The Last Star

“you just had to mess with me while i was working,” you roll your eyes but accept when he turns you around to lean you against the empty kitchen counter. “did you accomplish your goal of being one annoyance closer to me murdering you and taking the insurance money to hire movers?”

“no, but i did accomplish my goal of getting your attention,” he leans into your space, pressing you up further into the countertop. “you’re working too hard, baby. take a break.”

“i just need to get one more box done, then-“ the rest of your sentence is muffled by the palm of his hand and you make angry eye contact with him above his wrist. it’s the only thing you can do to retaliate, since he doesn’t get grossed out if you lick his hand and gets weirdly turned on if you bite it.

“box later,” he insists, pulling his hand away to tame a stray lock of your hair down against our head. “lunch now. hungry.”

“and he’s reduced to caveman speech,” you give in easily when you feel the weariness of your muscles sink in. it is easy to ignore when you are busy, but with the languid comfort that comes with his weight pressed against yours it draws your attention.

“would a caveman do this?” he leans in the rest of the way and presses his lips to yours in a slow, gentle kiss, letting his breath out into a sigh against your mouth. he squeezes his hands against your hips and lifts, and your center of gravity shifts as you’re placed on top of the counter.

“that’s exactly what a caveman would do, i think,” you say, breaking the kiss to thunk your head against the cabinet behind you. you can see his brain working to produce a witty comeback by the way his eyes narrow, but he must lose the fight with his own intelligence because he sinks to his knees a moment later without a word.

“i think cavemen like snacks,” he leans his head against your thigh and plays with the waistband of your shorts with his hands, looking up at you through his dark eyelashes. “does my food consent to a little pre-lunch sample?”

“as long as we can let this metaphor go, you can do whatever you want,” you feign nonchalance but your heartbeat is picking up, crescendoing into a racing pace when he manages to wiggle your shorts and underwear off of you.

you would go into the semantics of your bare ass on the kitchen counter being unhygienic, but you’re moving out tomorrow and soon that’ll be someone else’s problem. hopefully the new tenant bleaches everything.

he noses at your folds, unhurried and curious like he’s discovering something for the first time. when his tongue darts out to taste you, you’re almost embarrassed by the whine that leaves your throat without permission. really, you shouldn’t be so effected by such a simple touch, but you both have been too busy with packing the last few weeks to do anything other than unsatisfying quickies in the shower and it’s left you restless.

your breath hitches when he grabs your thighs and pushes your legs further apart. his next lick is harder, more of his tongue reaching out to draw a broad stroke between your hole and your clit. your hips jerk when his teeth graze against your skin and a small gush of slick escapes as you clench around nothing.

“the snack talks back,” he smirks, using two of his fingers to spread the wetness around. he teases at your entrance, and chokes on a gasp when your hands fly to his hair to press his face against your core.

“oh my god, shut up,” you loosen your grip when he gets the message and starts sucking at your clit, meaningfully this time instead of whatever he was doing before while thinking of some weird prehistoric era joke. he dips his fingers into you, crooking his fingers and making shallow thrusts that light up your nerve endings. fuck, this will be over too soon with the way you’re reacting.

you let go of his hair to cover your mouth as you start panting along with the pulsing in your pussy, and he whines into you pitifully. you’re not sure if it’s because he wants you to pull on his hair or because he wants to hear you, but he relaxes when your hand fists back into his curls.

“fuuuuuck, baby,” your hips are moving in minute jerks and you can feel the familiar burning heat spread through your core as your orgasm builds. you twitch one last time as it finally snaps, and your walls pulse desperately around his fingers as he eats you through it. your legs close around his ears as you come, your vision blacking out for a moment in response to his enthusiastic licking and sucking.

you relax your legs and push him away once the pleasure sparks into overstimulation, electricity crackling against a fine line between good and too much. he stays for a few seconds longer, stubborn in his desire to clean you up and hear you whimper, before falling back into his heels.

his face is glistening with your slick, his lips are red and swollen and he looks so satisfied with himself that you’re abruptly annoyed again.

“don’t say it,” you warn, the fear you wanted to instill dulled by the lethargy in your voice. “whatever stupid joke you’re going to say, keep it in your head.”

Though the walk is nice. Comforting, and soothing. The sun sinks lower by the minute, the kind that has both of you pause, facing the horizon to take in the glimmering sea that reflects the light like a painting. The kind of sight that has your breath hitch, has you stop, eyes shining as you take in the pink and purple sky, the bright orange sun ready to bid its farewell.

Chan seems to agree, your boyfriend squeezing your hand almost faintly before he mutters the words you would have missed between the sunset, the waves and the winds.

You don’t though, not when Chan looks as if you mean the word, the same shine in his eyes as they meet yours.

“—It would be perfect to propose here.”

You think you would’ve laughed startled at such a random exclamation, would have agreed with such an romantic observation. Yet before you can even giggle at the idea, even agree with him with a hum and a nod, you only turn to find a sight that has you freezing. 

Eyes widening and lips parting with shock because he doesn’t even wait for his words to settle, doesn’t tear his gaze away, already dropping down with a widening grin.

Chan kneels. Right there, right before your suddenly frozen form.

He’s on one knee, pants planted over the wet sand, the seafoam left after retreating waves seeping through the material, yet even the dirt and water isn’t enough to keep him from doing what he decided to do. 

Everything continues as it was. The sun still on its descent, the waves still crashing against the rocks, rising over sand, the winds still ruffle through his hair, tousling the strands.

Yet nothing remains the same for you, not when his gaze meets yours so warm, so fond. Locked onto you with a lingering softness that shows in the way he fishes out the small box from the depths of his pocket. 

Where had he hidden it all day? You’re clueless. Yet he holds it before you, opening with ease, the slight tremble in his hands going unnoticed amidst the sudden emotions that surge through you. Chan holds it out before you. Offering you something you’ve only dreamt of, you can’t help but gasp, eyes flickering to what’s inside. 

It’s a glimmering thing, dainty and elegant, the ring glints beautifully against the sunset. And he cradles it in his palms, inhaling deeply as he lets you react. Your hands fly to your mouth, pressing against your lips, as you once again gasp louder. The ocean waves are cold over your feet, wind biting at your skin, yet you feel as if you are burning up.

“I—” Chan begins, clearing his throat, a twinge of nervousness crossing his gaze but the wide smile remains.

“I love you.” He states, softly, loudly, those words coming out as easily as breathing.

His eyes dart over your shocked-still expression, at the misty haze in your own gaze as you finally grasp what is happening.

“‘Is this love?’” He whispered.

A repeat of a question you’ve asked. It’s a familiar question, one that has you break into a breathy and wet scoff-like giggle as you realize exactly what he is referring to, hands falling to your sides, shoulders relaxing as you let him continue.

Let him propose.

“The night after our first date, after I spent the entire after of it distracted by thoughts of you, you sent me that question.” His cheeks dimpled with the way he grinned, watching you exhale with a breathless laugh.

“—Granted, it was a message you accidentally texted to me instead of your friend—immediately followed with ten other messages of you freaking out over it, before threatening me to forget how you just embarrassed yourself.” He recalls with a chuckle, with a fondness and a grin that has you mimic the glee, though the tears now freely slide down your cheeks.

“But how could I have ever forgotten such a question when that same night I decided that I had an answer for it. That seeing your adorable sputtering and your refusal to meet my eyes the next day made me realize that it was love. That you were it for me.” There’s a waver in his voice, a shine in his own eyes as he takes in the beautiful sight that is you.

But he barrels on, as if he has so much to say but not enough time—at least not currently. Not when he has a ring to put on your finger. The recollection of your most precious moments could wait a little.

“I knew I wanted to marry you then. I knew I wanted a full life with you.” He swallows his nervousness, his emotions that threaten to crack in his voice.

You almost whimper shakily, happily, your expression soft and warm and oh-so-touched as his voice drops just a tad bit softer, just a tinge warmer.

“I want more late night adventures, more spontaneous trips, the slow strolls hand-in-hand. I want the growing birthdays to come, the wrinkles and white hair, all the way to the end. Till death do us apart—right after that first date. I want it all with you.”

You swipe the back of your hand to wipe away the tears that pool at your jaw, shuddery breath escaping your lips with a soft sob. Chan kneels patiently, as he continues to make your heart flip, your stomach swoop, your eyes prick with more happy tears.

“I’m sure you know by now how painfully obsessed I am with you.” He too chuckles wetly, his voice slightly shaky, yet dripping with something akin to adoration as he looks up at you, absolutely besotted.

“You already know how deeply I love you, but I’ll say it again. I love you. And I will continue to do so for the rest of my remaining life. Will you—” He stutters just the slightest as he swallows, taking in a nervous breath, his eyes locked onto yours.

“Will you please marry me?”

The waves crash loud, your feet sink into the wet sand, the sunlight is moments away from disappearing, yet you only look at Chan, on his knees, his own teary eyes and that beautiful smile of his that you’re so fond of. 

Your boyfriend awaits the answer he should know you would give him almost nervously. And even with the shock and the heart-touching words spoken, you can’t help but laugh almost helplessly. The tears continue to cloud your vision yet even with blurred sight you know exactly where to find your most special person, lunging forward you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, falling onto your own knees.

Chan wobbles just the slightest at the impact but he holds you firmly, pressed right against him.

“Yes. Yesyesyes.” Your voice is half-choked, half a whisper as you tug him closer into your embrace.

Chan’s own voice cracks as he laughs against you, arm wrapping tight around you as he inhales your scent.

“Thank you. I love you so so much.” He pulls away, just enough to gaze into your eyes, lashes wet from his tears, yet his smile remains.

“Give me your hand.” He whispers.

You don’t wait another second, your hand trembling between the both of your kneeling bodies as Chan looks down to pluck the ring out, box forgotten over the sand.

It slips on easily, cool against your skin, yet even that doesn’t last long, not when his hands cup your fingers in his, engulfing you in his warmth.

“You won’t regret it, I swear—”

As much as you want to hear more of his heartfelt promises, you can’t help but want to disappear in his embrace, melt into his arms. Squeeze into his chest, and make yourself home. You lean in to capture his lips, kissing him and swallowing his promises. And he easily allows you to do so. 

Melt into his embrace, disappear in his arms.

Kissing you in that slow, careful kind of way. The one where his fingers sit just right below your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re the most delicate thing he has. And you can’t help the sigh that leaves you, the way you pull him close and allow the thought to settle.

So this is love. 

He squeezes you a tinge bit tighter, kisses you just a tad bit harder, his mouth hot against yours.

When you look, he’s a silhouette first: all black, the clean geometry of a high-collar jacket and fitted tee, dark jeans that drink the light from his silver hair. Wet where they shouldn’t be. There are splashes on the cuffs and a dull sheen on his knuckles, rubbed halfway clean and then abandoned. He smells like outside at midnight—cold metal, wet bark, the bite of something mineral.

He doesn’t turn the lamp on. He walks by feel in this place like it’s mapped under his skin. The bed dips—a slow, careful press by your shins. His hand finds your ankle through the comforter and closes, thumb smoothing along the bone as if taking your pulse.

“Hi,” you say, small. It comes out a little breathy, guilty by nature.

He hums. “You’re warm.”

“I—yeah.” Your tongue tastes like wine and citrus. “Changed my clothes.”

His thumb stops moving. “Before or after you stopped answering me.”

The hour before this—your coworkers, the loud bar, the way your phone kept lighting up like a heartbeat—rearranges itself in your head. You swallow. The ring of your glass on polished wood. Laughter. Someone’s sleeve grazing your bare shoulder. “My battery—”

He reaches over you. A quiet, unhurried theft. Your phone is in his hand before you can catch the thought of saying no. He doesn’t check it yet. He just rests it on his thigh and looks at you, the whites of his eyes milk-pale in the low light.

“Battery,” he repeats, but it isn’t a question. It’s a place he’s setting you down to see if you stay.

The apartment is too quiet. You can hear the tiny tick of the hallway thermostat. Somewhere in the pipes a neighbor’s shower shuts off. Chris sets your phone on the nightstand without looking away from you. Then he bends, and the scent of him gets sharper.

Your fingers move before your nerve can talk you out of it. You catch his wrist. His skin is cold and a little damp; there’s grit drying in the lines of his palm. “What… is that?”

His mouth tips. He turns his hand in yours and spreads his fingers. In the dark, the stains read as a palette of shadows—edges the color of violets and rust, a smear you could almost pretend is paint if your stomach wasn’t pulling tight.

“Nothing you need to put your hands on,” he says softly. “Not with your pretty hands.”

“Chris.” Your name for him folds itself around a small plea. “Where did you go?”

“Out.” He lifts one shoulder, the movement minimal, controlled. “You were out. I gave you space.”

“You were mad.” Your voice wants to make it an accusation. It only makes it to observation. “You were mad at me for going and then you left and…and now you’re back.” 

“I always come back.” He says. His knuckles skim your knee over the blanket; he’s not petting you. He’s measuring. “Did you have fun?”

The question is silk over wire. You hate how it snags. “It was just drinks.”

“Just.” He tastes the word as if it offends him. “With who.”

You tell him. Names that feel harmless in your mouth feel less so in the room with him: Anya with the chipped pink manicure, Lucas from accounting who laughs with his whole chest. Chris tips his head once, small, taking the list like a report.

“Your coworker touched your back,” he says. Not a question. “By the door.”

You feel your face heat. You hadn’t told him that. You hadn’t even fully registered it until now— a palm that landed too comfortably between your shoulder blades as the group spilled outside to call rides, a thoughtless guiding pressure. Harmless, you told yourself, even as goosebumps rose sharp across your skin.

“He’s handsy with everyone,” you say.

“Handsy.” The corner of his lips quirk at that and he flexes his wrist slightly. The sheen of wetness there flashes suddenly. “Well.”

He drags his thumb along his wrist where something has dried into the seam of skin, then wipes it on his jeans without looking. He tips his head, studying you, and the quiet stretches until you feel your heartbeat as a separate animal in the room.

“Some men,” he says at last, conversational, “don’t know where to put their hands.” His gaze lowers to where the blanket tents over your knees. “It gets them into trouble.”

You try to laugh like it’s a joke, but it comes out thin and papery. “He… he didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Intent is a bedtime story.” His eyes find your face again. They are very gentle when he’s being unkind. “Contact is a fact.”

He reaches—slow—and takes your right wrist the way a tailor takes a measurement. His fingers encircle, warm now, pressing just enough to feel the pulse under the skin. “Palms up,” he murmurs.

You turn your hands. Your palms look almost luminous in the low light, every line a map you don’t know how to read. He brushes over them like he’s checking for splinters, then flattens your fingers one by one, counting under his breath so soft you almost don’t hear it.

“One… two… three… four… five.” He lifts your left and does the same. “Six… seven… eight… nine…” He pauses on your smallest finger, thumb resting at its base like a promise. “Ten.” His mouth softens. “Good. Keep them.”

The relief is quick and mean; it makes you feel stupid. “Chris—”

He places your hands back on the blanket with exaggerated care, aligning your fingers together, smoothing the duvet where you’ve wrinkled it. “Don’t put them on strangers,” he adds mildly. “Not even on your ‘handsy-with-everyone’ coworker. Especially not him.”

Your tongue sticks to your teeth. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

He nods, as if you’ve given the answer he wanted. “Tomorrow you’ll call off,” he says. “Headache. Or stomach. Something simple. I’ll write it for you.”

“I have a deadline.”

“Then you’ll meet it from here.” He glances toward your desk. “I moved the charger.” He has. The cord that used to live by the couch trails neatly to your nightstand, looped into a figure-eight. “You’ll stay home. That way your hands don’t… wander.”

The thermostat ticks over. Somewhere on the street a far siren winds down and disappears. He looks toward the window briefly, as if listening for his name in it, then unbuttons his cuff with precise, clean movements. The fabric peels back to show crescent-shaped indents deep into his skin, blooming red against his wrist. He smooths it with the other thumb, absent, soothing.

Your mouth moves before your sense does. “Did you… get hurt?”

He considers the question a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

There’s a small, complicated silence. You think of the bar’s door, the way Lucas had skated his palm between your shoulders like he was steering a shopping cart; you think of the word harmless and how cheap it suddenly feels in your mouth. You think of how Chris’s cuff had been wet when he walked in, and the way the building itself seemed to hold a breath for him.

“He won’t touch you again,” Chris says, almost tender. “Or anyone.”

You look at the shape his words make. They don’t land like a guess.

“Is he—” You stop yourself on the brink. The question opens under you like a staircase to something you don’t want to see the bottom of. You try a different angle, smaller, more ordinary. “Is he okay?”

Chris’s expression does something minuscule—an eyelash shift of amusement, gone as soon as you name it. “He’s not going to be handsy for a while.” He says it like the weather. Like a calendar note. “Extended leave.”

Your stomach lurches. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he says patiently, “we won’t have this conversation again.”

He picks up your phone, flips it over, and presses the side button with his thumb.

“Location,” he says. You unlock it. He doesn’t have to ask twice.

He toggles the setting on with the same reverence he uses to smooth your hair when you’re shaking. He adds himself to a little white list of people who can always find you. He does not look triumphant. He looks relieved, like someone closing a latch.

He watches the little toggle slide green, then lets your phone dim on its own. The room seems to settle with it, like a lid finding its jar.                    

“Good,” he says. It isn’t praise so much as calibration. “That’s how we stop accidents.”                    

He reaches for your hands again, less like a lover and more like someone fitting a lid—checking the lips, the seal, the way things meet. His thumbs trace the pads of your fingers as if memorizing their texture for later, then pause at your ring finger like he’s counting future problems.                    

“Dry,” he notes. “You pick at the cuticles when you’re anxious.”                    

“I—sometimes.”                    

“I love you,” he says into your knuckles—each kiss a seal—and then, almost lightly: “I’m going to shower.”            

“Okay.”            

“Don’t move.” It’s gentle, which means it isn’t optional.            

The bathroom door clicks. A heartbeat; the pipes wake. Water hits tile in that hard first burst and then takes on a steady hiss. You hear the metal thrum of the knob easing hotter, the wet drag of a curtain pulled closed. Steam slips under the door and ghosts along the floor.            

You stay put for twenty seconds. Maybe thirty. Your pulse makes the counting slippery.   

Then you climb out of bed.         

The jacket waits where he left it, draped over the chair like a sleeping thing. Up close it smells like cold and soap and a thin, mineral thread the shower can’t quite erase. You tell yourself you’re just moving it, just… tidying. Your fingers find the collar. The fabric is heavier than it looks; the hem gives a little when you lift it.            

There’s a darker crescent on the inside placket, dried thin and matte. You swallow, carefully. Your hand finds the inner pocket and grazes something wrapped—paper or tissue gone dense with damp. It gives when you press it. Your stomach steps off a curb.            

You shouldn’t.            

You do.            

The paper sighs open. It isn’t a big thing. Not heavy. Just… definite. Pale where it shouldn’t be, a blunt little curve, the clean circle of a band biting soft tissue. The ring is the wrong kind of familiar—the cheap onyx square your coworker never took off, the one he rapped against doorframes when he was telling a story too loudly. L.M. engraved inside in bad block letters. You recognize it with the same certainty you recognize your own phone by weight in the dark.  Recognize the finger that is still attached to it, blood crusted at the end.           

Air forgets how to go in. You hear yourself set it down back into its cocoon—too careful, too late—your hands suddenly useless birds.

The shower keeps hissing—a steady white noise that makes the apartment feel far away from itself. Steam curls under the bathroom door, licks the floor, climbs the chair legs. You try to put the bundle back exactly the way you found it—edges kissing, soft layers aligned—but your fingers won’t listen. The tissue makes that papery sigh again. Your stomach pitches.

The bathroom door opens.

He’s there in the doorway, towel low on his hips, hair dripping in silent commas down his throat. The room smells like heat and soap and something faintly medicinal. He doesn’t look at the chair first. He looks at you. The angle of your shoulders. The way your hands hover, useless, just off your ribs.

“I forgot the razor,” he says, utterly ordinary, then sees the jacket lifted and your hands mid-guilt. The sentence folds itself away. His eyes take in the angle of your elbows, the loosened pocket, the counterfeit stillness you’re trying to wear.

“I told you not to move.”

“Chris—” Your voice splinters. Your heart is a spotlight that can’t pick a target. “I didn’t— I was just—”

“Bring it here.” Not unkind. Inevitable.

You shake your head before you can stop it. The world wobbles. Something helpless and high climbs your throat.

“Inside voice,” he reminds you softly, stepping closer, towel riding his hipbone, heat breathing off him in waves. “Neighbors.”

“It’s—” The word fails three times. You force it through. “His. That’s— it’s his—” You can’t say finger and not make it real.

“I know what it is.” He holds out the hem of the towel, palm hidden, offering fabric instead of skin. “Give it.”

You almost drop it. Instead, your hands betray you in the safest way they can: they obey. He receives the small weight without looking, wraps once, twice, until the shape is nothing again. He turns and sets it on the closed toilet lid, exactly where a folded towel might live and no one would notice.

Your breath is small and fast. “We have to call— we have to tell someone—”

“No,” he says, utterly calm. “We don’t.”

“He needs a hospital.”

Chris tilts his head, considering. “They won’t be able to help him much.”

He watches your mouth try to shape the argument and fail. The parcel sits obediently on porcelain. The shower keeps talking behind the curtain, a long even line of sound, as if the apartment could write over this with steam.

“They can’t help him,” he repeats, gentle as a correction.

Your breath scrapes. “You don’t know that.”

“I can.” He says. “And if you call anyone now, you’ll only move your fear from the chair to the door.” His gaze flicks there, to the latch, then back. “I prefer it where I can see it. Where I can fix it.”

You shake your head hard enough that black dots crowd the edges of the room. Your hands hover, then clutch the hem of your sleep shirt because you have to hold something or you’ll come apart.

“We have to—” Your voice thins. “Chris, we can’t have— that—here.”

Something flickers in his eyes then, and he softens considerably. He tilts your head back with a finger at your chin. “Are you trying to protect me?”

You flinch like he’s caught you holding a knife by the blade. “I—no— I’m trying to—”

“To make it smaller,” he says, kindly. “For both of us.” His thumb at your chin isn’t force; it’s gravity. “Sweetheart, you always do that. You hold the bad thing close and hope it stops being sharp, even as it’s digging into your chest.”

Your throat works. “This isn’t a bad thing, Chris. It’s—” You can’t say it. The word would sit in your mouth like a rock.

“It’s consequence,” he supplies gently. “It’s the shape safety takes when someone mistakes you for public property.” He leans closer, steam shining his eyelashes. “Listen to me. He put his hands on you like you were an aisle display. He’ll never do that again. Not to you. Not to anyone.”

“You don’t know—”

“I do.” He says it with that low, unarguable certainty that makes you feel both furious and steadied. “Because I removed the choice.”

Your eyes burn. “You can’t ask me to be okay with that.”

“I’m not.” The smallest smile ghosts across his mouth. “I’m telling you that you don’t have to hold it. Give me the part that shakes.” He taps your sternum with two fingers, precise and light. “Let me be heavy so you can be soft.”

It’s wrong that his voice makes your pulse calm. It’s wrong that his palm at your jaw—warm, damp, steady—makes your knees remember they’re attached. He watches the fight in your face without gloating, like a doctor waiting for a fever to break.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shivering. Your skin’s trying to crawl away from itself.” He tips his head at the shower, still hissing behind the curtain. “Come wash it off.”

He doesn’t pull. He simply offers his hand, palm up, the way he does when he’s certain you’ll remember who you are with it. You stare at it, at the nicks and lines and the new marks, and hate that the relief is already cresting.

“You’ll keep looking at that chair if you stay,” he murmurs. “You’ll imagine stories that are uglier than the truth. Or kinder than it. Either way you’ll bruise yourself with it.” His fingers flex, inviting rather than demanding. “Or you’ll come with me, and I’ll soap your wrists and count you back into your body.”

“That’s manipulative,” you whisper.

He smiles. “It’s love,” he whispers back. “And I’m very good at it.” Softer. “You love me.”

You do. You love him so much, it’s ripping your heart into shreds. Your hand finds his. You tell yourself it’s to stop shaking, to anchor, to prove you can still make a choice. He laces your fingers, warm and certain, and leads you the three steps into steam. The air kisses your face wet; the mirror ghosts your outline.

He lets go of your hand to slip off his towel, stark naked and straight-backed in the way only a person completely confident in their skin can be. He glances up at you, still fully dressed, and smiles slightly.

“Clothes on the hook,” he says. “I’ll turn around.”

“Will you,” you murmur, but it’s almost an old joke between you, and you hate that too.

He does turn, though, despite the fact that he’s seen you naked a million times before. He faces the mirror, head bowed, palms resting lightly on the counter as if he’s bracing with politeness. You can see him in the glass, ears slightly pink, fingers fidgeting and you can see the parcel on the shut lid and you hate that you can hold both images at once.

You feel ridiculous for noticing how the lines of his back looks in the mirror. You hate that your skin already misses his hands.

You peel your shirt over your head. The steam eats the last of the bar-smell; shame sticks closer. Shorts, panties—gone, balled onto the hook by reflex. The curtain whispers when you pull it. He doesn’t look until you are inside with him and the water clasps your shoulders like a warm hand.

When he turns, it’s slow, like he’s letting you get used to the shape of him. His cock is heavy and dark where it hangs, unashamed of what it wants. Your stomach flips traitorously. You hate that your mouth waters more for him than for oxygen.

His fingers find your jaw. “Open,” he says, and you do, because that’s the muscle memory he’s installed in you. He kisses you lazy at first, uncoiling heat, then bites when you chase it. It’s filthy how quickly you melt. It’s filthy how your hips rock without your permission.

“Look at you.” His voice roughens against your mouth. “You were shaking for the wrong reason. I’ll fix it.”

“Chris—” It comes out a whine. You want to curse him. You want to be on your knees. You want both.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, and walks you into the tile until your nipples brush cool ceramic. His hand spreads at your nape, not pinning so much as arranging. “Hands on the wall.”

You plant your palms. Steam glosses them. Water drums your spine. The disgust curls low and glowing—how can you want this now, knowing what he——and then his other hand drags down your belly and sinks between your thighs and the thought scratches out.

He finds you wet like you’d been waiting for him all night. His breath breaks at your ear. “There she is,” he says, and the pride in it makes your knees tremble. Shame pricks; your body opens anyway.

His thumb circles your clit in slow, obscene laps, the kind that make heat pool and then surge. Two fingers press at your entrance and the groan you make when he pushes in is so relieved it’s almost a sob. He doesn’t thrust right away—he holds you full, spread, thumb grinding shallow circles until your hips start to chase, until you’re whining please without meaning to.

“Greedy,” he says, delighted. “After the little stunt you pulled.” He sets a rhythm designed to undo you—deep, dragging strokes that rub the rough pad of his finger against your front wall, the heel of his palm catching your clit on the exit. Your jaw goes slack; your cheeks go hot. Water slicks everything but his grip never slips.

You tremble. He hears it. “Say you need me.”

“I—need—” The syllables fracture around his hand. “I need it.”

“You need me,” he corrects, and crooks his fingers just so. The sound you make would embarrass you if embarrassment could live here. He does it again, patient, cruel, praising you with his breath. “That’s it. Make a mess on my hand.”

Your forehead thumps the tile when he speeds up—tiny, ruthless punches of pleasure that light your nerves like a fuse. You bite your wrist. He tsks and drags your arm down. “No hiding,” he says, and taps your cheek with his knuckles. “Let me hear you.”

You hate him; you love him; you’re coming up hard and bright around the fingers of a man you should be afraid of and you arch back into him like a sinner courting the flame. He feels your body seize and laughs, soft and pleased, and claps his palm hard against your clit on the downswing. You break. It rips out of you, filthy and helpless, thighs shaking, cunt milking his fingers like you were made to perform exactly this trick for him.

He doesn’t stop. He rides you through it, wringing the aftershocks until you’re keening, until your hands slip on the tile. “Too much?” he asks, not stopping, not interested in fairness. You shake your head because honesty would make you beg and you refuse to give him that—until his thumb flicks and you beg anyway.

He gentles. He always knows exactly when to. He drags his soaked fingers to your mouth and taps. You take them like a penitent. You lick your taste off him, eyes closing, shame burning hot as want. His voice goes ragged. “Good girl. Clean me up.”

He kneels.

The filthy punch of it—Chris on his knees in your tub like prayer—makes you dizzy. He hooks your thigh over his shoulder and eats you like he’s been starving for days. No teasing, no polite tongue; he gets messy immediately, mouth open, sucking your clit into the wet heat of him while his injured wrist braces your hip. You slap the tile, a smacking echo that makes you flush, and grind down because your body is done pretending it has standards.

He moans into you when you ride his face. The sound vibrates through your clit and you jerk; he does it again, greedy for the way you seize. His tongue fucks you shallow, sloppily, then drags up and flattens over you until your knees threaten to go. “Chris,” you gasp, and he answers by driving two fingers into you from below and curling them like a hook. The world whites out around the edges.

“You taste like you missed me,” he says against you, voice ruined, and devours you harder. His hand is a metronome between your legs; his mouth is chaos. You let him make you into a noise. You let him use your hips like handles. You hate yourself for how quickly the second orgasm winds you back up—and when it slams through, messier than the first, you cry out loud enough the pipes hum it back.

He stands in one smooth flex and kisses you, filthy, sharing the mess he made of you with a satisfied noise when you chase his tongue. You can taste yourself and him and something metallic you don’t want to name, and the wrongness of that reels you; your cunt clenches uselessly around nothing and he groans into your mouth like he felt it.

“Bed,” he says, hoarse, fumbling for the shower knob. “On your back. Legs open.”

You stumble out of the tub, dripping and boneless, and he follows, slinging water across the tile with his steps. You don’t look at the porcelain lid when you pass; his fingers at your wrist give you something truer to stare at. He throws you onto the sheets like you’re soft and expensive and his favorite problem.

He drags you down the bed so your hips kiss the edge and folds you open. “My pretty mess,” he says, and spits on you, quick and obscene. His thumb smears it in and your body thanks him before your brain can get a vote.

“Condom,” you start to say, and he’s already reaching the drawer, already tearing it with his teeth, already rolling it down with practiced, impatient hands. Consideration weaponized. You hate that relief loosens your spine.

He lines up and pushes—slow the first inch, watching your face, then down to the root in one long glide that makes both of you swear. Your mouth falls open. He holds there, deep, letting you feel how utterly inside you he is, how there is no getting him out now that he’s home.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and he smiles like he’s been paid.

He moves. Not fast, not yet; slow, dragging thrusts that grind him right where you’re still trembling from his mouth. His hands climb your body, mapping possession in a language your skin understands better than your head. One circles your throat—not squeezing, just fitting there—and the other lifts your thigh higher, folding you until you open the way he likes, until his hips can pin you to every inch of the bed.

“Eyes,” he says, and you drag them up to him. He looks down like he’s blessing you. “Say what you are.”

“Yours,” you breathe, because lying would be pointless, and his rhythm stutters sweetly, his composure cracked with a sound that curls your toes.

“You are,” he grits out, picking up pace. “Your mine.” He fucks you harder, deeper, the kind of stroke that turns words to weather. The slap of skin fills the room; the wet between you is obscene; your slick coats him and he groans, filthy and pleased. “Listen to yourself,” he pants. “God, you’re loud for me.”

Your nails carve his back. He hisses and drives you higher, the bed complaining. The shame surges, searing and numb all at once—how can you moan for him when you know what he did, how can you come on a man who——and then he pins your wrists over your head in one hand and grinds down exactly right and you choose the smaller sin: you let him.

It builds ugly and perfect. He keeps you there, right on the edge, with little mean circles of his hips that make your eyes wet. “Not yet,” he says when you reach for it. “Hold it. Be good.”

“I can’t,” you plead, and he smiles like that’s his favorite part, and slides deeper, angling to own that spot you can’t protect. Your back arches, your feet slip, your mouth falls open on a sound that feels like confession.

“Fine then,” he says, and the word is a key. You come like you’re being wrung out, like he’s turned you inside out over his hands, like every ugly thought burns away under the heat he’s made of you. You bite his shoulder; he grunts and fucks you through it, chasing his own end now, brutal and beautiful, the lines of his face cut with pleasure.

He’s right there—hips hammering, breath tearing out of him—when his rhythm breaks. A harsh curse rips from his throat; he wrenches out of you with a wet, obscene drag, condom snapping as he claws it off and flings it aside. His hand wraps himself like he means to bruise, wrist jerking, fist a blur.

“Fuck—fuck—look at me,” he snarls, voice gone raw. The sound he makes isn’t pretty; it’s guttural, animal, his head thrown back, throat working as he pumps, fast and mean, like every second not inside you hurts. His abs jump; his hips chase the air. He’s loud, louder than he ever lets himself be—deep, broken groans punched out of him, a helpless litany of your name and filthy, grateful curses.

You’re splayed open at the edge of the bed, slick everywhere, thighs shaking, and the sight of you ruins him. His jaw locks; he doubles over you, bracing one palm on the mattress beside your ribs, the other tearing at himself, desperate, frantic. “God, look at you—mine, mine—” It pitches higher on the last word, ragged and close.

“Channie,” you gasp, and that’s what does it. His whole body tightens; his hand stutters and he shouts—loud, uncontained—spilling hot and thick over your stomach in hard, messy stripes. The first hits your lower belly; the next lands higher, a wet heat across your ribs, your breasts, a warm splatter catching your throat. He keeps jerking through it, whimpering now, ruined and beautiful, painting you with it like he’s signing a contract he wrote in his own blood.

He yanks another breath, fist still working, chasing the last aftershocks out of himself until he’s empty. A final, helpless groan punches into your neck as the last spill drips over the swell of your chest and slicks down your side. He shivers, hand loosening, cock twitching in his grip as he milks the last drops onto your belly, smearing them with the flat of his thumb like he wants it everywhere on you.

“Fuck,” he laughs, breathless and wrecked, forehead falling to your shoulder. His chest heaves against your knees; his hips twitch like he can’t stop wanting. For a second there’s nothing but the sound of both of you trying to remember how to breathe and the obscene slide of his palm as he finally lets go.

He lifts his head, eyes blown and greedy, and stares at the mess he’s made—at your skin shining with him, at your nipples slick and peaked, at the milky line collecting at the notch of your collarbone. The look on his face is worship and victory tangled into something that scares you and softens you at once.

“Pretty,” he rasps, voice torn to threads. He drags two fingers through the warm spill on your sternum and rubs it slow over your skin, spreading it down, circling your nipple until you gasp again. His mouth follows, open and hot, licking it from you, sucking lazily like he can’t stand to waste a drop. He mouths a filthy path up your chest and licks the spot at your throat where it landed, groaning low when you shiver.

He noses the hollow of your throat and licks a slow, possessive stripe through the warm mess there like he’s tasting proof. A pleased sound rattles in his chest. “Mine,” he says into your skin, and then he’s chasing every slick line downward with his mouth open and greedy, tongue broad and hot.

He drags the flat of it over your collarbone and sucks the spill from the notch like he’s siphoning heat. It’s obscene, wet, noisy—he wants you to hear how he’s cleaning you. His hand pins your hip when you twitch. “Stay,” he mutters, and laps lower, patient and ravenous at once.

Your chest lifts helplessly to meet him. He takes his time there—circles one nipple with the tip of his tongue, smearing the milky shine until it coats you, then seals his mouth over it and sucks hard. Your back bows; a broken sound leaves you; shame bites; want eats it alive. He hums like he’s been given cream and moves to the other, mouthing it sloppier, licking until it’s slick again, sucking until your thighs tremble.

“Look at you,” he breathes, pulling back half an inch just to admire the spit-slick flush he’s made. He drags two fingers through the mess on your sternum and paints a crooked line down your ribs; his mouth follows, tongue working, teeth scraping lightly when you gasp. He cleans like a sinner making amends—thorough, reverent, filthy.

He gets to your belly and slows further, licking in lazy swirls that make your muscles flutter. He collects everything he finds with the soft edge of his tongue and swallows, then goes hunting with the tip, chasing it into your navel until you squeak. He laughs against your skin, low and wrecked. “All of it,” he promises, voice hoarse. “Every drop.”

He turns his head and bites the tender place beside your hipbone then soothes it with his tongue, lapping at a rivulet sliding toward the sheet. He won’t let it leave you; he catches it on the underside of his tongue and rolls it back up your skin into his mouth with a groan that ricochets through your gut. Your fingers fist in the sheets. You hate how your body melts under the worship, how your hips tip to give him more.

“Open,” he murmurs, nudging your knees wider with his forearms, but he doesn’t go there yet. He drags his cheek over your inner thigh, smearing shine into your skin, then licks it away in long, patient swathes like he’s polishing you. Every time you flinch, he follows the twitch with his mouth and cleans it, tongue insistent, lips soft, breath hot.

When he reaches the juncture of your thigh and pelvis he slows to nothing, holding your gaze as he flattens his tongue and slides it through the thin line he left on your lower belly, collecting the last of what he spilled and groaning like he’s starving for it. Your head tips back on a whimper; you can feel heat pooling low and mean again, traitorous.

“Almost done,” he lies, and you know he’s lying because his thumbs are already stroking into the crease where you’re slick for a different reason, and he’s looking at you like dessert is finally plated.

He bends and licks the inner curve beside your mound, not touching your clit, not yet, just cleaning your skin with obscene diligence. He chases a stray smear up and over, mouth open, licking slow enough to make you curse. He hums at the taste and your body answers, a little jerk that gives everything away. He follows it with the tip of his tongue, drinks from you again like he’s earned the right.

Then he finally drags the flat of his tongue up your slit in one long, deliberate stroke that leaves you shaking. He tastes you and the noise he makes is grateful and indecent. “So sweet,” he says, slurred, and seals his mouth around your clit just long enough to make your vision grit out. He pulls off with a wet pop, breath tearing. “I said I was cleaning.” A beat. “This is part of it.”

He spreads you with his thumbs and eats you again, deeper. He’s still loud—low groans and ruined little curses as he licks everything you give him, as if the only way to finish what he started is to pull you back apart with his mouth. Your hips climb his face; he lets them, one arm banding your waist, the other anchoring your thigh over his shoulder so he can get messy. He licks your entrance and fucks his tongue into you, sloppy and insistent, then drags up and sucks your clit in deep, obscene pulls that make your toes curl.

“Chris—” It’s a plea and a warning both.

“I know,” he pants, laughing breathlessly against you, and goes right back to it, tonguing you until your thoughts blur, until shame has nothing to hold onto. He cleans you and dirties you at once, lap after lap, swallow after swallow, until you’re soaked with his spit and your own slick again, until your thighs are shaking and your hand is in his hair trying to push him away and keep him forever.

He takes your wrist and plants your palm over your own breast. “Hold it for me,” he says, and when you do, he moans and licks harder, like the sight is gasoline.

You climb fast. He feels it and chases it, sucking your clit into the heat of his mouth and flicking his tongue exactly the way that breaks you. It hits sharp and hot—your hips stutter, your breath rips out in a cry, and he hums through your release like he’s proud of himself, like he’s finishing his plate.

He doesn’t stop until you shove at him, half-sobbing. He lets you, finally, lips shiny, chin wet, eyes black with want. He crawls up your body, dragging his mouth along your belly to catch anything he might have missed, then kisses your sternum, each breast, your throat, licking away the last ghost-stripes he painted there.

“All clean,” he says against your mouth, and kisses you slow so you can taste the truth of it—him, and you, and the ruin of the night turned into heat.

You hate that the taste makes you open for him. You hate that your hips lift again when his hand slides down, palm heavy on your belly, thumb stroking low like a promise that he isn’t done. He smiles into the kiss, feral and fond, and licks the corner of your mouth as if there were anything left to claim.

“Roll over,” he murmurs, voice gone velvet-dark. 

You roll, cheek to the cool side of the pillow, hips lifting because his hands have already found your waist. He palms you open, thumbs pressing into the dip above the swell of your ass like he’s fitting you to himself.

“Like this,” he says, low and rough, dragging his mouth down your spine in hot, open kisses. “Want you like this.”

You know what he means before he says it; your body knows it first. He nudges your knees wider, presses his chest to your back, breath hot at your ear. “No rubber,” he murmurs, filthy-soft. “Bare. Let me stay.”

A flare of sense—thin, sputtering—fights up your throat. It dies on the whine you make when he slides two fingers through your slick and pushes them into you to the knuckle. Your hips answer for you, pushing back, shame prickling uselessly under the want.

“Say it,” he grinds, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Tell me to fuck you raw.”

“Yes,” you breathe, burnt and honest. “God—yes, Chris. Bare.”

He groans like you untied something inside him. The sound vibrates in your bones. He drags his fingers out, slow, and you feel the blunt head of him notch against you—hot, heavy, hungry. There’s no latex drag, no barrier. Just him, thick and alive, pressing into your heat. Your breath shreds.

“Open up for me,” he rasps, and you do, the angle of your hips changing under his hands. He pushes. The first inch makes both of you swear, the stretch almost too much, the slick obscene. He holds there, panting against your neck. “Fuck, that’s it… you feel like you were made to keep me.”

He sinks the rest of the way in with a slow, ruthless grind that leaves you clawing the sheet. Full. Too full. Perfect. Your mouth falls open on a sound you don’t recognize yourself in. He groans into your hair, broken and grateful. “Bare,” he says again, almost a prayer. “So warm. So tight. Christ.”

He moves.

Not careful now—hungry. Deep, dragging thrusts that smack skin, that grind his pelvis into the soft ache of your clit each time he bottoms out. The bed knocks the wall in a steady, shameless rhythm. He’s talking without knowing it, filthy praise spilling like heat—good girl, take me, that’s it, all of me, fu–ck, I can feel you clutching——and every word makes you softer around him.

Your head is a riot. Some small, horrified part of you whispers you shouldn’t want this, not after tonight, not after what you saw, not after what you know—but the rest of you is a body on fire that only understands yes. He fills every argument with his cock, erases every edge with his hips. You break yourself against him and he thanks you for it, voice shredded, hands sure.

“Hands up,” he pants, and you give them, sliding your wrists to the headboard. He laces his fingers through yours from behind and bears down, changing the angle until you can’t do anything but feel. The new depth knocks a helpless moan out of you; he snarls at the sound and pistons faster, sloppy now, desperate, like he’s racing something only he can see.

“Look at what you do to me,” he grits, pulling out almost all the way just to slam back in, obscene and wet. “Listen to me.” He’s loud, uncontained—deep curses breaking on your name, harsh, wrecked little laughs when your body clenches and drags him in deeper. “Fuck, you’re milking me,” he gasps, losing composure on a groan. “You’re gonna make me—”

“Inside,” you choke, shocking yourself with how fast you say it. “Please, inside—fill me, Chris—”

He makes a sound that isn’t language. His grip on your hands tightens; his thrusts turn brutal, gorgeous, hips snapping, balls slapping wet against you. “Yeah? You want it?” he growls, ragged, almost gone. “You want me to breed this pretty pussy?”

“Yes,” you sob, honest and ruined. “Yes, yes—Channie, please—give it to me—”

That breaks him. He buries himself to the root and holds, shaking, and you feel the first hot pulse spill deep where he wanted it. He shouts—loud, dirty, unashamed—crushing your fingers in his as he empties himself into you, each convulsion dragged out by the tight way you clutch around him. He grinds through it like he can push himself further inside, like he can stay, like he can mark you from the inside out.

“Take it,” he snarls against your neck, voice wrecked to threads. “Take all of it—fffuck—” Another heavy pulse, another, heat spreading in low, molten waves that make you see static. Your body answers with a vicious, rolling aftershock, milking him, greedy, a drawn-out whimper tearing from your chest when you feel the spill and the stretch and the pressure fuse into something that obliterates thought.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. He stays fully sheathed, panting, mouth open against your shoulder. His hips give small, helpless pushes, like his body can’t believe it gets to keep going. You’re delirious enough to press back, to meet those afterthrusts with your own tiny rolls, the wet, messy slip of him inside you making both of you groan.

“God, look at you,” he gets out, laughing breathlessly, delirious and proud. “Keeping me. Holding me.” He lets one of your hands go and slides his palm down, splaying it low over your belly. The weight of it there, heavy and possessive, makes your eyes sting. “Right here,” he husks. “Right where you wanted me.”

When it finally wrings him empty, he stays, buried to the hilt, panting into your skin. His hands stroke over you like he’s patting down a fire—thighs, waist, belly—possessive and shaky. You feel him soften and twitch and he hums, sated and obscene, hips giving one last lazy push to seat it deeper.

He slides out slow and you gasp at the loss. Warmth follows, thick and undeniable; he hisses softly, enthralled, watching it. “Don’t move,” he says, and his voice is wrecked and gentle at once. He thumbs your folds open and groans at the glossy spill, at the way your cunt flexes reflexively against the emptiness. “Look at that.”

You can’t. You can only feel: the wet weight of him inside you still, the heat slicking your thighs, the filthy satisfaction in his tone.

He presses two fingers to your entrance like a stopper and leans down to kiss the top of your spine. “Hold it,” he murmurs. “Hold me.” Then he withdraws his fingers and uses his thumb to smear his cum up over your swollen clit, slow and obscene. You jerk; he laughs into your shoulder and does it again, lazier. “Greedy even when I give you everything.”

He rolls you onto your back. The mess slides and you gasp; his eyes go heavy-lidded at the sight. He pushes your knees up and apart, opens you to the night and to him, and watches another warm stripe slip out. He catches it with his fingers and pushes it back in, groaning like it hurts him. “Keep it.”

“Chris,” you whisper, dazed.

“I know.” He noses your jaw, voice gone velvet and rough. “You’re perfect. You took me so good. You’re going to keep me.” A slow, greedy kiss. 

His palm stays spread low over your belly, heat heavy and possessive. He stares at where he’s opened you, at the slow, warm slide he just pushed back in with his fingers, and swallows hard like the sight feeds him.

“Gonna sit right here,” he murmurs, pressing more firmly until you feel the weight of him inside shift deeper, “and let it take.” He kisses you—slow, drugging—and talks into your mouth like a secret. “Want you walking around full of me. Want you leaking when you get up for water. Want you thinking about it every time you move.”

Your breath stutters. “Chris—”

“Thinking about us,” he corrects himself softly, thumb dragging an idle circle just above your mound. “About me putting a future in you.” He nips your bottom lip and soothes it with his tongue, eyes hot and glassy. “Tell me you’d carry me.”

You should say something sane. Instead you whisper, “I’d carry you,” and his pupils go blown and dangerous.

“That’s my girl.” He noses under your ear, voice gone low and ruined. “Gonna have you all soft for me. Gonna watch you swell up pretty. I’ll hold your hair when you’re sick in the morning, rub your back when you can’t sleep. I’ll run my mouth to the pharmacy at 2 a.m. I’ll do the lists and the laundry and the dinners—” His hand cups your breast, thumb grazing your nipple as if he can picture it already. “—and I’ll kiss you right here when it kicks.”

A soft, shocked noise spills out of you. Your hips tilt into his thumb without permission; your body is a traitor and a shrine.

“Look at me.” You do. He looks wrecked and certain and yours. “You’ll tell me when you’re late.” His mouth ghosts your cheek, your jaw. “I’ll buy the test and wait outside the door, hands on my knees like a boy.” A breathless laugh catches. “Then I’ll drop to the floor when you show me and you’ll sit on my lap and I’ll promise you I won’t let the world put a finger on you again.”

His words sink under your skin like ink. You don’t know if you’re shaking because you’re scared or because you want it so badly your bones ache with it.

“Turn,” he whispers. You do, pliant and messy, thighs still slick. He slides down between them again, opens you with his thumbs, and stares at the wet shine he’s made. “So much of me,” he says, awed and filthy. “Stay open.”

You whimper when his tongue licks low, not to tease, not to play—just to gather what tries to slip free and push it back with slow, greedy strokes. He groans into you every time he manages it, as if he can solve biology with his mouth. “Keep… every… drop,” he mutters, punctuating each word with a push of his tongue that makes your toes curl.

When he looks up, his chin is slick, his mouth swollen, his eyes devout. “You’ll tell me when your breasts hurt,” he says, voice shot to velvet, kissing the softness at the inside of your knee. “You’ll wear my shirts when nothing fits. You’ll sleep with my hand on your belly so it knows me.”

“Chris.” Your throat is raw; your body is molten. “You’re—”

“Obsessed with you,” he finishes simply, crawling up until his weight blankets you. He nudges his cock back to your entrance, still heavy, still slick, the head bumping where he just left himself. “I should wait,” he says, and then he pushes in again, bare, with a wrecked little groan because he can’t. “But I can’t. Gotta pack it in.”

The stretch is even easier and somehow filthier; you feel your body swallow him like it’s been taught. He slides to the hilt and stays, hips pressed deep, as if depth alone could write the future he wants.

“Again,” you breathe, and he laughs against your mouth, dizzy with you.

“Hungry girl.” He draws back and gives you a slow, claiming thrust, then another, each push deliberate, grinding, designed to seat him high. His hand finds your knee and folds you open, angle obscene, his pelvis kissing your clit at the end of every stroke. “That’s it. Let me put it where it sticks.”

“You’re insane,” you say, but it breaks on a moan when he circles your clit with two fingertips and fucks deeper.

“For you.” His mouth opens against your throat, teeth scraping just enough to make your eyes roll. “You’ll text me pictures,” he pants, pace tightening, “of test strips on the counter, of sweaters you outgrow, of the crib I build wrong the first time and right the second.” He laughs, choked and bright. “You’ll sit on my lap while I read names out loud until you kick me and we pick the one you kick for.”

It shouldn’t soothe you. It does. It shouldn’t turn you on. It lights you up like tinder. You clamp around him and he groans, high and helpless, losing the last of his rhythm for a handful of messy, glorious thrusts.

“Say we’re trying,” he begs, near-delirious, thumb insistent on your clit. “Say it. Say it now.”

“We’re trying,” you gasp, arching. “We’re—oh God—we’re trying.”

He breaks. The sound that leaves him is deep and wrecked, and he drives in hard and holds there, grinding like he can bury the word inside you with his body. You feel the twitch, the hot spill again, raw and shameless, and your back bows off the mattress at the flood. 

“Take it,” he groans, shaking, “take it, take me—” And you do, legs locked around his waist, hands in his hair, lips on his open mouth, swallowing the sounds he can’t hold, letting him pour himself into you like he can fill the future in one long breath.

When he finally sags, it’s not collapse; it’s a settling. He turns his head and kisses your palm where it shakes against his cheek, then drags that same palm down to your belly and pins it there under his.

“Mine,” he whispers, reverent and fierce, pressing you like he can feel it happen under your skin. “Our secret for now.”

You could remind him about statistics and timing and the pill and sensibility. You don’t. You lie there with him inside you, messy and full, and watch his face soften into something you’ve never seen before—hope unclenching its fist.

“Sleep,” he says at last, lips on your temple. “I’ll keep you full.” He shifts deeper with a satisfied sigh, lazy afterthrusts that make both of you gasp. “In the morning, we try again.”

You existed in the spaces between things.

You existed in the quiet sigh you released when Mr. Harrison asked, for the third time this week, if you could please help him organize the papers. You existed in the thin, nearly-invisible line where your notes ended and a classmate’s hurried transcription began—notes that would be returned to you with barely a nod, if at all. You were dependable, a fixed point in the chaotic school day, but you were never truly seen. To them, you were an extension of a task, a resource to be used and forgotten. It was a familiar, dull ache that settled in your bones, a quiet resentment that you refused to let surface. You were a good person, you told yourself, and good people did these things. You smiled, you nodded, you said, “Of course,” and you watched the world move on without you.

Your friends, Mira, Asha, and Dev, were the only ones who saw the pattern. They adored you fiercely, and their love was a blanket that you could hide under when the cold indifference of others became too much.

"Eat, you're too nice for your own good," Dev would say at lunch, shoving his container of fries toward you. It was his way of feeding you warmth, of acknowledging the quiet exhaustion that lived in your eyes.

You'd laugh it off, batting his hand away with a gentle smile. “It’s fine, Dev, really. I don’t mind.” But you did. You minded the way the world seemed to take and just take from you, leaving you with a hollow space inside. You minded being the invisible one, the girl whose name was only spoken when a favor was needed.

From across the cafeteria, you could see the sun. His name was Christopher Bahng. He was the nucleus of the entire school, surrounded by a constant, buzzing orbit of friends and admirers. His laugh was a loud, joyous sound that echoed off the walls. The soccer team chanted his name, their voices a triumphant symphony, and he would grin, his face bright with an easy, unburdened confidence that you had never known. He moved with a loud grace that seemed to defy the ordinary rules of physics, and you watched him from the quiet corners of your world, a world of half-eaten sandwiches and neatly organized papers. You were the moon, he was the sun. The thought made you feel both small and safe, as if the immense distance between you was a protective force. He was too bright, too brilliant for someone who spent her life in the shadows.

But the universe, it seemed, had a sense of humor.

He saw you.

It wasn't when you were helping with the papers, or when you were lending your notes. It was after everyone had left the lunch tables, leaving behind a battlefield of crumpled napkins, empty water bottles, and discarded wrappers. It was a mess that nobody, least of all the captain of the soccer team, would ever think to touch. But you saw it, and the sight of it, left to fester, was a small wrong that you felt compelled to make right.

You moved quietly, your hands working with a practiced, almost automatic rhythm. You collected the trash, your eyes downcast, a quiet, mournful ghost gliding through the empty space. Christopher, however, was still there, leaning against a locker, talking to a few remaining friends. He wasn’t watching the conversation; he was watching you.

The question formed in his mind, sharp and insistent. Why is she always cleaning up when no one else cares? It was a small, almost insignificant action, yet it was the first time he had truly noticed you as a person, and not just as another face in the crowd. Your quiet, unassuming dependability was an anomaly to him, a stark contrast to the loud, demanding world he lived in.

He said something to his friends, a quick goodbye, his eyes never leaving your back. A nervous energy hummed in his veins, an unknown curiosity that he couldn't explain. He watched you finish your task, your shoulders a little slumped, and then you were gone, melting back into the silent hallways.

The next day, it happened. The first real interaction.

The bell had just rung, and the classroom was a chaotic sea of chatter and motion. You were packing your backpack, trying to shrink into the corner of your desk, when you saw it. A pen, a simple black pen with a silver clip, had rolled off Christopher's desk and lay forgotten on the floor. It was nothing, a small object that he probably had ten of, but a small part of you felt a pull to return it. It was what you did. You were the one who made things right.

You walked over, the noise of the room seeming to grow louder with every step. You picked up the pen, your hand trembling slightly, and you tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, his face a bright, warm surprise that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"Hey," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the din. You held the pen out to him, your eyes fixed on his chin, unable to meet his gaze.

A slow smile, different from his usual brilliant one, spread across his face. It was a gentler, more genuine smile that reached his eyes and made them crinkle at the corners. He took the pen from you, his fingers brushing against yours for a fleeting moment that sent a shiver down your spine.

"Thanks," he said, his voice surprisingly soft. "Didn't think anyone noticed."

The words hit you with the force of a tidal wave. They were so simple, so small, but they were the words you had been waiting to hear your entire life. Someone noticed. You couldn't handle the weight of that sincerity. You simply nodded awkwardly, your face flaming, and fled the classroom before you could overthink it.

You were halfway down the hallway, your heart still pounding, when you heard Mira's voice behind you. "Ohhh, the captain noticed you."

You scoffed, the sound shaky. "Don't be ridiculous. He's just being polite." The lie felt sour on your tongue. You wanted to believe it, you needed to believe it, because the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.

Across the hall, Christopher leaned against a locker, a small smile on his face. He replayed the moment in his mind, your shy smile, the way you had looked at him before you ran. He sensed something genuine about you, something quiet and unassuming and utterly real, and it was a stark contrast to the endless demands for his attention that he was so used to. He couldn’t explain why he was so curious. He didn't know your name, but he knew your hands were gentle and your heart was honest. And thus, curiosity, a strange and insistent feeling, planted the first seed in his mind.

That night, lying in bed, you replayed the moment in your mind. The brush of his fingers, the look in his eyes, the simple words that had meant so much. You told yourself it was nothing, that he was just being nice, that you were overthinking it. But a small, hopeful part of you, a part you had long forgotten, couldn't help but wonder. Was it possible that you, the invisible one, had finally been seen? And in a different part of town, Christopher lay awake, his mind replaying the moment, his chest filled with a strange, new feeling he couldn't quite name...

--- x ---

You were a walking library, a mobile fortress of books held together by sheer hope and the delicate balance of your chin resting precariously on the top one. It was a strategy born from a desire to carry everything in one trip and avoid a second interaction with the gruff librarian. Your arms ached under the weight of the novels and research materials, but you were so close. Just a few more feet and you would be free.

Then, the world tilted.

A loud, familiar laugh cut through the hallway noise, followed by the clatter of cleats and the energetic chatter of the soccer team. In the seconds before impact, you knew exactly who it was. The sun, Christopher Bahng, was heading your way, too absorbed in his conversation to notice the human pile of paper in his path.

You braced yourself, but it was no use. The collision was a soft thud followed by a loud, echoing crash as your fortress came tumbling down. Books scattered everywhere, their spines splayed open, pages fluttering like startled birds. You felt a flash of mortified panic, a heat that rushed to your face as you knelt immediately, desperate to gather your life before anyone could notice the quiet girl who had just caused a scene.

"Oh no—sorry, sorry!" a voice exclaimed, and you didn't even have to look up to know it was him. "Let me help."

He was kneeling on the cold floor beside you, his presence filling the space with an energy you were not used to. His voice was soft, genuinely apologetic, and for a moment, you forgot to be embarrassed. Your hands, however, were still frantic, darting from book to book. Your fingers brushed his as you both reached for the same worn copy of Pride and Prejudice.

It was a small, fleeting contact, but it felt like an electric shock. The touch was warm and solid, and you quickly pulled your hand away, muttering, "It's fine, don't worry." You focused on grabbing the remaining books, not daring to look at him. You could feel his eyes on you, his frown as he noticed your avoidance, the way you were trying to shrink in on yourself. The silence was louder than the laughter and chatter that surrounded you, and you couldn't stand it. You gathered your books, clutched them to your chest, and stood, muttering another quick "Thanks," before hurrying away, your cheeks still burning.

Christopher watched you go, his brow furrowed. He had been expecting a scolding, a sigh of annoyance, a loud protest. But all he got was a quiet apology and a hasty retreat. At soccer practice later, his friends noticed his distracted air.

"What's with you, Chris? Why'd you bother with her? She's weird," one of them said, laughing.

Christopher snapped back without thinking. "She's not weird. She's just… different." The words hung in the air, a defense he hadn't planned on, and he realized with a jolt that he meant them. She was different. Unlike everyone else, she didn't want his attention or his apologies. She wanted to be left alone, and that, more than anything, intrigued him.

His curiosity grew into a conscious effort. He started noticing where you sat in class. You were always at the edge, the last desk in the last row, a sentinel guarding your own quiet solitude. He saw you scribbling notes with a meticulous hand, and when you thought no one was looking, you would doodle. Your pen would move across the page, creating intricate patterns and small, detailed sketches that seemed to tell an entire story.

One day, he couldn't take it anymore. You were alone, as usual, doodling while you waited for the next class to start. He walked over, his heart pounding a little too fast, and stood by your desk. "You like drawing?" he asked, his voice low.

You froze, your pen still, your hand hovering over the paper. The question was so simple, so direct, that it caught you completely off guard. You quickly covered your notebook with your arm. "It's nothing," you stammered. "Just… passing time."

He smiled, a gentle, understanding expression. "Well, it looks cool. A lot better than my stick figures."

You looked up at him, a flicker of surprise in your eyes. He wasn't teasing you. His smile was warm, and his gaze was sincere. The tension in your shoulders lessened, and a small, unexpected laugh escaped you—your first laugh around him. It was a soft, melodious sound, and Christopher felt his heart stutter in his chest. His cheeks flushed, a warmth spreading through him as he realized, with a sense of pure, innocent panic, God, why is her laugh so cute?

You immediately regretted laughing. You brushed it off as him being nice, a simple gesture from a genuinely kind person. He was, after all, Christopher Bahng, the sun, and you were just… you.

But you were wrong. Across the room, Mira noticed him looking over at you often now, a different look in his eyes than the one he used for everyone else. "You sure he's not staring?" she asked you later.

"No," you insisted, scoffing at the thought. "Guys like him don't look at girls like me." You had built your walls high, and you had no intention of letting them fall.

That night, alone in his room, Christopher sat at his desk. He wasn't thinking about soccer practice or the upcoming game. He was thinking about you, about your shy smile and that quiet, unexpected laugh. He opened his notebook, the one filled with messy song lyrics and ideas, and found himself copying your doodle from memory, your intricate patterns filling the margin. He didn't even realize he was smiling at it, a genuine, content grin that only appeared when no one else was watching. The invisible girl was becoming more visible to him every single day. And he, the sun, was drawing her world into his.

Your friends were your shield, your protectors, and the first line of defense against a world that you had learned to navigate with quiet caution. They had watched the subtle shifts in Christopher's behavior—the lingering glances, the soft smiles, the way he seemed to gravitate to your orbit—and their suspicions had reached a boiling point. They were not malicious, just fiercely protective. They had seen too many people take advantage of you. They had seen the way your light dimmed each time someone took without giving, each time your kindness was mistaken for weakness. Their love for you was a wall, and now, someone was trying to breach it. They were not going to let him pass without a fight.

One afternoon, Asha decided to act on it. She was blunt and brave in a way you couldn't be, armed with a fierce loyalty that left no room for subtlety. She found Christopher by the vending machines, his attention momentarily absorbed in choosing a drink. Dev stood by her side, a silent, unyielding presence, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his posture radiating a quiet but firm disapproval.

"What's your deal with her?" Asha began, her voice low and direct, meant to be heard only by the three of them. "Is this some bet? Some joke?"

The question hung in the air like a storm cloud, thick with accusation. Christopher, who had been humming a song under his breath, froze. The easy, friendly warmth that had been a permanent fixture on his face for weeks vanished, replaced by a coldness that made his eyes go flat. He had expected this. He knew people would talk, would assume the worst, but hearing it directly from your friends—from the people who loved you—stung him more than he could have anticipated. It was an accusation that went deeper than just him; it was an insult to you, and he felt a flash of white-hot anger at the thought.

"What? No," he said, the words sharp with frustration. "Why would you even think that?"

Dev stepped forward, his voice a low rumble, the words a painful confirmation of your deepest insecurities. "You're the soccer captain, Christopher. You're… you. People like you don't notice people like her unless it's for fun. Or unless you need something from her." It wasn't just a warning. It was a statement about the way the world worked, about the rigid social hierarchy that kept everyone in their place. It was a line drawn in the sand, one you had always instinctively known not to cross.

Christopher's jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in his cheek. He hated the way they were categorizing you, as if you were some quiet, insignificant project he had stumbled upon, a new toy to entertain him. He had spent his life navigating a world of people who wanted something from him—his influence, his attention, his popularity. You were the first person who seemed to want nothing at all, the first one who saw him as just another person, and it was a relief he hadn't known he was craving. He hated that they couldn't see that.

"She's not a joke," he said, his voice firm and unwavering, each word a stone-cold promise. "She's… someone I actually want to know."

Asha and Dev exchanged a look, half-suspicious, half-surprised. The sincerity in his tone was hard to dismiss. He saw their hesitation and pushed on, an almost desperate urgency in his voice. "She means a lot more than you think. Even if she doesn't realize it." With that, he turned and walked away, the weight of his words hanging in the tense, silent air.

Later that afternoon, Asha reported back to you, her voice a mix of disbelief and grudging respect. You were organizing your locker, your head down, trying to disappear into the familiar rhythm of the school day. "He didn't deny it," she said, her eyes wide. "He's serious."

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, hummingbird beat that made it hard to breathe. Your hands, which had been neatly stacking books, froze. "Please," you scoffed, your voice shaky, a desperate attempt to sound nonchalant. "Christopher Bahng? No. Don't play with me." The thought was absurd, a ridiculous fantasy that you refused to entertain. You had spent so long building your walls, reinforcing the idea that you were not someone who could be seen, let alone wanted, by a boy like him. The idea that he might genuinely be interested was more terrifying than the thought that he was just playing a cruel joke. At least with a joke, you knew the end was coming. But a genuine connection? That was a vulnerability you didn't know how to handle. But the seed of doubt Asha had planted, a tiny, persistent thing, shook the foundation of your well-guarded walls.

Meanwhile, Christopher was restless. The confrontation with your friends had left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. He was used to people wanting things from him, but their assumption that he would use you for a joke was a new kind of low. He hated that they saw him that way, and he hated even more that they saw you as someone who could be so easily dismissed. The anger simmered in his chest, a constant, low-level burn that he couldn't shake.

At practice, his frustration bubbled over. His friends, oblivious to the confrontation and the emotional weight he was carrying, teased him relentlessly. "Got a new project, Captain?" one of them would say, nudging him in the ribs. "What's the goal with this one, anyway?"

"She's not a project. Shut up," Christopher snapped, his voice venomous, his eyes dark with a rage that was entirely disproportionate to the comment. His sudden, brutal anger shocked them, and they fell silent, their confused stares a new kind of pressure. He realized then that he was more protective of you than he thought. The thought of anyone seeing you as a joke, as a project, filled him with a quiet, simmering rage that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

He needed to show them. He needed to show the world. And more importantly, he needed to show you.

The next day at lunch, you noticed it immediately. The noise of the cafeteria, the blur of faces—it all seemed to quiet as you saw him. He was walking toward your table, not with a soccer player's confident swagger, but with an almost hesitant, purposeful stride. He didn’t sit with his teammates. He sat with you and your friends, sliding into the empty spot next to Dev, a subtle but monumental shift in the social landscape of the entire school.

He started small, a gentle infiltration into your world. He joked with Dev about soccer drills, the two of them a surprisingly easy pair. He learned Mira's favorite song, humming a few bars to get a genuine smile out of her. He even engaged in Asha's sarcastic banter, his own wit a match for her sharp tongue. He was trying to show your friends, I'm not here to hurt her. His eyes, however, kept finding yours, and in them, you saw a sincerity that you were terrified to believe.

You watched him, your mind a whirlwind of confusion. Why me? you thought. Out of everyone here, out of all the people who would fall at his feet, why me? You kept your gaze fixed on your plate, your heart a frantic drumbeat in your chest. His presence was a constant, unsettling force, a reminder that the quiet, predictable life you had built for yourself was now in danger of being torn apart.

Christopher, on the other hand, had a different thought. He saw you, sitting there, your shoulders a little tense, your eyes still holding that beautiful, quiet sadness. He saw the way you listened to your friends, the way your small smiles were so genuine. He saw you as you truly were, stripped of the pretense and performance that defined the world around him. He was exhausted by the constant need to be perfect, to be the charismatic leader everyone expected him to be. And in your quiet existence, he found a profound sense of peace.

In his mind, the answer was simple, the most honest truth he had ever known. Because you’re real. And that's all I've ever wanted.

The universe, in its own strange way, seemed to be conspiring to bring you together. The sky, a bruised tapestry of purple and grey, opened up with a torrential downpour, a sudden and violent wash of rain that canceled soccer practice and stranded Christopher inside the school's quiet sanctuary. You, however, had nowhere to be but the library. The storm was a symphony that muted the frantic energy of the hallways, and the rain-lashed windows provided a perfect backdrop for your sketching. It was your element, a world of quiet contemplation where you could exist without the demanding, watchful eyes of others.

You were completely lost in your own world, a world of intricate lines and gentle curves. Your pen moved across the paper with a practiced, almost subconscious grace, the tip leaving a delicate trail of graphite in its wake. The rain hammered against the glass, a rhythmic drumbeat that lulled you into a meditative state. You didn't even hear him approach, his usual loud, confident stride replaced with a careful, quiet grace that you had never known he possessed.

He simply pulled up a chair and sat near you, the silence between you a soft, comfortable blanket that was a stark contrast to the storm outside. He was not the loud, boisterous captain of the soccer team you knew from the hallways. He was just Christopher, a boy with damp hair that clung to his forehead and a restless energy that seemed to quiet the moment he sat down. He wasn't reaching for you, or demanding anything from you. He was just… there.

"Show me?" he asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble that was barely audible over the sound of the rain.

You froze, your pen still, your hand hovering over the paper. The question was a simple one, but it felt impossibly heavy, weighted with all the unspoken things that had passed between you. It was one thing for your friends to see your doodles, but for him, the sun, to ask? Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, nervous beat that made your hands tremble. The act of sharing your art was an act of profound vulnerability, a laying bare of your inner world. You hesitated, the walls you had so carefully constructed threatening to crumble. But something in his gaze, a quiet sincerity that you were beginning to recognize, made you give in. You flipped the page reluctantly, revealing a detailed sketch of an old, gnarled tree, its roots twisting like a forgotten symphony and its branches reaching into a dark, stormy sky.

He stared, genuinely amazed. He didn't just glance at it; he truly looked at it, his eyes tracing every line, every shadow, every intricate detail you had poured your soul into. The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was an appreciative, thoughtful silence, not an awkward, painful one. "This is… beautiful," he said, his voice a whisper of pure awe.

You laughed, a nervous, almost self-deprecating sound. "It's just lines on paper." The words were a defense mechanism, a way to deflect the vulnerability you felt. You weren't a great artist, just a girl with a sketchbook and a lot of quiet hours to fill. You didn't want him to think it was more than it was.

He shook his head, his gaze still fixed on your drawing. "No," he said, and his voice was so firm, so sure, that you believed him. "It's not just lines. It's you. Quiet, but… it says so much." His words were a mirror, and you saw yourself reflected in them in a way you had never done before. He wasn't seeing just the drawing; he was seeing the emotions behind it—the loneliness, the resilience, the quiet strength.

His words made your cheeks warm with a blush that you couldn't control. You looked away, your gaze fixed on the rain streaming down the window, a desperate attempt to hide the raw emotion on your face.

He seemed to sense your discomfort because he didn't push. Instead, he pulled out his own notebook, the one you had so briefly seen on the day of the book collision. He flipped it open to a page filled with messy, frantic song lyrics, words scribbled in the margins, and an energy that was palpable. "Don't laugh," he said, a genuine nervousness in his voice that made him sound so much younger, so much more vulnerable than you had ever thought possible. "It's rough."

You took the notebook, your fingers brushing his as he passed it to you, a now familiar shiver running down your arm. You read the lyrics softly, and your eyes widened as you read his words. They were raw and honest and filled with a quiet melancholy that was so completely at odds with the loud, charismatic person he presented to the world. They were filled with loneliness and the pressure to be someone he wasn't, to constantly perform. You looked at the words and you looked at him, your gaze filled with a new kind of understanding. "This… this is you, isn't it?"

He nodded, a vulnerable, almost shy expression on his face. "Yeah. No one else sees this stuff."

And in that moment, the world shifted. You realized you were seeing a side of him that no one else had—the boy who wrote poetry and music in the quiet moments between soccer games and loud laughter. He was more than the loud, bright sun. He was a universe of his own, filled with a quiet, introspective sadness you recognized. He had given you a glimpse of it, a silent invitation into his world, and in turn, he had shown you that he truly saw yours.

He relaxed around you, the conversation flowing as naturally as the rain outside. He talked about music, about late-night walks, about the quiet pressure he felt to be perfect all the time. He talked about the loneliness that came with being everyone's idol, the constant feeling that people loved the idea of him, but never the real person. You listened without judgment, a quiet, non-demanding presence that he seemed to crave. He didn't have to be anything for you. He could just be Christopher.

A comfortable silence fell between you, a heavy, warm quiet that was a far cry from the awkward silences you were used to. The air was thick with unsaid things, with the growing weight of your shared vulnerabilities. It felt like a safe space, an emotional bunker you had both unknowingly built.

He broke the silence, his voice a low, almost surprised whisper. "You’re easy to talk to. Like I don’t have to perform."

You smiled softly, the feeling a foreign but welcome one. "Maybe that's because I don't expect anything."

He caught himself staring at you again, his pulse quickening as he realized how much he craved your quiet presence. His eyes, dark and searching, held yours for a moment, and you felt your own breath catch in your throat. He wasn't just looking at you; he was studying you, as if committing every detail to memory.

He leaned in, his voice barely audible, as if he were saying a secret to himself. "Yeah… that’s why I like being here."

You didn't catch it. The words were a whisper, and your mind was too busy unraveling the mess of emotions you were feeling to pay attention. But across the room, tucked away behind a row of bookshelves, Mira saw the way he was looking at you. She saw the genuine warmth in his eyes, the soft smile on his face, the quiet intensity of his gaze. And she knew, without a doubt, that he wasn't just being polite. He was falling. And you, oblivious and caught in your own walls, had no idea.

The afternoon sun, a tired and golden light, slanted through the tall classroom windows, casting long, dusty stripes across the desks. It was the last period of the day, a collective, heavy silence that had settled over the entire class like a thick blanket. The low, incessant hum of the air conditioning was the only thing keeping most of you from falling completely asleep. Your pen had slowed to a near halt, your notes a jumble of half-finished thoughts and a series of geometric shapes that were slowly turning into something more intricate—a castle of polygons, a fortress built from your own fatigue. You were tired, the day's constant, quiet performance of being “fine” weighing you down in a way that felt physical.

Mr. Peterson, your math teacher, was a kind man who had a penchant for terrible puns. He had just finished explaining a particularly complex algebraic equation when he paused, a mischievous glint in his eye that you recognized with a tired sigh. “Now, remember,” he said, drawing out the words in a slow, dramatic fashion, “an angle is acute when it’s so… little.” He paused for a beat knowing he was giving the most useless and known information out ther, but with a hopeful smile on his face, waiting for a laugh that never came.

A collective, exhausted silence followed. A few people offered a courtesy chuckle, a polite gesture from a class that was too tired to do anything else. But for the most part, the joke landed with a thud, a hollow, echoing sound in the quiet room. You, however, had your own brand of quiet humor, one born from a lifetime of internal monologues. Without thinking, the words slipped out, a soft, self-deprecating murmur under your breath that was meant only for yourself. “Well, at least the numbers and angles are more balanced than my life.”

Next to you, Mira snorted, a sharp, surprised sound that she quickly tried to stifle with a hand over her mouth. But from a few rows ahead, a sound so explosive and unexpected it made the entire class jump erupted from the back of the room. It was Christopher Bahng, and he was laughing. Not his usual loud, boisterous, soccer captain laugh, but a genuine, unrestrained sound that started as a choked gasp and ended in a full-throated, joyous roar. His laugh was a waterfall of pure, unadulterated amusement, and it seemed to break the very silence of the room.

Every single person turned, their eyes wide with shock. Christopher never laughed like that. He was a constant source of effortless cool, a controlled smile always in place, but this was different. He was laughing so hard that tears were starting to well in the corners of his eyes, his shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to contain it. He felt the heat rise to his ears, the flush of embarrassment spreading across his neck, and he quickly tried to quiet down, pressing a hand over his mouth, his chest still heaving with silent giggles.

You, meanwhile, felt a wave of mortification wash over you. Your joke was meant for you and Mira. It was a joke for the invisible, a shared moment of dark humor that was meant to exist only in the shadows. It was not meant for the sun. You felt your face burn as you looked at him, your voice barely a whisper. “…It wasn’t that funny.”

He shook his head, still trying to catch his breath. His eyes, when they finally met yours, were sparkling with a light you had never seen before—a light of pure, unvarnished delight. "No—it was," he managed, his voice still thick with laughter. "It was. You’re funny. Like… stupid funny."

The words were so sincere, so honest in their clunky delivery, that they left you speechless. He wasn’t mocking you. He was genuinely, truly, hilariously impressed. You hid your face in your hands, the embarrassment almost unbearable. It wasn't just that he had laughed; it was that he had laughed at your joke, a joke that was so inherently you, so personal and quiet. It was the most seen you had ever felt.

For the rest of the day, the image of your laughing face was burned into his mind. He found himself grinning at random moments, a warmth spreading through his chest every time the memory of your whispered joke and your startled, embarrassed laugh replayed in his head. The weight of his world seemed to lift, replaced by a simple, joyous lightness. He was so used to hearing jokes that were loud and obvious, jokes that were meant to be heard and appreciated by a crowd. But your joke was a quiet whisper, a small, perfect thing that only he had been able to catch.

At soccer practice, his focus was gone. He missed a simple pass, something he never did, and the ball rolled harmlessly out of bounds, his teammate yelling in frustration. Christopher barely heard him. His mind was elsewhere, lost in a quiet classroom with the afternoon sun slanting through the windows. He couldn't concentrate. He was usually so precise, his movements sharp and calculated, but today he felt clumsy, his feet tangled in a way he couldn't explain.

His teammate, sensing something was wrong, came over, his expression concerned. "Yo, what's with you, Chris? You've been off all day."

Christopher shook his head, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. “Nothing,” he muttered. “Just tired.” But in his mind, it wasn't the heat or the drills or the pressure that had him distracted. It was the sound of your laugh, a quiet, unexpected melody that he couldn’t get out of his head. He replayed the entire conversation, the way you had looked at him, the way your eyes had widened when he called you "stupid funny."

That night, he was restless, unable to focus on his homework. He couldn't shake the memory of your joke, the way it had broken through his composure. It wasn't just funny; it was real, and it was a glimpse into your world that he desperately wanted to know more about. He pulled out his phone, his fingers hovering over his contact list, before finally landing on Mira's name.

He texted her, a simple, direct question. “What kind of jokes does she usually make?”

The reply came back almost instantly, a string of emojis and a knowing, teasing line. “Oh, so the Captain is interested, huh?”

He groaned aloud, but he didn’t deny it. He couldn't. He knew there was no going back. The seed of curiosity had blossomed into a full-blown obsession, a need to know you, to see you, to hear your quiet wit. He wanted to hear you laugh again, and he knew, with a sudden, startling clarity, that he was the reason for it.

The next day, he sat by your group again at lunch. You saw him coming, and you knew exactly what he was doing. You rolled your eyes, a half-playful, half-serious gesture. “Why are you here again?”

He grinned, a playful glint in his eyes as he leaned forward, his voice a low, teasing whisper. “Waiting for my daily dumb joke.”

You stared at him, your defenses crumbling. You had no witty comeback, no sarcastic retort. You were completely disarmed by his directness, by the way he was so shamelessly, openly, and playfully invading your space. You stared back, your expression a mixture of surprise and confusion, and for a fleeting moment, he was flustered, the tables turned on him.

From across the table, Dev muttered, shaking his head with a resigned smile. “God, he’s whipped already.”

Christopher laughed, the sound easy and genuine, but deep down, a profound and startling realization settled over him. He wasn't just curious about you anymore. The crush he had been fighting, the attraction he had been denying—it was all so much bigger than he had ever thought. He was in too deep. And with a silent sense of relief and quiet panic, he realized that he was falling.

The easy, comfortable silence between you and Christopher became something else entirely. It became a public, unspoken language that those who were paying attention could read with alarming clarity. What started as quiet moments in the library and whispered jokes in the back of the classroom had blossomed into something more tangible, a physical orbit you couldn't seem to escape, nor did you truly want to.

It started with small things, so subtle you almost didn't register them as new. You would be gathering your books at the end of class, your shoulders already aching from the day’s weight, and he would simply be there, leaning against the doorframe as if he’d been waiting for you all along. His presence was a subtle shift in the air, a warmth that you felt before you even saw him. "Heading to the library?" he'd ask, his hands in his pockets, a casual smile on his face that was anything but. You would shake your head, muttering, "Just to my locker." He would shrug, his grin widening, and say, "Cool. I’ll walk with you." He made it sound like a happy coincidence, a convenient overlap in your schedules, but you knew, with a quiet, certain part of your heart, that it was a deliberate choice to insert himself into your world. His presence was a warm blanket you didn’t know you were cold without, and you had grown to crave the quiet rhythm of his stride beside yours, the comfortable way he would fill the silence with the sound of his voice, talking about music, about late-night walks, about the mundane pressures of his life.

One afternoon, your arms were heavy with a stack of textbooks that felt particularly unforgiving. The weight was a physical manifestation of your exhaustion, the kind that made your shoulders ache and your knuckles white. He saw you struggling from across the hall and jogged over, his hands reaching for the books without a moment of hesitation. "Here," he said, his voice soft, as if you were a fragile thing that could break. "Let me help."

You flinched back, your grip on the books tightening so much your fingers went numb. The thought of him carrying your things, of the two of you walking together, was too much. It was too visible, too blatant a display of… something you couldn't even name. You couldn't handle the inevitable stares and whispers, the way their curious, judgmental eyes would follow you both. "No, it’s fine," you protested, your voice a little shaky. "I’ve got it."

He stopped, his brow furrowed in confusion. A fleeting look of hurt crossed his face before he masked it with a light, teasing smile. "What? You think I’ll drop them?" he joked, trying to lighten the tension.

You shook your head, your eyes fixed on a spot on the floor just past his shoulder. The words came out in a rush, a quiet admission of your deepest fear. "No… I just don’t want people staring."

The easy smile on his face faltered, replaced by a quiet understanding that was more devastating than any anger. He looked up, his gaze sweeping across the crowded hallway, and he saw it. He saw the subtle, knowing looks, the small groups of people whose eyes followed your every move, like a flock of vultures circling a single, vulnerable bird. He saw the hushed conversations, the way they would suddenly fall silent as you passed. He saw it all, and it made him angry, a hot, protective rage that he had to swallow down. He lowered his hand, the offer of help rescinded, and simply walked beside you in silence, his presence a solid, unyielding wall against their prying eyes. Because you were right. People were staring.

The whispers started small, a low, buzzing static in the background of your life that slowly began to crescendo. You heard them in the hallways, in the crowded cafeteria, and in the worst place of all—the bathroom. You were washing your hands, your gaze fixed on your reflection, the tired girl with the kind eyes staring back at you. Two girls walked in, their voices pitched low, their words a knife twisting in your chest.

“Did you see Christopher with her?” one of them whispered, her voice laced with a mixture of envy and disbelief. “I just… don’t get it. Like, why her? She’s so…” a long, cruel pause, a searching for the right word. “…plain.”

The word, when it came, was a poison in the air. It was spoken with such casual cruelty, such a careless lack of concern for the person it was describing. "I mean, she’s nice and all, but she just… blends in."

The other girl laughed, a brittle, sharp sound. "He’s just being nice, you know? He’s the Captain. He’s always being polite. She’s probably just reading too much into it."

The words hit you with the force of a physical blow. You felt your chest tighten, a familiar, agonizing pain that you had spent your life trying to ignore. You had always known you were plain, that you were the type of person who blended in. But hearing it spoken aloud, in connection with him, in connection with the quiet, hopeful thing that was growing between you—that hurt in a way nothing else ever had. You kept your head down, not daring to move, not wanting them to know you had heard.

That night, lying in bed, you texted Mira, the words a raw, honest confession that felt like a betrayal to the fragile hope in your heart. “It’s not real,” you wrote, the words a desperate plea for her to agree. “He’s… just bored.”

Mira’s reply was almost instant, her words a lifeline in the suffocating darkness of your self-doubt. “You think he’d waste this much time if he didn’t care? You think he’s bored enough to learn about your weird doodles and listen to you talk about old books? He’s not bored. He’s into you. Seriously.” Her words were meant to be a comfort, but they only fueled your insecurity. The logic was sound, you knew it was, but a part of you couldn't accept it. It was too easy for Christopher Bang, the sun, to get bored. To him, you were a puzzle, a quiet mystery, and once he solved you, he would move on. You struggled to believe that you could be enough, that you could be the real thing he was looking for.

Meanwhile, Christopher was fighting his own battles. His world was full of noise and constant feedback, and it was hard for him to tune it out. His teammates, who were used to his laser focus and unwavering dedication to the game, were getting frustrated. They saw the distraction in his eyes, the way he would miss a pass or be a beat too slow. They didn’t understand, and their frustration turned into a quiet, resentful curiosity.

“What’s with you and that girl?” one of his friends asked him in the locker room after practice, his voice a low, teasing whisper, his eyes a cold, judgmental assessment. “Bet she’s just using you for clout.”

The words were so disgusting, so far from the truth of who you were, that Christopher felt a hot, blinding flash of anger. He spun around, his voice low and dangerous, his eyes a storm of furious protectiveness. “She’d never,” he snapped, the words a harsh hiss. “Don’t talk about her in that manner.” His sudden, venomous anger shocked them all into silence. They had never seen him so protective, so quick to anger. It was a clear, unmistakable line in the sand, a stark declaration that you were no longer a topic for their locker room jokes.

The next day, you noticed he was quieter. The usual easy banter was gone, replaced by a simmering tension in his shoulders that you instinctively felt. He seemed heavier, the light that usually followed him dimmed by a shadow you couldn’t quite place. You waited until lunch, until his friends had walked away to get their food, and leaned forward, your voice soft with genuine concern. “Did something happen?”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, his eyes meeting yours with a profound weariness. “Nah,” he said, the word a forced casualness. “Just… don’t listen to what people say, okay?”

His gaze was so intense, so full of unspoken things, that your heart stirred in your chest. His protectiveness, raw and simple, was a powerful thing. He was fighting for you, in a way that you had never thought anyone would. But the insecurity, the fear that you were just a phase, that you were just a quiet girl he would eventually grow bored of, lingered. The whispers still echoed in your ears, the words ‘plain’ and ‘bored’ a constant, nagging refrain.

That night, lying awake in bed, Christopher’s mind was not on his team or the upcoming finals. It was on you, and on the quiet, fragile thing he was trying to protect. He thought about the fear in your eyes when you asked him not to stare, the way you had flinched away from him. He realized, with a sudden, bone-deep clarity, that he wasn’t just crushing on you. It wasn't just a crush. It was more. He didn't just want to know you; he wanted you to be safe. He wanted you to be happy, and he wanted to be the person who could make you feel seen, truly seen, for the first time in your life. The weight of that realization, the sheer vulnerability of it all, terrified him more than the soccer finals ever could. He was in too deep. And he wasn't sure he wanted to get out.

The goodbye was a soft, gentle thing, a quiet moment in the chaotic blur of the school parking lot. You stood beside your friends, trying to smile, trying to act like this was just a normal departure. Christopher was surrounded by his team, their cheers and excited chatter a loud testament to the final game. It was a regional championship, the biggest game of his uni-life, a chance for his team to make history. He deserved to be focused, to be free of any distractions, and you were determined to not be one.

“Win for us, Captain,” you said, your voice a little shaky, a false brightness to it that you hoped he wouldn't notice. You tried to project a calm, unwavering confidence that you were far from feeling.

He laughed, a warm, genuine sound that you would cling to for the next few days. He reached out and ruffled your hair, a small, familiar gesture that made your heart flutter. "For you," he said, his eyes finding yours, holding your gaze for a moment longer than they should have. "Always." The word was a promise, a quiet vow that sent a shiver down your spine.

Then he was gone, a blur of red and white as he climbed onto the bus. You watched the bus drive away, the exhaust a faint cloud in the humid air, and as it disappeared around the corner, a hollow, empty space bloomed in your chest. It was a physical ache, a profound sense of loss that felt both familiar and new. You were a planet without its sun, and you were already beginning to feel the cold.

At first, everything was normal. The halls were still crowded, the classes still mundane, the lunches still loud. But as the days bled into one another, his absence became a tangible thing, a vacuum in your world that sucked all the light out of the room. The noise seemed louder, the stares more pointed. The whispers, which had been a low hum, now felt like a crescendo, a venomous chorus that followed you everywhere.

The popular girls, who had been silenced by his presence, were now emboldened. Their whispers were louder, their glances more direct. You overheard them in the lunchroom, their voices sharp and cruel. "She thinks she's special just because he talks to her." The words, so stupidly simple, lodged themselves in your brain, an echo of your own deepest fears. You felt a wave of nausea, the familiar self-doubt a bitter taste in your mouth.

His friends on the team, not as kind or as mature as Christopher, saw an opportunity. They didn't understand the bond between you two. To them, you were a distraction, a quiet girl who had somehow taken up too much of their Captain's time. They would sneer as you passed, their voices dripping with contempt. "He's bored of you already," one of them said as he walked by you in the hallway, the words a cold knife in your back.

You shrank into yourself, the familiar weight of your quietness a shield you wrapped around yourself. You brushed off the comments, pretended not to hear the whispers. You could handle this. You had always handled this. It was a part of your life, the quiet dismissal, the unseen labor. But your friends, your three fierce protectors, noticed the way your shoulders had begun to slump, the way you would subtly change your route to avoid a hallway, the way your smiles no longer reached your eyes.

Mira, her jaw clenched with a simmering fury, grabbed your arm one day in the cafeteria. "Say something to Christopher," she insisted, her voice low and urgent.

You shook your head violently, a wave of panic rising in your chest. "No. He doesn't need this. Not when he's away." You thought of him, focused and determined, his eyes on the prize. The last thing he needed was your petty high school drama. You were a minor distraction, a footnote in his life. You could handle this on your own. It was a fierce, desperate kind of pride that made you refuse to reach out.

But the bullying escalated. The snide comments turned into malicious acts. An "accidental" spill of water on your notes in the library, your meticulous handwriting a blurry, ruined mess that made your heart ache with every illegible word. A shoulder check in the hallway that sent you stumbling, your books scattering across the floor like a second collision. One girl cornered you by the lockers, her face a mask of bitter jealousy. "He'll drop you the second finals are over," she hissed, her voice a low, ugly sneer. "He just likes the chase. You're not special."

You swallowed the tears that burned in your throat, gripping the cold porcelain of the bathroom sink, your knuckles white. You looked at your reflection, at the girl with the tired eyes, and you whispered the words that had been your mantra your entire life. "It's fine. I'm used to this. I can handle it." But your friends, standing outside the door, knew better. They exchanged worried looks, their hearts breaking for you. They knew you were breaking.

Dev, the quietest of the three, spoke the words that they were all thinking. "She won't tell him. So we will."

They huddled together, their phones a small circle of light in the dim hallway. They drafted a message to Christopher, the words a careful, concise explanation of everything that was happening. They hesitated, their fingers hovering over the send button. They didn’t want to be the ones to ruin his concentration, to distract him from his dream. But Mira, her face set in a determined scowl, pressed the button. It wasn't about the finals anymore. It was about you.

Meanwhile, a thousand miles away, Christopher’s team was celebrating a hard-won victory. The cheers were loud, the music was blaring, and the air was thick with the triumphant smell of sweat and adrenaline. He held the trophy in his hands, but it felt hollow. Something was missing. He pulled out his phone, a little annoyed, and saw a text from Mira. He read the first line, then the second, and his chest dropped with a sick, twisting panic. "She's not saying anything, but they're destroying her here. She's getting bullied."

He reread the words three times, his mind refusing to accept them. The elation of victory vanished, replaced by a cold, numbing fear. He felt the blood drain from his face, and his hands began to tremble. His whole world, which had been so bright and so focused on this victory, came crashing down around him. He didn’t think. He didn't process the cheers or the congratulations. He just knew he had to get back to you.

"I have to go back," he muttered, his voice hoarse, the words barely audible over the music.

A teammate, overhearing him, grabbed his arm. "Are you crazy? The finals—the media's waiting for you!"

Christopher pulled his arm away, his eyes wild with a fear that was deeper than any he had ever felt on the field. "She's more important," he said, his voice a quiet, resolute promise. "Always." He turned and ran, leaving behind the victory, the celebration, and the stunned faces of his teammates. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Please… please let her be okay. He was running on pure adrenaline, a desperate, undeniable need to get back to the only person who mattered. He would leave the trophy behind, leave the cheers, leave the victory—it all meant nothing without you.

The world had shrunk to the size of a single desk. The classroom, once a place of quiet refuge, was now a suffocating space filled with the low hum of whispered poison. You sat there, pretending to take notes, your pen moving across the page with a practiced, automatic rhythm. But the words on the paper were a meaningless blur, and the page might as well have been blank. Your mind was a frantic cacophony of fear and humiliation, replaying every cruel comment, every sneer, every dismissive glance you had endured in the last two days. It was a vicious cycle of remembered pain, a silent torture that left you feeling like a ghost in your own body.

You had become a target, a quiet scapegoat for a jealousy you never asked for. The girls who had been silenced by Christopher’s presence were now emboldened, their words a constant, nagging refrain of your own deepest insecurities. "She thinks she’s special," one would whisper as you passed, the words a low hiss in the crowded hallway. "He's just bored," another would mutter, her eyes a cold, judgmental assessment that cut you deeper than any physical blow. You tried to be invisible again, to shrink back into the shadows you had so painstakingly crawled out of, but it was no use. The quiet space you had carved out for yourself was gone.

A crumpled paper ball hit your desk with a soft thud, a silent act of aggression. You didn't flinch. You didn't dare. You just stared at it, a knot of pure misery tightening in your stomach. When you finally looked, a quick, furtive glance, you saw the words scrawled in an angry, jagged handwriting: Not worth his time. The phrase was a dagger, a cold confirmation of your worst fears. Your chest tightened, a sharp, searing pain that felt like a physical wound. You clenched your pen tighter, your knuckles white, fighting the hot, humiliating tears that threatened to spill over and betray the quiet composure you were so desperately clinging to. You felt so utterly alone, so impossibly exposed, as if the entire room could see the words on that paper ball, could see the fragile state of your heart.

Suddenly, a wave of gasps rippled through the room. The quiet, monotonous drone of the teacher's voice stuttered to a halt. A hush fell over the classroom, a stunned, collective silence that was so profound it felt like the world had stopped spinning. The air crackled with a strange, frantic energy. You looked up, your eyes wide with confusion, and that's when you saw him.

He was standing in the doorway, a living, breathing anachronism in the orderly world of the classroom. He was still in his soccer jersey, sweat-soaked and rumpled from a game you had heard had ended in a triumphant victory. The jersey was a brilliant red, but it looked faded and dirty from the road. His hair was a mess, his face pale and drawn, and his chest heaved with the heavy, uneven breaths of a man who had run a thousand miles to get here. He looked less like the undefeated captain of the soccer team and more like a lost boy who had just run through a storm, fighting against every obstacle just to stand in this room.

His eyes, frantic and wild, scanned the room. They passed over the shocked faces of his teammates, the stunned silence of the popular girls, the confused expression on the teacher's face. They were searching, a desperate, frantic search for a single face, and when they finally landed on you, your heart stopped. The world narrowed to just the two of you, the chaos and the noise of the room fading into a distant, buzzing static. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were the only person in the world who existed to him.

"Y/N," he said, and the sound of your name, spoken by him for the first time, was a soft, ragged whisper in the heavy silence. The sound of it, the way it rolled off his tongue, was a beautiful, disorienting thing. It was so simple, and yet it held all the weight of the universe.

You froze, a shot of pure panic shooting through you. He was here. He was supposed to be celebrating. He was supposed to be a million miles away, enjoying his victory, basking in the glow of the media. This was a nightmare. This was all your fault. You stammered, the words getting caught in your throat. "W-what are you doing here? Your finals—"

He didn't listen. He didn't even hear you. He was already striding forward, his boots a loud, heavy drumbeat against the linoleum floor. He ignored the stunned silence, the disbelieving stares, the murmurs of his teammates. His gaze never left you. He reached your desk and knelt, his hands gripping your shoulders, his touch firm and grounding. He held you as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground, his eyes searching your face for any sign of a wound. "Did they hurt you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous, a raw rumble of emotion that made every hair on your arms stand up. "Tell me."

You shook your head furiously, the tears you had been fighting so hard to suppress finally breaking free and running hot and fast down your cheeks. "No, no—you shouldn't be here," you insisted, the words a desperate, broken plea. "This is my fault—I shouldn’t have—"

"Don’t you dare blame yourself," he cut you off, his voice cracking with a raw emotion you had never heard from him before. He didn’t give you another moment to protest, another second to pull away. He pulled you from your chair and into his arms, crushing you against his chest in a tight, desperate hug. His touch was so strong, so protective, so utterly real.

Gasps erupted around the room. It was the moment that broke the spell, the moment that shattered the silence. The whispers were no longer quiet, but loud and venomous.

One of the popular girls, her face a mask of bitter jealousy and confusion, found her voice. "Chan, what are you doing?! Think about your image! You just won!"

His teammates, still stunned, shook their heads in disbelief. "She's no one, man," one of them said, his voice laced with disgust, as if he were talking about a stray dog. "Remember who you are!"

Christopher’s arms tightened around your trembling body, holding you in a fierce, unyielding grip. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in as if you were an antidote to the poison in the room. He didn’t respond to the protests, to the outrage. He simply looked up, his head still low, and glared at them. His eyes were not the easy, confident gaze of the Captain they knew. They were the cold, unwavering stare of a lion protecting his cub.

"She’s not no one," he snapped, the words a thunderclap in the room. His voice was laced with a raw, undeniable fury that made every single person in the room flinch and take a step back. "She’s everything. And if you can’t respect her—you don’t respect me."

Silence crashed over the room, a profound stillness that was more terrifying than any noise. His words hung in the air, a final, unyielding declaration. You buried your face deeper in his chest, trembling harder. The solid warmth of his body was a fragile fortress against the sudden, devastating weight of his words. You had never been chosen before. Not like this. Not so loudly, not so unapologetically. You were terrified, but you were also safe.

"They’ll hate you for this," you whispered, the words a broken sob against his chest. "You’ll regret it."

He lowered his head, his lips pressing against your hair, his words a low, fierce murmur meant only for you. "The only regret I’d have is not protecting you."

And in that moment, in the middle of a stunned classroom, with everyone watching, you finally believed him. He had chosen you. And for the first time in your life, you felt like you mattered. You were not a side character, a background player. You were the main event. And he had just told the world exactly why. He had left his victory behind, and come running. For you.

The classroom was a battlefield, and you were the sole casualty. After the explosion of that afternoon, a sudden, blinding storm of raw emotion, the school buzzed with a low, electrified energy. The whispers were no longer just whispers; they were a frantic, unyielding chorus of questions. Everyone wanted to know. Why her? Why would Christopher, the golden boy, the soccer captain, throw away his victory, his image, for the quiet girl who no one ever noticed? You felt a crushing, unbearable weight on your chest, convinced that you had single-handedly ruined his life. The shame was a physical thing, a hot flush that rose from your stomach to your cheeks every time you heard your name.

You avoided everyone. You walked with your head down, your hands clenched into fists, a desperate, silent prayer on your lips that no one would acknowledge you. You changed your routes, you ate lunch in the library, you lingered in the bathroom until the last possible second. But the walls had ears, and the rumors followed you like a cloud of poison. In the hallways, you could hear them. “I saw it with my own eyes,” a girl would whisper, her voice dripping with disbelief. “He snapped for her? What’s so special about her?” The words were a bitter pill, confirming every single one of your insecurities. You felt the hollow ache in your stomach deepen with every passing minute.

Lunch the next day was a particularly painful ordeal. You sat tucked away in the farthest corner of the cafeteria, a single plate of food a sad, lonely testament to your solitude. You were a planet without an orbit, a moon with no sun. You tried to read, to lose yourself in the quiet world of your book, but the words were a meaningless jumble. The whispers were louder here, a constant, buzzing commentary that made your skin crawl. You heard your name again, a name that had once been so private, now a common currency on the lips of strangers. Your hands trembled, and you dug your nails into your palms, trying to ground yourself.

Then, the murmurs stopped. A sudden, jarring silence fell over the room, a collective intake of breath that was more powerful than any noise. You looked up from your book, your heart lurching with a terrible premonition, and saw him. He was walking toward your table, a resolute, unyielding force. He ignored the stunned stares, the gaping mouths, the quiet, judgmental assessment of the entire cafeteria. He was still in his worn soccer hoodie, his shoulders broad and a tense line to his jaw, and he slid into the chair directly across from you, his presence a loud, unmistakable declaration.

Your chest tightened with a fresh wave of panic. You leaned forward, your voice a desperate, urgent whisper. "What are you doing? Don't make it worse." You couldn't bear to look at the faces watching you, the silent judgments that you knew were burning into your back.

He reached across the table and covered your hand with his, his touch warm and firm. "I don’t care what they think," he said, his voice low and unwavering, meant only for your ears.

You looked down, unable to meet his gaze. The tears you had been holding back for days burned in your throat. "You should," you whispered, the words choked with a quiet, defeated resignation. Your heart ached, not for yourself, but for him. He was losing his friends, his reputation, everything he had worked so hard for. And it was all because of you.

His chest ached at your defeated tone. He saw the way you were trying to shrink into yourself, to become invisible again, and a fresh wave of anger pulsed through him. He had faced down a raging crowd, he had thrown away a victory, but the raw, unadulterated pain in your voice was more terrifying than any of it. He wanted to shake you, to tell you to look at him, to see that none of it mattered, but he held back, his hand a gentle, steady presence on yours. He knew he couldn't push you too hard, too fast.

That night, alone in your room, you avoided his texts. You sat in the dark, your phone a beacon of light on your nightstand, its screen lighting up with a quiet persistence that broke your heart. The messages were so simple, so painfully sincere. "Are you okay?" "Please talk to me." "Don't shut me out." You couldn't respond. The shame was too great. The fear of being a burden on him, of taking any more from him than you already had, was a paralyzing, unbearable weight. You curled up in bed, crying silently into your pillow, a deep, mournful sob that shook your entire body. You were so alone. You had never been chosen before, and you were convinced that you had ruined the one person who had ever chosen you.

The next day, he cornered you. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You were leaving class, your head down, trying to escape the room before he could find you, but he was waiting for you, his back against the wall, his arms crossed. The hallway was empty, the quiet a sudden, unnerving thing. He looked at you, his eyes raw with a mix of frustration and profound sadness.

"Why are you running from me?" he asked, the words a low, painful plea.

You flinched, your body tensing, a thousand excuses dying on your tongue. You finally looked at him, and you saw the deep ache in his eyes, a pain that mirrored your own. You couldn't lie. You had to tell him the truth. You whispered, the words catching in your throat, "Because I don't want to be your downfall."

His heart cracked. The words were a dagger, a testament to the quiet cruelty he had seen over the last few days. He had expected anger, frustration, but not this—this bone-deep resignation, this conviction that you were the one to blame. He took a step forward, his hands reaching out to cup your face gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. His touch was so soft, so careful, as if he were holding something precious and fragile. He forced you to look at him, to see the sincerity, the love, the deep, abiding truth in his gaze.

"You're not my downfall," he said, his voice a low, fierce murmur that was meant only for you. "You’re the only reason I stand tall."

You gasped softly, a little broken sound that you couldn’t suppress. His eyes, dark and unwavering, were so full of a truth you had never dared to believe. You were lost in his sincerity, in the warmth of his hands, in the raw honesty of his expression. You were just a girl who had always existed in the shadows, and he was the one who had come running, a bright and powerful force, just to bring you out into the light. The silence stretched between you, thick with unsaid words, with the crushing weight of everything you had gone through, everything he had sacrificed.

Finally, you pulled back, the trembling in your body a thing you couldn't control. "Please," you whispered, "just… give me time."

He exhaled, a pained but understanding sound, and nodded, his hands falling slowly from your face. "I'll wait," he said, his voice a quiet, resolute promise. "For however long you need."

From then on, he didn’t push. He stayed close but quiet, a silent, unwavering presence in your life. He walked you home, his footsteps a gentle, steady rhythm behind you. He studied beside you in the library, his quiet, focused presence a comfort you were slowly growing used to. He was a shadow, a silent guardian, a soft whisper that said, "I'm here," without ever having to say the words. And as the days turned into weeks, you began to realize that his silence, his quiet, unyielding presence, spoke louder and more truthfully than anyone else’s words ever did. He was your quiet constant, and the world finally felt a little less lonely.

Months passed like the turning pages of a book you couldn't put down, each one a testament to a truth you were still too terrified to believe. The awkward silence that had once defined your interactions, the tense anticipation, the paralyzing fear—it all melted away, replaced by a comfortable rhythm of shared, stolen moments. Your world, once a quiet, monochromatic place, was now filled with vibrant color. It was in the hushed study sessions in the library, the late-afternoon walks home when the sun bled into the horizon, and the secret, lingering smiles you exchanged when no one else was looking.

He was no longer just Christopher, the soccer captain. He was Chris, the boy who liked to listen to old records on his scratched-up vinyl player, the one who found solace in the quiet of a shared space. He was the boy who would gently push a loose strand of hair from your face when you were focused on an essay, and the one who made you feel seen in a way you had only ever dreamed of. The way he would notice the smallest things—a new drawing in the margin of your notebook, the subtle change in your mood, the small, shy smile that would only appear when you were truly happy—felt like a secret language meant only for you.

The change wasn’t just in your world; it was in his as well. He seamlessly integrated himself into your quiet orbit, a sun that had found a home in the shadows. He helped Dev with soccer drills, a patient mentor who never made him feel inferior. He would join Mira’s musical banter, surprising her with his knowledge of obscure artists and effortlessly singing along to her favorite songs. He even laughed at Asha’s biting sarcasm, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he delivered a witty retort. Your friends, once so wary and protective, had slowly but surely accepted him. They saw what you saw—a boy who was so much more than his public persona, a boy who treated you with a quiet, unwavering reverence that made their initial suspicions seem like a long-forgotten memory.

You felt lighter, safer, as if the crushing weight you had carried for so long had finally been lifted. For the first time, you felt a sense of belonging, not just in your friend group, but in the world at large. The constant background noise of insecurity, of feeling like you were an afterthought, had faded into a soft hum. But with that lightness came a terrifying new fear. The fear of what would happen if you let yourself believe it was real. You had spent so long building your walls, convincing yourself that you were unworthy of this kind of attention, that the very idea of it was a dangerous, fragile thing that could shatter at any moment. You were terrified that if you let him in, truly let him in, you would scare him away and be left with nothing but the broken pieces of a dream.

One evening, as the semester wound down, he found you on the school rooftop, your usual quiet spot. The sky was a deep, velvet blue, sprinkled with the first shy stars of the night. The cool evening air was a welcome contrast to the humid heat of the day. You were sitting on the ground, your knees pulled to your chest, your gaze fixed on the quiet, sprawling cityscape below. He sat beside you, not too close, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. The silence was comfortable, a silent conversation you had perfected over the past few months.

You broke it first, your voice a soft, teasing murmur. “Bet the captain of the soccer team doesn’t usually waste time stargazing.”

He smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth turning up in a way that made your heart do a nervous little flip. He didn't look at the stars; he looked at you, a soft, unwavering gaze that made your cheeks feel warm. “Only when it’s with you,” he said, the words so quiet they were almost swallowed by the night.

Your chest fluttered, a wild, frantic thing, but you hid it with a small, nervous scoff. "Don't be cheesy, Christopher," you said, your voice a little shaky. The name felt strange on your tongue now, a formal remnant of a person you barely knew. You had started thinking of him as Chan, and sometimes, in the quiet solitude of your own thoughts, as Chris.

Silence fell between you again, but this time it was different. It was thick with a tension that was both exhilarating and terrifying. You could feel his knee touching yours, a gentle, solid presence. He was fiddling with his bracelet, a nervous habit you had come to recognize as a sign of his vulnerability. Your heart began to race, a frantic drumbeat in your chest.

"Can I tell you something?" he whispered, his voice so low and raw that it sent a shiver down your spine.

You glanced at him, a nervous energy humming in your veins. You were so used to keeping your emotions locked away, to being the quiet one, that his sudden vulnerability felt like an earthquake. "You're scaring me," you whispered back, a nervous laugh catching in your throat.

He chuckled softly, a sound filled with a hint of pained truth. “Good,” he said, his voice dropping a little lower. “Then maybe you’ll take me seriously.” He turned to face you fully, and in the faint glow of the city lights, you could see the raw honesty in his eyes. He took a deep breath, and then the words, the words that would change everything, spilled from him, trembling and sincere.

"I like you," he confessed, the three words a world-shattering sound. He leaned in just a little, his eyes searching yours for a sign of… something. “More than I should. More than I planned. I like you, Y/N.”

The use of your name, your real name, the one he had never spoken directly to you before, hit you with a force you couldn’t have anticipated. It was a formal declaration, a stake planted in the ground, and it made the air feel thin and hot. You stared at him, wide-eyed, a panicked denial already forming on your lips.

"No… no, you don't. Not me. You can't—"

He cut you off, his voice now rough with frustration, a mix of hurt and anger. "Why not you, Y/N?" he demanded, his hands reaching out to cup your face, his touch so gentle it was a contradiction to the fierce frustration in his eyes. "Tell me. Is it because you're quiet? Because people think you're plain? Because they've been using you your whole life?" The last part was a quiet, pained whisper, a testament to what he had seen, what he had understood. "That’s why I like you. You're real. You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, and everything I never knew I needed."

Tears, hot and sudden, pricked your eyes. You had no defenses left. All your carefully constructed walls, all the quiet self-deprecating thoughts, all the years of feeling invisible—they were crumbling to dust under the weight of his sincerity. You felt a soft sob catch in your throat, a quiet, broken sound that echoed the ache in your chest. You had never believed you were worthy of something so real, so honest, so profound.

He saw your tears and his gaze softened, his thumbs gently wiping a single tear from your cheek. He leaned closer, his voice a low, rough murmur. “Someone like me has only ever wanted someone like you,” he said, the words so full of a truth you had never dared to believe. He wasn't a hero, a captain, a sun. He was just a boy, and you were just a girl. And in that moment, in the soft, hushed privacy of the night, nothing else mattered.

A quiet, broken laugh escaped you through your tears, and you buried your face in your hands, the embarrassment of your emotions a fleeting thing against the overwhelming wave of happiness and disbelief. He pulled your hands down gently, his touch a careful, steady presence. He was grinning nervously, his eyes filled with a hope that made your own heart ache.

"So?" he whispered, his voice filled with a hopeful anticipation. “Do I get a chance?”

The question hung in the air, a final, monumental decision. You looked at him, at his hopeful, sincere eyes, and you knew. The fear was still there, a tiny, nervous thing, but it was nothing compared to the blossoming warmth in your chest.

After a long, breathless silence, you whispered, "…Yes. But don't regret it."

A profound sense of relief washed over his face, and he exhaled, a long, shaky breath that was both pained and relieved. He pulled you into a crushing hug, a gentle but firm embrace that made your heart feel safe for the first time in your life. You buried your face in his chest, your own hands clutching his shirt, and a soft sob of pure, unadulterated relief escaped you.

"Regret?" he murmured, his voice muffled in your hair, his arms tightening around you. “The only regret would be if I never asked.”

The confession on the rooftop had been a dam breaking, a release of a lifetime of suppressed emotion. But in the days and weeks that followed, your relationship with Chan wasn't a loud, public affair. It was quiet, private, and tender, a secret garden you cultivated away from the prying eyes and judgmental whispers of the school. You didn’t need grand gestures or public displays of affection. Your love language was one of hushed moments, soft touches, and whispered truths.

Your first "date" wasn’t a planned event. It was simply a continuation of a familiar ritual—walking home together. The only difference was the nervous, electrified energy that hummed between you. Your shoulders brushed with an almost agonizing lightness, a silent communication of your newfound status. He nervously cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the pavement, a blush creeping up his neck. "So… is this a date?" he asked, the question so simple and raw that it made your chest ache with affection.

You looked at him, a genuine smile spreading across your face. The captain of the soccer team, the confident sun of the school, was so endearingly flustered. You couldn’t resist teasing him. "If you want it to be," you said, your voice a soft murmur. His ears burned red, a sign of his charming embarrassment. He looked at you, a soft, unwavering sincerity in his eyes. He took a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself for a leap of faith. "Then yes," he said, the words a little shaky but firm. "It is."

Your friends noticed the difference immediately. It wasn't in the way you held hands or kissed; it was in the way Christopher looked at you. Mira whispered it to Asha one afternoon, her voice filled with a profound wonder. “He looks at her like she’s the only star in the sky.” The boys on his team, too, noticed the change. He was still the fierce, dedicated captain, but a newfound softness had settled into his features. His grin, once wide and boisterous, was now a private, tender smile reserved just for you.

Your world became a series of small, perfect moments. You'd sneak out for late-night coffee shop visits, the air thick with the smell of espresso and the quiet murmur of conversation. He would scribble lyrics on napkins, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to put his whirlwind of emotions into words. When he got too serious, too lost in his own head, you would gently take his hand and doodle on his skin with a small pen. Your little sketches of cats and stars and constellations would bloom across his knuckles and the back of his hand, a quiet protest against his intense focus. He would pretend to grumble, a playful frown on his face. "I'm the captain, you know. People take me seriously." You would laugh, the sound a light, melodic thing he had come to adore. "Not when you've got cats and stars all over your skin," you'd tease. But you knew he kept the doodles, refusing to wash them away, a silent promise that you were a part of him now.

At soccer practice, his teammates would groan in frustration. "Bro, focus!" one of them would yell, after he missed a pass he should have easily made. He would glance at the stands, distracted, and his grin would widen as he saw you sitting there, a silent, unwavering presence, a small wave of your hand a promise of a future you were slowly learning to believe in. "I am focused," he would shout back, his eyes twinkling. It was true. You were his focus now, the one thing that mattered.

After practice, he would run to you first, sweaty hug and all. You'd wrinkle your nose in mock disgust. "Gross, you smell like turf." He would smirk, his breath a little ragged, his eyes full of a playful tenderness. "Still hugging me though."

On weekends, you'd study together in the library, the quiet so thick you could almost taste it. He would be poring over a textbook, his face a mask of concentration, and you would find yourself just staring at him, mesmerized by the quiet beauty of his profile. The way his brow would furrow in thought, the way a loose strand of hair would fall over his forehead, the perfect, gentle curve of his lips. He would catch you staring and your cheeks would burn, your heart racing with a familiar panic. "What? You had something on your face!" you'd stammer, your voice a little too loud in the silent room. He would chuckle, his eyes warm and knowing. "Yeah, sure. On my face."

Slowly, his quiet, unwavering devotion began to earn your trust. It was an unspoken, fragile thing, a promise that he wasn't going anywhere. One night, huddled on a bench in the park, the streetlights a warm, golden glow against the dark sky, you finally confessed. "I kept waiting for you to get bored," you whispered, the words a raw, honest admission of your deepest fear. He frowned deeply, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. He gripped your hand, his touch firm and reassuring, as if he were trying to physically burn the words into your memory. "Bored? I could spend a lifetime and still not get enough. You're the most fascinating person I've ever met." His words made you cry, the tears a hot, silent stream of relief and gratitude. He wiped them away with his thumbs, his touch a tender, gentle thing.

He leaned in, his gaze fixed on your mouth. The kiss was gentle, trembling, and almost shy. It was a question and an answer all at once, a silent confirmation of everything you had built, everything you had whispered in the quiet of the night. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath a warm, steady rhythm against your cheek. "I'm yours," he murmured, the words a vow. "Completely."

From then on, he became your loudest protector. The gossip still existed, a constant, buzzing irritation in the background, but he shut it down instantly. When his teammates or friends would start to say something cruel or insensitive, he would simply look at them, his eyes hard and unwavering, and they would quiet down immediately. And when people would ask what was so special about you, the quiet, unremarkable girl who had somehow managed to capture the sun, he would only smile, a tender, knowing grin that reached his eyes. "Everything."

---x---

Fifteen years. A lifetime ago, you were just a girl with a stack of books and a quiet heart, and he was the sun, a force of nature who seemed to exist on a different plane entirely. Now, fifteen years later, the world had settled, and the vast, intimidating universe had shrunk to the space between you. The boy who had once run across a field just to make sure you were okay was now the man who still woke up before you every morning, a soft, unwavering smile on his face as he watched you sleep. His gaze wasn't just loving; it was a profound, quiet worship, a silent testimony to the miracle of your existence.

It was a familiar, constant ritual. You'd groan, your voice thick with sleep, a pillow clutched to your face. “Stop staring. It’s creepy.”

He would simply grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The lines on his face were new, a testament to the years of shared laughter and late-night talks, but his grin was the same as the one that had made your heart stutter on the school rooftop all those years ago. “Sorry, can’t help being proud I married you,” he’d whisper, his voice a low, husky sound that was just for you. He’d lean in and press a gentle kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for a moment as if to imprint the feeling of you being right there, next to him, forever.

He still insisted on cooking breakfast. The sounds of him in the kitchen—the clatter of pans, the gentle sizzle of oil—were the soundtrack to your mornings. And just like fifteen years ago, he’d still manage to burn the eggs. The smoke alarm would chirp a nervous little protest, and you’d get up, your hair a messy halo, to find him pouting in front of the stove. “Captain, you can’t even flip an omelet,” you’d tease, laughing softly as you took over, your movements practiced and easy. He would hug you from behind, his arms a warm, solid presence around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. He’d nuzzle his face into your neck, a familiar, comforting gesture. “Still whipped for you though,” he’d whisper, the words a low, happy rumble against your skin.

Your home wasn't a grand, perfect space. It was a lived-in canvas, a testament to your shared life. The walls were filled with doodles—not just the intricate sketches you made, but also his. He’d frame your sketches and place them beside his neatly handwritten lyrics, a silent testament to how he saw you. In a small, lacquered box on his nightstand, he still kept the old, crinkled napkins from your first coffee dates, a secret treasure he’d pull out on quiet nights when he wanted to remember where it all began. The house was a quiet echo of the quiet love you had built.

Sometimes, a song would come on the radio, a forgotten tune from a high school dance, and he’d pull you into his arms. The music would be low, but the laughter between you would be high, a chorus of joy that filled every corner of your home. He still wrote songs, but now, he didn't have to search for inspiration. You were in every lyric, a muse for his melodies, a quiet presence that defined his every note.

When you were working too hard, hunched over a drawing tablet with a deadline looming, he’d pout dramatically. His voice would be a theatrical whine that still made you laugh. “What about your husband? Neglected and starving.”

“You literally ate five minutes ago,” you’d say, a grin on your face as you threw a pillow at him. He would catch it, his grin wide, and he’d kiss you until you gave in, the gentle press of his lips a soft plea that you never had the strength to deny.

Your friends, now a tight-knit family of their own, still visited often. They’d watch the two of you, a quiet, knowing wonder in their eyes. "He’s still obsessed with you after all these years," Mira would say, her voice a mix of humor and sincere awe.

Chan would simply shrug, a proud, contented smirk on his face. “Of course. I told you—she’s everything.” He wasn’t a loud, boastful man, but when it came to you, a quiet, confident pride would settle over him.

On your anniversaries, he still planned chaotic but heartfelt surprises. A picnic with a wobbly blanket and a basket of burned food, a rooftop dinner where the constellations were the only light, homemade gifts that were more sentiment than artistry. You’d laugh at his corny speeches, but you’d always cry too, the tears a hot, silent stream of gratitude for a love that had grown so deep it had become a part of you.

Sometimes, in the quiet of the night, a flicker of that old insecurity would creep into his eyes. “Am I enough for you?” he’d whisper, the question a vulnerability you still found breathtaking. You would cup his face in your hands, your touch as tender and sure as his had been on the school rooftop. “You’ve always been more than enough.”

Your nights were filled with soft, sacred intimacy, a gentle obsession, an endless affection. He worshiped your body like it was sacred, his voice a low, reverent murmur against your skin. “Mine. Always mine,” he’d whisper, the words a possessive, loving vow. And then, the morning after, he’d be back to being goofy, burning pancakes, his hair a mess, and his eyes filled with a love so pure and honest it made your chest ache.

Even after fifteen years, he refused to let you carry any burden alone. If someone, even a stranger, tried to use you or take advantage of your quiet nature, he’d step in immediately, his gaze hardening with a familiar protectiveness. You’d tease him, a soft, loving smile on your face. “Still my bodyguard, huh?”

He’d smirk, kissing your forehead, the gesture a silent promise. “Still your biggest fan too.”

Their love was slow, steady, a quiet, deep-burning fire. He had never stopped trying to show you how adored you were, and in every single one of his words, his actions, his glances, you felt it. And when people would ask what his greatest achievement was, what he was most proud of, Chan would always smile, his eyes finding yours across the room. “Her. Always her.”

you both never thought that would happen, but over the years, the work began to spread out a bit more, due to chan back dating loads of songs, which were then ready for years to come.

it made life a whole life easier for him, and the relationship.

which is why he decided it was a perfect time for this family he so desperately wanted.

you and chan had tried for years, and it just seemed like it was never your time. failed test after test. tears after tears, with the whispered promise from chan, ‘it’ll happen soon’.

but how long was soon?

until that one cold day in november when the test sat on the bathroom counter felt different. you for once were hopeful.

you pulled chan into the bathroom as you both sat on the edge of the bathtub.

“hey,” he muttered, as he took ahold of you hand and rubbed the back of it, “whatever it says, we’re okay. there’ll be another time for us,” he promised.

you nodded through watery eyes, and a breath that shook. you let go off his hand and slowly reached for the test.

you took a second to yourself before flipping it over and staring at the answer.

| |

two lines.

you gasped out a broken sob, full of emotion, as chan grabbed a hold of you and pulled you closely in. chan’s shoulders shook as he cried with you.

“we’re having a baby,” he muttered into your hair, holding you tightly, “you’re gonna be a mom, and i’m gonna be a dad!” he whispered, as if saying it too loud would take it all back.

a few months later…

lucky for you, you were one of the lucky ones who didn’t show much during their pregnancy.

this was great, especially in yours and chan’s situation, with the boys and the world, who knew about you, as you were allowed to be open with the relationship.

however, once it came around to the second trimester and it was definitely confirmed that your baby was healthy, you both agreed this was the time to share the news with the boys.

you invited all the boys over to your home the following night, wanting this announcement to be small and private with those you both loved dearly.

“so… what is this?” seungmin started, eyeing you and chan suspiciously.

“you’re not like getting divorced are you? please don’t tell me your getting divorced!” han rambled quickly.

“no! no! god no,” you laughed, responding to han, who calmed down.

“we wanted to actually tell you, that, we’re pregnant,” chan told the group.

they blinked at him for a moment, glancing over at you, who already had tears in your eyes.

“wait what?!” changbin asked.

“your pregnant?” felix looked at you, to which you nodded.

han was the first to react, jumping up and screaming practically.

the other boys shortly followed as you and chan stood up, recovering various words of excitement and congratulations, while also receiving hugs from each member.

during your pregnancy, chan hated working. he hated missing moments of this; of the family that was soon to happen, even if the baby wasn’t here yet.

you insisted he went to the studio though. the boys still needed him after all, and the baby wasn’t here just yet.

but moments when chan would walk through the front door late at night, ways past the time he said he’d be.

to find you snuggled on the couch, phone open on yours and his chat, clearly to ask him how much longer. all the while you had a hand placed gently on your ground bump.

chan sighed at moments like this. he hated not being here for you, and he sometimes felt like he was already failing. but he tried; and you knew that.

july

come july, it was finally coming up closer to the due date of the baby. chan had managed to push the work off for a couple of weeks, while the two of you prepared for the baby.

the boys were absolutely ecstatic to meet the baby. anytime they saw you, they would immediately pile over on you like puppies to their mother, in desperate need of any updates about the baby.

so that one final night, when you woke up and seven hours later gave birth, you’d finally met your baby girl.

chan was there the whole time. from the moment you stirred in your sleep, groaning with pain, to when you stepped into the hospital.

even when you lay on the bed, crying your eyes out from the pain, chan stood by your side, holding tightly onto your hand.

chan cried the moment she was born, (he actually cried the whole birth, but you didn’t need to know that). but seeing you and his baby girl together for the first time was an experience he could never describe.

his two girls right in front of him. it was everything he ever wanted in life, and here it was.

a few months later

chan couldn’t love life any more than what he had right now. you were healthy, his baby girl was healthy, and he finally had the family he always wanted.

the first few months were different. a good different. a lack of sleep due to her crying throughout the night and not being the best sleeper.

but luckily, chan was use to the lack of sleep, spent in the studio, so he found solace in these moments.

the months were spent learning. learning about how to be a parent, while raising a literal baby.

there were tears. good and bad.

you’d have a few moments where you believed you weren’t a good mother. that maybe this wasn’t right for you. but chan was always there for you.

you and chan rarely co-slept with her, due to the risk. but day time naps, you sometimes like to join her.

moments like these were chan’s favourites.

where he could just watch you sleeping next to him, his baby girl in between the two of you, as you both leaned into his side. this was all he ever wanted.

the boys loved her.

jeongin was no longer the baby of the group, she was. and they all loved having her around.

it gave the other boys something to look forward to for the next few years with their own partners.

they saw the way chan and yourself were with your baby girl, and the love you had for one another, her birth bringing the pair of you even closer. and they all longed for a family like yours.

more months later

stray kids had gone on tour a month or so ago. touring the world and making many memories that chan loved sharing with you.

you’d both agreed it was too soon for her to attend, due to how young she was. so you both watched her daddy through the tv or on the phone, as she would squeal ‘dada!’ anytime chan became the main focus of a livestream or interview.

but chan. he secretly hated it. he missed so much while he was gone.

the time you were recording yourself and her, and she finally took her first few steps towards you.

chan had to watch it through a phone.

he missed those real important milestones; the ones that really mattered. and that’s what hurt him the most.

but you were always there to reassure him, “she’ll walk again soon,” you promised.

but despite your promises, he still doubted himself.

he lay awake at night in the various hotels, clutching his phone to his chest, as he replayed the videos of you and his baby over and over again, his chest wracking with sobs.

chan sometimes use to feel like he failed as a leader, but feeling like he failed as a dad, hit him a lot more than anything.

a few years later

as she reached a more appropriate age, which perfectly lined up with the next stray kids world tour, the pair of you agreed this was a perfect opportunity.

as the tour hit off its leg in australia, you and your girl moved into chan’s parents home for a while.

this was great.

they loved you and their grandchild, and you loved being around them. you were also immensely close to hannah, chan’s sister.

so on the day where his family had planned to attend, he also reserved two tickets for his family.

it was secured off in the pit. far enough but not too far; close enough so that she could see her dad.

you held her on her hip so that she had a clear view of the stage, dressed in her wolf-chan outfit; light-grey dungarees, with some ears on her head.

she looked adorable.

and she loved it.

chan even made it his mission to spend as much time during the concert waving over to his daughter and wife, ensuring they both felt very special. she’d giggle into your neck every time it happened.

when the concert was over, you were all led backstage. at this point she could walk really well; too well actually. she was now able to run off, without falling over.

which she insisted on doing in attempt to find her daddy.

as she rounded the corner, into one of the main dressing rooms, she saw her dad stood in the middle, talking to seungmin.

she squealed out in excitement, causing chan to turn around and open his arms wide. “hi baby,” he responded back, just as excited.

he placed her on his hip, as she rambled on about the show, asking silly questions about everything.

eventually, you’d managed to wrestled her off of chan, so that he could go see his family after the show, leaving you and her with the other boys.

as annoying as she could be, the boys still loved her.

she loved lee know, mainly because of soonie, doongie and dori, as she loved cats. but despite his sometimes hard exterior, it immediately melted when she was around.

changbin was probably her favourite. he was the biggest girls girl to ever exist, which you already knew, but he continued the prove it as she grew older. ‘changbin’s salon’ became something even more common everytime you brought her around or showed up at the studio.

hyunjin helped her draw and create. she liked her crafts, especially paint, which you and chan cringed anytime she got her hands on it, due to how messy she was. but hyunjin didn’t mind the mess, he encouraged her to, especially in his art studio in his apartment back in seoul.

han was probably the second favourite uncle of her. she loved his silliness, as she was also a very silly child. they bounced off of one another easily, especially because of han’s childlike personality at times.

felix was her kindest uncle; the one she turned to when she began to cry if her mommy or daddy weren’t around. he always held her with the upmost care, constantly carrying her anywhere, as he always managed to fall for her dramatics. he just couldn’t say no.

despite seungmin’s ‘mean’ exterior, and banter with his members, it was clear how good of a dad he would be. he taught her a lot of things, including baseball, which he loved being able to share with someone, who was so excited for the world. he always offered to help the two of you. you and chan knew how badly seungmin wanted a kid of his own one day.

ayen loved not being the youngest anymore. he loved not being the ‘maknae’ of the family. that he finally had someone to take care of, just how the members had with him. he was similar to seungmin. ayen always volunteered to babysit, but only if he could have assistance from one of the other boys. so typically seungmin and ayen were the babysitters.

chan finally had the family he wanted, the one he always dreamt about and told STAYS about on bubble. it was finally his, and she truly was a bundle of joy.

The notification came while you were rinsing out a cup on your part time job. Water flowed over your fingers, warm and steady, grounding you...until it didn't.

Your phone buzzed again. You almost ignored it. Almost.

But his name always caught your attention.

'bang chan' on bubble

A small smile formed on your lips without thinking. You wiped your hands on your apron and unlocked your phone, expecting something light, something silly, something from him.

Instead, your eyes froze. You read the message once.

Then again.

Then slower.

And something inside you sank.

“Back then, I used to get hit a lot. I didn’t really think much of it. I guess it was just normal at the time.”

The noise of the cafe faded away.

You couldn’t hear the chatter, the clinking cups, your manager calling out orders...nothing.

Just those words. Your fingers hovered over the screen.

Your chest tightened so sharply that it almost hurt to breathe. “No...” you whispered, shaking your head slightly. “No, that’s not...” That’s not something you ignore.

That’s not something you just drop in a message. Your mind raced, trying to understand it. He had shared other things. He told you about sneaking food to the girls (twice), about getting scolded for it, about long practices and sleepless nights.

He talked about those experiences with a laugh, as if they were softened by time.

But this? This was different.

This was something he had never even hinted at. Your throat went dry. You read the rest, noticing how he brushed past it, almost joking, as if it didn't matter... as if it wasn’t heavy, pressing down on your lungs just to read it.

Like he didn’t matter.

“Hey, what are you doing? That order’s been waiting--”

“I need to go.” You didn’t realize you had said it until your apron was already off.

Your manager frowned. “What? Right now?”

“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, grabbing your bag.

“It’s urgent.” You didn’t wait for a reply. You couldn’t. The drive felt wrong.

Everything felt wrong. The roads and signals were the same, the people moved around you like nothing had changed--but something had.

Something big. Something you should have known. Your grip on the steering wheel tightened until your knuckles turned white.

“Why didn’t you tell me...” your voice cracked, barely audible. Images you didn’t fully understand filled your mind... a younger version of him, smaller, alone, scared... still trying to smile through it.

Your chest ached. You pressed the accelerator harder. His apartment was too quiet. You pushed the door open, barely remembering to take off your shoes.

Your bag slid off your shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud that you ignored.

Then you heard it. Faint. Music. You followed the sound without thinking. Each step felt heavier. And then you saw him. Sitting there. Curled slightly over his setup, headphones half-on, fingers moving over the keys, completely lost in whatever beat he was creating.

Focused. Calm. Safe. Like nothing had ever touched him. Your throat tightened painfully.

“Channie...” He turned, startled. Then his expression softened instantly, his eyes lighting up in a familiar way that always warmed your chest.

“Baby?” he blinked, sliding the headphones down. “You’re home early... what happened?” He smiled. That smile. Like the world had never been cruel to him. Like he had never been hurt.

Something inside you shattered. You didn’t respond. You just walked to him quickly. Then you wrapped your arms around him. Tight. Too tight.

Your fingers clutched at the back of his shirt, as if you were trying to hold him together... like if you didn’t, something would break or worse he might just disappear.

He froze for a moment, surprised. '...hey?” His hands rose slowly, resting on your back, unsure.

“What’s wrong?” he murmured, his voice now softer and more careful. “Did something happen?”

You shook your head against his shoulder. Your breath was uneven.

No. Something had happened. A long time ago.

And you weren’t there. Your grip tightened.

“Baby...” he said again, a small nervous laugh escaping him. “You’re scaring me a little.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. Your eyes were glassy. Confused. Hurt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” His brows furrowed immediately. “Tell you what?”

Your voice trembled. “The message, Chan.” Silence. It hit him. You could see it flicker across his face, quick and almost hidden.

“Oh...” he exhaled softly, leaning back slightly. “That...”

“That?” your voice cracked, sharper than you intended. “That’s all you have to say?”

He blinked, surprised. “I mean, it’s not really--” “Don’t.” Your voice dropped. Not loud. But it stopped him instantly.

“Don’t make it small.” The room felt heavier. He looked at you... really looked this time... as if trying to gauge your seriousness.

“Baby, that was a long time ago...” he said carefully.

“I didn’t think it mattered that much.” Your chest tightened. “You got hurt.” He paused. “I was a trainee... it happens—” “It shouldn’t have.”

The words came out quieter but more firmly. Your hand moved to his face, your thumb brushing lightly under his eye, grounding yourself as much as him. “You were thirteen, Chan,” you whispered.

“You were alone... in a country that wasn’t even yours... and someone thought it was okay to hurt you...hit you...” He didn’t reply. His gaze fell.

You felt the shift... subtle, but present. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal,” he murmured after a moment. “Everyone was dealing with their own stuff... I wasn’t special.”

That word. Special.

As if pain needed to be earned. Your heart ached.

“You don’t need to be special to deserve better,” you said softly.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t all bad...” he added, almost as if needing to say it.

“I learned a lot... I met people...” You watched him closely. The way he still defended it. The way he tried to balance it out. “Chan...” you said gently, shifting to sit on his lap, forcing him to look at you directly.

“You can have good memories... and still admit some parts were wrong.” His hands moved to your waist automatically. Warm. Familiar. But there was tension in his grip now.

“I just thought...” he hesitated, his voice quieter. “If I complained... it meant I wasn’t strong enough.”

Your throat tightened.

“And if I wasn’t strong enough... maybe I didn’t deserve to be there.”

There it was. The truth. Not about them. About him.

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, steadying him.

“You deserved to be there because you worked for it,” you said firmly. “Not because you could endure pain.”

He released a slow breath. His fingers tightened slightly against your sides. “I still feel like I’m not doing enough,” he admitted, as if the words were being dragged out. “Like I need to work harder... be better... or I’ll fall behind.” “That’s why you overwork,” you whispered.

He nodded slightly.

“I don’t want to disappoint anyone.”

“You won’t.”

“But what if I do?” His voice cracked, barely there. “What if I’m not enough?”

Your chest ached. So you cupped his face again. “You are.”

He shook his head slightly. “You’re biased.” “Yeah,” you replied softly. “Because I love you.”

He let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s a lot about me that’s not... great.”

Your brows furrowed. “Like what?” He hesitated. And then, quietly--

“My nose.” You blinked. “What?” “It’s too big,” he mumbled, avoiding your gaze.

a/n: (he doesnt get that STAYS ARE CRAZY ABOUT HIM LIKE SWEETHEART. WE NEED A MAN LIKE YOU. BUT YOU ARE ONLY 1. SIGHS. HE IS SO DAMN BEAUTIFUL! Like the gods sent him as an apology for the rest of the men.)

“And my curls... they’re messy. My hands...” he looked down at them as if they didn’t belong to him. “They’re not... nice.”

Each word felt like a sharp object pressing into your chest. “

And sometimes I just...” he swallowed. “I feel like I’m not giving you enough. You deserve someone normal... someone who can actually be there.”

Your expression shifted. “Christopher.” That made him look up.

Your voice was softer now but serious.

“You don’t get to decide what I deserve.” He froze. “I chose you,” you continued. “Not the idol. Not the schedule. Not the chaos. You.” His breath caught slightly.

You reached up, fingers sliding into his curls, gently pushing them back from his forehead. “I love these,” you murmured. “Do you know how many times I’ve played with your hair while you were working and you didn’t even notice?” His lips parted slightly.

“I love your nose,” you added, brushing lightly against it. “It’s yours. It fits you. I wouldn’t change it.” His grip on you tightened.

“And your hands...” you took one, turning it gently, pressing your lips against his palm. “They hold me,” you whispered. “They create music through which many survive. They take care of people... How are they not beautiful?”

His eyes softened. Something fragile... something that had been held in for too long... began to shift. So you leaned in. And you kissed his nose. Slowly. Gently. Then his cheek. Then his jaw. Lingering. Intentional.

Like you were undoing every word he had ever told himself. “You’re enough,” you murmured against his skin.

His arms wrapped around you again. Tight. Almost desperate. Like he needed to feel you, needed to make sure you were real. You held him just as tightly. Fingers in his hair, nails tracing pattenr's on his back through his shirt.

“I’m sorry...” he whispered into your shoulder.

“For what?”

“For not telling you, for acting like it didn’t matter.”

You shook your head, pressing your cheek against his. “You survived the only way you knew how,” you said softly. “I’m not mad at you for that.” He exhaled slowly. “But you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”

His grip tightened again. You felt it. The shift. The way he leaned into you just a little more. Like he was finally letting himself.

“Stay tonight?” he murmured. You pulled back just enough to look at him. A small, soft smile formed.

“Always, love.” His lips curved faintly. Real. Tired. But real.

You leaned in again, kissing him slowly. This time deeper, warmer, your hand sliding to the back of his neck, holding him there. He melted into it, like he had been holding everything in all day and finally had somewhere to put it down.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “You’re not alone anymore, Christopher,” you whispered. His eyes closed for a moment.

And this time he didn’t argue.

--

── bang chan! ⋆˙⟡

── lee know! ⋆˙⟡

── changbin! ⋆˙⟡

── hyunjin! ⋆˙⟡

── han! ⋆˙⟡

── felix! ⋆˙⟡

── seungmin! ⋆˙⟡

── i.n.! ⋆˙⟡

pictures aren’t mine! they’re from pinterest

tags: @niku0704 @hiddenmistbeacon

He looked beautiful in the soft, ugly parking-lot lighting. Which was unfair.

Cap low over his forehead. Sleeves pushed to his elbows. Hair messy from wind and seawater. His smile was there, touched with the kind of tired happiness that comes after a day well spent. 

He’d only had one drink hours ago and switched to water after, but the day had been long – sun, swimming, driving, making sure everyone was where they needed to be, checking maps, checking reservations, checking on members, checking on you every ten minutes like you might evaporate.

You stepped closer. “Baby.”

His head lifted immediately. “Hm?”

“Let me drive.”

His eyebrows rose. “You wanna drive?”

“You're tired. And I'm sober too.”

“It’s okay. I can do it.” 

“I know that you can,” you said softly. “But you don’t need to. You’re tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“You just tried to unlock the car with the house key.”

Chan let out a soft laugh, head dropping for a second, and you saw it then: the real exhaustion under the playful refusal. The kind he always ignored.

You reached for his wrist.

His fingers turned instinctively, fingers sliding through yours like they belonged there.

Your voice dropped so only he could hear.

“Chris.”

That did it. It always did.

His eyes flicked to yours.

You reached up, face leaning in towards his, and smoothed a thumb under one of his eyes. “You’ve been taking care of everyone all day. Please let me take care of you for twenty minutes.”

Something in his expression shifted.

Small. Barely there.

That look he only got when you slipped past the leader everyone knew and spoke to the man underneath it all. 

He glanced down at your joined hands, thumb brushing once over your knuckles. Then he sighed through a smile and leaned his forehead against yours. 

From the backseat, Felix made a scandalized little sound. “They’re being cute again.” 

“They can do that any other time,” Han whined. “I wanna fall into bed.” 

Chan huffed a laugh through his nose and pulled back.

“You sure?”

“Mhm.”

“You know the route?”

You nodded and held out your hand.

After a second, he dropped the keys into your palm. 

“Okay.”

You smiled and tipped your head towards the passenger side. “Go on then.”

Chan blinked at you once, clearly too tired to argue, then shuffled around the front of the car without protest. 

As he turned, you gave him a light, friendly smack on the butt. 

He stopped mid-step and turned back, scandalized. “Hey.” 

“Passenger princes don’t talk back, baby,” you said sweetly, opening the driver’s door. 

Chan shook his head under his breath, smiling now despite himself, and slid into the passenger seat. 

You settled behind the wheel, adjusting the seat back from where Chan had it too far for your comfort. His cologne lingered in the fabric, mixed with salt air and the faint scent of sunscreen. 

From the backseat, Han gasped dramatically. “She’s driving?” 

“Oh, you’ll survive,” you said, fixing the rearview mirror until Han's face appeared in it. “If not, you’re also welcome to walk back.” 

He slumped lower in his seat, arms folding across his chest in exaggerated sulkiness. “ ‘was just saying, your driving is kind of scary.” 

“You don’t even have a license,” you said, starting the engine. “Seatbelt, Jisung.” 

“That’s why my opinion is pure,” Han said, reaching for the seatbelt with a pout. “Unbiased. Untainted by experience.” 

Felix laughed so hard he immediately yawned afterward, eyes watering. 

Chan’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile.

–––––

Five minutes later, Han was dead aleep.

The road curved dark and quiet along the coast, the sea only visible in flashes between trees.

Chan sat in the passenger seat with the chair leaned farther back than he ever let himself do. 

But he kept looking at you.

Every time you glanced over, his eyes were already there.

He had one arm folded across his middle, the other tucked between you on the center console where his fingers occasionally squeezed yours. Not out of nervousness, but out of habit.

The boys in the back had gone from loud to silent with shocking speed. 

Han was asleep first, cheek smushed against Felix’s shoulder, mouth slightly open. 

Felix lasted another three songs before his head tipped sideways onto Han’s hair. 

You glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly laughed.

“Look.”

Chan turned his head. 

His smile came slow and helpless.

“They always act tough,” he said quietly, “then become babies after one drink.”

You smiled as well. “You gonna carry them inside later?”

“The hell I will.”

You hummed innocently. “But they’re your babies.”

“They’re adults,” he said at once. “Heavy adults. They just happen to complain a lot and expect to be pampered.” 

“You raised them that way.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

He gave a soft scoff but didn’t argue harder than that. 

Sleep was already pulling at him now, loosening every sharp edge. Without the need to steer, navigate, count heads, answer questions, make decisions, remind people to hydrate, remember where everyone left their bags—

There was nothing left for him to hold up.

No leader face.

No responsibility voice.

Just your boyfriend, warm, happy and slowly falling asleep in the passenger seat. 

His thumb traced over your knuckles once. Twice.

“You’re staring,” you murmured.

“I’m appreciating.” 

“You should rest those eyes, not look at me.”

“Can’t help it. You look really pretty when you drive.” 

You laughed under your breath. “That’s the sleep talking, babe.” 

“No.” His eyes were half closed, voice low and certain. “Been thinking it for ten minutes.” 

“Shouldn’t you be resting?”

He leaned his head back against the headrest. “Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Like looking at you.”

You stopped at a red light. The intersection was empty, traffic signal glowing red over the quiet road.

You looked over at him again. 

He was already looking at you.

Slowly, he lifted his free hand.

His fingers brushed your cheek first, palm settling there gently like he wanted to hold your face for a second before anything else. His thumb swept once across your cheekbone, slow and absentminded. 

Then, he leaned across the console and kissed you.

Soft.

Unhurried.

Sleepy in the sweetest way. 

You froze for half a heartbeat before kissing him back, one hand tightening on the wheel, the other moving to rest on his shoulder.

He was warm, lips slow and gentle on yours.

As he pulled away, your stomach flipped so hard it made you forget where you were. 

When you opened your eyes, it took you a second to remember the car, the road, the sleeping passengers.

You turned your head.

Han was still dead asleep against Felix, entirely unaware of the world. 

Felix hadn’t moved at all, breathing deep, arms wrapped around his folded jacket like a stuffed animal. 

You let out a slow breath and looked back at Chan. 

Who looked impossibly soft like this.

Hoodie half-zipped. Curls messy beneath his cap. Lips parted slightly with sleepiness.

And his eyes – so full of love – it made something in your chest ache.

“Tired?” you asked softly. 

“No.”

“Close your eyes.”

“Can’t.”

“Why?”

“Need to make sure everyone gets home safe.”

Your chest ached in that familiar way.

Even now.

Even here.

Even with his members unconscious in the back and the day finally over, he was still holding the invisible strings of everyone else’s comfort.

You reached over and squeezed his arm.

“I’ve got them,” you said. Then softer, “I’ve got you too.”

He went very still.

Then exhaled like he’d been waiting all day to.

When the light changed, you gave him one last smile before turning back to the road and easing the car forward. 

“You’re cute,” he mumbled after a minute. 

“You’re delirious.”

“Probably.”

“You happy?” you asked.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

He leaned his head against the window, still watching you.

“My girlfriend’s driving me home~”

You snorted. “That’s all it takes?”

“She’s pretty.”

“Christopher.”

“She smells nice too.”

“You’re half-asleep.” 

“I’m in love.”

The words came so simply, so sleep-heavy and sincere, that your chest tightened.

You squeezed his hand.

“Go to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He squeezed your hand back once, then his grip loosened as sleep began pulling him under, yet still holding onto your hand like he didn’t know how not to.

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12 - coming soon

Tags: Open

@atetheluck @firstdivisiongirl @ayedomino-08 @tsumiyaa @skepticalvoidhedgehog @mar1511 @meelbarnes @rylea08 @mrsleeknowsaurus @straysmuchi @snow-flake-writes @lezleeferguson-120 @angelwings-fly @beppybeesnuggets @hearteubeateuxz @leeknowismm @barbie-girl84 @nvuueas @multiifanbigbang @angstylittleb1tch

Pic from Pinterest

That feeling when you know the good streak is going to end soon. The suspicion that things are going too well. Chan felt it in his trainee days every time he got closer to success before being pushed back. He feels it when the day goes too perfectly in the studio and rehearsal, all for Chan to feel a sickness overtake him or one of the boys. He feels it in the sound of joy and the feeling that pairs with it, followed by the dread of knowing this high will wane off.

That dread followed him into sleep, and was only bated by the girl who he took into his arms each night.

Chan had once found comfort in the sound of an airplane engine from the inside seating. It meant he was doing something new, being somewhere new and exciting. Getting to see the world and explore what it had to offer was his specialty.

All that fills his stomach is that familiar dread. He finds himself wanting to hide from the world, because as of right now, you've fallen victim to his lifestyle.

Staff had informed Chan when the plane was refueling for the journey from Seoul to Milan of something out of nightmare. Of all the things that staff could've informed Chan of, he would've rather preferred that all of the luggage was lost in transit to the loading station.

They'd tried to be as calm and placating as possible, he'll give staff that. Not that Chan is easily angered so long as something can be resolved with communication. However, when he saw the look on their faces, it was all over.

You were on the plane, curled up in your seat in a cocoon of a throw blanket and his black distressed hoodie. Peaceful, an image of bliss with the hood drawn up over your face.

Staff had handed him a phone. Said phone had a simple picture. If it was a third party viewing, they'd have no idea what they were seeing. However, Chan knew better. That picture was taken from a strange angle, perverse and unbeknownst to the two subjects in the photo. A high angle from something like a building or a parking complex. Those subjects were you and Chan, a snapshot taken hours earlier when you and Chan were coming out of the company van before boarding.

It was unmistakably Chan in that photo, it couldn't be hidden. His blonde fringe was peaking out of his black Chrome Hearts beanie. There was a lack of people aside from staff and you-- sweet and innocuous to the photo as you clamber out of the van behind him. Empty handed, and Chan holding your carry on with a small Wolf-Chan keychain hanging off the zipper.

Worst of all, he's holding your hand. His eyes are forward, a small content look on his face. You look all sleepy and lax. It's such a simple action, barely anything that anyone should care for. But suddenly, your hand in his feels like the end of the world.

Not for him, but for you. Which you may never recover.

It's a dark photo. It's pixelated and rough and it still had Chan's heart sinking to stomach in such a fast decline, he'd rushed to the bathroom to dry heave over the bowl. He's thankful that Fendi had provided Chan with a private jet for Fashion Week. Chan doesn't know if he could've handled any more prying eyes than the one's on the internet who must've been dissecting that picture.

When he'd come back from the bathroom, and down the aisle to his seat, staff is already looking at him. He rubbed his clammy palms on his sweatpants and reclined in his seat. He hates the look on their faces, equal parts pity and "I knew this was a bad idea". Love was never a bad idea when it came to you.

You, who is still sleeping soundly. Who won’t wake up until Chan says so, to let you keep as much peace to yourself as possible.

You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve any of what is waiting after this flight.

That was hours ago. And naturally, Chan has been a ticking time bomb with his head in his hand against the armrest of his seat. He couldn’t work on his beats. Music was just a reminder of why he was in this situation in the first place. That was the cruelty of being an idol, a suffering he never thought he’d feel.

Chan yearned for love for so long, and you fell into his lap like a blessing. Would it be taken away? Would the damage be too much to mend?

The jet is landed on the private strip, but there’s a week ahead of him with interactions and paparazzi. There’s fans and detractors. News outlets and media and messages and—

“Sweetheart…? We’re landed.” Be a leader. Do it for her. Be her brave man.

Chan’s voice tries to coax you away, running a crooked finger over your cheek. That was something constant, his comfort. He’d never give that up, he felt he was doing something right in this moment of strife in his mind. He pulls the hood back of your, no, his hoodie and watches your eyes go back and forth under your eyelids before they crack open to the harsh interior lighting.

It makes his chest hurt and his throat ache. You’re too peaceful for the news he’s about to don on you.

“Hey…” you whisper, voice all tired and rasped with sleep. Chan smiles lopsided, a boyish grin that wavers at the corners of his mouth. Be brave.

“Sleeping beauty… All good?”

“All good…”

God, he feels like the biggest bastard on planet Earth. Does someone have information on you by now? Are there netizens wishing ill upon you? Do they even know who you are, maybe someone found your private socials. What if they found your family, your job—

“Channie…? Are you good?”

You’d sat more upright while Chan’s eyes turned vacant and distant, like he was looking past you. He realizes his smile is vanished, the tips of his ears feel hot and pounding with the rush of blood. And if there’s one thing Chan isn’t, it’s a liar. He can be cheeky. He can tease. But this? This isn’t something he can shield you from. And that terrifies him to his bones.

You repeat his name again, more serious as you say “Chris?” and put a hand over his. He’s shaking like he’s been left in sub-zero temperature. But his temperature feels hot and clammy.

The sound of staff unloading his and your carry ons is like white noise. He feels like his clothes are touching him funny. His knee is bouncing a bit. And you’re still looking at him with those heartbreakingly soft eyes.

Your eyes look to staff, men and women who refuse to meet eyes with you. And that speaks volumes. Something’s wrong, they just carry on as if they know this behavior of Chan’s will take a minute to recoup. Your hand finds his, remembering an off-time something similar to this happened before.

Chan had come off stage after a performance and just slumped against you. Shaking. Vacant eyes, like now. Like if he didn’t focus on breathing, he’d forget how.

So, there you go. Taking his hand into his and rubbing soothingly.

“Hey, hey… Chris, look at me… Breathe, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

You tell him to breathe, and Chan feels like it suddenly becomes harder. Because you can see he’s a wreck. You’re not supposed to see him like this, he’s supposed to take care of you, of everyone. He nods, hurried and childish, his eyes looking down at your hand. You said, “I’m not going anywhere”, but Chan doesn’t know if that’ll ring true in a few hours.

It’s just you and him, he ignores the sound of staff talking about him and what they should do with the situation in low voiced Korean.

“Chris… Talk to me, what happened?”

You’re such a sweetheart. Sweetheart. He knew he chose right in giving you that nickname years ago. You loved the Australian lilt in the way he said it, and he loved the way it made you permanent in his life. You’re so fucking sweet, you don’t even think for a second that something utterly terrible just happened.

Chan takes a deep breath, lungs filling and deflating in a few seconds. Rattling. How does he say this to you? How does he tell you that for the first time in his life, he might fail in protecting someone he loves? His voice comes out weaker than he expects it to, like a wince.

“There’s… they found out.”

He’s met with silence. A soft murmur from staff pretending to busy themselves with cleaning out the jet cabin. They’re really just making sure Chan doesn’t pass out on them.

You stop that sweeping motion of your thumb over his hand. He feels when you squeeze his hand for a millisecond. Such a sweetheart— you don’t need him to explain. Not when you’ve had conversations like this before. “Finding out”. It made it sound like the love that you both shared was something wrong. Illicit. Perverse.

Chan watches that fear spark in your face. He knows all your little tells, because now you’re not even looking at his own face anymore. But in a miracle from above, that little sweeping motion of your thumb starts up again. You’re comforting him.

“Alright… Okay, um… H-How did they… Walk me through it.”

He blinks twice. You’re an insane and stupidly amazing woman. He almost wants to laugh. He could’ve told you the sky was falling and you’d just… ask for the prognosis?

“Someone, um… took a, uh… a picture. At the airport, in the back lot… Staff is trying to trace the person back, um… Y-You can’t really see you very well, but I am holding your hands and luggage, which someone is totally going to research and stalk into—”

You coughed a laugh. A beautiful sound bubbling out of you that gives Chan a reprieve from his turmoil. A few heads of staff look at you warily. His eyes narrow, roving over you as a nervous, grimaced smile appears on his face.

“I’m sorry?” he says, voice cracking at the end.

“N-No, I’m… I’m sorry, even… Even when our relationship is leaked… you’re putting yourself first.”

“Don’t. Don’t start, sweetheart.”

Chan knows where you’re going with this, and you still sit upright all noble and so damn wonderful.

“You remember the first time we talked about this?”

How could he not? You’d been dating for 3 months, but Chan had already knew it was serious. Something built and crafted carefully to last. He wasn’t letting you get away. You were so insane, waking up at all sorts of odd hours to walk with him when the boys were asleep after he’d brainstormed some lyrics or instrumentals.

You’d walk side by side to the Han River. The city was quiet and lit up with city lights on the horizon that looked like stars reflected back on the water. He’d told you being with him wouldn’t be easy. Loving him wouldn’t be easy, was what he wanted to say.

You’d looked up at him like he’d said the dumbest thing ever, and said a cheesy line about “not wanting it if it’s easy”.

Chan grinned all square and dimpled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head to assuage his nerves. He’d then told you that he’d have to treat you like a secret. That he couldn’t love you as freely as he wanted, but he wanted you nonetheless. Told you he knew it wasn’t fair and he understood if you wanted a way out.

You’d flicked his nose and called him stupid. You said you knew what you got yourself into the moment that he said he was an idol. You made it clear in your little declaration that you weren’t going anywhere when you said jokingly, staring into the dark water of the river, “Someone will have to pry you from my cold, dead hands”.

Smitten. Absolutely in love with you. He knew you were serious, that’s how you loved. With pure intentions and strength.

So as he looks upon you now, and you ask him if he remembers the terms you’d both set up, the mutual understanding of how this would all go? He nods. A bit shy for even thinking you’d turn away and cower from this. You duck your head a bit to meet his gaze and smile when he averts his eyes again.

“Yes, this is scary. Believe me, Channie, I’m… I’m really scared right now—”

“Please don’t be scared, sweetheart.”

“Channie. Listen.”

That quiets him. Lips faltering for a rebuttal to quell you. He doesn’t like the thought of you being in fear. But he listens anyhow, even with the underlying discomfort.

“I’m scared right now. This very… finite moment. I told you I knew what I was getting into… It was bound to happen, okay? A-And yeah, we didn’t get to announce on our own terms, but… It feels kind of freeing, doesn’t it? Liberating.”

You truly are insane. Any other sane person would be hyperventilating at the idea of millions knowing of their relationship. Something seen as “taboo” in the industry yet here you are again. Calling the murder of your livelihood liberating.

Chan shakes his head, already tasking for the worst. “The second we get back home, I… I can’t even begin to prepare you for the shitstorm that’s on its way.”

“I know, Channie…”

“The company, I-I’ll— I’ll work this out over the week here, they’ll issue a statement, they’ll say I was just helping a staff member out of the van in the picture— We’ll be okay, you’re okay… Sweetheart, I can’t lose you.”

Chan is a rambling mess and you see his face turn a bit pink. His brain is picking through every worst scenario to prepare for it. He doesn’t even want to check his phone to see what people are saying about you. People claiming to be Stays wishing the worst for you. For him.

“You’re not losing me, I’m not going—”

“You can’t promise that. Not when… Not when they might force us apart.”

He’s not talking about distance people behind a screen. He means the company. Chan’s seen it his fair share of times before, and while Chan is more than welcome to date under his contract… This could get messy. What if the boys are dragged into this? If people started blaming his Kids for menial things, what if his relationship with you breaks their careers?

He studied your silent face. That familiar, pensive look. His clever girl, he knows it all too well. It’s the same face when you’re figuring out a board game with him, or deciphering the layers of music on his laptop when he shows you his proud work.

“No one has that power over us.”

Simple words. Chan swears his breathing stops for a moment before he releases it with a desperate whisper of your name.

“Sweetheart, I… I can barely protect myself in this situation…”

“Let me protect us for once… I-I can’t talk to masses or… your company, but let me fight for us. I’m not letting you slip away,” you whisper into his skin as your lips come down onto his cheek, pulling back to see a small determination in Chan’s eyes.

Staff alerts him that they have ten minutes of personal time left before it’s time to go to claim luggage and head to the hotel. Right, the Fashion Week event. He was allowed to invite you with him, even if you couldn’t be seen with him. Or next to him. Or talk to him.

It all felt like an even bigger slight against you. Sweetheart, darling girl, who he wants to declare his love from the rooftops.

Chan’s eyes meet yours, and you give him your signature, beautiful yet halfhearted smile. You’re trying to soothe him; and damn you, it’s working a bit. Even if it’s just a fraction. All he can do is endure. That’s what he does best.

He takes opens his backpack from under his seat, pulling out a medical grade disposable mask. His fingers ghost your skin as he places the loops around your ears securely. Even concealed like this he’d recognize you from a mile away. You say nothing as he tugs your hood back over your head, cupping the back gently with small little scratches.

“Just look forward. Don’t talk to anyone. Security should be around you, you’ll be behind me. If… If anything happens that makes you uncomfortable, say my name. I don’t care, baby, just… It’ll be fast. Customs. Bags. Van. Hotel. We’ll work it out there, yeah?”

A hastily formulated plan that is utterly him. Diagnostic.

A your lips tighten into a thin line before you exhale off nerves and exhaustion.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“I love you.”

Chan’s declaration is sudden and whispered. Like staff doesn’t deserve to hear it right now, his private tender moment. He doesn’t know why he says it other than the feeling that it fit right into the moment. You bring his knuckles up to your lips. A promise. You’ll be okay.

“I love you, Chris… I’ll be close by. Don’t worry about me.”

—

A shit show. Chan is familiar with those.

The first thing he sees through the glass after going through customs was a swarm of paparazzi, press, and fans welcoming him for the weeks ahead. Nothing out of the ordinary, just another airport arrival.

No, the problem was when you were spotted. And fuck, he’d forgotten that hoodie you were wearing was his.

Amidst the snapping of camera shutters and flashes, his heart is racing. He’s glad he too is wearing a mask on the lower half of his face, or you’d see how distraught he really was. Under the fabric of his tank top, his heart feels like it’s going to fly out of his chest.

Focus. Walk in silence. Make sure you’re safe.

The second thing Chan notices is that there’s more people than usual. Or maybe the walls of the airport in Milan are more narrow than he remembers. The provided security of four men suddenly seems like nothing. He does the math as he walks when his bags are handed to him:

You’re about 6 people away, tailing behind between staff and security. Don’t get distracted. I know you like sweets sweetheart, don’t look at the treats in the shops. God, I’ll buy you all the sweets you want when we’re at the hotel. Run you a bath and decompress to forget about this. Twenty minutes to the hotel, a ride should already be waiting.

The sound of people is louder. And the second Chan turns the corner and a guard opens the double doors of frosted glass, his heart sinks.

Cameras are naturally always on Chan. But for today especially, he wants them gone. Lenses, smartphones, all of it. Video equipment with recordings. A woman comes awfully close, to which he politely nods his head and continues walking.

More people swarm and he sees phones before he sees actual people. Security does their best to ward off these people, but he notices that with the amount of foot traffic, their entourage is moving slower. The sounds, the questions, the voices all grow more and more over time.

“Chris—”

His head is turned in a heartbeat. He doesn’t care if he makes a fool of himself, he’s stopped dead in his tracks and looking back for you with a bobbing head. His body is jostled by the movements of the tight fit, the arms of security banding away the swathes of onlookers.

Your head is down. You’re trying to move but you can’t. And someone has the audacity to grab at you by the arm? He’s cutting through his own people, ignoring how cameras are shoved into his face, ignoring how there’s so many bodies surrounding him as well. You’re being tossed around like nothing, a few phones trying to duck under your head, and Chan is with you in a millisecond.

“Don’t touch people, please,” he grits out as he forms a barrier between you and the people on your right side. Great. The crowd is held up, naturally as people wanted to convene to Chan. He has to add the formality of “please” as an afterthought. You’d want him to be polite. It’d be a meltdown if he said what he really wanted to.

What he wants to do is smack the phones out of every hand here and tuck you into his arms, walking out like a normal boyfriend would. He can’t afford that. Instead, his hand is ushered with a splayed palm between your shoulder blades. If Chan presses a bit into you to guide you further, he can feel the tension of your muscles.

The clamor of people asking him if this is staff or the “girl from the picture” irritates him to no end. Security was told by Chan himself to corral around you, not him. And for heavens sake, can someone figure out a way from this tight squeeze of a crowd?

Someone’s arm extends with a camera to catch a picture of Chan, and— SMACK! Right against the side of your head. The movement causes you to hiss in pain and fall into Chan. He watches your eyes squeeze shut and your eyebrows pinch in pain. And he’s seething.

“Absolutely not— We’re not gonna do that,” he mumbles under his breath as he gives a disapproving look to the man who is the culprit. His hand reaches out, rings on his fingers and all and shoves the camera lens away a bit roughly. It’s probably a thousand dollar camera lens, but you’re worth so much more. He can deal with the aftermath of that later.

I wanna smack that punk. Can I smack someone? Would you be okay with that? Probably not…

He’s then nodding a head to security to corral the man off. He keeps a tight arm around you, fingers itching to cradle your head to his chest. But he’s already doing so much, a display of affection would only make things descend further.

Nosy, mindless chatter about why Chan is being so protective of you. As if that should matter. He’d do that for any of the people around him. Instead, all that people care of is if this is his partner, either wanted to sneer or pry a glimpse into her.

Another hand reaches out with a phone and Chan doesn’t even think twice before wrapping an arm around your shoulder to shield you. It’s a bit forceful, and he’ll apologize profusely later, but it pulls you into his side. Chan mumbles a curse under his mask and his eyebrows turn taught together.

The motion of moving bodies in the cluster is much easier to maneuver now that they can pass through an opening directed by staff and security. He doesn’t look at you, but he keeps a steady hand on you. So much for laying low, but he could just stand by and let you get hurt.

The second the two of you get into the van that was sent outside of the airport, staff helping you in and loading luggage, he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t even stop for a photo-op. He doesn’t reply when staff asks if he wants water. White noise, an annoying pinching in the back of his ear.

And when the van is out of view, blacked out windows and all— Only then does he fuss over you, throwing off his mask.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, sliding across the back seat and hold you to him. Clammy hands cupping your face like a precious treasure. Your eyes frazzled and in shock, and it makes him whisper your name thrice into your hairline like a restoring prayer.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry— I was a total caveman back there, I had to grab you before anyone hurt you… You’re hurt aren’t you, from the cunt with the camera? Lemme see—”

Faster than the words can come out of him, Chan’s taking your mask off with gentle precision, but as fast as he can. Your hair is all mused when he draws back your hoodie, like a sleepy creature. But a few seconds ago you were just prey thrown into the den. He’s rifling his hands through your scalp, trying to see if you’ve got signs of bruising or bleeding where heavy equipment once stunned you.

“Tell me if it hurts— Fuck, fuck this shit. ‘M fucking pissed right now, sweetheart. I swear, if even a hair is missing here, I’m having words with everyone. Do you feel lightheaded… Can I get some water up here please?”

You look dazed, even with his soft touch, and Chan can’t tell if you’re going to sleep again or burst into a fit of nervous tears.

“Hey, hey, hey— Don’t do that, please— Talk to me, sweetheart.”

He brings his hands back down to cradle the sides of your face, keeping your eyes on him. That must’ve been intense and scary for you, he can’t even begin to imagine what’s going on in your head. You eventually clasp your hands over his wrists and let your forehead fall onto his shoulder, which makes Chan sigh in relief. At least you’re willing to be touched by him.

He slides his hands slowly up under the hoodie, under your shirt, to touch your bare skin. You’re safe. You’re okay. He doesn’t know if those internal words affirm him or you.

You lean into him, pressing your forehead into his neck. “I’m tired.”

“I know, my sweet girl… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper, lips pressed into his neck and trailing down to his shoulder as you rest your cheek flat. Chan feels your breath over his skin. Evened out and calm, though a bit stilted.

“This is on me.” So quick to blame, he shakes his head and closes his eyes, holding you tighter and smoothing his hands over your spine.

“On you…? Because someone took a picture when you couldn’t control it?”

“I wish I could.”

“But you can’t, Channie…”

And he knows that all too well. His perfectionism consumes him sometimes, it bleeds into your relationship. Never touching you, but seeping into the ways that he can shelter you from the public.

Not like a secret. But something sacred in the profane of his eclectic life.

But he can’t. Simple words from you always feel the strongest, like he’s seeing the world in a whole new light. Like you’re some wise sage.

You’re not this unattainable being who’s out of his grasp. You’re right here. In front of him, with raucous laughter in a crowd that’s as contagious as your smile. Animals come to you in the street, and you immediately bend down to coo and pet. You have a way of looking at the world that proves to Chan that good things are all around.

He can’t do it perfectly, but he’ll try. Try his damn hardest to protect you even more, starting with talking to the company once you’re both home again.

Chan pulls back with pitiful eyes, smoothing his hands carefully over your head as they slide out from your clothes.

“Are you sure you’re not hurt…? You took a hit, hm? Sweet, brave girl…” Chan says as he smacks a kiss firmly onto your hairline. You hum and nod your head, just reminding yourself that no one’s taking him from you. Not a messy breakup through a company mandated NDA. Not a public statement. Not through apologizing to upset fans for being in love.

You look up at him and see every reason why you fell in love with him in the first place. His tact and grit. The concern and worry in his eyes. His soothing touch. How he loves with his whole chest.

“I-I had a welcome dinner for the event, but… Honestly, fuck that right now… I’ll send someone to represent me. You need me more— I need you.”

The van drives over bumps and cracks in the road, and it sways you against Chan. A small noise breaks in his throat and he wraps his arms around you, chin atop your head as the ride continues to the hotel.

—

Staying in the hotel room with you meant a complete detachment from any obligation that wasn’t… well, just you.

Fendi brand representatives were more than understanding of the situation, offering a box of sweets to send up to the room as temporary remedial support. You’d thought it was silly, a third party apologizing for something that wasn’t due to them.

You still accepted the box of pastries and cake, though.

Chan ran you a nice bath, as he’d promised to himself for you, sitting on the closed toilet lid and tracing his fingers over your back. He didn’t want to take his hands off you, not without thinking of the hands that were on you prior. Chan’s index runs down the back of your arm, where someone had attempted to pull you in that crowd.

You’ve got your knees tucked up to you, a plethora of lavender scented suds in the porcelain basin. Chan’s hands rake through your scalp to check for damage one last time before helping you dry off in a fluffy robe.

When it was Chan’s turn in the shower to clear his head, all he could think of was what to do with his anger. Letting the hot spray of water hit over him while you were probably lazing on the bed no doubt. You wouldn’t want him to hold onto his anger, but he couldn’t help it. When he was stripping to take his shower he was looking through all the buzz around you and him.

Photos from the airport. Saying Chan had a “meltdown”. Deep dives into who you might be, analyzing every minuscule detail to signs that you were always lingering under their noses. A clip of you getting hit in the head with the camera makes him want to gnaw on drywall until his teeth turn to sawdust.

He saunters out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, phone in hand and wet strands of blonde hair clinging to his forehead. Just as he presumed, you’re flipping through the room service menu, splayed out like a cloud.

You smile and turn a bit sheepish when you see his appearance. That lack of clothing that never fails to disarm you. He pushes his wet hair away from his forehead, and it sticks up in wild directions. Biting your lip, you singsong a “Hey, handsome.”

The tips of his ears turn red, but he just stares at you. Eyes darkened and expression sullen. Tired. Maybe it was the hot water, but you know he’s still thinking of earlier. How could he not?

“No updates from me. They don’t get a lick of a word from me for a while.”

Bubble. It sounds silly, but you know that’s the best punishment Chan can offer. It sends a message… or in this case, a lack thereof. You snort and sit upright, musing, “You’re doing the whole “punish-the-entire-class-for-three-people’s-wrongdoings” shtick, huh?”

The corners of his lips quirk upright, a dimple craters his face. “I mean it. This was an overstep. You know how much I hate that shit, baby…”

Chan huffs as he throws himself onto the bed, purring like a cat as he feels your nails rake up and down his skin. He closes his eyes, sighing the tension out of his body. His cheek is pressed against his folded forearms as he speaks.

“Sent some messages. People need to learn… Told them off a bit, took my picture down—”

“Your profile picture?” you interrupt, a small laugh escaping you as he frowns.

“It’s the best I can do without completely losing it on everyone.”

“Okay… okay, what’d you say in your messages?”

Chan opens his eyes and looks up at you, grunting as he sits up on his elbows to give you his phone. He was already in the Bubble app when he’d come out of the bathroom:

🫧 260223

🐺: It does not matter if I am with staff, a friend, the kids, a lover, etc. You do not behave like this. These people know who they are. You should know better, and it pains me to have to write this.

🐺: On a personal level, leave the people around me alone ffs. You’re here for the kids and I, not to push around the people in our lives. Do not write editorials on the people I hold dear to my heart. Don’t say bad things about my loved ones lol. I know them and you don’t.

🐺: My choices. My decisions. Accept them or don’t bother being a fan.

🐺: Diabolical.

🐺: Don’t stick your camera right in my face

🐺: Respect boundaries please

You look up from the phone and Chan isn’t looking at you anymore. Like he’s mulling over the thought of saying more on the messages. He pinches the lobe of his ear and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“As for you… I’ve already emailed the company. We’ll announce it properly that you’re my—”

“Christopher, are you serious—?”

“—That you’re the love of my life… You’re mine, and you’ve been mine, and this whole day has been insane, but I don’t want… I don’t want peace if it isn’t with you.”

Stunned to silence. This is a major step in his career, in his life. But it was bound to happen, even if it wasn’t on your own terms. He watches your mouth flounder for words and sits up on his elbows again, taking your hand in his.

“Sweetheart… You’re not some dirty secret, you never were… You’re not illicit, you’re mine. I’m tired of hiding the things I’m proud of. You’ve every piece of me, yeah? The ones that no one sees. They’ve just been for each other,” Chan leans against the headboard and brings your hand over his chest, your touch feeling how erratic his heart is beating. He’s just as nervous as you are, even when he’s taking the lead.

Your eyes soften, throat feeling a bit tight with emotion. “What if… What if it goes bad…?”

“Then it goes bad.”

You laugh, a bit of a wet sound now that glossy tears are starting to pool in your eyes. He smiles so delicately, closing his eyes as he gives you slow popcorn kisses on your cheek to make you feel better.

“I learned that from a girl once. She’s amazing. She taught me that sometimes things are out of my control.”

“She sounds badass.”

Chan grins, a hand cupping the back of your neck as he watches you wipe salty tears from your eyes in closed fists. “She is. And I’m gonna tell the whole world about her. But… there’s a few things I’m keeping private.”

His nose brushes yours as he chases your eyes for contact. You feel your face heats with his intensity. How does he still manage to look at you like you’re the only woman on planet Earth?

“What would that be, Christopher…?”

“Oh, it’s Christopher again now, is it?”

He playfully kisses under your jaw and brings you down to play with him on the bed, keeping his arms tethered around you as you writhe from the tickling of his wet hair on your face.

“Keeping these moments private. When I have you to myself… Just like this," he mumbles against your skin, breathing in the smell of your skin and expelling warm breath against it. You always smell like something fresh to him. Something cozy and intimate that he can't put into words. "They'll know you as my girlfriend. It'll be official. And Stay can get off my ass about me being lonely... Let's order some food, yeah? Think I finally built up an appetite."

The remainder of the night is spent with the hotel curtains drawn at the balcony. Ordering whatever sounds most appetizing on the room service menu, and cozying up next to each other while trying to figure out how the TV channels work.

All he's ever wanted is for your ultimate happiness. Sometimes factors of life get in the way of that, but you're a constant. His Kids are a constant.

Chan watches you happily munch on a burger on the bed, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. Pets your head a little before puckering his plush lips to kiss you on yours mid chew, much to your chagrin as you groan and pull away. He takes a bite of a pizza slice.

"Channie, 'm eating..."

"Okay? Swallow and kiss me."

"That's what she said."

"Minx..."

You finish your bite and turn your head properly, looking up at him with expectant wide eyes. It makes Chan want to squish your face until your eyes pop out. Cuteness aggression.

Instead he leans in a bit, closes his eyes, and brings a hand under your chin to direct your lips onto his. In his mind, he thinks there's nothing more perfect than this, and that's coming from the master perfectionist. He trusts that you enjoy this longing kiss as much as he does when your lips move against his.

A small sound escapes him, like pure want. He pulls back before it goes any further and he swipes all this food away so he can satiate his other hunger.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes out, shaking his head as if he can’t believe you’re his. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger and you don’t even realize it. You just cozy back into his side and continue to eat, watching stupid infomercials and snuggling against him.

Chan’s arm comes over your shoulder and stays. Pulling you closer, like he can fuse into you.

This is the best he can do. Chan’s nervous for the future, as he often is. But with you feeling like this against him, it’s an exciting kind of nervous. What was that word you’d said— liberating. You’re always right, aren’t you?

New terrain is exciting. Even if it terrifies him. Because you’re not going anywhere, even if he’s haunted by the prospect of seeing people come and go from his life. He knows you’re the one that locked him down.

No obligations for the week ahead. He’ll go through his ambassador work. Take some interviews and pictures, an editorial video. And at night, in the late hour of Milan, that’s when he’ll come alive. He’s going to take you to that small restaurant you wanted to go to so bad. To see architecture and cobbled streets in golden lamppost light.

Chan burrows his nose into your damp hair, whispers a sweet nothing, and closes his eyes. You’re the peace he strived for. Even when it comes with a storm, he’ll chase it away.

Smut Warnings: Handjob-ish. Dirty talk. Breeding kink. Multiple positions. Manhandling. Squirting. Unprotected sex. Multiple orgasms. Biting. Cream pie. Overstimulation (f & m).

“Chris?"

Silence.

The door closes softly behind you as you step into your apartment. Slipping from your shoes and setting your luggage to the side before poking your head into the front room, your socked feet padding softly on the floor as you check the couch for your sleeping husband.

"Christopher?"

More silence meets you as you step deeper into the apartment. The door of your bedroom slowly opens and there is your sleepy, bed head and all, husband. Your heart plummets to your stomach like you dropped from the high point of the roller coaster. Butterflies take flight as you take him in.

Chris still sleeps in just his boxers but it's the sleepy smile on his face that makes you flush. "Welcome home."

You cross the space in moments and you're arms are around his neck, pressing tightly against him. He hums and slips his hands down your hips and to your thighs, lifting you easily. No other words are shared as he turns and carries you into your bedroom. You lean back to cup his face and you smile warmly when your eyes meet.

"I know this look."

He flushes and places a soft kiss to your jaw, "I keep thinking about our call."

Your lips meet his, loving how soft and pillowy they are against your own. When he holds you like this, you get to control the kiss and it always leaves him whimpering softly. So when you thread your fingers into the hair on the back on his head and tug softly, his steps falter some. Your back meets the doorway of the bedroom and Chris pulls you tighter against him, rolling his hips into you with soft curses leaving him.

His forehead goes to fall into your neck but your stop with with the grip on his hair and sweep him up into another kiss. This time, you cradle his head softly like he would for you before letting your tongues roll and taste one another.

You giggle softly as he lays you down and crawls onto the bed with you, pulling you to him. Chris is hard against your thigh but you ignore it, running your fingers through his hair instead. "My poor baby, wants to be a daddy so badly." You tease and he groans slipping his fingers up your sweater.

He nods and rocks his hips against you, "please, let me?"

"Of course, Chris, we can try. I wasn't joking."

Within seconds of meeting his eyes, your flush deepens and you try to look away but his fingers curl around your jaw, making sure your eyes stay with his. The smile he has turns wicked when he notices your pupils are dilated. "You'll let me breed that beautiful pussy? Let me put my baby so deep in you?"

"Yes." Your voice is desperate and airy, which Chris is already entertained by. It usually doesn't take that tone until later in the evening.

Without warning, your naked from the waist down. You watch him take you in bu before you can say anything, his lips are on yours. The soft sound of surrender you make and the way your hands grip him, Chris groans. One of his hands slips from your thigh, up to where you have coated your heated skin. A low growl leaves him, as he traces his fingers through your arousal. When he meets your soaked core, he quickly finds your clit and strokes his thumb over the pulsing bundle slowly.

The sound you make into the kiss almost makes Chris black out from blood loss, it all very suddenly pooled in his cock. He knew you weren't kidding with how you were begging for him but he had no idea. You're perfectly swollen and soaked for him. The stretch would be the worst part but he would be able to slip right in.

One finger caresses your slit and Chris groans, “fuck baby, all this for me?” You feel another finger slipping between your lower lips, spreading for him to watch you clench around nothing.

Your whine is one of frustration and pleasure as his fingers quickly coat themselves in your slick before he moves them back up to circle your clit. “Christopher, you dick me down at least once a day, I’m fine if you just fuck me.”

“Oh but baby girl,” he splits his fingers, letting them caress the sides of your clit as his thumb rubs slowly. “It's been a couple weeks and as badly as you need this, I need you to let me take you apart. Will you let me?"

The feeling of his fingers caressing your very sensitive lower set of lips but not giving in to what you've begged for makes you whine but you nod. "Yes."

Anything for him.

His lips are back on yours for just a moment before he is pulling back and removing the remainder of your clothing. You take this time to look him over; beautiful pale skin, his muscles somehow bigger than you saw them last. Your fingers trail over the flushed skin on his lower chest and upper abdominal, loving way everything flutters under your touch. Slowly, you drag your nails over his abs, watching the red lines form, you smirk to yourself before your eyes continue lower. The thick outline of him straining against the material. Even with the dark material you can see the wetness just under the band from where his cock sits and leaks precum. You wet your lips before pulling the bottom one between your teeth.

His hand comes to your line of sight as he palms himself through the black material. His head drops back and a groan leaves his lips. "Fuck, why do you have to look at me like that?"

"Like what?" You look up at him, your eyes widen and inquisitive.

"Like my cock is the next thing you need in your mouth."

"Maybe because it is and because I know my husband loves when I let him fuck my face." You smirk at the way a shiver wracks through his body. "But you want to draw out things you so here, baby." You smirk and hold your hand out, waiting for him to take it.

When he doesn't look right away, you flex your fingers, letting your nails graze his wrist and he quickly takes your hand in his and rests one knee on the bed to get closer. Both of you gasp when your hand meets the hot, pulsing shaft of Chris's cock. Even through his boxers, you know he's already so close.

A broken groan leaves Chris as he braces your wrist softly with his hand before he grinds into your palm. "Fuck, I could come like this, baby girl." He is on both knees now, hovering over you, lost in the feeling of your hand on him for the first time in weeks.

"Why come in your boxers when you could bury your cock so deep in me? You could breed me, Christopher." Your voice has that sultry tone you save for moments like this and Chris almost loses it. The rasp you don't bother to hide shows that you're just as affected as he is.

His cock twitches in your hand and you move your eyes up to his, loving that you're seeing him like this; eyes closed, his lip between his teeth, and a flush crawling down his neck and over his chest.

Sitting up, his hold on your hand tightening slightly as he rocks into your hand. Your free hand curls into the hair on the back of his head, shorter now but still a length you can grab, tilting his head so you can kiss over his jaw.

"You wanted to use me, baby boy," your teeth find that one special spot just under his jaw and he whines, broken and needy. "Use me."

The next few moments happen so quickly you almost feel dizzy. You're suddenly on your feet but bent over beside the bed. Chris is behind you and has his boxers pushed low enough to free his cock. He's holding himself against your soaked and swollen core, letting your slick coat him. Every time the head of his cock nudges your clit, your hips twitch back against Chris.

Once.

Twice.

With the third pass, you feel the way his shaft glides with ease between your lower lips so you reach down to guide and on his next push, his tip catches at your entrance and he slowly starts to sink into you. The stretch of the wide head knocking the air from your lungs, lighting your body on the most delicious of fires.

"Fuck, Chris." Hearing yourself, you bite your bottom lip, almost ashamed at how relieved your breathy toned sounded as he finally breached you.

Behind you, Chris pants heavily through his teeth, a low rumble sounding from his chest. "Fucking shit." His movement stopped with just his tip inside of you, already too close to his own orgasm. "I can't baby."

"It's okay, get down here and fuck me through it. We both know that's what we both need." You wiggle your ass back, both of you moaning at the stimulation.

Getting your lower halves into position, your back arched and your thighs held open by his, Chris leans down, whispers a soft "I'm so sorry" into your shoulder before he snaps his hips forward, shoving the rest of his cock into you.

You scream at the intrusion and the sudden stretch but it is masked that delicious warmth as your walls are finally getting the stimulation they craved. You try to press back as his fingers slip around to slowly circle your clit in loose strokes, just enough to get you to relax.

Chris groans as he feels your walls flutter and squeeze him as they adjust and accommodate his shaft. It's not often that you take him no prep, and even less so after not seeing each other so he knew the stretch burned some. His heart clenched at your scream, even if it was not entirely of pain but that is quickly replaced by his orgasm pooling at the base of his spine.

"I had every intention of teasing the shit out of you but you just look and sound so goddamn sexy in that you have me seconds away from cumming, baby girl." His nose nuzzles into the side of your head. "I'll make it up to you, I swear."

You're panting now, the feeling of fullness paired with the way his fingers play with your clit making you desperate for your own release. "Fuck me, hard, Christopher. Please baby," your break off in a low moan as his hips grind slowly into your, hitting that spot deep inside of you. You're already drenching his fingers and the bed below you.

"Please what, baby girl?" Chris groans as he feels your own orgasm getting closer and closer. "Tell me." His words come through breathless as you clench tightly around him.

"Cum inside me. I need it and then I want to ride you, please, baby."

It's Chris' turn to be feral. He can't take the chance of pulling back so he settles for deep grinds of his shaft into you, pressing into your cervix as he circles your clit in the perfect way. "I'll fill you up so good, baby girl. Give you exactly what you want."

Your already feeling that glass about to tip from the way the tip kisses your gspot and then your cervix with each grind. "Baby, I'm -," you try to warn him but your head drops forward into the bedding as his tongue licks over the faint bruise of his teeth marks.

"Make a mess baby girl, I know it's been a long two weeks." He kisses softly over the ruined skin and allows himself a few shallow thrusts, loving how you mewl into the bedding. "But I want to hear you."

Keeping his elbow in place, he shifts his arm so it slips under your neck. The faintest pressure lifts your head and plays with your air supply. You feel the glass start tipping as your walls clamp down around his shaft. "Chris, fuck," it comes out as a sob when it finally hits.

His teeth latch onto your neck once more and bites down as you moan loudly, disgustingly so, when your climax hits. The waves of white hot heat shooting through your veins as you scream into the room, dripping down Chris's hand and down the side of the bed. Your legs shaking as you try to move with him through your climax and his.

Your orgasm triggered his own. With his teeth still in your neck, his hand shifts to your chest and holds you tightly to him. There are no words as he groans and grinds his way through his climax. It's only when he starts to come down that Chris removes his teeth and whimpers your name.

It takes a few minutes for the both of you to return to your senses. Chris slowly withdrawals and helps you to stretch out over the bed before climbing in to lay beside you. Just as his back hits the blankets, you're on him, climbing astride his waist with your hands on his chest.

With a smirk down at him, you lean down and capture his lips in a slow, sensual kiss. His hands slide up your thighs and over your hips where he grabs hand fulls of you and pulls you even closer. His groan against your lips as he feels your hands slide up, pressing the heel your palms into his muscles.

You feel how his grip on your hips making your core clench around nothing. The way he handles you so gently on a day to day basis paired with the rare times he lets go of some of that control and just grips you, always makes you crave more.

Crave how he loses more of his control.

Shifting your hips back, you moan as your slicked core easily slips over the heavy weight of his still hard cock. The grip on your hips tightens as your lips move to his jaw, nipping softly.

"You drive me crazy," his voice is a hoarse whisper as his grip on you shifts from your hips to your ass, flexing his fingers wide to grab as much of you as he can. "Fucking hell, baby girl."

A smirk comes to your kiss swollen lips as you continue the teasing grind. You slide your palms over the tired muscles of his shoulders making him groan and arch into you. "Feels so good, Chris."

"Yeah, fuck, you do," his lips find your temple as his hips lift to aid into the glide of your slit over his shaft. "Still soaking my cock."

"We have to make sure nothing leaves, baby," is your only warning before your hips tilt and the sensitive tip catches at your entrance and you sink back into him. A low whine leaves him as a contented sigh leaves you. "Fuck yes, baby."

Chris grumbles low in his chest as he uses his grip on your ass to hold you in place before he plants his feet. You smirk and adjust to spread more over him before he quickly slams his hips up to yours, forcing the stretch on you a second time. "Fucking take it then, naughty fucking thing." His grip on you tightens as he rolls and caresses you. "Fuck yourself on my cock, my beautiful wife."

The low gravel of his voice leaves no room for discussion so you lean forward into your knees and slowly start to build a pace that leaves him groaning and gasping. Your swollen and sensitive walls are squeezing and sliding over his overstimulated cock, it's all Chris can do to hold onto you.

The sounds he makes only causes you to grind deeper, rotate your hips slower just to hear more of the breathlessness. Knowing you got him to this level always inflates your ego a bit, so you smirk and slide your hands over his chest as you grind on him in the steady way you know he likes.

"Feels so fucking good to have you inside of me again, Christopher," you watch your words wash over him and your walls flutter around him with the way he whimpers and rolls up against you. "Two weeks away from my brand new husband, not getting to sit on his cock and tell him how good he makes me feel was torture."

One of your hands slip down his abdomen, draining your nails over his skin softly to make him gasp and arch up against you. You only get a couple more rotations of your hips before his hand reaches up and presses where your womb rests, his eyes open and he watches as his thumb caresses the skin there softly.

"Make yourself a mommy, baby girl. Put my baby so deep there is no choice but to stick."

You gasp as the next roll grinds him right into yours gspot, "Christopher,"

"Do it baby, I know you can."

"Is that what you want? You don't think that was-,"

His answer is quick, cutting you off and it is a fucked out whimper, "not enough." His hands knead your ass while you rock and rotate your hips on him, his head thrown back as he lays there and lets you use him.

"Look at me, Christopher."

Chris's eyes open and he groans when his eyes meet yours. The seriousness mixed in with the stars of pleasure and love in your irises. He knows you mean it as much as he does. "Ride me. Hard, baby girl."

A smile comes to your lips and Chris knows he's doomed. It's rare he gives up this amount of control but when he does, you never disappoint. The hand not on his abs moves to cup his jaw, the thumb resting on the pulse point of his neck. The thundering of his heart matches yours but you lean down to deliver a kiss that leaves his cock twitching from deep inside of you and his thighs flexing as he fights not to take what he so desperately wants.

A low whimper makes you clench and roll your hips in the perfect way making you both cry out. Soon you've built a pace that is as demanding as it is pure pleasure. Chris aids you but doesn't move you, while you bounce on his cock. Each time you press down he reaches what feels like to very depths and your own thighs tremble with the kind of pleasure that having Chris truly deep within you.

Your inner most walls always flutter and massage the tip of his cock for the brief moments you force yourself to sit and hold him in you. Feeling him brush that deep almost causes you to cramp but you love knowing how close he is to where you want him.

His cock, his groin, his thighs, the bedding are all soaked. Each time you lower further and hold him deep inside he feels your body drag you both closer to your orgasms. It's on what he knows will be one of the final drags of his cock against your walls that your head falls forward onto his chest.

Your climax snuck up on your both and as his thumb slowly grinds into your clit, you scream against his chest feeling it finally shove it's way through your body. Your release is hot over his fingers and as you clamp down around him, Chris has his arms around you and you're on your back.

He whimpers and groans your name into your skin as he nips and sucks along your neck and shoulder. His hands digging into your hips almost painfully but you're both too lost in each other to care. He pounds into you after shoving your legs up and into the press he knows gets him where he wants. The headboard, if you had one, would lay a steady beat against the wall.

Your nails drag over his scalp and down his back before digging into him. Your hands rest just above that perfect ass and when you whisper for him to cum inside of you, Chris's release tears through him like an electrical currant. He shouts and groans your name as he fills you, pressed directly against your cervix.

After, he's boneless against you, shifted down enough to rest his head on your chest, listening to the beat slowly return to normal. His hands slide up and down your legs to help after he released them from the hold they were in. You hum softly in content, post coital warmth, dragging your fingers through his sweat soaked hair.

"I love you,"

You feel him smile into the heated skin of your chest, "I love you too, my beautiful, sweet wife."

The softness only lasts a few more moments before he's shifting and pulling you up against him once again. "Third times the charm."

You laugh but it softens as he cups your face and nuzzles his nose to yours. He places a soft kiss to your swollen lips, waiting for your consent.

"Breed me, husband. As many times and as much as you want. I'm ready."

His low groan and the twitching of his cock against your hip lets you know you have him the right answer.

ᯓ★ SERIES

・you caught my heart :: ★ (bangchan) ・ where faces go :: ★ (hwang hyunjin) ・ i can hear you :: ★ (han jisung) ・ prim and proper... or not? :: ☆ (han jisung) ・ hometown, baby (smau) :: ★ (bangchan) ・ major arcana :: ☆ (ot8)

ᯓ★ BANGCHAN

・ melting point :: ☆ ・ wrecked and ruined :: ☆ ・ it's finally time :: ★ ・ you're twisted :: ☆ ・ love is timeless :: ★ ・ fake it till you make it :: ☆ ・ melting point 2.0 ft. hwang hyunjin :: ☆ ・ poisons & venom :: ☆ ・ relunctant sub bangchan :: ☆ ・ i hear you :: ★ ・ did you just flinched? :: ★ ・ crawling back to you :: ☆ the devil wears fendi :: ☆ ・ inspection :: ☆ ・ backseat driving :: ☆ ・ coaxing :: ☆ ・ inspection pt. 2 :: ☆ ・arch that back (smau) :: ☆ ・ make it up :: ☆ ・ chan's mommy gf :: ☆ ・ veneers :: ☆

ᯓ★ LEE MINHO

・ blazing heat :: ☆ ・ jealous :: ☆ ・ sharing is caring or whatever ft. bangchan :: ☆

ᯓ★ SEO CHANGBIN

...to be filled.

ᯓ★ HWANG HYUNJIN

・ valentine's event :: ☆ ・ pretty boy :: ★ ・ pillowtalk : ☆

ᯓ★ HAN JISUNG

・ light it up :: ☆ ・ valentine's event :: ☆ ・ he's doomed :: ☆ ・ aphrodisiac :: ★ ・ who's in charge? :: ★ ・ who are you? :: ★ ・ you what? :: ★ ・ the green-eyed monster :: ☆ ・ loser han jisung :: ★ ・ skin deep :: ☆ ・ muncher all the way :: ☆ ・ surprise :: ☆ ・ arch that back :: ☆ ・ he's lucky, you love him :: ★ ・ rival :: ☆

ᯓ★ LEE FELIX YONGBOK

・ sly gamer :: ☆

ᯓ★ KIM SEUNGMIN

・ attention :: ☆

ᯓ★ YANG JEONGIN

・ arch that back (smau) :: ☆

ᯓ★ OT8

・ matching your freak :: ☆ ・ she's not very much single :: ☆

ᯓ★ OTHER GROUPS

・ girl!dad jung wooyoung (atz) :: ★ ・ mean dom!park seonghwa (atz) :: ☆ what that tongue can do? (atz seonghwa) :: ☆

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang who posts a job opening on linkedin for secretary but it’s a high end law firm so you never applied to it, until a few months later you see it’s still open and just give it a shot, he calls you for a face-to-face interview to which you put on your best tailored suit, perfume, makeup and heels, upon getting into his office you notice all the fancy decoration but specially the glass windows that give the perfect view to the city from above

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang starts asking about your previous experiences and expectations on your career, and you try to answer without stuttering in front of that beautiful man, when he suddenly shifts the questions to if you have a partner and your previous relationships, but before your face could fully heat up upon his cautious gaze he finishes the interview, after thanking him for the opportunity you question him why the position hasn’t been filled yet, he shrugs with a playful smirk saying “they couldn’t keep up with the office’s pace”

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang sends your acceptance message right on the following day, telling you to start as soon as possible, the butterflies on your stomach all ruffling up as you finally get released from the limbo of post graduation unemployment, you pick your best clothes for your first day, already mentally preparing for the new, fast paced environment—setting up meetings with executives, arranging lunches and dinners with clients, picking up suits from the laundry—it was all a bit tiring on the beginning but not as much as you thought it would be, though the amount of documents you had to type is far more than expected

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang who after the second week starts getting way more picky with your mistakes and delays when sending an important report, always hovering quietly behind your chair, watching attentively your trembling and hesitating fingers stumbling over the keycaps through every mistake, arms crossed in front of his wide chest covered by his too tight white button up, until he lets out an irritated huff and leaves to his office

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang reveals himself as the most annoying boss you could ever think of, sending back your reports and meeting minutes one after the other, each mistake circled in bright red and at least fifteen notes written on the margins, you stand in front of his large desk shaking in place as he goes on for the thousandth time about how you need to pay more attention to details, but the only thing on your mind is how you would be able to do it properly if he didn’t distract you so much, thighs clenching tighter each time his voice dropped lower

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang who one day stops by the waiting office, where your desk stays right before the entrance of his own, and closes the door behind him, clicking something on his phone that makes the security camera light slowly turn off, he walks closer and stops by behind your chair, dropping another pile of annotated reports on the table top and signalling for you to stand up, you feel a shaky breath leaving your lungs as he bends down slightly over your back, pressing each of his palms over yours while going through each of your mistakes and how you could improve

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang who feels your trembling body way too close to his to be called anything professional, and can’t help the involuntary throb under his pants, awkwardly clearing his throat before pulling away when you brush your little finger over his and just for a second he hesitates, you two stay like that for a hot minute when he finally whisper over your ear “take off your panties, dear”, you blink away still processing his demand, quickly reminding him of a meeting he has in a few minutes, he just nods and turns his palm up over the table, with a bite on your lip you slide the piece down your legs and place it on his hand, he carefully closes it and keeps it secure on his pocket, lingering his hand on your waist for a bit

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang now asks for your panties every day as soon as you arrive to the office, noticing your mistakes have declined after this dynamic, but also that the pieces you handed him got sexier over time—first pink with lacy hems, then fully red lace, turning to black thin thongs—which he tried his best not to show any reaction until he closed himself into his office, attempting to get started with his daily tasks but not resisting the urge to unclasp his leather belt and release his rigid shaft free, pulsing harder against his tightening grip, a bit of pre-cum already spilling clear over his tip, easing each stroke he gave to his stiffing member, trying to muffle his groans by pressing the thin lace close to his mouth and taking in all of your scent, until he felt a wave of release washing over his entire body as he milked himself to the last drop

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang who starts to take over every aspect of your life, choosing the clothes you used at work, the lunch are were getting with him, the movie you’ll watch when you get home, and with each decision he took you could feel yourself concentrating more in each report you handed him, now barely without any mistakes, just a few so he could keep bending you over the table and hitting your ass through the tight pencil skirt, pinching your nipples through your new silky blouse, biting and sucking your collarbones until it went red, purple, blue, when one day he started acting more distant, and in a desperate measure you decide to deliver the wrong document to an A-list client, later that day he quietly signals you to his office, furious expression, and locks the door behind him

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang places his large palm on your back and guides you to face the wide glass window, slowly bending you over his oak desk as he stands behind you, he goes on about how he thought you finally started making progress while gently caressing your ass over your skirt before carefully lifting it up to your waist, he pulls down your black tights and lacy underwear, already feeling his member swelling against his trousers, tracing a gentle line over your soaked folds as he licks his lower lip, you make a small moan and he quickly strikes your soft skin with his hand, making you tremble over the stinging sensation, this time he hits harder and tells you to read all of the mistakes on your last report, and with each tremble of your voice he struck harder against your ass, the growing numbness spreads over to your legs and you know it’ll leave a nasty mark on the next day

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang eases his hand over the raw and sensitive skin of your ass, soothing it with gentle caresses, though the slight tremble of his palm makes you turn your head back to face him, which he quickly grasps the nape of your neck and tilts it forward, trying to breathe away his ache when you let out a small moan and he notices you thighs pressing against each other, his length grows larger behind his pants but he still waits for even the slightest refuse on your part, hesitantly taking it off and aligning it with your flickering pussy

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang when he finally sinks into your damp warmth, and you leave the briefest gasp as he stretches your aching core, gripping tight every inch of him with difficulty and longing, sucking him back each time he pushes deeper, the sound of skin against skin growing louder and sloppier as he increases his pace, feeling you clench around him while his length grew inside you and lowering his broad chest closer to your arched back, whispering on your ear “is your pussy hurting, babygirl, I won’t be able to know if you don’t use your words”, but you just whimper a faint “no” and he thrusts harder against your ass, making you arch even deeper and bite back your disobedient moans

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang stays in the office hours after he sends you back home earlier that night, still trying to get a grip of the situation that once felt unimaginable, when he finally arrives at his penthouse the first thing he does is slide off his shirt and suit which still smelled of you, he preps another solo dinner when a small ping on his phone calls his attention already dreading whatever problem he had to solve, only to be surprised by a dimly lit video of your red nails playing with your soaked pussy, your moans dripping lustfully on the background, followed by the text “I’ve been a naughty girl, mr. bang”, with a scoff he seats on his sofa, zipping down his tight trousers and positioning his phone on his chest, shifting the camera to his boxers tearing by the seams and releasing his throbbing member almost bursting over his tip, he grips the base of his shaft and strokes it slowly bottom top, making it flush a bright red with each stroke of his palm as he muffled his low grunts while typing “you’re playing with fire, babygirl, daddy doesn’t like naughty girls”

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ lawyer! mr. bang who sits with a lighter expression behind his desk on the next day as his business partner shows up on his door to remind him about a meeting in half an hour, also asking where his new secretary was and if he had grown bored of her like all the others, he gives a small chuckle and says she’s printing some documents on the lower floor, his colleague closes the door with a knowing smile, after a few seconds he leans back on his leather chair with a deep exhale, flashing his eyes down under oak desk with a smirk where you’re sitting on your knees, a single white drop sliding down on the corner of your mouth, fingers resting loosely on the base of his bursting shaft that gave a slight throb upon this heavenly vision, your hands travel up to his carved abdomen and he lets out a breathy laugh “you’re behaving quite badly, babygirl, I think it’s better for you to call off your night out with your friends cause you’re working overtime today”