🧸

“I don’t understand why you let it bother you,” Gina sighs. “Even if all the petty rumours are true, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s a literal Tony Stark in the flesh and that interviewing him will give us so much extra credit we’ll be drowning in it until graduation. Not to mention the clout we’ll get just for having his name attached to us.”

You huff indignantly, as irritated by her insight as with your own sour mood. “I don’t want the name of a psycho attached to me, thank you very much.”

“Oh my god, spare me from the morally upright of this world,” Gina groans into the air. “Dude’s allegedly into a bit of bondage and that makes him a psycho?”

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment; you cast a mortified glance around the café, glad that nobody appears to have caught that.

“Keep your damn voice down,” you hiss.

Gina finishes her latte, swiping the foam from her top lip. “Appointment is for twelve tomorrow,” she says flatly. “Don't forget the Dictaphone and make sure whatever notes you take are readable.”

She rises from her chair, stepping out from around the table. “If you unclench enough to make it there, that is.”

With a cackle and a flourish, she about-faces and leaves the café, leaving you to stew in nerves. In one thing, she’s not so wrong. Chan Christopher Bang is the billionaire playboy philanthropist of the nonfiction world, and there’s not a self-respecting economics student that doesn’t know his name, much less one that wouldn’t tear your arm off for a chance to interview him in your place.

A mug smashes behind the counter, the crack of porcelain ringing shrill through the café. A young, overworked barista apologises profusely, going about collecting the scraps from the floor.

There’s something unsettlingly portentous about it.

***

The corporate offices of B.C.C. Holdings are a monolith; a statement of power and money amongst the pond life of the city.

Stepping into the sleek marble lobby, the first and most prominent sensation is nausea. It seems that even despite your attempts to look the part with a (wholly uncharacteristic) pencil skirt and smart blouse, you very much don’t feel it, and that’ll doubtless be the first thing anyone in this bloodhound kennel will notice about you.

Approaching the reception desk manned by a woman that can only have been poached from a Vogue editorial, you summon your courage.

“Hello,” you smile. She glances up from her computer. “I’m here to see Mr. Bang.”

“Mr. Bang sees people by appointment only.” She turns back to her computer.

“R— Right, of course. Sorry; I do have an appointment? Twelve o’clock?” Quite why the irrefutable fact comes out like a question, you’re not sure, but the woman quirks a groomed brow and asks for your name. A few tip-taps on her keyboard, and she says, “Elevator to the top floor, take a seat in the waiting room.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

The top floor, it transpires, is the thirtieth floor, and the vertigo of the elevator does nothing to ease the rising sickness that pangs your gut. Glad to be free of it when the doors glide open to reveal a neat and minimalist seating area, you teeter to the nearest cushioned chair and slump into it. The relief on your aching soles is pleasant—you’re not so practiced in the art of wearing heels—but after ten minutes of waiting ticks to twenty minutes, then thirty-five, your impatience begins to make reckless suggestions.

You send a text to Gina to immortalise the moment; you want this on record.

<< still waiting for this asshole. even tony stark was punctual.

And as you send it, the elevator doors ping and slide smoothly open for the same model as was on reception. She smiles, looking over the top of your head as she says, “Mr. Bang will see you now.”

You think about voicing a complaint for the tardiness, but are instead forced to hop up from your chair and jog down the connecting hallway after her hasty pace, just narrowly avoiding stumbling over your heels. At the end of it, she stops before a set of rich mahogany doors, knocking twice.

A voice comes from the other side: “Enter.”

She does so, pushing and holding the left door open for you. Hand in hand with trepidation, you step inside, and find you can no longer recall the image your expectations had created of this very place; how should the office of a man such as Chan Christopher Bang look? Well: floor to ceiling glass walls run the front and left-hand of the room, the view of the city from such lofty heights uninterrupted. On the plush crimson carpet rests luxurious furniture; a leather suite of armchairs around a short glass table, shelving built into the right-hand wall displaying a selection of books, liquors and crystal. A fireplace sits unlit near the leather suite, a rug of tiger skin sprawled out before it. Concealed spotlights track the length of the ceiling, the daytime hours rendering them surplus to requirement, but you imagine their glow to be soft come nightfall.

The clicking of the closing door accompanies the harsh click of your dry swallow.

“Do come in. Don’t be shy.”

At the head of the room and seated at a grand desk of pristine burlwood is the man himself. Striking in every way one may strike—and he does; make no mistake—the first impression is one of dripping expense. His dark tailored suit compliments the dewy pale of his complexion, the waves of his thick blonde hair reveal his high forehead. His features are strong; sharp nose, plush lips, deep cheekbones all unthinkably defined, and his fingers are beringed, his wrist adorned with a Rolex.

“You must be my twelve o’clock,” he says, rising from his desk chair.

It says something to your addled state that on his statement, you scoff out loud. He stops his approach, face drawn with amusement as your mortification registers stiltedly. “I suppose we are late getting started, yes,” he smiles. “My conference call ran over. Turns out doing business abroad takes some fine communication.”

Ground, swallow.

He crosses the rest of the office, hand outstretched when he’s close enough, which you take amicably.

“I— It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bang.” God, your voice is chalky.

“Chan, please.” He shakes your hand gently, an all-encompassing grip that might make your stomach clench just a little. In closer proximity, he appears even more attractive; kind eyes, you note. A slight slant to his smile. Veiny hands.

“Would you like to take a seat?” he then asks, gesturing with his other hand to the armchairs at his desk.

“Sure.”

Moving to the designated area is done so under his (watchful?) gaze burning something of a hole into your back until you’re seated, and it’s with muted disdain that you narrowly stop from falling back into the sheer size of it; were you to sit with posture in mind, spine straight against the seat, your feet wouldn’t touch the floor. Perching on the edge with legs crossed is as comfortable a position as you can manage.

Chan takes up seat at his desk, chin propped on his knuckles as he watches you fish your notepad and Dictaphone from your little bag.

“Is it okay to record this?” you ask as an afterthought.

Chan nods flatly, eyes trained to you. Something warm curls around your chest.

“A— And I'll be taking notes too, if that’s—”

“That’s fine.”

Do you imagine the way his gaze drops briefly—almost accidentally—to your legs? You clear your throat, pulse spiking. God.

“This interview is for...?” he then asks.

Glad of an excuse to talk (if a little miffed at his apparent ignorance) you do just that: “A school project; our final project, I mean.”

“I see. What are you studying?”

“Business and economics.”

“Undergrad?”

You nod. “Graduating this year. This project makes up thirty percent of our final grade.”

“Thirty percent, huh?” he muses softly, running his fingers absentmindedly under his jaw. You tear your eyes from him, down to your notepad.

“S— So, if you don’t mind, may I ask you some questions?”

He smiles. “That’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”

“Alright,” you shift, balancing the pad on your knee, clicking the Dictaphone to record. “Mr. Bang,” you begin. Chan purses his lips in something akin to disapproval; you continue regardless. “Could you tell me what inspired you to start a company?”

“I wanted to be rich.”

You glance at the Dictaphone, as though it’s an active audience. “Of course,” you indulge him. “Let me rephrase that: aside from financial gain, what was your motivation?”

“I wanted to be powerful,” he deadpans.

Irritation simmers under your skin. “Could you elaborate?”

Chan sinks into his chair, beringed fingers linked at his chest. “Doesn't everyone crave power?” he asks rhetorically. “Power brings control, and control is everything.”

You scribble that down in the notepad. “I see.”

“Not profound enough for you?”

Looking up at him, eyes lock over the desk; your pulse throbs. “It’s fine. Thank you.”

He drops into a smirk, though what precisely is so amusing to him escapes you. It strikes you that he’s not taking this all that seriously, which you would more fully be able to appreciate were it not for the taut knot of tension in your gut: he’s a powerful entrepreneur, you’re a pestering student, the worlds of which don’t—and shouldn’t—collide. And that’s the only reason you’re so out of sorts, you suppose. What other could there be?

Running too hot to be comfortable, blouse sticking to your clammy back, you shrug off your suit jacket quickly. “Next question,” you preface, glancing up at the man whose chin now rests on a formed fist. He lifts a groomed brow expectantly.

“Do you have a mantra, Mr. Bang? Or a motto? Something you live or do business by?” you ask.

He shakes his head slightly. “No.”

“No?”

“I make my own way.”

“As in...?”

He runs his tongue over his teeth. “Business is a brutal world. If you end up in it, you’ll understand what I mean by that, but until then rest assured that the one thing that’ll serve you well is loyalty. Whether that’s to yourself or someone else is your choice, but whatever path you take, stick to it. Die on it. That consistency will earn you respect; it’ll earn you anything you want. Those that work under me—that are loyal—are rewarded handsomely for their services. Those that aren’t? Well...” he shrugs gently. Ominously. Your pulse spikes again.

“I adopt the same philosophy in my personal life,” he then adds, and the voice at the back of your mind that pleads with you not to ask goes pitifully ignored.

“How so?”

His teeth indent his plush lower lip, and then he says, “Within sex, mostly.”

The illicit word rolling from his tongue sinks over you like sun-warmed honey; he rises slowly from his chair, rounding the burlwood desk, fingertips dragging across the polished surface as he goes. Perching on the lip of it and positioned right before you, the elegant length of his thick legs hugged by expensive fabric is apparent, the pinch of the suit accentuating his slim waist, further revealed when he undoes the single jacket button for it to fall open on him. Carefully—as though aware the kitten he stares down may yet scarper—he reaches across to click off the Dictaphone. Your breath hitches tightly, gut swirling a mix of emotions and wanting that are not only unfamiliar, but so heavily immediate it’s more a cause for concern than a sensation you dare to embrace.

And to that end:

“I, uh... I think that’s everything, Mr. Bang. Thank you for giving me your time.”

Rising from the chair to haphazardly gather your belongings, your notepad slips from your hand as you hastily cross the office. Turning to retrieve it, he gets there before you do.

“You hardly wrote a thing down,” he says thoughtfully, examining the page.

You laugh nervously. “It’s all up here,” you tap your temple, then reach for the notepad. Chan holds it still, his scrutiny moved from the item to you.

“M— May I have it back, please?”

“Are you sure you have enough content?”

“Yes. Plenty. Of course. So much. Thank you, Mr. Bang.”

His jaw ticks. “Didn’t I ask you to call me Chan?”

“Did you?”

“My; what a short attention span. That sort of thing can be trained, you know.”

He steps towards you, all authority and dark intent and inexplicable pull that only marginally has you fearing for your mortal soul; curse the rumours about him. Curse that you know anything about him, because it’s only that which stops you from—

“My next engagement is in an hour,” he breathes, weighted gaze under thick lashes recognising the inchoate sparks in your own. He drops the notepad with a light thump, from his pocket retrieving a tiny remote control that he lifts to your eyes. A sharp click on the device and an electronic lock rings off; the doors?

Your bag falls from your arm, jacket and Dictaphone following promptly. It’s harder to breathe in his space, and perhaps that poses the reason for your head spinning. In stepping towards him, he opens his arms to you; colliding with his broad chest and sinking into his embrace spells the end of the pretence.

You wonder if this is what is meant by ‘the spark’; the tight coil of hunger that compels you to open to this stranger in ways you’d never ordinarily entertain with a regular person, let alone one so obscure.

Chan kisses you with the caution a child might possess in opening a new toy; they’re fearful of breaking it, yet desperately keen to get beyond the plastic packaging. Soft and pliant against your mouth, you burn with the urge to have him fiercer, your clutching of his jacket lapels intended to that effect, but Chan resists it. Rather, he breaks away and seems so vastly put together in contrast to your gradually slipping state of mind. He licks his lips, takes your hand to lead you back to the seat previously occupied. Guiding you into it—feet off the floor and spine against the seat—you watch breathlessly as he shrugs off the jacket, folding it over his arm and to the desk.

“You’ll answer some of my questions, now,” he says, attention turned to his shirt as he untucks it roughly from his trousers. A slow undoing of the buttons from hem to chest reveal the definition of his abdomen; hard ridges, smooth planes, all strength. Wanting throbs in all unmentionable places. “How do you like to do business?”

Sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to expose thick forearms, he unclasps his Rolex, dumps it to the desk. Hands outstretched—first left, then right—he peels the rings from each slim finger, similarly reckless in his depositing of them.

“I... I don’t know. I don’t really... do business.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Shame.” And sinks to his knees, hands curled around the chair armrests for veins to protrude. “You could strike a wicked deal or two.”

“I could...?” you ask uselessly.

He nods, and then rasps, “With me.”

The metaphor clearly having transgressed to more intimate realms, the proposition is a blatant one; as bold as the man who seeks control in all facets of his life.

“You intrigue me. Not much does anymore.”

Unsure what to say, the relief of his touch at your ankle purges you of need to speak anyway; you draw tight, biting back a breathless sigh. From ankle to calf he maps out a path, when at your knee he stops on the hem of your pencil skirt. Your body feels alight. Seconds away from outright pleading for it, he cranes up and leans towards you, voice kept low as he says:

“With your agreement, I’d like to make you come on my fingers, then my tongue, then my cock. I’d like to make you come at my leisure, at my beck and call, at my convenience. I’d like you to submit to me, darling, and I’ll reward you so lusciously you won’t even recall your life before me.”

The spreading of your legs is your non-verbal agreement; Chan seeks it anyway, your chin held by thumb and forefinger.

“Is that a yes?”

“Yes.”

And the kiss is so true to his promise; a reward, firm enough to drag a longing sigh from you when he breaks it. Back to his knees he sinks, your legs hooked over his shoulders for heels to dangle from your toes. Skirt pushed up and the annoyance of underwear pulled aside, you’re barely permitted to catch a breath when he sucks his own middle finger, the digit slick for the glide of entrance to be just so: he fills you slowly, carefully, the ridges and bumps of knuckle and joint felt intimately.

“So wet already,” he muses, and then, “How does that feel?”

“G— Good...”

Warmth coils around you, blooms out from the lower depths of your belly and in your groin. Chan works you patiently, a steady pace of fingering set to ease you into the freefall.

“You’re tight, darling. So tight.” His index finger joins the effort. “Can feel you opening for me.”

Your moan is obscene; there’s something to be said for the efficacy of Chan’s mouth, his voice, his words that accompany the building of pressure his fingers coax.

“Good girl.”

The consistent drag is delicious, your chasing of the sensation enacted by driving your hips down and grinding. Unabashed eye contact is held when Chan presses a kiss to your inner thigh, a high blush on his cheekbones, across his nose. The rolling pleasure peaks to a sharp spike; you gasp, then liquefy, managing only to choke out, “W— What...?”

Chan grins, white and wolfish. “Right here?” He does it again; curls fingers up and presses gently, holding the pressure. Your body spasms, your moans come broken, and he hums in delight. “Yeah. Right there.”

“Chan—”

“Your g-spot,” he informs softly, as though the information be some grand revelation that should change the course of things. In a way, it is. You’ve never found it by yourself. How is that a man you met a little under an hour ago knows you better than your practiced hand?

And as the peaking pleasure orders your limbs to tremble, your pants to break, Chan presses his tongue to your centre, a wet drag across his fingers and your sensitivity.

“Taste good, darling.”

“Oh, Jesus—”

The onslaught is near unbearable, and it is the perfect management of it that makes it so. The man knows beyond all reason when too much is just that, easing on fingers or tongue when one threatens to outdo the other in overstimulation. Buried between your thighs in a manner that would suggest he’s comfortable to call it home, it’s with lightheaded surrender you begin to fall into euphoria.

A strong, veined hand keeps your thighs spread and pliant, the fingers of the other still buried warm and snug. His attentive licking and mouthing of your centre muffles the exclamations of pleasure he himself emits; when you feel it coming, you warn him.

“Chan... Chan, I—”

He hushes you. “I know. Let it go. That was our agreement, wasn’t it?”

And amidst convulsions that wrack you with more violence than grace, a rush of pressure is relieved by fluid that drips and gushes from you—somehow—over his fingers, his chin. Chan pulls back, eyes ablaze with satisfaction and awe, the broken staccato of his name echoing around the office.

“Fuck me,” he mumbles absently when the aftershocks are passed, when you’re more able to open your eyes, to be present. Up from his knees and over you he looms, a wet kiss planted on dry lips.

“Pleasure doing business with you, darling.”

***

And a pleasure it is, doing business with Chan Christopher Bang.

A three-month long pleasure, to be precise about it, and when the man had so brazenly promised that life after him would be different, he had been sorely correct.

Living something of a double life came almost too easily, for it was as much a necessity in accommodating the man’s need for discretion as it was a thrill you took quietly. By day, the astute and studious economics student approaches the milestone that is her graduation. By night, the proverbial skin is shed and like a snake coaxed from its wicker, she wakes and slithers to her master, curling around him until her hold threatens to choke.

Yet such routine wasn’t without effort: after the initial encounter in his office, you tumbled down the predictable spiral of crisis and regret. He was a stranger; how could you do such a thing with a stranger? He was a powerful man; a statement against everything the feminist in you stood for. So why, then, did she not raise her voice in protest when you fell to your knees for him? Why did she not drag you away by the collar when you fell into him? Why did she not slam the door on him when he turned up at your house a fortnight after the illicit event, a bouquet of delicate crimson in one hand and bottle of chilled Cristal in the other?

“Business requires an adaptive approach,” he’d said warmly and on your questioning as to how he’d found you, though in truth you suspected tracking someone down was not least among his many capabilities.

Regardless, the feminist had looked on with dissociative acceptance as the man in the suit worth more than your car ravaged you on the sofa, against the countertops, in your bed. Whatever of your dignity remained was left only by his grace; for all his persistence, Chan’s respect was apparent in his handling of you, both physically and emotionally. In tearing you to pieces he was allowed to put you back together, and now, at the three-month mark, you suppose protesting any longer is a waste of precious energy.

You are his; he is yours.

Thus your life—newly unpackaged and box fresh—goes on.

***

The raw obscenity of the moan you fill Chan’s office with might be apt to draw outside attention were it not for the (recently installed) soundproofing.

“Goodness,” he grins. “Extra vocal for me today, hm?”

Too highly strung to entertain being verbal, trembling around the rampant rabbit the man holds steady inside you, your clenched fists are forced undone when with a quiet click, he ramps up the intensity of vibration.

He watches the way your eyes roll back with quiet awe, then turns attention back to his work. You wonder how it is that he has such a knack for stripping you down to skin whilst remaining fully clothed himself; poised on his expensive burlwood desk, legs spread and vulnerable, the feminist shakes her head at you in dire disapproval.

You ignore her.

With one hand he taps and clicks the laptop, with the other sets a slow pace of aided fucking possibly designed to drive you mad before it drives you to any semblance of orgasm, and that’s no product of inattention; Chan knows very well what he does, and why he does it.

“Chan—”

He glances at you, all perfect nonchalance.

“Please...”

“Please?” he mimics. “What are we pleading for now?” The toy glides deeper; you liquefy inside.

“Want to— Need to—”

“Oh, you want to come?” He hums, then purses his lips. “For such a vocal little thing you have an awfully hard time articulating, darling.”

He twists the toy, your sensitivity clenching around it.

“Fuck... I won’t have a hard time soaking that laptop and your dumb suit in a minute—”

Chan scoffs, eyes alight. “So she does speak. Shame that it’s backchat.” He withdraws the toy carefully, slowly, the emptiness of sensation leaving you a deflated ruin. “Maybe I’ve spoiled you, darling. Been too generous in my affections. I have an empire to run, yet here I am, making sure you’re looked after.”

You swallow with a harsh click, his careless tossing of the rampant rabbit to the desk preceded by the way he grabs your ankles and drags you into his lap, straddling him. Strong hand closes around your throat gently, the pad of his thumb under your chin ensures your rapt attention. Plush lips speak against yours:

“Take my belt off.”

Your compliance is immediate; Chan noses down your jaw as you strip the leather from his waist. He takes it from you and says softly, “Hands behind your back.”

In doing so, the belt is wrapped carefully around your wrists, secured by metal buckle. Unable to touch him or balance yourself or use them at all, Chan supports you by an arm wrapped around your body, lifting you briefly to free himself from his trousers.

“I should be more selfish,” he breathes, the blushed head of his cock a prod against your centre. “Take what I want.”

And in lowering you gently, he impales you. Gradual fullness renders you lightheaded, the stretch just shy of painful with the girth he offers; Chan is a powerhouse in all ways that matter. He draws tight and with a tug on the belt at your wrists, your back is bowed from him, your chest exposed. He licks a slow stripe through the chasm of your cleavage, a thrust of finality snapping him to full sheath.

“Fuck—”

And the pace he sets is relentless, your bouncing in his lap and on his cock only controlled by the hand he keeps around your throat, anchoring you. 

“That better, baby?” he grunts. “This what you wanted? To be stuffed so full you can’t think?”

“Ngh— Yes—”

“Such a pretty little toy for me to play with, huh?” He snaps upwards, thrusts deep. “Fit around me so well—”

Weak in his arms and plummeting towards orgasm—the tenderness of his earlier ministrations exacerbating the fall—your chin is held up, hot lips speak against your mouth: “Look at me.”

Though glassy his visage is, the beauty of the man is unmistakable. Even when so steeped in his rampant lust, he maintains a level of composure that serves as a perpetual reminder of who he is, what he has, the things he’s done. Touched by hands that shaped the city, kissed by lips that commandeer thousands, it’s a head spinning notion to know that of everything he possesses, in this moment, he craves only you.

Held close, Chan urges you into collapse. “Finish with me, darling. Want to feel you.”

Breaths and groans amalgamating so that one voice may not be distinguished from the other, you find ruin in his embrace. Chan swiftly unwinds the belt from your wrists; your arms slung up and around his neck bring the satisfaction of soft blonde between your fingers, of his head buried in your neck amidst his firm thrusts that slow, that falter, that bring him to crumble just enough so his perfect countenance slips when he kisses your sweat slick skin and whispers, “Thank you.”

A bittersweet thing that the weight of the statement is unknown to you.

***

With as much enthusiasm as you possess for economics, even you are inclined to admit that the lectures may induce occasional daydreams.

Notepad defiled with meaningless inky doodles and nonsensical words picked up from your Professor’s monologue, it’s a small joy when your phone on the desk buzzes for your attention. In checking it, a text message reads:

>> We have a thing tonight.

As presumptuous as ever, you inwardly grin.

<< we do?

>> Yes. Black tie, so wear something nice.

<< got a tie i can borrow then? lol

You chew your bottom lip as the response comes in:

>> No, but I’ve a few shirts I’d love to see you naked in.

Giddy delight whirls through your gut; you pinch your forearm surreptitiously.

>> Car will come for you at 8.

Time enough to pop to one of the boutiques in the city and pick something decent to wear up, at least.

<< ok. see u later Mr. B

>> ♥

***

With class finished and all present making their respective rushes to the exit, you’re no exception, gathering your things and slinging them into your backpack. Hitched over your shoulder and on your way out, your name is called across the lecture hall. In turning to it, Gina is barrelling towards you.

“Hey! Wait just a damn minute!”

“Gina, I really have to go—”

She grabs your wrist before you can scarper too far, the sudden and harsh contact on the—until now, pleasantly—sore skin a shock to your system. You yank it from her; Gina stares dumbfounded until disapproval glooms her expression.

“What’s going on?”

“Wh— Nothing!”

“Girl, you better not think I’m fool enough to believe your dirty lies—”

You reach out to her. “Alright. Okay. Something is, but I can’t really give you details.”

She eyes you dubiously. You half expect the tantrum, but it doesn’t come. She simply sighs, “But you’re okay, right?”

“I am.”

“Promise?”

“Promise,” you reassure her.

She rolls her eyes, pulls you into a warm hug and on release, spins you about-face by the shoulders. “Go get yours, then!” she hollers, shoving you towards the door.

“I’ll call you!” you grin.

“Better had!”

***

Laden with shopping bags full of clothes on return to your modest one-bedroom house, you wonder if it’s as much the obvious testament to your indecisiveness as it looks.

With just enough time to shower and dress, you move to do just that, taking your treasures through to the bedroom.

Yet the bedroom isn’t quite how you left it. Atop the neatly made bed and looking every inch the trap, is a flat, square red box finished with a black silk bow. Sufficiently dumbfounded and within the span of several seconds, you consider ringing emergency services (can you call for a bomb squad?), arming yourself or running away. If only you weren’t already gravitating towards it. Unlacing the silk bow and lifting the lid, a neatly folded sheaf of chiffon paper is adorned with rose petals. A small card rests atop it, a handwritten message reads: ‘In celebration of the best business deal I ever made. Wear this tonight. - Mr. B.’

Heart in your throat and moving it all aside reveals a dress: glossy, black silk runs down in waves as you lift it, the design a covered halter neck with exposed back. Nothing like any of the clothes you’d eventually settled on in the boutique, in other words. Material soft under your hands, your mind races lanes of thought that all arrive at the same finish line: however he managed it, he did it for you.

***

Eight o’clock on the dot sees a sharp knock on your front door.

Abound with nerves and feeling not unlike a fish out of water with your state of dress, you quickly answer it.

Chan leans comfortably against the porch wall, every inch the classic gentleman in a fitted tuxedo that does him so many wonders you can’t bear to count them all. His hair swept back and styled neatly, silver glints in his lobes and at his neck betray the man’s inclinations to extravagance; he doesn’t need the bling to shine, but covets it anyway. The subtlest smudge of dark eye makeup brings out the intensity of them; their smoulder, their life.

Stunted is the realisation that your awe is mutual; the silence holds as he takes you in from top to toe, his jaw clenching when he meets your gaze.

“It seems I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he huffs as he stands from the wall.

“How so?”

He quirks a groomed brow, gestures vaguely in your direction.

“You don’t like it?” you ask, knowing so much better.

“I’m rather inclined to tear it to shreds, actually.”

Deep arousal rolls through you; you hum thoughtfully, stepping out to join him. “Maybe later, love.”

There’s a black Bentley parked on the street, its headlights slicing through the dark. “Yours?” you point to it and ask him.

He nods stiffly.

“Shall we, then?”

A deep breath and puff of resignation, and Chan starts towards the vehicle, guiding hand at the small of your bare back.

“Are you going to tell me how you got this into my house?” you ask.

“No.”

“Are you going to show me? When I least expect it? When I’m fresh from the shower, perhaps?”

He grins down at you, mirth in his eyes. “Would you like that?”

You shrug. “I wouldn’t hate it.”

The feminist watches from the lawn as you stride past her, her head in her hands, despair in her wailing.

Chan bends towards you, speaks into your ear, “Your wish for ravishment is my command, darling.”

***

Drawn close to Chan’s side in the back of the Bentley, the passing city is a melty haze of red, white and amber. The vehicle is equipped as fitting a man of unthinkable wealth and power; Cristal on tap and heated seats, armour plating (so Chan informed you) and a horsepower of needless strength.

None of it can compare though, you think, to the way his hand is linked loosely with yours, to the way he absently maps out the knuckles and joints of your fingers.

“Can I ask where we’re going now?”

Chan exhales softly. “It’s a charity dinner.”

“Charity?” you repeat, surprised. “I thought you didn’t do charity.”

“Not publicly, no. I neither need nor can stand the clout of it all.” He sighs then. “Still, there are a few causes dear to my heart that I support behind the scenes. One such cause personally requested I make an appearance tonight. I couldn’t well refuse.”

“Dear to your heart...?”

Chan smiles; squeezes your hand. “Another time, perhaps. We’re almost there.”

What does the man who has everything hold dear? What pulls his heartstrings enough to bring him to dip into that which he has so ruthlessly earned and give it away? What does he value? All questions you ask yourself silently, with intent to one day ask him. You file them away alongside the dusty cabinet marked ‘rumours’, for those hold all the weight of summer rain by now.

The car rolls to a gentle stop; through the tinted windows and alongside the vehicle is a grandiose building reminiscent of a theatre. Old marble and high pillars, etched carvings in the stonework and a shallow flight of stairs carpeted red stretch out regally. Spotlights shadow the length of the building, an air of the dramatic lingers. The driver, on exiting the vehicle, opens your door politely, the chill night breeze nipping your skin. Thanking him quietly as Chan lets himself out of his side, he rounds the vehicle and offers you his arm.

“Okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

And with that, he guides you up the carpeted stairs to be greeted by smartly suited staff at the door: “Good evening, Mr. Bang.”

Chaperoned inside, the hall is as opulent as the exterior suggests it should be. Dazzling chandeliers illuminate the intricately painted domed ceiling, scenes and murals depict angels and creatures locked in fierce battles of romantic pursuit. Gilded and ornate, the round tables and cushioned chairs match the décor, their white covering cloths pristine. People as beautiful as you’ve ever seen linger and mingle, their attention diverted by the man at your arm. You swallow over the nerves, guided by another suited individual to a table where the dainty name plates dictate the seating arrangement.

“Thank you,” Chan says amicably, pulling a seat out by the back. “Sit, darling.” And then he gathers the other nameplates, handing them to the—now appropriately flustered—member of staff. “That’ll be all.”

He drags a second chair beside yours and sits close, longs legs crossed elegantly.

“Are we gatekeeping an entire table?” you ask quietly, still somewhat perturbed by the eyes on you.

“If you’d rather be seated with the leeches of this city, I can call him back.”

“No,” you laugh softly. “No, that’s quite alright.”

He reaches to your hand, pulls it into his lap where he holds it warmly. “Good.”

While glad of his confidence and apparent unshaking faith in you to handle this, the scrutiny with which you’re being examined is doing far more to keep you on edge. You’re reminded, on looking around, that the occupants of this room are the very elite; the one percent. What place does an economics student have among them? What place does an economics student have beside him?

Chan’s hand finds your knee. “Relax.” He squeezes it gently; you hadn’t even realised your nerves were bouncing it. “We’ll be out of here the moment the speeches are done.”

And you’re about to voice your gratitude when an uncomfortably shrill calling of Chan’s name pierces the moment: “Christopher! Oh my god, is that you?!”

In turning to the hollering, a wildly flailing woman approaches the table. Her dress is skin-tight, bust begging to be set free, long brunette locks falling to her waist. You withdraw your hand from Chan’s immediately.

When close enough she leans over the table, cleavage swelling to near disastrous results. Chan remains seated, blinks and says flatly, “Gemma.”

‘Gemma’ squeals; your teeth ache. “I thought Hell’d freeze over before I ever saw you at one of these things. How crazy!”

“Just keeping up appearances.”

“Oh, I know all about that, babe,” she grins bleached white, and then twirls a strand of brown around her manicured finger. “We should catch up some time. I’ve missed you!”

Chan’s jaw locks.

“How about I swing by your office this weekend?” she proposes, her blatant ignorance of you an abject insult. “I’ll bring a bottle of Cristal. That’s still your favourite, right? Do you still have that old tiger skin—”

“Excuse me.”

Unable to take much more of the gratuitous preening, feeling adequately sick to your stomach, you rise and walk away across the hall. Your name is called, yet in need of space and room to breathe, you don’t stop to entertain it.

You rush to the nearest most obvious member of staff. “Bathroom?”

“Up the stairs, madam. Third floor.”

“Thank you.”

Gilded railing is cool under your palm as you swiftly traverse the carpeted flights; your name is called again. Rounding a landing and glancing down the central aisle reveals Chan’s figure bounding up the stairs after you; alight with trepidation you hastily make your way to the third floor, starting down the darkened corridor and ducking into one of many rooms whose doors all look the same, bathroom or not.

It’s warmer in here; stuffy, the air thick with dust that brings you to a light cough. When the thump of steady footsteps passes by, you catch your breath, taking in the surroundings. A storage room, it becomes immediately apparent; the ghosts of furniture draped in cloth haunt the space, their shapes reminiscent of their purpose. A window is covered by wooden shutters at the right-hand of the room; you approach it and unclasp them, inviting in the sliver of pale moonlight. Looking out at the urban nightscape, your forehead pressed to the cool glass, you wonder on the reason for your overreaction; for your wanting to run. Indeed, it’s not so daunting a revelation that the man has a past; of course, there was a life he had before you, just as you had before him. But it is perhaps the differences in vibrancy which inspired such sickness. Chan has never been short of the beautiful things, the luxurious things, and to believe yourself among them makes you just another hopeless heart in the collection he’s surely amassed. You intrigue him, he once told you. And what should happen when that intrigue wears off? Will you, like Gemma and so many others, preen and hold out until the next chance encounter?

It’s with these thoughts rolling around that the door opens slowly, that you’re finally found. Peeling away from the window to turn to him, Chan steps into the moonlight, his blonde iridescent with silver, his complexion a flawless, lucent canvas of beauty.

It is his expression, however, that renders you mute with shock; his brows are pinched together, his eyes wracked with pain. With a rushed few final paces, you’re taken into his arms, pulled close against his frame for him to curl around you.

“You ran from me,” he whispers.

“Chan...”

He pulls back enough that he can search your face, and what he finds brings him to say, “Please, don’t. Not now.”

“I just... I needed some space, was all. I couldn’t—”

“I know.” He trails a touch up your arm. “I know I asked a lot of you tonight. I’d hoped to spare you from running into any of my... previous associates, but I—”

“Is that what she is?” you ask.

Chan blinks, falters. “It was a long time ago.”

And the way your heart sinks is testament to the depth of your feelings; why does it take this for you to see them?

“I’m not that person anymore,” he adds.

You wait, expectant. Chan inhales slowly, lips parting and closing around the words before courage enough is summoned.

“I hear the things people say about me,” he says. “They think that because I’m rich and beautiful, everything else about me must be rotten. In some ways, they’re not entirely wrong. I sacrificed a lot to get to where I am; things that better people wouldn’t have. In starting out I made some poor deals with bad people, and despite how far I’ve come since then, the stain won’t ever wash out.”

You reach up to cup his cheeks, thumbs running the angular bones. “Everyone has a past, Chan. It doesn’t define you.”

He leans into your touch. “Maybe it should.”

“It wouldn’t change anything.”

His brow furrows.

“Knowing all the details of your past, no matter how grisly. It wouldn’t change how I... how I feel about you.”

Chan’s eyes glisten in the moonlight, reflective pools of tender hope. “How you feel about me?”

Your gaze drops; he lifts your chin to return it. “Say it.”

Heart thrumming to a new and giddy tune, so conditioned to practice obedience with the man, you suppose this one thing might be nice to keep to yourself for just a little longer. Clutching the lapels of his tuxedo, a brief kiss pressed to lips and a promise spoken, “I’ll never run from you again.”

Chan simpers; your heart near bursts. Swept up into a carry of strong arms, you’re deposited on the nearest hard surface; a classic grand piano, the sleek ivory keys glinting temptingly, voicing their erratic and melodic complaints when Chan climbs over you. Cool surface against your bare and naked back, Chan tucks his arm beneath you amidst claiming your mouth. Tongues and teeth exchange groans of wanting when, with his free arm, Chan hikes the silk up your legs, calloused palms running the smooth expanse of your fleshy thighs. Tearing his bowtie to ruin and shoving his jacket from shoulders, the undress is a frantic affair, but all the more rewarding when topless and kissed by silver glow, Chan looms above you.

Pulling him back to you with a breathless sigh, Chan wanders under your dress, eyes flashing when skin meets skin and he hums, “No underwear, darling?”

“The dress doesn’t really allow for— Oh—” Sinking into your arousal with two slim digits, Chan hums nonchalantly. His working of you is practiced, patient, for the man is intimately familiar with what it is makes you tick; and really, that’s not much more than him.

Withdrawing fingers and sucking them clean as an afterthought to the undoing of his trousers, Chan keeps a watchful eye on you. A sight you must be, you suppose: hot and bothered, in an embarrassing state of mid-dress, exposed and stripped back to rawest wants.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the compliment sinks over you with heft.

Freeing himself from the suit, Chan keeps his strokes brief; unnecessary, really, when he throbs so temptingly. A comfortable angle found with arm tucked under and around you, and the man holds his breath until the initial breach is passed; he draws tight and groans gently, so taken with the way you wrap around him, velvety soft.

“God, baby—”

A steady pace is set by his thrusts; the piano creaks but yet feels sturdy underneath you, the gathering of silk at your middle a luxurious sensation on your skin. The drag of his thickness is almost too effective, your helpless exclamations are muffled by the man’s mouth, as possessive of them as he is.

You wonder what it is that lives behind his eyes so warm and alive as he regards you with his weight on his forearms; your every micro expression. While sex has always been phenomenal, it strikes you that the tenderness in his fluidity, the closeness he seeks to you has never before been so important to him as simply seeing you to your crisis; he is enjoying this, savouring it.

Mapping out the slope of his broad shoulders and the swell of his biceps, Chan’s skin breaks to goose flesh. A high flush on his cheeks and across chest colour him rose under the waning light, and where once there was a man of power, there is now a man of desperation. A kiss to his parted lips, a slip of tongue sees his thrusts strengthen; Chan buries his head to your neck, his gravelly expletives muffled by skin.

He throbs inside you, the slick glide painting stars behind your eyes.

“Finish with me,” you instruct breathlessly, as you were once so instructed yourself. “Want to feel you.”

And Chan falters; veins in his forearms and neck speak to his exertion, to the precipice he tips over when your orgasm brings you to tighten.

He whimpers your name. “Fuck, fuck—” and curls around you, the tremors of your euphoria melting into his. Silent, hot moments of weightless glow follow, and as breaths even out to allow for composure, the static crackle of a speaker sounds off outside:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please be seated. Tonight’s event is about to begin.”

Chan laughs; weighted and thick, his chest rumbling atop yours. And this time, you’re not so stumped by what it is he finds amusing, your giggles filling the stuffy, sex-drenched room.

He clambers off you, lowers you gently from the defiled grand piano. Though legs are unsteady and your state of mind leaves something to be desired, your dress is rearranged to be outwardly presentable, your hands gathered to be kissed sweetly.

Chan is the image of fantasy: tuxedo trousers undone and loose on his svelte hips, chiselled abdomen heaving and flushed. He grabs his bowtie from the floor, slings it around his neck.

“Would I be crazy for suggesting we bail on this thing?” he sighs.

“You’d be crazier for suggesting we stay.”

He offers his hand to you; the hand that shapes the city. He grins sincerely; the lips that commandeer thousands.

And he asks of you the one thing that obedience never came shyly for:

“Come with me?”

You can feel his breath fanning against your neck, mirroring yours, deep and ragged with every ounce of self-control quickly draining away. When his nose brushes against your skin, just to inhale more of you— “Chan…” you whimper, your hands moving to push against his chest to create a little more distance, yet he doesn't budge. Not when your arms do not push hard enough to get him away from you, and you realize that he's right. You can run. You could push him away and curse him out and leave this cramped janitor's room and call it a day, and yet… you couldn't. 

You didn't want to.

But the moment your eyes catch the glint from your engagement ring that rests on your finger as your hand stays on his chest, you're suddenly reminded that you're playing a very dangerous game.

You wouldn’t even be here in the first place if you would've just ignored it all—ignored him and the way he quite literally tumbled into the conference room on his first day, fashionably late and interrupting the meeting, all the while sporting a sheepish smile and muttered apologies, disheveled hair, with his tie haphazardly tied around his collar with zero finesse. You could have ignored the way he sat beside you, being the only spot unoccupied, fumbling to fix said tie in a way that made you realize that he has absolutely no idea what he's doing; you just had to butt in and offer to help. And you could have, and most definitely should have, ignored the way your cheeks heated up when your eyes met with his when he thanked you with a dimpled smile, or the way the smell of his perfume still lingered in the air the moment he got up to leave the conference room once the meeting was done. 

But you didn't. 

Instead, you decided to play along, to gamble even though you were sure to lose, just because you thought that everything between the two of you was innocent—or at least, that was what you tried to convince yourself. 

Coy smiles, stolen glances, innocent touches that linger way too long, and jokes that start to blur the lines between humor and flirting—temptation really has a way of luring you into its trap, like a snake that would coil around you, wrapping around you so tightly as it sizes you up before devouring you completely. 

Venom drips from Chan’s fingertips as he tilts your chin up so your eyes look up at him again, tearing your gaze away from the diamond that sits heavily on your finger. 

“I know you want this,” he breathes out. “I know you want me.” Goosebumps break out on your skin when his thumb grazes your lower lip, the gloss sticky under the pad of his finger. “So stop resisting it. Give in.” 

"I… I can’t,” you whisper out. “I’m getting married soon and—” You shake your head as you pull away from his grip, shutting your eyes tightly as the shame and guilt creep up on you. “If Minwon finds out, who knows what will—" 

“If he finds out,” Chan’s words were laced with venom, dripping and intoxicating, the light above the two of you casting a dangerous glint in his eyes. “But you wouldn’t let that happen, won’t you?” He coils a piece of your hair around his finger, the strands gliding against his skin. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin this little piece of paradise between us.” 

Paradise. 

You swore before that there was no harm done, that you were only being friendly to the new guy at work, and the coffee Chan leaves on your desk every Monday and Wednesday morning meant nothing. Or that the lingering touches that he leaves at the small of your back every time he has to squeeze past you in between cubicles during working hours were just a figment of your imagination. You didn’t pay any mind to how, every time you had to work overtime, Chan was always there, more focused on helping you finish your reports instead of focusing on his own tasks, his body towering over yours as he clicked away at your work computer, his cologne filling your senses as he fixed the charts you were stressing over. You tried not to eavesdrop on your coworkers’ conversations in the break room, talking about how Chan was such a good lay and how he was able to draw out orgasm after orgasm just by using his hands and his lips—god, how much of an amazing kisser he is. 

You tried not to think about it while on the train home, especially when you’re in the same space as Chan, offering to ride home with you after work just because he gets off a stop before you. You tried not to think about his hands and how their veins popped out as he gripped the pole beside you, shielding you from the other passengers as the cab got cramped, swallowing the desire brought by curiosity as you remembered your coworker’s conversation. When you got home that night, with your fiancé fast asleep beside you, you tried to forget about Chan’s warmth and how broad he felt behind you, and tried to sleep away the thoughts about what it might be like being under him and how skilled his hands might be and how his lips would feel against yours.  

“You know, I really don’t mind waiting,” he says, tucking the hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your cheeks. His touch scorching your skin. “You can go home with your lover and play house while the fun lasts.” Chan finally cups your cheek, turning your head to face him. “But when you’re with me, we both know that you’re mine.” His lips nearly graze yours, almost touching. “You’ve been mine since the day I laid eyes on you.”

As Chan’s hand travels down to your neck, his fingertips brushing against the thin chain of your necklace, the snake tightens its coil around you, trapping you, his gaze locking you in place. “Say it,” he says, voice controlled but demanding. “Say you’re mine and I'll give you heaven.” Your heart thrums against your chest, desire pooling in your core; the human desire you kept locked up pulls against its restraints. And when he pulls you even closer to him by your necklace, gold twisted in his fingers, the shackles break and set your selfish desires free as he promises, “I might even take you there.” 

Your lips finally crash into his, a raw, desperate moan ripping from your throat as you wrap your arms around his neck to pull him in even closer. Chan’s hands greedily roam all over your body, strong hands squeezing your breast and your ass, hiking up your leg to wrap around his hips just so he could press himself against you. Buttons fly in all directions as you claw at his dress shirt, just so you can run your hands across the broad expanse of his chest. And when you pull away, just so you can mark his neck, nipping at his Adam’s apple, your phone rings at your desk. 

Minwon sits alone at a fancy dinner table, wondering if you can still make it to your 8pm dinner reservation. 

The rustling of paper was the loudest sound in the room. Between the tall shelves, there was a smell of dust and old leather, of stories that had been read hundreds of times. Somewhere, a clock ticked quietly and the seconds dripped like water droplets into the silence. This place was your safe space. Nothing could stop you here, in the library of your college.

Since the first day of college, you had seen this huge room full of poetry, science books and thick legal tomes as a place of safety. Here, it was quiet and people stayed in their groups or by themselves. Here, no one would speak to you or even touch you.

That was also the point why you even applied for the job of a cataloguer here so that you wouldn't drown in the endless bills that waited for you at the end of each month that wasn't covered by the scholarship you had been offered.

Your parents and you had worked really hard to let you study astronomy here, across the country in a whole other region without any familiar faces. And honestly, you were happy to be away from the toxic little town you had called home for all your life. The more kilometres were between you the better.

Silently, you moved a cart with newly returned books through the narrow space between the shelves that went all the way up to the ceiling. The other students didn't even lift their heads as you rolled past them, too focused on the books they were reading. Tapping your fingers soundlessly against the old wood of the cart, you let your eyes wander over the shelves, reading the section descriptions to find the right spot.

This was only your second week in college and at the library, hence it was still difficult to remember all the different sections and where they were located when this library was having literature for every single course that was taught here and even more.

You brought the cart to a stop when you reached the section of the history of dance and the different styles of dance. Nudging one of the old ladders that were spread through the whole library closer to sort the book in that went into higher shelves, you picked up two thick books, you stepped higher and placed them on their designated spot. You grabbed the next two, repeating the action until you had emptied the cart and pushed it away to sort the books that were already in the shelves.

Pulling out some books and placing them down to later put them in the right spots, you turned to the shelf again. A finger brushed your arm suddenly.

"Excuse me, can you tell me where the books about history of hiphop are?" A person behind you asked, his voice dark and indicated that he was a man. You shrieked and flinched at the sudden contact, pulling away as if you had burned yourself at the touch.

Your heartbeat picked up on speed and pure fear spread through your whole body. Backing away from the unknown man, you fell over the books and lost your balance. Your body hit the floor hard, and pain shot through your back. The people around you, sitting in the booths and corners looked up, some with worry and even more with annoyance. Quickly, you cast your eyes down, your face heated and your heart running a marathon, thrumming against your chest at a brutal pace. With wide eyes, you remembered the cause for your fall and looked up to the man that had touched you, your skin paling with every second. He was handsome, black hair and dark brown eyes like melted chocolate.

He seemed to be as shocked by your sudden action as you were by his touch. He knelt in front of you, holding his hand out for you to take but you flinched back a little, robbing back on the floor. His eyebrows knitted and he laid his head to the side as he observed you quietly. "Okay, it's okay. I won't touch you" he answered then, raising his hands to show that he wasn't a threat for you. You were impressed that he realised so early that you didn't like when people got close to you, men in particular.

Your chest rose and fell fast, and you knew that if you didn't calm down now, a panic attack will follow. It wouldn't be the first one since you got here, if you were honest. But the first one someone here will notice if you don't find somewhere to hide. A college full of men was your personal hell and finding a seat in courses where no men would sit near you was nearly impossible.

A small smile filled with kindness spread over the stranger's lips as he distanced himself from you. "I'm sorry for spooking you" he added then and you took a deep breath despite your throat closing, fighting against the fear in your veins. Your legs were wobbly as you stood up shakily and the man in front of you did the same. "Sorry, you just spooked me and I kinda freaked out" you tried to play it down, cheeks heating in a red blush because of your embarrassment.

"So, you wanted to know where the history of hiphop books are, right?" you changed the topic and gave him a crooked smile. "Yes, that would be great" he hummed, following you slowly with a bit of a distance as you trailed through the narrow space between the shelves.

"It's your first semester, isn't it? I remember seeing you in the halls" he broke the silence during the walk. You nodded shortly. "Yes, I'm in my first semester. And you?"

"Third" he answered with a wink and a playful smirk. "I'm Minho by the way" "I'm Y/N" you responded, stopping in the right section and pulling out a book from the shelf.

"Then, I'm pleasured to meet you, Y/n" he exclaimed and took the book from your hands, being careful not to touch you by accident and maybe sent you into another shock. "This should be the right book" you murmured.

"Thank you. And sorry again for scaring you!" he answered and turned around to look for a spot to sit down and study.

Meanwhile, a proud smile appeared on your face, and you brushed a few strands of hair out of your face. This was the longest conversation you had with a man for a whole while and you did so well, you thought. You stayed rather calm for your standards even though internally, you were still in a fight or flight mode with your heart nearly jumping out of your chest with how intense it was beating. Pressing a hand over your heart, you tried to calm down. Maybe, you could finally fight against your trauma and finally live without panic attacks threatening your daily life.

~~~

After the little incident with Minho, you had picked up your work again until the end of your shift and went to the dormitory where you had a small room for yourself. It wasn't much more, a simple bedroom with a bed, couch and a small kitchen area with a fridge, cooking place and a microwave. In addition, you had your own bathroom. It wasn't much space but enough for you alone when you spend much time in the library and in college anyway. This was more like a small little cave where you could rewind and calm down from panic attacks.

You had just placed your bag down and let yourself fall on the small bed that squeaked underneath your weight, when it knocked on your door. With a sigh, you pushed yourself up and opened the door. Lisa, your colleague from the library, and also your only friend here so far, poked her head inside with a grin.

"Hey girl, what's up?" She asked, closing the door behind you. She was the exact opposite of you. Extroverted, funny and also extremely good with guys. Not that she slept around, no, she was friends with many guys from different majors and wherever she brought you to an event to finally face your fear a bit, she was recognised and immediately entangled in a conversation.

"Not much, just came back from work and was about to study. What are you doing here?" you answered, making her some space on your bed while you had laid down again, Lisa quickly following you. The old bed squeaked again like it was groaning. Your friend giggled, shaking her head. "Damn, this bed isn't going to last much longer. It's so fragile that I'm surprised it hadn't broken already" she nudged your shoulder teasingly.

"I bet everyone thinks that you have amazing sex whenever you're changing your sleeping position" Lisa wiggled her eyebrows and you rolled your eyes in response. "Right, because so many guys are visiting my room. I can't do anything for this bed. I have this since I was 8" you complained.

"Well, time for a new one." She mused. "Today's a party at Jeongin's house. Are you coming with me?" You shook your head without hesitation. "Come on! You didn't even think about it!" Lisa exclaimed, poking your side with her finger.

Giggling, you squirmed away from her prying hand. "You know how I think about parties. I'm not a fan of small rooms filled with other men."

"I know, I know. I was just asking. I don't really wanna go today anyways. Much rather, I would love to watch our series and eat our cheap ramen on the squeaky bed" she winked, fishing her laptop out of her bag. You gave her a thumbs up.

"Great plan. I'm gonna prepare our noodles" you nodded, clicking on the electric kettle that heated the water while you put the ramen in two bowls along with the seasoning. Lisa and you loved these cheap ramen packets.

"Did you already finish the assignment for Monday? I struggled so much earlier and actually, put it on my to-do for tomorrow" Lisa murmured, her eyes trained on her laptop while she searched for your favourite show on the streaming platform.

"Yes, finding sources was a pain in the ass but at least it's finished now. I can give you my resources tomorrow. Then, you don't need to stress yourself so much after dodging it for the last week. You really need to stop procrastinating" You teased, placing the two hot bowls on your desk for the water to soak the dry noodles.

"Hey! Not fair. I was busy. And tomorrow is only Sunday!" She retorted with a playful glint in her eyes. "Right, busy staring at Hyunjin"

"What? He's hot and funny" Lisa shrugged while wiggling with her eyebrows, meanwhile you acted like you were going to puke. "Gross" you teased with a smirk, gesturing to her mouth. "Is that spit?" She swatted your hand away.

"Just wait until you find someone that's gonna change your whole world, Y/n. Someone who understands your hesitation" she replied with a deep, truthful gaze and you swallowed thickly. You hoped that you could overcome your fear. You really did. But men are scary.

While Lisa didn't know why you were so afraid of men, she was quick to realize early in your friendship that you were very uncomfortable around men. And you loved her for not asking you out why. She understood that at some point, you were going to tell her the whole truth, just not today. And not with force.

"Yeah", you mumbled, turning your head away with a heavy gaze. If there was someone like that. Lisa knew better than to let the topic resurface and instead slurped her noodles.

After a night full of watching your favourite show, you two woke up the next day to your alarm going off too early for your liking. With half closed eyes, you silenced it and were about roll over again to sleep longer but it struck you that your shift will start in about an hour. You sighed and rubbed your eyes. Yesterday, you two were definitely up too long and the few hours of sleep weren't nearly enough.

Yawning, you nudged Lisa's shoulder, earning a grumble as she rolled over to get back to sleep. "Oh no. You have to work too. You can't escape" you giggled and poked her side before climbing out of your bed that, of course, creaked at every move. "Noooo. I'm not going..." Lisa mumbled in a slurred voice, hiding her face in the pillow.

"At least you get to spend your shift with me today" you sing-sang, rummaging through your closet to find one of your favourite hoodies, the red one with a black dolphin printed on the back. "Lucky me" Lisa answered and you threw a sock you were just about to pull over your foot at her. She squeaked and quickly threw it back to you. Laughing you caught it and put it over your foot. You were just about to say something when Lisa's phone received a message and her eyes grew big.

"What?" you asked, leaning over her phone with a brush in hand to tame your wild hair. "Hyunjin just invited me to his house party tonight?!" Lisa gasped, her eyes reading the message over and over again. "He really invited me" she repeated. You excitedly clapped your hands. "That's great! You must go"

"Not without you though" she replied, a pout on her lips. "Why? You can flirt alone with him, you don't need my support" you joked, eyebrows furrowed. "Please, don't let me go there alone! I'll do everything you want, please. I just don't want to arrive there alone. Besides, he said that you could come too."

You shook your head no. "Sorry Lis, you know how I think of parties." She clasped your hand tightly, bringing out her big, round doll eyes to move you to change your opinion. "No, the puppy eyes don't work" you retorted with an amused eye roll.

"I'll do anything! Literally anything!" she pleaded. "I'll even come to work with you today" You snorted. "And why should this change my opinion? Lis, it's your work" you laughed, shaking your head mockingly.

"Well, you're right but I'll work somewhere else if you don't come with me" she added playfully. "Uhh, then, I'll of course come" you teased her while rolling your eyes again. "Okay, might not be my best argument, I must admit. Then, how about I'll buy you ramen for the next month?" You lifted your eyebrow. "Nope, no chance"

Lisa sighed, brushing her uncombed hair out of her face. "How about three? I know you love ramen. Come on, you just need to accompany me. That's all. I make sure to don't let any men near you" she tried again and you brushed your hand over your face. "You're not going to stop, right?"

"Nope" your friend smirked knowingly that you actually couldn't say no to three months of free ramen. No matter how much you wanted. So, you nodded in defeat while Lisa pumped her fist into the air. "Yes! You're the best"

"Sure" you hummed, throwing a quick glance at your clock. "And now you should rather speed up or else you're going to be late" Your friend cursed after checking the time and jumped through your room in order to throw on her fresh clothes for the day.

On the way to the library, she explained to you what she was gonna wear tonight to get Hyunjin's attention. "Or should I maybe go for a dress instead of a skirt and a top? Maybe the shorter red one?" Lisa threw her hands in the air, clueless what she should choose.

"that's the fifth outfit you planned out now. Don't you think that Hyunjin will like you in every one of them?" You shrugged, patting her back as you opened the door of the library and put your jacket on the racket in the backroom. "What? I wanna look great for him. So that he notices me" she exclaimed.

"Believe me, when he invites you himself, he definitely notices you." You replied with a smirk and grabbed the cart with books that has been burrowed and now returned and walked back into the main part of the library.

Just like yesterday, you sorted them back into the shelves, helping some other students find the right books. Lisa in the meantime, stood at the registration, checking out books that students want to burrow and taking the returned ones back. By midday, you had sorted most of the books and went back to the registry once again to get the returned books when Lisa held something into your face suddenly.

"What is this?" You leaned back and took the thing into your hands. It was a pudding with vanilla flavour. "Why are you shoving a pudding into my face?" You furrowed your eyebrows curiously.

"It's for you. It got dropped off here right behind the counter while I was in the bathroom. And this message was attached to it" she held a small yellow sticky note up into the air with a grin, swinging it up left to right. You tried to grab it, your ears heating while your mind raced. "Listen, it says: 'sorry for scaring you yesterday and thank you for the book. It helped a lot' ".

Immediately, the image of Minho plopped up inside of your mind. He was the only one who spooked you yesterday, it definitely couldn't be anyone else. "Your face tells me that you know who it wrote. Tell me now" Lisa demanded, leaving no room for argumentation.

"It must be Minho. He asked me for a book yesterday and kinda scared me" you shrugged, snatching the yellow note from your friend to read it again. He had a beautiful handwriting, kursive and very neat for a guy. "Minho. Lee Minho?" Lisa reassured herself, eyes wide with surprise. You hummed.

"Really? Lee Minho sent you such a cute note? How sweet! I can't believe that you are friends with one person from Hyunjin's friend group and didn't tell me!" She exclaimed happily, clapping into her hands eagerly. You shook your head no.

"I didn't tell you because we aren't friends. He just spooked me yesterday and that's it. Probably he felt guilty and wanted to thank me for searching for a book he needed. Nothing more" you told her truthfully but Lisa just furrowed her eyebrows.

"Come on. He is very popular since he is very talented as a dancer. He doesn't sent random notes to a girl just because you grabbed a book for him. And it's so cute! He likes you!" Lisa answered nonetheless, holding the vanilla pudding high in the air like it was a precious trophy that needs to be celebrated. At the noise, some college students lifted their head to see what was going on, some even rolled their eyes in annoyance.

"No, he doesn't. But I wouldn't want anything either way. You know how I am around men" you whispered to her, leaning over the counter to grab the pudding. "Come on, let me have my fantasy. Either way, what are you gonna do? Drop a letter into his books the next time he's here in the library? Leave your number with a pudding in front of his dorm?" She exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with every idea that came to her mind.

"No, definitely not. We aren't in a romance book, Lisa. I'm just gonna leave it." You answered, twisting and fiddling with the pudding. "Why?? It would be so romantic" she whined and pouted dramatically.

"Stop pouting, Lis. It's better that way." You replied calmly, caressing her shoulder and dropping the pudding in your bag. "And now we need to work again" you added with a crooked smile when Lisa only pouted more and dramatically grabbed the next book on the pile to scan it to mark it as returned.

~~~

"Shouldn't I rather switch to a top and a jeans instead?" Lisa thought loud, turning and posing in front of her mirror. "Lis, you look beautiful in every single outfit you showed me the past hour. Hyunjin will love you in every single one of them, trust me." you answered while playing with the hem of your red sweater. Your friend laid her head to the side, nibbling on her bottom lip.

"I can't decide" she mumbled, brushing her fingers through her hair and you sighed, standing up from Lisa's bed and walked up to her without stepping on a cloth that she had dropped while changing. "Lis, you look good in everything. But in which outfit were you yourself?" you asked her, brushing through her short locks. Usually, she was the confidence in person but since she started talking and eventually developed a crush at Hyunjin, she wanted to be perfect for him. Even though she already was, you thought.

Lisa stilled shortly, rethinking all the outfits before her eyes landed on the red, shorter dress. "That's what I'm gonna wear" she exclaimed proudly, picking it up from the pile on the floor and threw it over. Once again, you were stunned by her beauty with her blonde locks that were cut to the length just above her shoulders and the tough face.

"Hyunjin will love it" you nodded approvingly with a big smile, hoping that Hyunjin will Lisa the attention she deserves. "And what's with you?" Your friend examined your outfit, the dark red sweater and the black jeans. "Is that your outfit?"

For a moment, you looked down on you and shrugged. You weren't going to really party anyway. Why should you dress up then? It's not like you had anyone to show your best dress to. "What else should I wear? I don't plan to stay long, Lis"

She poured dramatically. "Why? It's gonna be so much fun" you sighed. You knew she was right and that partys were mostly fun, in the past, you had loved partys. Hanging out with friends, throwing on the best outfits, dancing and laughing. But now, just the mere thought of someone you didn't know touching you, even though it may be an accident, made you shudder.

"Maybe because Hyunjin's tongue will be down your throat before you even notice that I'm gone" you giggled, watching how your friend's face got warmer and more rosy. "Do you think he will kiss me tonight?" She scrambled to the mirror, judging her lipstick and patting over her lips.

"Could be." You answered shortly with a grin as your friend fought her nerves. "Oh my god I need my smudge proof lipstick! Where is it? I can't spread my lipstick all over Hyunjin" she exclaimed, throwing clothes around and rummaging through drawers once again.

With a loud sigh, you turned around, grabbing the exact lipstick Lisa was searching for from her bed where she had dropped it earlier while doing her makeup. Grinning, you held it in the air. "Found it" her bright smile made your heart melt. Her nerves were going to make her crazy one day, you thought. Usually she wasn't that forgetful but you guessed that these circumstances where far from usual.

"Thank you! And I really can't change your mind about your outfit? I have a cute pink dress somewhere in this chaos that would look perfect on you" she asked again, already turning to her mirror. Without hesitation, you shook your head. You had no one to dress up for, plus, you liked this sweater and you weren't really in the mood for a party anyways. She could be proud of you that you didn't choose your pyjama just so that you could fall into your bed afterwards without changing clothes first.

"Nope, that's not negotiable. And now, we should leave. Ist already 10 pm. Your Romeo doesn't wait forever" you nudged, picking up your small bag for your phone and keys. "Is someone excited?" Lisa wiggled her eyebrows and pulled her own bag from underneath the tower of clothes. "Not at all. Let's just get this over with and then I can eat my ramen for the next three months" you murmured, your friends arm sliding through yours, pulling you close as you leave the dorms.

The walk was rather short, just 15 minutes away from campus was Hyunjin's house. Well, the house of his parents that were almost every weekend away for their job. At least that was what Lisa had told you. It was common for Hyunjin to throw parties and every person in the university would die for a personal invitation from him.

His parents were wealthy, that was what you could tell just by looking at the house. A big garden surrounded the white house with lots of flowers. The pavement to the door was decorated with lights, dancing and flickering in the dark. Inside, the lights had been dimmed and you heard the loud music before even entering. The party was already pulsing with energy and laughter. Oh my god, why have you even agreed?, you thought with panic, picking at the skin around your nails. You stopped, deciding that you had fulfilled your mission and you could go now, but Lisa tugged you forward with her hand in yours. "Nope, you're not going to ran away. You're already here, the least you could do is take a look. I promise I won't leave your side, okay?"

Her gaze was full of hope and gentleness. You knew that she wouldn't be angry if you don't want anymore but the thought of leaving her alone now, made you agree. You could spare a glance, right? Maybe it would be fun.

Your friend opened the door and immediately the loud noises and the smell of sweat mixes with alcohol and girls wearing too much perfume filled your senses. Your breath hitched and your hands got clammy. "I've got you" Lisa murmured, pulling you away from the door, quickly leaving the hallway to keep the ever-watching eyes off of you. It wasn't the first time she was here since she was part of Hyunjin's friend group and you were glad that she knew exactly where you could wind down.

"Let's go get a drink, shall we?" Lisa said, navigating you through the busy living room where some people were dancing to the loud music, others were lingering against the walls and corners, speaking to each other while some made out in front of all the people. You scrunched your nose at the sight, your pulse quickening as it brought memories up you didn't want to think about. In the kitchen, it was calmer and the music less loud. You recognised Jeongin and Jisung leaning against the counter, joking around.

"Hey Lisa! We almost thought you ditched us today" Jeongin greeted your friend with a wide, teasing smile. Lisa rolled her eyes playfully, giving them both a quick hug. "Of course I'm coming. I just couldn't decide what to wear"

"Like always" the youngest sneared. "And you even brought Y/n with you. That's great" Jisung spoke up, waving his hand at you and you repeated the gesture hesitantly. "Yes, you don't know to what lengths I needed to go to get my sweet little Y/n to agree to come with me. But it's totally worth it" she answers, leaning her head against your shoulder in an affectionate manner. You hummed and bathed in the contact, your heat calming for a second so that you actually managed to smile for a bit.

"So, what can I get for you both? Beer or some weird mixed drinks from Seungmin?" Jisung, questioned, already grabbing two plastic cups. Jeongin leaned over the counter, he lowered his voice a bit. "If I were you, I would choose the beer. A bit boring, sure, but we don't know what Seungmin put into those drinks and I wouldn't try it." Lisa laughed and grabbed a beer. "I'll take the safe option, thanks"

"Hey! I heard that!" Seungmin grumbled as he came through the door, grabbing another beer for himself. His sudden entrance had scared you and you flinched, grabbing Lisa's hand tighter and tenses your muscles. Soothingly, she drew form on your skin with her thumb. "It's okay Y/n, it's just Seungmin" she whispered into your ear. You nodded, wetting your dry lips.

"Come on, Min, not even you are choosing your mixture of hell" Jisung noticed with a amused laughter. And Seungmin just shrugged and sipped on his beer. "I just don't want to drink it. Plus, if it's too much alcohol for you, that's not my problem" Jeongin rolled his eyes and turned his eyes to you. "What do you want to drink, Y/n?" You gulped and fiddled with the hem of your sweater. "A cola will be fine" The youngest nodded and turned to the fridge, filling your cup and holding it out to you. Thanking him quietely, you took the plastic cup from him, careful, not to touch his fingers.

"I'm gonna search Chan, he's been very stressed with assignments lately. Need to check that he is enjoying himself" Jisung exclaimed, patting Jeongin on the shoulder. "And I think, Hyunjin is looking for you, Lisa" he added, wiggling his eyebrows. Your best friend perked up, her eyes sparkling with excitement. You knew she was burning inside to look for him but the way her eyes flickered towards you, showed her uncertainty.

You gave her a small smile, tightening your grip around her hand, then letting her go. "Go, Lisa, it's okay" you reassured with a nod. She furrowed her eyebrows, judging you quietely. "Are you sure. I can't leave you alone. I promised you to stay at your side" she argued, her gaze full of worry.

"Go, don't let him wait. I'm really okay" you reassured once again, giving her a peck on the cheek and pushing her out of the kitchen. "Okay, okay. But promise to find me as soon as you're uncomfortable and you want to go home, okay? Don't hesitate" she answered and you nodded sincerely, watching her walk off with the feeling of happiness. At least for her. Even when it meant that you needed to share a room with unknown men and just the mere thought of being alone with Jeongin, let shivers run over your back.

The music from the living room pulsed faintly through the walls, laughter spilling down the hallway in uneven bursts. You lingered near the kitchen counter, fingers wrapped tightly around the plastic cup filled with cola, eyes tracking every person that walked passed the door. "So, you're not really enjoying parties, right?" He stopped the silence hanging between you and you shook your head. "Is it that obvious?" You questioned faintly with a half smile, at least you tried, you told yourself.

"If it gets too loud, the garden is usually quieter. Just saying" he mentioned with a whole-hearted smile. Appreciating the information, you hummed a quiet thanks. A couple of people brushed past, squeezing themselves into the kitchen. Uncomfortably, you shifted slightly with your shoulders tending. Jeongin seemed to notice your discomfort but choose don't comment on it. "Do you know anyone here besides Lisa?" He wanted to know casually, leaning against the counter while making room for the people to get their drinks from beside him.

"No, I don't think so" you answered honestly. "Just her".

"Yeah, same. Of course, I know Hyunjin, otherwise I wouldn't be here. And the others of our friend group. But besides that, the semester just started. Plus, it's my first semester and all the others already know so many people around campus from various majors, it's actually scary." He gushed with a wide grin and his words made your gaze shot up from the red cup filled with the brown liquid.

"So, you're not exactly comfortable either" he shrugged at your comment. "It's just hard getting used to" he added, his face turning to Felix, the blonde haired boy, who called out his name. Jeongin's lips widened in a grin and quickly walked past you to his friend, greeting him with a tight hug. You distanced yourself from the youngest as he walked past you, trying to get as much space between you as possible without causing someone to notice.

"Felix! I thought you couldn't come! What a nice surprise" Jeongin laughed as the blonde ruffled through his hair. "Well, I couldn't let you alone with the other pabos. And my physio ended early since my back isn't hurting so much anymore"

"That's great. Wanna have a beer?" Felix shook his head. "Seungmin did one of his awful mixes again, right? So, I think I will stay safe with just a sprite today"

"Good choice." Jeongin exclaimed, handing him a bottle of sprite while giving you a gentle smile. As Felix looked up, he recognised that he wasn't alone with the youngest. His eyes turned into crescents with how wide he smiled. "Oh I'm sorry Y/n. I wasn't aware that you were here."

You lifted your hands silently. "No, it's okay. I didn't mean to interrupt you two. I think I'll check out the garden now. Thanks Jeongin" you quickly added with a shy smile.

While you didn't know anyone of their friend group personally, well besides Lisa, you had obviously heard about them. Wether from your best friend or others that were talking about how fine they all looked. They were literally the most wanted boys from campus and everyone tries to be friends with them. That's why, you were stunned to see that every single one of them seemed to know who you were. You were just a friend's friend. Nothing more.

Quietly you had retracted yourself from the kitchen, walking almost without any noise through the hallway to the glass door to the garden. Meanwhile, you turned your head and peaked into the living room, trying to find Lisa. As you spotted her wild blonde locks, you couldn't help but smile. She was dancing in the middle of the room, her arms laying over Hyunjin's shoulders and his hands played gently on her hips. Not on her ass, just on her hips. You felt your heart calm for a second as you saw your best friend save, swaying her hips to the rhythm of the beat with a laugh on her lips. They really were made for each other.

You decided that you couldn't just waltz in there and demand to go home, even if you thought that this was definitely enough exposure therapy for today and you wouldn't love to do anything more than jump into your bed with a book. Lisa deserved to be happy with Hyunjin. And she indeed looked so happy. That's all you wanted for her.

The air outside was fresh, even for the late summer, as you walked onto the wooden porch. Just the faint hum of music came from the inside and the few people that were in the garden interrupted the peaceful silence you desired. But at least it wasn't so loud anymore. Jeongin had been right, you thought, this was indeed a good place to calm your racing heart.

You decided to step down from the porch and sit down on a wooden bench underneath the big tree from where you would have a good view over the whole garden. Pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, you observed the couple kissing on the other side between the yellow rose bushes and you rolled your eyes amused. You weren't surprised to find people kissing in the comfortable quiet of the night. Small lights illuminated the darkness like stars. Just for a moment, you closed your eyes, the weight of the day letting you feel tired.

With a sigh, you leaned back and pulled your legs up to hug them. Laying your head on your knees, you focused on the group of people on your right at the end of the garden under the oak tree. They laughed loudly, goofing around and telling funny stories you couldn't quite hear. But from the intensity of their giggles it was clear that they had the time of their lives.

"Enjoying the night?" someone asked you from your left side and you flinched away and jumped up as fast as you could with your feet tangled. Your heart had picked up in speed as you quickly retreated to put some distance between you and the person. Slowly, he lifted his arms in surrender, a smile dancing over his lips.

"Easy, Y/n. It's just me. I have a talent in spooking you, haven't I?" The someone added with a chuckle and just now, you recognised the man as Minho. You tried to swallow the knot in your neck, moving a hand to your chest to stop your heart from beating so fast it almost escaped out of your ribcage.

He quirked his head to the side, an amused grin on display. "Seems so" you mumbled, hiding your blush that was forming on your cheeks with lowering your gaze. Calmly, he sat down on the wooden bench, tugging at his white shirt underneath the thin black leather jacket. His eyes were focused on you as he patted the spot next to him. You gulped, licking your lips nervously. Minho clearly wanted you to sit down next to him as if your heart didn't already run a marathon. And that without sitting next to him.

"Again, I'm sorry for scaring you" he answered, hoping that the words would nudge you to sit down. Biting your lower lip, your brain thought about sitting down. Minho wasn't going to give up and the rational part of you reminded you that this was maybe a perfect chance to slowly get used to being around men again. But the irrational part was very sure that all men were the same. That they would wrap you around their finger just to fuck with your self esteem and trust.

Almost unnoticeable, you shook your head. The irrational side was definitely overpowering but before you could think any more about this, you sat down, still far away from Minho to have some distance between you but at least you were sitting and not bolting through the door back into the house to search for Lisa and sprint back to your dorms. The man with the dark hair smiled gently, happy that you finally decided to join him on the bench.

Your fingers clawed at the wood as your entire body was on fire. Tense wasn't even describing it in the slightest. Minho observed your body language for a minute, silence spreading between you two like a fog. Then, he said. "I didn't think to meet you here tonight"

You hummed anxiously, letting your eyes wander through the garden, desperate to avoid his face and, more discreetly, his eyes. "Yeah, Lisa wanted to go and didn't accept a no. So, here I am while Lisa enjoys her night" you answered.

"Yeah, I saw her and Hyunjin dance together. It seems like they are glued together." He grinned. "I hope Jinnie asks her out tonight. I can't stand it a minute longer if he freaks out again and sulks when he didn't dare to ask her." He added with a roll of his eyes.

You nodded your head slowly. "They both are like idiots around each other. I helped Lisa with choosing her outfit and it was a disaster." You murmured quietly, deciding that your fingernails were already too short to nibble on them and opted to play with the hem of your sweater instead.

"And now, she has completely forgotten about you" he stated without any judgement. You hummed lowly. "She deserves her fun and it's not too bad here in the garden"

"I bet. When Jeongin told me, you were here at the party, I already thought that I would meet you outside."

Furrowing your brows, you risked to look at him properly. He sounded genuine like he had hoped you would be here. "You searched for me?" Your voice was high and breathy as if you were afraid to form those words. Minho nodded, his dark hair moving underneath the silver light of the moon.

"Of course. How else would I have known whether you liked the pudding?" He smirked lightly, leaning slightly towards you. "Well, before you answer - I know that it was just the regular pudding from the mensa. But my grocery store ran out of my favourite pudding I wanted to give you that day! So I had to improvise" he added, articulating with his hands widely to emphasize his words. A shimmer of a laugh came over your lips.

"It was good. Thank you. That day, I forgot my lunch and at least I had something to eat" you answered honestly. Squeezing his eyes shut, Minho shook his head in disapproval. "You need to eat properly. What if I hadn't brought you that pudding?! You would have starved."

"It wouldn't be the first time. Plus, I'm not going to starve if I miss one meal, Minho." You reassured with a giggle, the sound earning a triumphant smile from the dark haired man.

"I will need to make sure you always have something to eat then" he hummed, pleased with himself over the idea. "Really, it's just lunch. I always eat breakfast before my shift and dinner afterwards"

He shook his head with a sigh. "That won't do. From now on, you will always eat lunch. It's important for your health. Especially when you're lifting heavy books all day" he winked at you in the end, making a small blush form on your cheeks as your heart picked up on speed even though you were sure that wasn't possible anymore.

"And thanks again for the book. It really helped me. Bow I know whom to ask whenever I need a book" he added shortly after with a gentle smile which you tried to reciprocate but it turned out rather crooked like your muscles weren't really responding to you anymore. Wiping your clammy hands on your jeans, you were just about to answer when the door to the garden opened and a worried Lisa craned her neck to search for you. When she spotted you on the bench, you saw her visibly relax and walked up towards you.

"Y/n" she called out, her locks bouncing against her shoulders. "There you are. I thought for a second that you were already home if I hadn't run into Jeongin. I'm so sorry for leaving you alone with all those strangers" she gifted you a gentle smile, taking your hand in hers and caressing your skin.

"Don't be sorry. I didn't mind to be here." You mumbled, feeling yourself calm down in the presence of your best friend. Lisa hummed, smiling to herself. "I see you had good company. Hey Minho, thanks for looking after Y/n" Blushing at her words, you quickly moved your gaze to the other people in the garden.

"No need to thank me. It's easy talking to her" you heard him say and you slowly lifted your head to see the warmth in his eyes and the smile he addressed to you.

"Did you finally manage to get your eyes off Hyunjin? I saw you two dancing" you wiggled with your eyebrows and chose to ignore Minho's gaze. A blush crept up Lisa's face and she smiled like she was a toddler who just received a candy.

"Yeah, it was so much fun. He's actually grabbing drinks for us." she moved her hair out of her face and nudged you to make room for her on the bench. Hesitantly, you glided closer to Minho while still making sure to don't him at all. Lisa plopped down next to you, laying her head on your shoulder while circling your waist with your hand. "I hope he asks me to a date" she murmured into your hair. Petting her locks, you answered.

"He will for sure" you hummed, snuggling closer to her to bask in her warmth. It must be shortly after midnight and the air had cooled down, leaving your shivering slightly, even in your red sweater. Hyunjin stepped into the garden, followed by Seungmin, Jeongin and Chan who balanced three plastic cups in his hands. The boys stopped in front of the bench and Hyunjin gave Lisa her drink which she gratefully took, not without smiling at the fingers that touched hers "accidentally", of course. Chan greeted you friendly, bowing his head in aknowledgement while placing a cup into your hands. "It's just cola" he answered your questioning face.

Then, he turned to Minho and gave him a pat on the shoulder. "Already wondered where you were." the oldest smirked and Minho rolled with his eyes. "I'm shocked you can actually leave your laptop for an evening. I thought this thing is already glued to your fingers" the dark haired replied dryly and taking a drink from him before Chan sat down like the others on the dry grass. "Where's Felix, Jisung and Changbin?" Lisa asked curiously, taking a sip from her drink. The other hand tracing patterns over your waist, giving you the comfort you really needed in a circle full of boys. Still, your muscles were tense and ready for any fight-or-flight-situation.

"Well, Changbin and Felix are dancing with their girlfriends and Jisung accompanies them like their child." Jeongin exclaimed with a snort. "No, more like the best friend Steve" Seungmin corrected, smiling into his cup. "At least their girlfriends will have an eye on him. We can't have him almost breaking his neck again because he overlooks the carpet in the livingroom after winning a round of beer pong." Hyunjin shrugged and Minho as well as Lisa giggled at the memory. Another shiver rocked through your body when another small gust of wind blew your hair around your face. As you quickly tucked the free strands of hair behind your ears, a warm jacket was thrown over your shoulders. At the sudden contact, you flinched away, pressing your body closer to Lisa's and felt your heart hammer against your chest

With your breath hitched, you turned your head to Minho who had given you his leather jacket. He leaned towards you, his voice low. "I saw you shivering. Don't want you to catch cold" he explained with a gentle smile. You swallowed the knot in your throat and nodded thankfully. "...thank you, Minho" You still felt the warmth Minho had left behind in the jacket as you pulled the leather closer over your shoulder, unwillingly inhaling his rich scent.

As you then concentrated yourself again on the conversation, you had absolutely no idea about what they were actually talking. But the new-found warmth and Lisa's presence soothed you, making you feel sleepy slowly. "I think we should get going now" you heard your best friend say after a while. Chan nodded approvingly. "Yes, I will take my leave too. I have a class at 8 tomorrow." You hummed. "I already know that I'll have to force myself out of bed." you hummed, standing up and stretching. Lifting the jacket from your shoulders, you turned back to Minho, who was already on his feet, to give it back to him. Gently, he nudged the jacket into your hands again. "Take it so that you won't freeze on your way back."

Furrowing your eyebrows, you answered. "But then, you will get cold" he shook his head with a smirk. "I'm staying here at Hyunjin's. I don't need it." Carefully he took the leather jacket and lifted it up to help you into the sleeves. Your cheeks burned and your heart ran a marathon. And the look on Lisa's face didn't make the situation better. You knew you were going to answer a lot of questions on your way back home. Great. Pleased, Minho let his eyes wander up and down, taking in the sight of you in his clothe. "Suits you, Y/n. And you won't get cold" he hummed with a nod. You murmured a quick thanks and goodbye, following Hyunjin and Lisa through the house to the front door.

There, you waved Hyunjin and chose to walk a few meteres so that Lisa had some time alone with him. He won't be asking her for a date with you standing right next to her for sure. You hummed and pulled the leather jacket closer around your body. Even though it wasn't yours, it strangely brought comfort.

Maybe it was just the feeling of something wrapping around your shoulders that eased you or the thought that someone cared for you enough to give you their jacket. Either way, it silenced some screaming thoughts inside your head and brought up some new questions. Why did Minho give you his jacket? Was it just politeness?

"Y/n! Wait for me!" Lisa exclaimed behind you and you turned around to see her walking towards you. Her steps bounced and a smile was prominent on her face, her fingers interwined with yours as she catched up to you. "Good talk with Hyunjin?" you asked, bumping your shoulder against hers with a wink.

"He asked me on a date" she replied happily, jumping up and down. You laughed and rubbed her thumb. "Oh my god, finally. I'm so happy for you." She nodded, practically jumping and bouncing next to you. "I can't believe it actually happened!"

"I told you that he will ask you out. And after he danced with you - which looked totally hot by the way- I knew he was going to ask you today" you snorted.

"Was it that obvious? For everyone?" You answered with a 'jup' and Lisa's cheeks were slowly turning red. "Like two blind birds, circling around each other" you commented. Her shoulder bumped again into yours. While wiggling her eyebrows, a playful smirk appeared on your best friend's lips. "And what is going on between you an Minho?"

Shrugging your shoulders, you answered. "Nothing. Should there be something going on?" And that was the truth. You didn't think that there was anything special with how he treated you and, well, you treated him somewhat normal for your situation. "Nothing? Now you're the oblivious one." She scoffed.

"The pudding with the cute message, how he searched for you when he heard you were here today and, most importantly, the jacket? Come on, Y/n, you didn't even tell anyone that you were cold and it was already wrapped around your shoulders" Lisa pointed out and you tried your best to slip further into the jacket that was far too big on you. But you couldn't escape in the slightest.

"It's nothing. Okay? Absolutely nothing. He's just friendly" you retorted and your best friend snorted amused. "Right. Of course" she judged but luckily didn't pry further.

──────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────

Felix wakes up that morning with a strange mix of nerves and excitement buzzing under his skin.

Seungmin is coming back. His best friend. His courtroom partner. The person who makes the office feel less… overwhelming.

Felix didn’t realize how much he missed him until he caught himself drafting emails and thinking, Seungmin would roast this immediately.

He’s genuinely excited. Almost too excited. Which is why he’s currently standing on a stool in Seungmin’s office, aggressively taping a banner to the wall.

“Higher,” he instructs the intern holding the other side.

“It’s touching the ceiling,” the intern sheepishly mutters.

“Higher in spirit,” Felix insists.

The banner reads: WELCOME BACK, OUR ACE LAWYER KIM SEUNGMIN!

There are balloons. Bunting flags. Two interns armed with confetti cannons on each side of Seungmin’s desk.

Felix checks his phone again. Twenty-five minutes ago, Seungmin texted him that he got on a taxi to work. He knows that he’ll be here soon. He jumps off the chair and dust off his hands.

At the same time, you step into the office last like always. You pause near the doorway, arms crossing over your chest as your eyes sweep across the decorations with slow, merciless judgment.

“Is there a five-year-old having a birthday party in here?” you deadpan.

Felix chooses to ignore it and focused on the plan. He straightens a balloon. Adjusts the bunting flags hung on the front of his desk again. Repositions an intern by two inches because symmetry matters.

“Okay,” he whispers urgently. “When he opens the door, we shout together. On three. Not two. Not four.”

The interns nod solemnly and Felix jogs to the door, head peeking into the hallway. Nothing yet. He checks his phone again and when he looks up. He sees it.

The interns nod solemnly and Felix jogs to the door, head peeking into the hallway. Nothing yet. He checks his phone again and when he looks up. He sees it.

Through the glass entrance of the firm, he sees Seungmin. He’s walking carefully with crutches, slower than usual but still somehow carrying himself like he owns the building.

Felix’s heart jumps in excitement and buzzing nerves. “He’s here, he’s here, he’s here,” he repeatedly hisses.

He rushes back inside Seungmin’s office and quietly shuts the door. “Positions!” he whisper-shouts.

The interns scramble, body stiffens, confetti canons raised in the air like they’re bracing themselves for battlefield instead of a welcome party. Felix takes the center front, ready to be the first to greet his best friend. You don’t move but stay near the desk, unimpressed.

The hallway outside is quiet except for the soft, rhythmic sound of crutches tapping the floor. The anticipation stretches longer than Felix expected because Seungmin moves slower now.

The doorknob turns and everyone inhales. A second later, the door swings open.

“WELCOME BACK!” the room explodes.

Confetti bursts. Balloons bob violently. Felix completely forgot about the countdown and shouts the loudest, genuine joy ringing through his voice.

Seungmin freezes in the doorway and then laughs. A full, real laugh. He looks at the banner with his lawyer profile photo. The balloons hitting the ceiling. The bits of confetti now stuck to his hair.

“Wow,” he says, clearly delighted despite trying to look composed. “This is… excessive.”

The interns beam proudly as they still stand in their positions, afraid to move without Felix’s permission.

“Thank you, you guys,” Seungmin says as he looks at everyone. His eyes stop at the three interns and points at them, “I’m sure Felix made you do all this but thanks and I’ll treat all of you to drinks later.”

Felix turns to at them and thanks them again. “Now all of you can go back to work,” he says.

The interns file out in a noisy cluster until it’s just the three of you now in Seungmin’s office. Felix steps forward immediately and pulls Seungmin into a careful hug. “Welcome back,” he says properly this time.

“Thank you, man,” Seungmin genuinely says as he pats his back. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”

 “It was nothing! Everyone’s just excited you’re back,” Felix gushes. A grin is plastered to his face.

“Except me,” you cut in flatly.

Seungmin looks at you, amused rather than offended. He inhales softly, savoring this moment. “How I missed your positive attitude!” he says at you.

“Yeah,” you reply dryly. “It’s been fun without you. You should break your leg more often.”

Felix winces at and hurriedly stepping in between you and Seungmin. “You must be tired,” he says as he gets to Seungmin’s side. “Let’s have you seated.”

He helps Seungmin to his chair, carefully setting the crutches aside for him after.

Seungmin settles in with a satisfied sigh and smiles. “It feels good to be back,” he says.

Felix lights up again as he looks at Seungmin back on his desk again. “You’ll be back in court in no time. Your cases are all in order. I handled everything. Mostly.”

“Actually,” Seungmin says casually as he leans back on his chair, “I talked to the head of the firm.”

Felix nods eagerly, patiently waiting for the rest of the it.

“It seems like I’ll be working alongside you,” Seungmin says as he gestures at Felix with both hands. “Just until I’m fully back on my feet. Literally and figuratively.”

Felix responds too fast, too eager. “Don’t worry, Seungmin. I’m more than happy to help.”

Seungmin looks pleased at that. “Oh thanks, man.”

When Felix turns his head slightly to the side and sees you glaring at him. His smile tightens a little. It’s only gotten to him then that spending more time with Seungmin means more proximity. More conversations. More slip-ups waiting to happen.

It also means that the secret just got harder to keep.

And it’s only Monday morning.

-

Two shots. Extra ice. Felix remembers exactly how Seungmin likes his coffee — strong, cold, borderline aggressive.

Felix stands in the pantry, carefully inserting the pod. The machine hums as it starts processing, and he hums a song as he waits, leaning lightly against the counter—

All of a sudden, he feels a hand yanking at the back of his blazer and jerks him backward.

“What—”

Before he can finish, he’s dragged around the corner of the pantry wall, out of sight from the open office and pinned. Your hand grips the lapel of his blazer, shoving him firmly against the wall.

Felix’s eyes fluttering in fear as you lean close, a little too close and staring into him with ice cold glare. “H-hey, I Uhm… I’m making coffee,” he stutters, forcing a weak laugh. “Do you—”

You push him harder against the wall and he shuts up instantly. “Let me remind you that you’ll be working alongside Seungmin,” you say, voice low and cutting.

Felix nods faintly.

“So there is a very, very big possibility that you’ll spill everything,” you continue.

“I won’t,” he blurts immediately. “I promise. I won’t tell him. I— I swear.”

You narrow your eyes and your gaze turns sharp. Dangerously sharp.

“Do you not trust me?” he asks, voice smaller now.

“You think I’d trust a mollusk like you?” you say flatly.

Felix presses his lips together to stop them from trembling.

“Just so you know,” you pause to lean in even closer, eyes locking onto his. “I have the mailing list for your wine club.”

Felix can almost feel the blood drained from his face the second he hears that.

“If one word. One word,” you emphasize by shoving your index finger close to his face, “slips out of your slimy mouth about this arrangement, I will email every single member and tell them you serve your wine at room temperature.”

Felix gasps. Actual horror flashes across his face. The reputation he’s been carefully, finely built in his wine club…

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would,” you say without a beat. Then you shove him once more for emphasis before letting go.

He stays against the wall for a second, gulping. He watches as you turn to leave and then— You glance back at him, eyes scanning him in quiet judgement. You seem not pleased with what you’re saying but doesn’t say anything and walk away, stomping your heeled feet against the floor.

Felix looks down automatically, aware of what he’s wearing and how the littlest detail could tick you. All of a sudden, it feels harder to breath so he loosens the tie around the collar.

The coffee machine beeps and Felix swallows as his outfit is the absolute least of his worries.

-

Felix insists on driving. Not because Seungmin can’t. But because crutches and pedals feel like a lawsuit waiting to happen.

Seungmin settles into the passenger seat with a quiet grunt, adjusting his injured leg carefully. Felix glances at him every three seconds like he’s transporting fragile cargo.

“You should’ve stayed in the office,” Felix says as he pulls out of the parking lot. “You could’ve rested. Reviewed files. Bossed interns around from your chair.”

Seungmin snorts. “And die of boredom? No, thank you.”

Felix keeps his eyes on the road and drives just above the speed limit.

“I’d go insane doing desk work all day,” Seungmin continues. “Besides, this way we can spend time together, have lunch after court.”

Lunch. Right. Felix can focus on that. Food is his forte, he can talk about it for hours and never running out of things to share.

Seungmin perks up immediately. “I’m thinking something good. Something celebratory. What do you feel like? Noodles? Barbecue? That pizza place you like? Or maybe—”

Felix nods along. He tries to join in on the lunch menu discussion but his head is still stuck to earlier. To your threat in the pantry. Your voice replays in his head like a warning siren.

“—or maybe we try that new place near the courthouse? I heard they have really good—”

He’s barely listening because he’s alone with Seungmin now. In a confined space. Just the two of them. And Felix is suddenly hyperaware of every word that could possibly leave his mouth.

If one word slips out of your slimy mouth…

Seungmin is still talking about lunch with surprising intensity.

“…weeks without work and my brain is lagging. Anyway, I think we should have something good for lunch,” Seungmin finishes, turning to look at him.

Felix keeps nodding. Too much nodding. It’s too quiet for a beat.

“Why are you so quiet?”

Felix’s hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel. “What? I’m not quiet.”

“You are,” Seungmin says slowly. “You used to be so excited whenever we’re talking about food.”

Felix’s brain scrambles to make up an excuse, a lie. “I’m just—” he clears his throat, forcing composure, “—getting ready for court. It’s part of my ritual now.”

Seungmin eyes him. “A ritual?”

“Yeah. Mental preparation. Silence. Focus. Law things.”

Seungmin squints, clearly unconvinced. “…Since when?”

Felix shrugs too casually. “Since I… took over some of your cases.”

There’s a pause where Seungmin studies him like he’s cross-examining a witness. Then, eventually, he leans back. “Yep. Make sense,” he says with a nod of approval.

He goes right back to lunch discussion. “So. Any suggestions?”

Felix blurts the first thing that comes to mind. “Shirako!”

Seungmin slowly turns his head. “What is that?”

“Blowfish sperm,” Felix simply answers.

Seungmin’s face contorts in disgust.

“It’s a Japanese delicacy. It contains zinc and DHA. A brain booster.”

This time, Seungmin shakes his head in disapproval.

“Served raw with ponzu sauce. It’s creamy, delicate and slightly sweet.”

Seungmin’s brows are still knitted together, but he doesn’t even dignify it with a full rejection. “Nope,” he says flatly. “We’re getting normal food. You know, something that has nothing to do with fish’s testicle.”

Felix nods immediately. Normal is good. Normal is safe. Normal doesn’t involve secrets, threats, or wine club scandals. He keeps his eyes on the road and keeps his mouth very, very careful.

-

Felix walks out of the courtroom feeling lighter, adrenaline still buzzing pleasantly under his skin. He was confident. Focused. No stumbling, no overthinking.

Seungmin waits for him outside of the courtroom, crutches scrape the floor as he gets up to greet Felix. “You did great in there,” he genuinely praises.

A praise from Seungmin means a lot to him but it’s nothing compared to the smile of relief on his client’s face. It’s another job well done and Felix feels proud of himself.

For lunch, Felix and Seungmin end up at a small restaurant near the courthouse — nothing experimental, nothing related to a certain animal’s sperm sac. Just good, normal food. Seungmin looks pleased with himself for overriding Felix’s earlier suggestion.

Felix, meanwhile, has discovered something important during the car ride: If he talks about food, he doesn’t talk about secrets.

So he talks. Passionately. To distract his brain from sharing the one thing his best friend shouldn’t know about.

“This place uses a darker soy base,” he explains, gesturing at Seungmin’s bowl like he’s presenting evidence. “It’s richer, slightly caramelized. And the scallions are cut thicker on purpose — texture contrast.”

Seungmin hums, already halfway through his meal.

“I actually found this place through a food vlogger,” Felix continues. “He rated it an 8.7 but I think that’s criminally low because if you consider the balance of salt and fat—”

Seungmin takes a little bit of everything into his spoon and shoves it into his mouth.

Felix keeps going. “And the chili oil? It’s infused, not just mixed in. That’s why it lingers differently.”

Seungmin nods absentmindedly, clearly far more invested in eating than in the lecture.

Felix doesn’t mind. Not talking makes him suspicious. Talking keeps him safe. The sound of his phone chiming with a new notification interrupts him. He grabs it, assuming it’s work-related. His heart skips a beat when he sees your name. He’s so afraid to open it now but at the same time, he wants to know what you sent.

It’s just a text message, he tells himself, how bad could it be?

With a slightly trembling finger, Felix clicks on the text. It’s a photo. He pinches the screen to zoom in and his breath stops. It’s the wine club mailing list. Names. Emails. All neatly displayed. The food in his mouth suddenly tastes like cardboard. He feels a shiver down his spine. His blood drains so fast he feels dizzy.

The threat is real. You have it. You actually have it. And he can almost imagine it — His entire curated image destroyed in one email blast.

“What is it?” Seungmin asks casually.

The phone he’s holding almost slipped out of his hand. “Nothing,” he says too quickly, shoving it into his briefcase like it’s evidence in a crime.

Seungmin stares at him. Not buying it. “It’s definitely something,” he says, his tone full of suspicion.

“It’s nothing,” Felix repeats and forces a smile to look convincing.

Seungmin tilts his head slightly and smirks. “…Is it the wine club girl you banged last weekend?”

Felix almost chokes on nothing.

Seungmin bursts into laughter immediately. “Man! You’re so easy to read,” he says, shaking his head in amusement.

Felix coughs, grabbing his water. “Yeah. She just keeps texting. Wants to meet again,” he lies, recovering quickly.

He sips his water before shrugging, feigning indifference. “I told her I’m keeping it casual.”

Seungmin’s brows lift. “Ooo… look at you!” He coos, impressed.

Felix forces a small scoff. “What?”

“You finally learned to do casual right,” Seungmin nods approvingly. “Good for you.”

Felix smiles and nods. And keeps the expression steady. Inside, something twists. He hates lying to his best friend, Seungmin. But it’s this—

Or watching his pristine wine club reputation evaporate in a single, devastating email.

He picks up his fork again and the food still tastes bland.

-

Later that night, the firm floods into their usual bar, one they always default to for celebrations, casual gatherings, or just collective exhaustion. The head of the firm is treating tonight in celebration of Seungmin’s return which means it’s loud, it’s crowded.

Which means Felix should feel relaxed.

He steps inside and immediately spots Seungmin at the counter, perched on a stool. Crutches leaned nearby. One elbow resting lazily on the bar. A drink in hand. He’s sharing yet another of his false, embellished heroic version of how he got injured to Sal, the owner and bartender of the bar.

“…and then I told him, if you’re going to swing that metal pipe, at least aim properly—”

Sal is already shaking his head while wiping his counter clean with a cloth.

Seungmin notices Felix approaching and grins.

Felix taps his shoulder in greeting before sliding onto the stool beside him. “So glad you survived,” he comments at Seungmin’s heroic story.

“Barely,” Seungmin replies with mock gravity. “It was a battlefield.”

Felix doesn’t correct him but raises his hand to order a drink.

Sal smirks knowingly and pours Felix his usual without asking.

Seungmin continues, now adding dramatic pauses and unnecessary detail about how he “shielded” someone before his tragic fall.

Felix listens, amused, nursing his drink. But after a while, he slips away from the counter to greet the interns crammed into a booth nearby. They cheer when they see him and before he forgot, he thanks them for helping with the welcoming party earlier.

As the interns comfortably share about their workload to him, he notices you occupying the small table by yourself, nursing a glass of liquor. You’re already looking at him like you’ve been aware of him the entire time. And like the sight of him is mildly exhausting.

Felix excuses himself from the interns and walks over. He slides into the seat across from you.

You don’t smile or greet him. You just ask, flatly, “So have you told your best friend about us?”

Felix immediately shakes his head. “No.”

You squint. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding firmly. “Every time I get the urge to talk, I just talk about food.”

There’s a pause as you process his answer and then give a subtle nod. You lift your glass and take a slow sip, eyes never leaving him.

Felix feels like he’s being evaluated. He lifts his drink and have a sip as well, just to have something to do.

When you lower the glass, you say casually, “Well, see you at my place later.”

The invitation comes so sudden. No buildup. No negotiation. Like you’ve just decided at that very moment that you want him to come over to your place. “Later? Like… later at what time exactly?” he asks, worrying more about the time than everything else.

You don’t answer but finish your drink in one smooth motion. You stand, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Don’t be late,” you add.

And just like that, you walk away.

Felix stays seated but his heart is racing in his chest. He glances toward the bar where Seungmin is now laughing loudly at his own jokes. He looks back at the space you just vacated.

What time is later? Should he leave now? Should he stay a respectable amount of time? Should he pretend nothing is happening?

He has no idea but one thing is painfully clear.

You decide the time. You decide the place.

And he—

He only follows.

-

By the time Felix gets Seungmin out of the bar, he regrets letting him switch to whatever Sal called a “welcome back special.”

Seungmin is not wasted. But he is… spiritually unbalanced.

“Careful,” Felix mutters, arm hooked firmly around Seungmin’s waist as they shuffle toward the curb.

The casted leg sticks out stiffly. One crutch slips and then it clatters to the ground. Felix nearly drops both of them trying to catch it.

“Why do you have so many limbs,” Felix groans under his breath, juggling crutches, best friend, and dignity.

Seungmin squints at him. “I’m very aerodynamic right now.”

“You are the opposite of aerodynamic,” Felix groans again as he steadies Seungmin to his side.

Time feels loud in his head. Felix checks his watch briefly. Too late to calculate what “late” even means. He raises his free hand and waves frantically at the street. “Taxi! Taxi!”

Finally, headlights slow and a taxi pulls to the curb.

“Okay, the taxi’s here,” Felix exhales more to himself than to Seungmin, already sweating.

He keeps one arm around Seungmin and stretches the other desperately toward the car door. It takes an embarrassing amount of fumbling, but he manages to yank it open. Carefully, he maneuvers Seungmin inside. First the body. Then the casted leg. He lifts it gently with both hands, sliding it into the backseat like it’s a fragile sculpture.

“Crutches,” Seungmin mumbles.

Felix grabs them off the pavement and hands them through the door. He leans toward the driver next. “Seoul Heights Apartments. Building C.”

The driver nods and Felix is about to step back when a hand grabs his wrist.

Seungmin peers up at him, eyes glassy. “…Why am I in a taxi?”

Felix wipes the sheen of sweat forming on his forehead. “Because it’s time to go home.”

Seungmin frowns slightly. “Why aren’t you driving me?”

“Because I’ve been drinking too.”

After a while, Seungmin nods slowly. “Right. Yes. Alcohol.”

Seungmin leans back against the seat but when Felix gently tries to pull his hand free, he grips him again, sudden clarity flashing through his expression. “Why aren’t you getting in?”

Felix hesitates for half a second. “Our homes are in different directions.”

Seungmin studies him like he might argue and then, he finally lets go. He drops his head to the back and closes his eyes.

Felix steps away and shuts the door gently. He leans down once more to the driver. “Please drive safe.”

The taxi pulls away and Felix watches it until it disappears down the street. Then he looks at his wristwatch.

12:07 a.m.

He doesn’t know what “late” is but this feels like it. He curses under his breath and starts walking toward the main road to find his own ride.

Tie loosened. Running out of breath. And the unsettling feeling that whatever waits for him at your place, has already decided whether he’s on time.

-

Felix practically trips out of the taxi and into the lobby of your apartment building.

By the time he reaches your floor, his heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with running. He smooths down his shirt first. He tugs at the hem, tries to flatten it with his palms. Then his hands move to his hair, pushing it back, fixing the part as best as he can using the faint reflection in the elevator doors.

He could’ve gone home first and get changed, freshened up properly. But the idea of being even later felt worse. He steps up to your door. He inhales air to brace himself and then knocks on the door.

There’s no answer. He checks the address again, matching the number of the unit. 13B. He’s right. He knocks again and again. Still now answer.

Just when he’s about to knock again, the door opens and you’re there. Wrapped in silk bed robe. One hand gripping the door to keep it ajar. You just look at him with bored eyes. Long enough for him to feel examined. Judged. Measured.

“Well, well, well, look who finally showed up,” you finally say.

Felix immediately fumbles as he explains why. “I—I’m sorry. I came as fast as I could. I had to help Seungmin. He’s drunk and then the taxi and—”

You don’t look impressed. “You made me wait,” you simply say.

The words are simple yet accusatory. Felix can’t even find a word to say. He knows that’s true.

“You made me watch these 12 parts videos of a TED Talk on TikTok.”

Felix’s mouth parts open but he’s not sure what to say to that. “TED talk?”

You cross your arms together and lean the side of your body against the frame. “It’s about power poses and apparently, they affect hormonal changes. You know, like confidence. Dominance.”

You straighten slightly as you speak. “So now I’m more in the mood to go back to my room and practice my own power poses.”

Felix’s brain short-circuits as he tries to catch up to all this information and what it means to him. “Does that mean, you uh… you don’t want to have sex anymore?” he carefully asks.

You look at him like the answer should be obvious. “Well, you shouldn’t have made me opened TikTok.”

The finality in your tone hits harder than he expects. Disappointment sinks in his chest before he can stop it. He nods slowly and weakly says, “…Okay.”

He takes a step back and turns toward the elevator. Maybe this is what he gets. Maybe “later” had a very specific expiration time. Two steps later—

“Hey, you,” you call, voice echoes in the empty hallway. “Shelled gastropod!”

He stops walking and turns around immediately. He raises a finger at himself, hesitantly asks, “Me?”

You’re still leaning against the door but something in your expression has shifted. Just slightly. “I changed my mind.”

His face brightens before he can control it. He stammers as he asks once again for confirmation. “Does that mean—you want to—now?”

You open the door wider and make a head gesture. “You’d better get in before I change my mind again,” you say.

That’s all the invitation he needs. Felix practically jogs back toward you and steps inside before you can retract the offer.

The door closes behind him and whatever power pose you’ve been practicing—

He has a feeling he’s about to experience it firsthand.

-

Your apartment is a studio. It’s open, intentionally so, nothing is hidden. He can take it in all at once.

The bed positioned near the window. A full wall mirror mounted on the other. A compact kitchen tucked close to the door. A sofa draped with a soft fur blanket in one corner. A shelf lined with fashion magazines, structured purses, and what looks like a carefully curated collection of crystals catching the low light.

You don’t say anything but stand there and let him look.

He clears his throat softly. “That’s a big uh… mirror.”

“It’s there to create the illusion of space,” you reply.

Felix nods slowly, but his curiosity is louder than his manners. “But why is it facing the bed?”

You tilt your head slightly, like you already knew that was coming. “Because I like waking up and seeing my face as it reminds me that I’m blessed with beauty that could change the world.”

That tracks. Felix nods immediately and opens his mouth to ask about the crystals—

But you step forward, gently steering him by the sleeve toward the bed. “I’d love to teach you more about home décor. But I have some power poses I want to show you.”

Felix plops onto the end of your bed. The silk sheets are unbelievably soft under him, and he actually gasps a little at the texture. “Whoa, silk bedsheets…” he sighs in awe.

You clap your hands once to get his attention and he straightens instantly, posture attentive, eyes locked on you. You stand before him, explaining the TED Talk with measured confidence. Demonstrating subtle shifts in posture — shoulders back, chin lifted, stance grounded.

“…she said that adopting power poses can boost confidence and influence success…”

As you speak, Felix realizes something. This is one of the things he admires about you. You’re not just confident. You’re certain. You live by your own rules. You don’t dilute yourself for anyone. You exist exactly as you are and expect the world to adjust accordingly.

“You don’t need all that,” he starts softly. “You’re—”

He stops himself. Afraid finishing that sentence might annoy you instead of impress you.

You nod once and say, “Yeah, I know I’m powerful already.”

Of course you do. Then your eyes shift back to him. “There’s one more power pose I want to try.”

Felix nods obediently. “Yes, please show it to me,” he says with a pleased smile.

You hold his gaze as you untie your silk robe and let it slide off your shoulders. It falls to the floor in one smooth motion. Underneath, a slip dress clings to you, soft fabric tracing every curve of you.

Felix forgets how to breathe as you slowly walk toward him. You don’t stop until you’re right there, until your knees press against his thighs. And then you get onto his lap.

The warmth of you on his lap makes his hands twitch instinctively. You don’t move and just look at him as you straddle him.

Under your gaze, he feels both intimidated and undeniably drawn in. “I-is this the power pose?” he stammers.

You let out a low, amused laugh. You put a hand around his neck, lean in and then you kiss him. It’s sudden. Rougher than he expects. He’s caught off guard for half a second before he reacts, hands finding your waist as he steadies himself. He kisses you back eagerly, hungrily.

Your fingers slide into his hair, gripping just enough to keep him exactly where you want him. The other hand still cradles the back of his head as you deepen the kiss, controlling the pace.

Felix exhales into your mouth, and this time he doesn’t hesitate. His hands move, tracing the line of your sides, learning the shape of you through silk. He pulls you closer instinctively, fingers sliding down the curve of your spine.

When his palms settle at your hips, you don’t stop him. If anything, you lean into it. You shift your weight subtly against him, rubbing yourself on his crotch in slow motions that sends heat straight through his body. He tightens his grip without thinking as friction slowly builds and he lets out a low, strangled sound against your lips. You swallow it with a faint smile and then your tongue slips back into his mouth

-

Time loses shape.

Felix has no idea how long you’ve been kissing him. It could be minutes, hours, something in between — but he’s burning everywhere. Heat pools between his legs, his arousal straining against the fabric of his slacks, painfully aware of how little space there is between you and him.

And still, he doesn’t want it to stop. He wants your weight on his lap. Your warmth seeping into him. Your softness under his palms. Your mouth claiming his like it’s yours to take.

He’s just starting to lose himself in it when you slowly pull away. Your lips part from his, swollen and flushed. Your eyes look slightly dazed but not lost. Never lost. You’re always aware.

You look down at him like you’re assessing your work. Your fingers drift to his freckled cheek, then slide beneath his chin, tilting his face up toward you.

“Such a pretty face,” you murmur.

The words land somewhere in his chest and for a second, you just look at him, almost admiring. Then your palm presses to his chest, guiding him down fully against the silk sheets. You shift, moving your legs until you’re kneeling over him. His head caged between your thighs.

From this angle, he can see the matching underwear you’re wearing beneath your dress. The faint sheen of fabric and the way it curves with you. He instinctively licks his lips at the sight.

You look down at him as you calmly say, “This is the power pose.”

With that, you slowly lower yourself on his mouth.

To Felix, his world narrows instantly to your warmth, scent. Your softness. He exhales against you without thinking, arms instinctively curving around your thighs to steady you.

There’s fabric between his mouth and your cunt, but he doesn’t hesitate. He presses closer, mouth opening and working through the sheer fabric, determined, hungry to please. You gasp softly above him and the sound alone makes him bolder. He closes his eyes, focusing on the way you react, the way your breathing shifts, the way your fingers tighten in his hair.

At one point, you lift slightly, just enough to give him air. He can see your underwear is now damp with both his saliva and your essence. He uses the moment to slips his fingers to the edge of silk, easing it aside. He swallows at the sight of your cunt, bare and wet, hovering just inches away from his mouth.

When he presses forward again, there’s nothing between you now. You lower yourself back down with a slow exhale, and this time he doesn’t hold back. He tastes you fully now, mouth moving with growing confidence, learning what draws that sharp inhale from you, what makes your hips subtly shift.

You smirk down at him when he gets it right and he absolutely notices. He becomes more deliberate. His tongue teasing your entrance, lips wrapped around your swollen clit, he applies the right pressure, he sucks gently and then hard — all tuned to the smallest reaction you give.

Soon you’re moving more obviously, rolling your hips back and forth, chasing the sensation he’s giving you. Sitting on his face, riding his mouth to your liking. You lift the hem of your slip dress, letting it bunch at your waist. Now you can see him. See the way he looks between your thighs. See the way his mouth moves. See how devoted he is to the task.

He dares to open his eyes and holds your gaze. Mouth continuously pleasing you. And there it is again — that smirk of approval.

You slide the straps of your dress down your shoulders, letting the fabric hunched around your waist. Then you take his hands and place them on your breasts, moving your hands together.

Felix doesn’t hesitate. His fingers move eagerly, kneading gently, thumbs brushing over sensitive buds that respond immediately beneath his touch. Soon enough, your hard nipples are caught between his fingers as he fondles on your soft flesh.  You let out a surprised, delighted gasp. A sound that fuels him further.

His mouth doesn’t stop. His hands don’t stop. At this point, there’s no pride left in him. No hesitation. Just the singular need to please you, to keep you above him like this, to earn that smirk again and again.

Because right now, you hold all the power and he’s more than willing to surrender to it.

-

Felix doesn’t know when the shift happens.

You’re bent forward on the bed, hands gripping the sheet, knees steadily pressed against the mattress, slip dress twisted and ruffled around your waist, hair falling around your shoulders.

The sheets are a mess beneath you. So is he. One moment he’s following your lead and the next, he’s moving with intention. His hands settle at your hips, eyes focused on the way his cock slipping in and out of you. The rhythm between you builds, steady and controlled at first — something he can manage, something he can survive.

Then, you start to softly, breathlessly murmurs between your moans. “Faster.”

He shouldn’t. You feel too good, wrapped so warmly, tightly around him. The pace he’s keeping is measured because he knows if he lets go completely, he won’t last the way he wants to.

“Faster,” you breathe again, needier this time.

For a second, he hesitates — not because he can’t obey, but because obeying means losing control. And yet…

The way you ask. The way your voice dips, stripped of its usual sharpness. He slides one hand up, catching the twisted fabric of your dress at your waist, gripping it as a leverage and gives you what you want.

The rhythm deepens. Quickens. Your reactions grow louder, less restrained. You don’t hide it. You don’t pretend composure. You let him hear what he’s doing to you and that’s new.

He turns his head slightly and finds the mirror. He sees the reflection of the moment unfolding real time — your body moving with each of his hard thrust, his cock repeatedly slamming into you, the way your back arched to provide him more depth, the tension in his shoulders, the confidence in the way he holds you.

His eyes flick to your reflection next. Your head pressed into the pillow, hands helplessly gripping the sheets. Eyes screwed shut. Lewd noises spilling out of your parted mouth. Completely undone.

A surge of something fills his chest. Confidence. Is this how you feel all the time? That unshakable certainty. That belief that you’re in control of the room, the moment, the outcome. Watching himself like this and seeing the way you respond, he feels that self-assurance that he’s doing well. That he’s capable of doing… this.

He moves with more assurance now, guided by your reactions rather than fear of losing himself. And when you finally fall apart beneath him, when your body gives in and your breath breaks in a way that tells him he did that, something in him tightens in response. He follows not long after, hitting his high and spilling himself into the condom.

The momentum slows. The room quiets except for the sound of both of you catching your breath. You collapse forward onto the sheets, and he lowers with you, chest pressed against your back.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The haze lingers but even through it, Felix presses his mouth to the side of your neck. He plants soft kisses along your shoulder, down the curve of your back. Appreciative.

When he finally turns his head slightly, his eyes catch his reflection in the mirror again.

He sees the aftermath. The disheveled bed. Your bodies tangled together. Chests rising and falling in sync. His arm draped over you. The side of his head rested on your back. He studies his own reflection and for once, he likes what he sees.

-

Monday morning comes with a strange kind of clarity.

Felix wakes before his alarm and rolls out of bed. He starts his day as usual. Cook breakfast. Eat breakfast. Shower. Then heads to his closet with purpose.

He moves in confidence as he owns a guide on how to properly dress now. All thanks to you and the link you sent to a Pinterest board you made with a title “Stop dressing like a nervous intern.”. And obviously, he ignores the more extreme suggestions. Leather pants? Absolutely not for court. Fringed jacket? He values his employment.

Instead, he chooses strategically. A charcoal pinstripe suit and pairs it with a crisp black shirt instead of his usual safe white. He buttons it slowly and steps into his shoes. Then stands in front of the mirror and pauses.

For a second, he genuinely doesn’t recognize himself. He looks… Good. There’s something deliberate about it. Something assured. The pinstripes elongate him. The darker tones sharpen his facial features. His posture naturally straightens. He adjusts his cuff once and smiles faintly at his reflection.

The smile doesn’t look nervous. It looks knowing. And because he looks good, he feels good. The confidence isn’t forced. It settles into his shoulders. Into the way he moves. Into the calm steadiness of his breathing.

Yeah, he’s no longer look like a nervous intern at all. He looks like someone who knows what he’s doing and doing great at it.

By the time he walks into the firm, his confidence radiating off him.

The cleaning lady notices first as she pauses mid-mop, eyes widening slightly. “Morning, Mr. Lee. You look very handsome today,” she says with a grin.

Felix beams, but it’s not flustered like usual. “Thank you,” he replies smoothly.

He keeps walking, steadily gripping his briefcase in one hand and it’s subtle, but people glance twice. He makes tea like usual. Adds honey after. He writes his day neatly in his planner. Checks emails. Organizes files.

Everything is the same. But he isn’t.

There’s a certainty under his movements now. He doesn’t second-guess when he speaks. He doesn’t hover before knocking on doors. He doesn’t shrink when someone challenges him.

He realizes that confidence isn’t just something he performs. Maybe it’s something he decides to wear. Maybe it’s inside him all along.

He adjusts his jacket once more and glances at his reflection in the glass of his office window. And yeah, he has a feeling that the rest of the day is going to be good.

-

Felix waits outside the hospital parking lot with the engine running and two iced coffees sweating in the cup holders. He checks the time and then checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. Just… checking. The pinstripe suits hug his body perfectly. Hair in place. Collar sharp. He looks composed.

The sliding hospital automatic doors slide open and there’s Seungmin without the crutches this time. Instead, an orthopedic boot strapped around one leg, bulky but undeniably less tragic.

Felix grins when Seungmin spots him. Then gets out of the car and opens the passenger door. He patiently holds the door open as Seungmin walks slowly, still afraid in putting too much weight on his injured leg.

“Thanks, man,” Seungmin beams as he carefully gets into the car.

Felix makes sure Seungmin is settling on his seat before closing the door and runs to the other side. The second he gets into the driver’s seat, he hands Seungmin the coffee without a word.

“Two shots. Extra ice,” Felix says with a smile.

Seungmin takes a sip through the straw and hums in approval. “You’d survive as my assistant.”

“I’d unionize.”

Seungmin snorts and settles into the seat, adjusting the boot slightly. “God, I feel lighter. No more crutches. I can walk without feeling like a Victorian orphan,” he says, one hand resting on his knee.

Felix laughs, pulling the car out of the lot. “So the check-up went well?”

“Yeah. Doctor says I’m healing perfectly. I graduate from crutches to this.” He taps the boot proudly. “It’s kind of cool, right? Like a limited-edition sneaker.”

“I’s very cool. I’d like to get one of those,” Felix says automatically. The people pleaser in him just couldn’t take a day off.

Seungmin looks at him and says, “No, you don’t actually.”

Felix smiles, glancing at him briefly before focusing back on the road.

Seungmin keeps talking about the relief, how he can finally shower without performing acrobatics. After a moment, he pauses mid-sentence. “Wait.”

Felix briefly glances over. “What?”

Seungmin narrows his eyes slightly as he stares at Felix. “There’s something different about you.”

Felix suddenly becomes hyperaware of himself. The suit. The posture. The way he’s holding the steering wheel. “What? No, I don’t think so,” he says too quickly.

“There is.”

Felix clears his throat and tries to sound casual as he says, “It’s probably just the new suits.”

Seungmin finally looks at him properly. Eyes dragging from the structured shoulders down to the clean lines of the pinstripes. He lets out a low whistle. “Oh.”

Felix tries not to sit up straighter and grips the steering wheel tighter.

“It’s definitely the suits,” Seungmin says, sounding genuinely impressed. “It looks really good on you.”

Felix feels warmth creep up his neck, but he keeps his smile controlled. “Thanks.”

Seungmin nods approvingly. “You look like you bill by the minute now.”

“I do bill by the minute.”

“Yeah, but now you look like you enjoy it.”

Felix laughs softly and he realizes something. He’s not shrinking under the attention. He’s not brushing it off. He just accepts it. “Thanks,” he repeats, calmer this time.

Seungmin leans back on his seat, having another long sip of his coffee.

Felix turns his eyes back to the road, but the smile stays on his face. He was right. This is a good day.

-

Felix stays half a step behind Seungmin as they enter the firm, ready to steady him if needed. The boot makes a heavier sound against the floor, but it’s steadier than the awkward tap of crutches.

They turn the corner and Seungmin bumps directly into you. You’re holding a stack of freshly copied files, arms full, expression unimpressed by the collision.

Seungmin steadies himself first. Then you glance down, at the orthopedic boot.

“Cool get-up,” you casually say.

Felix can’t really tell if you’re being genuine or sarcastic. But Seungmin immediately lights up at that. “Right? It elevates the whole look.”

Seungmin puts his injured leg on a box pushed to someone’s desk. “No more crutches. I can actually function like a human being,” he says.

“That’s a low bar,” you reply evenly.

Seungmin grins anyway. Then, like he’s just remembered something, he turns around dramatically toward Felix. “Felix, man, thank you for picking me up from the hospital.”

Felix waves him off. “It’s fine. I finished court early anyway.”

“No, no,” Seungmin insists. “You didn’t have to. I appreciate it.”

Felix shrugs, trying to keep it casual. “Really, it’s nothing.”

“I’m treating you to drinks tonight,” Seungmin declares.

Tonight. He absolutely cannot do tonight. He clears his throat quickly. “I can’t tonight.”

Seungmin pauses. “Why not?”

Felix hesitates just a fraction too long and just for a second, his eyes flick toward you. “Wine club,” he says smoothly.

Seungmin narrows his gaze immediately. “Wine club, huh?” he repeats slowly.

Then he lowers his voice, but not enough to actually be private.

“Is wine club now code for you meeting that girl you’re casually hooking up with?”

Behind him, Felix sees you tilt your head slightly. One eyebrow arches in intrigue.

Felix’s brain works at record speed. “Nah, I’m just excited for tonight because we’re tasting the Rojo Caliente Red Chile Wine.” he says quickly.

“The what?” Seungin asks, a crease forming between his eyebrows.

“It’s a bold, spicy red. Crafted with fiery red chile peppers. Very complex profile,” Felix continues confidently while nodding.

Seungmin looks genuinely horrified. “That sounds like a crime.”

“It’s innovative.”

“It’s an abomination.”

“Why don’t you join me tonight?” Felix offers just to sound convincing.

Seungmin recoils immediately. “Absolutely not. I’ll stick to draft beer like a normal person.”

Felix nods solemnly. “Your loss.”

Seungmin sighs and puts his foot back down. “I’ll treat you to drinks next time.”

“Sure.”

Seungmin resumes his slow walk toward his office and Felix watches him go. Then he looks back at you.

There’s something almost impressed in the way you’re looking at him now. Like you just witnessed something unexpected.

Felix straightens unconsciously. Confidence settling back into place. Secret intact. And maybe, he’s getting better at this.

-

Later that night, Felix is back at your apartment.

You’re both on the sofa, the fur blanket half-draped over your legs, a bowl of popcorn balanced between you. The lights are dim, the TV casting shifting shadows across the room.

On screen, Magic Mike is doing what it does best, dancing to arouse the ladies attending the strip club.

Felix tries to look neutral as he watches the movie.

You, however, are studying the screen like it’s an educational documentary while shoving popcorn into your mouth, one kernel at a time.

At one particularly enthusiastic moment from Channing Tatum, you casually say, “Remember what I told you?”

Felix glances at you. “About what?”

“About moving your pelvis like that.” You gesture toward the screen with a piece of popcorn. “You should move like that.”

Felix watches intently as Channing Tatum’s character doing his solo performance by dancing to an R&B track. It looks cool at first until he gets down and thrusting into the floor.

“Does that mean you uh… want me to give you a lap dance?” he carefully asks.

You don’t even look at him as you say, “I wouldn’t dare to expect that much from you.”

The delivery is flat yet devastating.

Felix feels something in his chest spark. The humming confidence he’s been carrying all day — flares up instead of shrinking. “I think I can do that,” he manages to say it without wavering.

You finally turn your head slowly toward him. “You think or you do?”

“I mean, yeah, I can,” he answers, adding a coy shrug to convince you.

You look at him. Then you shove a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “I didn’t say you can’t try.”

The smirk appears. Amused. Curious. Slightly challenging.

Felix chews slowly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. He feels challenged. “You know,” he says casually, setting the popcorn bowl aside, “it’s all in the hips.”

You lean back against the sofa, folding your arms. “Is that so?”

The TV continues playing in the background, bass thumping faintly from the speakers. You’re still watching. Not the movie. Him. you’re not watching the movie. All of your attention, laser focused. Elbows resting on the back of the sofa. Chin tilted slightly up. Waiting.

All of a sudden, his confidence starts leaking out of him with every second of your silence.

Okay. Just do it. Stop thinking. He mutters to himself. He rolls his shoulders once and then he starts moving.

He moves slowly at first. A cautious sway of his body. It feels awkward immediately. Too stiff. Too aware of where his arms are, where his legs are, where you’re looking.

He pushes past it and shifts his weight. He lets his hips roll — back and forth, copying what he studied earlier from the movie. He even adds a hand movement, sliding it down his torso, tapping between his hips in a bold, committed gesture.

Commit. Commit. Commit. He repeatedly tells himself.  For a moment, he almost believes it.

But not long after, he becomes painfully aware of himself again. It starts to feel less like dancing and more like… trying. He slows and eventually stops.

He clears his throat before attempting to casually ask you. “…Well?”

You look at him for a long, assessing second. “Yikes.”

Felix actually hisses under his breath. “Ah—”

“I’ve seen inflatable tube men with more charisma,” you comment.

His head drops in defeat. Total defeat. He rubs the back of his neck, exhaling through his nose.

You tilt your head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Maybe… take your shirt off?”

He looks up. “What?”

“You’re relying too much on enthusiasm.”

There’s no teasing in your tone. Just a clinical suggestion. Somehow, that makes it worse. But also —

Fine. If he’s going down, he’s going down dramatically. He straightens. This time, he doesn’t rush. He reaches for the first button of his shirt.

Pop.

Slow.

Your gaze sharpens.

Second button.

Pop.

He moves closer while undoing them, eyes never leaving yours. He lets the anticipation stretch, fingers dragging lower, opening the fabric inch by inch.

Third.

Fourth.

He parts the shirt open, exposing his chest, holding it there for a second like a reveal.

You give a subtle nod of approval and it encourages him to keep going. He shrugs the shirt off slowly and lets it fall to the floor.

“Yeah,” you sigh while slowly nodding, enjoying the sight. “Now come on and seduce me. Make me cheat on my husband. Make me spend the money I don’t have on you.”

Now he moves again. His hips roll, slower this time. More controlled. He angles his body to show you the lines of his torso, flexing slightly when he turns because he’s noticed the way your eyes linger when he does. He repeats the earlier motions, but this time with intention. More confidence.

You’re watching him without blinking, popcorn completely forgotten and that alone keeps him going. Until—

He runs out of ideas and the rhythm slows. His breathing is heavier now. He looks up at you and weakly asks, “How about that?”

You press your lips together like you’re holding something in. After a moment, you finally talk. “You only need about ten more years of practice.”

Felix deflates again, feeling disappointed of himself. “But I did my best…” he mumbles to himself.

“Oh, you little booboo,” you coo softly, patting the sofa beside you. “Let’s just go back to the movie.”

No. No, absolutely not. He can’t end on that.

“Wait, I still have one move,” he quickly says.

You grab the bowl of popcorn and put it on your lap. “I’m hard to impress. So better save yourself from future embarrassment.”

“Just one chance. Please…” he insists, almost pleading now.

You roll your eyes, sighing as you put the bowl of popcorn away. “…Fine.”

He inhales deeply and braces himself. Instead of swaying his body, he drops to his knees.

Your eyes flicking down to him. Confused and intrigued.

He keeps eye contact as he lowers his hands to the carpet and shifts onto all fours. He holds the gaze for a moment and doesn’t break it as he crawls toward you. He can see the way your expression is just intrigued now. The way your posture straightens. The way your eyes darken just slightly as he moves closer and closer until he’s at your feet.

There, kneeling on the floor, he looks up at you from beneath his lashes. Then gently reaches for your leg, uncrossing it. He hears that tiny hitch in your breath as he parts your knees open, holding your gaze as he does. Just enough to make it clear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick downward for a second, catching a glimpse of white lace beneath the hem of your dress before lifting again to lock with yours.

The air feels thicker now. Charged. He crawls forward until he’s close enough that your legs bracket his shoulders and without hesitation, he leans in, pressing his face against the warmth between your thighs through the fabric.

You gasp softly, leaning back into the sofa. Your hands reaching for his head, fingers tangled in his dark locks.

“Oh, yeah,” you murmur, voice lower now. “That’s the only move you need to do right.”

Felix smiles against your clothed sex. Big and satisfied. Confidence restored and then some.

-

It starts small.

“Drinks tonight?” Seungmin asks one afternoon, leaning against Felix’s desk like he always does, casual, expectant.

Felix doesn’t even look up from his phone. “Can’t. I have… hot yoga.”

Seungmin squints. “You hate heat.”

“It’s… cold hot yoga,” Felix replies immediately. “They blast the AC. It’s a whole new thing.”

There’s a pause and then—

“…Right,” Seungmin says slowly. “Have fun.”

Then it becomes a pattern.

“Want to grab a bite before we go home?” “Cheese club.”

“There’s a cheese club?” “It’s very underground. Invitation-only.”

Seungmin nods like that makes perfect sense. “Of course it is.”

Another time:

“We’re all having beers tonight. You’re coming.”

“I can’t,” Felix says, already rehearsed. “I have a fermentation class.”

“Huh?” Seungmin tilts his head in confusion.

“It’s a study on a biochemical process in which microorganisms like yeast and bacteria convert sugars into alcohol, gases, or acids in the absence of oxygen,” Felix eloquently explains.

Seungmin’s face scrunches in disgust. “Ugh.”

Felix shrugs and continues, “You know that yeast is a crucial ingredient in brewing the beer you’ll be having tonight. It’s—"

“Yeah, okay, don’t come,” Seungmin cuts in defeated and then turns away.

And that’s when something dangerous starts growing inside Felix. Confidence in his lies. And he starts stacking them. Experimental bread lab. Silent meditation night. A three-hour lecture on mushroom ethics.

Every time Seungmin just nods, mildly confused but ultimately convinced, because Felix is weird. Felix has always been weird. That’s his brand.

On the other hand, Felix starts thinking that he’s good at this. Lying. Better than Seungmin. Felix lies with a straight face now. Barely even feels the flutter in his stomach anymore. He’s learned the trick—say it casually, don’t oversell it, add just enough detail to make it boring.

The more absurd the excuse, the more believable it becomes.

He tells himself it’s harmless. It’s not like he’s doing anything wrong. He just… has other plans. Better plans. Plans that also has its own risks if he cancels them.  He tells himself Seungmin doesn’t notice. He tells himself Seungmin believes him because he trusts him.

And somewhere under that confidence is the quietest flicker of something else.

Because the better Felix gets at lying…

The easier it becomes.

-

Felix doesn’t even remember what lie he tells Seungmin that night. Something about a late yoga session. Or a specialty cooking class. Or maybe it was a wine appreciation club. They’re blending together now—fabricated schedules layered on top of each other that it’s hard to keep track anymore. He’s gotten good at it. Too good that Seungmin barely questions him anymore. He should feel guilty. Instead, he feels electric. Because he knows where he’s going.

You open the door before he can knock twice. You don’t smile. You never do. But your eyes soften for a fraction of a second when you see him. “So what did you learn in your Mediterranean cooking class?” you ask dryly.

He exhales a quiet laugh. “The key to fluffy hummus mixture is by adding cold water while blending.”

“What a revelation!” you flatly say and then step aside to let him in.

The door shuts behind him with a soft click that feels louder than it should. He drops his bag by the entrance, toeing off his shoes. You’re already walking toward the living room, confident in the way you move around your own space.

He watches you like he’s memorizing something forbidden.

“Did he believe you?” you ask, not turning around.

“Of course,” Felix replies, loosening his tie. “I’m getting better.”

You glance over your shoulder at him. “At lying?”

“At protecting our secret.”

The words slip out before he can reconsider them. Felix swallows air, afraid that he says the wrong thing as you stop walking and fully turn this time.

Your eyes staring at him as you slowly approaching and then stop right in front of him. Your hand reaches for his collar first, tugging him down into a kiss that starts deep and a little rough, like you’re testing him.

He responds immediately, hands finding your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between your bodies. The kiss deepens. Slows. Then ignites.

There’s no rush tonight. Just the reckless relief of having carved out time that belongs only to the two of you. He walks you backward toward the bedroom, hands sliding over your sides. Every lie he told today. Every excuse. Every fabricated class. It all led here.

He takes his time with you, kissing down your neck, along your collarbone, listening to the way your breathing changes when he touches you just right. Your fingers move impatiently, pushing his jacket off, working at his shirt like you can’t stand another layer between you.

Clothes fall away piece by piece, forgotten where they land. When you finally settle on his lap, it feels inevitable. Your back pressed against his chest. Your warmth seeps into him. Head turned to the side to capture his lips in a haste kiss.

Felix has an arm curved around your chest, firmly holding you against him. The other goes down south, hand palming your sex in slow, gentle motions. He teases your entrance with one finger, adding another to stretch you, to milk more arousal out of you.

The next thing he knows, your essence floods his hand, fingers slick now as he drags them between your folds. You’re ready, more than ready to take him and he’s getting more impatient with each second he spent not being inside you.

One hand moves to back of your knee. Then he lifts your leg, just enough for him to rub his length, lubricating it with your wetness. Until finally, he aligns his cock to your entrance. his brows knitted in concentration as he looks down, eyes focused on pushing his length into you.

“Oh…” you breathlessly moan while watching yourself getting penetrated by his hot, stiff member.

Felix lets go of his hold around you, using his free hand to hold your other leg now, lifting them both as he pushes the remaining length in one slow, delicious thrust. That’s when he looks up and catches his reflection on the mirror. His body flushed, reddening in places. Arms steadily holding your legs and slowly opening them wider. He sighs in pleasure at the sight of his cock disappeared into you and wrapped in your warmth.

He sighs again as you subtly shift on his lap, making him feel how tightly you are wrapped around him. He hastily kisses your shoulder, neck and eventually your lips, taking a moment to savor this moment of your bodies connected as one.

When he begins to thrust into you from under, heat builds slowly then all at once. You’re holding onto his forearms. Mouths lathering each other, nonstop. He continues to move in confidence, guided by the sounds you make, the way you take his cock so well in each thrust.

There’s nothing careful about it now. Nothing restrained. You meet him with the same intensity he gives you. How do you like to torture him by intentionally clenching around him as he’s about to pull back and don’t hold back from showing how much you enjoy it.

It’s so hot, so arousing. Raw and passionate. Felix doesn’t even have to think but feel every little thing. How the world narrows to breath and skin and the steady rhythm of two people who chose each other tonight.

When it finally breaks over both of you, it’s not gentle. It’s consuming. And as you pull him in for a rough kiss, Felix realizes something quietly dangerous:

He’s not just lying to protect this.

He’s lying because he doesn’t know how to live without it anymore.

-

At this point, Felix moves around your apartment like it’s his own. He’s in your kitchen, hair still messy from sleep but eyes focused as he flips an egg with more precision than necessary. There’s something grounding about cooking in someone else’s space. It feels… intimate in the quiet way.

He opens cabinets carefully. Learns where you keep your plates. Your cutlery. Your mismatched mugs. He notes, silently, how empty your fridge is. Not empty-empty. Just… sparse.

Eggs. Butter. Two apples. A jar of something unidentifiable. A cup of Greek yogurt. He works with what you have. Toast. Eggs. Coffee brewed properly. He even plates it nicely, because he can’t help himself.

As he pours coffee into your favorite mug, the chipped one with a face of your favorite actor printed on it, he sees you waking up from your sleep.

You take a moment to gather your senses before getting up, sheets slipping off you as you get on your feet. You don’t care that you’re standing completely naked in the middle of your apartment, or how there’s someone else in the apartment with you.

Felix’s breath catches, stunned. You look soft and unguarded as you stand there, bathed in pale morning light.

You walk calmly to the armchair where your silk robe is draped, slip it on with lazy elegance, tie it loosely at your waist, and move toward the sofa like this is routine. Like he belongs here enough to see this.

He looks down at the coffee he’s pouring before it spills. He carries the plates over, sets them down on your low table, watching you settle into the couch, legs tucked under you, robe barely containing warmth.

You eye the breakfast and purse your lips. “Why does this look so drab?”

Felix stops mid-way as he’s about to sit. “Drab?”

You gesture vaguely at what’s served in front of you. “It looks like a hospital meal.”

He stares at the plate, mildly offended. “You don’t exactly have things in your fridge.”

You lift your coffee mug and lift it close to your mouth. “Sorry I’m not bill by the minute like you.”

That lands weirdly. In a matter-of-fact way. He doesn’t like the way that line makes him suddenly aware of difference. He clears his throat instead of responding and shifts the topic to something else.

“Do you cook?” he asks lightly.

You chew your toast, considering him. “I know I’m generally nailing everything in life.”

He nods instinctively.

You continue, “But you can’t expect me to be good at everything.”

Felix huffs a small laugh at that. He takes a sip of coffee and lets the silence sit between you. And then, and idea hits him.

“I could teach you,” he says.

You glance at him over your mug. “Teach me what.”

“How to cook.”

You actually chuckle at that. Amused.

“I mean, not like… Michelin star stuff. Just simple recipes. Things you can actually make.”

You narrow your eyes slightly as you chew.

He watches you think. He watches the way you weigh things in your head before agreeing to anything.

After a moment, you nod once. “Yeah, maybe I can be good at everything.”

Felix beams with a bright, wide grin. He’s already planning it in his head.

He’ll grocery shop to buy the ingredients. Teach you how to hold a knife properly. Stand behind you and guide your hands if you let him. Make it fun. Make it yours. He wants to show you something he’s good at. Not just impress you, but to share it.

He takes another sip of coffee, trying to play it cool, but inside he’s buzzing. Because suddenly this feels bigger than just coming to each other’s place and bang.

And Felix doesn’t notice how quickly that thought settles in.

Just that he’s already excited.

-

Felix sits across from Seungmin at their favorite spot for lunch, sunlight bouncing off stainless steel cutlery, the weekday chatter filling the space between them. Seungmin is halfway through his meal but Felix, on the other hand, is busy making a grocery list on his phone note.

Onions, garlic, carrots, mushrooms, potato… he’s going through everything and makes sure he doesn’t miss anything. But he decides to ask you anyway if you want anything. And yes, he knows he can just ask you directly but texting you would be a faster way to get an answer. You’re always on your phone anyway.

Going grocery shopping later. Do you need anything for tonight? he sends you, thumbs moving quickly under the table.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

Seungmin glances up. “Hey, can you come with me to the hospital later? It’s time for my check-up.”

Felix answers before his brain catches up. “I have to go grocery shopping after work.”

The words leave his mouth too easily. He gulps air and quickly adds, “I mean—because I have an online cooking class later.”

He forces a casual shrug and adds, “But I can drop you off first.”

Seungmin have a sip of water and then nods. “That works,” he says, then goes back to eating.

Felix exhales quietly. His phone buzzes and looks down to check.

You: I want a silver Lexus.

Felix’s eyebrow shoots up, baffled. His phone buzzes again a second later.

You: Chocolate-covered strawberries.

This time, one corner of Felix’s mouth quirks up in a faint smirk. Then, another text comes.

You: And condoms.

Felix nearly chokes on air in that. He stares at the screen, struggling to contain his smile.

Across from him, Seungmin sighs. “Man, it feels like forever we haven’t properly hanging out together,” he says lightly, but there’s something under it.

Guilt pokes at him. Felix locks his phone and sets it down. He leans forward as he softly says, “It’s not like that.”

Felix doesn’t mean to lie but since he’s already been lying and he doesn’t have any option but to keep lying. He scrambles for something convincing. Something that fits the version of himself he’s been selling. “I just… after the breakup, I didn’t want to sit around feeling miserable. So I signed up for stuff. You know, just to keep me distracted,” he says.

Seungmin’s expression softens at that. “That makes sense.”

Felix nods, doubling down. “We can hang out next week. Properly. I promise.”

Seungmin brightens immediately. “Yeah? Hopefully I’ll get this cast off soon.”

“You will,” Felix says firmly. “You’ll be back on your feet before you know it.”

Felix means that. He hopes that Seungmin gets to walk properly without cast soon and already planning on making the time to hang out with him next week.

“I happen to know this great wine bar,” he excitedly shares, picking up his phone to show Seungmin.

“Don’t tell me they serve jalapeno flavored wine or something,” Seungmin says with suspicion in his eyes.

“Sadly no. But they have great selection of reds,” Felix moves his fingers so fast to send the link to the wine bar he mentioned to Seungmin.

He presses send at the same at the same time Seungmin stands and says, “Bathroom.”

Felix nods, already composing a reply to you. Telling you no to the silver Lexus but yes to the two other things. But your reply comes even faster than he expected. He unlocks it fast.

You: ??

You: Are you getting wine for tonight?

Wait…

Felix freezes as he realizes something. He sent the link to the wine bar to you and that means…

His eyes move slowly to Seungmin’s phone. He taps on the screen and it lights up. Enough for him to see the notification.

Felix: Y/n, I’m afraid the silver Lexus is also out of my budget but I’ll happily buy the chocolate-covered strawberries and condoms.

For a full second, his brain empties and then it detonates. He sent it to Seungmin. He sent it. To Seungmin. His heart slams so hard he feels it in his throat. From his peripheral vision, Felix catches Seungmin is already making his way back to their table.

Without thinking—without even processing the insanity of it—Felix lunges forward, grabs Seungmin’s phone off the table, and slides it straight into his own pocket. He sits back down. Posture straight. Feigns composed.

Felix forces a smile that feels stapled to his face. “How was the pee? I mean, did you pee? How was the restroom trip?”

Seungmin chuckles as he picks up his chopsticks. “Uneventful. Five stars. Would recommend.”

Felix laughs. Too loud. His pulse is roaring in his ears. And inside, everything is unraveling.

-

Back in the office, Felix feels like he’s walking around with a live grenade in his coat pocket.

Seungmin is beside him, passionately talking about the video game he’s been into lately. “—and then the boss fight switches phases, and I swear I almost threw my controller—are you even listening?”

Felix nods automatically. “Mm. Yeah. That’s crazy.”

He has no idea what phase means because all he can feel is the rectangular weight of Seungmin’s phone in his coat pocket. Still there. Still incriminating. Still buzzing with the text preview that absolutely cannot exist.

Seungmin keeps talking as they step into the office space, blissfully unaware that his phone is not in his possesion. “Anyway, I think you’d like it. You’re into strategy stuff.”

“Right,” Felix says faintly.

Strategy. Yes. He should try that sometime. They walk past desks, coworkers, the hum of keyboards and printers. Seungmin veers toward his office, still rambling about video games.

Felix slows and then pivots toward your desk. As expected, you’re there with your eyes glued to your phone, expression distant in that way that means you are absolutely not to be disturbed. He knows this. He has learned this the hard way. Still, he marches over and knocks rapidly against your desk.

You don’t look up and just flick your fingers in his direction. “Go away.”

He knocks again. Harder. Frantic.

You heavily sigh, finally looking at him with a glare sharp enough to cut paper. “You know what happens to people who bother me while I’m—”

“It’s urgent,” he blurts.

You narrow your eyes. “I swear to God, if you—"

He doesn’t give you time to finish the threat. He reaches across, grabs your hand. Your skin is warm on his cold, clammy hand.

You look genuinely offended. “You don’t get to—”

But he’s already pulling you toward the empty meeting room down the hall. Not too far. Not too hidden. Just private enough.

The door clicks shut behind you. Felix runs a hand through his hair and tries not to hyperventilate. “I did something bad,” he swallows air before adding, “Really bad.”

You cross your arms and look at him with those bored eyes of yours. “Do I look like I care?”

He swallows air again. “You should be.”

“What on earth did you do?” You ask, eyes turning intense.

He opens his mouth Nothing comes out. After a while, he tries again. “I sent the text to the wrong person.”

“What text?”

“The one about me buying you the chocolate-covered strawberries and condom.”

Silence passes for a brief moment and then your face drains. “You what?”

“I sent it to Seungmin,” he rushes, he learns that it’s best to just go with it, alive or not. “I meant to send it to you and I didn’t check and I pressed send and then his phone chimed and I looked and it said my name and—”

You actually gasp. A real, horrified gasp.

Felix feels faint as he adds miserably, “I explicitly mentioned your name and the condoms.”

You stare at him like he’s just confessed to treason. “Felix.”

“I know!”

“Felix.”

“I know!!!”

He turns away from you, pacing once, twice. His heart is pounding so loud he can hear it in his ears. He turns facing you now, using his body to shield what he’s going to pull out of his coat pocket.

Your eyes widen in fresh disbelief. “Did you steal his phone?”

He winces. “Borrowed.”

“You stole his phone.”

Before he can react, you snatch it from his hand. “We should fling it out the window.”

“What? No!” He grabs your wrist before you can even consider moving. “He’ll get suspicious.”

“It’s called eliminating evidence.”

“It’s called getting arrested!”

You glare at each other for a beat. Then you exhale sharply. “Fine. What are we going to do?”

Felix winces again because his plan involves on you knowing how to unlock Seungmin’s phone. “I stole his phone because I was hoping you knew the password.”

You stare at him with fiery eyes. “Why would I know his password?”

“You’re his paralegal. You… I don’t know. Maybe Seungmin once shared his password with you,” he vaguely reason.

“That doesn’t mean I have biometric access to his life!”

Felix’s panic spikes. As if summoned by his anxiety, the phone suddenly lights up in your hand, ringing. The contact’s name flashes the screen. Office.

Oh, no. Seungmin has realized. Somewhere out there, his best friend is standing in the hallway, patting down pockets, wondering where his phone in. And then—

“Felix?” Seungmin’s voice echoes faintly from outside as he calls for Felix.

Felix’s heart actually skips.

He looks at you.

You look at him.

“This is your fault,” you hiss under your breath.

“Please just—figure out the password,” he whispers urgently.

“How?”

“Guess! He’s predictable!”

The phone keeps ringing and Seungming keeps calling for Felix.

Felix backs toward the door. “You find a way to delete the text and I’ll distract him.”

“You’re leaving the evidence with me?” you whisper-shout.

But he’s already opening the door, stepping into the hallway and forcing his face into something that resembles calm as Seungmin rounds the corner, brows slightly furrowed.

Felix offers a bright, almost blinding smile. “Hey, Seungmin, my best friend. Looking for… me?”

-

Felix is sweating through his shirt. Not visibly. Hopefully not visibly. But inside? Absolute monsoon.

He’s crouched beside Seungmin’s desk, pretending to check under cabinets while his pulse ricochets against his skull. Anxiety buzzes under his skin like static electricity. He cannot focus. He cannot breathe normally. He cannot stop imagining the words condom and your name lighting up Seungmin’s screen in bold betrayal.

“Maybe it’s under here?” Seungmin mutters, limping slightly as he checks behind his chair.

Felix pops up too fast. “Yeah. Could be.”

It is definitely not under there. Because it’s currently in your possession. Hopefully unlocked. Hopefully erased. Please.

They search for an eternity that is probably six minutes. Then Seungmin straightens, frowning. “Maybe I left it at the restaurant.”

Felix’s stomach plummets as his mind rushes through every possibility. One of them is the restaurant offers to check the CCTV only to show that his best friend, the one Seungmin had lunch with, was the one stealing his phone.

“No,” Felix blurts.

Seungmin looks at him. “No?”

Felix forces a thoughtful expression. “I don’t think you brought it. To lunch.”

Seungmin tilts his head, doubting him. “I’m pretty sure I did.”

Felix shakes his head immediately. Too immediately. “I didn’t see it. You were talking about the video game and your hospital check-up later—yeah. I don’t remember seeing it.”

Seungmin studies him for a second too long.

Felix feels sweat gather at the base of his spine.

Then Seungmin exhales and stares out of the window of his office. “Maybe I left it somewhere around the firm.”

“Yes,” Felix agrees eagerly. “Probably here.”

Seungmin nods slowly. “Yeah. I’ve been distracted.”

Felix nods so hard his neck might snap.

They resume searching. Seungmin checks drawers, the kitchenette, even the copy room. Felix trails him, useless, eyes darting around the firm. Where are you? Did you unlock it? Did you smash it? Did you fake a fire drill?

Felix’s heart beating faster, louder as they’re running out of places to search in. He can feel the truth looming and the fact that he’ll eventually have to confess. Eventually Seungmin will look at him with that betrayed, hurt that Felix cannot survive.

And then, you appear, walking down the hallway like nothing is wrong. And there, in your hand is Seungmin’s phone.

Felix’s entire body locks. Horror floods him.

You stop a few feet away and calmly ask, “Hey, bozos. Are you looking for this?” you ask, holding Seungmin’s phone in the air.

Felix forgets how to swallow.

Seungmin exhales in relief. “Yes. Oh my god. Where was it?”

Felix’s lungs burn.

You glance at Felix once and then back at Seungmin. “You left it on my desk before lunch.”

Felix almost chokes on nothing.

Seungmin doesn’t doubt it for a second. He walks up, taking it from your hand with total trust. “Ah. That makes sense.”

Felix watches in slow motion as Seungmin unlocks his phone. The screen lights up, his thumb scrolling through the notifications. Emails. Missed calls. Texts.

Felix’s vision tunnels. He feels his knees weaken.

Then Seungmin turns around, smiling faintly. “Thanks, both of you. I swear my brain isn’t working lately.”

Felix laughs, too loud. “It happens.”

Seungmin heads back toward his office, already unlocking another email, completely at peace.

The moment he disappears behind the door, Felix turns to you. With a slightly trembling, quivering voice, he says. “You just saved the day.”

You only smile a knowing, triumphant smile and say, “It’s what I do. Every damn day.”

With that, you walk back to your desk like this was a minor inconvenience. Like you didn’t just save his entire life.

Felix stands there for a second, heart still racing, adrenaline slowly draining from his limbs.

Then he exhales for what feels like the first time in an hour. He walks back to his office on unsteady legs. Closes the door. Leans against it. Relief floods him so hard it almost hurts.

He is never texting again.

Ever.

-

Felix decides two things that evening.

One: he is never stealing a phone again.

Two: if he survives this secret casual relationship, it will be because he controls what he can control.

Like cooking.

“Okay,” Felix says, tying the apron around your waist. “We’re starting simple. Knife skills.”

You glance at him. “I know how to hold a knife.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

You scoff.

He demonstrates first to you. His fingers curled under, blade rocking smoothly, precise little slices. Then, he hands you the knife.

You grip the way a killer would to stab their victim.

Felix watches you position your fingers flat against the vegetable and immediately steps in. “No, no, you’re going to lose a fingertip. Like this.” He gently adjusts your hand, tucking your fingers inward. “Claw grip.”

You stare at your hand like it’s doing advanced calculus and try again. The slices come out uneven. Slightly aggressive. A little chaotic.

Felix instinctively reaches over you. “Let me—”

You stop and straighten, irritation flashing across your face. “You know what? Just do it yourself.”

Ah. There it is. Felix pulls his hands back immediately. Abort mission. “No, you’re doing fine. Yeah,” he corrects himself quickly.

You raise an eyebrow, shoulders still hunched like you’re about to jump at him and tear him limb to limb.

He softens his tone. “Just do what feels right. I’ll just… guide.”

You narrow your eyes like you’re deciding whether to stab him or the carrot.

That’s when Felix learned that he should treat you like you are a five-year-old who will absolutely throw the knife across the room if told you’re wrong. He leans against the counter instead of hovering and patiently guides you from the side. “Try slowing down. Smaller movements.”

You cut again. Still uneven. But less violent.

“There you go,” he says immediately.

You glance at him suspiciously.

“That one was better,” he genuinely says with a smile.

You huff, but you adjust your grip. It’s not perfect. It’s not symmetrical. But it’s progress.

Felix watches carefully, resisting every instinct to micromanage. He offers small corrections in a tone that doesn’t poke at your pride.

And somehow…

You listen and the rest of the cooking flows smoother than he expects. You measure ingredients without arguing. You stir when he tells you to stir. You even taste and adjust seasoning when he suggests it.

At one point you glance up at him and say, “Is that enough salt?”

He tastes and nods. “Yeah. That’s good.”

And in that moment, something warm settles in his chest.

You’re stubborn. You’re easily irritated. You threaten to quit every five minutes. But when you decide to do something, you do it properly. You don’t half-try. You don’t give up. You listen. You adapt. You execute.

And apparently, you’re capable of following his lead.

-

Felix lights the small candle in the center of the table like he’s hosting a cooking show no one asked for.

You sit across from him, surprisingly calm, hands folded while he brings out the wine. He chose it with ridiculous care after reading three reviews and watched one very intense sommelier video at 2 a.m.

He sets the bottle down gently. “So, this one’s from a cooler region, which means the acidity is brighter. You’ll taste dark cherry, maybe a little spice. It pairs well with what we made because—” he drones on and on, slipping into lecture mode,

You’re actually listening and watching him, chin propped on your hand. And it throws him off for half a second.

He clears his throat and continues, explaining tannins and aging like he didn’t almost commit corporate espionage six hours ago. Then he carefully pours the red into your glasses. Then he sits and lifts his glass. He opens his mouth to initiate a toast. “To—”

However, you’re already sipping. Then you lower the glass, completely unbothered.

He awkwardly brings his own glass to his lips and takes a sip too, pretending that was the plan all along. He sets the glass down.

You don’t wait to dig into the food you cooked. You take a little bit of everything onto your plate.

Felix should begin as well but he’s been dying to ask you about something. And since you’re relaxed right now because eating softens you, makes you less guarded. He leans forward slightly and asks, “May I ask how did you do it?”

You take your time chewing and then ask back. “Do what?”

“Unlock Seungmin’s phone.”

You swallow and take a smaller bite. Then casually say, “There’s a tutorial on YouTube.”

Felix grips the stem of his wine glass. “Sorry, what?”

“There’s a tutorial on how to unlock a phone. It’s not that hard,” you answer, adding a coy shrug at the end of the sentence.

Earlier today he was spiraling toward emotional collapse. He was sweating through existential dread. And you were… watching YouTube.

He exhales a small laugh of disbelief. “You watched a tutorial video? On how to unlock a phone? On Youtube.”

You nod, sipping wine. “Yeah.”

Felix leans back in his chair, shaking his head. The solution was that simple. He nearly died of panic while you calmly followed instructions from someone named… probably something absurd. And yet, he’s impressed.

You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t panic. You didn’t scold him to death. You handled it well. Too well. And if he’s being honest, he wouldn’t have survived today without you.

With that, he finally lifts his spoon and takes a proper bite of dinner and it hits him—

Oh?

Oh!

He looks at you slowly.

“This is… delicious,” he sincerely says in awe.

Still in disbelief, Felix scoops more with his spoon and eat it. it’s good. Everything is perfectly balanced.

“Like, seriously. So good,” he says again, utterly impressed.

You don’t react immediately, but the corner of your mouth lifts. You knew. Of course you knew. You take a small sip of wine, eyes steady on his.

“Congratulations,” you say.

He frowns. “For what?”

“For being my villain origin story.”

Felix chokes slightly. “Your what?”

You tilt your head, gaze sharp and amused. “No one can stop me now.”

He stares at you, confused. But he understands the energy. That triumphant hum under the skin. You both dodged a bullet today. Actually, two bullets for Felix personally.

One: Seungmin.

Two: surviving a cooking lesson without getting stabbed.

Felix feels absurdly proud of you. Of himself. Of this ridiculous partnership.

He picks up his wine glass again. “Okay. Proper toast this time.”

You mirror him, lifting yours.

He smiles, softer now. “To you. For saving the world.”

You smirk. “And to user mortimer21 on YouTube.”

Felix laughs. “Yes. To user mortimer21.”

You clink glasses and you both sip your hard-earned wine.

The candle flickers between you. The room feels warm. The night stretches ahead.

Felix leans back in his chair, watching you over the rim of his glass. He has a feeling that tonight is going to end well.

-

Later that night, the world feels… suspended.

It might be the wine. It might be the food you cooked together. It might be the reckless relief of surviving something that could have detonated both your lives. Whatever it is, it buzzes between you.

Felix barely remembers how you both ended up on the sofa. One second you’re finishing the last of your wine, the next your mouth is on his, and he’s walking you backward until your knees hit the couch. You fall onto it with a soft exhale and he follows.

There’s no rush. No frantic edge like earlier. Just heat and tension that keeps building. He kisses you deeply, savoring the way you respond, the way your fingers curl into his shirt like you can’t stand the layers between your bodies.

You’re pinned beneath him, but not fragile. Never fragile. Your hands move quickly, impatiently, popping open the buttons of his shirt one by one.

Felix breaks the kiss only to finish the job himself. He shrugs the shirt off, tosses it somewhere behind him without looking.

When he lowers himself back over you, you softly gasp. Your legs wrap around his waist.

He exhales slowly against your mouth because it feels good. Too damn good. It’s the warmth of your body under him. The way your fingers traling down the hair leading down into his slacks. The faint taste of wine still lingering on your lips.

He presses closer, grinding subtly, feeling himself harden as he rubs against you. The friction builds, slow and intoxicating. Your fingers slide into his hair, pulling him back down into another kiss that feels deeper, heavier, charged with everything you didn’t say at dinner.

His hand moves along your waist, then lower, fingers slipping under the hem of your blouse and then—

He hears the faint sound of footsteps. But he ignores it thinking that maybe he imagined it.

You don’t seem to notice as well, too focused on dragging your nails lightly down his back.

Then, there’s a loud clatter of metal hitting tiles, cans rolling across the floor. Both of you immediately stop moving.

Felix lifts his head slowly and you turn yours at the same time. There, by the entryway with grocery bag tipped over and canned drinks scattered across the floor, is Seungmin. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide.

Staring at you—beneath Felix.

At your legs wrapped around him.

At Felix shirtless, hovering over you.

The room goes dead silent.

Felix’s heart drops straight into his stomach.

Seungmin doesn’t blink.

And neither do you.

After what feels like eternity, Seungmin closes his mouth.

When he opens it a second later, he curses, out loud. “WHAT THE F—"

-

✨ CONFLICT OF INTEREST: FINAL CHAPTER is available on Patreon ✨

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His hair has fallen over his forehead, making him seem boyish. You need to stop staring, but though your intellect reminds you that the elixir has probably run out and you should take more, you can’t make your feet move away. Your hand reaches of its own accord to brush his hair out of his eyes. The long lashes fan out on his skin and your fingers linger, reveling in the feel of his hair; soft and thick. Still mildly damp from a shower, he smells more like soap than whatever faerie scent encompasses the building.

Sleeping Beauty flashes through your mind’s eye, his lips tempting. You take a deep breath, one more pass of your hand through his hair before starting to straighten and leave him.

Your arm is grabbed and you’re yanked down and around, and before you can react (you are still half-awake) you are sitting on his legs, wrists both gripped in his hands. He sits up, breath short and eyes locked onto you.

“It’s just me,” you whisper, feeling stupid for getting caught staring at him (how moony-eyed can you be?). “Just 문외한.”

His hands loosen and his head drops as he lets out a dry chuckle. “Just 문외한.” There is a pause and you feel his legs shift restlessly under you before he raises his eyes back to yours. “Why are you up?”

“Thirsty.”

He nods slowly, his thumbs now rubbing your wrists. He looks across the room to another clock.

"Well enough. We should get going." He doesn't move, nor do you.

You're sitting on his legs. You can't quite compute that, that intimacy of sitting on a partner's lap, them taking your weight.

His hands still encircle your wrists. His eyes never waver from yours.

“When did you get in?”

“An hour or so ago.”

“Why are you sleeping on the couch?”

He raises one eyebrow. “You want to wake with a man sleeping next to you?”

Yes.

You bristle. “It’s your bed. And it’s plenty big enough.”

“You wouldn’t have swung out and hit me?” he asks playfully.

"Not too hard. And at least you'd be in a bed that fits you."

His grin is quick before it fades into thoughtfulness. His long stare makes you fidgety.

"I'm sorry I woke you. I slept the day away, you can't be all that rested." You don't know if a half-fae needs more or less sleep than a human. Seungmin often napped when you drove, chasing some story.

"I'm fine." He cocks his head to the side. "Where's the driven reporter, ready to chase every lead, no rest needed?"

"She recognizes she needs you at your best. If we're to get anywhere today." You reach out to move his hair out of his eyes, even though he hasn't let go of you. "You still look tired. How on earth could you even hear me? I was so quiet."

His eyes soften. “I can smell you. I’d have to be dead not to be aware of you. Even sleeping.” He closes his eyes and rests his forehead against yours. “You need more tonic.”

“Or not.” You can barely hear your own voice. Foreheads touching, all you can smell is him, hear his breath, practically taste him. "I think that tolerance you spoke of is kicking in." You move closer a little.

He stills, but doesn’t move away. “You’re still susceptible, 문외한.” He shudders when you lean in to warm your nose in the crook of his neck. He finally lets go of your wrists, and you rest your hands on his chest, absorbing his heat. “As much as I want you, we need to prepare. I don’t know what this evening will bring.” His words don’t match his actions as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close.

You breath him in, hearing his 'as much as I want you' loop in you mind. His scent overpowers the fae air, like you've . Your lips seek his skin, a quick taste as if to prove there is no way he could taste as good as he smells.

Your heart pounds when you kiss his neck again. His arms tighten around you.

“Nakkeo,” you hear in your ear. It’s both pained and wanting. His cheek rubs against yours as he moves, lips pursuing, until you’re molded together.

It's like time freezes for a moment when his lips meet yours.

Soft, indescribably soft and opulent. Neither of you move, as though to do so would rip through the suspended fragility.

But then he moves, mouth brushing yours.

It's heat. Searingly hot and when his tongue seeks, you are helpless to resist.

Your hands run along and around his torso to splay on his back. He bends his legs up, so you slide closer to him. He holds your face in his hands, angling your head to kiss deeper, and though it’s demanding, it’s slow-going as though he is savoring you along with still being mostly asleep.

He drops one hand to your thigh, reminding you that you are still in only his t-shirt, and your underwear. He curses, words you know and taste as his lips barely leave yours to voice them.

"I should have found you bottoms," he mutters, hand sliding up to your hip, darting under the fabric of his shirt. "I should have—"

You cut him off, moving his hand to where you ache. He jerks at the contact, but doesn't pull away. He gazes at you, one finger sliding along the damp barrier between you and him.

"Hyunjin…" your voice is thready, desperate. "Please." His finger catches the edge of the gusset, catches and holds, unmoving. Your hips buck by instinct, craving more. You capture his face in your hands, kissing, tasting.

The lightest touch along your entrance, making you whine. He kisses you, pressing a little harder on your clit. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders as he continues.

"Wanted you," he murmurs, in between kisses along your jaw and down your neck. "The moment I saw you."

"Cause I'm human?" You can barely speak when one finger slides into you, his thumb still playing your clit gently.

"Hardly." He raises his eyes to yours. "You more dangerous to me as a human that you realize."

"How on earth am I—" He presses that spot deep in you, stroking with ease. Is he good at this through experience or just being magical? You don't know. You want to ask, but breathing is difficult right now.

He nibbles along your collarbone, and you rock in rhythm with his hand.

It doesn't take much longer. If you were in your right mind, you'd be embarrassed at how easily you fall apart in his hands.

He covers your mouth with his to as you pant, your orgasm breaking through then falling into bliss. You shudder, slumping into him. He kisses your forehead, your closed eyelids, your nose.

"Pretty," he whispers. You blink a few times at him, making him laugh. "Good, then?"

You attempt a scoff. "Good he asks." You kiss him back, coasting on the endorphins, savoring how he lingers and takes his time with kissing. His fingers, wet with you, grip your thighs, the only evidence that he craves as you do.

"Humans invented kissing," he murmurs.

You draw back, surprised. "We did?"

He nods, humming his affirmative. "Amidst all the terrible that humanity can inflict, isn't it nice that someone stumbled into someone else, lips first and found something so lovely?"

"What about the fae?" you ask, hands sliding down his chest. "Nothing invented like kissing?"

He nuzzles you, sucking lightly under the curve of your jaw. "I think some of the more deviant forms of pleasure can be attributed to the fae. Only they would come up with some of that."

"Like what—" You're too curious for your own good and it doesn't matter because he's kissing you again, lips moving, hands tightening with one drifting up the front of your (his) shirt to cover your breast. You moan at the contact.

Not to be outdone by his talented hands, you tuck yours under the waistband of his pajama pants to find him hard.

"Nakkeo."

"Let me." You lean in to kiss him again, he melts into you as you stroke him. "Let me."

"Would rather be inside you." He removes your hand carefully, his thumb caressing your palm.

"Okay." You want that too, you don't need much persuasion. You go to pull off your (his) shirt, but he stops you. "What is it?"

“We can’t.”

“Pretty sure we can.” You look down. "Felt pretty much the same as a human to me."

He chuckles. “Allow me to rephrase. We can, but we shouldn’t.”

You bump his nose with yours, your mouth taking his hotly. “I disagree.”

He smooths your hair with one hand, gripping the back of it to pull you away firmly. “Seungmin.”

Your arms drop. “I hate you.”

He kisses you again, lingering before pulling back reluctantly. “We need to find Seungmin…when we do…” Another kiss, desperate. “Well, we’ll see.” He ushers you to your feet and off of him. He pushes himself up.

"Are you sure you shouldn't nap for a bit?" His eyes look tired, skin a bit pale even with the sun coming through the curtains. You worry.

He looks down at you, fingers coming to hold your chin. "I doubt I'll sleep." His expression is pointed and you blush despite yourself. His mouth lingers on your cheek. "Too many thoughts of you." When he draws back, his fingers drop from your skin and he looks away, as though embarrassed.

"Hyunjin, I—"

"Get dressed," he cuts you off. "We'll need some supplies today. You alright carrying a small rucksack?"

"Of course." His change in subject throws you. Your body is still humming from his touch and he's walking toward his cabinet of tinctures and tonics. "You think who we see tonight will be worse than Duri?"

"Nam-gil. Yes. Or just as awful, but in a different way." He fills said small rucksack and hands it to you. "Please, I know you prefer to ask questions, but I beg of you tonight to stay quiet."

You lift your chin, ready to argue.

"If you see, or know Seungmin is there, rescue him. Let me deal with Nam-gil."

"You think he'll be with…this fae?"

"It seems likely." He heads to his bedroom and stops at the unmade bed. Staring.

"What is it?"

"I can smell you. Your scent lingers on my sheets." He glances at his hand, reminding you where those fingers where just minutes ago.

"I'll…grab my trousers," you slip by him, gathering your clothes and then slipping back into the main room. He reaching out to catch your arm. "I thought we were going."

"We are, we are…" he stares down at you, as though you're something to figure out. He then shakes his head, before pulling you into his arms. "I…sometimes I don't believe you're real."

The idea that he, half-human and half-fae, finds you to be the unbelievable thing makes you want to laugh, but being in his arms stirs up everything again and you tug down his collar to kiss the exposed skin.

"Dangerous," he says again before releasing you. "Dress, and we'll find something to eat and be on our way." He shuts the door to his bedroom, leaving you in the living area, a mix of hormones and worry.

Seungmin. You need to find Seungmin.

Then perhaps things will return to normal.

ch. 6

© yoongihan 2026. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans. 

Umbra Xenobiology Solutions. A mouthful of a name plastered across a massive building on the edge of a sleepy college town. With its tall barbed-wire fences and small windows, the property gives off a prison-like atmosphere. Beneath the logo, a slogan glows in clean white letters: Research First. It was the first sentence on the website, in their brochures, and even in the billboard ads. A phrase polished, yet so secretive. 

For all their sleek professionalism, no one outside the walls actually knew what was being researched. The company released no public papers, no press statements, not even a single tour. Yet locals agreed on one thing: Umbra secured your future if they hired you.

You were no different from the thousands who applied the moment internships opened. You had the credentials. From glowing recommendation letters from professors who adored you, hundreds of volunteer hours logged and verified, fluency in sign language, and a double major. Psychology and speech pathology. A strange combination to some, but Umbra seemed to love it.

Two weeks after submitting your application, you learned why.

A lead executive assigned you to Project Fenrir, located on the fifth floor of the facility. The name alone conjured images of wolves; maybe it would be some behavioral study involving canines. You didn’t specialize in animal psychology, though you figured you could still be useful. Collect data and observe behavioral patterns. Nothing too complicated.

Then, after hours of legal paperwork to swear confidentiality, they handed you a stack of files.

Right there, printed in bold black ink on the top, was a species you had never seen in any textbook: Homo sapiens lycanthropus.

A lycanthrope, or more commonly known as a werewolf. 

A creature you had only ever encountered in folklore listed in a clinical font as if it were just another primate subspecies. Umbra had discovered them. Several, judging by the spreadsheet on page ten that listed more than a handful of subject numbers. All tucked away behind reinforced doors and layers of non-disclosure agreements.

Now you would work with one.

Today is more of the same. Half a leftover breakfast sandwich and straight black gas station coffee that had sat too long in the pot filled your stomach. You donned a soft, cozy sweater to keep you warm in the lab, paired with nice black dress slacks to keep it as professional as a college graduate can. The sound of your heels is the only noise in the long hallway after the first security clearance. Once past the second door, you’ll reach the offices. You barely spend time in your assigned cubicle. Usually emails in the morning, typing up all your session notes after lunch, and answering another round of emails that dropped in after observation hours. 

However, Doctor Richardson is a new addition to your routine today. 

He stands at your desk, in conversation with another associate. You don’t even know their name. Everyone here keeps to themselves, heads down, focused on work, trying to mind their own to stay off the board of director’s radar. The money Umbra paid for your silence could fulfill even the wildest of dreams, and only a fool would risk their job security.

If a company can buy your devotion, what can they do when you are a threat?

Probably a question you should have focused on instead of being lost in the daze of numbers on your first paycheck. 

You clear your throat as you close the remaining distance to your desk. “Good morning, doctor. Are you here for me?”

“Ah! Exactly the person I was waiting for.” He answers with a smile. “I was going to join you on your climb upstairs.” He supplies, tucking his hands into his long white lab coat. “If that’s not too much trouble?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head lightly. “Let me put down my jacket, and we can go. I don’t want to keep you.”

“It’s appreciated.”

Even if Doctor Richardson is your supervisor, you don’t see him in person often. You met him once on your first day, then a handful of times throughout the months. Most of your interactions are his brief replies to your long emails. Though his showing up today causes your heart rate to spike. You approached the board of directors with a request, and perhaps they have reached a decision. Surely if it was a no, it would have been an email response. 

Quickly, you move around him. Jacket placed on the back of your chair, lunchbox placed momentarily on your desk as you reach for a slotted tote bag next to your computer. Inside are your notepads, pens, a folder of worksheets, and two children’s books. All materials issued by the facility are required to remain on the property. Even a single pen leaving with you will result in termination.

It takes a second to double-check all the supplies are still inside your bag. The lunchbox you brought slides in perfectly at the top. You offer a weak smile, slinging the straps of the bag onto your shoulder. “After you, doctor."

Doctor Richardson spins on his heel, leading the way to the ominous elevator sitting at the end of the maze of cubicles. You follow eagerly as if his own shadow and as silent as one, watching him tap his name badge against the reader. The two rows of buttons for each floor light up thanks to his expanded access. He presses on floor five, where your subject resides. It’s different when you use your badge; only one floor will be accessible. From eavesdropping, you learned that each floor is a designated project for the company. It helps with organization and keeps people’s clearance simple. 

The soft ding from the elevator announces your arrival on the floor. Doors open, and the environment differs from downstairs. Gone are the carpeted floors, the stationed cubicles, the vending machines, and the break room that make the workplace appear like any other office setting. Up here is more clinical. White hallways with harsh fluorescent lighting. Tiled floors that shine with pristine care. Which is expected for a facility that has experiments. 

Instead of a laboratory, there are rooms. No, isolation cells. There are eight on this floor. Every cell has large, wide one-way windows, revealing every single one houses a werewolf under Project Fenrir. You guys stop in front of the cell you spend most of your time in. 

Doctor Richardson finally expands on why he visited you in person today. “I just wanted to say the board thinks you’re doing wonderful with subject 325. As a result, we’ve permitted your request.”

Time stops for you. As his words take hold, your breath catches in your throat. The request was approved by the committee. It actually got approved. You asked for extended teaching sessions with the subject, stating the more comfortable he was, the more progress you could make with his lessons. 

Subject 325 responds well to you. The exact words Doctor Richardson used on multiple occasions. As much as that is true, the werewolf only prefers you because you don’t poke and prod him for bloodwork. Unlike the scientists, you don’t push him to his limit with strength and endurance tests. You don’t call him by his computer-generated subject number. 

No, you call him by his name, the one you worked with him to learn. 

“Now,” Richardson retrieved a small electronic card from his pocket. A special access name badge with a built-in keycard just for you. One to use whenever you want instead of being forced to request entry from security. He offers it to you, continuing to speak in a firm tone. “With this responsibility, you may extend your time with him only if he continues to improve. If he declines, we will revoke the card. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” You say, nodding while taking the card. “Thank you and the board for the consideration. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’m glad to hear that. You have real potential here. Keep up that great work, and perhaps one day you can join those on the committee.”

Your gaze isn’t even on your supervisor anymore. It’s locked onto the windows of Chan’s so-called room. There is no way he can see you two, nor hear you, and he sure as hell shouldn’t be able to smell you with the level eight bulletproof glass separating you. He’s a specimen, kept from the elements and most contaminants. 

Regardless of what you know is impossible, Chan perks up from where he sits, gaze boring into the window where you stand. Despite the strong fluorescent lights, his eyes were wide, pupils expanded so much that only a small part of the brown was noticeable. He rises to his feet a second later, face full of confusion, glancing between the digital clock on the wall and back to the window. It’s too early for you to be here. You come around his scheduled lunchtime at noon. Currently, it’s only a little after nine. 

The werewolf hesitantly takes steps toward the window. It’s not the same movement as if he were sneaking up on prey; it’s more cautious. Maybe concerned that he won't find what he's looking for on the other side of the glass.

A speaker above you crackles with the sound of whining. Chan is growing distressed. The rise and fall of his chest is shallower than before as his breathing becomes quicker, not quite hyperventilating but close. Although the key card consists mostly of thin hard plastic, it feels heavy in your hand. You could go in there right now to confirm Chan’s suspicions. However, you remain rooted to your spot, observing the new behavior. 

Chan begins to pace. Bare feet padding to the door and back to the window. It’s frantic, reminiscent of how your dog circles back and forth from the front window to the door, excited that you’re finally home after a long day. 

It’s confirmed. 

He knows it’s you. 

Somehow he knows and is growing impatient. 

“Sir,” you say with a polite smile on your face. “I apologize for cutting this conversation short, but I’d like to get there and get started.”

“Oh, of course," he answers, giving one last glance at Chan. A hint of disgust crosses his features before he reins his true feelings back in. You don’t call him out; instead, let him say his parting words. “Keep in mind what we’ve discussed. If you have any concerns, please reach out to us.”

And then what? 

Your so-called ‘concerns’ go ignored again? You fought multiple times with the head of security over the forced sedation. Chan only reacts violently to the medication because he’s terrified. Then he wakes up with lost time and less trust. None of this helps his temperament. 

The real question is, how can you look at Chan and be proud of the work you do? Just because you don’t hurt him doesn’t mean you help him. You are an accomplice to everything that happens. Arguably, the worst person out of everyone because of your kindness. 

This is not a life here for Chan or any of the creatures stuck here. He’s a bug under a microscope of people who couldn’t care about his happiness. 

If anything, you can at least try to make Chan’s day better. 

With a swipe of the new card, the chamber door opens. Chan backs away out of precaution, in case it’s not you. It wouldn’t be the first time security has come in to collect him with tasers out, looking for any excuse for conflict. 

His lips curl up into a wide smile, a dimple popping up on one side of his cheek. The tense shoulders relax now that he knows it’s safe. Still, he doesn’t move until you step inside and the heavy metal door shuts and locks back into place. 

Chan is upon you a second later, arms wrapped tight around your body, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His cold nose presses against your skin as he inhales the scent there. A range of vanilla from the shampoo you use, the jasmine in the body wash, and white lily from a perfume paired with your own natural scent. Despite his human form, he holds onto a lot of canine traits. Scent is a primary one based on the research you read. It helps them hunt, sense danger, and find their way back to each other. 

For him, your combination melds together, reminding him of his freedom, of his home away from this awful place. Reminds him of simpler times of waking up to a sun cresting over the mountains as he lies in the grass. So you allow him to remain in your hold, seeking solace in the comfort your scent brings him. 

You force yourself to think of anything else, not wanting to cry about his captivity once more. Those moments are for when you can’t sleep at night as your moral compass haunts you. Not here when the werewolf in front of you needs a distraction. 

Rather than sitting in negative thoughts, you focus on Chan. He settled on a clump of white fur stuck in the fibers of your otherwise red sweater. A soft giggle slips through your lips. “Do you smell Henry? I swear I can’t get all the dog hair off.”

Chan pulls away without a response, moving to the table in the middle of the room. Two chairs sit on either side. It’s where most of the lessons take place. The blank paper and crayons are scattered on top. It appears he finally caved and started drawing since you left yesterday. 

You come closer, thanking him for the way he pulls out your chair like a gentleman, sitting you down for dinner. He moves around the table, plopping down in his own chair. With a blue crayon in hand, he writes in legible and precise handwriting that he’s practiced for hours with you on the top of a blank sheet: Why are you here so early? 

“I got some good news for us.” You reply while placing your tote bag at your feet. “I talked to some of the higher-ups, and they’re allowing me more time with you. You’ll be seeing me more.”

Chan smirks before jotting down another sentence: I’ll have to check my schedule.

“Don’t be a brat!” You say with playful anger. It’s nice seeing more of Chan’s personality shine through after all this time. Hopefully, this means he’ll be more receptive to your learning plan. “But this means I need you to try harder, okay?”

His smile falters. A loud sigh fills the room as he dramatically throws his head back. It’s understandable; he’s tired of the routine. Language lessons, speech therapy, and sign language practice. Day in and day out. He’s come so far, but not to Umbra’s standards yet. 

“Chan, I mean it.” You say, leaning forward to place your hand over his. “That's why they’re allowing it.” Your voice gets softer, pulling his attention back to you. “Plus, don’t you want to talk to me?”

He finds his crayon to scribble across the paper once more: I talk to you. 

“With your mouth, Chan. I know you have a beautiful voice. I want to hear it.”

A few specialists above you have examined Chan. His vocal cords are intact and developed. He can scream, hum, and groan just fine. There is no reason he shouldn’t be able to speak. At first, you assumed he didn’t want to. Umbra took him from his home, and now he is a prisoner. No one in his circumstances would want to chat. Selective mutism was another possibility. Being in a foreign place, he doesn’t feel safe. The anxiety or fear could be triggering him, resulting in him being unable to speak even if he’s comfortable with you. If that’s the case, then he may never find his voice. 

Part of you holds out hope it'll happen. 

For now, you will continue the lessons. The sign language is slow going, but Chan picks up unfamiliar words. He knows the main language the company uses and can transcribe it thanks to you. You have normal conversations every day with him as if he were a regular man at his age. 

He's not a fool, though. 

When interviewed or interrogated by board members, he will respond with simple answers. There is no elaborating. There is no communication about himself or others of his kind. Chan is protecting his species. He is well aware of what these humans want, and the last thing he’s going to do is endanger anyone else to these monsters. This protection extends to you as well. You are part of this company. Chan may have more trust in you than the rest of the humans, but he is aware of who you answer to. He shuts down the more you press to find out, building up those walls to keep himself secure. 

Though in times like today, you get brief glimpses when you peek through the cracks. Your eyes scan over the images Chan drew. There are eight wolves in total. Each with different fur colors and markings. Chan has mixed shades of crayons to differentiate them all. 

You pull the page closer to you. “I’ve never seen so many wolves together.” 

The page you hold has a thin, nimble, yellow wolf. He’s followed by an orange one that’s a tad larger. Then two brown wolves appear to be playing together. The only difference is that one has red spots along its fur. 

You move to the other page. Another yellow wolf that Chan clarifies is actually white. It’s playing with two grayish wolves, and finally, at the bottom is a large black wolf watching over the entire group. Chan extends his hand, pointing at the lone wolf and then to himself. 

“Oh?” You smile at him, understanding what he’s trying to communicate. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Chan’s plush lips curl up in a smile as he nods. The mood in the room shifts a few seconds later; broad shoulders sink as his smile falls. Chan stares at the drawn wolves with a sense of longing. He lets out a shaky breath, focusing fully on himself to collect his bearings. 

Part of you wants to change the subject. Get his mind off ‌his loneliness. De-escalate his emotions to an easier topic. However, the looming presence of the company is so loud in the silent room. You have to push for the answers they want. If you don’t, Chan is going to lose the one thing he can take for granted will be for him in this hellscape. 

You lean over the drawing, fingers brushing along one of the smaller brown wolves. “Who is this? Are they part of your family?”

He ponders his answer, head tilting to the side. You watch silently as he draws lines to connect each of the wolves together but places a little ‘x’ on each of the lines. The very first symbol he learned is for no. The wolves are connected, just not as a family. 

You attempt to supply an answer. “Are they your pack? Is that it?”

Chan’s eyes light up at the word. He makes a fist with his hand, moving it up and down a couple of times: yes. 

The lump in your throat is hard to swallow. Your body is fighting to keep the words from leaving your lips. “Did you let yourself get caught so your pack would be safe?”

Chan’s expression shifts, lips turning down into a grimace, and nods. He’s so selfless, the more you think about it. The werewolf formed a pack and became a leader, losing everything to protect his own with no idea about their well-being. He sacrificed himself, and now he’s a lab rat being tested on.

“I’m sorry, Chan.” You reply, fighting to keep your voice stable. “I know it’s hard being here.”

Chan reaches for the crayons once more. His frame hunches over ‌his drawing. You sink back in your chair, observing the character he adds to his image. This time it’s a human, one with a red shirt and black pants, the very same colors you currently are wearing, placed right next to his wolf. He circles them with a green circle and then draws an arrow from his feet towards the edge of the sheet. Once Chan finishes, he sits back, eyes on you. 

“You want me to take you somewhere?” You ask curiously. Chan’s arm raises, and he points towards the door. In response, you attempt again to say what he wants so that you understand. “You want me to take you out of the room?”

Chan lets out a moan and gestures toward the door once more, with more aggression. Then it all clicks together. Freedom. Pain blossoms in your heart like a bruise. He wants his freedom. Your voice comes out softer. The cameras recording are going to pick it up regardless, but still you try. “You want me to take you away from here?”

The werewolf nods. He places his dominant hand against the center of his chest and rubs in a circular motion to sign a word: Please. 

“Chan, I can’t. They’ll hurt you and then hurt me if I try.” You sigh as you respond. As though a strongman showing off his muscles, Chan lifts his arms in a flex. He follows it up with chomping his teeth. It’s not enough. You give a headshake. “Honey, you're weaker in this form. The security has padding and weapons.” 

The sound of a shutter door opening and closing provides a perfect segue for the conversation to shift. “Here, let’s change the subject and have lunch. You’re hungry, right? I’ll grab your food.”

Chan exhales in a huff, offended that you would offer to get the tray. He stands while placing a firm hand on your shoulder to push you back down into your chair. The look of disbelief remains on his face as he crosses the room to where a deposit box sits for his cell. 

You roll your eyes when he's not looking. He often refuses to let you help him. For his species, many of them are hyper-independent. Typically, the pack will hunt separately, but the alpha will drag food back for those who are ill or too old to fend for themselves. Even if he doesn’t hunt anymore, the collection of the tray is still his responsibility. 

He joins you once more, eager to see what the staff has given him. When in human form, werewolves can adopt an omnivore diet. However, in order to keep their strength, higher protein levels must be maintained. If the company does nothing else right, Umbra recognizes and accepts that.

Chan is giddy when seeing the slab of cooked meat when lifting the metal cloche, keeping the food warm. He’s less interested in the steamed carrots and boxed juice. Still, you encourage him. “There’s a new juice to try. It's a mixed berry.”

Immediately, he places the juice next to you, a scowl etched on his face. You giggle in response before placing it back on his tray. “Hey now, it doesn’t necessarily mean there are blueberries in there.”

His upper lip curls up in a snarl. There is no aggression against it, only playful banter. It keeps your heart warm as you retrieve your own lunch. On occasion, Chan will be curious about the food you bring. He mostly critiques that you don’t have enough meat and says there should be far fewer plants. Despite hating most of your diet, he gets excited on days you bring in something new he hasn’t heard of. His personal favorites so far are fresh strawberries and the chocolate pudding cups you occasionally bring. 

“Today is a special day for us. It's been a year since I’ve met you, so I brought you something.” You say with a soft smile. Chan’s head lifts when you open the plastic container. There’s an unfamiliar smell for him. His nose crinkles ‌curiously as he sniffs the air. “We call it pineapple. I don’t know if you’ll like it. The fruit grows with a tough skin, and this yellow part is acidic. It’s how the fruit protects itself.”

Cautiously, Chan reaches for a piece to plop in his mouth when the container is offered. He chews for a second before his eyes go wide and his face lights up. Both hands rise up immediately, fingers opening and closing repeatedly to demand more of the pineapple.

You giggle, handing the fruit over to him. “I knew you’d like it. Have all of it.”

Chan accepts the fruit with a content hum to himself. The smile stays glued onto your face to where your cheeks hurt. He’s come so far with his temperament. When you first worked with Chan, he refused to acknowledge your presence. You were beneath him, not worth his time. He wouldn’t even glance over when you sat at the table in the center of the room. Every day you state why you were there in a calm voice and wait for the allotted session time to end. Nearly two agonizingly long weeks of the same thing passed until Chan realized you weren’t going anywhere. 

The first time he sat across from you, his demeanor was the opposite of today. His eye contact burned through you with the heat of the sun to intimidate you. The broad frame sat like a rock with how tense he was. He waited, almost ready to pounce, listening to you explain why you were here. Even after that, he still wouldn’t move or react, assuming some sort of trick was being played. Everyone else here hurt him, so he assumed it was only a matter of time until you would. 

The door to the isolation room opening pulls you from your memories. Chan is already on his feet before anyone steps in. He places himself between the door and your sitting frame, creating a wall of protection. The behavior is instinctual. He's ensuring that the food you hunted, or in this case brought, isn't taken away from you. A low growl from him fills the room as four security guards walk in. 

The electrical hum of tasers being turned on causes you to shoot out of your seat, knocking the chair over. Your voice rises with the anger coursing through you at the immediate hostility. “We’re having lunch!”

“It’ll have to wait," one man answers. “325 is needed upstairs.”

When you attempt to pass Chan to defend him, he simply pushes you back with brief acknowledgment. Dread quickly fills you when the group of men comes closer. This isn’t going to end well. Your voice becomes desperate when you speak. “He fights because you use aggression! He’ll behave if you ask him!”

“We’ll take it up with Richardson.”

It’s hard to tell who strikes first. The room erupts in a fit of screaming. Chan manages to tackle one guard despite two tasers connecting with his skin. Another hooks his arm around Chan’s neck to cut off his air supply, forcing him to let go so he can claw at the padded forearm. 

“Chan, don’t fight!” You cry out, tears running down your cheeks, hearing his choking gasps. “Don’t hurt him! Please!”

It takes all four men to subdue Chan. At some point in the scuffle, one of the security guards pulled out an emergency tranquilizer. He sticks Chan right in the meaty part of his biceps. The werewolf immediately settles in their hold, growing weak. His eyes roll back into his head, his body becoming limp and easier for the men to manhandle. 

The group exits with the werewolf in tow, leaving the cell quiet minus your panicked breathing. Today is a breaking point. Umbra isn’t doing anything for the sake of science here. Chan doesn’t deserve this. You need to get him out of here. Even if it’s the last thing you do. 

The plan for Chan's escape took months to come to fruition. Initially, the idea of breaking him out seemed impossible. Doors with double key card access, security cameras and alarms, and an imposing 8-foot perimeter fence topped with extensive barbed wire. 

What if you could walk him out?

The longer you observed how the company operated, the more you noticed little cracks in the framework. Associates finished mundane tasks haphazardly. Because of time restraints and security's laziness, some records are forged. Everyone was comfortable in their position. As long as the board of operatives received the requested results, no one batted an eye. 

No one would watch a new intern who already proved their compliance. 

Especially on a government holiday that most of the staff took off, minus a handful of security. Two in particular that you spent the last week flirting with guard the entrance you wanted to use. You also learned that security has clearance to open all cells to help staff. There would be no need to use your keycard left at your desk. These two guards would also be the only ones at this end of the building. It would be a shame if you slipped sedatives into the break room coffee and offered them both a cup while batting your eyelashes. 

Not even two minutes after consuming the tainted coffee, both men dropped like sacks of potatoes, feet crumbling underneath them. You didn’t hesitate, reaching for both key cards clipped to their belts. The plan was proceeding as intended. You left the break room straight to the elevator up. All the motions were a blur until the doors chimed on your arrival on the fifth floor.   

Even if it was the same floor you knew, it was darker this time around. Not all the artificial lights were in use, and the lack of workers left the silence deafening. Your feet barely connected with the floor, the balls of your feet only touching long enough to propel you down the hallway quickly. As you arrive at Chan’s chamber, that's when the rush of the entire plan finally courses through your body. Shaky fingers of yours fumble to grip the key card correctly. The red error light only stirs agitation in you. You don’t have room for mistakes. It's impossible to know how long the security guards will remain unconscious. The longer this process takes, the higher the chance of others catching wind. 

You take a deep breath before sliding the keycard once more. This time, you successfully opened the door. An automated message plays, the very one heard a million times, telling everyone to stand clear. You don’t wait long, forcing yourself to prop against the doorjamb where the sensor will recognize a human is blocking it and refuse to close.   

Chan is in a corner of his room, finishing a set of pushups. He rises to his feet, face contorting into a look of surprise at seeing you. He’s shirtless, with the pajama pants issued to him hanging low on his hips. His skin was flushed red from his ears to his hips. Sweat dripped from his messy curls on his head. Veins in his arms are more pronounced thanks to his ongoing workout that you interrupted.  

He’s a carved god. 

He’s beautiful. 

Your breath hitches the longer you take him in. Some sort of feeling twists in the pit of your gut. A foreign feeling that may not be nerves; rather, it’s some attraction you still battle with to keep your relationship professional. You mentally fight to shut down any distracting feelings. That’s not why you are here. You need to pull it together and get him out of here. 

You force yourself to speak. “Come on. Let’s go.”

The werewolf’s feet remain glued to the floor. He lets out a chirp while scanning the wall clock before returning his gaze to you. With a raised eyebrow, he seemed to ask why you were here. It’s late, he’s already had dinner, and no tests run into the evening. 

“Chan,” you say firmly. “We don’t have time. Come with me.”

His head shakes, feet shuffling backwards, further into his room, until the backs of his calves knock into the base of his bed. A small noise of distress leaves him. He knows to be suspicious. This could be a trap, another test to check how obedient he is. 

“Please, Chan. You wanted out, right?”

He clenches both hands into fists, extending his index fingers. One digit strikes the other, signing a word: Can’t. 

“Yes, you can," you plead, trying to keep your frustration in check. He’s scared. Of course, he’s scared. You told him what would happen if he tried to leave. Still, you insist. “We must leave now. We won't get another chance."

He never sees you acting aggressively or in distress. When he struggles with every aspect of his daily lessons, you have never yelled at him or shown your annoyance. Here you are now, acting in a way that is unfamiliar to him. Another high-pitched, panic-tinged whine emerges from the back of his throat. It’s a wretched noise you wish never to hear again. 

He wants to trust his favorite human. 

God, he wants to. 

Yet, he doesn’t move. 

An automated voice comes from above you. “Please keep all cell doors clear.”

You can’t hold the door open for much longer. The defense system is seconds away from kicking in. Not only will cell doors shut, but all hallways will lock regardless of security clearance. Then you two will be trapped, and the security guards in the next tower will receive an alert. 

“Chan, come on.” You say while maintaining eye contact with him. There’s no telling what the company will do, and you don’t want to find out. The words you speak are more honest than they’ve ever been. “If we don’t go now, they’ll kill both of us.” 

The threat to your safety gets him moving. He quickly shuffles his bare feet on the tile. You extend your hand with a smile. “Yes! Good boy. A few more steps.”

His large palm is warm in yours. Your grip tightens as you turn on your heel to drag him along to the elevator. Even though you may use this hallway almost daily, the same few steps seem three times as long tonight. Chan continues to follow closely behind you, whining every few breaths. You want to comfort him, offer words of reassurance, or do anything to keep him quiet as you focus on getting him outside.  

On the ground floor, you are not greeted by either security guard. It’s a clear shot out of the building now. You tap both keycards on the sensor; a green light flashes, and the sound of the door unlocking rewards you. Chan finally realizes his freedom is achievable. The large, clear doors reveal the setting sun lowering behind the woods surrounding the building. He picks up speed, dragging you along to the last door. His whines shift into small, nervous hums as he waits for you with the cards. His eyes are wide, desperate that this isn’t some sick joke. The rise and fall of his chest quickens as you tap the last sensor. 

One door automatically opens. You drop the keycards at your feet and lead the werewolf through the threshold. The outside world is beautifully quiet. No cars on the interstate running parallel to the building. No birds chirping or annoying chittering insects. If anyone stepped out, all they would hear would be the two heartbeats pounding rabidly from the adrenaline of possibly being caught and the thrill of a successful escape. 

Now you have to create distance. 

Even if Chan could run free, far from this place, he stays in pace with you despite being barefoot. In no time are you two panting from exertion, and still you run deeper and deeper into the woods, determined to leave the facility until it’s nothing more than a tucked-away memory. 

Temporary safety is a crumbling cabin four miles south of the lab. The heat of the sun has long set below the horizon, plummeting temperatures low enough to make the tips of your ears hurt. Moonlight shines brightly through the breaks in the leaves, illuminating parts of the forest floor. 

The second part to secure Chan’s release happens now. You would wait here, collect your breath for a few minutes, and then head to the back where you stored a vehicle. Then you would be on the road, creating a larger gap and hopefully a trail the company will struggle to track. 

You scoped this location out weeks ago thanks to an aerial view you searched on an online map database. Storing the car was even easier. Whoever owned the property clearly considered the small buildings condemned and let time hopefully bring them to the ground instead of wasting resources. It was perfect. 

The inside of the cabin is dark. A few pieces of furniture long forgotten litter around the one-room cabin. You left a small battery-operated lantern when you brought the car. However, the light it throws falls short of any actual distance. It doesn’t matter; you don’t need it for long. Just until the cramp in your side goes away.

Chan hasn’t made much noise since entering the forest. He kept his head low, not even signing a response when you asked about his feet hiking in the woods. He used to tell passionate stories of running with his pack back home. No one was faster than him. His body could handle any terrain. Despite knowing all of that, you asked to be polite. A test to see where he is emotionally about being free. You expected excitement or a sense of drive to leave you behind to start a long journey home, even if he didn’t know where to start. There’s neither, just blind following as if he were a lost puppy. 

“We won’t be here long, okay?” You say more to yourself. 

Chan still doesn’t acknowledge you. He leans against one wall, eyes still trained on the ground. It could be in shock the more you think about it. A fight-or-flight response that is tied to his survival mode. It’ll have to run its course through his body. Once on the road, he can get some sleep, and that’ll help him relax. 

You kick off your shoes with a huff. Unlike Chan, the soles of your feet ache. All that time planning Chan’s freedom, and you forgot the one key detail of putting on a pair of athletic shoes that could withstand the hike. Tomorrow there will be several large blisters. Future you can worry about it later. 

A painful cry comes from behind you. You spin on your heel to see Chan slightly bent over, both arms wrapped around his middle. His jaw is clenched with a pained groan filling the room. Whatever is troubling him is getting worse. 

“Channie,” you ask, rushing over to him. “Are you okay?” 

A snarl slips past his lips as he finally meets your eyes. The angry gaze halts you just shy of touching him. His pupils shrink and expand repeatedly as if unable to adjust to the low light from the lantern. He’s begun to pant as fresh perspiration covers his forehead. 

“What is it? How can I help?”

Chan shakes his head, violently conveying a no. He doesn’t want help? You can’t help? Is it an effect of a test today out of anyone’s control? Maybe he needs to rest, sit, and let whatever is happening pass. 

His skin burns under your palm when you try to offer reassurance. Words don’t leave your lips, trapped in your throat at the sudden shove from Chan. The force he used is stronger than you expected, resulting in you landing on your ass across the room. He now has full-body trembles as his brown eyes frantically scan the room. You don’t need your ‌years of studying to recognize his behavior. He’s looking for an out, a way to get space away from you. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

Then, like a lightbulb turning on above your head, it all connects. 

He’s shifting. 

A full-body shift? 

That only means one thing. 

Your eyes land on your smartwatch as you bring your arm closer. Fingers tremble opening the calendar. Right there on tonight’s date confirms your worst fear. It has one added icon: a full moon.

No. No. No. 

You broke Chan out on a full moon. 

His hesitation back at the lab makes sense now. 

Chan wasn’t afraid of leaving. 

He was afraid of shifting while near you.

Chan’s noises become more distressed as he kneels. Howls of pain bounce off the walls of the small cabin as each of his limbs twists at unnatural angles. Bones snap loud as thunder, shifting under the skin to extend. Patches of black fur push through the layers of skin, slowly expanding to cover his body. Long, sharp, black nails extend out of his hands, forming claws that dig into the wood, easily scraping through the material as if tearing through a ripe peach. 

You watch in horror, paralyzed by the way his teeth extend into fully elongated canines. The familiar face shifts next, contorting as his snout extends and ears on the top of his head form. It takes nearly two minutes for the full transformation to occur. One you have only seen pictures of until now. Senior staff were the only ones permitted to observe full transformations behind several walls of glass to be safe. 

Plumes of air rise in the cold temperature around his mouth as he pants like a dog. His fully formed tail lightly sways behind him while the werewolf is taking stock of his being. Golden eyes scan the room before settling on your quivering body. 

“Chan?” You ask, voice timid. 

His head tilts to the side. Recognition, you hope. The stack of files never mentioned coherency during shifts. Chan wasn’t part of that study. He could be in this beast form and aware of you in front of him. Or, maybe he’s tucked far away, as the animal has its own independence. Regardless, this is a dangerous situation. One that you must tread carefully. 

The werewolf takes a step. Then another, slowly crawling to close the distance between the two of you. Your eyes focus on the floor, avoiding direct eye contact. Thoughts race in your head as you try to remember more of the information you consumed in his file. Werewolves share mannerisms with other species of canines. It could help you now. Avoiding eye contact is the first big tip you learned. Some species interpret direct eye contact as a threat or an initiation to challenge them.  

Warm breath fans over the crown of your head when Chan stops in front of you. His claws rest on either side of your thighs. Up close, you notice the way his onyx nails start deep in the nail beds, extending nearly two inches where the tips of his fingers once were. Your stomach sinks at the thought of damage he could do. 

Play this safe, you tell yourself. 

Slowly, you tilt your head to the side to expose more of your neck. Sweat from the journey clings to your skin, dotted right along your collarbone despite the cooler weather. Chan should be able to smell your natural body odor. Several breeds of canines can tell pack mates from their scent. Werewolves are similar in that regard as well. 

You gasp lightly at the faint brush of his nose in the crook of your neck. As motionless as a statue, you let him breathe you in for as long as he wants. Your daily ritual, he remembers. He should know it's you even if the wolf is in control. He’s spent the most time ‌with you out of everyone on the project. 

A surprise headbutt against your chest sends you falling backwards. Your head connects with the harsh wood, sending a sharp pain through the back of your skull down to your spine. The werewolf yips a playful sound with another head tilt. To his credit, you could argue he’s trying to play with you. 

Chan’s right hand presses down on your stomach before you can sit back up. The jutting claws dig through the thin shirt straight into your skin, just enough to be a warning. Stay where you are. Because if you don’t, a bit more pressure and your skin will tear as if it were paper.

In the next second, you cry out at the harsh tug on your waistband. The fabric of your jeans and underwear rips cleanly down. Out of reflex, your legs try to close at the first instance of cold air against your skin. Except Chan is quicker, using his wide chest to keep your most intimate area exposed to him. 

“Chan, what…?” Your words trail off. With gentle, controlled hands, your fingers wrap around his forearm. The fur here is coarse and thin compared to the rest of his body. His eyes connect with yours. It’s a hungry gaze. Confirmed by the way drool drips from his teeth. You may as well be a steak in front of him. There’s nothing but fear in your soft voice. “What are you doing?”

The ears on his head twitch; he’s heard you but doesn’t care as his snout slowly dips to prod at your pubic bone, not bothered by the small patch of hair there. Instead, he’s fascinated. Female werewolves have scent glands around their genitals. It’s where Chan knows pheromones should be when with a mate. 

Your breath catches at the sound of his curious sniffing traveling south. His cold, wet nose is jarring against your warm, flushed skin. This isn’t right; you need to stop this and need to get away. This entire night was a mistake. You should have waited for a different opportunity to break him out. 

The press of his rough tongue against your folds pulls you out of your thoughts. He’s tentative at first, lightly prodding, as if he’s testing the waters. However, despite how much you plead for your body to not react, a wetness forms from the stimulation. Chan gives a pleased hum of approval when tasting you. The hand on your stomach untangles from your grip with ease, moving down to your thigh, holding the squirming limb in place. His other hand mirrors, leaving your lower half pinned to the cabin floor. The supernatural strength keeps you from struggling and leaves him the perfect opportunity to shift his stance. He sinks lower between your thighs, nose pressed right against your clit, and tongue picking up speed the longer it swipes between your folds right across your hole, still determined to get more of you.

“Oh—Wait,” you whine, eyes wrenched shut, mind racing, thinking of anything to stop the growing arousal. “Ch—Chan, you can’t.”

The werewolf’s nose continues to grind against your sensitive clit with every swipe of his tongue, applying just enough pressure to aid the growing heat in your core. Your body tenses; the rush of pleasure is inevitable. This creature between your thighs is going to make you come, and time is running out to stop him. 

All you have to do is get him away for half a second. That’s all you would need for the rush to die out. Your shaky fingers reach between your legs to tangle in the soft fur on the crown of his head, right between his ears, and in one last attempt to push him away, you shove with all your might. 

Chan barely moves, unbothered by your effort, too hyper-focused on your taste. The sides of the invasive tongue slightly curl in on itself for easier access to dip deep inside your hole, the tip chasing the new wave of wetness that’s forming along your walls. Never in your life have you felt a sensation like this. It’s mind-melting, addictively intoxicating enough to neutralize any self-preservation as your orgasm overwhelms you. 

“Fuck,” you whine out, ‌trying to arch off the floor while you continue to battle your body over how euphoric this creature’s tongue feels. 

Much to your relief, Chan pulls away completely, head bowing to look between his thighs. While he’s distracted, you use the opportunity to sit up slowly, using the palms of your hands as leverage to scoot away and create distance. Unease creeps under your skin. Even in the pale light of the room, you can see what he’s staring at. 

His cock rests heavy between his legs, fully erect with more length and girth than any human man. Hell, it's bigger than most sex toys you have seen. The lump in your throat is hard to swallow the longer you look. Gears shift in your head. Chan is young for his kind, not even fully mature yet, meaning he’s yet to mate because of his captivity. 

Your heartbeat pounds in your ears at the thought. He’s expected to go through a werewolf puberty phase. A natural progression to be driven to breed with one of his kind. "Rut" is the word that the scientists have used. Stabilizers typically keep his hormones in check, though there are limits to how much he can take to avoid impeding his development. And judging by how his body is reacting, the doctors didn’t give Chan his medication this month.

Now here he is, a dilemma on his hands, and a body demanding he react. 

Chan’s gaze comes back to you, and with his heightened senses, his nostrils flare, taking in the smell of your arousal that’s still permeating the air in the space between you. 

It’s now or never. You need to get away from him. Tonight escalated far worse than it should have. Running away may be a death sentence, but you have to try even if it’s futile. 

At a snail’s pace, you rise to get on your feet. Chan mirrors, standing up straight on his rear legs. He is a bipedal werewolf. One that’s taller than you expect; the tips of his ears nearly brush against the ceiling of the room. The longer you take him in, the more you realize how tiny you are. You are no match for him; you barely come up to the middle of his broad chest. The width of his shoulders takes up an entire doorframe. If you let him catch you, there is no escaping. You push the thoughts away as you turn on your heel to face the exit of the room. 

One of Chan’s growls comes out. It’s low, rumbling deep in his chest, and reminds you of an irate dog giving one last warning before an attack. It stops you in your tracks, giving you time to recognize your error. 

He’s an apex predator. 

You have turned your back on him and not submitted yourself to him. 

It’s a challenge against him. 

You don’t wait any longer, pushing off the tips of your toes, bolting to cross the room, to the one door that could separate you from the werewolf. 

Half a second later, Chan crashes into your body with the force of a freight train, knocking all the air out of your lungs and successfully stunning you for a second. Adrenaline courses through your veins, keeping the fight inside you alive, burning like a raging wildfire. Your frame twists away from the snapping jaws in an attempt to get anywhere from his grasp. Though his sharp talon nails manage to hook into the thin material of your shirt, tearing it to mere strips of fabric as he scrambles to keep his hold on you. 

With all the strength you can manage, you push off the ground, trying to get your feet under you once more to get to that sweet safety that’s a few steps away. Chan is miles faster, using only a hand to swipe at your unsteady legs, sending you back to the floor in a pile of limbs. 

Before you can even acknowledge the pain from the fall, two burly, fur-covered forearms come into view, trapping you under his body. Chan, as a human, was already muscular from his daily exercise to pass his time. Now, in his true form, the extremities have far more mass and more definition. Truly a cage to keep you from escaping. 

You whimper in response to the sound of Chan snapping his jaw by your ear. It’s a polar opposite of the sweet man you know. He’s not the same soft guy who blushes when you bring him new food to eat or the one who gets dramatic when you start his daily lessons. He’s a complete stranger, a different being. 

This is a monster. 

Yes, you knew this side of him existed; it was inevitable he would shift, but he was going to be released before he needed to.

Chan’s sharp teeth are too close for comfort as he growls above you. Your eyes wrench shut, too scared to look at him, too scared of the bite that could occur. It wouldn’t kill you nor infect you; it’s the pain that terrifies you. 

Instead of the impending doom, you flinch reflexively as drool drips down onto your bare back as he assesses you under him. You are no wolf. However, he’s coherent and smart enough to know you are a human with a hole he can use. Your teeth sink deep into your tongue to fight the noise of distress trying to escape you at the sudden tug at the waistband of what remains of your jeans. Same as before, the rest of the denim shreds as effortlessly as before, leaving you completely bare under him. 

“Chan, please.” You beg again, trying to reach for the human part of him that is still in there. Your anguished voice is unrecognizable even to yourself. “Don’t do this. It doesn’t have to go further.”

If the werewolf understands your words, he doesn’t appear to care. Too busy scraping one of his claws repeatedly along the soft flesh of your hip, attempting to force you onto your hands and knees. The searing burn of the scratches is enough to make you comply. 

His knees slip between your legs, spreading you wider to accommodate his massive thighs. Anticipation of what is coming next causes your whole body to tremble under him. If your heart hammers any faster in your chest cavity, it may explode. Silently you pray it happens to escape this fate. 

Chan’s hips shift to angle his cock against you. Your breath catches at his first attempt to push inside. He really is going to try to bully his cock inside you. There is no physical way. You aren’t even prepared for a regular cock. 

“Chan, wait. You can’t…” Your words trail off, too distracted by the way the tip of his cock slips from the wetness, now nudging against your clit each time he thrusts forward. You can feel every ridge of the thick veins running along the length as he continues to rub so intimately against your folds, searching blindly for the hole he’s desperate to bury himself into. 

His noises of complaint fill the room with his growing frustration. It’s not right. He knows he needs to be inside. Though with his size he will rip you open. He could do irreparable damage. 

One of his hands moves to curl under you. The expanse of the wide claw covers your entire stomach as he brings you flush against his body. With a few more awkward shifts from his hips, the hot, angry tip of his cock finds home in the entrance he’s looking for.

“Ah, fuck.” You cry out as the girth of his cock forces your walls to accommodate around him. Your voice grows more wretched. “Channie, please!”

Thank goodness for the patience Chan suddenly found. Perhaps the beast understands the noises of discomfort slipping past your lips. Even though he doesn’t stop the whole ordeal, he waits to press another inch deeper inside only after your helpless noises quiet down. 

The following thrusts are timid initially. He drives his cock gently from the tip to the length he’s managed to sink into you. Each minute creeping by feels like hours, a never-ending cycle of moments that ignite the arousal in your core to the fear of another inch being pressed inside. 

When Chan makes the mistake of pulling out too far, you take the opportunity to attempt shifting your legs to sit down on your ass. It’s futile. Blocked not only by his thighs but also by the claw still resting against your stomach. The hold tightens, not allowing you to squirm away. He merely shifts you back where he wants you, cock easily pressing inside; this time he ruts quicker and quicker as his patience grows thin. 

Your breath catches as the sharp prick of teeth sinks into the back of your neck. Chan is unaffected by the hair in the way, only focusing on keeping his grip tight. Not enough to pierce through the soft skin. More globs of thick saliva drip from his mouth, caking into your hair and sliding down your neck. A low, tamer grumble follows, another warning, and another familiar trait among the wolves. 

Chan is scruffing you. 

Most of the time, a mother animal will scruff their young to carry or move them. It’s different with werewolves. This is a sign of dominance. A command for you to freeze and not move till he’s done. There are even studies at the facility showing mated pairs may scuff each other to calm their partners through distress. This instance is a mix of the two, especially with the warning noise he delivered. The last thing Chan wants right now is you moving away from his increasingly aggressive thrusts. He doesn’t understand it hurts, doesn’t understand how big he is for your human form. All he sees is more disobedience, and he won’t tolerate it. Not when he’s in control and not during the confusion of his rut. He knows he must breed, and you will accept it. 

Perhaps the werewolf is right.

The less you fight, the quicker he finishes, and the faster this whole affair will end. 

Chan’s thrusts are consistent thanks to the lack of your interference. Your pussy accepts his thick cock greedily, sheathing around him again. All of your attention is on the floorboards below you as you try your best to release the tension in your body. Accept him and his cock. That’s all you need to do right now. 

Just when you think you can handle the events of tonight, an additional issue arises. 

Chan’s cock appears to be growing at the base. 

No, bulging the more you focus. 

The last part of the mating process. 

Your human biology was never intended to accommodate a physical knot that werewolves have. Still, it doesn’t deter Chan from shoving as much of the bulging gland as he can into you. You cry out, feeling impossibly full, the tip of his cock pressing right against your cervix. No matter how you shift or squirm, there’s no way to dislodge yourself until the swelling goes down. Mercifully, the thrusts have stopped. Instead, Chan now grinds against you, giving himself just enough stimulation to reach his high. 

It’s a flood. No, more of a tsunami as warm seed erupts from his cock, adding to the uncomfortable pressure. You bring a hand to your lower stomach, moving his claw, now feeling where your body extends as more cum seeps inside of you. It’s dizzying and never-ending as his cock continues to pulsate inside of you. 

You sink to the floor, defeated and accepting your fate. You won’t be able to move for a while. Werewolves can stay locked together for hours to ensure the seed takes. Those in their rut can take even longer since their bodies aren’t used to mating. Chan is working on pure instinct with his muddy, hormone-fueled brain. He won’t understand he can’t get you pregnant. 

Speaking of said werewolf, he shifts his face, releasing his hold on your neck to drag his tongue against the planes of your sweaty back. Another recognizable behavior: He’s grooming you, showing you affection for the successful coital tie. 

The worst is over. 

By some miracle, you endured. 

Judging by the chime of your watch, it takes nearly an hour for the swelling to go down enough to unlock. You know, by the way your pussy begins leaking sperm around his softening cock. It’s a welcome relief.  

Chan doesn’t stop you from dislodging yourself away from his cock or when crawling out from underneath him. All of your movements are slow and cautious to not rile the werewolf, but accepting the adrenaline rush is long gone. The fatigue is settling into every muscle in your body.

You shift to sit on your ass a few feet shy of the beast. There's no care for your nudity, nor the filth of time caked onto the floorboards you rest on, and not even the mess still leaking between your thighs. All you want is to settle your racing heart. 

However, Chan’s rut continues to rage on. 

His snout presses against the wood flooring, right into the expanding trail of fluids, and he growls, offended at the way his hard work has spilled. This cum is supposed to stay inside of you. Thorough breeding is necessary. It’s the only way he can get pups. 

“Channie,” you plead, desperate as tears burn your lash line. “It won’t take. I’m human.”

A corner of his lip curls as he snarls. It’s a cruel, angry sound. You are disregarding his wants once more. The alpha wolf in the room. A new wave of panic courses through as he takes a step forward. He doesn’t make another noise. He doesn’t have to; you know what that piercing look means. 

No more games. 

You will take his cock a second time. 

You will stop fighting his mating attempt. 

“Okay,” you say softly, hands raised to halt him. “I understand.”

His golden eyes watch as your throbbing limbs shift. This time he’s not upset as you willingly turn away from him, back on your hands and knees. Your front presses flat against the wood. Both knees shift wider to leave room for him. The position is an invitation. You are presenting your pussy to the wolf, a universal sign of submission. 

Chan chuffs, happy at the display. His claws tap lightly against the flooring as he nears. Your heart thumps erratically in your chest in anticipation. Silently you pray to whatever higher being will listen that his second round will be quicker. Your pussy aches, still puffy and swollen from the abuse it’s endured. 

One claw comes down to rest next to one of your ears, followed by the other mirroring on the other side of your head. His firm stomach muscles press against your back, keeping him physically close to you while he stays mounted over you. 

This time around he doesn’t struggle to find your hole. His cock slides right in with a loud squelch. Your walls don’t fight his size anymore. The excessive amount of mixed fluids makes each of his cautious thrusts glide back and forth easily. You groan to yourself in disgust, hearing the drips from your pussy splatter against the wood flooring. There was so much of his cum, and still it wasn’t enough to satisfy his rut-filled brain. 

This night appears to be far from over unless you can help him along. 

One of your hands slips under your body, allowing your fingers to brush against your neglected clit. Jolts of pleasure run up your spine the longer you rub messy circles in the way you know will let your own orgasm rush over you.

It takes only a handful of seconds before your own moans slip past your lips. Chan whines high and pitifully when your tight walls spasm around his cock, trying to milk his cum out of him. He must love the sensation. His hips snap faster, trying to shove his knot back inside to feel this where he’s the most sensitive. Your plan is working. The knot is already swelling back up to its previous size. 

Call it guilt for the life he’s had in the facility, call it selfishness for wanting this to be over, or maybe it’s buried feelings locked deep in your heart that you refuse to acknowledge. Just justify the whole night how you want. Your fingers continue to rub through the fall of your orgasm, pushing for another. You know your body best; you can force another orgasm. 

You can give Chan what he wants. 

The pleasure he deserves. 

Those bulky forearms of his wobble as he struggles to not collapse on top of you. His head hangs right against your face. The soft fur tickles your cheek as he pants heavily from exertion. He’s getting as worn out as you. He must be right on the edge. 

Get him there, you say to yourself. Make it happen, and it’ll be over. 

With the perfect pressure against your clit, you dive headfirst over the edge. Your moans are shameless; no one else is here to witness you. Let yourself be honest and enjoy the pleasure. Accept the way Chan eagerly pushes his knot firmly against your hole to assure a successful lock back into place. Same as before, the hot seed gushes inside you as the werewolf above howls in satisfaction. It’s a rewarding rush of power as you ride out the entire length of your orgasm. 

Your own limbs are faring no better than his, now caving to fold under you from the exhaustion. You cry out at the harsh tug of the knot, unable to dislodge it. Though Chan sinks lower immediately to ease the pain for you. His soft fur is warm across the expanse of your body, enveloping you in a comforting, safe embrace. He rests his face against yours, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth to lightly drag over your cheek. He’s content, rut settling. 

The rest of the world feels worlds away. You know there is still the threat of the company on the horizon, but Chan needs time to shift back. Then you can get him out of here. It’ll just be delayed. There’s no telling how long until he's human again. Records stated his last full shift was five years ago. It’ll happen when his body is ready. You should stay awake to keep an eye on him. Yet, no matter how hard you fight, your eyelids close as you fall asleep. 

It’s hours later when you wake.

Mercifully, on the couch that was tucked away in the corner. Chan must have moved you when he shifted back. There’s heat cocooning your body. A moth-eaten blanket was tossed over you. You don’t care how old or dusty the cushioning might be. It’s a blessing after all the time spent on the wood flooring. 

Gradually, you assess your health. Every part of the body hurts. Besides soaking, a bath is necessary to remove the sticky mess between your legs. Overall, it's not intolerable. You still have a drive ahead of you and should be able to manage. You don’t have a choice though; the security guards are awake by now, and Chan isn’t safe yet. He needs to get out of these woods. 

Your eyes scan to the left. Next to you is a small corner table with two apples and a handful of wild berries that were not there last night. Chan must have left them as a gift. Dread sinks into the pit of your stomach the longer you stare at fruit. He left the cabin. He doesn’t know that the company owns drones that can scan the entire area. Not to mention plenty of thermal cameras. 

Where is he? 

You fight the fatigue to sit up, voice struggling to come out of your parched throat, “Channie?”

A human whine slips out across the room. 

Chan is in a corner. He’s tucked his limbs tightly against himself to be as small as he physically can be. His red, teary eyes briefly meet yours before falling back to the floor. He whimpers, something sad or hurt. He looks guilty and must feel it too. 

Your heart hurts; he remembers what occurred. His favorite human hurt by his own hand, the one person he trusted and felt safe with. Now unable to even look you in the eyes, worried about how you feel. Surely, he assumes anger, perhaps hatred, or even fear of his true self. 

Yet, there are none of those emotions flowing through you. Last night was your fault. You took him from that awful place at the worst possible moment. The animal inside him only acted as its biology told it to do. He can’t fight his own nature. 

“Chan?” You whisper, keeping your voice low. “It’s okay, honey.”

More heart-wrenching whines leave him. He turns his face away, burying it in the crook of his arm. His entire frame trembles as he begins to sob. You can’t even comprehend the emotional turmoil he’s going through. Werewolves mate for life unless in dire circumstances. Poor thing probably is wrestling a heavy conscience when he doesn’t need to. 

“Channie, come here," you say, firmer. A painful knot twists in your stomach. Not only does he need comfort, but after everything that occurred, you need him. "Please.”

Chan doesn’t rise to his feet when he finally moves. No, he scampers closer on all fours. He sits on the floor, physically as close as he can be, with his head low, anticipating some sort of punishment.  

It never comes, and it never will. 

“None of last night was your fault. I’m not upset," you say, with fingers tangling in his greasy curls to scratch at his scalp. His eyelids flutter shut. The touch is soothing, solacing enough for his crying to settle. It takes a few minutes for Chan’s tension to melt away. You only speak again once his breathing regulates. “We need to move soon.”

Chan pulls away as if your touch burns. His head shakes, telling you no. One of his hands comes up to his lips, signing a word: Eat. 

“I will," you answer. “But you shouldn’t have gone out.”

Chan huffs; it’s an offended sound. His eyebrows furrowed in frustration that he can’t communicate what he wants. His body twists, searching the room for anything the previous owners left so he could use it to help vocalize his response.

You bring a hand to his shoulder, softly squeezing the warm skin, “Don’t worry about it. I know what you're doing.”

He forgets the stacks of research you consumed over the year. The only reason he left the cabin was to find you food. It’s his job to provide a meal after a successful mating session. He knew enough about the human diet to not bring you a dead animal. Instead, he picked a safer option, one probably from memory with all the times you ate lunch with him. You shared countless apples with him, and the berries are similar to the blueberries you offered him despite his hatred for them. 

Once more Chan signs for you to eat. This time, more assertive. He pulls away to crawl across the room only to return with a bucket he must have found somewhere in the house. There’s water inside. He traveled to the nearby river you passed on the way here. 

“How long were you out there?” Your tone comes out more aggressive than intended. His eyes are wide with panic, taken aback. Plush lips start to part, but only a groan comes out instead of a word. He wants to plead his case. He doesn’t get the chance, not with your continuous prodding. “Did anyone see you? Did you hear anyone?”

Chan shakes his head, shoulders tense as the questions keep coming. His breathing becomes labored as the stress of your words overwhelms him. He slams the bucket down, causing you to flinch. Water sloshes over him onto the floor. He doesn’t particularly care, instead bringing his palm to cover your mouth, shushing the words of interrogation. 

The mood around you shifts. Chan’s cheeks are still puffy and tear-stained, though his eyes have narrowed. They’re not as round and curious. No, this gaze is serious, almost commanding. Similar to last night, when Chan established his power over you. He maintains the burning alpha wolf's gaze while his free hand blindly reaches for one of the apples to drop it into your palm.  

Heat spreads across your skin with how flustered you become. Sparks of arousal curl deep in your core. It’s followed by shame at how your body reacts to his display of dominance. It's a humbling reminder that you are no longer at the lab and Chan chooses to follow your lead. He can overpower you at any moment, but he doesn’t. All because he respects you. 

He releases his hold, and for one last time signs for you to eat. His eyes don’t leave yours; he doesn’t blink, just watching as you bring the apple to your mouth to take a bite. That appears to be enough to appease him, and he falls back to a seated position on the floor. 

Minus Chan’s nudity and dirty feet, he’s in good shape after his shift. This is good, very good for you. Occasionally, some werewolves fall into a deep slumber to recover. There was a genuine fear that you might have to try to move Chan’s bulky body, and you are in no shape to do so. 

“We have a long day ahead of us. How are you feeling?” You ask timidly before biting into the tart apple again. The werewolf at your feet merely shrugs in response. That's a good enough answer for you. You’ll finish this damn apple so his provider mentality is satisfied and then get moving. 

When tossing the blanket to the side, cold air sinks straight to the bone. It’s no different from dunking yourself straight into a lake in the middle of winter. Yes, it’s time to leave and never leave the warmth of the car heater. Damn Chan and his heightened body height. The cool weather is probably a blessing to his skin. 

“Help me up.” You say while slowly maneuvering your limbs to sit on the edge of the couch. “We have to get moving.”

Chan motions over to you and back to himself. You don’t need him to speak to understand. The lack of sunrise will keep the forest a maze. Both of you are nude, and in no shape to be back out in the woods. Especially you, with what you endured. 

“I planned ahead. Don’t worry. We just need to get me to the shed in the back.”

Instead of being a shoulder for you to lean on, Chan stands upright before reaching for your frame. His strong arms wrap around your middle, pulling you up and away. You gasp at the sudden display of strength, wrapping your arms around his neck and securing your legs tight around his hips. With one final adjustment of his hold, Chan sets off through the decapitated cabin and straight for the smaller building. 

The ice-cold cement slab the shed is built on burns against the blisters on your feet once they connect to the ground. You work quickly, hands reaching for the blue tarp you placed here a couple of nights ago. It slides off easily, revealing the car underneath. The vehicle is nearly two decades old. Bought with cash from a car lot two towns away to have no ties to you. It took a couple thousand dollars to make sure it would be up and running for the long journey, but at the end of the day the cost didn’t matter. Just as long as Chan was free. 

Slowly you hobble to make your way around to the trunk. Chan follows, hands outstretched around your frame just in case you were to fall. It’s charming how much care he has for you. Again, it’s part of the werewolf in him. In his culture, you two are bonded partners for life now. He could be shunned from his pack if anything bad happens to you. He doesn’t even know where they are, but the values instilled in him remain regardless. 

Could you handle a lifetime with Chan? 

Don’t you have the answer already? 

Your fingers search for the handle, and with some effort, the lid pops open. Inside the trunk are a few supplies. Mostly clothes and shoes. You reach in, grabbing the set for Chan first. He accepts the pants first, wasting no time to pull them on. The tee shirt is a bit tight for the broad frame, but he appears unaffected. Finally, he accepts a hoodie. It’s on the large side. Loose for him to hide in, including his face. You help zip it up before reaching around his neck to pull the hood up. 

It’s perfect.

Well, almost. The shoes are a lost cause because his feet don’t fit, but you don’t plan on bringing him anywhere near people. Not until you know it’s safe. Chan merely tosses them away. He’s always preferred being barefoot, anyway. He never used the lab-issued slip-ons the entire time he was there. 

To your surprise, Chan takes the sweatpants you packed for yourself and kneels at your feet. His touch is gentle, using one hand wrapped around your ankle to lift your foot up so he can guide your leg through. He mirrors the other before hoisting the waistband up to rest comfortably at your hips. His gaze lingers on your stomach. Even in the low light, he notices the several small cuts from where his claw pressed onto your skin. His lash line is wet as he gently covers your belly button with his palm. 

"No pups," you murmur. 

Chan lets out a relieved sigh. Another pressing question that had likely been bothering him was answered. He moves his hand only to quickly press his plush lips against each of the scabbed-over cuts. On the last one, he looks up at you, lips brushing your skin. He’s mouthing words, though no voice comes out: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

If only he knew how much guilt you were battling. There will be time in the future to heal and reflect. For now, you accept his words and allow him to help you dress if it eases his pain. The tasks appear to be a good distraction from the spiraling thoughts. He obeys your command to open the shed doors due to you not having the strength to fight the rotting wood. It gives you a moment to get the car running and warmer by the time he slips into the backseat with an excited chirp.

Yes, you feel the exhilaration too. It’s time to get the hell out. Your palms adjust their hold on the steering wheel as you pull onto the old dirt road. It’s bumpy and slowly being reclaimed by nature. Chan giggles in the back with every large dip, amused by how the car rocks. It’s a wonderful noise to hear. Once this is said and done, you’ll do everything in your power to hear all the time. 

Eventually, the lack of gasoline forces you to pull off the interstate. Chan’s stomach had been rumbling for the last hour, so a pit stop was needed. You could fuel up and find him some food for‌ both of you. Something more substantial than fruit. Then keep driving until you hit the hotel tucked right over the state line. 

Tucked off a few miles from the highway is a gas station you settle on. The building is no bigger than a two-car garage. Each of the walls is weathered from the years in operation. Several windows are boarded up with wood, and the roof has pieces of sheet metal used to repair leaks. Business probably only continues in service thanks to the random cars traveling through and a handful of locals. This is ideal; the chance of security cameras is low. People out here tend to mind their own business, and you will pay in cash. There is no way the company will know you were here. 

“Channie, I have to go inside for a minute.” You say while pulling out your stashed wallet in the center console. The cash is still confirmed inside. Your body twists toward the back to face him. “Will you be okay staying here?” 

Chan nods softly, face barely peeking from the hood. He doesn’t move from his lying position. 

Smart boy, he knows to hide. 

The store attendant doesn’t even acknowledge you entering, too invested in the newspaper he’s reading. You slink through the aisles, scanning the food. Two packages of jerky, one dusty can of pineapple, bottles of water, and a couple of overpriced handmade sandwiches from the cooler. It’ll hold you guys over until the next town. You don’t want to waste much time inside; you need to get back to Chan. 

Even at the register, the worker still doesn’t speak when you pay. Just a simple nod in acknowledgment at what pump the car is at. This guy is simply going through the motions, probably thinking about how long till his shift is over. It’s a blessing; you wanted to avoid painful small talk. 

Back outside, the sun is high in the sky. It’s a nice day. The weather is warming up despite how cold the temps dipped the previous night. Birds chirp in the distance. There’s not a cloud in the sky, you realize, as you silently pump the gas. Perhaps a sign of ‌better days ahead for you. The property you bought to remain under the radar is tucked away in the woods, nearly thirty minutes away from a one-stoplight town. There is genuine fear of how the company is going to react once they find out one of their test subjects is gone. You used most of your savings making it self-sufficient. Anything to make sure you don’t have to be seen. 

Will it last forever? No, but it’s enough until Chan decides what he wants to do with his life. 

Speaking of said werewolf, isn't he a little curious about the food you bought? 

Once securing the gas cap, you peek into the back seat. 

The familiar feeling of dread hits fast and hard. 

He’s not inside. 

“Chan!” Your voice cracks across the parking lot. The dirt parking lot has no fresh tire tracks, no strangers. Just dust and a pair of footprints trailing the opposite way from the car. The grocery bag slips from your fingers as fear turns the blood in your veins into ice. 

He’s gone. 

Just like that?

You scream louder this time. “Chan!”

A second later, Chan appears from the side of the building. He jogs back over to the car, head ducked low, shoulders tight. A sight similar to a dog with its tail tucked between its legs. Guilt written all over him. 

“I said stay in the car!” You exclaim, the anger in your voice thin and shaking. Loss, anger, and relief crash into you so hard your knees nearly give out. It’s a whirlwind. Nausea hits next, causing stomach acid to burn the back of your throat. “You should have waited. I was worried.”

Chan signs two words: Toilet. Sorry. 

He circles the car to grab the fallen bag. When he straightens, his hood slips off his head. Sunlight catches in his curls, wind teasing the brown strands, and it shows off all the different shades of color. 

Chan came back to you. 

He didn’t have to. 

It was the perfect opportunity to leave you behind. 

He is choosing to stay, right?

In a perfect world, he would find his pack and return to his family. Though that dream might be impossible. You don’t even know where Chan is originally from. Umbra ships creatures from around the world. The other werewolves could be oceans away. 

Now the insecurities inside you are trying to guilt you. You are all he knows now. He is still in survival mode. He’s accepted his fate. Being with you means he’s not a lab rat. Of course he would pick being out here. That thought stings more than the scratches healing on your hip. 

You want him to stay because he wants to. 

Maybe that’s selfish of you. 

The fear of losing him lingers in your chest, raw and undeniable. There is no shoving your feelings away anymore. You care for him. No, you love him. You would do anything for him. Able to see him here free, enjoying the sunshine, is priceless. Everything you have done and endured seems worth it. You would do it a million times over. This is what you wanted for him. 

For the first time, the voice you desperately wanted to hear speaks beside you. It's trembling, strained, and soft. “L—L—Love…You.”

The world stills. These are Chan’s first vocalized words to you. After a year of working every day. It’s not letters or numbers. Not rehearsed sounds practiced for hours at a time. Not a forced syllable squeezed out of frustration. All of it has paid off. 

He is expressing his true feelings.

You knew Chan was fond of you. Yes, you also knew of his deep emotional attachment. You aren’t blind. He sought you out in that horrible place. You were his comfort; of course he would grow attached. This makes your plan for his release harder on top of all your complicated feelings. The goal was to let him run free up in the thick woods near the mountain. Very few humans travel up there, so he could shift freely and safely from danger. There is a dense population of wildlife that would be perfect for him to hunt. Now you’re unsure if you could let him out there if he didn’t want to stay with you. 

“Chan,” you whisper.

His eyes stay on the ground like he expects the words to be wrong somehow. As if he’s bracing for correction. It isn’t perfect. It doesn’t have to be. Not when it’s music to your ears.

He swallows and tries again, stronger this time. “Love you.”

“I love you too, Channie.” You answer with tears burning your lash line. Cautiously bring a hand to his cheek, cupping his face before leaning close to place a soft kiss on his plush lips. Chan pulls away immediately, face flushing a deep shade of red, and gaze falling to the dirt below his feet. He’s shy about such sudden affection, but the wide smile on his face tells you he enjoyed it. 

“Come on.” You say with enthusiasm, turning to open the door for him. “We still have a long way to go.”

Chan slips into the passenger seat, closing the door behind himself. His eyes lock onto you, watching you walk around the front and enter on your side. He allows you to buckle his seatbelt without a struggle. His fingers fiddle with the cloth strap, completely distracted by the mechanism, curious how it works. 

And with that, you two are back on the road. 

If Chan minds the soft music playing, he doesn’t show it. He eats quietly beside you, scarfing down a sandwich and a bag of jerky in a handful of minutes. The pull tab on the can of pineapple gives him a small fight, but he chirps in excitement when realizing what’s inside. He eats one piece at a time with his fingers, savoring the fruit. 

The car ride was fairly silent after that. Chan rests his head against the cool glass, focused on the scenery passing by. Cautiously, you bring one of your hands to his, intertwining your fingers to hold. Out of your peripheral, he glances down at the hold and tightens the grip.

The two of you will figure out what to do about his next shift. Your new home has a basement. Though the idea of chaining him down doesn’t seem too appealing and is rather cruel, maybe he’ll understand. However, the real question is if you can werewolf-proof your home just in case it’s not enough to hold him. Sure, you live outside the city in the woods, but there are still neighbors miles down the road. 

Those thoughts don’t matter right now. 

After all, you have time until the next full moon. 

︎Abiaswreck | Do not copy, repost, or translate | As always, reblogs are appreciated! Feel free to comment, reblog with feedback, or send me an ask. I’d love to hear from you; it helps with motivation. I hope today is kind to you. <3

Any work is good work. 

Minho isn’t so sure that his father would say that as he crouches down next to the body on the living room floor. His thigh muscles protest, aching and tight from hours of sitting crouched across the street in the chill of a high-rise building waiting for his prey to enter this very building. 

Neon light bleeds through the foggy window behind him. The room is awash in watery pink as he pulls out his scanner with one hand and leans forward with the other, pressing his gloved fingers to the man's chin to push his head to the side. It rolls easily, giving a fleshy sound that might make someone squeamish as the man’s cheek hits the floor. 

Any work is good work, Minho thinks as he scans the man's non-existent pulse with his watch. He sees the blue ring of the biochip flash beneath cooling flesh, his watch flashing green with a soft buzz. The man’s entire life flashes on the screen - full name, date of birth, ID number, blood type, and place of work. Everything about him casts a sickly green glow on Minho’s sharp face.

Tapping a few buttons on the watch face, he waits, holding his wrist near his mouth as the sound of a dial tone chimes once. It’s silent in the apartment, though he can hear the hum of airborne traffic a few blocks off as the roar of adrenaline winds down. 

“Receiving,” a male voice answers. Minho doesn’t know who it is - he just knows he’s one of any of the Delegators who work for Collect Co. 

“Collection request number alpha-echo-tango-delta complete, served by Collector 102598.” 

“Collected alpha-echo-tango-delta confirmed. Please place a beacon before you leave. All credits for this Collection have been transferred to your account. Please wait five to seven business days before funds are available for use. Your next collection is in four hours, seven minutes, and eight United Seconds.” 

The line goes dead. The glow of the watch makes him squint before he can lower his brightness, scrolling to his bank account. He sees the credits added with a transaction pending. When he was a kid, the number glowing at the bottom of the screen to indicate his balance might have excited him. Now, it’s just a number on a screen that confirms the power won’t go out at his apartment and that he won’t go hungry.

Minho’s knees crack as he stands. He groans and leans backward, pressing his hands into the small of his back. A series of cracks slither up his spine, making his eyes roll back as he shuts them for a moment and shivers. 

He’s so goddamn sore.

Leaving the body on the carpet of the living area, he goes over to pick up the handgun resting on the counter. The energy weapon glows at his touch, syncing with his interface briefly before he holsters it inside his jacket. 

While he is technically within the law to eliminate targets for Collect Co., Minho finds that most people find it unsettling when Collectors walk around with weapons. He hasn’t given much thought to what people think about him, but it certainly causes a lot less trouble when he looks like an average businessman going to and from work instead of a licensed killer.

The gun isn’t technically legal, either. He would probably get away with it if a United Enforcer stopped him. The hitmen of the privately funded but government-sanctioned Collect Co., do not technically outrank the government’s militia, but no one with a badge is going to tell a Collector no. Not if they can help it, anyway.

Tossing a beacon on the counter for the cleanup crew to track to the apartment and get rid of the body and clean, Minho heads outside into the rain. He ducks his head down against it, water sliding off the slicker jacket he hugs a little tighter. He feels warmth kick in and his mouth twitches at the sign of the heating system in the body armor on his chest is doing its job. A nifty little upgrade from you, he knows. 

At the thought of you, Minho turns north toward the speed train, remembering that he needs an adjustment on his armor that is out of sync with his watch, and JumpPacks. He already used the last one about five hours ago and he feels the numbness of exhaustion buzzing at his edges, a warning sign that if he doesn’t get a jump or sleep he’s going to pass out.

Whichever comes first. 

Smears of color splash across the wet sidewalk as he jogs down the steps to the train. It smells wet and foul, making him tuck his chin to his chest as he rushes to the fast-closing door of the train. He steps over the threshold just as the doors clang shut, the hissing of an airlock barely finishing before it launches forward. 

He tenses to avoid being pitched forward into one of the standing railings. As the train rocks, the fluorescents above nearly blinding him, he finds a seat toward the back of an empty car. This late at night, there are only two other people in sight, both of them curled heaps of clothes on a seat, fast asleep. 

Sleep tugs at him the moment Minho sits down. He has a twenty-minute ride to North Ward Three, dropping his head against the back of the seat and closing his eyes. 

The light still hums behind his closed lids, making a splash of colors. There’s no sound save for the whine of the magnetic rail beneath his feet and the occasional mechanical creek as the vehicle sways. 

He melts into the seat a little, limbs loose. Fuck he needs a JumpPack. The last forty-eight hours awake are wearing him thin at the edges, stretching him like fabric over a surface far too wide. The forty-eight-hour mark is when he starts to decline, and as soon as he starts to creep toward seventy, he knows it’ll get messy. 

Minho is a lot of things, but he is ultimately human. The JumpPack can help him push beyond shaky hands, imagining things that aren’t there and the foggy thinking, but they won’t keep him sharp forever. 

As if proving his point, Minho hangs somewhere between awake and asleep, suspended in a dreamy space where he can still feel the rocking of the train but doesn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the pressure growing behind his eyes. 

He flinches when the chime echoes above him at the next stop, eyes flying wide for a moment as his gaze sweeps the train car, his hand on the inside of his jacket where he grips the handle of a very nice knife. 

No one enters the car. It’s just him and the other two sleeping people - he isn’t sure they’re even alive, really - and he relaxes, cursing at himself. This time when he drifts, he does so with a little more awareness, hand tucked warm against his chest and wrapped firmly around the blade.

It’s a unique little knife, snug in the sheath that’s buckled to the leather harness under his jacket. The handle is firm and made from non-conductive material that fits his exact grip from the meticulous measurements you took of his hand. You crafted the blade from a metal alloy you’d been playing around with and lined it with a highly conductive silver alloy you’d perfected.

When the button on the end of the handle is pressed, 5,000 volts of lethal electricity pulses through the sliver, finishing off a victim if he manages to fuck up a killing blow. It’s saved his life a few times in situations like now when he’s exhausted and his guard is blurry, or when someone has decided to make him the target for robbery. 

A lot of your little gadgets have saved his life. You like to remind him every time he visits you. He doesn’t mind, though. You’re an easy enough arms dealer - easier than anyone else in the city, really. You don’t ask the kind of questions that he doesn’t want to answer, and you’re always two steps ahead of him. Even your prices are fair, which he used to find suspicious. 

But Changbin and Jisung both swear by your tech and your business, and Minho is just happy that he doesn’t have to worry about you trying to give him a shitty deal or fuck him over. 

The Collection industry is made for fucking over. He knows the system can be fucked with, especially the closer to the top you get. 

Almost everyone tries to fuck Minho over. More than once he’s shown up as a Collection Request. He doesn’t know if it’s the system trying to clean up after itself or someone pulling strings to get him out of their way. It’s probably both, but every time it happens, he’s managed to evade it. 

A Reverse Collection, those in his industry call it. In a way, it’s sort of like a pop quiz. He gets attacked or shot at, and if he wins, he passes the test and reverses the Collection, earning him more time without any coworkers trying to murder him. The Delegators don’t seem to care which Collector murders the other, and he’s never suffered for coming out on top. 

Any work is good work. 

Minho snorts at the thought, feeling the deep twinge in his extremities as he rouses himself, the train coming to his stop. 

Rain sluices the streets in North Ward Three. Here, the streets are busier with an assault of people, smells, and sounds. LED umbrellas float along like jellyfish as people walk from pleasure house to food stand to fight arena. The hologram advertisements and neon signs are louder here, inescapable. 

“The United Republic stands for justice, equality, prosperity and freedom, bought by the noble sacrifice of the United Church. Join us today-” Minho presses the ad blocker on his watch. 

Immediately the holograms vanish and there’s just the neon watercolor reflecting off the umbrellas as he walks down the stairs of Neon Rodeo, the orange lights making his eyes throb as he reaches the door manned by two guards. 

They know him immediately but they scan the biochip in his neck anyway. When they’re pleased, they step aside and the door slides automatically, the base vibrating his ribcage as he steps into the dingy light, hesitating to let his eyes adjust.

True to the name, there is neon fucking everywhere. The servers are dressed in chaps with LED lights and glittering tassels, their cowboy hats flashing smiling faces on top of their head. The neon here is low-grade and covered in layers of dust, giving the air a dusky, burning sort of glow as he walks around tables.

Eyes follow him as he goes. The regulars are familiar with him, tipping their head in greeting though he doesn’t do more than watch them from the corner of his eyes. The servers all slow-smile at him, teeth too white and too glittering. He finds them more unsettling than attractive, and he quickens his step to the unmarked door at the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool.

Hyunjin is perhaps the most unsettling thing in the Neon Rodeo. His eyes are a strange grey, looking at Minho as he approaches. There is a predatory gaze in Hyunjin’s eyes that never fades, a sort of knowing in them that Minho can’t shake. Minho knows Hyunjin is entirely human, but every time he approaches the man, Minho is suddenly unsure. 

Nightcrawler.

Minho has heard the whispers about Hyunjin. He believes them, too. Everything about Hyunjin is like a carefully balanced blade, ready to tip in either direction. His senses are honed to perfection and he has a habit of both blending in and standing out depending on his mood. 

And he can kill. Minho has seen the lethal man in action a single time when someone tried to push past him into the Builder’s sanctuary. Hyunjin had been so fast that even Minho had a hard time keeping up, struck by how efficiently and quickly the former assassin moved.

Unnatural. Everything about him is uncanny, which is in line with everything Minho has heard about the underground sect of killers. What Minho does is legally sanctioned murder. The Nightcrawlers do something far more sinister, their skills going beyond the natural desire for order in the United Republic. 

Agents of disorder and chaos. That’s what some say. Minho isn’t sure where his opinion lands on the spectrum, but he gives them a healthy distance and respect either way.

Even the way Hyunjin sits on the barstool is unnatural, one foot kicked up on the bar between his legs, the other stretched out in front of him as he leans forward, his hand on the front lip of the seat. 

“Hello, Cowboy,” Hyunjin greets, voice deep and smooth. 

His hair is blonde today, slicked back out of his face, the ends touching his shoulders. He’s dressed in a black button-up with a cow print pattern across the shoulders and white, beaded tassels outlining the pattern. His dark pants are tight and he makes no effort to hide the gun on his waist or the knife handle peeking out the top of his cowboy boot.

“I don’t like when you call me that.”

Hyunjin’s smile makes the hair on Minho’s arms stand on end. “I know, but I like it.”

The guard makes no move to let Minho in and he tries not to show he’s irritated. By the way the grin spreads on Hyunjin’s face, Minho can safely assume he isn’t doing a great job. “Is the Builder in or not?” 

“Who is to say?” 

“Just tell her I’m here.” 

“If she’s in, she already knows.” Hyunjin nods toward an empty stool at the bar. “You can wait, Cowboy.” 

Gritting his teeth, Minho turns on his heel to sit on the stool a few feet away. Hyunjin’s uncanny eyes follow him, never leaving him once. Minho ignores him in favor of asking for water at the bar, the headache pressing behind his eyes growing more intense with the loud music and the choking smell of cigars. 

When the water comes back, it’s warm without ice. He glares at the bartender who has already moved on to paying customers. The water is tepid and a little sour, making him cringe. He’s pretty sure it came from the faucet, but he sips on it anyway, eying the grimy fingerprints on the glass. 

A cowgirl slides up next to him, her pink vest pulled tight across her chest, showing sweat-slick skin. She smells like vanilla, the scent overpowering as she leans in, lacquered lips grinning.

“Don’t,” Minho grunts, sipping the water. “Not interested.”

“But you’re so pretty.”

A severe reprimand dies on his tongue as Hyunjin appears like a wraith, leaning in close to murmur, “Builder is ready for you, Cowboy.” 

The cowgirl cowers away from the Nightcrawler, pressing up against the counter and fleeing as soon as he slinks away. If Hyunjin is offended, he doesn’t show it. He slips back onto the stool with that same eager lean, watching Minho through narrowed eyes as the Collector gets up and walks briskly to the now-open door. 

Minho doesn’t turn around when the door shuts behind him, immediately cutting off all sound. The door leads to a step of steps, mirrored walls on either side with glowing orange light strips above them. He climbs the stairs as quickly as he can, his head swimming a little as he gets to the top. 

The entire second floor is a massive, open-concept workshop. Tables covered with papers and instruments are placed in a chaotic maze, glowing screens with slow-spinning schematics and drawings giving the space a clinical, blue light. Workbenches with user interfaces hum along the corners of the room. Closed metal doors and offices stretch down a hall toward the pack, all under high-tech padlocks and surely protected with some sort of weapon system, if Minho had to guess.

Amid the organized chaos is you. The Builder. 

Minho hates calling you that. He thinks it’s a little ridiculous of a title, but it suits you. There is nothing in this room you haven’t built and no weapon on his person that was not carefully crafted by you. He hesitates to watch you, standing at the edge of your luminescent domain as you lean over something, a small welding tool in your hand. 

“Do you need a formal invitation, Cowboy?” 

He doesn’t mind the name from you. He tells himself that it’s because, despite his predisposition to not liking people, he doesn’t dislike you. You’re easy to deal with, sort of like the weapons you make. You make his life functional and you’re to the point. He admires that, and he’s willing to take a little bit of prodding and joking from you as a trade-off.

Wordlessly, he floats toward you. You don’t look up to greet him, but you kick your foot out and hook the toe of your boot underneath the leg of a stool to pull it out for him to sit on. He can smell a hint of jasmine and amber wafting from where you sit, making him clench his jaw as he fights a shiver. 

“I don’t have long,” he says, forgoing the seat. “Just need JumpPacks and wanted to drop off my armor. It’s having trouble connecting with the interface of the watch. I hit it pretty hard last night and I think I damaged the receiver.” 

That gets your attention, drawing your sharp gaze up to him. But instead of dropping your eyes to his chest where the flexible armor stretches across his chest, you zero in on Minho’s face. 

Your silence is uncomfortable, but he remains unmoving, willing himself to stay in place under your calculating gaze. You lean forward, eyes drinking him in, examining him the way you would a schematic for a weapon or a complicated piece of data. 

Minho busies himself with looking at you in return. There’s a crease growing deeper in your brow and your pretty mouth - he doesn’t remember when he started thinking it was pretty - begins to dip, displeased at something you find in his face. 

“When was the last time you slept?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me?” You level a stare at him and he feels his mouth twitch. Minho thinks besides the occasional joke from Jisung - which he defines as Jisung accidentally hurting himself - you might be the only person who makes him want to smile. “Fifty-two hours, eighteen minutes and forty United Seconds.”

“No to the JumpPack,” you say finally. “Sleep.”

“I have another target in three hours, twenty-eight minutes and fifteen United Seconds.” 

“Down the hall and second door on the right. Sleep for two hours. It won’t kill you.” He opens his mouth to protest you cut him off, “I’ll be done by the time you’re up. Take off your armor.” 

His hands open and close. You’ve never declined a JumpPack before. You’ve definitely never offered sleep before. He stands buoyed by his confusion before he reluctantly sheds the jacket. It crinkles in the silence as he shucks it from his shoulder and neatly folds it, placing it on the stool you had intended for him to sit on. 

Next, he sheds the holster, his gun, and a few knives clanking as he does. You seem amused by the amount of weapons he’s managed to shove in the leather straps and he shrugs a little at your arched brow. 

Minho’s shirt is more armor than a shirt. It’s made from highly coveted synthetic material with hard but flexible geometric pieces stitched in that sync with his watch to turn on a light energy shield, pulse when there’s an energy weapon aimed at him, and generally keep anyone from being able to stab him. You’ve also added little things like warming sensors and anti-theft. 

Delicately, Minho peels off the shirt. He marvels as it moves, surprised at the give and flex of the material every time. He hands it over and you snatch it, tossing it on your work counter as if it’s not the most expensive piece of technology he owns. 

Immediately he’s covered in goosebumps. Your studio is bitter cold and you always wear sweaters and jackets with sleeves pulled over your hands. You’re dressed as such now, the too-long sleeves on your arms pooling over your hands as he stands there, trying not to shiver. 

You pay no mind to his armor, instead standing up and twisting your mouth in a frown as your gaze skirts his chest and stomach. For a second he feels self-conscious, which he thinks is a little ridiculous as he glances down his chest. He realizes there is bruising blooming across him, spider webbing across to show when the armor un-synced and he took a few hard punches. 

Minho holds his breath when you lift your hands, as though you’re going to brush the tips of your fingers over each wound. Your hands are smaller than his and far more delicate, nimble fingers reminding him of artists. His mother was an artist. Her slim hands and careful brushstrokes are one of the few things he remembers about her. 

That, and that she chose to leave him.

Minho finds himself so hypnotized by your hands that your voice startles him when you say, “Three hours, twenty-seven minutes and five seconds, Cowboy.” 

You drop your hands and step away. He nods and sheds his watch as well, handing it over. “Alright.” 

With heavy footsteps, he follows the directions to the appointed room. He’s a little off balance, his hip catching the corner of a table as he goes. He curses loudly, hands shooting to his hip where pain blooms from the jab. Your laughter trills behind him and he scowls over his shoulder at you, but you’re unfolding his armored shirt. 

Muttering under his breath, he goes to the hall to the second door on the right. He’s never been in the hall before, but there are several doors lining each side. He carefully tries the handle, glancing up at the ceiling where a camera stares at him. 

The handle gives under his hand easily and he swings the door open to what looks like a very small and well-kept medical room. He raises his brows as he steps in and closes the door behind him. There’s no lock on the door, his finger brushing across the handle to find one. He thinks about grabbing the chair tucked into the desk and sticking it under the handle, but the thought evaporates as quickly as it forms.

He’s not in danger here. 

Slowly, he trods to the cot. It’s a standard size with a thin mattress and scratchy blankets. Carefully, he sits down and immediately his body sighs. Minho’s eyelids flutter as he sags for a second, shoulders rolling inward as he curves in on himself, exhaustion pressing in. 

He needs to take off his boots, but his arms feel heavy. He promises himself that he’ll do it in five more minutes before he gives up and lays down on his side, kicking his feet up boots and all onto the cot. The room is cool so he reaches for the blankets, uncaring that they scrape against his bumps and bruises. 

The last fifty-some-odd hours begin to press in on Minho, a physical force that squeezes everything out of him until he’s fading fast into a heavy, dreamless sleep. 

-

A gentle knock pulls Minho from a heavy sleep. He feels the dregs of it like a weighted shadow he can’t shake off, groaning and blinking at the ceiling a few times. His limbs feel heavier than ever and his neck cracks as he rolls it to the side to look at the room he’s in.

He suddenly remembers where he is, flinching a little as he sits up, movements jerky with nervousness. The room is still dark and cool, the itchy blanket falling to the floor as he sits and stares toward the door where there’s another knock. 

“Come in,” he rasps, voice deep and rough with sleep.

A crack of light appears in the doorway as you slip in. You’ve got your arms full of stuff, using your elbow to smack the touchpad near the door. Dark orange light fills the room, gentle enough that it doesn’t hurt his vision but bright enough to see that the stuff you’ve brought in is food and several bottles of water and some sort of blue liquid.

Minho eyes all of it warily, straightening as you stand in front of him, holding it out. He doesn’t move to take it and your mouth presses in a flat, firm line. “I know Collectors don’t have to be smart, but I do assume you know how to utilize the main food groups of the pyramid.”

He can smell the jasmine and amber again, soothing. “Why did you bring me food?”

“Because you look like shit, Cowboy. Don’t go losing your mind over a small gesture of goodwill.” 

Chagrined, he snatches the items from your hand. He immediately realizes that there are energy bars, protein bars, and packs of gel that will replenish immediate levels of hormones and vitamins. He eyes you curiously as he sets the pile on the bed next to him, ripping a foil back open with his teeth.

You cross the room to lean against the medical table in the corner, crossing your arms over your chest. When he doesn’t eat right away, you raise your brows, waiting. He pops the end of a gel back in his mouth and squeezes, immediately tasting blueberry and lemonade. It’s not half bad, making him hum in fascination.

That gets a grin from you, his mouth twitching at the corner again as he works the gel in his mouth to break it apart.

“Fixed your armor. How hard did you knock the watch?” His guilty expression tells all and you scowl. “It’s made with durast carbonate. It’s pretty shockproof.” 

“Didn’t mean to. Some guy’s goons jumped me when I was calling in the Collection. It um… took a bullet.” 

“How did they get the jump on you, hmm?” He stares. “Were you tired?” 

Instead of answering, he tosses the empty gel back on the bed and picks up a protein bar. He looks at it, squinting his eyes in the dim light. It’s peanut butter flavored, which he enjoys. He rips it open with his teeth and tears into it, realizing just how hungry he is.

Minho has no idea when his last meal was. He thinks you know his line of thinking, but you don’t say anything more. You’ve already gotten your barbs in and you don’t intend to poke until he’s truly annoyed or embarrassed, which he appreciates.

Without another word, you push off the desk and head to the door, slipping back through to leave him alone while he chews absently. 

Alone, Minho realizes the importance of accepting food from you without second-guessing it. He slows his chewing, contemplating about that. 

Minho’s relationship with you is like a good weapon - uncomplicated, refined, and trustworthy. Your tech has never failed him, you’ve always been reliable for a fast turnaround time or understanding of what he’s asking for, and you’ve never sold information about him.

Ever. He had tried to buy information from you on himself through multiple channels and pseudonyms just to see if you would, but he’d been met with steely silence each time. 

He eats with a little more enthusiasm as he realizes he does trust you. You’re as steadfast as the guns you build, and there is a confidence in that that he can at least resonate with.

Examining the contents of the blue liquid, he realizes its electrolytes and mineral compounds. As he takes long gulps, he realizes he feels infinitely better already, senses sharp, aches a little less terrible, and his headache is gone entirely. He’s not at a hundred percent, but he’s a hell of a lot better than if he had waited around for his next Collection. 

When he finishes, he crumbles the trash together and tosses it into the incinerator. He hears the fire hiss as it destroys the waste and sends the fumes somewhere to be turned into energy. 

In the main part of your lab, Minho spots you. He hesitates in the hall for a moment, watching you play with his watch. Movement in the corner of the room makes him tense up, hand going to the knife in his boot. He realizes it’s just Jeongin sliding across the room on a rolling chair, pushing away from his computer to examine what you’re doing.

Minho only relaxes marginally. He’s still getting used to seeing your apprentice in your workspace, and though the youth is excitable and intelligent, Minho refuses to let Jeongin near any of his builds. The trust he’s established with you over the last three years does not extend to apprentices he’s only known for a few months, no matter how much you trust them.

You trust the Nightcrawler too, and Minho cannot fathom why. 

As though sensing you on the edge of the room, you turn and look at him over your shoulder. The corner of your mouth lifts up and you beckon him eagerly before hunching over whatever you’re working on again. He strolls over, crossing his arms over his chest to lean against your worktable on the other side of you, eyeing Jeongin on your other side.

“Hello, Collector. How are you today?” Jeongin asks politely, giving Minho a smile that touches his eyes.

Minho says nothing. You elbow him sharply in the ribs and he coughs, clutching his stomach as he mumbles, “Fine, you?”

“Doing great, thanks! This piece of tech is a marvel.”

“My watch?”

It is his watch. A green light flashes on the underside of the face, the bio scanner that connects with the one with his neck to monitor his nervous system. You push the watch toward him and he carefully picks it up, brushing his thumb across the cool, glass screen.

An interface lights up again. He can’t figure out what’s so special until you gesture for him to put it on. It fits nicely, the perfect size. As he slides it into place and looks at the watch face, a diagram of thin body armor comes up, spinning. Except it looks different than the diagram that he’s used to, giving you a questioning look. You point to the corner of the room at a mannequin.

He walks over to it, cocking his head to the side as he stops in front of it. It’s far different from the armored shirt he wears. The contraption is equal parts ribcage and the thorax of a spider. The material looks like leather but feels hard to the touch like metal. 

Skirting his fingers to the hem, he bends the bottom of the shirt, watching as it flexes easily. It makes no sense to him how something could be so hard and flex immediately. If he were to guess, whatever the cloth is made from is a newer technology than he has access to. Perhaps more bio-engineered spider web. 

Minho’s fingers skirt inside of it, brushing across a strange, prickling fabric. It doesn’t hurt, but he brushes his fingers back and forth, rubbing the material between his fingers. It’s abrasive, but he can’t imagine what it is.

Blue flashes on the diagram on the watch. He pauses and presses his fingers to the needle-thin fabric. The watch flashes again and lines of color light up on the diagram, showing his nervous system in different, complex colors. He raises his brows. It’s far more sophisticated than what he came in with.

“The needles,” he calls, not taking his eyes off the contraption. “Do they connect with me?”

“Yes. When you put it on, it syncs with your biochemistry.” You get up and walk toward him. “You won’t even feel them. They’re the smallest on the market right now, and incredibly accurate. They use them in military armor to report back live health reports and status during infighting. They’re more accurate than the sensors lined in your last one.”

“What’s the point, though?” 

You reach out and tap the watch. He watches curiously as a series of icons pop up, each a different color. “Inside of this,” you instruct, tapping the hard shell, “Is a series of chemical compounds. When you have on the armor underneath your shirt, you can tap to inject what you need. The needles don’t push deep, but they’re high-grade enough to break the barrier needed to disperse the compounds.” 

Minho looks up at you, silent. You don’t notice his trepidation, carrying on as you go into salesperson mode, explaining everything. “Blue is electrolytes,” you instruct, pointing to it. “Green is a chemical compound of cortisol and adrenaline. Yellow is endorphins and an incredibly high-dose painkiller.”

“And purple?”

“Jump,” you deadpan. “But a compounded version Jeongin and I have worked on that lasts longer with less damaging effect. You should be able to sleep easier after using it. And you won’t need several JumpPacks a day to keep going. I can give you refills too, since it’s non-addictive.”

Minho stares. “What?”

“What part didn’t you get?”

“This is for me?” You scowl but he immediately notices the way you divert your eyes. You glance up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to food. “This is worth a million United Credits at least. I can’t afford it.”

“Do you see a price tag?”

“You can’t give me this for free.” 

“Of course I can. It’s just a prototype, so if it accidentally malfunctions and sends all injection options to your body at once and kills you, well…” You shrug. “At least you didn’t pay me. Consider yourself a test subject. I’ve never integrated the needle network into armor before. I don’t have the builds the military uses, just intel. I had to do it from scratch, so it might not work. Your current armor doesn’t protect you from plasma. This does.”

Minho doesn’t buy your bullshit for two seconds. He knows you wouldn’t give him this if it would risk killing him. For all your jesting and affectation, Minho has learned how to read you pretty well, and the way you blow him off and scoff tells him everything he needs to know. 

It is a favor and a gift, and a new sort of olive branch that he is unsure how to accept or take from you. Taking this gift worth more than his entire salary complicates things.

Did you make this specifically for him? He’s not sure. But the fact that he wants the answer to be yes is worse than anything else he can think of. 

Minho has peers. You’re a peer. Always have been. Anything else would complicate the simplicity of the relationship, and Minho immediately steps back and removes the watch. You watch him with razor-sharp intelligence, drinking him in as he holds out the watch to you. 

“The one I have is sufficient enough, Builder.” 

You snatch the watch from him, pivoting on your heel and walking with a ramrod-straight spine back to the table. For a second he thinks you’re going to kick him out but then you take a breath and melt into a smile, though a little sharp at the edges and not reaching your eyes.

“Fixed the connection. I also reinforced it again. Give me a moment to sync to your old armor.” 

Old armor. As if the new one is still his. His stomach flips and he grimaces. 

The affectation in your voice makes Minho uncomfortable. He doesn’t move, watching you tap viciously against the screen on your work desk. Jeongin spins a pen in his hand, glancing between the two of you nervously. When he notices Minho glaring at him, he grins awkwardly and pushes his chair behind one of the clear screens, his face distorted by blue lettering and diagrams.

Wordlessly, you hand him the watch and turn away when he takes it. You say nothing else, moving on to a different project as Minho delicately picks up the shirt. He slides it over, feeling the warmth seep into his cool skin. He meticulously pulls the hardness with weapons on, followed by his jacket.

Fully dressed, he waits for you to say something. He doesn’t know what he expects - or wants - you to say. But he pauses anyway, eyes on your bent shape. His gaze flits to your hands, delicate fingers typing wildly, tense as you wait for him to leave. 

It feels like a stone has sunk to the bottom of Minho’s stomach. He doesn’t move for a few minutes, torn between walking out and preparing for his next Collection and staying to… what? He doesn’t know. He has no idea what to say or do, but he feels the palpable shift in your mood. 

So Minho chooses the easiest option. He nods to himself and heads toward the exit. You don’t spare him a second glance but he certainly looks at you out of the corner of his eye. Your jaw is clenched and you tap with a ferocity that thinks might shatter your desktop interface. 

As soon as the door opens, Minho is drowning in thumping bass and synth again. Hyunjin leans on the stool, this time with his back against the wall and his glittering eyes focused on Minho. Though the former Nightcrawler wasn’t in the room, Minho has a sneaking suspicion that Hyunjin knows everything that happens in the Builder’s workshop. 

Hyunjin’s smirk is all-knowing and Minho storms by him, hating him for it. 

Rain no longer falls from a dark sky. Opaque, charcoal skies stretch above him, lines of moving air traffic creating layers of latticework. Looking at the watch - which shows his normal armor once more - tells him it's in the early morning hours now. 

The streets are not as busy as the night before. There are still glaring advertisements and he spots a group of cloaked United Church members walking around to accept alms and recruit, but the energy is muted outside of the clubs and pleasure houses. 

Morning commuters fill the speed train tunnels. United Travel Agents lurk in the crowd, watchful eyes on anyone causing trouble or trying to double up on the scanners as travelers pass through, machines charging their United Credits as they go. 

Minho falls into the dull buzz of morning travel. Glancing at his watch, he knows he has enough time to go home and change. He likes to receive his calls while he’s at home anyway. He tries not to replay the last conversation between the two of you. The offer you’d made him. The meaning behind it, whatever it may be. 

It’s nearly impossible, but he manages. Especially once he gets into his apartment, sinking into the routine of showering, changing, and sliding back into his clothes like a second skin. As soon as he reties his boots, his watch begins to ring. 

“Receiving,” he answers, straightening up. 

“Collection echo-tango-foxtrot-bravo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

“Collection accepted.” 

The line goes dead. Minho slides his weapons into their holsters, then pulls on his rain jacket. It always rains in the city, like God is weeping for what he has become.

Any work is good work. 

Minho leaves the apartment to take another life. 

-

The water runs red in Minho’s shower. He stares at it for a while, hot water rushing down his neck, shoulders and back in rivulets. It turns pink the longer he stares, the wound on his leg bleeding less and less. 

The irony is not lost on him that if he had accepted your gift, he might not have taken a gnarly hunting knife to the thigh. He was lucky that it was an energy weapon, the blade cauterizing the wound immediately. He’d had to pick the wound back open to flush out the dead, burned skin and pour burning antiseptic on it.

Shifting, Minho examines the wound. Pain blooms in his thigh as he turns, making him suck in a sharp hiss. The wound is to the bone. He knows he’s lucky it was not a well-made weapon, the ion pulse too weak to sever his limb. Still, it’s a deep wound and it would surely fuck him up if he didn’t have the next twenty-four hours to himself. 

If the knife had been one of yours…

A pulse of frustration echoes through him. He presses his closed fist to the old tile of the shower wall, feeling the dissonance between the scalding water and cool tile steady him. His knuckles are sore from the last Collection - which had gone wrong in every way possible - and he’s brutally aware of just how much everything hurts. 

Yet the ache isn’t what bothers him. His Collection target getting the jump on him from inside intel isn’t what bothers him. Minho has had that happen enough times that he no longer feels surprised when a Collection knows he’s coming.

What fucking bothers him is the ripple effect of his rejection of your offer made. 

Minho shuts off the water and steps out the water carefully. He can barely put weight on the leg, gritting his teeth as he grabs a towel and hobbles out of the bathroom, the steam billowing out into the tiny apartment and dissipating. 

Blue neon lights from the shop across the way burn in his window. He hardly needs to turn the lights on in his own home to see in the dark, the ever-present glow of blue guiding the way. 

Carefully, he sits on his bed. Another pulse of pain from the wound makes him shiver and take several deep, steadying breaths. He peels back the towel at the waist, revealing a single, thick thigh with a horrible cut right in the meat of it. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. Walking around has made it bleed again, scarlet trickling toward the towel. 

Trying not to disturb the wound, he reaches for the medical kit under the bed. The metal is cool to the touch as he flips the latches, rummaging around the bandages, antiseptics, and gels until he finds what he’s looking for.

Minho takes the single, long syringe and uncaps it with his teeth, spitting the cap on the floor somewhere. He flicks his hand a few times, holding it up to make sure there are no bubbles in the vial. Holding his wound carefully with one hand and with the syringe in the other, he inserts the needle deep into the flesh, the sting minor compared to the throbbing ache the cut itself emanates. 

The compound burns as he injects himself. He clenches his teeth, pushing down on the plunger with steady pressure. He can already feel the numbness spreading in his leg as the local anesthesia takes root. He knows he’ll be itching when it wears off, the tiny nanobots working to stitch the muscle and tissue back together already making his skin crawl. 

DeepStitch is an expensive thing to have. He pulls the syringe out carefully, glancing at the medical kit. It only came with one, meaning he was going to have to replace the vile. Medical compounds made for healing abnormal wounds cost a fortune, especially the type with micro-technology to assist the process. 

Tossing out the empty syringe, Mingo lays on his bed, uncaring if he’s damp and in a towel. The numbness in his thigh spreads, making him shiver. He tries not to think about the fact that there are thousands of microscopic bots working on internally stitching his muscles and tendons as quickly as they can before the blood in his body deteriorates them.

The medical advancement of this world is beyond Minho, but he’s grateful for it as he drifts in a half-sleep. He finds it harder to sleep after using JumpPacks, his body unable to adjust from the constant state of false energy and adrenaline. 

It makes him think about your stupid fucking offer again. A piece of armor that could sync with him and balance his hormones and chemical compounds at the tap of a wrist. Something that high caliber for a low-level contract killer was beyond him. 

There was crazy, and then there was that. 

Minho wonders if you’ve been charging him fairly, suddenly. He’s always thought the weapons and tech you provide him with were good prices. They were well-made but always within his budget, albeit he stopped looking at what you were billing him a long time ago. Now that he knows you’re willing to offer something that he’d only find on a United Praetor in the military, he wonders if you’ve been cutting him deals.

He’s never asked the others. Changbin and Jisung seem friendly with you, enough to make Minho wary about asking them questions. Though they’re the closest things that Minho has to friends, he doesn’t trust them whenever it comes to you. 

Jisung already thinks it’s sweet that Minho is nice to you, and he hates that. Even if it’s true. 

Time fades away as Minho circles his conversation with you over and over again. He examines every moment of it. When he can surmise nothing else of the interaction but you offering an olive branch of friendship, something a step beyond peers, he goes back to all of his other interactions.

He remembers almost every one of them. 

Minho’s memory is fine-tuned. It has to be in his line of work. But the memories of you are particularly sharp. He’s able to recall the way you always poke fun at him to the exact line of his tolerance, the way you always know how to get in a good jibe without actually pissing him off. The way that you let Jisung and Changbin have it in front of him for his benefit, especially after they’ve irritated him, like you’re giving him a gift or saying I’m on your team. 

Thoughts of you ultimately lead to other things like the way your eyes reflect the blue light of your many screens. Or the way you always smell like jasmine and amber. The way you pull your sleeves over your hands in sweater paws because it’s bitter cold in your studio to avoid explosions and corrosion of items. The way the nickname Cowboy runs so smooth off your tongue, making his toes curl. 

Minho’s fingers twitch when he thinks about brushing the backs of his knuckles against your soft skin. He’s thought about it before and immediately cringed at the fantasy. Now, between exhaustion clinging to him and the numb limb, he doesn’t jerk away at the idea.

He finally falls asleep thinking of you and what it would be like to accept that olive branch. 

-

The ringing of Minho’s watch wrenches him from sleep. He sits up straight in bed, gasping and hand shooting toward the nightstand where there’s a draw with one of his guns. He realizes that his wrist is vibrating and when he looks at the screen, he sighs with equal parts tension and regret as he realizes it’s work calling. 

Fuck. He slept for almost twenty hours straight. 

Clearing his throat, he answers. “Receiving.” 

“Collection romeo-echo-alpha-delta-echo-romeo has been assigned to Collector 102598. You have five United Hours to complete your Collection.”

Information flashes on Minho’s watch and he feels the world disappear from underneath his feet. Your name, age, permanent place of residency address, and anything the government has both legally and illegally obtained flashes before him. He’s never even seen your full name before and there it is, glowing on his watch as he stares at the information.

It feels obscene to know any of this. He flicks his wrist, turning off the display. He doesn’t want to see any of it, doesn’t want to see when you were born, doesn’t want to see what ward you pay taxes in, doesn’t want to know your criminal history. 

Minho’s ears are ringing. The Delegator does not confirm that Minho has heard or received the assigned target for Collection. Minho stares at the wall, his vision blurring at the edges as the name - your name - echoes in his mind over and over again. He hears it at the same rhythm as his pounding heart, pumping blood through his system as his watch flashes a high heart rate warning. 

Your name. Your full government name and ID number. He’s only ever known your first name, but you’ve always been Builder to him anyway. Minho can’t remember if he’s ever said your name, and suddenly he wants to. He wants to know what it sounds like shaped by his mouth, what it tastes like on his tongue. Wants to say it so many different ways, laughing, smirking, sighing– 

Three years and he can’t believe he’s never so much as said your name, and now that very name is on his list to kill. 

Indecision roots his feet to the spot. This isn’t like a Reverse Collection where other hitmen try to kill him and he can get away with killing them instead, clearing his name for a little longer. This is a direct and finite order to eliminate you. There is no alternative to this Collection. 

Irreversible. 

Running his hands through his hair, he looks around his apartment. It looks unlived-in and completely impersonal. Just like the impersonal way he calls you Builder, as though not using your fucking name makes it more sterile. As if it keeps you further away from earning his trust.

Which you have earned. Implicitly. Minho can think of no one else he would let take care of him. That he would sleep or eat in the presence of. That he trusts not to kill him in his sleep while he’s unarmed. 

Now he’s supposed to murder you?

Bile turns in his stomach. He hears the ticking of the clock on the wall. Every second inches closer to the decision he has to make.

Will he or won’t he? 

Minho grabs his gun from the nightstand and walks toward the door.

He’s only a few steps toward it when he realizes he’s not dressed or prepared for whatever he is about to do - what is he about to do? He has no idea. All he knows is that he is dazed and his hands are starting to shake and his heart rate is climbing, his watch flashing a warning. 

The room begins to tilt as his breathing comes out in haggard breaths. He stumbles a little bit, the blood pumping through him roaring in his ears. He belatedly realizes he’s having a panic attack, blindly trying to get back to his bed where he can sit. 

What does one do during a panic attack? He has no idea, he’s never had one. He thinks of the last time he saw someone panic and immediately bends over to put his head between his knees, gulping air through his nose and out through his mouth. 

What was it that Jisung said about panic?

It’s hard to remember. He thinks maybe there was counting involved, so he breathes in for seven seconds and then out for seven seconds. Does it again. And again. 

Slowly, the world swims back into focus. He can feel the twinge in his thigh as he comes down from the momentary lapse of panic and judgment. When he trusts that he’s not going to vomit on his bare feet, he slowly sits upright, looking around the neon-blue room. 

Quiet blankets the apartment. The world outside is faint. He can hear the clock on the wall as the minute hand moves, each marking the passing of a United Second. With a deep breath, he moves. 

There are no thoughts as he goes. His mind is a single list of action items, marketing them off as he goes. Get dressed. Check his weapons. Arm himself to the teeth with things you’ve made him. Message Jisung a cryptic, one-word text that only the other Collector will understand. Arm a bomb. Leave. 

It’s clinical. 

Minho had always understood with absolute clarity the reality of his line of work. He’s always had a failsafe - or a killswitch, so to speak. From the first day of work, Minho’s only purpose was to kill until he died. He was always meant to die. And he tells himself that the single, little safe space he has in the world he started saving for… well. If you ever needed it.

Any work is good work. 

Clouds hold in their rain. The night feels ominous. Minho glances up at the choked clouds, wondering what they’re up to. The Ministry of Weather controls the atmosphere in some parts of the city. Minho does not travel in those parts of the city - those assassinations are beyond the abilities of a Collector and reserved for Nightcrawlers. 

Paranoia is imminent, but Minho tries not to look over his shoulder every five seconds. The mysterious nature of Collect Co. is still something he doesn’t understand, so it’s difficult to unravel the nature of his assignment. Without a doubt, whoever placed Minho as the Collector knows you supply his weapons.

That simple fact branches out into multiple possibilities. Perhaps the person who wants you gone simply thinks Minho is the best person for the job because he’s in your tentative circle of trust and a familiar enough face to slip through your defenses. Or perhaps the problem is him and they know he won’t complete the Collection, earning a job termination and his name showing up on the Collection list. 

Either way, it’s on purpose. Of that, he knows for sure. 

From his years working for Collect Co., there are only a few things that Minho is sure about. Delegators do exactly what their title suggests - they delegate kills. Callers are a tier above Delegators, calling the shots working the network of requests that come in for contracted kills. Legals do all of the paperwork and research before agreeing to a contract, and at the very top of the chain is the Floorman. 

Beyond that, Minho has no concept of the hierarchy or who is hiring Collect Co. for jobs. There are obvious manipulations to the system and it’s impossible to work objectively within a private company that works with but not for the government, and Minho has little doubt that the financial benefactors are who really control assignments. 

Which leads him back to the root of the question: why you? Is Minho the problem, or do you have enemies so large that they hold sway in Collect Co. He doesn’t consider that your deeds are nefarious enough to warrant a hit. What you do is illegal but you sell to the military, too. 

So it begs the question: is it you or him who they really want gone? 

Maybe it’s even a combination.

Still, he attempts not to seem paranoid. It’s easier than it should be, Minho’s mind so singularly focused on getting to you as he takes the train and travels to North Ward Three that he doesn’t have time to look around every corner or see if he’s being followed. There are other ways of keeping tabs on him, anyway. 

The rain still holds as Minho gets off the speed train and ducks into the street. He keeps to the sides, activating his ad blocker as he’s immediately slammed by a screaming neon world. His gaze and gait must be sharper than he realizes, because people veer away from him, his energy repelling them.

From the corner of his eye, he notes Watchers - people responsible for keeping an eye on what’s going on in the street for their employer - take note of him. Some melt into the doorway of their workplace, and others call for runners.

Trouble. Minho looks like trouble and he can sense the shift as they catch wind of him. 

The Watchers are no threat to him. Their entire purpose is to close the doors and pull back when they catch a sense of danger in the air. They’ll stay out of his way and won’t engage with him unless he threatens their clubs and shops. 

Minho has little intention of doing that. He wants to make this as painless as possible. 

Neon Rodeo burns like a dying sun. The orange falls over him as he jogs down the steps and lets the guards scan him. If they notice anything is off, they say and do nothing. Neon Rodeo is perhaps the only business without a Watcher, and it’s only because no one would dare interrupt the business with the Nightcrawler inside. 

Synth rattles Minho from the ground up as he steps inside. The cowboy hats and their little smiling faces float like phantoms in the night. He only has a singular goal and he looks at no one else as he heads towards the back, sidestepping sweaty bodies and perfumed hair. 

It’s full tonight, the weekend crowd packing the bar from corner to corner. It’s no matter. He cuts his way to the back where Hyunjin sits on a stool. Today, Hyunjin’s hair is blood red and his eyes are sharp, unnatural green. For a moment, Minho thinks of a chameleon before Hyunjin kicks a leg out and blocks the hall leading to the door. 

“Your patronage has been terminated, Cowboy.” 

Minho’s heart flips. Are you that angry with him? He drinks in Hyunjin’s dress and slowly his anxiety turns to understanding. Hyunjin is dressed in all black today. His shirt is armored and in place of pants with tassels are tactical trousers with pockets and weapons strapped to his thighs.

An assessment of the Nightcrawler tells Minho that there are weapons he doesn’t see. There’s a plasma pistol on his hip, a bandolier of small knives strapped across his chest, knives in his boot, and another plasma pistol on his calf. 

Hyunjin’s fingers drum against his thigh as he watches Minho with those unsettling eyes. “Want to try, Cowboy?”

“I need to speak with her.”

“No.”

“I’m not-” Minho grits his teeth. “I’m not Collecting.”

“Didn’t say you were.” 

Hyunjin knows. He doesn’t know how the Nightcrawler knows you’re a Collection on Minho’s list, but it’s clear in the way Hyunjin leers. 

“Look, you can go in with me. Let me get her to safety.”

“And what do you think safety is, Cowboy? Even if you’re not lying, they’ll come after you too.” 

“Listne, Nightcrawler-”

Hyunjin grins. It’s unnerving, and there isn’t much that unnerves Minho. “No, you listen. I tolerate you because I am ordered to. Now, I don’t have to. My only orders were to say no and to not harm you.” He leans back and spreads his hands and shrugs. The neon lights catch his blood red hair. “I’m always within my right to make a judgment call.”

“I’d never hurt her.”

“You’re not friends, last I checked.” Hyunjin cocks his head to the side. “You don’t have friends, right? That’s why you reject acts of faith?”

“What do you know of acts of faith, Nightcrawler?” 

“You’d be surprised, Collector.” 

Hyunjin is unmoving. Minho’s fingers twitch and Hyunjin’s eyes follow the movement. For a second, Minho wonders if he could beat his adversary to the draw. They could do it like an old fashioned movie, the bar the perfect setting for it. Hyunjin is totally unmoving and relaxed, not moving his hand toward his weapons.

He’s that confident in beating me. 

United Seconds are ticking by. Every minute Minho doesn’t make his collection is time lost. He licks his lips ready to mount another argument when Hyunjin’s eyes flicker and look over Minho’s shoulders. His eyes narrow a fraction as they dart back to Minho.

“Here’s an act of faith. Let’s see what you do this time.” 

The energy in the bar shifts. He feels the tremor go through the air and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Minho turns his head to the side, not enough to fully look back over his shoulder but enough to see the group of Collectors disperse in the crowd. 

Both, Minho realizes. The Collection had been for them both, and it was a good excuse to get them in the same place. He grits his teeth as he realizes how predictable he is. They might have come even if he didn’t arrive, but they might have sent a smaller force. 

Glancing at Hyunjin, Minho watches as the Nightcrawler does nothing. He waits for Minho, raising his brows and smirking. 

Act of faith. 

Normally, Minho doesn't believe in public acts of violence. Collectors are mostly prohibited from killing in public or endangering the lives of United Republic Citizens unless entirely unavoidable. 

Now, though, he causes a scene and pulls his gun, swiveling around and leveling it at the nearest Collector he has a clean line of sight on. He feels the hum of the weapon and the click of the safety as he squeezes the trigger, the pulse of the weapon barely perceptible as it fires. 

Plasma weapons are bright when they fire. It’s nearly blinding in the dark as he shoots, screams shattering the bar as the world turns into pops of energy and sizzling air. He ducks down as someone shoots at him, instincts kicking in as he grabs the leg of a table and yanks it toward him. 

Behind him, Hyunjin lets out a manic laugh and stands from the stool. He drops a small device next to Minho, drawing his attention for a second. Minho watches as it expands with a shimmer of translucent energy - a shield. He looks at the Nightcrawler who crouches with him, grinning as he peers over the table and shields with his green eyes. 

“There are eight. They’re just going to pin us here and shoot at us like fish in a barrel.”

“Is there a way through that door?”

“Sure there is. If they want to melt it down, I’m sure they have plasma blades, judging from the look of their very nice weapons. They can’t blow it without leveling the street.” 

“Does she have a way out the back?”

“No, then I would have two doors to watch.” 

A spray of metal and plasma ricochets off the shield that has molded to the shape of the table. Hyunjin gestures as if to showcase his point and Minho grits his teeth. Peeking around the table, he can see patrons hiding under tables and covering their heads. Collectors stand spread out, fanning the entrance and blocking the way, but they don’t come any closer.

They want to make the Collection, but they don’t want to face a Collector and a Nightcrawler together. 

“Aren’t you some sort of unmatched assassin, Nightcrawler?” Minho asks, checking the mag on his plasma gun. “Can you just take them all out? That should be light work for you.”

“I’m good at not being seen, Cowboy. I’m not inhuman.” 

“Oh good, so you’re actually useless when visible?”

Hyunjin’s face darkens. “You’d be surprised how often you don’t see me.” 

The threat isn’t lost on Minho but it doesn’t have time to sink into its full effect as bullets rain down on them. They cringe together to ensure they’re behind the shield, which whines under the plasma assault and flickers. Minho thinks it will hold, but it’s only as wide as the table it molds to and the table isn’t very large.

Hyunjin reaches into his pocket and pulls out a grenade. Minho grabs it, looking at him with wild eyes. Hyunjin pulls his hand away. “It’s a flash grenade,” he snaps. “I’m not going to kill everyone.” He pauses and smirks. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“That’s hardly less settling.”

“You know,” Hyunjin muses, pulling the ring from the grenade. Green light pulses on it slowly, counting down until it starts to release blinding white flashes. “One day you and I are going to have a talk about why you think your profession is so much different than mine.”

“One is legal, for starters.” 

Hyunjin lobs the grenade. “Right, so what you’re doing right now? This is legal?”

Minho is spared from having to answer as the world explodes in white. He and Hyunjin move at the same time, letting the memory of where the Collectors stand as they close their eyes and shoot. Minho’s shot blind thousands of times and it usually pays off.

It does for the most part now, the pair of them dropping Collectors as they shoot. The white light fades and there’s only a single Collector left standing by the door, his gun aimed at Minho. He swivels to shoot, but a bullet hits the Collector in the shoulder, twisting him backward from impact as he squeezes the trigger of his gun. 

The shot catches Minho in the shoulder, knocking him back a step. He curses but keeps his weapon trained on the fallen Collector until he hears high-pitched screaming. It stops his heart, the sound of the Collector’s voice reaching a level of madness that echoes even after he gargles and goes silent.

Minho looks at Hyunjin with an accusatory glare but Hyunjin juts his thumb behind him in answer, pointing to where you stand at the door with a heavy pistol in your hand. Minho blinks a few times in surprise. 

“I think the nano-tips work, Jeongin.” You glance over your shoulder where the younger boy stands on the stairs behind you, armed to the teeth. “Remind me to write that down.” 

Silence stretches in Neon Rodeo, save the soft quivering crying and sparking sign that’s been shot over the bar. From the corner of his eye, Minho sees it flash between Rodeo and Odeo over and over again, bouncing between the two words as the ‘R’ tries to fight for its life.

Then there’s you. 

You stare at him with a guarded expression, drinking him in. Your gaze lingers on his arm, reminding him that it does in fact burn where the plasma bullet grazes his shoulder. Next to him, Hyunjin shifts. The Nightcrawler barely moves forward, sliding part of his body between Minho and where you stand in the doorway to your studio, Hyunjin’s hand resting on top of his gun. 

“You gonna kill me, Cowboy?” Your voice wavers when you ask. By the twitch in your lip, Minho can tell you’re upset that it does. 

“No. I want to help.” Hyunjin snorts and Minho is reminded of his earlier question. What do you think safety is? “Consider it an act of faith,” Minho offers and Hyunjin’s snickering turns to curiosity. “I’ve rejected yours in the past. Let me offer you the only one I have.” 

No one moves. Minho slowly lifts his wrist toward Hyunjin, displaying the information. The Nightcrawler looks it over and raises his brows, looking back at Minho. “What a strange turn of events, Minho.” 

It’s the first time Hyunjin has ever used his name. He says nothing as the Nightcrawler heads over to you, murmuring quietly. Your face is inscrutable as you nod and look over your shoulder, saying something to Jeongin. He nods fiercely, face set in determination that makes Minho’s mouth twitch a little. 

The three of them join Minho wordlessly as he turns on his heels and heads up the stairs. Hyunjin’s watch flashes and lets them know that the United Enforcers are three minutes out and they need to get where they’re going.

You take the lead then, hurrying out the door but not out into the street, ducking into a noodle shop three doors down from Neon Rodeo. You shout in United New Mandarin at the woman behind the counter, shocking him - not that Minho knows anything about you at all - and the woman waves you off.

Through the shop and into the stock room you lead everyone, hopping over bags of flower and starch until you reach a table that you climb up on and pull a vent from a ceiling. It’s far too large to be a normal vent, and his questions are answered when he realizes it leads to a small garage that faces the next street over. 

Once into the garage, Hyunjin takes the lead out into the street, weapon up. Minho brings up the rear, falling into a defensive unit as you go. Jeongin walks closely behind Hyunjin, his steps a little clumsy but his head on a swivel. 

Good, Minho thinks. Jeongin is alert. 

“Decided not to kill me?” you whisper as you skirt out into the street and hug the building face. 

Minho can barely hear you over the fabric you’ve pulled up over your face. He blinks and thinks to do the same, pulling the hood up on his jacket and sliding up a black gaiter over the lower half of his face. 

“I was never going to kill you.”

“Hard to tell with you.” 

“I… don’t have an argument.” 

And he doesn’t. He realizes that he’s kept you at arm's length despite your best attempts to spark some sort of friendship. What reason could he do that other than sparing himself if he had to kill you one day? It makes the most logical sense.

“I thought we were friends.” That makes him pause. You notice a few steps ahead of him that he’s stopped, looking at you. “We stopped being just business acquaintances over a year ago, Collector. My normal clients don’t get to test my new hardware or request as many JumpPacks as you do on the house.”

“They’re on the house?”

“Of course they are!” you snap at him. “Do you not look at your billing, Collector? How do you know I’m not overcharging you?” 

“I stopped looking once I trusted you weren’t robbing me.”

“See, that’s a funny word coming from you. Trust.”

A whistle catches Minho’s attention. You both turn to see that Hyunjin and Jeongin are nearly three-blocks away at the entrance of a nondescript shop. Color floods Minho’s face when he realizes the pair of you had stopped walking to have your argument and he curses himself as you start moving again. 

“I do trust you.” You say nothing to his comment. “I’m sorry I didn’t accept the armor.”

“It wasn’t about rejecting the armor, Collector.” The world Collector sounds dirty in your mouth. He suddenly wants to hear you call him Cowboy again. “It was about rejecting me when I thought we were already friends. I was wrong.”

Hyunjin leads them down into an alleyway that is void of anything besides dumpsters and murky puddles. The smell turns Minho’s stomach but he resists the urge to gag as Hyunjin bends down to pull up a sewer grate. He flashes his flashlight inside and nods before jumping down and vanishing. There’s a light splash as he lands and calls up for Jeongin. 

Minho crouches close to you as Jeongjin adjusts to follow Hyunjin down. 

“You weren’t,” he says as Jeongin jumps. You turn to look at him, confused. “Wrong. You weren’t wrong.” 

You look him up and down, hesitating. Hyunjin calls your name and you turn away from Minho, checking your legs and arms to make sure your pockets are zipped. Minho watches as you jump. He realizes he is holding his breath until he hears your feet splash.

Quickly, he scrambles to the grate, pulling the top with him. Looking through the hole, he sees the orange light of glowsticks as you and Jeongin crack and shake them, lighting up the tunnel in a very small ring of light. Hyunjin has turned off his flashlight and looks up at Minho, gesturing for him to hurry.

Minho holsters his weapon and jumps down, bending at the knee as he lands to absorb the fall. His boots splash loudly in the tunnel, echoing for a few seconds. His shoulder wound aches as he straightens up. Hyunjin is already lifting Jeongin up to pull the great back over the hole. The scrape of metal on the concrete sounds much louder in the watery tunnel, making Minho cringe.

Looking both ways, he sees the sewer is less of a sewer and more of a tunnel. The cloth pulled over his face does little to keep out the rancid smell, and he winces when he sees fat, black rats scattering on the edges of the orange light. 

Something touches his arm and he jerks, hand going to his gun. You lean back and apologize, holding out a glowstick. He relaxes and takes it, fingers brushing yours as he does. He instantly gets a chill down his spine, though his fingers are warm where they brushed yours. 

Minho clears his throat and holds the glowstick up, looking around the tunnel. He can hear the faint echoes of dripping water and every movement of the group feels loud in the pressing silence of the dark. 

“What is this?” he asks, looking at you. 

It’s Hyunjin who answers, “Nightcrawler shit. You’re welcome.”

“Should we expect any of your former coworkers, then?” 

“They’re not so bad.” Hyunjin unholsters his weapon as he begins walking south down the tunnel, throwing Minho a sharp grin. “It’s the Darklings I worry about.” 

You fall into step behind Hyunjin immediately, ducking your head to murmur something to him as you go. The glow of your light gets farther away as Minho stands staring at Hyunjin, unsure if he’s serious or not. 

Jeongin steps up next to Minho. “He was joking about Darklings, right? The People Underneath are a myth?” 

“Have you ever heard Hyunjin tell a joke?” 

Minho leaves Jeongin thinking about it before the younger rushes to keep up with him, feet splashing wildly. 

-

Whether Hyunjin was joking about the Darklings or not, they don’t run into anything except rats and roaches in the underground tunnels. Minho finds himself itching to ask the Nightcrawler questions and demand where they’re going, but he doesn’t, 

An act of faith. 

It was an act of faith when Minho showed Hyunjin the safehouse on his watch. It was one of the few things that Minho protected more fiercely than his life, and he was hoping that when Hyunjin saw the coordinates, title of ownership, and Minho’s information, he’d gain a little trust. 

Minho had been right. Hyunjin, though still sharp at the edges, has become unnervingly benign with Minho, addressing him by his name. It’s not much to most, but he knows among killers it’s a huge step. One that means a little more trust, if not at least peers. 

You remain quiet for the most part. Your eyes stray toward Minho often and when he catches you looking, you don’t look away. Your gaze is hesitant and questioning, as though you’re trying to figure him out like one of the schematics on your screens. 

Biting into a protein bar, he quickens his pace to fall into step with you. “What will you do with your lab?” 

Your lips twitch. “Chemical fire. There’s a stop-line in the frame of the building so it should be controlled. I promised not to burn down Neon Rodeo when I established my office there.” 

“Who owns that place, anyway?” 

“Bangchan.” The name sounds familiar. “Reformed Nightcrawler.” 

“You keep unusual company.”

“Better than none.” 

That gets a little bit of a laugh from him. You smile when he does and he swears it’s brighter than the glowsticks you carry. “I deserved that one. I’m working on it, alright.”

“How do Jisung and Changbin deal with you?”

“The same way I deal with them.” You hum, nodding in understanding. For a few minutes, it’s just wet steps echoing in the tunnels. “What made you decide to come with me? I assume you have your own fallback plans.” 

“I do, but I don’t know. I wanted to accept your olive branch.” You look at him. “I wanted to trust you.”

He nods. His gut twists a little at that, both anxious and pleased. He’d been right about offering an act of faith in return for the one he scorned. Now, he just has to keep you alive, which he grows more confident in doing. 

“Where are we going?” 

He looks up at you. “Hyunjin didn’t tell you?”

“No, just said to trust you.” Minho’s brows shoot up and you snort. “I know. Whatever you showed him convinced him.”

“It’s a safe house on Isla de Suenos.” You look up at him sharply and he gives a soft grin. “My mother belonged to a very well-off family. I’m not supposed to exist, and she had to decide at a young age whether or not I was worth throwing away her family and their power. A single safehouse purchased with offshore accounts and through a network of money-changing and bought secrecy is the only thing she could give me.”

“She didn’t choose you?” He shakes his head. You think about that for a second and he lets the words sink in, waiting for the pity, which he hates. Instead, you hum. “No wonder you don’t choose people either.”

Your candor is a relief. You don’t tell him sorry or try to comfort him. You accept this as a fact of life, a normalcy that a mother would choose wealth and power over a child. “There are no records tying us together, but the title of the house is under what my name would have been if she’d taken me. Lee. My family name would be Lee.”

“What is it now?”

“I don’t have one. My father was servant-class. We don’t have family names.” 

“He worked for your mother’s family?” Minho nods. “Lee. I like it. Will you keep it?”

“Maybe. It’s who I have to be, now.” 

“No longer the Collector?” He shakes his head. “Good. Perhaps I like you more as just Lee Minho.” 

Minho bites back a grin. 

By the time they get to the surface again, they’re just outside of the city-proper on the northeast shore. Here, the night is bitter cold as the salty air blasts off the ocean, dark waves rushing and receding against the shoreline. 

They take a brief break once their topside, Minho gasping deep breaths of fresh air in as he gulps down water. Now that they can see without the glowsticks, they toss them into the trash and breathe in silence. 

Carefully, Minho peers at the wound on his shoulder. It’s cauterized from the heat of the plasma, but the burn hurts something vicious. He has no medical supplies on him, and he examines the chawed flesh with mild concern. 

Seeing the injury, you get up wordlessly from the rock where you sit and come over. Your hand digs in one of your pockets and you produce a packet of burn gel and antiseptic, wordlessly gesturing to the wound. He nods and you offer a tentative grin before ripping the antiseptic open with your teeth, spitting the crinkling material on the ground.

With steady hands, you squeeze out the translucent gel on the tips of your fingers and peel the damaged parts of Minho’s shirt away from the flesh. He sucks in a breath when you apply the cool gel to the wound, the stinging of the antibiotic catching him off guard. You shoot him an apologetic wince before continuing to press it lightly into the burned flesh. 

You smell like jasmine and amber. Minho breathes it in deep, a soothing scent mixed with the salty air of the seat just a few yards away. His eyes flutter shut as your fingers work his shoulder, deft and skilled like an artist. 

“My mom liked to paint,” Minho says automatically, unsure where the comment comes from. “That’s one of the few things I know about her. She had artist hands. You have hands like hers. Graceful.” 

“Hmm, I wouldn’t say I’m an artist but I do draw designs for weapons a lot.”

“It’s a kind of art.”

“I suppose it is.”

Your closeness makes Minho dizzy. Instead of chasing you away in the past, he lets you linger and spread the burn gel on his shoulder. He doesn’t open his eyes, letting the sound of the ocean and the press of your steady fingers lull him into a moment of relaxation. 

He can almost pretend you both haven’t thrown your life away to head to some house he’s never been to with little to no plan but to arrive there alive. 

“Does it hurt?” he shakes his head at your question. Your voice is soft and raspy, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. You’re so close he can feel the heat radiating from you, making him lean in on instinct, seeking the warmth. “If you let me give you better armor, plasma won’t hurt you.”

Minho’s eyes flutter open. “You brought it with you?”

“Of course I did.” Your face is inches from his, eyelashes fanning your bright, glittering eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Hyunjin’s voice shatters the moment before Minho can respond. “Hello, yes, the child and I are still here.” 

“I’m not a child!”

“The child and I need to leave, however. Seungmin is waiting to escort us. I believe your friend left transportation for you, Minho.”

You whirl around. “You’re leaving? What do you mean you’re leaving?”

“I have some Nightcrawling to do with Bangchan and Seungmin. I’m taking the child to stay with Swan.” 

Minho has no idea who Swan is. He sees the uncertainty color your face as you regard your guard - your friend. “You would do that? Take him to stay with her?” 

“Of course. Swan likes strays.” 

“I am right here,” Jeongin reminds everyone, crossing his arms over his chest. “And I’m not a child.”

Hyunjin grins at him. It’s real and not a leer, something that Minho doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Hyunjin grabs Jeongin by the shoulder, pulling him along before flicking his poison-green eyes toward Minho and you. “Enjoy your evening. I’ll be around, Minho.” 

“Wait!” you bolt over to them, catching everyone by surprise as you throw your arms around the two of them and squeeze. The smile on Hyunjin’s face is so soft that Minho has to look away, equal parts something like jealousy and feeling like he’s intruding. “Here.” 

You divest several items from your pockets, shoving them into their hands. Medical gels, a few gadgets, and a little Scorpion figurine that you shove into Hyunjin’s hands. He raises a single brow in amusement but you say nothing to the Nightcrawler, rushing back to stand at Minho’s side. 

Hyunjin and Jeongin lift their hand in waves to Minho before turning and heading down the beach at a slow pace, their feet sinking into the sand. Cold wind whips at Minho as he stands watching with you silent by his side, waiting.

Without a word, he turns and beckons you, heading up the rocky coast before heading back down precariously to a tiny cove with a boat buoyed between the rocks. It’s hardly a safe-looking boat and he realizes it probably wouldn’t have carried them all, but it’s something. 

Minho climbs into the boat carefully before helping you step down into it. The rocking water throws you off balance and he steadies you, hands tight on your waist. You mutter an apology but he doesn’t let go until he’s sure you’re okay, eyes searching. 

A moment of tension passes, his fingers pressed into the fabric of your hips, your closeness overpowering the sea air again. You clear your throat and it passes. Minho lets you go as he finds the key and plugs it in to turn on the engine.

You busy yourself with untying ropes, your steps unsteady as the vessel moves unpredictably beneath your feet. Once you manage to get rid of all the lines, he begins to navigate out the cove backward, turning the wheel violently from side to side as he fights the tide. 

Thankfully with every swell that pushes the boat into the cove, it drags it back out. It takes about three swells before the craft is pulled into the ocean proper and he throws the throttle in reverse, water rooster tailing for a moment as he does. 

You join him at the helm and stand close as he turns it around and drives. Wind rips at his jacket, blowing back the hood. He’s thankful for the face cover fighting the icy wind, squinting as he drives in the late hours of the night across a rippling black ocean. 

The water gets rough as he turns to the east, glancing at the coordinates on his watch every once in a while. Your hand shoots out to grab his forearm on a particularly violent dip. He curses, pain radiating from his shoulder as you do. You immediately shout an apology and let go, but Minho snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you tight.

For a second, you stiffen, looking up at him uncertainly. He remains steadfast in his hold, willing his heart to slow down as he drives, determined to keep you from falling off the boat and into the water before you can even make it to the safehouse. 

You relax into him after a second, pressing closer and letting him hold on as you go. He relaxes when you accept his help, breathing out a slow breath that he didn’t know he was holding. 

It takes almost forty five minutes, but the dark shadow of Isla de Suenos materializes in the night. The city is a spec of light on the misty horizon as the waves begin to slow down until he can let down on the throttle, bringing the boat to a troll instead of a plane. 

The collection of islands that surround the massive, man-made mountain in the middle of the seat are all only about seven acres in size and are privately owned. The level of exclusivity is something Minho is incredibly unfamiliar with, and he gets nervous as they approach the barely visible shield surrounding the collection of islands.

“Minho, there’s a-”

“It’ll let us through.” He squeezes your waist on instinct, hoping it’s true. As the boat passes, he holds his breath. He feels the biochip in his neck flicker and then they’re through the shield. The water is flat calm on the other side of the energy wall, tapping gently against the hull. “It’s biometric.”

“And you were sure that was going to work?”

“Mostly.” 

“Mostly is not a great attitude in the invention field, Minho.” 

It takes a second, but he realizes you’re calling him by his name and not Cowboy. He likes the sound of it on your tongue, though he doesn’t mind the diminutive. 

Even in still waters, he doesn’t remove his arm around your waist, the protective instinct still high as he steers the boat according to his watch. Islands with lights hidden behind thick jungle and rockface slide past them. 

The beacon on his watch flashes and he turns the boat, trolling to a long, empty dock ahead of them. The island is no different from the rest, covered in sprawling jungle and foliage that look monstrous in the ominous night. 

Quickly, you tie off the boat and disembark. Your steps on the dock feel loud in the quiet night, the two of you hurrying along and up the shore until you hit the stone stairway that leads through the trees. Though he isn’t holding you close to him anymore, you still keep yourself pressed close, the back of your hands brushing as you begin the climb up the island. 

Minho has no idea what the house looks like. He only knows that it’s coded to his biochip and that it’s always been there if he needs it. He doesn’t know if it’s stocked or if the electricity is on, or if it’s been raided and taken over. He doesn’t even know if there are codes to get access.

It is the most unprepared he has ever been. 

A large estate springs up among the trees. The entire building is constructed on a platform with foliage and trees brushing along the foundations. It’s made up of windows and metal framing, the windows dark and hiding whatever exists within. 

It is exquisite. Minho has never seen an estate or a luxury home before in person, but he knows that’s what this is. The thought seems a little silly as he leads you toward the modular home, steps quiet as he glances around. He cannot imagine that anyone but he and his could enter the grounds, but he’s still on edge. 

At the door, there’s a single bioscanner. He leans his neck toward it, letting it flash over his biochip. The scanner turns green and he hears the hiss of an airlock. Glancing at you and shrugging, he tries the handle and pulls the door open toward him. 

Inside, the air is cool. He steps in first, hand on his gun as he looks around the interior. It’s sparkling clean and decorated with dark wood furniture and greenery. He takes a few steps inside, flinching when automatic lights come on and casts a warm, gold glow in the house. 

“You’ve been living as a fucking Collector when this existed the entire time?” you deadpan from the door.

No kidding, he thinks, turning to look at the multi-story wonder that is the home. It’s three levels of tropical opulence, making his head spin at all of the possibilities. 

“I didn’t know what was here, honestly.” He turns to look at you and nods. You step inside and pull the door shut, tapping the screen beside it. The locks click in place again and with another tap, he sees the windows darken to privacy mode. “I assumed she didn’t leave me something grand.” 

“It’s a good start on an apology. She’s still a bitch for leaving you and I think you should let me fight her.”

A ripple of fondness goes through him and he smiles at you, uncontrolled and large. You shoot a shy one back before looking away at the wonder of the home. 

Unlike him, you seem to relax immediately, kicking your shoes off to wander around the house. He follows suit after a moment of hesitation, peeling the cover off of his face and kicking of his shoes. He leaves his holster open on his weapons, hands hovering near them as he follows you.

The house is extravagant. Smaller than he originally thought, with only three bedrooms and two bathrooms, but the spaces for each are massive and sprawling with greenery. It feels like the jungle is a part of the house - and he realizes it is, at least in the atrium. There’s a large pool and something that looks like a hot spring behind the house, hidden from the world by thick palms and palmetto. 

Each room is richly designed and cleaned, as though it has been kept for him all this time. He’ll have to worry about that at some point, unsure who has kept the house in such a presentable state while it’s existed. 

After you’ve fed your curiosity, you drift to one of the rooms with a private bathroom. He takes the room across from you, feet dragging as the exhaustion hits him. His limbs feel heavy and peeling off his shirt with the injured arm makes him curse and hiss. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror, knowing the old bruises from a few days ago are still there.

Steam fills the bathroom. He’s a little put out when he realizes that the stone shower has a wall of glass to reveal the jungle on the other side, but he realizes there’s no one to watch him. He shakes the uneasiness and steps under the scalding water, moaning as he closes his eyes and lets it run down him.

A screen with a dozen or more settings sits in the rockface of the shower, but he doesn’t know how to use them. He hits another button hoping for what is more water pressure and instead gets a heavenly waft of eucalyptus. He leaves the settings alone, settling for tranquility over scrubbing himself.

Minho doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower. His fingers prune and the crust and blood eventually peel away. He spends a short amount of time scrubbing his own skin, eager to get out of the shower and check on you. 

Now that he has you, a new sort of stream of consciousness has made itself permanent, always wondering where you are and if you’re okay. 

Steam clouds the bathroom as he steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist. Water clings to him as he ruffles his wet hair, strolling out into the bedroom. He walks toward the table by the door, rifling through his things looking for medical gel. 

A knock draws his attention and you open the door a crack, making a sound of surprise when you don’t expect to see him standing right in front of you. Your eyes dip down to where the towel is on his waist and back up, immediately opting to look at the ceiling. 

Minho’s lips pressed into a firm line, trying to eat the smirk threatening to take over.

“Sorry, I assumed you were still in the shower. I - um - brought more gel for your shoulder.” 

He steps away from the door, leaving drips of water as he does. “Come on in.”

“Are you sure?”

He shrugs and then winces, the burn pulling taught as he does. You enter immediately, shutting the door behind you and ripping the top off the packet as you do, eyes focused on the wound. You’ve got your fingers slathered in gel and pressing to his shoulder before you realize the forwardness, pausing to glance up at him.

Now, Minho does smirk. “I’m at your mercy.” 

“Sorry. I know it’s hurting you and…”

“You don’t want me to hurt,” he fills in, remembering your words from earlier.

You nod and chew your bottom lip as you work. He studies you closely. He doesn’t know if it’s his acceptance that you’re more than just someone he buys weapons from, the exhaustion or the little sliver of feeling he’s always pretended wasn’t there, but Minho suddenly feels a little bolder. 

A little braver. 

“I never had a chance to thank you.”

“For what?” You throw the antiseptic on the table and rip open the burn gel. “Anything. Everything. I don’t think I’ve ever said thank you.”

“There’s a lot of things you haven’t said.”

“So let me.” You dart a look at him, nervous. When you don’t interrupt he continues, “You were right. We stopped being industry peers a long time ago, and I’ve purposefully ignored multiple favors from you to keep the illusion that simple relationships meant I couldn’t be hurt. Or hurt others.”

“And now?”

“I realize it was silly.”

“Hmm. At least you admit your faults, Cowboy.” 

He smiles. You finish applying the gel, but you don’t move away from him. You linger, looking up through silky lashes at him. Your face takes on a dreamy look, mouth parted a little and he feels heat coil in his stomach at that look. 

“Why’d you offer me that armor?”

“I was afraid of how often you were working. I knew you were getting hurt and I wanted to help. Why’d you reject it?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause. Your gaze drops to his mouth. You’re only a few inches away, the ghost of your breath against his neck. “What if I want you to?” 

Minho needs no other permission. It’s like a dam giving way, the past few days able to wedge their way in and open him up to let the rawness spill out of him. He surges forward, catching your mouth against his as he does so, hands shooting to your waist. 

You don’t push him away. Worse, you melt into him like it’s natural, hands skating up his arms and around the back of his neck to pull him in closer to you. Your mouth is warm and minty and addicting, scattering his thoughts to the stars as your lips move against his. 

Heat is trapped between your bodies. He feels like he’s burning up from the inside, squeezing your hips as his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. You open up for him easily, like you were always made to and he groans. 

Every time he has ever held back from you fuels him forward. He presses into you, turning you to push you on the mattress. You go willingly, opening your legs to let him slot between them. He leaves over you, mouth hungry. Devouring. Ravenous. 

You gasp between kisses, nails grazing down his flexing arms. He wants to fucking drown in you as he bites the edge of your jaw, tasting the soap on your skin. You smell like jasmine and amber, though now he can smell the eucalyptus too, driving him insane. 

You. 

The one thing he’s let himself trust. The one person he’s let in, even when he didn’t want to admit it. The one person he wants to have more than anything else. 

Greedy hands scrape up his chest. Your fingers are warm and searching as he nips the tender flesh of your neck, tongue laving over the bite to soothe it. The sounds dripping from your mouth are so pretty, driving him inside as he traces his desire with tongue and teeth. 

The fabric of your shirt scrapes against his skin, itchy and in the way. His hands pull at the hem and he hesitates, looking down at you through a heavy-lidded gaze and panting. You not frantically, hands pulling at his to guide the shirt upwards and off, revealing warm skin.

Minho wants to taste every part of you. You create art with your schematics and your weapons, but you are art. He worships you with tongue and teeth, hands brushing up your stomach to cup your chest. His tongue pulls a languid moan from you as he flicks it over the peak of your nipple. 

Fuck.

He’s greedy, sucking gently on your pert bud, ensuring to scrape his teeth along the sensitive flesh. You writhe underneath him, unable to remain still. His other hand works you too, tweaking your stiff peak as he trails spit-slick kisses across your chest to wrap his lips around that nipple too. 

Minho looks up at you through his lashes. You’re a rendering of pleasure, head pressing into the bed, chest pushed up, a sheen of sweat on your collarbones and neck. It drives him wild, cock throbbing heavily as he trails his mouth toward, fingers pulling your pants as he goes. 

Your fingers twist in the sheets. Everything he does affects you and he’s drunk on it, heart thudding in his chest as he drops down to his knees. His towel falls and the cool air makes him shiver. He feels the sticky tip of his cock brush against his leg but he ignores the ache between his thighs, fixing his eyes on what’s between yours instead. 

Pretty and wet, all for him. For him. He gets to have you. But he doesn’t yet, making you wait and feel the personal hell it’s been for him to pretend he wasn’t yours as he kisses up your thighs, licking warm skin and digging his teeth in. 

“Minho,” you half gasp, half wine. He smiles against your knee, giving it a gentle peck. “Please.” 

“Yeah?” he switches legs, biting your calf. “Want it that bad?” 

“Need it.” 

He brings a hand up to your dripping cunt, dragging a curled knuckle through your wetness. You let out a keen and he grins against your leg even more, hypnotized by the way your petty little hole clenches at the contact.

Minho drags it out. Plays with you, dragging that knuckle slow-soft through your folds, avoiding your clit. You let out a sound that’s almost a sob and he chuckles, bringing his hand up to suck at the stickiness on his finger. 

“Hmm. Sweet.” 

“Bet it’s better from the source,” you shoot back, trying to make a jab and failing with how weak your voice is. 

“True,” he agrees, leaning forward. 

Your taste blooms on his tongue as he licks up your center, slow and patient. He savors the taste, humming as he does. You buck under his mouth and he grips your thighs, pulling you open. You’re warm and wet and perfect, and he listens to your breath hitch as he licks you slowly, making sure to circle around your clit each time.

One of your hands shoots to his hair. He doesn’t mind as you pull. The sting feels good and spurs him on, eating you out properly. He loves the sounds you make for him, loves the way your thighs twitch as he sucks your click into his mouth, tongue flicking over it. 

It’s wet and messy and just the way he likes it, slick dripping down his chin as he presses himself in further, desperate to fuck you into sanity with just his mouth. 

He doesn’t have a problem doing it. You buck against his face and he lets you, holding his tongue flat for you to grind against. Your fingers in his hair have him in a vice grip and he moans, a steady stream of mhmmm dripping sweet from his mouth into your heat. 

“Fuck,” you gasp. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

“Come on,” he mouths against you. “Take what you want, baby.” 

The endearment slips from him more naturally than anything he’s ever done. His fingers squeeze your thighs as you undulate against him, his entire attention fixated on you as they begin to shake. Your hand twists in his hair and he groans, equal parts pain and pleasure as you come apart. 

He hums in satisfaction, keeping his mouth working on you, drinking you in as you continue to tremble. The power trip that comes with seeing you come is unmatched, lighting a fire in him as he licks you to oversensitivity.

“Minho,” you beg, voice squeaking. He grins, kissing your cunt before he mouths his way back up to you, capturing your mouth with his. You’re eager to taste yourself, tongue licking at him more than anything, smearing your slick on his lips. He feels his eyes roll back. You’re going to kill him. “More.”

Minho would conquer the world and call it yours if you wanted him to. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give you. Pretending otherwise was the great folly of man, he realizes, as he shuffles you up the bed and climbs between your legs, standing up on his knees.

You watch him, pupils blown and fucked out as he heaves. He can hardly catch his breath as he reaches down to take his cock in his hand, pumping leisurely as he watches you. The way you look at him like you’ll consume him whole makes him shiver. He wants you to. Want you to burn him up until there’s nothing left. 

Leaning down, he drops his cock out of his hand in favor of sliding a hand between your legs. You’re a mess of spit and cum, making the glide easy as he slips a finger into your heat to work you open. Your head falls to the side, giving him access to suck at your jawline as he fucks you open with his finger, adding a second when he knows you can take it. 

Your hips roll up to meet his thrusts as he scissors his fingers open, pressing against your warm walls to push the stretch further. You’re putty in his hands but he’s a mess in yours, too. He’s shaking by the time he slips his hand from between your legs to press the crown of his cock at your entrance, hesitating. 

Minho looks up at you. He already knows there’s no going back for him, three years of his own stubborn delusions robbing him of what could have been. But he asks, anyway. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure for a long time. It was you who needed convincing.” 

“What a stupid man I am.”

“Yes,” you agree. “But mine.” 

That drives him wild. Simple words and yet the very action of you claiming him erodes the last bit of resistance. He pushes into you and goes slow with a considerable amount of effort, shaking and panting as he tries to keep it together. 

You’re warm and tight and twitches of pleasure ripple through him from cock to stomach. Minho swears he comes alive for the first time as he seats himself in your cunt to the hilt, barely able to catch his breath as he ducks down to press his mouth against yours.

It’s not delicate, but it isn’t the same ferocity as earlier. It’s something else that lingers between madness and relief. He only begins to move when he feels your hips wiggle. He smiles into the kiss, retracting his hips before surging forward again. 

Delirious. That is the only word that comes to mind as he starts to fuck you slow and deep. Your mouths bump together but you’re both breathing raggedly, shaking together. Your hands card through his hair, soothing and soft. His lashes flutter as he drops his head further. You press your lips against his forehead as he picks up the pace, letting your hands worship him as he fucks you.

How could he ever think he was sparing you from him? How could he ever make the mistake that if he kept on the fringes, you wouldn’t leave him ruined like this? It seems unimaginative now. Like something that was always meant to happen. 

No wonder Collect Co. knew he would go running to you like a dog when they assigned you to him. Everyone else could admit it except him, an egregious error on his part.

But Minho has you now. Gasping his name and moving in his arms. Rolling your hips to meet his, your cunt clenching on his cock as he fucks you harder. He wants to dig into you and never let go. Wants to sink into the very core and live there. 

“Mine,” you growl as though you can read his thoughts. “Even though you tried not to be. You are mine, Lee Minho.”

When you say his full name like that, voicing the boy who could have been and now who is, he starts to come apart. His pace quickens as he chases your second release, holding you tight to him as he feels you clench longer and longer around him until you’re sobbing his name and spilling down his shaft.

Minho all but growls your name as he comes. Never again will you be Builder. You’re his. First and last name his to say. The acknowledgement almost makes him cry as he slows his thrusts, gasping for air as he tosses his head back, heat escaping between the two of you. 

Finally, he stops fucking you, hands linked with yours as he leans up to catch his breath. He’s still seated in you, feeling the cum drip between where your ass is pressed against his thighs. He doesn’t care, feeling the sweat and the water from his shoulder drip down his back.

His arm burns where he’s used it. He’d been unaware of the pain while lost in you, but he feels it now, throbbing. He doesn’t care. He’d do it again a thousand times.

Slowly, he unravels from you. Your hands don’t let him go far, pulling him down next to you to roll toward. He smiles, tired and dreamy at the edges as he lets you. The bed is soft against his balmy skin, the cool air helping calm him down. 

Finally, both of you can breathe. He knows that he needs to shower again, but he doesn’t want to get up. He wants to keep you near. Now that he’s all in, he wants to stay all in. 

“We should call this place the Jungle Rodeo.” He cracks an eye open at you to realize you’re hiding a grin as you look up at him. “You know, since we can’t go back to Neon Rodeo.”

“What is it with you and rodeos?” 

“You find Cowboys at the rodeo.” 

“Oh?”

“And you’re here… so… it’s a rodeo.” 

He blinks at you. “Your intellect is astounding.” 

You laugh and it’s like taking a JumpPack straight to his bloodstream, a rush of energy and euphoria driving him upward and toward you. He smothers you with kisses, driving by the need to taste you again. You let him, giggling. 

“What do you say then, hmm?” he growls, nipping your bottom lip. “Want to go for another ride?”

“That joke was terrible.” 

“You know what they say. When at the rodeo.”