out into the hallway.

As you lean over the railing of the stairs overlooking the ground floor, the scene hits you full-on.

Changbin and Minho come in first, carrying someone between them. They’re practically hauling him, each holding an arm. The guy in question is covered in bruises: split lips, a swollen cheekbone, a gash on his eyebrow that’s dripping blood. And yet, he’s laughing.

“Did you see his face?” he wheezes, choked by laughter. “He thought he had more bodyguards.”

Han.

Even though it’s the first time you’ve seen him up close, there’s no doubt. There’s something in his chaotic energy, in that misplaced laughter, that fits perfectly with the little you’d been told about him.

“What I saw” Changbin grunts, “is that they nearly ripped your head off.”

“Details, details” Han makes a theatrical gesture with his hand, only to groan when Minho grips him a little tighter.

Hyunjin walks in behind them, looking impeccable despite everything, moving with that effortless elegance that makes him seem detached from the chaos even when he’s right in the middle of it. He’s wearing a white T-shirt that is, indeed, stained red at the side.

“This shirt was new” he laments. “New. Do you know how many minutes it took me to pick it out?”

“I’ll wash it with my blood” Han laughs, doubling over slightly in pain but never stopping with the jokes.

“That’s the problem, you idiot” Hyunjin responds. “It’s already been washed with your blood.”

Chan enters as well, right behind them, his brow furrowed but without the panic you might have expected. He seems more annoyed than anything else.

“One day we’re not going to make it in time” he snaps at Han, shaking his head. “And when I ask, ‘Where’s Han?’, they’re going to point at a puddle.”

“It would be a very cute puddle” Han retorts, winking.

Jeongin enters next, carefully closing the door behind him. His hair is a mess, his shirt wrinkled, but he’s unharmed.

And finally, Felix appears at his side.

You look for him almost without realizing it. As soon as his figure crosses the threshold, the rest of the noise fades away.

He’s wearing the black T-shirt he had on earlier under his jacket, which is gone now. There are smudges of dirt on the sleeves and some dark splatters you’d rather not analyze too closely. On his left cheek, a thin red line opens from his cheekbone toward his jaw—a fresh cut with a single drop of blood still trickling down.

Your body reacts before your head does.

You rush down the stairs, almost running, dodging Hyunjin and Jeongin, leaving Han and the others in your peripheral vision. Your legs carry you straight to Felix, as if by inertia.

“Are you okay?” the words come out without a filter.

He turns just as you reach him. His eyes widen a bit at seeing you so close, so… worried.

Before you can stop yourself, your hand rises and rests on his wounded cheek, carefully, your thumb barely brushing the edge of the cut.

The skin beneath your palm is cold, but the blood is warm.

Felix blinks, surprised. Then he gives a lopsided smile, slightly flushing—not so much from the contact as from the awareness of the gazes behind you.

“It’s… nothing” he says, lowering his voice. “Just a scratch. I’d swear the other guy came out worse.”

You don’t take your hand away.

“You’re bleeding out in the middle of the room” you retort, dramatic out of sheer worry.

“I can’t bleed out that easily” he tries to joke.

“I don’t care how easy it is” you murmur. “You need to clean it.”

Behind you, there’s a muffled throat-clearing. Han has turned his head, wince of pain and all, clearly ready to drop a comment.

“Ooooooh, look who’s— h—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Minho’s hand claps over his mouth in a swift, precise motion.

“Silence” he orders, without losing his cool.

Han grumbles beneath Minho’s fingers, but it’s completely unintelligible. Changbin and Minho take advantage of his distraction to start hauling him upstairs, perhaps toward that very same breakroom to patch him up… or to tie him to a chair.

Jeongin makes himself busy tidying something behind the bar. Hyunjin watches the scene with a smug little smile, but he doesn't say anything either.

There’s something almost conspiratorial in how everyone suddenly finds tasks to do far away from the two of you.

Felix notices all of it and flushes a bit more. Even so, he doesn't pull away.

“There’s a first-aid kit in the breakroom” he says, addressing you. “White cabinet, second shelf. It has everything.”

You nod.

“Let’s go.”

You turn to head toward the hallway and realize then that your hand is still on his cheek. You pull it back with a small apologetic gesture, but in that same movement, Felix’s fingers close around your other hand.

You couldn’t say who grabbed whom.

You only know that as you cross the room toward the hallway, you are holding hands, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The breakroom is just as you left it, except for your sheet of paper on the table. Felix lets himself fall onto the sofa, obedient for once, while you head for the cabinet he pointed out.

You open it.

Inside is a bit of organized chaos: boxes of gauze, disinfectant, bandages, band-aids, scissors. You grab what you need almost by instinct: gauze, saline solution, a bit of disinfectant.

When you turn around, he’s already leaned back a bit on the sofa, tilted toward the rear, watching you.

“You look like you do this often” he comments, watching you prepare the supplies.

“I’ve had clumsy roommates” you respond. “And I’m very well-acquainted with tripping.”

You step closer, setting the supplies on the coffee table. Then you kneel in front of him, positioning yourself between his knees without thinking too much about it, simply for the convenience of reaching the wound properly.

Up close, the cut looks less severe than it did from a distance. A thin line, not very deep, more dramatic because of the blood than the actual damage.

You soak a gauze pad with saline.

“It’s going to sting” you warn.

“I’ve been in worse fights” he responds, relaxed.

As soon as the damp gauze touches his skin, his body makes a small, involuntary gesture: a slight twitch in his jaw, a tightening of his fingers over his own knees. He doesn’t complain, but you notice it.

“See?” you murmur with a small smile. “It hurts you, too.”

“It’s… different” he retorts, almost amused. “A blow isn't the same as… you, with that look of ‘if anything happens to you, I’ll kill everyone.’”

You feel the heat rise to your face.

“I don’t have a face like that” you protest, focused on the cleaning.

“You do” he insists in a low voice.

You finish cleaning the blood and apply a bit of disinfectant. Afterward, with a fresh, dry gauze pad, you pat the edge of the cut dry. His skin is cold beneath your fingers, but very much alive.

The entire time, he never takes his eyes off you.

You’re so close you could count his freckles, see the line of his jaw, notice how the tension from the fight has been transforming into something else since you entered the room.

You’ve just placed a small band-aid—almost ridiculous for someone like him—and you slowly pull your hands back.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

You stay there, kneeling between his legs, your hands still near his face. Felix leans forward slightly, closing the distance even further.

The silence that settles in isn’t awkward. It’s expectant.

You notice his gaze drop from your eyes to your mouth, just for a second. His right hand moves, slowly, until it rests over one of yours, which is resting on his knee. His fingers intertwine with yours almost by inertia.

Your heart, traitorous, picks up its pace.

“Thank you” he whispers. “I could have left it as it was, but…” he gives a lopsided smile, “…I like that it's you who’s worried.”

“I don’t like seeing you bleed” you respond, more sincere than you intended.

Felix leans in a little more. Now, if you lift your chin, his lips will be dangerously close to yours. You feel the sofa behind him, the floor beneath your knees, the world shrinking to the tiny pocket of air left between your mouths.

His free hand rises slowly, brushing your cheek with his fingertips. The contact is soft, almost reverent.

“Before…” he murmurs, referring to the rooftop, “…we were interrupted.”

“I remember” you whisper, conscious of every single millimeter.

“I don’t want all our… firsts to end like that.”

Your breath catches.

He moves a bit closer.

“May I?” he asks, barely in a breath, his eyes searching yours for one final confirmation.

You don’t look away. You don’t say no.

The answer is in how you squeeze his hand a bit tighter, in how you lean in too, closing the little distance that remains.

His lips brush against yours.

It’s minimal contact at first—a timid caress rather than a full kiss—as if you both needed to prove that this is real. That you can kiss a vampire in a breakroom at two in the morning, after he’s returned from a fight, and that the world won't break because of it.

You feel the cold of his mouth mingling with the heat of yours. The contrast shivers through your entire body.

Felix takes a deep breath against your lips, as if he had been holding back for a very long time.

The kiss deepens just slightly—just enough for his lips to move over yours with more intent, sweetly, without any rush. There are no teeth, no fangs, nothing of what you had feared in your teenage readings. Only an intense gentleness that disarms you.

Your free hand rises by instinct to his neck, fingers brushing the cool skin beneath his hairline. He shivers a little at the touch, but he doesn't pull away. On the contrary, he pulls you a bit closer, as if he feared this were all a dream and he might wake up at any moment.

You don’t know how long it lasts. It could be seconds or minutes. You only know that when he finally pulls back a few millimeters, he is still so close that his forehead brushes yours.

He smiles, his breath unnecessarily ragged.

“That…” he whispers. “That definitely wasn’t for research.”

You laugh, your voice a bit raspy.

“I’m going to have to invent an entire scene to justify it in the book” you murmur.

He rests his forehead against yours for a second longer, as if needing that final point of contact before letting you breathe.

“You don’t have to justify anything with me” he says. “Not here, and not on your pages.”

Your hands remain entwined. Your heart is still racing too fast to be “just curiosity.”

He smiles, half-dazed.

“This complicates my plan to keep you ‘safe and objectively distant’ a bit” he murmurs.

You’re about to say something equally clumsy when, treacherously, your body decides to intervene.

Your stomach growls.

Loudly.

Loudly enough that, in the silence of the room, it’s perfectly audible.

You pull back a bit suddenly, feeling the flush creep up your face.

“Great” you mutter. “Super romantic.”

Felix blinks once and then bursts out laughing—that deep, warm laugh that you like far too much.

“I think I just got some competition” he says, placing a hand over his chest. “Your stomach sounds louder than your heart.”

You cover your face for a second, caught between embarrassment and amusement.

He takes the opportunity to glance at your phone, which you’ve left on the table. He picks it up, pressing the lock button just to check the time. His eyebrows arch.

“It’s past three in the morning” he announces. “You’ve been here since…” he does the math in his head, “…too many hours. You hasn't had a decent meal since God knows when, and you should have been asleep a long time ago.”

He sets the phone back in its place and looks at you with that mix of affectionate reproach and humor.

“I’m the vampire here, not you” he adds. “You can’t go around skipping meals and schedules as if you didn’t need anything.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“I had… a lot to write” you defend yourself weakly.

“And a human body to feed” he retorts. “Maybe it’s time you headed home. I’d love to stay here with you until the sun comes up, but…” he raises an eyebrow, “…we’ll have time for that. Right now, you need to eat something and sleep.”

You know he’s right. Your body knows it, too: now that the adrenaline from the kiss is starting to fade, exhaustion hits you all at once.

You don’t argue.

“Fine” you concede. “But you’re not going to make me feel guilty for being a focused writer.”

“Only a little” he smiles.

He rises from the sofa and holds out his hand to help you up. You take it. This time, when you stand, he doesn't let go right away. You stay there for a second, standing face to face, still close.

“Come on” he says softly. “I’ll walk you.”

As always, you cross the club together. This time there are no people, no music, no curious stares. Only the dim light, the empty tables, the echo of your footsteps, and the memory of his lips still on yours.

He steps out first, holding the door for you.

The street is quiet, the air cold. You walk slowly toward your building. Neither of you speaks much; you don’t need to. Felix’s hand brushes yours several times, as if testing whether it’s too soon to hold it again.

You don’t reach for him, but you don't pull away either. Your whole body vibrates in a strange balance between calm and electricity.

You reach your front door.

You stop and turn toward him.

“Thank you for… everything” you say, knowing that “everything” covers many things: the talk on the rooftop, the half-confessions, leaving you alone in the club because he trusted you, coming back in one piece, the kiss.

Felix shoves his hands into his pockets, as if he doesn't know what to do with them if he isn't holding you.

“Thank you for not running away” he responds. “Not when I told you what we are, not when you saw Han looking like a mess, not when…” he smiles, tilting his head, “…this.”

A small, strange silence follows.

The other times, everything here was simple: “goodnight,” a smile, him waiting until you went inside, you going up with a calm heart but a head full of questions.

Now, there’s something else in the air: the fresh memory of his mouth on yours just a few minutes ago.

Neither of you really knows how to say goodbye.

He seems torn between leaning in toward you again or playing it safe with a verbal farewell. His eyes drop to your mouth for a moment, then snap back up. He opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it.

You realize that if you don’t do something, the two of you are going to stand there forever, trapped in a “should I kiss him, should I not?” loop.

So, you decide not to overthink it anymore.

You take a small step toward him, stretch up on your tiptoes, and give him a quick kiss on the lips. A soft, short touch—almost like a “seal” on what happened before.

“Goodnight” you whisper before he can react too much.

You turn away instantly, heart racing, and start fumbling with your keys at the front door as if your life depended on it. You feel his gaze on the back of your neck—warm, incredulous.

“Goodnight” he responds, his voice a little lower, a little happier.

You open the door and step inside. Just before it closes, you barely turn your head: you see him still there on the sidewalk, smiling as if someone had just switched on a light inside him.

When the door closes completely, you lean your back against it for a few seconds, trying to process that you just kissed—twice in less than an hour—a vampire at your front door.

Upstairs in your apartment, your laptop, your notes, and your bed are waiting. But tonight, even if you collapse from exhaustion, you know you’re going to dream more about his mouth than any line you’ve ever written.

Felix walks back to the club slowly.

He’s in no rush this time. The early morning air feels less hostile. For the first time in a long while, the weight of the years feels… bearable.

He mentally replayed everything that happened in a single day: the argument with Chan, the rooftop, confessions he hadn't dared to vocalize in centuries, the fight with the other clan, Han nearly losing his head, your hand on his wound, the kiss in the breakroom, your stomach growling, the quick kiss at your front door.

He smiles to himself, in the middle of the street.

Happy, on one hand. Worried, on the other. He knows none of this has made the dangers, the rules, or the eyes watching them disappear. But now those fears coexist with something he hasn't felt in far too long: hope. A longing for a text from you, for an afternoon coffee, for a late-night walk.

And, for the first time, he feels that “the same story” doesn’t have to mean “the same ending.”

Over the following days, the texts fly back and forth.

You write between work, classes, and coffees; he replies between shifts, customers, and clan meetings.

Today I tried to write the breakroom kiss scene. I ended up writing a different kiss altogether..

Can I become a fan of your novel even if it’s about me?

It’s egocentric, but yes.

At the club, the changes don’t go unnoticed. Felix smiles more. He already smiled quite a bit, but now it’s different: there’s a new light in his gestures, in how he looks at his phone when it vibrates in his pocket, in how his face softens when he sees your name on the screen.

One of those nights, the place is packed. He’s behind the bar, moving quickly between bottles, glasses, and customers, but in every small breather, he reaches for his phone under the counter to reply to a text from you. He can’t help himself. He catches himself smiling like an idiot at a sentence of yours about how Han would be a character of "necessary chaos" in the novel. He’s typing a response when a shadow looms over the bar.

“Hey.”

He looks up.

Hyunjin is standing in front of him, leaning his elbows on the bar, watching him with a sharp smile.

“Stop texting your girlfriend” he says, completely shameless, “and serve these people before they start complaining that the bartender is in love.”

Felix shoots him a warning look, his ears inevitably turning a bit red.

“She’s not…” he begins.

“Of course she is” Hyunjin interrupts, delighted. “If your smile were any more obvious, it would have her name written in neon. In italics.”

Felix huffs.

“Mind your own victims” he retorts. “And stop calling ‘girlfriend’ the person you call ‘princess’ when you think no one is listening.”

Hyunjin feigns offense.

“I respect royalty” he says. “You respect the orders. You have five tickets piling up.”

He nods toward the small ticket printer at the side of the bar, where several slips of paper are indeed stacking up.

Felix looks at his phone one last time. He finishes his text to you with something short:

I’m getting scolded. I’ll tell you later how Han almost died again. And how much I love that you worry so much

He locks the screen, slips the phone into his pocket, and grabs the first glass.

“If any customer complains” he says, pouring quickly, “tell them I was busy saving the world.”

“I’ll tell them you were busy thinking about kissing a human during working hours” Hyunjin counters, amused.

Felix tosses a napkin at him.

“Get away from my bar” he grunts, but he’s smiling.

From a corner of the club, Chan watches the scene with his arms crossed, a small, resigned smile at the corner of his lips. Jeongin, by his side, whispers:

“He’s happier.”

“He is” Chan responds, watching Felix shake a cocktail shaker with more spirit than usual. “And that’s going to complicate our lives.”

He pauses.

“But…” he adds, almost to himself, “maybe it’ll make them more interesting, too.”

The story between you and Felix is no longer just “material for your book” or “a security problem for the clan.” It’s something they all begin to see, in their own way: Hyunjin teasing but keeping watch, Changbin grumpy but protective, Minho more attentive to your scent than he admits, Jeongin genuinely delighted.

You get used to the nights at the club.

You no longer enter with the shyness of that first time; you’re still cautious, but your steps are more confident. The red neon no longer feels like a threat, but rather the announcement of a familiar place.

Changbin doesn’t block your path at the door anymore.

“Welcome back” he grunts, arms crossed, but with the corner of his lip quirked in something very much like a smile.

“Thanks, official guardian” you retort.

He huffs, but he steps aside and lets you in.

Inside, the usual friendly chaos: music, laughter, drinks, moving shadows. You don’t get lost in the noise anymore; you know exactly where to look.

Hyunjin sees you before you see him.

“Look, look” he sings from a table near the bar, leaning on his elbow and waving his fingers at you in an exaggerated greeting. “Our VIP customer has arrived!”

A few heads turn, curious. You raise a hand—a small gesture, like someone greeting a familiar bartender.

In front of "the customers," there are no kisses, no intertwined hands, nothing to give away what happens once the doors close. But your eyes find Felix immediately.

He’s behind the bar today in a tight black T-shirt with an open button-down over it, sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He moves as if the music were flowing through him: flipping bottles, pouring drinks at a speed no human could ever match, smiling at customers with a warmth that seems almost impossible in a place like this.

Every now and then, a strand of his fair hair falls over his forehead. He shakes it back with a brief, practiced motion. The fabric of his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders as he reaches up for a tall bottle. Your eyes linger there a bit longer than necessary, memorizing the details.

All of this, you know, will eventually be turned into words later on.

Felix, who seems distracted by his work, looks up at the exact moment you are watching him. The spark that appears in his eyes has nothing to do with the neon reflections.

He doesn’t beckon you with a gesture that’s too obvious; he simply tilts his head slightly toward a spot at the bar where a stool is free.

You make your way over.

You sit down.

He finishes serving a couple of drinks, takes the payment, and smiles. When the customer leaves, he approaches you, leaning his hands on the bar and bending forward slightly.

“Hi” he says, in that voice that sounds different when it’s meant for you.

“Hi” you respond.

You don’t touch. You don’t need to for all your nerves to instantly fire up.

For a while, you watch him work. Every chance he gets, he comes over to talk to you for a few seconds: a joke about Hyunjin having too many eyes on him, a comment about the playlist, some low-voiced remark about how beautiful you look tonight, about how much seeing you there distracts him.

You take it all in. The way he polishes glasses, how he moves without bumping into anyone, how he seems to know exactly which customer is going to misbehave before it even happens. You store it all away. A part of you is already writing, even without paper.

In one of those gaps, when the bar is momentarily clear, Felix leaves a glass on the tray, turns to Jeongin—who has come down to help—and shoots him a meaningful look.

“Cover for me for a second” he says.

Jeongin arches an eyebrow.

“Am I going to have to make up another excuse for Chan?” he asks, but he’s already stepping behind the bar.

“Tell him I went to check the stock of…” he searches for a word, then smiles, “…sugar.”

Before you can ask anything, Felix slips out from the side of the bar and reaches out his hand to you.

“Come.”

You take it without thinking.

He pulls you gently toward the hallway.

“Where are we—?” you start.

“Union break” he answers mysteriously.

Your first thought is the breakroom. And indeed, that’s where you’re headed. Felix opens the door cautiously.

Inside, the lights are low. And on the sofa, taking up almost all the space, is a figure.

Han.

He’s flat on his back, half-sprawled out, one arm dangling off the side of the couch, his mouth open in a soft but persistent snore. Someone has tucked a blanket over him up to his waist, as if they’d just accepted that he was going to stay asleep right there.

Felix stops dead in his tracks.

“Great” he mutters. “The ghost of past troubles.”

Han lets out a louder snore, stirs a little, but doesn’t wake up.

You cover your mouth with your hand to keep from laughing too loudly.

“He looks comfortable” you whisper.

“And if I wake him, he’ll probably run off into another fight” Felix responds. “Not exactly the kind of energy I’m looking for right now.”

He looks at you. You return his gaze, the shared complicity of the last few days pulsing between you.

He closes the door carefully, almost tenderly toward the "corpse" on the sofa.

“Plan B” he says.

He takes your hand again.

You go up.

The rooftop greets you as it always does: colder air, the distant hum of the city, a dark sky pierced by the lights of tall buildings.

The moment the door closes behind you, something changes.

There is no one else. No sharp-eared vampires, no customers, no music. Only the wind, the railing, and the memory of the last time you were here, on the verge of crossing a line.

This time, Felix doesn't hesitate.

He turns toward you, and the next thing you feel is his body drawing near, his hands finding your waist.

He lifts you up.

Just like that, without any apparent effort.

One second your feet are on the ground; the next, you’re in the air, your hands gripping his shoulders by instinct, a small gasp escaping your throat from the surprise.

You laugh.

“Felix!” you protest, but it comes out between chuckles.

He holds you with an unsettling ease, as if you truly weighed nothing at all. His hands are firm: one beneath your thighs, holding you steady, the other on your lower back, pulling you closer to him.

You understand what he wants without him saying a word. You wrap your legs around his hips, anchoring yourself to him. Your breath quickens, but not out of fear.

Felix looks at you closely—very closely. His eyes have that soft amber glow you’ve learned to recognize: it’s not a dangerous thirst, it’s something else. A different kind of hunger.

“I still remember the taste of your lips in that room” he whispers. “Since that day… you have no idea how much I’ve wanted to feel it again.”

You don’t give him the chance to keep talking.

Or perhaps, he doesn’t plan on waiting any longer.

His words are sealed against your mouth as he leans in and kisses you.

This time, there is no initial shyness, no cautious testing. It’s a kiss full of everything you’ve both been holding back: desire, tension, the weight of every “almost” that came before.

His lips move over yours with urgency, yet without losing their gentleness. You feel the contrast of his cool softness and your heat, the brush of his fangs in the back as the kiss deepens just enough, reminding you who you're with without frightening you.

You cling to his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. One of his hands remains firm beneath you, holding you steady, while the other slides up your back, pressing you even tighter against his body.

Every part of you that touches him catches fire.

The need becomes almost physical: you were aware that you wanted him, but you didn’t know how much you truly needed this until he finally has you like this—suspended in his arms, pressed against him, your body fitting with his as if it had been waiting for you for centuries.

The kiss grows deeper, more burning. Your breath mingles with his. He lets out a low sound, barely a restrained growl against your mouth, as if having you like this unraveled him more than he’d care to admit.

You could stay like this for a long time.

In fact, you want to.

And it would be the perfect moment for everything to overflow… if it weren't for the fact that, suddenly, Felix’s body tenses up.

You feel it before you see it: a change in the way he holds you, a slight hardening of his muscles, his hand on your back going dead still.

He pulls away from your lips abruptly, though he doesn't let go of you. His gaze darts over your shoulder toward the rooftop door, but he seems to be listening to something beyond it.

His eyes narrow, focused.

“What…?” you begin, panting slightly. “What’s happening?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. He tilts his head just a fraction, as if aiming an invisible ear downward, toward the lower floors.

At first, you don’t hear anything out of the ordinary. But he does.

His jaw tightens.

“I think we have uninvited guests” he finally says, his tone shifting from romantic to alert in a heartbeat.

He sets you down carefully until your feet touch the ground. His hands linger on your waist for an instant longer, as if it were hard for him to let go of you physically as well as emotionally.

“Listen to me” he says, looking you in the eye. “Stay up here. Don’t go down. No matter what happens.”

Your stomach knots.

—Felix…

“No” he cuts you off, soft but firm. “This isn’t negotiable this time. You’re smart; you know when something is a bad idea. This is one of those times. Stay. If everything goes well, I’ll be back in a bit and we’ll finish this…”

His eyes drop to your mouth for a second, then snap back up.

“…the way it’s meant to be” he adds with a tense, half-smile.

He doesn’t give you time to argue.

In a blink, he’s gone.

The rooftop door opens and closes at a speed that escapes your eyes; all that remains is the trail of displaced air and the echo of your own heartbeat.

You try to stay still.

You tell yourself to trust him, to trust Chan, Changbin, all of them. They are used to this. You are not.

But a few seconds later, you start to hear it.

From below, through the stairwell and the building’s structure, come noises that don’t belong in a club’s normal activity: a dull thud, something breaking, a voice rising. Then another. After that, the clear sound of something heavy crashing against a surface.

Your body moves before your brain can approve.

You don’t go all the way down to the ground floor, but you peer over the upper hallway, right at the edge of the stairs—just enough to see part of what’s happening below without fully exposing yourself.

What you see… doesn’t look anything like the usual nights.

In the center of the room, Chan and Changbin stand side by side, arms crossed, their gazes fixed on the door.

In front of them, at the entrance, is a group of figures you’ve never seen before. They smell different even from here: a more aggressive, metallic scent, lacking the sophisticated polish of your own group.

One of them, the one in the lead, seems to be the leader: tall, dark suit, icy eyes. No smile.

“You know you’re not welcome here” Chan says, his voice flat yet tense.

The other finally smiles, but it’s a gesture devoid of warmth.

“We’ve been told you have… special customers here” he responds, brazenly sniffing the air. “And honestly… it smells delicious.”

A shiver runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the wind on the rooftop.

Even if he doesn’t say your name, even if the room is filled with different scents, you know he’s talking about you. About the glow your blood has for them. About the rumors that have spread.

Around you, you see movement.

Felix is off to one side, behind Chan and Changbin, jaw clenched, his body taut. He doesn’t lunge, but every muscle in him screams with the need to put himself between them and any threat.

“Chan…” you hear him say, a low warning.

Chan doesn’t look at him, but his voice carries the weight of a command.

“Stay back” he responds. “Don’t get involved. I’ll handle this.”

The leader of the other clan takes another step into the venue as if he owned it.

“Neutral ground, right?” he says, amused. “What a lovely word. But neutral grounds are respected when everyone plays by the same rules. When someone brings… temptations onto the field, it’s only natural for there to be curiosity.”

Chan loses a bit of the calm in his eyes, though his posture remains controlled.

“There is nothing here that concerns you” he says. “Turn around.”

Another vampire from that group lets out a low laugh.

“Maybe we just want to try the menu” he comments. “Not all of us have your scruples, Chan.”

From that moment on, words no longer matter.

It’s a minimal gesture.

Something in the posture of one of the intruders shifts: a slight lean forward, a dangerous glint in his eyes. Chan doesn’t need anything more. Neither does Changbin.

The fight begins.

It’s nothing like the ones you’ve seen in movies—clunky, with slow effects. This is pure speed.

Changbin lunges first—a wall of sheer brute force. He closes the distance in a couple of strides, his fist slamming into one of the enemy vampires' chests with such strength that it lifts him off the ground and sends him crashing into a table, which snaps in two under the impact. Without letting him fully fall, Changbin spins and, in the same motion, takes down another with a knee to the stomach. Two against one, and the one is winning.

Chan, beside him, moves differently: calculated, precise. It’s as if every one of his strikes is measured by centuries of experience. He dodges a punch with a minimal tilt of his head, grabs the attacker's wrist, and twists it until a crack rings out. Without letting go, he slams the man’s head against the bar with just enough force to knock him unconscious, not kill him.

Jeongin appears from the side, his usual shy expression long gone. His eyes are dark and focused, his body light. He moves with startling agility: he leaps onto the back of one of the intruders, hooks an arm around his neck, and in one clean twist, brings them both down. The dull snap of a twisted neck reaches even your ears.

Hyunjin sheds his trench coat with a theatrical flourish, letting it fall onto a nearby chair. He adjusts his shirt cuff, impeccable, and smiles with that irritating calm that is so uniquely his.

“Try not to stain my suit” he says, as if he were at a party.

And then, he moves.

He doesn’t run; he doesn’t charge. He dances.

His body glides among the combatants with an almost ethereal grace. A step to the left, a spin, an elbow to someone’s ribs; a high, elegant kick that connects with another’s jaw, sending him spinning before he hits the ground. To human eyes, it would be a blur; for you, still adjusting, he’s hard to follow. You only see flashes: his hair moving, the glint in his eyes, the curve of his smirk as he smiles between punches, as if he were performing on a stage.

Han appears from the stairs, disheveled, the blanket still half-hooked over his shoulder.

“The real party starts and nobody wakes me up?” he grumbles, tossing the blanket aside.

But his complaining doesn't stop him from being in the center of the chaos in a heartbeat—tripping enemies, hurling bottles that shatter against heads, laughing as if this were a dangerous playground game.

Minho, always in the shadows, moves like a silent predator. He makes no noise; he doesn’t speak. He simply appears behind someone, one hand on their neck, the other on their hip, and in one fluid motion, slams them into the floor or against a wall. His strikes aren’t flashy, but every single one is definitive.

Felix, at first, holds back.

He stays where Chan told him, eyes darting at top speed, alert to every micro-shift. But when one of the intruders tries to bypass the main fight and heads toward the stairs—toward you, toward the top—his body reacts before his mind can.

In a breath, he is there.

He interposes himself between the enemy and the steps, his hand clamping like a claw around the other's throat.

“No one goes up here” he says, his voice lower and colder than you’ve ever heard it.

His eyes glow with an intense amber. For a second, you truly understand that he is a vampire—a predator, something far more ancient than the boy who drinks coffee with you.

The intruder tries to strike him, but Felix moves with a speed that makes the fist cut only through thin air. He hurls him back against a pillar. The impact echoes throughout the entire room.

From your partial hiding spot, your chest tightens. Fear and pride mingle in a strange mix: fear for him, pride in seeing what he’s capable of, and a flicker of fear for yourself when you realize that even seeing him this lethal, you can’t stop loving him.

The battle continues—fast, brutal, almost accidentally choreographed: Changbin taking down two with a single shoulder thrust, Hyunjin spinning like a performer between strikes, Jeongin appearing and disappearing like an agile cat, Minho finishing them off with surgical efficiency, Chan moving in the center like an ancient axis, and Felix like a sharp blade where you are the one spot he cannot allow to be touched.

From above, you see it all.

And deep down, you begin to understand that your story with them—with him—isn't just fought with kisses and confessions. It’s also fought on nights like this, where the real, dark, and dangerous world of vampires brushes against you closer than ever.

The air in the club grows even denser.

Amidst the blows, the cracks, and bodies slamming against tables and walls, there is a moment when something shifts direction.

One of the vampires from the enemy clan, who until now had been dodging Minho, pauses for a second. He tilts his head back and sniffs the air.

Even from above, you notice the gesture.

His nostrils flare slightly, his eyes narrow… and they shift, searching for you.

You shrink back a little further behind the railing—pure instinct—but it’s too late.

He sees you.

His lips curl into a slow, hungry smile. He’s no longer interested in Chan, or Changbin, or the main brawl. He has found something else.

You.

He begins to move.

Hyunjin notices it first.

He’s just finishing a spin after taking down another enemy when he catches the direction of that vampire’s gaze. He follows the line of his eyes upward, toward your semi-hidden position.

“Jeongin, on your right!” he shouts.

Jeongin reacts like a coiled spring. He snaps his head around, locates the guy who just broke away from the center of the fight, and lunges for him—fast, low, and direct.

But the other one is fast, too.

At the last second, he dodges Jeongin with an agile, almost feline spin. Instead of backing away, he lunges forward, taking a leap that leaves him clinging to one of the club's pillars.

He climbs.

His fingers dig into small crevices in the wall; his feet find purchase on the tiniest ledges. In two movements, he is already much higher than any human could ever reach in such a short time.

He’s coming for you.

You scramble back, your heart hammering so hard it’s difficult to hear anything else. You know you’re too close to the stairs—that your hiding spot stops being one the moment someone actually looks for you.

Below, Felix sees it.

The glint in his eyes changes instantly.

“Fuck” escapes his lips, raw.

He breaks formation without a second thought. He bolts toward the base of the pillar the other is already scaling, determined to intercept him before he reaches the top.

But in that same split second, another enemy, seeing the gap he’s left open, lunges at him from the side, looking to catch him by surprise.

You see it clearly from your angle. You see the second attacker pouncing toward Felix, arm raised, fangs bared, ready to sink in something more than just a punch.

Your body reacts before your mind does.

—¡Felix! —gritas.

Your voice cuts through the noise of the fight, piercing right into him.

Felix looks up for an instant—not toward the immediate danger, but toward you. His eyes meet yours, wide and terrified, pointing to something behind him.

That’s enough.

He spins just in time.

The attacker's arm passes exactly where his neck had been a second before. Felix ducks, evades him, and in the same motion, delivers a sharp blow to his side, right at the ribs. A crack rings out. He uses the other's momentum to spin him around and, with a brutal shove, hurls him against a nearby table that gives way with a crash.

He doesn’t even stop to see if the man gets back up.

He’s already running toward the pillar again.

The vampire who caught your scent has gained more height. He’s halfway between the floor and the upper level, his fingers dug into a molding, his eyes fixed on the ledge where you were hidden just seconds ago.

You move back, out of his direct line of sight, but you know that won’t stop him. Now that he has your scent, he won’t let go.

Felix reaches the base of the pillar.

With hardly any momentum, he leaps.

His fingers catch a lower ledge. With a strength that impresses you even now, he climbs almost vertically, using the wall as minimal support. In two moves, he’s already at the intruder's knees.

The intruder tries to kick him downward, but Felix catches his ankle in mid-air.

He pulls.

The force is brutal.

The other’s body snaps away from the pillar, losing all points of contact. He falls.

Felix releases his grip just in time to avoid going down with him. He slides down the wall, cushioning his descent with his hands and feet, until he also drops to the floor, right beside the enemy.

The rival vampire slams onto his back against the floor, the impact echoing throughout the entire venue.

Before he can even try to scramble up, Felix is already on top of him.

He throws himself onto him with all his weight, one knee pinned to his chest, one hand on his shoulder to keep him glued to the floor. The other hand clamps around his throat.

The intruder struggles, trying to dig his nails in, to strike his face. Felix dodges a scratch by a hair's breadth, but he doesn't blink. His eyes, from above, glow with an intense, almost searing amber.

“Don’t even think about it” he spits out, his voice deep and laden with something you’ve rarely heard in him: pure predatory instinct.

And, without hesitating, he twists his wrist.

The snap of the neck breaking is dry and final.

The body beneath him goes limp instantly, eyes still wide, the expression frozen in a mix of surprise and rage.

Felix lets go of him slowly, breathing heavily despite not needing air the way you do. He stays still for half a second, his jaw clenched, his gaze lost for a moment… before straightening up and turning toward the pillar, toward the top—toward where he knows you are.

Your hands grip the edge of the railing so hard your fingers ache. Your body trembles; you don’t know if it’s from the shock or the adrenaline rush.

Your eyes meet again.

This time, there is no bar, no music, and no customers to hide what he has just done for you.

You realize two things with brutal clarity:

One: that you have just watched Felix kill someone in front of you without blinking.

Two: that he did it for you, to stop that someone from taking a single step further up.

That clash—the monster and the boy, the predator and the one who looks at you with tenderness—is what will mark a "before and after" in your relationship.

The sounds of the fight begin to change.

Fewer dull thuds, more muffled grunts, heavy breathing. From above, you see how, one by one, the intruders are falling: unconscious, wounded, some… far too still.

The leader of the other clan is still standing.

Facing Chan.

The others have intuitively formed a circle around the two of them. Changbin, Hyunjin, Minho, Jeongin, and Felix are keeping the remaining ones at bay, but none of them interfere in that center.

Chan wipes a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His shirt is torn at the side, but he stands firm, his posture straight, his gaze fixed on the other vampire.

The enemy leader smirks, even though he’s missing half a tooth and one eye is already beginning to swell.

“You’ve lost your touch, Chan” he spits a mixture of blood and saliva onto the floor. “It didn’t used to be this hard for you.”

“I didn’t used to try to be nice” Chan responds, his voice low but weighted with something ancient.

They move at the same time.

The other lunges with a direct punch to the face; Chan doesn't fully dodge it. He lets the blow graze his jaw, using that very momentum to pivot, catch the man’s arm, and wrench it behind his back.

A crack.

The leader grunts, but tries to twist around to sink his fangs into Chan’s neck. Chan anticipates it: he drives a knee into the man’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him, and shoves him back.

They crash against a table, which collapses. Rolling across the floor, the enemy manages to get on top for a second, trying to drive an elbow into Chan’s throat… but Chan grabs him by the wrist, shifts his position with a hip toss, and flips him over.

Now it’s Chan who has him pinned, knee to the chest, a strong hand on the other’s jaw, forcing him to look at him.

“I told you that you weren't welcome here” he says, without shouting. “I warned you. Several times.”

The leader tries to spit in his face.

“Your neutral ground is a joke” he sneers, even then. “You can’t protect everything. You can’t protect her forever.”

Chan tightens his grip.

“I don’t need to protect everything” he responds. “Only what I’ve decided is mine.”

A heavy silence follows.

Chan sighs, as if making a decision he didn't want to make, but one that had already been written the moment they stepped through the door.

“I tried to be nice” he mutters.

He looks him in the eye one last time.

“See you in hell.”

And, with a quick, dry movement, he snaps his neck.

The sound is just like the one you heard beneath Felix only minutes ago: final.

The leader’s body goes limp. Chan releases him slowly, straightens up, and runs a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. He looks around.

The few intruders left conscious take in the scene, weigh their options… and decide to retreat. They crawl, they limp, they practically stumble out, dragging whoever they can with them. None of them dare to utter a single last word.

The club is left filled with the wreckage of the fight: broken tables, glass, blood, motionless bodies.

Silence.

Hyunjin is the first to break it.

He looks down at his shirt, now marked with several dark stains.

“Great” he grumbles. “Cleaning duty. Again.”

He turns toward the others, gesturing at the wreckage.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to make a black suit not look like a battlefield? And now, on top of hauling away corpses, clearing glass, and making excuses to the humans who heard the noise, I’m going to have to burn this.”

Changbin snorts, but his shoulders remain tense. Jeongin leans against the bar for a second, taking a deep breath. Han, somewhere nearby, lets out a low laugh, still riding the adrenaline. Minho is already checking that the motionless bodies stay that way, with no visible remorse.

Felix doesn't look at the bodies.

He looks up.

He sees you, huddled behind the railing, your knuckles white from gripping the edge so hard, your eyes wide open.

His expression contorts: relief first (because you’re alive, because the intruder never managed to touch you), and then… anger.

Not blind rage, but a mixture of fear and annoyance that knows exactly why it’s there: because you were there. Because he had asked you not to be.

He heads up.

The others let him go without saying a word. Chan makes eye contact with him for a second, a silent message hanging in the air: “Go.” Felix gives a slight nod and disappears up the stairs.

You step back from the railing as you hear his footsteps approaching. You don't know how to stand, how to brace yourself. You’ve seen things you’re still processing: his hand breaking necks, the look in everyone’s eyes as they killed, the ease with which death enters and leaves this place.

The door to the upper floor opens. Felix appears in the hallway, his hair slightly disheveled, his shirt stained, his eyes still glowing with the remnants of adrenaline.

He plants himself in front of you.

“I asked you” he begins, his voice low but taut, “to stay upstairs. Not to move.”

He doesn't raise his voice, but the weight of his words hits hard.

“And I stayed upstairs” you snap back, defensive. “I didn’t go down.”

“You peered over” he counters, taking a step toward you. “You put yourself right where anyone could see you.”

You notice a subtle Tremor in his hands. It’s not just anger. It’s fear.

“If I hadn't made it in time…” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “If I hadn’t heard Hyunjin, if you hadn’t shouted my name when the other one almost caught me from behind…” He closes his eyes for a second. “You could be dead right now. Or worse.”

The word “worse” coming from a vampire makes you swallow hard.

Your heart is racing just as fast as it was a few minutes ago, but for a different reason now: you’re angry too. With yourself, with him, with everyone—with the fact that your mere presence has turned into a bullseye.

“If you hadn’t brought me into all of this” you huff, “there wouldn’t be anyone ‘scenting’ me or leaping up pillars for me.”

The moment you say it, you know it isn’t entirely fair.

He knows it, too.

His expression looks wounded, but he doesn't shut down.

“You’re right” he admits, making no excuses. “I was the one who opened the door. I was the one who let you keep coming in. I was the one who let you…” he lets out a humorless laugh, “…get too far under my skin.”

He looks at you with an intensity that almost hurts.

“That is precisely why” he adds, “I asked you to stay away from the fire once it started. Because if something happens to me, it’s… just part of the deal. But if something happens to you because of me…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

You’ve seen him at his darkest.

You’ve seen him turn into something else: a lethal creature, fast, unhesitating when it comes to snapping a neck to protect you. You’ve seen his friends kill without blinking, cleaning up blood like someone busing tables, talking about corpses as “the next task at hand.”

And yet, looking at him now—his jaw clenched and his eyes glowing more from fear than from fury—your heart doesn't flinch.

You know what you feel.

You know you choose him, with everything that comes with it. With his light and his shadow. With the coffee and the fangs.

But you also know something else: that you can’t keep throwing yourself into this world without thinking. Not just for your sake, but for his—because of the weight you add to him every time you put yourself in danger.

You take a deep breath.

“I’ve seen what you’re capable of” you say, bluntly.

He holds your gaze, without trying to justify himself.

“And I still love you” you add, simply, as if it were a fact. Because it is.

His face softens for a second. Something in his eyes lights up, almost incredulous.

“But” you continue, swallowing against the lump in your throat, “I’ve also seen how close I came to one of yours… or one of the others, touching me. And I don’t know if…” you search for the words, “…if I’m going to be able to keep sitting up there, pretending that this is just ‘material for my book.’”

Felix takes another step toward you.

“It’s not just material” he says, almost pleadingly. “You know that.”

“I know” you respond. “And maybe that’s why, right now… I need to leave.”

The word carries weight.

You see it pierce right through him.

“I’m not saying that…” you rush to add, “that I don’t want to see you anymore. It’s not that. It’s just…” You look down at the half-cleaned chaos. “I need to walk out of here tonight on my own two feet, breathe air that doesn’t smell like blood and fear, and decide how I’ll walk back in next time. If I walk back in.”

A strange silence falls between you.

He could try to convince you to stay. He could promise you a thousand things he can’t control: that they’ll never come back, that he’ll always be there in time, that nothing will happen to you. But he knows he would be lying, and he doesn't.

Finally, he gives a slow nod.

“I’m taking you home” he says, in a low voice.

“I can—”

“I’m taking you home” he repeats, more firmly. “After that… you decide.”

You walk downstairs in silence. The lounge is a mix of disaster and routine: Hyunjin has already hauled away two corpses with a look of pure annoyance; Changbin is stacking the remains of broken tables; Jeongin is mopping up a dark puddle; Han is complaining about a bruise while Minho ignores him.

They look at you as you pass, but no one says a word. There is understanding in some gazes, guilt in others, and a strange kind of respect in all of them.

Felix opens the club door.

The night outside smells different. Cleaner, though it’s still the city. You walk to your building without speaking. This time, his hand doesn’t seek yours. Not for lack of wanting to, but out of an extreme care not to pressure you.

You stop at your front door.

You look at him.

His skin is stained, his shirt torn, his knuckles slightly split. He could be frightening. To you, he isn't.

“I want…” he begins, then stops. “I want you to know that if you decide not to come back, I’ll understand. I won’t stalk you; I won’t sneak through your window like some cheap cliché.”

You trace a sad smile.

“It would make for a good scene” you murmur.

“It would” he admits. “But we’ve had enough scenes for today.”

A pause.

“Just…” his voice drops slightly. “Don’t just stop texting me out of the blue. Even if it’s just to say ‘I need space.’ Don’t vanish without a word. That…” he swallows hard, “I don’t know if I could handle that.”

“I’m not going to vanish” you respond. “I just… need to go today. To think. To feel all of this away from the blows and the blood.”

He nods.

“I’ll text you when I get inside” you say, taking a step back toward the door.

“I’ll be… where I always am” he responds. “Between the bar and the rooftop.”

For the first time in many nights, you don’t kiss him goodbye.

Not because you don’t want to, but because right now, you know that kiss would be an anchor that wouldn't let you fully walk through that door.

You step into the building.

As the door closes behind you, you lean against it for a moment. Your heart is pounding—not with fear, but with a brutal mix of emotions: love, panic, longing, and the urge to run both up and down at the same time.

You know you’re not running away from Felix.

You’re running away from what might happen to you if you keep stepping into his world without looking.

But, as you climb the stairs to your apartment, you also know something else: that there isn’t enough physical distance to stifle what you feel. That even if you decide not to go to the club for a few days, even if you take your time responding to his texts, the simple fact remains:

You’ve seen him kill for you. You’ve seen him tremble for you. And yet, when you close your eyes, what you remember most is how he held you on the rooftop—how he kissed you as if you were the only living thing that mattered in a night full of death.

There, between that darkness and that light, is where your next move will be decided.

@little-mix-fan-forever @emeraldgem22 @honeyyyy21 @doliveiraa @blackbrumous @ stellasays45 @iconicallyher @nebugalaxy @ karlee10261990 @susu6944 @parkairis18 @quokkahansung @wheresangel @bunbunbl0gs @lostinmusicals @euonna @nebugalaxy @karmaghostjess93 @hanniesbubuwife @blindspotquokka @idkimobsessed

If the world knew the truth, it would probably go crazy.

The leader of Stray Kids, the guy everyone sees as unattainable, the one who smiles for the cameras, the one who always has a word of encouragement for others… That same guy is right now sprawled face-down on your couch, his T-shirt wrinkled, his hair plastered to his forehead, and a pair of mismatched socks you lent him.

“I’m dying,” he mutters into the cushion, in slurred English.

“You’ve been lying there for ten minutes, drama queen,” you reply, without looking up from your laptop.

He grunts, rolls over, and stares at you. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you. His eyes linger on the way you frown at the screen, on how you bite the corner of your lip as you type.

“Stop staring,” you protest, feeling his gaze fixed on you.

“I can’t,” he replies, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You’re pretty.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the smile that escapes you too. He sits up, literally crawls to the other end of the couch, and rests his head on your lap, turning his body so he can keep watching you.

“Don’t you have more important things to do than bother me?” you stroke his hair without thinking.

“Nothing is more important than bothering you,” he says, very serious, though his eyes sparkle with amusement.

That’s how it’s been almost all the time lately. Chan arrives late, exhausted, with dark circles under his eyes and his shoulders tense from so many hours in the studio… but as soon as he walks through your door and takes off his mask, he lets himself be a different version of himself. Softer, clumsier, sillier. More like you.

It’s a relationship no one knows about.

Not his family, not the company, not your friends back home. He jokes that it’s like a TV drama, but you know the secret carries a weight—a weight you both agreed to bear from the start.

You remember the first time he told you, on a night much like this one, with the two of you sitting on the living room rug, eating cheap ramen.

“I don’t want to hide you,” he had confessed, stirring his noodles without looking at you. “But… for now, I think it’s safest. For you, for us, for the kids…”

“I know,” you had replied then, with a lump in your throat. “I don’t need the world to know, Chan. As long as you and I know, that’s enough for me.”

He had looked up then, and gazed at you with those eyes that seemed to ask for forgiveness and express gratitude at the same time.

“Just… if things ever get ugly,” he added, as if it were a random thought, “and you can’t reach me, or something happens…” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. “I’m going to leave you an emergency contact.”

He had written a number on a piece of paper and handed it to you.

“Felix,” he said. “If anything happens, if I’m not around, if you need help… send him a message, okay? He’s… he’s my safe person too.”

At the time, you didn’t think too much of it. It seemed sweet, responsible. Very “BangChan.”

Now, that little folded piece of paper in your nightstand drawer would become your only lifeline.

But you don’t know that yet.

For now, it’s just you, the laptop, and Chan’s head on your lap, while he looks at you as if you were the only corner of peace in a city that’s way too noisy.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks after a while, breaking the silence.

“How strange it is that no one suspects a thing,” you reply, finally closing the laptop. “You spend way too much time here.”

He laughs.

“I keep my secrets well.”

“Oh, really?” You poke his cheek. “Your members say otherwise during the live streams.” They always ask why you’re smiling while looking at your phone.

Chan blushes visibly and covers his face with his hands.

“They said that?”

“Hyunjin said you looked like a teenager in love,” you tease.

“Traitor…” he mutters, but he’s smiling.

You lean in a little and pull his hands away from his face.

“Well, they’d better get used to it,” you whisper, and kiss him briefly on the lips. “Because I plan to keep giving you reasons to smile at your phone.”

You don’t know it yet, but those little moments of light will be the only spark keeping him going when everything else starts to fall apart.

At first, they’re just isolated comments.

An old tweet taken out of context. A video edited with malicious intent. Rumors you’ve seen before, ones you thought were long buried.

Stuff about Hyunjin is popping up again. Old screenshots, lies that had already been cleared up, evidence that the company and the guys presented back in the day.

But the internet has a selective memory. It forgets the clarifications and clings to the controversy.

“They’re at it again…” Chan says one afternoon, flinging his phone onto the table as if it were burning him.

You’re in your kitchen. He tried to cook something more elaborate than ramen and ended up focusing on chopping vegetables as if they were the enemy.

You approach from behind and wrap your arms around his waist.

“Too much noise?” you ask against his back.

He sighs.

“Too much.” He falls silent for a moment. “It’s not just Hyunjin this time. They’re attacking Lix again. Because of his accent, because of his appearance. Everyone, really.”

You feel him tense beneath your arms. It’s a tension you recognize: that of the leader who feels like everything is his fault even when it isn’t.

“It’s not your responsibility for everything some stranger with too much free time says,” you murmur.

“But I’m the leader,” he replies automatically, as if by reflex. “I’m supposed to keep us all safe.”

He puts down the knife, leans against the counter, head bowed.

“What kind of leader am I if I can’t even protect them from people’s comments and lies?”

You stand beside him and gently turn his face toward you.

“You’re a human leader,” you reply. “They don’t need a superhero; they need Chan. And you’re already doing more than anyone could.”

He laughs without humor.

“Try telling that to the comments.”

When he leaves that night, he does so with a hug a little tighter than usual. When he calls you from the studio later, his voice sounds tired, but he still tries to joke.

“I promise I’m fine,” he repeats. “Just… tired.”

You don’t quite believe him, but you decide not to press him. You trust him. You trust that he’ll tell you if he breaks down.

The days go by and the noise grows louder. The sasaengs start crossing more dangerous lines: showing up at the building, calling the guys’ cell phones, leaking their schedules.

And you, who aren’t publicly part of that world, start to notice how the shadows are creeping toward you too.

One afternoon, while you’re grocery shopping, you could swear someone is following you down a couple of aisles. You turn around, don’t see anyone suspicious, but your heart races anyway.

Later, you text Chan about it.

“I think I’m being paranoid. I felt like someone was following me today.”

It takes a while to respond, but when it does:

“Send me your location when you leave the house, okay? Just… just in case. I want to be sure. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”

His apologies are becoming more and more frequent. As if every outburst, every comment, every strange look in your direction were an added burden on his shoulders.

The first cracks aren’t visible from the outside.

Fans still see the same smiling Bang Chan on live streams, with his playlists, his jokes, his hands fidgeting nervously in front of the camera.

But you see what happens afterward.

One night he shows up at your apartment unannounced. As soon as you open the door, you notice something different.

He’s paler, his dark circles more pronounced, his jaw clenched. He doesn’t even try to smile.

“Hi,” he says quietly, in a whisper.

You step aside to let him in. He takes off his shoes almost automatically and drops his backpack on the floor by the door.

Instead of heading to the couch like usual, he slumps down on the rug in front of the TV, which is turned off. He rests his elbows on his knees and covers his face with his hands.

You close the door slowly. You walk over and sit down next to him, without touching him yet.

“Chan…” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer. He takes a deep breath, and you can feel his whole back heave. There’s a barely perceptible tremor in his fingers.

You hear it before you see it: a ragged intake of breath, a sound that seems to carry the weight of years of holding back.

He’s breaking. And this time, he can’t hold it in.

“Sometimes I feel like, no matter what I do, there’s always going to be someone waiting for me to make a mistake so they can tear us apart…” his voice comes out choked behind his hands. “And I’m the leader. I’m supposed to keep all of us safe. What kind of leader am I if I can’t even protect you from comments on the internet?”

You kneel in front of him, gently take his wrists, and force his hands down so he’ll look at you.

His eyes are moist, but no tears have fallen yet. He’s at that exact point between breaking down and holding on.

“You’re not a shield,” you say firmly. “You can’t stop every bullet with your chest, Chan. It’s not fair.”

He laughs bitterly.

“But I try anyway.”

“And you’re killing yourself inside,” you reply.

You hug him then, leaning forward and wrapping your arms around him. At first he stiffens, as if he doesn’t know what to do with so much honesty. Then, slowly, he lets himself go.

His hands move up your back, clutching your T-shirt, and you feel him trembling against your shoulder.

He isn’t crying out loud. There’s no noisy drama. There is a heavy silence and a breath that breaks at times, as his weight sinks against you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers over and over, against your neck. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“You have nothing to feel,” you reply, but you keep stroking his back anyway. Even though you know that, for him, guilt is a native language.

That night he stays over. He lies in your bed, facing away, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

You think he’s asleep when you’re about to drift off yourself, but then you hear him whisper:

“Sometimes I think that if I disappeared… everything would be better.”

You open your eyes suddenly and turn toward him.

“Don’t ever say that again,” you reply, your voice harsher than you expected.

He turns his head and looks at you. His pupils seem to glow in the dim light.

“It’s just… a stupid thought,” he says quickly. “I’m not going to do anything, I swear.”

But those words linger there, floating between the two of them, like a crack that refuses to close.

Time passes. The days blur together, and the noise on social media ebbs and flows like a tide that never quite recedes.

You cling to the small signs of normalcy: a message from him in the morning, a voice note laughing at something Felix said, a photo from the studio with a cup of coffee and a “wish you were here.”

Until one day, the messages simply stop coming.

There’s no fight beforehand. No strange argument. The last conversation was normal:

“I’m finishing up late today, but I’ll call you before I go to sleep, okay? 💛”

“Don’t worry if you’re tired—please get some rest. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

And that's it.

That promised call never comes.

At first, you think he fell asleep. It wouldn't be the first time; his schedule is inhuman.

The next day, you send him another message:

“Is everything alright? 🥺”

No answer. A small clock icon next to the text. You try calling him.

It goes straight to voicemail.

You try again several times throughout the day. Nothing.

You wonder if he’s changed his number, or if the company has taken measures against the sasaengs. You try not to panic.

But then, the news breaks.

A statement from the company: Bang Chan will be taking some time off for personal/health reasons.

The internet is flooded with theories. Some talk about burnout, others about scandals, others about pure malice. Meanwhile, you’re sitting on your couch, phone in hand, reading the statement over and over again.

There isn’t a single mention of where he is. Not a single private word for you.

The Stray Kids chat you can’t see is just as silent. The members, with no real information, keep working under the constant shadow of his absence.

Two days pass. Three. Four.

Your messages still haven’t been delivered.

“Chan, please, tell me something.” “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m here.” “I’m starting to get scared.”

The nights turn into an endless cycle of refreshing timelines, reading articles, and scrolling too far down into comments you know you shouldn’t be reading.

There are supportive tweets, fans saying “take the break you need,” “we’re waiting for you.” But there are also nasty comments, people celebrating that you’ve “gone,” people pointing out mistakes, taking phrases out of context.

A thread on a forum sticks with you: someone vaguely mentions your building. Not your name, not your face, but enough to send a chill down your spine.

You take a deep breath, close the page.

On the fifth day, you don’t sleep. On the sixth, you don’t even realize if it’s day or night.

You start to think that maybe he regretted it all. That maybe cutting you off was part of that “disappearing.”

You hate yourself for thinking it. You know it doesn’t fit with him, with the Chan you know. But the silence hurts, and when it hurts, the mind invents monsters.

On the seventh night, with your heart in a knot in your chest, you open the drawer of your nightstand. There, folded in four, is the piece of paper with the number he left you.

Felix. Emergency contact.

It’s taking you longer than it should to write that message.

You write it, delete it, and write it again. You try to make it sound sincere without sounding desperate, but every time you reread it, your eyes well up.

In the end, you give in to the harsh truth:

“Hi, Felix. I don’t know if you’ll read this or if you’ll believe me. I’m… Chan’s girlfriend.”

You stare at those words, feeling your heart race. It almost feels like sacrilege to type them in a chat with someone who doesn't know you.

But you keep going.

“He gave me your number as an emergency contact. We haven’t been able to talk in weeks—his phone isn’t working—and I’m really worried. I understand if you’re skeptical, but I need to talk to someone who knows him.”

You add details—things that only someone close to you would know:

“I know his favorite coffee has changed three times this month. That when he’s really tired, he mixes English, Korean, and sometimes even makes up nonsense words. That he’s always looking out for everyone but himself. That he keeps messages from fans in folders. And that two weeks ago, he cried on my couch because he felt like he wasn’t being a good leader.”

You bite your lip. You think about the photos.

You never wanted anyone to see them. They’re just for the two of you: Chan wearing an old cap in your kitchen, pulling a face at you. You and him on your couch, both wearing masks, but with smiling eyes. His hands intertwined with yours, no faces, just fingers.

You pick three. You attach them.

“Here’s my address: [X]. You can bring your manager, bodyguard, or whoever you want. I don’t expect you to trust me just because of a text message. But I’m on my own here, and I need to know if he’s okay or alive.”

You take a deep breath. And you hit send.

The message stays on the screen for a moment with the clock icon. And then: “Delivered.”

You stare at the screen as if you could force it to flash a reply.

Five minutes pass. Ten. Twenty.

Nothing.

You get up from the couch and start pacing back and forth across your apartment, still holding your phone.

What if that’s not his current number? What if his company changed it? What if Felix thinks you’re just another crazy person and decides to ignore you?

The throbbing in your temples starts to hurt.

Then, it vibrates.

An incoming message from that same number.

“How did you two meet?”

You freeze. You read and reread the sentence.

You reply with trembling fingers:

“We met at a café a while back. He was writing lyrics in a notebook. I spilled coffee on his table. He laughed and said he’d been looking for an excuse to get up.”

The conversation continues, and it almost turns into a gentle interrogation:

“What name does he use with you when he’s feeling insecure?” “When was the last time you saw him in person?” “What did he tell you about me when he gave you my number?”

You answer everything. You tell him that he calls you “baby” when he’s the one who’s more vulnerable. That the last time you hugged him was a little over a week ago. That when he gave you Felix’s number, he said:

“He’s my safe person too.”

A few seconds pass. Then another message arrives:

“I’m on my way. It’ll take 30 to 40 minutes. I’ll be coming with bodyguards. Don’t let anyone else in until then.”

You feel dizzy.

You realize you’re still in your pajamas, your hair pulled back into a messy bun. You look at yourself in the hallway mirror and barely recognize yourself: red eyes, dark circles, dull skin.

You think about getting changed. Then you think… what’s the point? Felix isn’t coming to judge your appearance.

He’s coming because Chan isn’t here.

You sit on the edge of the sofa, your heart pounding against your ribs, and wait.

The doorbell rings before you feel like half an hour has passed.

You get up, adjust the mask on your face—more out of habit than necessity—and walk to the door.

You look through the peephole: A blond guy, cap, mask, accompanied by two burly men in dark suits. Even without seeing his whole face, you know it’s him.

You open the door.

Felix enters first, giving a slight bow. His eyes scan your face, your body, your apartment—all in a matter of seconds.

The bodyguards stay in the hallway, serious, giving you space.

You bow slightly in response, trying to show respect despite the trembling of your hands.

He speaks first, in soft English, with a recognizable accent:

“You’re…?”

“Of all the ways Chan and I imagined I’d meet you someday… this wasn’t one of them,” you say in a whisper, trying to smile.

Felix stands still for a moment. Then, the corners of his lips turn up ever so slightly.

That small, weary but genuine smile makes something in your chest ease.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” you step back, letting him in completely. “I’m sorry, everything’s a little…” you look around. “Chaotic.”

“Don’t worry,” he replies. “I’ve seen worse bedrooms.”

The lighthearted joke breaks the tension a little. You close the door; the bodyguards stay outside.

You guide him toward the sofa. You offer him something to drink, more to keep your hands busy than because you think he’ll actually want it.

“Water is fine,” he says, sitting down with his hands clasped, his back straight, as if he doesn’t know how much he can let his guard down here.

You bring him the glass and sit down across from him.

There’s a brief silence as you both size each other up.

You see the exhaustion reflected in Felix’s eyes, the constant worry etched on his face. He sees the dark circles under your eyes, the tremor, the contained desperation.

“So…” he begins, setting his glass down on the table. “You’re really…”

“Chan’s girlfriend,” you finish for him.

He nods once.

“Tell me everything,” he says.

And you do.

You don’t know how much time passes while you’re talking.

At first, only jumbled facts come out of your mouth: how you met Chan, how long you’ve been together, small details that, taken together, paint a picture that’s hard to fake.

Felix listens in silence. He doesn’t interrupt you, doesn’t pull out his phone, doesn’t look away. Every so often he nods, as if he’s putting the pieces together in his head.

“Did he tell you about me?” he asks, during a pause.

You nod.

“He said you were his ‘safe person,’” you reply. “That if one day he couldn’t be there… he should trust you.”

Felix looks down for a second and smiles faintly, sadly.

“That sounds like him.”

You tell him about the last time you saw Chan, the night he stayed in your bed, staring at the ceiling, and said that sometimes he thought that if he disappeared, everything would be better.

Felix clenches his jaw when he hears that.

“He never put it that way to us,” he murmurs. “He always… always tried to put on a brave face. For us, for the fans.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing up his blond locks even more. “We knew he was tired, but not… not to that extent.”

“Didn’t the company tell you anything?” you ask, with a mix of hope and fear.

He shakes his head.

“Just that he ‘needs time.’” He swallows. “He’s not in the dorm. He’s not with his parents. He’s… he’s not in any of the places we’d recognize.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “Hyung decided on his own that he didn’t want anyone to find him, apparently.”

You feel a twinge in your chest. The thought of Chan wandering alone, with no one, carrying all that guilt, makes the air feel thicker.

“He thinks that… if he disappears off the map, he’ll protect you,” you say, piecing together what you’ve seen and heard.

Felix looks up, staring at you intently.

“Did he tell you that?”

“Not in those words.” But… he blames himself for everything. For the attacks, for the rumors, for how the kids feel. For me. You swallow, feeling your throat burn. “And if those sasaeng are starting to hang around… my building, or my neighborhood…” You don’t finish the sentence, but you let it hang in the air. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he thought leaving was the only way to protect me.”

Felix falls silent for a few seconds, taking it all in. Then he takes a deep breath, as if making a decision within himself.

“We’re going to do this together,” he says. “You and me.” He leans forward slightly. “I can’t promise you we’ll find him tomorrow. Or the day after.” His eyes soften. “But I can promise you that you won’t have to go through this alone anymore.”

That sentence breaks something inside you.

You don’t cry out loud; you simply feel the tears start to roll down, silently, without you being able to stop them. You cover your face with your hands instinctively.

Felix moves, awkward at first, unsure whether to approach you or not. Finally, he leans in slightly and places a hand, lightly, on your forearm.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry you’re going through this.” His voice sounds sincere, heavy with the same weariness and fear as yours, but also with something warm. “Chan hyung… if he knew how much you’re hurting, he’d hate himself even more.”

“He already does,” you reply through clenched teeth. “And that’s what scares me the most.”

You talk for hours.

About Chan. About the group. About the strange atmosphere in the dorm since he left.

Felix tells you things you’d only ever seen from the outside, translated through fancams and variety show clips, but which now have a different texture:

“Seungmin spends more time with his headphones on,” he says. “As if he doesn’t want to hear the silence… Han spends more time in the studio than before, but he’s making less music, Hyunjin…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “He’s… as if he’s waiting for Chan to walk through the door at any moment and say it was all a joke.”

He also talks to you about himself:

“I’ve had panic attacks before,” he admits, quietly. “And without Chan… it’s harder.” He looks at his own fingers, fiddling with the rim of his glass.

“I’ve been thinking that, if this happened to him… it could happen to me, too, or to any of us. And the idea scares me more than I want to admit.”

You realize something then: You’re not the only one losing it.

He’s hanging by a thread too, holding everyone else up while no one is holding him up.

You reach out, without thinking too much about it, and squeeze his fingers.

“You’re not just the ‘happy sunshine’ of the group,” you say. “You have a right to be scared too.”

He looks up, surprised for a second, and then nods.

Before he leaves, you exchange numbers right away.

“I’m going to add you to a group chat with the guys, but…” He grimaces. “I’m not going to tell them who you are just yet. Just that… you were important to Chan.” He looks at you, gauging your reaction. “When he’s ready, let him decide how to introduce you.”

It seems fair to you. You nod.

“If any of us find out anything, we’ll call each other,” you say.

“We’ll call each other,” he repeats.

At the door, before leaving, he pauses.

“He’s going to come back,” he says, as if speaking as much to himself as to you. “He has too many reasons to do so.” He looks you in the eyes. “And you’re one of the biggest ones.”

When the door closes behind him, the apartment feels just as empty as before, but no longer completely silent.

Now there’s an invisible line between you and a group of kids who are also waiting for the same person.

And that, even if it doesn’t fix everything, gives you something to hold on to.

The days that follow blend into a strange routine.

On the one hand, your normal life: work, chores, shopping. On the other, the constant ache in your chest, the lack of messages, the absence of his name on your screen.

Felix texts you every now and then.

At first, the messages are practical:

“The company keeps saying the same thing. ‘Take a break. Don’t go into details.’” “No one came today to tell us anything else.”

Then they start to get more personal:

“Did you eat today?” “I couldn’t sleep last night—I was thinking too much. How about you?”

You respond with the same mix of facts and confessions.

“I’ve eaten something. Not much, but it counts.” “I woke up at 3 a.m. thinking the doorbell had gone off.”

He also shares the occasional anecdote:

“Hyunjin asked who the mysterious person in our new chat group was. I told her it was someone important to Chan. She smiled a little. I think it gave her hope.”

Sometimes he calls you. The first time, you’re surprised by the tone of his voice: lower, softer than you imagined. You cry a little, now and then, but you also laugh at trivial things, because pain needs an outlet.

He’s the only one you can talk openly to about Chan without having to explain anything.

And yet, no matter how much you talk, no matter how much you support each other, there’s one thing that doesn’t change:

Chan still hasn’t shown up.

Days go by. Then weeks.

You start to notice its absence not just on your phone, but within yourself.

You have trouble concentrating. You find yourself glancing at the door every now and then, waiting to hear the code beep. You check two, three, four times to make sure your notification sound isn’t turned off, just in case.

The world outside keeps turning: there are new comebacks, new trends, new scandals involving other people. Your reality, however, seems to have gotten stuck on pause.

It’s been raining since this morning.

At first, a light, steady rain gently tapping against your windowpanes. Then, as the afternoon wears on, the raindrops grow heavier, more forceful. The wind swirls against the buildings, and the trees bend.

The news reports a severe storm and advises people not to leave their homes.

You, in any case, weren’t planning on going out.

You’re on the couch, a blanket over your legs, your phone in your hand. The TV is on with the volume low, a news anchor talking about power outages, flooded neighborhoods.

Your thumb scrolls almost automatically through your social media feed. Every mention of “BangChan” tightens the knot in your stomach a little more.

There are fans asking for respect, asking that he be left alone. There are others starting threads about his mental health, talking about how dangerous it is to put so much pressure on someone. And, as always, there are voices that laugh, that downplay it, that attack.

The thunderclap that follows makes the window rattle.

You shudder. The storm is so intense that for a moment you literally feel like the sky is going to split in two.

You glance at the clock. It’s late. Felix texted you a while ago:

“We’re all in the bedroom today. It’s really quiet without him. Are you okay with the storm?”

You answered him:

“I’m scared, but I’m on the couch with a blanket. Don’t worry, I’m not going out.”

He hadn't answered yet.

You sigh, tuck your feet further under the blanket, and try to focus on something else.

And then, you hear it.

The electronic beep from your door's keypad.

It's a short, familiar, unmistakable sound: the code being entered.

You freeze completely.

Your first thought is ridiculously logical: “No one else has the code.”

Your second thought: “I must have imagined it.”

But then, the lock clicks, followed by the faint creak of the door opening.

Your heart skips a beat so violently it almost hurts physically.

You sit up slowly on the couch, quietly pulling the blanket off yourself. Your whole body is on high alert.

You don’t move right away. There’s something in the air—the way it feels colder—that makes you move forward cautiously.

From where you’re sitting, you see the silhouette.

Someone enters, closing the door behind them.

A black hood covers their head. A mask covers the lower half of their face. Their clothes are soaked; water drips onto the floor, immediately forming a small puddle in the entryway.

They stand there, still, not moving forward. As if they don’t know if they have the right to do so.

It takes your mind an eternal second to accept what your eyes already know.

It’s him.

Chan. Your Chan.

@little-mix-fan-forever @emeraldgem22 @honeyyyy21 @doliveiraa @blackbrumous @ stellasays45 @iconicallyher @nebugalaxy @ karlee10261990