nah they usually tell me i look like shalyssa

The next morning arrives slowly. You’ve woken up alone again, a small feeling of relief sparking inside of you. He was gone. But he had neglected to tie your hands before he left, so you wonder if he was really at work, or somewhere in the apartment. It was still dark in the room, but you could see glimpses of sunlight peeking through on either side of the curtains. You wander out of his room with a horrible headache, disheveled and moving slowly. You drag your hand along the wall of the hallway as you pass through it, to stabilize yourself if anything. There’s nobody in the kitchen or the living room. 

You can’t help it. Your gaze locks back onto the guestroom door. 

Something tells you he’s still in there. A gut feeling, a sixth sense, whatever you want to call it, but you know he’s here. You wonder if Yeosang is still here too, ready to block you from coming in to see him. The thought is enough to make you rethink trying again. Once was enough. Twice was not going to be easily forgiven. You have to be good. 

You square your shoulders and instead redirect yourself to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. You hadn’t eaten all day yesterday, and your stomach was beginning to rebel against you, growling and hurting. It’s a mundane enough task that your mind just floats, drifting from one thought to another. You drift along, gathering what you needed and wanted – bread, butter, fruit. While you wait for your toast to pop back up, you hop onto the kitchen counter, your heels knocking against the cupboards. The silence in the house feels stale, like anything could break it at any second now. The anticipation of something and not knowing what it could be makes your mouth dry, and the hair on the back of your neck stands up. It feels like you’re being watched from behind.

To combat the silence, your heels knock on the cupboards rhythmically, and you concentrate on counting how many times you do that while you wait – just to keep your mind from going where it shouldn’t. The guestroom… the woods. 

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…

Knock-knock.

You straighten up, looking around for the source of the noise. But there’s nothing. Nobody. You hit the cupboard again, only once, testing to see if it was a one and done interruption, or if there was intent behind it. 

Knock. 

So, intentional then. You hop off the counter now, definitely hearing it coming from behind you. On your third step towards it, your toast springs up, scaring you half to death. Pinching the crust of it with your nails, you quickly throw both slices onto an awaiting plate so they can cool. They land haphazardly on the plate, but you don’t care. A feeling you can’t quite describe begins to rise in your chest. You find yourself in the living room, standing there waiting for another noise. After a while, you lean down to rap your knuckles against the coffee table. 

A couple seconds later you get a reply, knock-knock-knock. 

Your head snaps to the right, facing the wall. Without thinking, you kneel onto the couch and knock three times against the wall. The reply is immediate this time. The same three repeated back to you. Your heart wrenches. 

“Mingi?” You say, voice just above a whisper. 

Knock. 

You take that as a yes. 

You turn around and sit, feeling like you’ve just been punched in the chest. Now you’re playing with fire. Who knew if Yunho was watching you on the camera at this very moment? You need to stop. Leave him alone until Yunho tells you that you can talk to him. 

Although… he never said you couldn’t. 

Were you really daring to go behind his back again? Where did all of this misbehavior come from? 

A flash of memory hits you like a brick. It appears so suddenly in your mind’s eye and disappears almost just as fast. Years and lifetimes ago, you had walked out of the house past curfew, shoes in hand to silence your escape, the air cool against your skin as the front door quietly clicked shut. Every step farther and farther from your house had felt like flying, like you’d stolen freedom right out from under someone’s nose. You remember giggling with your friends when you got to their awaiting car in your driveway, ready to see where the night would take you. Uncaring about the consequences if you were caught later. Your heart had pounded, each beat reverberating throughout your body. The thrill was addicting, you felt alive. An almost rite of passage of the teenage experience finally completed. And when you got home before dawn, with your parents none the wiser, it only fueled your desire to do it again if you could get away with it so easily. 

You stand from the couch, hands shaking. That’s not you anymore. You’re good. You follow the rules, you don’t break them. That was just juvenile rebellion, reckless antics that you shouldn’t have done. Childish and dangerous. 

You walk to the kitchen, falling back into your routine like nothing happened. You spread the butter onto the toast, chop up your fruit of choice and arrange it on the plate, and sit yourself down at the table. You eat in silence, chewing slowly. You glance at the clock every few minutes for no real reason – you weren’t waiting for anything – simply just to reassure yourself that time was really passing in the stillness of the apartment. It’s almost half past nine. 

The sudden emptiness and quiet was jarring after everything that had happened recently. You look down at your plate, barely halfway through, and sigh. Your stomach was so angry at you for not feeding it anything for so long, it was cramping from having food in it again. Still, you kept eating. Yunho would want you to finish it. 

So, you do. 

You rest your head on your arm, on the table next to your plate, bringing the toast and fruit to your mouth. It was a rather childish way of eating, but your body was so exhausted that you didn’t care much. At least everything tastes good. You suppose anything would after more than twenty-four hours without food. Once the very last piece of fruit is gone, you gather your plate and swipe any crumbs on the table onto it, depositing it in the sink for you to wash later. 

As you wash your hands in the sink, you hear it again. 

Knock-knock. 

You look over your shoulder, staring at the wall. 

You’re not sure why, but you feel scared. Probably because you know Yunho wouldn’t like you two talking without his permission, even though you’ve already kind of broken that rule. So, you ignore it. You ignore him. 

It’s for both of your sakes. 

So you clean up the kitchen, wiping down the counters, placing the butter knife you had used into the sink alongside the dish, and cradling the butter in one hand while you open the fridge with the other. 

This time, you notice something in the fridge. You wonder how you neglected to see it before, but you see it now. Up on one of the shelves was a plate covered in tinfoil, a bright pink sticky note stuck on top of it. You pluck the note off to read it, and notice it’s in Yunho’s handwriting. 

Baby, 

Leave outside Mingi’s door. 

That’s all. You turn it over to see if there was more but found nothing. Short and to the point. Didn’t even sign his name – not that he really needed to, but it was just odd to you. Yunho had mentioned last night that he’d give you a small task in the morning. This must be it. You find yourself staring at the note. Several other small memories slip through the cracks in your mind – like baking brownies for your friend when she was going through a breakup, writing a sweet little message for her and sticking it to the tinfoil covered plate. You had written your name at the end, maybe even adding an ‘xoxo’ before it too. Your mother used to write little notes on baked goods, telling everyone to not eat them if they were meant for family friends or for her coworkers. 

–Mom

You can’t remember her voice anymore.

Well… at least he called you ‘baby’ in the note, so you knew he wasn’t mad at you. You decide not to dwell on it, and wonder why you were even hung up about it in the first place as you gingerly take the plate out, setting it down on the counter for a moment while you close the fridge door. 

Turning to face the guestroom door again, you square your shoulders again, suppressing any thoughts or actions Yunho would disapprove of. You walk towards it, plate in hand. Your exhaling breath hits the door. Do you knock? Let him know it’s there? Do you say something, voice aimed at the hinges so that it slips through easier? Maybe both?

You clear your throat, shifting your weight, “Sir, I’m leaving food out here for you… um, just… please wait t-ten seconds before opening the door.” 

Ten should be enough for you to make your escape, you estimated. Yunho had been clear last night: you are not to let Mingi see you until he says it’s alright. 

You crouch, setting the plate down with an echoing tink tink of the ceramic against the wood floor. When you stand up again, you know your time is running down. You have to force your legs to move, stepping backwards and bumping into the couch on your way back to Yunho’s room. You turn and run when you hear the doorknob start to turn, and when you turn again to close Yunho’s door, you catch just a small glimpse of Mingi. 

In that split second you saw of him, he looks like a ghost. Pale, distant, aimless. Retrieving his food like a caged animal, a prisoner in solitary confinement. You saw some sort of bandage wrapped tight around his forearm, and some discoloration around his neck. You didn’t want to know. You even run the short distance to jump back into bed, as if it was home base while playing tag. But you’re safe. You hear his door close again, and you flop onto your back in bed. 

Now what? 

You glance at the clock on the nightstand. 10:17AM. Only ten? So you had about eight hours to wait and see if Yunho would come back tonight. Eight hours to think, to endure the mundane. The same sights every day, breathe in the same suffocating air, fall mindlessly into the same routine as if nothing had changed. You feel itchy. Like something underneath your skin is beginning to try and scratch its way out. You pull the blankets over you, curling up beneath them and closing your eyes to combat your headache. You regret not bringing in a bottle of water for yourself, but you don’t want to go out into the kitchen again. You can’t be tempted to have those thoughts again. Maybe later, closer to when Yunho potentially gets back, you’ll go out. But for now, you pull the duvet up over your head to block out any light that manages to make its way into the room, thankful now for the blackout curtains Yunho had bought only a couple days into you being here. Once he knew all of your stress manifested in headaches, he didn’t hesitate to buy them for you.  

Plus, they are great for privacy.

Sleep fights you off for a frustrating hour and a half before caving in and pulling you down. There’s not much else to do other than sleep anyway. The birds chirp happily outside, but they’re keeping their distance. 

One of your last conscious thoughts haunts you on the way under: you should’ve kept your distance too. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Yunho didn’t end up coming home that night. Nor the next. Hongjoong had come back to get Mingi out of there the first night at around midnight, bringing him back to his dorm. You hadn’t answered the door, following your rules. Hearing someone knock on the door though scared you to no end, almost heart attack level. You ran into Yunho’s closet and pressed your back against it, just like you had a couple nights earlier. It was Mingi who had gotten himself out, having received a text from Yunho that he was allowed to go home now. Hongjoong had to support him up, help him walk. He was lucky the KQ driver didn’t ask any questions, kept his nose in his phone, barely looking up at where they were exactly. He didn’t say anything about the state Mingi was in. The story was that Mingi had gotten very sick while visiting a friend, with what exactly, they kept vague. Mingi had been put on an indefinite health hiatus, and his Instagram was flooded with concerned fans, and messages of wishing him a fast recovery. 

None of the staff knew about his arm yet. And if they’re lucky, it will stay that way.  

The next three days went by even more slowly than the previous. You walked in aimless figure eights around the apartment after you completed all your chores, you slept, you doodled in your journal. Still, he didn’t come back.

On the seventh day, you were rationing food. You had no idea where he was or where the others were, no way of knowing when he’d return. You couldn’t make sense of why he’d disappear now, especially when he said he was going to reward you. Nothing made sense to you anymore really, the lack of stimulation and change in environment had made your brain quite foggy. You felt like you were deteriorating from the inside out. 

You lay upside down off the couch, just to see the layout of the apartment in a somewhat new light. The blood rushes to your head painfully as you look around. You sleep, you eat, you wander, you watch the clock, you wait. Rinse and repeat. That’s all you can do. One hundred and eighty hours of nothing. Sleep became your only escape, and you started waking up at four in the afternoon. Plagued by nightmares, each one different, varying in levels of disturbance. Each time afterwards, there was no one there to console you. 

Needless to say, you were rather restless. Maybe even a bit rebellious again as continued boredom fanned the flames of your anger. 

You came up with the idea on the eighth morning. A little act of enticement to try and coax Yunho back to you. You knew it was risky and may end in a correction, especially with a reward on the line, but you felt like you were being corrected anyway. Besides, you weren’t planning on breaking any of the five main rules. No, no, you weren’t that stupid. Rather an unspoken one; an understanding the two of you held. 

You almost skip into the closet in the evening, after six o’clock came and went, signaling another night alone for you.

It was time to put your plan into action.

Anxiety made your mouth tingle, your hands trembling slightly as you leaf through the top drawer of your dresser, searching for something in particular. Once you find it, you pull it out with a triumphant ‘ha!’ and quickly put it on. You admire yourself for a couple of minutes in the bathroom mirror, making sure everything looks good. Perfect. You did your makeup as always, before six o’clock, and you style your hair exactly how Yunho likes it. Now, standing in a white lace V-neck bodysuit that Yunho had brought home for you a few weeks ago, looking like an absolute dream, you dared to look up at one of the cameras. You simply acknowledge that it's there with a small grin before going back to ignoring them again. You take a deep breath before exiting the bathroom, knowing you have to put on a good show for him if he was watching. You have to persuade him to come back to you sooner. 

The lights in his bedroom are out, the only light coming from those small candles you had brought out before when it had stormed. You had scattered them in different places in the room. The perfect setup, the light only just enough for Yunho to still be able to see you if he was watching on the cameras. Which, you hope he is. You’re desperate enough to attempt this in exchange for human interaction, even if it did end with a negative result. At least he’d be here. 

You lay yourself down in the center of his bed, letting the cameras adapt and focus on you in the dark. After a couple of slow, deep breaths, you settle and relax, letting yourself sink into the memory foam. Soon enough, your hands start to wander, starting at your chest, trailing up and down your abdomen with a featherlight touch. Your wrist just barely brushes against one of your nipples and you shiver, directing your attention to those now. Circling, teasing, occasionally flicking over it to send that same shock down your spine. You imagine it’s Yunho that’s touching you like this, though he rarely was this patient when it came to foreplay. He saw it as a means to an end, something he had to get through in order to get to the main event. So you take your time, pretending Yunho was going to be gentle with you this time – really treat you like a princess. 

Like Mingi did.

Okay–

You cover your face with your hands, inwardly groaning at yourself. You can’t be thinking about him in Yunho’s bed of all places. 

And yet… if there was one place in this apartment where Yunho didn’t have a camera, it was in your mind. 

Still, you try your best to focus solely on imagining Yunho and only Yunho. Like a good doll should. You cautiously resume, picking up where you left off. Only this time, you massage your breasts as well, sighing in content. Naturally, your hips start to roll up, your core seeking attention too. You mumble under your breath all the dirty things Yunho has said to get you wet for him, still ignoring where you actually want to be touched the most. It proves effective the more needy you got, even daring to moan his name out loud for the cameras to hear. The slight fear and thrill of it only encourages you more. You can almost feel each eye of every camera as they watch on like silent spectators, knowing Yunho might be behind each and every one. 

It only fuels you more. 

Finally, you let your hand trail down to where you need it most – and there was no turning back now, you’ve already gone this far. Your body nearly sings when you gently press your fingers down on your clit, a delightful shiver running up your spine. Dull heat begins to stir in your core as you keep imagining it’s Yunho that’s touching you like this. You can almost hear him telling you to relax for him more, to let him play with you. He’d tease you, dipping his fingers into your heat just enough to make you clench around him, only to withdraw and rub your clit again, using your juices as a natural lubricant. 

‘You’re being such a good girl,’ he’d say, his lips barely touching your neck, making you wait for him to kiss you there too. You bite your lip, knowing full well you were being anything but good right now, but indulging in that fantasy of hearing him say it nevertheless. 

‘You like being a good little doll for us?’ 

It’s such a small word but you take a brief pause once you notice it. ‘Us’. A small word with such a large connotation accompanying it.   

You think back to when Yunho had spoken for you on the couch that night – ‘My girl would really love to play with you’, and ‘you like being shared, right?’. You wonder… do you like being shared? Or do you just like the attention you got from all of them – at least, before they knew who you really were? 

It’s a question you’ll probably never get an answer for. Yet your mind offers you flashes of memories of Seonghwa’s angelic beauty and his eager-to-please nature, of Hongjoong’s gentleness which complemented his natural dominance, and of Yeosang’s shyness and patience. It’s easy for your thoughts to segue into wondering how it would’ve been if Mingi had been allowed to participate, though you heavily doubt he would’ve touched you at all unless Yunho made him. 

As if your body wants you to remember your task at hand, you start to think about the more… intimate memories of them you still can vividly picture. Surely that is okay, right? Not that Yunho could ever know that that’s what you're thinking about. You sigh, almost dreamily, as you remember that night.    

Seonghwa eating you out like a cat who had gotten into the cream, for example. Or how Hongjoong’s voice alone had been enough to make you wet, especially when he called you ‘darling’. And how Yeosang had held your hand, praising you quietly as he held you down on his cock. That time in bed had been both a sprint and a marathon. Reminiscing on it definitely helps, and you hurry to move the bodysuit to the side so you can dip your fingers inside of yourself. 

Finally.  

However, you’re immediately disappointed with how short your fingers are compared to Yunho’s or Mingi’s. They’re just not making you feel as full and they’re not hitting that spot that you always had a hard time finding by yourself. You whine, even more needy for Yunho to come home to you. For any of their hands to be on you right now, touching you again. It takes a frustratingly long time for you to feel even a hint of the beginning of an orgasm, but it does creep up eventually. 

Your hips buck up occasionally, searching for what they’re used to. The more you remember, the more you replay that night… the more you want it to happen again. You were curious who the rest of the group were, and how they would treat you in bed. Though, judging by how the rest of the night went, you doubted whether you’d ever find out. There is no way Hongjoong will let those three anywhere near this apartment. Not if he can help it. You wondered with a pout whether you’d see him again. Or Seonghwa. For now, all you had was this one time experience to go off of. 

Maybe you do like being shared. Your body craves all of them equally, if not Yunho a bit more than the rest. 

Your hand speeds up, fingers pumping in and out of your pussy, chasing that good feeling. It was right there… so close to the edge. With perfect timing, you think of Mingi that day in the shower. He’d been standing so close to you as he took you apart on his hands, watching your reactions, and able to feel every shiver and hear every whimper and moan as clear as day. He wanted you to tell him how you felt, how he was making you feel the whole time...

You scrunch your nose a little, trying to think of something – or someone – else, but no matter what, your mind keeps drifting back to Mingi. You silently beg for another night with him and Yunho as the pleasure grows. Yunho had said that it may happen again in time, but never specified just how long that meant. Though you feel selfish for thinking it, you do hope that they all stop trying to fight Yunho… primarily because it’s useless, and also because you’d really like to see them all again. 

Realistically, though, you know it was going to be a while until any of them willingly comes back here. 

In the meantime, your hand speeds up, causing your lips to part slightly. The oncoming orgasm is not nearly as strong as it usually is with Yunho, but you’ll take it. Your mind races now, sifting through memories trying to find the best one that will help you cum. Your other hand resumes massaging your breast, swiping your thumb across your nipple. In the quiet of the apartment, you keep your moans relatively quiet, only wanting the cameras/Yunho to hear them. His name leaves your lips like a prayer, an incantation to bring him back to you. 

It’s when you think about the first night with Yunho and Mingi that your mind betrays you.

You’re right there, just about to go over the edge when you see it. Flashes of red, discolored skin, bruises, bandages, specks of blood. You hear the pained screams loud and clear as if they were coming from Mingi’s room again. You rip your hand away, sitting upright as if you had woken up from another nightmare. Your heart beats about a thousand per minute, and you press your hand to your chest like that could help slow it. It takes a couple of minutes for your breaths to even out again. Even then, you can still taste the tanginess of adrenaline in the back of your mouth. 

You exhale shakily as you lower yourself back down, curling into a ball on your side with your knees tucked into your chest. You're not very superstitious, but you take this as a clear sign that you should not have tried this. The air conditioning starts up again, rattling somewhere within the walls. You allow yourself a few moments to calm down before you opt to just sleep naked. The lingerie made you cringe now, and you feel embarrassed though you can’t quite understand why. Maybe it was because you always hated coming across as desperate… and that’s exactly what this act of defiance was. Desperate. Maybe even a bit performative. You toss the garment over the side of the bed. It can be dealt with in the morning. 

Dragging yourself back into the bathroom to take your makeup off, your movements are slow and lethargic. You just feel… sad. Profoundly sad. It was a similar feeling to the one you had all those months ago, when you felt hopeless and trapped.

You stare at yourself in the mirror for longer than you care to admit. There was nothing to look at in your reflection. You were just empty. Flat. You wonder how the others had initially perceived you if you really looked this gaunt. In defense of itself, your body listening to your thoughts, your arms wrap around yourself in a tight hug. 

The word parades through your mind: nothing. There was no Y/N anymore, at least not that you could see. That little rational voice that has tried to keep you conscious throughout all of this has been as silent as the grave. Everything that you know is in this apartment. 

You tear away from the mirror, trudging back to bed, guided by the faux candlelight. You cover yourself with the duvet, pulling it right up to your chin, and close your eyes. It doesn’t take long for sleep to overtake you. You’re grateful for that. But you don’t know if you can bear another day alone.  

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

When you wake up, it’s significantly darker. Only one candle is still lit… which is very odd, unless all the others simply ran out of batteries. You stretch your arms above your head, yawning. You rub your eyes and prop yourself up a little, getting ready to get out of bed to try to find the candles in the dark and return them to the drawer. 

You can hear something on your right. It’s faint, a little high-pitched and whiny and… 

It’s your voice. 

You almost give yourself whiplash by how fast you turn, only to find Yunho’s laptop inexplicably next to you on the bed with your image plastered on its screen, obvious what you are doing – as you intended. You gasp loudly, moving away from it like you had woken up to a large spider next to you instead. Stupefied, you watch the recording for a moment, your sleepy brain still trying to play catch up. You gulp uncomfortably, your throat drying rather quickly and you avert your eyes from the laptop, the brightness of the screen blinding as you turn back towards the dark of the room. 

As your eyes gradually adjust, you can just make out a figure standing in the bathroom doorway. 

You scream, shoving the covers off of you and scrambling to sit up, ready to defend yourself if necessary from this intruder or to run. Whichever one it came to. But he has you cornered. He yanks you towards him by your ankles and covers your eyes with one of his large hands. You scream again, struggling to break free. 

“Did you think that was cute?” A gruff voice says, somehow easily finding your wrists in the dark and pinning them down above your head. He must’ve been in here for quite some time if his eyes have adjusted to the dark this well. The tiny, lone candle across the room did very little to aid your vision. 

But the voice sounds familiar. And his words make no sense for a stranger to say to you. You gulp down another scream and whisper, “Daddy?” 

“Oh, so you do remember me,” He says sarcastically. Yet, there’s no anger in his voice. 

The fear only lessens slightly. You’ve misbehaved, and now you have to deal with the consequences of your actions. Though you couldn’t help but feel like you gambled and won. He may know you well, but you know him quite well too. It sparks a small, smug sense of pride within you. 

“Fucking spoiled little brat, aren’t you?” The way he says it almost sounds like a purr, like he’s praising you, “Made you crave cock, didn’t I, baby?”  

You blush profusely at his vulgar words, and you stutter a reply, “J-just y-yours, Daddy,” 

Yunho hums, but you can tell he’s not convinced.

“Just mine, baby? You sure?” You gasp sharply as he starts to grind his hips into yours, pressing his hardening cock against your core. He loves catching you off guard like this, and he always enjoys teaching you a lesson or two, “‘Cause it sounds like you miss more than just mine.” 

You whimper, not understanding or comprehending. Your brain was still processing that this was Yunho and not a random homicidal maniac that had broken in. His hand covering your eyes lifts off, but it doesn’t make much of a difference – you can barely see him even when he’s right in front of you. 

He turns his laptop to face him, and in the soft glow of the screen, you can finally see him more clearly. Or at least, some of him. He’s in a simple white tee, an oversized flannel over it with the sleeves rolled up about midway. It’s probably getting colder outside. His hair is messy, like he had just woken up or had spent much of the day running his hands through his hair in frustration. 

With a couple taps on the mousepad, you can hear your voice coming through the speakers again, still quiet, but a little clearer.  

Oh. 

You instantly want to curl into a ball and die. On the recording is your voice, mumbling and moaning several names. All of theirs. You hadn’t even realized you were doing so… you only noticed when Yunho’s name left your lips. Your cheeks instantly burn red, and you bite the inside of your cheek, waiting for him to turn it off. When you try to turn your head away in embarrassment, he grabs your jaw and forces you to keep watching. 

“See how you couldn’t even make yourself cum without me? Can’t do anything without me, can you, doll?” His voice is a low murmur, not wanting to cover up the sounds on his laptop too much as he speaks. 

You whimper pathetically, wanting to believe that that’s not true, but the evidence is quite literally right in front of you. 

He finally ends it after you quiet down on the video again, hitting the pause button. The laptop shuts with a small click. Yunho’s movements slow. He gathers your wrists in his hand again, but less rough than before. Back in the pitch dark, you can only feel how close he is, leaning over you, his body pinning yours to the bed. His knee is now right in between your legs, pressing up against your bare core. 

“I was gonna surprise you in the morning before work, give you your reward, but it looks like you need a little discipline first.” You can feel his breath against your neck. 

At least he didn’t say ‘correction’. You dare to breathe just the tiniest bit easier, already guessing where he’s going with this. After all, it’s been almost two weeks since he’s touched you in that way.

You begin to stammer an agreement, but he shushes you. He can tell you’re nervous – you don’t know if you’re in trouble with him or not. And usually, he’d relish in your cluelessness, the tension and anxiety that radiates off of your trembling frame. But he doesn’t now. 

“It’s okay, baby,” he reassures, his other hand brushing your hair away from your face, “that’s what I want – for you to want to see them again. As long as you know who you belong to.” 

“I belong to you, Daddy,” you try to sound confident, but you can’t help but still feel nervous. You’re not entirely sure what type of Yunho you’ve earned just yet. Finally, after blinking away the last remnants of the glowing laptop screen, your eyes start to adjust. You can just make him out. The lone candle left alive across the room gives away his silhouette.  

“And do you think you can touch what’s mine?” He whispers, only the slightest edge in his tone. He caresses you, knowing your face and body so well even in the dark. 

“No, Da–” 

“Then why did you?” 

You bite your lip, embarrassment heating your cheeks once again. 

He waits patiently for your answer. Biding his time. 

Once you craft a carefully worded reply, you wet your bottom lip before saying, “I just… I just wanted–” you cut yourself off, rethinking your word choice. ‘Wanted’ sounds a bit selfish. Thinking quickly, you replace it with, “needed you home. I thought maybe if I did something reckless, you’d come back. I’m sorry, Daddy… I know better.” 

Yunho relaxes somewhat. You can feel the tension within me drain away. He finds your cheek and kisses it softly. He moves down to your throat, where you’d expect him usually to bite and mark you – but he doesn’t. You’re puzzled as you feel how gentle his mouth is on your skin, but it’s a nice change. 

“My precious girl,” he murmurs, the timbre of his voice vibrating against your neck, “I understand… but you can’t break Daddy’s rules – unspoken or not. Okay?” 

You barely nod, mindful to not hit him with your chin as you do, “Yes, Daddy.” 

“You definitely got my attention, though,” he purrs, his lips now moving down to ghost over your collarbone, “you looked so beautiful in that lingerie, baby.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” you breathe, tilting your chin up a little to give him more room. 

He hums in response, his hand cupping your cheek. You lean into his hand, finding comfort in his touch. His thumb strokes your cheek as he continues to kiss you all over your collarbones, shoulders, throat. 

Then, he pulls away completely. He stands from the bed, walking over to the last candle and steps in front of it. Slowly, one by one, the room is illuminated once again. Albeit a dim light, now you can see him better. Immediately, you feel better. You hate the dark, especially here. He turns and comes back to the bed, taking his time. He sits near the edge of the bed and helps you up, maneuvering you until you lay on your stomach, over his legs. You can feel his hard on pressing up against your lower stomach through his sweatpants, and it makes you shiver. 

“You understand why I have to discipline you now?” 

You nod, face partially buried in the sheets, “Yes, Daddy. I understand.” 

A large hand trails up the back of one of your thighs, and you shiver again. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, “just take it like I know you can, and all will be forgiven. Okay?” 

“Okay…” your voice breaks a little in the last syllable. 

“Deep breath for me, baby.” The hand on the back of your thigh leaves you. You know what’s coming. 

You inhale as much as you can, body shaking with anticipation. Not knowing when or how hard he’s going to strike was difficult enough to deal with. You’re still unsure what level on the Pissed Off Yunho Scale he’s at. Words sharp, but tone kind. Your hands grip the sheets below you, already close to white-knuckling them as he makes you wait. The only thing you can hear is your heart hammering against the mattress, and the slow, steady sounds of Yunho breathing. 

He waits another ten seconds. Then he strikes you hard, your body jolting over his lap. 

“Remember to count, baby.” He reminds you as his hand pulls away again. 

“One…” you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut in preparation. There’s no way of knowing how many times he’ll spank you unless he tells you outright or until he stops. 

Two. 

Three. A little harder. 

Four. Much harder. 

“Si–five, thank you, Daddy.” You stammer, close to drooling on the sheets below you, mouth stuck open from the force of each hit. You almost say six, probably subconsciously because you want this to be over sooner. But you knew damn well then, before you whored yourself out for the cameras, hoping he’d come back, that you’d be in trouble. So you grit your teeth and try to breathe through the pain. 

“Am I making you all dumb, baby? Hm?” Yunho chuckles, catching your mistake. You’re so goddamn cute. 

You whine in response, blinking away tears. Your hands clench and unclench into fists in the sheets. He soothes your skin, particularly the area where he had been hitting you over and over again, with a lighter touch of his hand. The electronic candlelight flickers, making shadows dance upon the walls. The hand he’s not using rests on your lower back, keeping you still beneath him. Not like you’re going anywhere anyway. 

There’s a longer pause between hits, long enough to prompt you to look over your shoulder at him, curiosity getting the better of you. You can’t see much because of a strain in your neck, but it’s clear that he’s thinking about something. This isn’t over quite yet. 

He catches you looking back at him and the corners of his mouth lift slightly as he exhales. 

“Can you do something for me, baby?” 

Do you have a choice? 

“Yes, Daddy, of course.” You reply, voice a little unsteady. 

What was he planning now? 

Yunho trails his hand up and down the back of your thigh again, “The next five I don’t want you to count. I want you to say our names again. In order… one for each spank. Understand?” 

‘In order’. You bury your face back into the bed, grateful for the head rush that occurs as it creates a temporary white noise in your ears that you can focus on instead of his words. A half-cry, half-whine escapes you, muffled by the bedding. The hand that rests on your lower back suddenly moves up to the back of your neck, pressing you down as his fingers dig into the sides of your throat, cutting off your air. 

“Answer me. Yes or no?” 

“Yes, Daddy,” you wheeze, barely audible, “I understand,” 

The next spank comes fast after you tell him that you understand your new rules for tonight – your mouth is even still parted as you finish speaking. It’s hard enough to make you cry out before forcing yourself to pull it together. At least he’s spanking a new area now and not worsening the already deep red bruise you know must be blooming across your ass.  

“Daddy~” You say as sweetly as you can. His cock twitches under your hip. 

“Mhmm,” he hums, his hand pulling back again. 

Seven. This one is the hardest of them all so far. You let out a short scream into the bed, the veins in your hands popping as you hold onto the sheets with a death grip. Whimpering and whining pathetically, you mumble out the next name, “M-Mingi.” 

It’s a struggle to say anything clearly and to enunciate even just two syllables. 

“Keep going, baby. Almost done.” 

Eight. Hongjoong. 

Nine. Seonghwa. 

Ten. Yeosang. 

You shake like a leaf, shoulders tense and up by your ears. And just when you think it is over, Yunho pushes you down by your lower back to make you arch for him, and nudges your legs apart. 

“Apologize.” 

You swallow hard, lifting your chin up so your mouth isn’t pressed against the mattress. 

“I’m s-sorry, Daddy,” 

“For what?” He asks, his hand groping your ass where he hit you. 

You stifle a whine, resisting the need to try and get away from his touch on your tender skin, “I’m sorry for… touching what belongs to Daddy without permission.” 

Yunho hums before he delivers two smacks directly to your pussy. You cry out his name again, wanting desperately to try and get away from the hits, but you stay as still as possible. Admittedly, even though it stings a little, it does make you wet again. 

And he notices. 

After the third smack, his hand stays, rubbing up and down your folds and lightly tapping his fingers against your clit. Now you’re shaking for a different reason. You want him now. 

“Do you like being disciplined this much?” Yunho asks, gliding his fingers through your folds. You could hide your face all you want, but he had an unobstructed view, a front row seat watching exactly how much effect he had on your body. 

He sighs, taking his time as he silently enjoys the barely audible sounds of how wet you’re becoming for him. He can’t wait to hear them increase in volume in just a few moments. Your hips instinctually and impatiently move backwards in hopes of increasing the pressure against you, but he pulls away each time. He’ll touch you on his own terms, not yours. You know that by now, it’s just hard to remember sometimes. 

“Still don’t think you learned your lesson…” he mumbles, moreso to himself than to you. “Next time I have to be away you’ll just pull this little stunt again, won’t you?” 

You try to be convincing, though you and him both know you’re lying, “No, Daddy.”

“No?” Yunho asks, slowly sinking a finger into you without warning, “Are you sure, doll?” 

Your body tenses at the intrusion, and your jaw goes slack at the feeling. As expected, just one of his already feels so much better than your earlier attempt with two of your own. A wanton moan escapes you as you finally get what you’ve been craving all day. 

He chuckles again, “My point exactly. It’s my responsibility to make sure you don’t want to try this again, right?” His finger curls upwards inside of you and your back arches, hips once again pushing back to try to get him even deeper. Yunho tuts in disapproval, shoving you back down and removing his hand from your core completely.

“I have to discourage this type of behavior, don’t I? Can’t have my doll acting like a needy whore every time I leave…”

 Your breath catches in your throat at the word. 

‘Whore’. 

He’s never called or referred to you as that before. You aren’t sure if you like it – after all, you are devoted to him and him alone, but perhaps it’s fitting given your actions tonight as well as the times you’ve let Yunho’s friends use your body. But ‘let’ is an overstatement. 

He doesn’t exactly give you much time to ruminate on the word, pulling you up and onto his lap. Without another word, he shrugs his flannel off of his shoulders, discarding it somewhere onto the floor, and leans back onto one hand while the other finds purchase in your hair, near the nape of your neck, holding you still. You try not to shy away from his gaze, but you’re still somewhat embarrassed. 

“I’ll give you what you want, baby. But you’re not going to like it.” 

You’re not sure what he means, but you know it can’t be good. 

His smirk is lazy as he eyes you up and down like a starving man finally seeing a meal laid out in front of him. With his hands resting on your waist, he keeps you from moving too much. Guiding you towards him by the back of your head, your lips meet in the middle, melding together seamlessly. 

His eyes flick down to his lap, where his cock is now tenting his sweatpants, rubbing up against your naked center. Pre-cum has already started to stain the fabric of it – but he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t also your juices. 

Quicker than you can process, suddenly you’re underneath him, legs spread wide by his knees and pinned down by your wrists. Once he gathers your wrists in one hand again, he shoves his sweatpants down, followed by his boxers about mid-thigh. Too impatient to take them off fully for the time being. 

Before you can dare to peek down to see what he’s doing, you feel the head of his cock pressing against you. Immediately you try to move your hands, wanting to push him away. You whine in panicked protest, looking up at him with round, frightened eyes. 

“No. You don’t get any prep from me,” he says, a finality to his tone, running the head of his cock up and down your folds, collecting the wetness from there before lining himself up at your entrance, “you lost that privilege when you decided to act like a whore.” 

There it is again. Your bottom lip trembles, the word cutting you deep. Luckily, your mind goes blank as he pushes in about halfway without warning. You can feel his cock nearly ripping apart your walls, completely unprepared to take him. Tears stream down your face already, pain searing through you. 

“Daddy, please, please don’t–” you beg, thoughtlessly. You know it’s too late, and yet you still try to stop him. 

“Are you really trying to say ‘no’ to me?” he growls.   

Oh God– 

He sinks deeper inside, watching your face contort in pain the whole time. Without prep, it feels like he’s taking your virginity all over again. His eyes threaten to roll back in his head at both the memory and the current feeling of your spasming pussy around his cock. 

He hums when you don’t say anything, “That’s what I thought. It’s not my fault you didn’t prepare yourself sufficiently. Not my fault you decided to break the rules, right?”  

You bite your lip so hard you almost draw blood as your body locks up in pain. There’s no adjustments you can make to take him easier, to lessen the aching discomfort. You can feel him everywhere. Even though his hands are nowhere near your throat, and there’s no pressure against your chest whatsoever, you feel suffocated. Only able to breathe in short gasps as he bottoms out. 

The only mercy he shows you is when he shoves a pillow beneath your hips, both to aid him as well as make you the slightest bit more comfortable as he pounds into you. That’s the only comfort he offers you. Your poor center already feels sore and raw. You close your eyes, lips parted as you cry and moan. 

What seems to be another kindness given to you quickly turns into something torturous; he trails a hand down your abdomen, pressing down on your lower stomach for a few moments, making you moan louder for him, and finally stops right at your clit. It helps take your mind off of the gradually receding pain, and you thank him accordingly. He doesn’t say anything back to you, but leans down to kiss your cheek. 

He smirks when he feels you clench around him, bringing his hand up to his mouth to spit on his fingers before returning them to rub you again. He doesn’t look away from you. The bed creaks and groans, the headboard threatening to scrape the wall behind it. 

Thanks to his administrations on your sensitive bundle of nerves, your legs start to shake as pleasure finally finds you. The pain is still there as he bullies his way deep inside of you, but it’s not as intense as it was. In no time at all, you can feel your climax building and building. And he can too. 

Yunho groans at how even tighter you feel around him the closer you get to the edge. 

“Close, doll? Hm?” 

“Y-es, Daddy, I’m gonna…” you trail off as your body starts to lock up, back arching. 

And then he pulls away completely. 

Suddenly there’s nothing. You’re empty, forced to only feel your climax disintegrate within you, so unbearably close to the edge. Something between a gasp and a cry leaves your throat, but Yunho doesn’t react. He kisses your cheek again, his lips trailing to your ear. 

“I told you that you weren’t gonna like it,” he reminds you, grinding against your pussy, but not pushing back inside just yet, “can’t have you pulling this shit again, so you’re not going to be coming tonight. At all.”

Here you were thinking your only expense was the no prep to take him. You feel so stupid.

The worst part is he waits. He waits until he knows for sure that the next time he touches you, he’s going to have to build up your orgasm from scratch. 

When he pulls away for the fifth time, leaving you hanging on the edge with no relief, you loudly sob, “Please, Daddy, please I’m sorry! I won’t do it again, I’m so sorry.”  

“I know you are, baby,” he hums, rubbing your inner thighs with his thumb, “just be quiet and let Daddy decide what’s best for your little body right now.” 

After the seventh time he edges you, you’re just about ready to grovel at his feet, begging him to let you cum. But he was very clear: you’re not going to tonight. Meanwhile, he’s already cum inside you after the fourth round. Each time after he pulls away, he drags out the wait time less and less, making it harder for you to hold it back when he restarts. 

Your eyes are glassy, unfocused, and you’re mumbling incoherent, rambling pleas that fall on deaf ears. 

“You okay, doll?” He asks, petting your hair after the eighth time, his seed filling you up again. 

“Mhm,” you sniffle, tears falling past your hairline. The ceiling blurs, offering nothing to try and concentrate on instead. Your whole body is a livewire, even the slightest touch can bring you right back to the edge once again. Now you just feel desperate in a whole other way. 

“Good girl,” Yunho murmurs, teasing you just a bit more by slipping the same fingers he used to touch you into his mouth, licking them clean. 

He gives you a small break, masquerading his need for one as well. He turns you onto your side and moves behind you, his arm draping over your hip and pressing you back towards him. For about a minute or two, you both just breathe. Refueling oxygen for whatever comes next. 

You’ve successfully ignored the dull ache of being filled with his cum, with no release of your own. Another orgasm simmered below the surface this whole time, waiting to be denied again. It doesn’t help that his touch is electric. 

After another moment, he breaks the silence as he always does: abruptly. 

“Tell me exactly what you were thinking of earlier.” He says, keeping his lips pressed against the crown of your head. 

Ah… shit.

You clear your throat to stall for time, delaying having to say it out loud, “Just… about you and um… that night with the others.” 

Yunho hums, knowingly, “And did you enjoy yourself that night, baby?” 

Blushing profusely, you reply with a shy nod. It’s enough to satisfy him for now. Gently, he turns your face up towards him so he can see you better. 

“Yeah?” He asks, “You want it again?” 

Again… yes, but altered, you think. Like how the first shared experience was: two and one. Smaller groups seem less daunting, less taxing on your body. Four was pushing your limits, especially if that’s how Yunho will end it. You imagine if, and or when, you meet the remaining three, he’ll want to show you off again. Two is a bit more intimate. No need for gravitas or anything extra, and you’re able to focus on each of them better. Only one other also might be easier for Yunho to keep control of everything. You squeeze your thighs together as subtly as possible.

He reads the initial look on your face, “No?” 

You bite your lip at first, almost too timid to tell him your request, “No, no, it’s… maybe only two at a time next time?” 

Nice. Very eloquent. God, Y/N. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t look mad in any way, not even annoyed. He sits with your words, mulling them over for a few moments. 

“Would that make you more comfortable, baby?” He asks. 

You blink, not expecting that speaking up about what you’d like would go this smoothly. He’s definitely acting rather unpredictable tonight. Again, you just nod ‘yes’. You turn your body over so that you’re facing him, suddenly needing to be as close to him as possible, maybe to show your appreciation. His hand now presses into your back, keeping you close. Just as intended. 

But he sighs. Vocally, to get your attention. Not that he didn’t have it in the first place. 

“Daddy?” You look up at him with round, nervous eyes. 

Yunho rubs your back as he says, “You were perfect with four, or… I thought you were. If you wanna go back to only two at a time, then that’s fine. But if you’re gonna be as good a doll as I think you can be, you’re gonna potentially need to be able to handle eight. Understand, baby?” 

Your throat dries like the Sahara. Did he… not think you were perfect anymore because you said that? You don’t even register the part where he says eight. 

“I understand, Daddy,” you sniffle, trying to hide your face in his chest. 

He looks down, leaning back a little to try and see you properly. “What’s wrong, baby?” 

But he knows full well what he says sets you off. It was meant to. He crafted his reply with articulate, hand-crafted manipulation, and it pays off beautifully. You whine against him, holding back tears – as you always seem to do around him – and holding him tighter, afraid he’ll let go first. In your defense though, you had just been edged about eight times, so your hormones were not particularly thrilled in the first place. You’re just overwhelmed.   

“Aww, poor thing…” he coos, “Daddy’s still so proud of you. Needing to build up to it is okay, it’s gonna take time. But god, baby,” you feel his cock twitch against your stomach. Filthy images of you taking all of them flood his brain. He groans, sin incarnate. “You’re gonna look so good in the middle of all of us… fucked out and helpless. They’ll come around to the idea, don’t worry. And when they do, I’ll make sure you’re ready for them.” 

He’s ready again, having worked himself up. You moan when his hand finds your nipple again, and soon he reconnects your lips to his. 

“Can I fill you up one more time, baby?” He asks against your lips, already grinding into you again. He asks, but you don’t have a choice either way. 

“Yes, Daddy. Please–” you barely finish your sentence before he’s on top of you once more, spitting onto his fingers to stroke his cock. 

He doesn’t give you any preparation this time either. He sinks in, but not without resistance from your body. The grip around him almost chokes his cock, and he grunts as he forces himself deeper. You wince, nails digging into his shoulders. At least once he bottoms out, and the head of his cock hits that sweet spot deep inside, it feels a little better. You wrap your legs around his waist, and let him use you again. It’s hard to try to ignore how good he feels, willing your body to disregard everything. 

But his filthy words that he mutters next to your ear are harder to avoid, “Pussy’s always so eager to take me, isn’t it? So fucking greedy… tight and wet for me. Fuck… gonna be such a good girl for us, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, Daddy, I’ll be good,” you whimper, squeezing your eyes shut as the forbidden pleasure builds. He can feel it too as you tighten around him even more. 

The harder he thrusts into you, the more of your mind you lose. It’s like he’s literally fucking all thoughts out of your head. All you can concentrate on is trying to not cum. It’s a torturous effort for the ninth time. 

Luckily, he’s still somewhat sensitive from coming two times before. He pushes your legs back, your knees against your chest to get deeper, and you bite your lip in anguish. He swears under his breath, feeling more of your juices gush around his length. He almost feels bad for you, almost lets you cum. But then what about the point he’s trying to make? He taught it to Mingi, and now he is teaching you: do not touch what belongs to him without permission.  

He kisses your calf, keeping his lips and cheek pressed against it. He looks up at you through his lashes. 

“Don’t.” He growls when your legs start shaking violently, your back arching off the mattress. “Keep taking me, baby. ‘M almost there. Hold it for me.” 

You suppress a moan, trying to tense your body, but that only proves to encourage Yunho more as your pussy contracts and pulses. 

All hell threatens to break loose when he changes positions, trapping you in a mating press. If you thought it couldn’t get any more maddening, you are quickly proven wrong. You scream, forced to feel every single last inch of him pounding into you deep and hard. The wet, squelching sounds your pussy makes increase in volume, gushing around his cock. 

“Daddy, please,” you try again, even though you know it’s hopeless, “please, I can’t–” 

“Yes you can, doll. You can keep being good for me, right?” 

It’s right there, just in reach. You wonder if you can try to fake that you didn’t cum, but you know he’ll know. He always will just know. All you can do is sob, pray that he’ll cum soon and you'll be spared any additional disciplining. 

“Never gonna act like an attention whore again, are you, doll?” He groans, licking up the side of your neck. 

You vehemently shake your head ‘no’, “No, Daddy, I promise!” 

He swears under his breath, looking down to watch his whole length disappearing inside of you over and over again. Your hands move from his shoulders to his hair and his cheek, guiding him down to kiss him. You desperately need a distraction. He returns the kiss eagerly, moaning into your mouth. 

“Please, Daddy, please please please–” you’re not sure exactly whether you’re begging him to cum or to let you cum, but either one you’ll gladly take, as long as either one happens right now. Now teetering on the edge, flirting with danger, you’re desperate. 

“Shhh… good girl. My good girl. Want Daddy to cum inside? Hm?” 

You almost swear too, but are able to bite your tongue. “Yes, Daddy, please, I want it.” 

He slams into you, chasing his third high with a vengeance. Your hand in his hair grips it at the roots, but he doesn’t mind at all. If anything, it spurs him on even more. His possessiveness kicks into high gear as he finally releases inside of you, this time the hardest he’s cum so far tonight. 

“Fuck, baby…” he groans, still languidly grinding into you, not letting a single drop go to waste. He makes sure he’s completely empty before he pulls out. Your body is on fire, so close to coming still, and so stiff as if in self-defense mode. 

You’re not fully aware of everything around you for a long while. Occasionally, you can feel Yunho’s lips against your skin, kissing your jaw, mouthing at your chest. His hands keep your legs spread, and his dark eyes watch his cum try to drip out. You let him. You just drift, body still pleading for closure only to be left high and dry. 

Maybe you are a bit spoiled… he’s never edged you like this before. Then again – you never did anything like what you did a couple hours ago before now either. You’re not used to this feeling. Almost empty, incomplete. Unsatisfied. It’s foreign to you, and even stranger still that it’s because of Yunho. But you broke the rules, and this is your hard-learned lesson, like it or not. 

While you’re in your head, you can just barely hear him speaking to you. You fight through your fog to hear him, but truth be told, you have no idea what he just said. He smirks, thankfully finding your hazy stupor adorable. All his own work, his most promising work-in-progress. 

“I asked you if you’d wanna meet Sannie, Wooyoung and Jongho soon.” He repeats, pulling the covers up and over your body. 

“Yes… I’d like to.” You say without thinking, your brain is only now beginning to reconstruct itself from the mush it had been a couple minutes ago. Just three more to go… and then would he consider you perfect? You aren’t very sure. But thinking in depth really isn’t in the cards for you right this minute. The best you can do for now is to just let Yunho take care of it, like he always does, and relinquish control completely once more. 

He holds you lazily in his arms, letting you make yourself comfortable in whatever position you choose, and kisses the crown of your head again, his mouth lingering there momentarily. You’re starting to think he somehow laces himself with Nyquil or something, because it seems like you pass out rather quickly after sex with him. Maybe it’s just physically taxing. You yawn as if to prove your own theory and nuzzle into him. 

“Go to sleep, baby,” he says softly, “you’ll get your reward in the morning.”

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Nothing prepares you for the sunlight. 

The backs of your eyelids are orange as you gradually wake up, feeling a warmth covering your face and shoulders. You blink into the light, shielding your eyes from the blinding, rising sun coming in through the window with your hand. It takes you a minute to realize the curtains are completely drawn back, the windows open almost halfway. You sit up, staring at it in disbelief. 

The bedroom door is wide open, revealing more natural light pouring into the rest of the apartment as well. You tear the covers off of you, throwing on one of Yunho’s oversized t-shirts and heading out to investigate. You find him in the kitchen, making breakfast. A quick glance at the digital clock on the stove tells you that it’s six-thirty – very early for you, especially after last night. You would’ve imagined you’d sleep in, but maybe the smell of cooking woke you up early. 

Yunho looks over his shoulder at you when he hears you enter. “Good morning, baby,” he smiles, wiping his hands with a paper towel before heading over to you. In the light, his beauty seems even more angelic. He picks you up and sets you on the counter, and you wrap your legs around him, giggling shyly. He kisses you tenderly, in no rush whatsoever. You hum against his mouth, giddy all of a sudden. 

He smiles again, giving you one more peck before pulling away. 

“Would you like your reward now?” He asks, tilting his head. 

Your heart leaps in excitement. “Really? I’m getting it now?” 

Yunho laughs at how cute you are, kissing you again. You throw your arms around his shoulders, hugging him tight. 

“I promised you, didn’t I?” He brushes your hair back over your shoulder, exposing your neck a bit more. “Let me finish this first, and then you can have it. Alright?” 

You nod, kicking your feet happily as you watch him continue cooking – it looks like gyeran bap and jeon from what you can see of it from this angle. It was rare for Yunho to make breakfast for you two, especially on the morning of a workday. In fact, you can’t remember the last time he’s done this. But that makes today all the more special. He was serious, and he kept his promise. You can’t wait to find out what the reward will be. 

Once the stove is turned off, and all that’s left to be finished is the rice in the rice cooker, Yunho helps you off the counter and leads you into the living room. 

“Close your eyes for me?” He prompts. You do so immediately. You can’t contain your excitement, a smile already threatening to crack open your lips. There’s a small clicking sound, followed by creaking hinges. Suddenly the apartment is colder, your small world louder than before. It’s the same rush of sound you heard when Yeosang came in from…

Yunho takes your hand, guiding you forward. You can feel the temperature shift even more. The flooring underneath your feet changes to something harder, more sturdy. 

“You can have five minutes now, and ten tonight,” he says. You begin to shake, hoping against hope that this is really what you’ve been dreaming of for months. “Okay, open your eyes, baby.”  

Oh…

Your lungs expel all the air inside of them at the sight. You’re outside. For the first couple seconds, you’re nervous, though you’re not quite sure why. The cold wind pushes your hair to the side, weaving through it, and makes you shiver. You take a small step back, completely overwhelmed.  

The first full breath of fresh air almost breaks you. The air is unforgiving once in your lungs, freezing them over, but you don’t mind at all. In fact you inhale as much as you can until you physically can’t anymore, barely breathing out, wanting to hoard it all. You grip the cold railing with both hands, like a passenger on a sinking ship. Your head is dizzy from the height as you look down, higher above the city than you thought. It’s all sprawled out below you, still half-asleep and grey, oblivious to the awakening sky overhead. Early bird commuters crawl by in their cars below, another day of work ahead of them. Cafes rush to prepare for the onslaught of hungry, in need of caffeine customers, baking and cleaning in their regular routines. It’s still a bit too early for school, but you do see a couple students beginning their walk to the subway stations and bus stops. The Han River glistens bright orange under the sun, and drifts downstream, lapping lazily at the shores, and getting its picture taken by a couple of tourists and morning runners. 

Glancing to your left, you see that it’s less so a balcony, and more like a mini terrace. You’d only ever seen just one angle of it, very briefly when the curtains weren’t drawn. It stretched out towards the left, two chairs with a little table between them sat outside the bedroom windows. Yeosang might’ve used one of them that night before he came back in. But you don’t explore this ‘new’ area. You just take it in visually. Now you know it’s there. Your hands slide over the railing absentmindedly, the smoothness of it calming down your hammering heart. 

You can’t feel completely happy about it, like you thought you would be. What it really means to be let out onto the balcony is that everyone has stopped looking for you. The police have nothing, and the public forgot about you. It’s an empty happiness, a freedom that comes with a price. What would freedom even look like for you now? Being outside makes your stomach churn, and your nervous system spirals due to the overstimulation. It’s all suddenly too much. How would you survive outside like this? Anywhere for that matter? You craved to be out for so long, to taste the air once more, and all it does in the end is frighten you. Turns out that freedom suffocates you worse than confinement. He’s been right this whole time: you should stay here. You need to stay here. 

You step back again. Yunho watches.   

With two minutes left in your time, you take one more refreshing deep breath before turning to face him. Your bottom lip quivers a bit, but you hide it by smiling at him.

“Thank you,” you whisper, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek, “can we go back in, please?” 

Yunho blinks, surprised. He would’ve bet anything that you’d beg him for more time out here.

“It was only three minutes, baby.” He says, checking his watch to verify that he was right. “You sure?” 

You nod, keeping your eyes cast downward, “It’s enough.” 

In his temporary astonishment, he just nods and opens the door for you, eyes following you as the apartment swallows you up again. Yunho lingers on the balcony for half a moment longer. He watches you set the table for the breakfast he made, falling back into your regular routine like your biggest dream didn’t just come true. You turn your back on the dawn like it was the easiest decision in your life. 

He isn’t sure what to think. But he knows he’ll just have to give you a part two to your reward later tonight. In fact, since he’s suddenly feeling extra nice, he might just give someone another chance with you tonight. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

ATEEZ: Netizens Spark Feud Rumors

Subtle Distance? ATEEZ Members’ Dynamic Sparks Debate After Latest Performance

Clip Goes Viral of ATEEZ Members Avoiding Yunho Onstage

ATEEZ Fans Worry: ‘Did Something Happen Between Them?’

Mr. Kim, the KQ CEO, takes off his glasses, attempting to rub the stress of the last couple weeks from his eyes. The other eight men in the room are avoiding eye contact with him anyway. The headlines stare back at them accusingly, blown up in size on the projector screen off to their right. They all look like kids who got sent to the Principal’s office, their mischief caught on tape and shown back to them so there’s nowhere to hide from the truth. Yeosang pulls his face mask up just a bit higher on his nose. The air in the soundproof conference room is tense, almost clinical in a way. The PR team waits in the corner like a jury, occasionally taking sips of their coffee, sitting with the silence as they wait for the final verdict of what they will tell the public. 

Jongho and Seonghwa take turns glaring at Yunho after the headlines are read out to them, one by one. Hongjoong’s hands ball into fists, uncharacteristically keeping his head down. He took one for the team, sitting right next to Yunho at this emergency meeting. It was the least he could do. 

“Can anyone tell me what this is all about?” Mr. Kim asks. His voice is tired, evident that he didn’t get much sleep last night. If he gives it two more days, the dark circles under his eyes will match Hongjoong’s.   

Mingi stares out the window, his hand subconsciously protecting his forearm over his sweatshirt sleeve. He doesn’t plan to speak at all during this meeting, much like the rest of them. It’s Hongjoong that bears the weight of answering for all of them, even when it should be Yunho. He can’t watch it unfold – hearing it will be hard enough. 

He’s hiding something from them all – not just his gruesome injuries from the fans and staff, but another thing entirely. He thinks Yeosang may have caught on already, but he refuses to tell anyone outright, his paranoia convincing him that Yunho will find out somehow. It’s too important to fail. So he keeps it close to the chest, not saying a damn word to anyone about it. Only providing hints through his actions the past few days – becoming Yunho’s little sycophant, a sidekick essentially for him. It didn’t happen overnight, no, it had to be gradual to be convincing. The rest of the group took it as a fear response and didn’t judge or say anything to him about it, accepting that it was just him trying to stay out of trouble, but little did they know it was much deeper than that.  

San looks at Wooyoung and Yeosang out of the corner of his eye, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He mentioned to them that he wanted to tell the CEO everything. What could Yunho do to hurt them with their staff present? But Yeosang was scared. Yunho had a way of sweet-talking his way out of everything, surely he would be ready if they tried to do that to him. And then they’d all be screwed, and they’d end up like… 

Well, it just wouldn’t end well. 

So San bites his tongue for their sake, his foot touching Wooyoung’s under the table for some semblance of comfort. It doesn’t help much but it’s something. Like holding his favorite stuffed animal from childhood in the middle of a warzone – it will do nothing to protect him in the long run, but it’s a solace amidst the chaos. Especially when the enemy threat is sitting only two chairs away from him. 

Hongjoong wets his bottom lip before finally speaking, trying to carefully craft an answer the CEO will believe while also appeasing Yunho, “We’ve been having some… personal disagreements and some internal conflict, but we’re working on that. The cameras just caught us on a rough week. I’m sorry for this.” He says, gesturing to the headlines. His voice is smaller than it usually is in previous meetings. Unwavering, steady guilt punctuates every word. The words sneer and laugh at him when he turns away. He folds his hands in his lap, making room to take all the guilt and blame that is surely coming his way for letting this get so out of hand, and not keeping everybody in check. For allowing the public to see cracks in their image.  

“If you’ve been working on it, I would’ve expected some progress by now. You all have been acting like this for weeks. Most of your staff have expressed concern about you. If we see it, the fans sure as hell see it. And if the fans see it, the press sees it.” 

Hongjoong nods, solemnly. All he can do is agree – Mr. Kim is exactly right. He was so focused on the members and their well-being that he neglected to preserve the picture-perfect idol image they had in public. He always meant to try and fix that next, but it just hasn’t been at the forefront of his mind lately, as it should’ve been. And now the world can see that they’re strained. They’re not the family they were only mere weeks ago. 

Mr. Kim turns to Hongjoong. “If something or someone is disrupting the team dynamic, it’s your job to deal with it. So why haven’t you?” 

Again, no one says a word. Not a single sound from the usually rambunctious, upbeat group. Even the PR team and the managers take notice of the strangeness in their sudden behavioral changes. Hongjoong nervously bounces his leg below the table. He can feel everyone looking at him and it causes the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. Yunho’s gaze on him is especially skin-crawling. 

“I…” he clears his throat before continuing, “Yes sir, it is. I’ve been trying to take care of everyone and make sure we’re focused–” 

“Obviously not trying hard enough.” Mr. Kim interrupts, side-eyeing Mingi who shrinks back in his seat. This whole ordeal must have really pissed their CEO off… plus the fact they can’t tell him what exactly is going on doesn’t help. They know he’s just stressed, and wants them to succeed. That’s all he wants to do: help them so they can get past this. But he has no way of knowing that this isn’t a simple dating scandal or a misunderstanding blown out of proportion –  this is a crime syndicate built by coerced accomplices, complicit under duress. 

The irritation Mr. Kim feels is clear to everyone in the room. It’s so tangible it makes everyone else afraid to speak unless spoken to. 

Except for one. 

“Mr. Kim?” 

Jongho speaks up. All eyes snap to him, in fear, in surprise, in anticipation. He can almost feel all of them silently telling him to not say anything with their panicked gazes. But Jongho continues. It’s not what they fear it is. 

“Sir, none of this started because of Hongjoong. He’s been doing his best to fix it.”

Yunho crosses his legs in his seat, his eyebrows raising a little as he looks between the CEO, Jongho, and Hongjoong. 

‘Fix it’, huh? Interesting. 

He drums his fingers against the tabletop, knowing he should cool his glare towards Hongjoong, but unable to help himself. Did he have to dig into his captain a little deeper? He doesn’t mind or care if he has to do it to every single one of them to get them to comply. It sure would make everything a whole lot easier. Seems like the maknae already forgot who’s actually in charge here as well. 

Immediately, Mingi and Yeosang tense at Jongho’s wording. He’s implying it started because of someone else, which may be true, but is rather ballsy to place the blame right under Yunho’s nose, indirectly or not.   

“I don’t care who started what, or even what this is all about. I care about who is letting this continue.” Mr. Kim says with a certain bite to his tone. 

Six men split. Half looking to Yunho, the other looking to Hongjoong. Neither return their glances. Hongjoong’s jaw is set tight, staring at the table like it owed him money. Yunho simply leans back in his chair, listening to Mr. Kim like a student in a lecture hall. Unbothered. Bored, even. 

Seonghwa tears his eyes from Yunho to look back at Mr. Kim, “Sir, it’s not just one of us, we’re all at some fault–”

“It’s fine.” Hongjoong murmurs to him. Seonghwa wants to argue, stand up for him more, but just by looking at his friend, he can tell that will only make him feel worse. 

“What about you, Mingi? Care to explain any of this?” Mr. Kim addresses him directly, turning in his chair a little to face him head on. 

Mingi freezes, looking up at the CEO like a deer in headlights before regaining some composure. From under the table, next to him, Yeosang places his hand on his knee in an attempt to comfort him under the sudden pressure. All the eyes in the room turn to him now. 

“No, sir.” He manages, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

Mr. Kim sighs in frustration, tapping his fingers along the tabletop. “No? Nothing to explain? No reason why you haven’t been able to do the choreo lately? No reason for the change in behavior?” 

Mingi takes as deep a breath as he can, given his injury. Again, he insists, “No, sir.” 

From the other end of the row of chairs, Yunho hides a smirk behind his hand, feigning a small yawn. He has to purse his lips a little in order to stop it from growing.

Mr. Kim sighs, “If no one can tell me what’s going on, then I have no choice but to put you all on hiatus. Effective immediately.” 

The word hits the seven of them like a slap in the face. Hiatus? Now? With the comeback in just two months? He couldn’t be serious. The fans would be so worried, not to mention the speculation as to why the whole group has to step away so suddenly. 

Alternatively, the word only serves to lift a weight from Yunho’s shoulders. This is exactly what he needs: time. Sure, he loves his job, loves performing onstage and going to events and meeting fans, but this could not have come at a better time. A chance to solely focus on you, and his plans for you and the group. 

“For how long?” Wooyoung asks quietly, afraid to know the answer. 

“Indefinitely,” Mr. Kim says, blunt and final, “unless someone wants to tell me how we can fix whatever’s going on right now.” 

Isn’t that the million dollar question, San thinks bitterly. 

There’s a thick silence that settles in the middle of them all. The PR team are busy in the corner, already drafting a notice, no doubt with surgically precise writing. Tailored to maintain the image and the fantasy of perfection. Nothing was wrong! It was a group decision to step back and take a small break. In fact, they won’t even call it a hiatus – it’ll be referred to as a break. An opportunity given to them to see family, unwind, mentally and physically relax. The company will reassure worried fans that this was a unanimous, amicable decision, and that the members will still be active on Fromm, TokToq, and Instagram from time to time. They will even give a rough estimate for the group’s return: We’ll welcome them back in two weeks! Please wait for ATEEZ~ 

“If no one else has anything to say, then this meeting is over. Your schedules today have been cancelled. Go home, rest. Take some time away, do whatever you need to pull yourselves together. I want us back here in two weeks, better than ever and ready to work as a team. Understand?” 

They all mumble in reluctant agreement. The room empties slowly now that the meeting has concluded, the sound of chairs pushing back and mumbling ‘thank you’s’ during polite bows fading into silence. 

Yunho is the only one seeming unbothered, and Mr. Kim notices. He watches him the whole time as he walks out first, shrugging his flannel on. Something tugs at the back of his mind. Something’s off. Yunho exits the room like he just landed a good business deal. Like nothing said in the conference room was any worry to him at all – in fact, on the contrary. It seems to be exactly what he wanted. Mingi follows behind him. 

The PR team filters out as well, noses buried in notebooks and phones, scribbling and typing away, discussing word choice and social media strategy on how to announce the news. One manager, Yunho’s, hesitates before leaving. He steps aside a few feet from the doorway, looking back at his boss like he’d like to say something, but ultimately decides against it. He bows again when eye contact is briefly made between him and Mr. Kim and hurries out, rushing to catch up with Yunho before he leaves.  

Hongjoong is the last to stand up, only snapping back into awareness when Seonghwa gingerly touches his shoulder. He’s shaking slightly, and his throat is dry. Even the CEO of the whole damn company doubts him. Seonghwa stays close to him, ready to attempt to comfort him once out of earshot of everyone else. But he knows it’s probably a lost cause. At least for now. 

“Hongjoong,” calls Mr. Kim from the head of the table, “stay back for a minute, please.” 

Oh, shit. 

He sinks back down in his seat, unsure of how much more he can take. Running a hand through his messy hair, he takes a deep breath. He isn’t ready to hear what he knows Mr. Kim is going to say, but it’s not up to him to decide when he does hear it. In his head, he goes over the little script he and Seonghwa came up with in the case that anyone asks what is going on – be vague and deflect.     

Mr. Kim doesn’t look up from his laptop at first. “Sit,” he says, voice flat but heavy with authority. Hongjoong obeys. His palms are damp, resting on his knees. Mr. Kim leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face. 

Only when the door clicks shut does Mr. Kim speak again. “Do you know what I see, Hongjoong?”

Hongjoong blinks, unsure if it’s rhetorical. “Sir–?”

“I’ve seen this happen before in this industry, and I’m watching it happen now. Your group is in a freefall,” he interrupts. “The weird tension on stage, cold shoulders in interviews, one of your members disappearing from himself entirely, and you sitting there pretending everything is normal.” 

Hongjoong’s throat is tight. “It’s temporary,” he manages, “the group has been working through something personal recently, but I can–”

“No,” Mr. Kim says, cutting him off again, “whatever it is that you think you can do or are doing to fix this, you can’t. If you could, we wouldn’t be here discussing how bad it’s become.” His tone isn’t raised, but it’s almost worse that it’s calm. Matter-of-fact. “I trusted you to be the one that holds this group together. I trusted you to set the example. And I’m not seeing that from you lately.”

“And I am,” Hongjoong insists, the words tumbling out a bit too fast. “I promise I’m taking care of everything. I’m just trying to fix it without making things worse.”

Mr. Kim leans forward now, clasping his hands on the table.“Hongjoong, what is going on? What can’t you tell me?” 

Hongjoong presses his lips into a thin line, looking down at the desk. “It’s just…” he begins to say, but he can’t find a suitable nor believable ending to his alibi. 

The CEO sighs through his nose, fingers drumming once against the table before stopping. “If you can’t handle this,” he says, every word slow and precise, “I’ll find someone who can.”

The message hits him like a runaway train. 

Hongjoong sits there, motionless. There’s nothing to say. He can’t tell him the truth. He can’t explain the cameras, or the fear, or the way Yunho’s shadow stretches over all of them even when he’s not in the same room. So he just nods, quietly, the weight of failure settling deep into his chest.

The CEO stands, straightening his jacket, having delivered the damage he meant to give to him. But before he leaves, he looks back at the man in the chair opposite his. He still sees the bright red hair, a mixtape, an enviable creativity and sense of responsibility, and a work ethic built from nothing but pure passion and drive. He knows first hand how hard Hongjoong works, often to the bone unless he’s forced to stop, how selfless a man he’s grown up to be. Mr. Kim hates to be hard on someone he considers to be like a son to him, but it’s tough love. Besides, when it comes to people like Hongjoong, when their abilities are questioned, they will often go out of their way to prove the world wrong. 

Mr. Kim pats Hongjoong on the shoulder. “Take a couple weeks,” he suggests, “and come back when you remember how to lead.”

Hongjoong doesn’t move until the door closes again. Then, finally, he lets out the breath he’s been holding and stares down at his trembling hands. Isolated again. Singled out as the weak link. He’s not doing enough, clearly, but if that’s the case, why does he feel like he’s losing a part of himself with the stress every single day? 

Seonghwa waits outside the door, listening to what the CEO says. His heart wrenches. If not Hongjoong then who? There was no one better suited for the role than him, there was just no way in hell the company would ever actually strip him of his role because of this one thing. He has hope. And that’s more than most of the rest of them can say right now.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Hongjoong spends most of the day in his studio, resistant to Seonghwa telling him to take a break. If he goes home, he’ll just lie awake and think himself into oblivion. He can’t do that. Instead, he pours all of his concentration and frustration into producing, writing, recording demos. Things he knows he’s good at. 

After about six hours holed up in there, he finally takes the headphones off of his ears and sets them down on the desk next to his keyboard. He didn’t finish a single demo, his mind too all over the place to focus solely on one. 

He and Wooyoung reconvene late that afternoon at Seonghwa’s, San’s, and Mingi’s dorm. They coordinate the time in a new group chat, excluding Yunho. It had been created once Hongjoong had returned Yeosang’s phone to him. Yeosang had shown up at Hongjoong’s dorm very late the night the last three found out, in search of it. Hongjoong was just thankful that he came back unharmed. 

Jongho was staying back, claiming he was fine and just wanted to sleep today off. Yeosang says something to the same effect. No one can blame them for wanting time to themselves, just to sleep and escape thinking about their situation. San and Mingi stay in their rooms for the first hour that Hongjoong and Wooyoung are there, slowly emerging one by one into the living room and perching themselves on the couch. 

Nothing new is really said, it’s less than an official meeting to talk about everything, and more so an opportunity for whoever needs it to not feel alone. The main topic is the hiatus, and how worried they are about their fans receiving the news. It’ll go live tomorrow morning, so they have the whole night ahead of them to dwell on it. They’re also concerned that now that there is more time in the day, Yunho might escalate. Mingi doesn’t say much outside of nodding along to something said that he agreed with from time to time. 

Once it turns nine o’clock, San goes to bed quite early, bidding goodnights to the guys before disappearing back into his room. Wooyoung goes with him, just about ready to collapse into bed as well, even if it’s not his own. San doesn’t mind, he never really does. He automatically shifts over to make room for him, lifting the covers for him with his eyes closed when he hears his door open and close again. 

In the living room, both Seonghwa and Hongjoong are surprised that Mingi doesn’t retreat to his room as well. He stays stock still on the couch, biting his lip like he’s not sure if he should say something on his mind or not. They don’t push him, but they do hope he says whatever it is. Seonghwa quietly gets up, volunteering to make ramen for them all, and goes into the kitchen to prepare the food, leaving just Hongjoong and Mingi together.  

For a while, they just listen to the miscellaneous noises coming from the kitchen. Both of them have words on the tips of their tongues, but neither want to be the first to let them out. Hongjoong looks up at Seonghwa, aiming to watch him cook for a few moments, only to find that he’s looking at him over his shoulder as he stirs. His chin jerks up and he raises his eyebrows, indicating that he should say something to Mingi before turning back around to add the spices. 

The best he can come up with to break the silence is, “How are you?” 

Mingi shifts and clears his throat before answering. 

“I’m okay. I mean, it’s healing kinda slow but.” He lifts his engraved arm a little off the couch, his opposite hand once again covering it to protect it once he lowers it back down.

“No, I mean you. Not your injuries.” Hongjoong clarifies, leaning forward a little. 

At first, Mingi isn’t sure how to respond. He doesn’t have an immediate answer to his question. It’s weighted too heavily with complicated layers needed for the reply that Mingi just can’t bring himself to think through yet. His ribs still ache with every breath, every miniscule movement. 

He supposes the short, honest answer is ‘no’. But after the meeting today, he’s not sure he can honestly tell Hongjoong that and discourage him even more. He truly has been doing so much for the group; being there for them, answering every question to the best of his ability, ordering them food without any of them needing to ask, and texting them each individually throughout the day to check in, offering support if they need it. All while trying to not crumble under the pressure of not letting them fall as best he can. 

So he lies. As many of them are to him when asked the same question. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Mingi tries a smile, but only manages to lift the corners of his mouth a little. Hongjoong doesn’t completely buy it, but again, he doesn’t push him. 

They both watch Seonghwa for another few seconds in silence. 

“Min, um…” Hongjoong mutters, “can I ask you a hard question?"

Uh oh. Mingi shifts again, uncomfortably and anxiously. This could be about anything, though he has an idea about what he’s going to ask. Something about you. 

Seonghwa throws the last packet of ramen into the pot of boiling water, stirring it and humming quietly to himself. Anything to act normal. To act strong for his best friend. He’s glad his back is turned to him now, though.   

Hongjoong picks at his nails, delaying himself. Not one single ounce of him wants to ask him this, but it’s something that’s been haunting him for the past couple weeks. The same question everyone’s been avoiding. Mingi nods once, looking down at the floor.  

“Min, we… we raped her, didn’t we?” 

The violent word hangs in the air between them. Something clatters to the floor in the kitchen, Seonghwa, instead of bending down to grab whatever fell, just looks over his shoulder again at the two of them. 

He continues, his voice wavering, “I’ve been trying to tell myself we didn’t… but you can’t consent if you’re– you know I would have never– if I had known–” 

It feels otherworldly to Seonghwa and Mingi to watch Hongjoong begin to break down. It’s such a shock to the system, they don't even know what to do at first. There’s absolutely no way to reassure him, not when it’s technically true. Seonghwa leans back against the counter in a daze. He’s had the same thought, but always pushed it away, talked himself out of it based on that technicality – they didn’t know, and it seemed to them that you genuinely wanted it to happen. How true that really was, they don’t know. 

And that’s what eats them all alive. 

Mingi had accepted it a while ago, hence his morose aura that looms over him like a permanent stormcloud above his head. He doesn’t need to say yes, he just needs to be here for Hongjoong as he finally says it out loud. Seonghwa wants to sprint to the shower, suddenly feeling unclean and disgusting, needing to scrub away any trace left of the truth of what he’s done. What he’s become. What Yunho turned him into. 

Hongjoong can’t suppress the stray sob that leaps from his throat. It’s a broken, dejected sound that rips their hearts to pieces. Their leader, their captain, always the strong foundation of the group, always the backbone, now sat brittle on the couch, like one more strained word will cause him to disintegrate before their eyes. He covers his face with his hand, ashamed of himself for crying in front of the two of them. Ashamed of being weak. 

How is he supposed to protect them when he can’t even protect himself?

Mingi wordlessly moves to sit next to Hongjoong, throwing an arm around his shoulders. It’s not long until Seonghwa joins as well, rubbing his back and letting him lean into his side. 

“No matter what, we’ll always have that on our backs,” Hongjoong continues, managing to speak beneath his tears, “we’ll always be that.”  

“We’re not bad people…” Seonghwa says as he tries to believe it himself. Mingi wants to scoff through his nose, to laugh bitterly, but thinks twice before doing so. There was no room for pessimism right now. Instead, keeping quiet forces him to sit with Seonghwa’s words. He’s so convinced that he’s a bad person himself, but he refuses to believe any of the others caught in the same trap are at any fault whatsoever. He wonders if anyone else thinks the same as him, particularly Hongjoong. It’s a tricky thing. A powerful kind of self-reflection that latches itself in the back of their minds for later. 

“Are we good people just because we know what we did was wrong?” Hongjoong laments. It’s a struggle to get each word out as he cries while simultaneously trying to pull himself together. 

After another couple of minutes, he exhales. “I just… I can’t stop thinking about what she must’ve felt. What she must still be feeling. How afraid she must be that it’ll happen again.”  

Mingi looks down, fingers tightening around his knee. 

“To be fair, I don’t think it’s us she’s afraid of,” he says. Hongjoong half-heartedly shrugs, but nods anyway. Maybe he’s right. 

“She’s just trying to survive him, like we all are, but… I don’t know, I just… I just want her to feel safe again.”

His words carry the same effect as a confession. Seonghwa’s eyes meet Mingi’s. He studies him for a moment, the way his voice softens when he says her. The way the guilt twists into something gentler, something that he’s heard from him before whenever the subject of you is brought up. And from what he saw between you two that night. He and Yeosang had talked about it, albeit vaguely – the less people that know, the safer they’d be. Yeosang had only mentioned that he too noticed a deeper dynamic going on, but he had no idea what it truly was. 

Half-true. 

Seonghwa takes a deep breath. “Min… please don’t tell me you have feelings for her. It can’t be genuine. Not like this.” 

Mingi doesn’t say anything. He picks at the fraying hem of his hoodie, suddenly solely interested in that. For some reason, he’s embarrassed to all hell. Like a teenager getting teased for who his crush is at school. Hongjoong straightens a little, also turning to look at him. 

“Either way, you know you can’t actually pursue this… right?” Seonghwa continues. 

Still, Mingi remains quiet. But he nods slowly after a beat. He knows. Realistically, logically, why would you ever want to stay close to someone who is best friends with the man who kidnapped, tortured, and whored you out to half of his friend group? To choose him would be to choose a life of consistent unpleasant memories and nightmares. You can’t fix each other with wounds this deep. 

“Yeah, I know.” He says, forcing a short laugh as if to brush it all away. 

He tilts his head back slightly, turning away from Seonghwa and Hongjoong. It’s nothing he hasn’t already told himself. Still, it hurts to hear when it’s said by someone else. He runs a hand through his hair, unsure of what to do with his hands right now. Thankfully, Hongjoong and Seonghwa look away from him, lessening the pressure. 

No one else has anything to say. It’s asked, answered and settled. Mingi knows there’s no way anything between you can possibly grow from what it is now. 

He’d still like to ask what you think about the subject though.

“Are you gonna stay?” Seonghwa asks Hongjoong, leaning down a little to try and meet his eyes. 

Hongjoong hesitates. “I might. I’ll text Jongho and ask if he’s okay being alone for the night.” It’s such a parental thing to say to another grown man, especially one of the more independent members like Jongho, but it’s just his natural instinct to make sure everyone is okay before he focuses on himself at all. 

“Okay…” Seonghwa waits a beat longer before getting up to go back to the kitchen, retrieving the ramen for them. When he turns back around, managing to balance the three bowls in both hands, Mingi’s standing up too. 

“I’ll um. I’ll eat in my room.” 

Seonghwa nods, extending one of his hands to him so he can take a bowl. Once he makes his selection – the one that looks the most spicy – he thanks him before turning on his heel and disappearing into his bedroom. When the door clicks shut, Seonghwa keeps walking, setting a bowl of ramen in front of Hongjoong on the coffee table. 

“Eat.” He says, knowing he’ll only pick at it unless nagged into taking care of himself. He knows him too well. 

Miraculously, Hongjoong manages a small laugh. Seonghwa’s shoulders drop in relief, not realizing he had been so tense this whole time. He slurps his own ramen, bringing the bowl onto his lap and leaning back on the couch. In spite of everything, he is determined to have a normal night. His hand fishes around in between the couch cushions for the TV remote, finding it stuffed between the arm and the end cushion. The TV blinks awake, and Seonghwa opens Netflix, looking for a K-Drama to watch while they eat. 

Hongjoong shoots a quick text to both Jongho and Yeosang, just checking in one more time to see if they need anything. Yeosang texts back quickly.

I’m okay! He won’t be back tonight or tomorrow. Gonna shower soon and then go to bed. Goodnight, hyung. 

The response from Jongho comes in a couple of minutes later, in two parts. 

I’m okay too. 

Thank you, capt.

He looks away from that specific word as soon as he reads it. To distract himself, he shoves a large portion of ramen into his mouth, tongue going numb from the heat and spiciness. 

Gradually, it does start to feel like a normal night. And it’s something Hongjoong didn’t know he desperately needed until now. He eventually leans back as well, willing his stiff body to relax as he eats. Right now, no one expects anything of him. Everyone’s safe, accounted for. He dares to settle down, to forget about today, try to be present while letting his mind clear at the same time as he watches the drama Seonghwa picks. It’s nice to just… be. To only worry about the two main characters’ cliche miscommunication and the drama – pun intended – that follows. 

There’s a pleasant warmth in his stomach when he finishes his food, setting the bowl onto the coffee table and resting his head on a pillow from the couch, slightly propped up against the arm of it. Seonghwa does the same on the opposite side, pulling the blanket down from the back of the couch and spreading it out over both of their legs. Neither means to fall asleep so fast. Who knew that feeling safe could save you from stress-induced insomnia? It’s equally as nice to sleep for the first time in days, and not just a lapse of consciousness, but a deep R.E.M – something quite rare for idols. 

But like all good things, it doesn’t last long. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Almost to the end of the second episode, San hurries out of his room, stopping abruptly when he sees the TV on. He stands as still as a statue, watching Hongjoong and Seonghwa’s forms on the couch. Unmoving, not noticing him. San slowly steps forward, leaning to see if they’re awake or not.

Not. Both of them are passed out already, exhausted. The light from the television bathes them in dark red light. 

San takes another step towards them, his lips parting, about to wake them up. At the last minute, he rethinks it. He retracts his hand, only inches away from Hongjoong’s shoulder, about to shake him awake to tell him. But there was no time to argue with him whether or not it was safe to go. 

Come on! Even his thoughts whisper, urging him on, moving him towards the front door. There’s no time. 

Quickly and quietly, he gets his sneakers on and pulls his hoodie up to cover his head. He slips out the door as if he was never there in the first place. The cool night air makes him cross his arms across his chests for warmth. He looks down at his phone, the maps app pulled up with an address already typed into it. Only about a ten minute walk. Probably less if he hurries. 

The unfamiliar voice rings in his ears still. Hurry, hurry, hurry. 

‘Please help me’. 

It had been a short call when he finally picked up. The first time, he had missed it, only catching the tail-end of his ringtone as he woke up. The second time came almost immediately after the first one resulted in no response. That time, it was on purpose that he ignored it. Specifically because of the caller ID: Jeong Yunho. San had no desire to talk to him, and couldn’t figure out why he was calling him at half past midnight. Probably nothing good. He presses the power button in the middle of his phone ringing, silencing it and just letting the call go through unanswered again. He looked over his shoulder to see if it had woken up Wooyoung, but only saw his back facing him. The third time, again in rapid succession of the other, struck a chord of fear within him. It only rang twice before he answered, giving in to his curiosity. 

“Hello?”  

“San?” 

The voice on the other end was the exact opposite of what he expected. It’s higher-pitched, terrified but trying to stay quiet. This had to be her. It’s difficult to even process that he was now talking to the girl at the center of everything, the one that Hongjoong vowed to keep the three remaining members away from. 

You.

He almost hung up again, but you begged him not to as if you could read his mind, feel his panic through the phone. 

“Please don’t hang up, I’m sorry,” your words were rushed, trying to keep the urgency in your voice while staying quiet, like someone else was trying to listen in, “I’m sorry, it was the first name on his phone I saw.” 

Okay… San sat up, again looking over his shoulder to see if Wooyoung had woken up. Not yet. He rubbed his eyes, still not fully awake yet.  

“Why are you–” 

But you cut him off before he can ask, “Please help me, I-I wanna go home,” your voice broke on the word home, a small sob escaping you. There were a few beats of silence and some rustling, until your voice came back. “He’s asleep right now, please, please get me out of here,” you begged, the uncontrollable waver in your voice giving away that you’re crying. 

San stood up then, his mouth running dry. “Do you know the address?” He asked as he grabbed a hoodie thick enough to protect him from the night air. 

Once he had the address in his phone, his decision was made. The die was cast. 

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said, already making promises he cannot keep, “I’ll be there soon.” 

He heard you move again on the other side of the phone, and then your voice crackled through his receiver, your tone more frantic than before, “San please hurry, he’ll kill me if–” 

And the line went dead. 

He didn’t stop to think. Not wondering why you weren’t calling the police instead, nor how you managed to get into Yunho’s phone to make a call in the first place. Not considering you could be lying at all. All he could think was that he could end this. Get you away from Yunho, deal with the consequences later. For a split second, his brain tries to make him remember the sight of Mingi’s arm in the group chat, and when he had reluctantly shown it to him one night. He shook it off, only naively thinking of one thing: not only could he save you, he could also save everyone else. Perhaps especially Hongjoong. No matter how hard he tries to hide it, everyone can see the steady decline he’s taken due to the astronomical stress. At this point, he doesn’t care if Yunho goes to jail, or any of them. If he hurts that girl in any way, San is going to make sure he does something about it. No more standing by and letting this happen. 

The wind is against him the whole way there. It shoves him backwards, yanks his hood off multiple times until he just decides to keep it down. He searches the black sky for any clouds that would indicate a storm being the reason for the strong winds, but sees none. The farther he gets from the dorms, the tighter the knot in his throat becomes. He shoves his hands in his pockets, looks over his shoulder. He keeps moving. 

As expected, the lobby of the apartment building is dead, save for one tired looking front desk receptionist with her back turned to the door, on the phone. He shakes the cold off of him as he heads straight for the elevator, mumbling the apartment number under his breath over and over again. Something makes his skin crawl as he presses the button in the elevator, even worse when the doors close and he’s isolated, realizing what he’s doing and where he is. 

San has no idea what awaits him on that floor. Within that apartment. The tightness in his throat is almost suffocating him now, and he can’t help but feel like he’s made a mistake. He should just call the police, tell them everything, and be done with it. But the way the call had ended so abruptly… it told him that he didn’t have time to wait around for the police to get there. That thought puts another spring in his step once the doors open again, feeling much less claustrophobic.  

It’s eerily quiet in the hallway. The area itself is long, but seemingly only has about four apartments on this floor. He can guess why: privacy. The apartment is at the very end of the hallway, the door tucked away around a corner. It’s a strange faceoff, an uneven match of competitors. His heart stutters in his chest. Fully awake now, he takes a moment to once again realize where he is, and who is behind that door. 

He’s inches away from the door, unsure whether or not to knock. He tries the knob and twists it, not expecting much to happen. 

But it turns and pushes open. And that right there should be his biggest red flag that something is wrong, and to his credit it is. Swallowing down his anxiety, he dares to push it open a bit more, seeing how dark it is inside. Should he call out for you? Opening a bit more, the darkness flickers blue, then purple before staying a consistent white-ish color. In the thick silence he can just hear the faint sound of the TV in the living room. He glances at the door, quadruple checking that this was the right apartment, and that he’s not breaking into some poor stranger’s instead. 

One step at a time, each one spiking his heart rate. The show playing on the TV gets clearer and clearer – it’s some drama he’s never seen before – and his eyes adjust to the dark blue light the screen covers the layout of the apartment in. San’s hand drifts to his pocket, where his phone is. No one’s in the kitchen nor the living room. There’s no other signs of life in here. San wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but he assumed he’d run into you by now, though he’s not familiar as to what you look like exactly. The more he strains his eyes to see, the more he realizes he’s giving his nightmares an even stronger foundation: now he knows what it smells like, what it looks like, even how it feels to be in here. 

He searches in the dark for that pinpoint red light that he heard Yeosang talk about – the cameras. When he eventually finds one tucked in the corner of the kitchen, his breath catches. Everything he was warned about, right in front of him. He takes a step back, staring at the tiny red light. It blinks at him. Throat drying, he realizes what a terrible mistake he’s made, and turns on his heel to get out as fast as he can.  

But he’s too late as the door swings shut. 

Once again adjusting his eyes to the dark, the light from the hallway no longer aiding him, his heart pounds rapidly in his chest as he comes face to face with–

“Mingi?”  

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“HONGJOONG!” 

Wooyoung’s voice rings through the apartment like an alarm bell, his cry quickly followed by noises of him scrambling to get out of bed and out into the living room. Hongjoong jolts awake, his heart in his throat, trying to look everywhere at once for any immediate danger to him or the others. Seonghwa also wakes up, kicking his blanket off as he sits straight as Wooyoung runs into the room, near incoherent in his panic and worry. 

“What? What is it?” Hongjoong tries to ask calmly, but his fear is obvious. Wooyoung drops to the floor, tears darkening his sleeve as he tries to wipe them away. “Where’s San?” Hongjoong asks, looking past the trembling younger man in front of him, towards San’s room. 

Wooyoung coughs, crying harder. Without another word, he gives Hongjoong his phone, his phone unlocked and showing his text messages with San. Seonghwa scoots closer to see. 

[Sannie] Woo she called me to come help her – I have to try and end this

[Sannie] I’ll be back soon

The timestamps say he sent those over an hour ago. All of them feel sick to their stomachs. Seonghwa takes a deep breath, his gaze flickering over to his right to gauge Hongjoong’s reaction. 

As expected, it’s not great. 

His own gaze is somewhere far away, unblinking, the reality of what San has done hits him right smack in the face. One of his hands reaches up to fix his messy hair, smoothing the back of it down. It was an act of comforting himself more than vanity. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. His ears are ringing, like when you get up too fast and your head starts to go all fuzzy. He knows they’re both looking to him on what to do next, how to fix this, how to get him back unharmed; but he’s just blank. He can’t think past his own self-deprecating thoughts, the conversation earlier with the CEO replaying over and over again in his head. Though he’d tried to defend himself, and Jongho and Seonghwa had stood up for him, everything Mr. Kim had said turned out to be right: he wasn’t trying hard enough. He’s letting this continue. He’s incapable of holding his group together like this. If he’s compromised, then who will be there for the younger members? 

Hongjoong doesn’t realize he’s started pulling at the roots of his hair until Seonghwa stops him, grabbing his wrist and lowering it. Still, he remains motionless. His phone vibrates once more. What could have possibly possessed San to go to that apartment, knowing everything he does about it? Especially after what happened to Mingi. 

Wait. 

He bolts upright, his heart freezing mid-beat. At the same time, Seonghwa realizes the exact same thing. His head snaps towards Mingi’s room, mouth drying instantly. The dorm itself settles and creaks twice like the tick of a clock, tapping against their ears. Wooyoung is too busy trying to call San for what may be the twentieth time in the span of five minutes. Hongjoong doesn’t remember walking towards Mingi’s door, but suddenly he’s directly in front of it, his hand twitching slightly on the doorknob. It pushes open easily. 

And it reveals exactly everything Hongjoong feared. 

Both of them are gone, like they were stolen right out from under his nose. On his watch. He slumps against the doorway, Seonghwa rushing forward to catch him and keep him upright. 

“Oh god– oh no…” Seonghwa mumbles, looking into Mingi’s room as well.    

Again, his phone vibrates. With trembling hands, he finally takes it out of his pocket, swallowing down the lump in his throat as best he can. 

Three texts from Yunho. His divine timing truly knew no limits in moments such as these. 

[Yunho]: It’s sweet you still think they’re yours to protect.  

[Yunho]: Attachment 1: [Image] 

[Yunho]: They came running to her so easily. 

The image he sends twists the knife even harder than the words do. It’s at a specific angle, like he purposefully raised and tilted his phone a certain way to capture everything he wanted Hongjoong to see. San and Mingi on the same couch he, Seonghwa, and Yeosang had been on, and in the foreground of the photo, Yunho’s hand on your thigh. In your hand, you’re holding both Mingi’s and San’s phones. 

Hongjoong nearly loses it then. It is all just way too much to realize how easily Yunho can pick them off one by one, bend everyone to his will. Do anything he wants, manipulate his friends, exploit you. He can’t hear Seonghwa as he tries to calm him down, nor Wooyoung frantically asking what was wrong, his panic only growing as he’s ignored for the time being. All he can think about is his failures.

Trying to protect his group is useless. 

He sees that now. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

It’s been months since you’ve held a phone. Now with two in hand, neither belonging to you, you’re not quite sure what to do. Occasionally, one of them lights up and you stare down at it almost in wonder, getting to know exactly what time it was without needing to get up and go to the kitchen to look at the stove clock, or crane your neck to see the digital clock on Yunho’s nightstand. But it’s rude to touch someone else’s property, so you resist tapping on the screen to bring it to life, just so you can see the time again. 

You’re in the middle of a stale lull in a primarily one-sided conversation. San hasn’t said much since he found out the truth of the situation – you weren’t in danger, Yunho wasn’t asleep, you had no intentions of escaping. It was all a charade. He keeps his head down, legs itching to run out of there as fast as he can, his mind berating him over and over again at how foolish he is.   

Mingi knows the routine by now, and he just sits quietly, waiting to do whatever he is told to do by Yunho. Obviously, he had been called here first. The reason behind the call to get Mingi here had been different, however. It was you on the other line as well, but you weren’t begging for a hero. When he heard your voice on the other line he knew it was a scheme of some kind. You’d simply asked him to come over. You said you wanted him there with you. At first he made an excuse, saying that it would be hard to sneak out without Hongjoong and Seonghwa seeing him leave the dorm, but when he looked outside of his door and saw them asleep, he didn’t lie to you and say they were still awake. He could’ve. What would Yunho have done to him then? Mingi just wanted to avoid getting in another carving situation if possible, and lying to Yunho would’ve probably stamped his ticket back there. At least he believed so. 

And that’s exactly what Yunho wants: fear. Control. Absolute power.

San’s a bit restless, eyes still exploring the unfamiliar surroundings, averting his gaze from you as much as possible, and yet curious to look closer and find out just what exactly it is about you that caused Yunho to do all of this. He wanted to believe he could still help you, and help the group as a result. But it’s clear now: the thought of rescue, and the hope he’d harbored for a fleeting moment, was all a facade. The guilty look on your face when you and Yunho walked out of his bedroom had told him all he needed to know about the reality of all of this. 

Yunho shrugs when no one says anything in response to him. He’d been wondering aloud, hypothesizing and visualizing Hongjoong’s reaction to the fact that they were both here. San especially. You’re staring at your lap still, one of your thumbs absentmindedly running along the smooth side of a phone case, the softness of it providing you a small comfort. Of course, you feel partially responsible for Hongjoong’s torment, and Mingi’s and San’s as well. While you’re at it, might as well throw all seven of them into your apology too. 

Yunho’s eyes flicker over to you again and he watches you fidget with the phones. As if he hasn’t been planning something for the night all along, he fakes a defeated sigh. 

“You know,” he starts, voice deceptively light, “I almost feel bad for him. Really. Hongjoong’s been working himself to death trying to ‘protect’ everyone, and yet… look where you are. Willingly too.”

“Shut up, Yunho,” San snaps, blood boiling, “keep Hongjoong’s name out of your mouth.” 

Yunho levels San with just his eyes, his lips curling into something halfway between a smirk and a sneer. “You didn’t even hesitate when she called. Didn’t question it, just ran straight here. Honestly, I didn’t think it would be that easy.”

San glares at him, teeth clenched so tight his jaw trembles. “You had to trick us to get us here,” he bites down on each word, “you used her. Is that what you call ‘willing’?” 

Yunho laughs quietly, genuinely amused by San trying to snap back at him. It was reminding him of Mingi trying to do the same thing before he got corrected. He gets up off the couch and takes a step closer to him, and though San doesn’t shrink away, his shoulders stiffen. 

“Don’t act like you’re some kind of savior, Sannie. You came running because you wanted to believe you could still fix something. But you can’t.”

San’s glare falters for half a second, just enough for Yunho to notice. The satisfaction flickers across Yunho’s face like a spark catching dry grass. It’s more than enough to kindle the arrogant flame within him. There’s blood in the water, and Yunho can smell it from miles away. 

Mingi watches it all from the corner of his eye, head down, trying to think past the pounding in his ribs. Every instinct tells him to stay quiet – to not make this worse. Yunho’s not just talking; he’s watching, cataloguing every twitch, every reaction. Dangerously analytical and observant. Nothing will go unnoticed. 

Yunho looks at you next, eyes darkening. “Hongjoong hasn’t even stopped to factor you in, has he? Always so eager to please me. So willing to do whatever I ask of you to help me get anything I want.”

You manage a small grin, and Yunho catches it, his smile sharpening. 

“Not like she has much of a choice.” San bites again, sick of Yunho’s delusional based arrogance. 

Oh shit. You gulp, now watching Yunho, preparing yourself for his reaction. If there is one thing he dislikes most, it is any of them questioning him when it comes to how he treats you. He knows what he’s doing. They have no say in the matter whatsoever. Again, he’s doing this for them, goddammit! Ungrateful bastards, all of them. His jaw twitches, and it’s painfully obvious that San has hit a nerve.  

And you and Mingi know full well what comes next when someone talks back. Mingi touches San’s arm as a silent warning. 

“Don’t.” He whispers. But it’s too late. 

“You know what? C’mere, baby. Maybe you can help make a point for me.” Yunho holds his hand out for you to take, which you do of course. 

With his hand in yours, he helps you stand from the couch, and you look up at him now too, your body stiffening slightly. Mingi cards a hand through his hair – this seems more familiar. He isn’t sure he can withstand another night spent in the guestroom, listening to him drag San down to his level. Not that he has much of a choice if that’s what Yunho wants to happen. 

“Sannie doesn’t believe you want this of your own volition. Maybe I should show him what you were doing last night?” 

Your eyes widen like saucers, and you gasp, knowing full well he will. But you can’t say ‘no’ to him. All you can do is grip his shirt in your hands, silently begging him not to. He just smirks down at you in a silent response of his own. Both Mingi and San can see the way your cheeks immediately flush bright red, and how frightened you look. Maybe not ‘frightened’ per say, but definitely nervous that Yunho will follow through on his suggestion. They have no idea what Yunho is talking about though, and are unsure if they want to find out.  

Yunho just tucks your hair back behind your ear.

“Wanna show Sannie instead?” 

“Yes, Daddy.” Anything but showing them the video. You’d gone through enough humiliation by now. You can’t imagine the look on poor San’s face if he was made to watch it. Nor Mingi’s. 

He hums, kissing your forehead softly. “Mingi first,” he whispers, ensuring only you can hear him, “show Sannie what he could have.” 

At first, you’re surprised that he’s letting Mingi have you first, but you suppose ever since… that day, there’s been a small guilty conscience following Yunho around. Additionally, Mingi has been pretty ‘good’, according to Yunho’s standards since then as well. Perhaps his probationary period is over. 

Maybe it’s a peace offering of sorts. 

Yunho’s gaze lingers on the two men on the couch, then shifts back to you. He doesn’t even need to say it now. 

You nod once, slow to move away from him, walking the short distance over to the two men only to drop down to your knees between them. San stares at you like you’ve suddenly grown two additional heads. You turn to look at Yunho over your shoulder, silently seeking permission to begin. Once he gives you the ‘go ahead’, you turn back and go for Mingi. 

At first it’s hard to move under the combined weight of both of their gazes. But you push yourself forward, settling directly in front of him. You lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to the side of his knee, parting the other with your hand to make room. His breath catches in his throat. He makes no move to touch you, wary of Yunho. Any and all touch will come from you and you only.  

Mingi swallows hard. His mind is working a mile a minute as he watches you kneeling in front of him. If they resist, Yunho wins. If they do nothing, Yunho wins. There’s only one way to make it through this without getting hurt again. He just hopes San catches on. 

His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, abandoning himself entirely. 

He then exhales shakily and opens his eyes, looking first towards you, then to Yunho. “Thank you,” he mutters, voice low but steady and loud enough to be heard. 

Yunho perks up. “For what?” 

“For…” he clears his throat, “giving me another chance. It’s very kind of you.” 

It’s the first time in quite a while that Yunho’s smile actually looks genuine, almost like he’s relieved. “Of course, Min.”

San blinks, staring in complete bafflement at his friend. He knows he might just be playing along to stay out of trouble, but thanking Yunho? It makes him sick. 

Mingi looks at San for a split second out of the corner of his eye. There’s something else hidden beneath his expression that Yunho cannot see. But thankfully, San sees it right away. 

It’s not surrender. It’s strategy. 

Your hands shake slightly as you drag your hands up and down his thick thighs. He takes a deep breath, affected by your touch, but able to keep his composure. Still, San doesn’t move. For what reason, no one is sure, even San, but he solely keeps his gaze either on you, Yunho, or the floor. 

Not looking to waste time nor drag this out any longer, your hands creep up to the waistband of Mingi’s sweatpants. He helps you by lifting his hips up just enough so you can coax them down, revealing a growing tent in his boxers. Part of him hates himself for doing this in front of San, another part of him echoes Yunho’s words from that night: “...you guys could’ve said no. You could’ve left.” San can leave right now. He can stand right up and walk out the door – no one will stop him. Maybe a sly remark or two will be thrown his way, but that would be the worst of it. Yunho knows better than to go beyond that when it comes to persuading each of them to partake in his sick little fantasy he’s curating. So he’ll take this one tonight, give San time and an out, play a nauseating compliant role, live with the guilt of you pleasuring him again. 

The pressure of your small, warm palm against him sends a shudder through him that he can’t hide or contain. How long has it been since you’ve been allowed to touch him like this? Too fuckin’ long. You scoot in closer on your knees, applying more pressure onto his clothed length, even letting some spit drip down onto the fabric, just to mess with him a little. His hands clench into fists from the strain of holding himself back when your hands finally pull his boxers down as well, his cock heavy as it bobs up once freed. You grip his length and slowly begin to stroke him, spitting onto the tip and letting it run down. Mingi already is close to panting, but he makes himself take deep breaths whenever he remembers to. His mind wanders back to that time in the shower. He has to look. 

His whole body tenses when he looks down at you, your hand so small around him, long eyelashes dusting the tops of your cheeks as you rest your head against one of his thighs. Your mouth is so tantalizingly close to his dick that he just wants to push you closer by the back of your head. Luckily for him, you’re just as impatient. You’re not sure how far Yunho will make you two go, but hopefully if he lets this go further, maybe he’ll let you cum tonight. But in order for that to happen, you know you have to earn it first. Eager to prove you deserve it, you lick a slow, long, wet stripe up his entire length, only to wrap your lips around the tip. You fall into routine, humming around him at his familiar taste, your hand still grips him at the base, massaging and stroking him as your mouth envelops him more than halfway down. When your nose hits your hand, you hum around him again, and his hips buck upwards, accidentally shoving more of his cock down your throat. You splutter and cough, and he pulls you off by your hair, giving your throat a break for a moment. 

“See, Sannie? If you just behaved like Mingi you could be getting her mouth too.” 

In all honesty, for a minute you forget San is right there next to him until your eyes open to find him looking straight at you. His face is red, and his whole body is tense. You cough again, dragging your soft lips up Mingi’s cock, worshipping it. Knowing Yunho will love this, you maintain eye contact with San as you take Mingi deep into your mouth again. A whimper escapes you when he breaches the back of your throat, but you breathe through your nose and calm your racing heart just like Yunho taught you. San finally tears his gaze away from you at the sound, his morbid curiosity having gotten the better of him in that moment. You close your eyes again once he looks away, focusing solely back on Mingi. 

“Min, keep your eyes open.” Yunho instructs, expression unreadable but not hostile. It’s clear he’s testing him now, seeing just how compliant he’ll be. 

Mingi listens, keeping his gaze locked on you. His hand brushes through your hair, occasionally lingering on the back of your head like he wants to push you down and hold you there. Your mouth is so soft and warm around him, and he can feel himself leaking into your throat. The obscene noises your throat makes make your cheeks heat up, but to Yunho and Mingi it only charges the atmosphere of the room even more. He watches you handle him like he’s worth millions, your little pink tongue kitten-licking the tip every so often, making him twitch and shiver as an immediate result. You grin in between licks, knowing the effect you have on him. He has the same one on you. 

Again, he has that horrible little intrusive thought: Yunho has trained you so well. 

He groans deeply, his hips threatening to buck up again. You press down on his hipbone with your free hand, moving even closer to him if possible. You take your hand around his cock away and slow your pace down almost to a halt. Slowly, inch by inch, you take him all the way down your throat until your nose is pressing up against his lower stomach. Mingi sinks back further into the couch, his head resting against the back of it. 

From behind you, Yunho hums, “Good girl, there you go.” 

His praise sends a shiver down your spine. You can feel how tense San is even though you’re not touching him. He’s barely breathing. Mingi, still unclear of his limits when it comes to you, hides you from San’s view a little, using one of his large hands to cup your cheek, threading his fingers in your hair. You lean into his palm, sighing through your nose. The tension in the room is palpable, an unspoken energy that could be cut with a knife. Mingi’s hand in your hair tightens slightly, guiding your movements as you continue. San’s breath hitches, and you know he’s still watching, even if he can’t see everything. 

None of them look away from you. Even when Mingi’s eyelids turn heavy, and his eyes threaten to roll back at the intense pleasure you’re giving him, he’s determined to not look away. He shuts the two others out. It’s just you and him. His focus on you is unwavering, his grip tightening even more as he loses himself in the moment. The intensity of his gaze and the way his body reacts make it clear that, in this instant, nothing else matters but the connection between you. Likewise, your primary focus is on him. Of course, needing to do well in front of Yunho is always on your mind, but in order to do that, you have to turn all of your thoughts and attention into whoever you’re with. 

You can tell he’s close. The telltale signs are there without him needing to verbalize it. You know. His breathing becomes less rhythmic, and his hand flexes in your hair, signaling his impending release. You double down, drawing him closer to the edge. A couple unchecked moans and other small sounds escape him, and his body begins to tremble due to your administrations. The sounds coming from your mouth are filthy, pornographic in nature. 

Remembering to ask, he fights back another moan before asking Yunho where he’s allowed to cum. Mercifully, Yunho doesn’t make him wait for an answer. 

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs. “In her mouth is fine.” 

Turns out sucking up to Yunho – or at least pretending to as self-preservation – has its bonuses.  Mingi twitches at your response to that, a small hum around him, hollowing your cheeks around his length to encourage him further. 

As he finally lets go, you feel the intensity of the moment reverberate through both of you. He tastes just as good as you remember, filling your mouth as you slowly pump him, milking him for every drop of cum he has to give. Mingi's body relaxes as he lets out a deep, shaky breath, his hold on your hair loosening gently. You both take a moment to catch your breath, the air heavy with the remnants of shared intensity. He wipes the corner of your mouth with his thumb before pushing it into your mouth for a few seconds, relishing on the feeling of you sucking on that as well. You peek over your shoulder at Yunho again, mouth still closed, keeping Mingi’s cum on your tongue. 

“Swallow it, baby.” He says, his eyes darkening. You obey immediately, showing your now empty mouth to both Yunho and Mingi. They groan at the sight, Mingi petting your hair and praising you under his breath. His ribs start hurting again now that he’s coming down from his high, and he realizes he’s been breathing a bit too deeply while his adrenaline took over. He winces as he straightens up, tucking himself back into his underwear and sweatpants. He slumps back against the couch, hand over his ribs as he pants and occasionally groaning from the aftershocks.

You’ve since moved over to San, albeit cautiously. 

Yunho leans back, his foot resting on his opposite knee as he watches his favorite show. 

“I’m sorry for lying to you, Sir. I wanna make it up to you.” You dare to look up at San. 

The bewilderment and fear in his expression is more than obvious as he watches you shift closer towards him. You can’t meet his eyes for more than a split second. Though a few attempts are made to do so, you just can’t bring yourself to this time. You’re not sure why, however it may be because Mingi is right there. Like with the others, you whisper a tiny, barely audible apology to him and gently run your hands up his thighs as well. Your mascara ran a little bit during your time with Mingi, coating the skin just underneath your eyes black.   

He’s too shocked to move away for now, though he desperately wants to. Realizing this is exactly what happened to his groupmates, it dawns on him like a rude awakening. Ever the gentleman his family raised him to be, he can’t make himself shove you away. Add in the fear of what Yunho will do if he refuses you, and the imagery of Mingi’s arm in the group chat, and you get a freeze response. And admittedly, watching you with Mingi had turned him on, though he feels absolutely horrible about it. But hey, he’s just a man. 

But when your hands stray a bit too close to his crotch, he reacts abruptly. 

Dangerously.

“Don’t–!” He exclaims. Your hands are shoved back with such force you have to catch yourself on the floor. You yelp, moreso from shock, and whimper when you feel a sharp pain run up your wrist, landing on your hand at a weird angle. He almost kicks you, moving back further into the couch to get away from you, bringing his feet up onto the cushions so you can’t touch him like that anymore. Mingi jolts in surprise, quickly looking back and forth between San and Yunho, not expecting San to push you away like that. 

Shame rattles through you, permeating deep in your marrow. You feel… disgusting. The way San is looking at you only exacerbates that feeling. You look back at Yunho again, and he visibly tenses, having not seen that look on your face in quite some time. That pained, self-conscious look. 

“That’s enough, princess. Come back to me.” Yunho says flatly, his sharpened gaze never leaving San once. 

If looks could kill, San would be a dead man. 

You quickly push yourself up off the floor, already starting to cry, and hurry back to his side, hiding your face behind his shoulder. 

Mingi stops breathing. Talking back is one thing. Pushing you is quite another. He dares to look at Yunho, unprepared for the violence he is sure is coming. Trying to glean anything in regards to what he’ll do is useless. Yunho locks onto San like a heat-seeking missile. His eyes follow every miniscule movement, and his jaw clenches so hard he feels like he’ll break some molars any second. With practiced, yet fragmented control, he inhales deeply, letting you hide behind him, and he lifts one of his hands to pet your hair as you try not to cry. You don’t want to get San in trouble, but it’s already far too late for that. 

His eyes are dead again. 

“San, go wait in Mingi’s room.” Using his actual name instead of ‘Sannie’ is not a good sign. Even his voice is deadened, monotone. Lifeless and cold. 

San stands shakily, knowing he just punched his ticket. If Yunho didn’t kill him tonight, Hongjoong sure as hell will. He turns to Mingi, helpless, not knowing the layout like he does.  

“Behind you.” Mingi clarifies before he can even ask.

Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second – enough for Mingi to plead silently: don’t fight back.

He hesitates for a moment longer, not wanting to accept his fate before finally turning and disappearing into the guestroom, shutting the door behind him. 

There’s a long pause once the door clicks shut. 

“Did he hurt you, baby?” Yunho asks you, every syllable clipped. It’s evident he’s trying to keep himself as calm as possible, so as to not make you think his anger is directed towards something you did. But it’s also clear that he’s about ten seconds away from blowing up. 

The ghost of San’s shove still lingers on your skin. Do you condemn him to a fate probably worse than Mingi’s? What would he do to him? None of them had shoved you or touched you like that before… 

You cradle the wrist you fell onto, trying to stop crying. You keep yourself hidden behind him, not wanting Mingi to see you condemn his friend. Though you don’t respond verbally, Yunho feels you nod against his shoulder. 

And that seals it. 

But he doesn’t launch into action just yet. He looks back at Mingi, face still flushed and body twitching every so often from the aftershocks of his orgasm. He does his best to comfort you by kissing you on the forehead, whispering reassurances to you. 

Daintily brushing his fingers along your jaw, he murmurs, “Princess, go lie down and rest for me. I’ve gotta talk to Mingi about something. Daddy will bring you something for your wrist in just a minute, okay?” 

Acknowledging that you heard his direction with a pitiful “Okay, Daddy”, you sniffle and try to compose yourself. You’re embarrassed beyond measure, though again you’re not sure why. Probably because it was blatant sexual rejection. You wipe away your tears with your non-injured wrist and shakily stand from the couch, trudging back into Yunho’s room. Once that door shuts, and your blubbering becomes muffled, Yunho’s hands clench into fists. 

“You know what, Min?” He says, laughing without humor, “Funnily enough, I’m starting to think you’re the only person I can trust with her.” 

Unsure of how to respond, Mingi just remains quiet. 

Yunho continues, “Sure, I thought you were crossing a line with her, but at least I know you’d never hurt her.” His gaze wanders back to the door, burning holes through it. 

“And I’m sorry for that,” Mingi says, “for forgetting my place here. I got too carried away, started thinking I knew better than you. I confused compassion for something else.” He swallows hard, forcing his voice to stay level. “You were right to correct me. I needed to remember who’s in control.”

A smile tugs faintly at the corner of Yunho’s mouth – not warmth, exactly, but satisfaction. He leans back, studying Mingi as if weighing the sincerity behind the words.

“And do you remember now?” he asks quietly.

Mingi meets his eyes just long enough to sell it. “Yes. I do.”

Yunho nods once, slow and pleased. “Good. Because I don’t like repeating lessons.” 

“I understand.”

“You’ve done well, though. Owning up. Taking responsibility. That’s the kind of maturity I respect.”

Mingi nods again, forcing himself to look up at Yunho. If resistance only tightens the leash, then maybe compliance can loosen it.

After another pause, Yunho says, “I think I’ll let you have your privileges back. Supervised, of course… but I think you’ve earned that much.”

Mingi bows his head in gratitude, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you.”

He doesn’t look up again until he knows that Yunho had turned away. The moment he does, his eyes flicker with something Yunho doesn’t catch – not relief, not gratitude. Just quiet resolve. There is a large part of him that’s relieved that Yunho trusts him again, and a smaller yet prominent part that despises what he’s had to say and do so far to gain that trust back again. What he will have to say and do as well. 

And speaking of…

“You’ll handle him for me, won’t you?”

It’s not a question, it’s an expectation. A test masquerading as trust. A chance for Mingi to prove himself as a mindless, loyal follower. Yes, Yunho, of course I’ll physically threaten one of my best friends for you. 

Mingi’s throat closes. Every part of him screams no, but he forces his head to move up and down. He knows he has to agree to keep this fragile trust intact. 

“Yes.”

Yunho nods once, satisfied. “Good.” 

He looks up towards one of the cameras and then back down to Mingi. The unspoken message is clear: he’ll be watching. He has to do it.

Yunho stands up, pausing for a fraction of a second, staring at the guestroom door before heading into the kitchen to retrieve an ice pack for you. Mingi stands too, slowly so as to not trigger another sharp stabbing pain in his side, and wipes his sweaty palms against his sweatpants. He turns towards the door to the guestroom, knowing exactly what waits behind it. What will happen behind it. He tries to come up with different ways he can avoid actually hurting San, but making it look like he has. Unfortunately for the both of them, he’s coming up short. 

San’s defiance had been brave. Stupid, but brave. No one else had said 'no' before. And now it’s Mingi’s job to fix it – or at least make it look like he did, if he can manage to fool Yunho. Which he doubts. No, in the unblinking red eye of the cameras, he’s going to have to put on a real show. 

Mingi jumps about a mile in the air when he feels Yunho touch his shoulder. It’s like getting struck by lightning; his heart stops in its tracks, his hair stands on end. He turns to look at him. 

“Make sure he understands where he went wrong.”

The handle of a knife is pressed into his hand. 

And with that, he’s gone from the room too, leaving Mingi standing alone, the weight of the order sinking into him like a stone dropped into deep water, pulling him down before he can take a breath. The cold handle of the knife burns his skin, and memories wash over him like a tidal wave before he can even attempt to keep them at bay. 

It’s the same one.  

The sharp end of it points directly towards the door, as if egging him on. Seeking its target, already knowing where he is. The last of the air in his lungs escapes him involuntarily. His arm feels like it’s being reopened, and he wouldn’t be surprised to see blood dripping down onto the floor. 

Trembling with a heavy dread he’s never had to bear before, he turns the knob and pushes the door open, not ready at all for what he has to do. 

And neither is San. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

San jolts at the sound of someone outside the door. 

He’d been standing in the middle of Mingi’s room almost in amazement; it was almost similarly furnished to his actual room in the dorm. Only a couple items were missing like most of his clothes, and his laptop, and of course the different bedding. But even the position of the bed itself was the same, a desk in the same spot, his extra pair of headphones, an outrageously expensive plushie San had trouble fathoming why or how it could be that costly. In fact, all of them had given him shit about it – purely all in good fun. Must be why he keeps it here, he thinks with a small grin. 

He didn’t mean to push you. He panicked. In that moment, he was so overwhelmed, afraid, baffled, an amalgamation of emotion. Yunho should know full well San would never push or shove anyone except in fun. And even then, it would be light. He’d never hurt you on purpose. But Yunho doesn’t see that. He sees that San pushed you, and that’s all he will focus on. End of story. 

While he waited, he replayed the morning he found out about all of this, as he often does. However, this time, he imagined it was him. Every story he’s heard about Yunho and what he’s done, what he’s seen so far, his mind spins and creates with how he’ll be the next example. There’s no doubt in his mind. And what he keeps circling back to is imagining the look on poor Hongjoong’s face. He’s already at the end of his rope, and no one is quite sure how much more he can take. San certainly is not doing him any favors by being here. Somewhat voluntarily, at that. 

So when the door opens, and he fully expects it to be Yunho, it only worsens the ache in Mingi’s heart that San looks so relieved at the sight of him instead. Out of habit, he side-eyes the cameras. Each of them jeer at his misfortune, laughing at how clueless San is. Mingi’s presence instead of Yunho’s isn’t a saving grace. It’s a placeholder for the real thing. 

San realizes that all too late when Mingi shoves him up against the door, a rather large knife held up to his throat. Mingi presses hard enough for him to try and pry him off, but not enough to cut him. Not enough to make it real, but just the right amount to get him to react accordingly. The look of utter betrayal in San’s eyes sears into Mingi’s memory. His mouth opens in confusion, eyes flashing between anger and disbelief.

“Min, what the hell–?!”

“Don’t. Just listen to me.” Mingi grits out, voice low and dangerous. The knife doesn’t move even one centimeter from where it lightly presses against his throat. “Don’t you ever put your hands on her like that.”

The words burn his tongue as he says them. He can feel the camera’s unblinking stare on the back of his neck, the invisible disciplinarian that keeps them both in check. Every syllable needs to sound real within earshot of it. He has to be convincing. 

San pushes weakly against him, trying to get air, to get away from the cold steel of the knife, but Mingi leans in closer, jaw tightening. 

“Do you hear me, San?” He bites, just loud enough for the microphones to catch. His breath shakes as it leaves him, but his tone stays sharp and controlled. “Touch her like that again, and you’ll get a hell of a lot worse than what I went through.” 

He’d like to believe he’s showing San mercy, even if it’s hard to categorize this as anything but assault and threats of physical violence. On the surface, this is textbook betrayal. The ultimate mutiny, siding with the villain of the story whose reputation is notoriously violent and manipulative. Brother turning against brother. The list could go on.  

He hates every word spilling out of his mouth, even if what he’s saying is true. Each word has to be forced out as soon as he thinks of them – he can’t afford to hesitate or hold back what he thinks Yunho will want to hear. San’s throat moves beneath the blade, a faint rasp escaping as he struggles to breathe evenly. Though the pressure Mingi applies isn’t meant to hurt, it still feels like too much. Every instinct in him screams to stop. To pull away. He wants San to put up a fight like he did, and walk away unharmed. They need a win. 

But he doesn’t listen to instinct. He listens to what he’s been told to do. He knows Yunho wants to see hesitation, to catch the faintest flicker of rebellion in his eyes. One wrong twitch, one ounce of visible resistance, and he’d know it was all an act. 

So Mingi keeps his face impassive. Keeps his grip firm on the handle, his elbow digging into San’s shoulder to keep him still. His tone stays steady and sharp. 

But his eyes tell a different story. 

San glares at him, his eyebrows knitting together as he searches Mingi’s face for any sign that will tell him that he doesn’t mean what he’s saying. He finds none. When he manages to speak, his voice comes out rough. Uncertain. He doesn’t believe what Mingi is saying or doing. Nor how he is acting. This isn’t like him at all… 

“You’re not serious.” He says, but he’s not completely sure. 

Mingi only presses harder against San’s throat, now cutting off much needed air. He doesn’t press the blade, but the handle instead. He doesn’t blink. 

“Try me.”

Those two words land like large stones at San’s feet. A long silence stretches between them, thick enough to choke on. Mingi can practically feel the camera lens narrowing in on them, hungry for violence, waiting for him to take it further. He can’t. He won’t. This is as far down to Yunho’s level he will ever allow himself to go. 

San’s eyes are wide, a profound hurt swimming just beneath the surface, but there’s something else too – an understanding. It’s faint, but it’s there. The smallest flicker that maybe, just maybe, San knows what this really is. Or, the message Mingi is passing along is being acknowledged and sinking in. No matter what he says, the underlying tone is the same: everyone has to be careful with how they treat you. Especially in front of Yunho. 

He lets the tension drag just a second too long before stepping back. Once the pressure lifts from San’s throat, he coughs, rubbing at his neck to check for any blood and hunching over, eyes still locked on him in disbelief. Mingi doesn’t look away. He has to sell it to the end. 

He pushes San down to his knees, ignoring his coughing and surprised yelp as he hits the hard wood. He takes one step back, angling his body ever so slightly so that the camera in the upper corner of the room can view everything. 

“I just didn’t want her to touch me like that–” San tries to defend himself, not looking at him anymore. 

“You think that matters?” Mingi flares. The words come out harsher than he meant them to, desperate for San to understand the gravity of what he’s done. Mingi’s not sure he completely understands how serious an offense he’s just committed. “You don’t want something, you say so. You will not do that again. Am I clear?”

San’s jaw locks, but he nods. Not particularly loving the lecture he’s being given from the younger man. 

“Crystal.” He says through his teeth. Mingi almost falters, wanting so badly to tell him why he’s doing this. But he can’t. He has to continue. To push it one step further to satiate Yunho for now. 

He exhales through his nose, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “Look at the camera.”

San hesitates. His eyes dart to the tiny red light glowing high in the corner. He’s trembling now, forced to acknowledge the camera dead on. Another devastating reminder that he’s being recorded. He’s being watched. 

Mingi points right at it. 

“Beg him to forgive you.” A small, almost audible to the camera waver in his voice is heard by San. He looks at him inquisitively. Little things like that that Mingi lets slip are adding up in San’s head, casting a hint of doubt that Mingi is actually betraying him, or any of the others. Hoping he’s right based solely on a slightly unsteady voice, he does as he’s told.  

“I’m sorry,” San says finally, staring into the lens. The lump in his throat increases in size. 

“Again,” Mingi mutters, quieter.

“I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have pushed her. Please forgive me, both of you… please. I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

Mingi forces himself to look away, jaw tightening as he listens to San’s trembling voice. It’s the only thing he can do to not shatter the act he’s putting on. His chest feels heavy. His grip on the knife loosens, like he wants to drop it as soon as possible. 

He adds one more line because he knows Yunho will expect it. “You’ll treat her better next time?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Say it and mean it.”

San lets out a breath, similar to the one someone might exhale right before they start crying, “I promise I’ll treat her better.”

There’s a long silence after that. The kind that tastes like blood in the back of the throat. Treating you right can mean multiple things at once. Neither of them want to think about which one it’ll mean for next time. 

“You don’t know how lucky you are, San.” Mingi says it before he can stop himself. It’s the most like himself that he’s sounded all night. Admittedly, there’s a small part of him that feels a bit resentful that San’s getting off so easily when he had to suffer so much. Arguably for something much less serious. 

But it’s the truest thing he’s said to him so far. San is lucky. Because next time, it might not be Mingi who is sent to deal with him. Though he thoroughly doubts San will ever come back here again. Ever. Unless dragged, kicking and screaming. Nevertheless, in order to save him from his experience, this is what he has to do. Hopefully he’ll be able to explain himself later in private, where he knows Yunho can’t overhear, but right now he can tell it’ll be hard for San to even be near him after this.  

He prays Yunho accepts his performance. At least if he does, this will have been for something. 

He’s still catching his breath when the realization creeps up on him, slow and suffocating. He replays the moment – the way Yunho’s voice had been calm, measured. The faint satisfaction behind his order. You’ll handle him for me, won’t you?

At first, Mingi thought it was another one of his tests – a way for Yunho to see if he’d obey. But now, in the heavy quiet that follows, something clicks into place. The pieces line up too neatly, too profoundly: Yunho hadn’t made him do this because he wanted to see loyalty. He’d made him do it because if Mingi hadn’t… Yunho would’ve done it himself.

And San wouldn’t have come out of it alive.  

It dawns on Mingi that Yunho asked him to do it so he wouldn’t kill him. 

His hands are shaking so hard, San can’t help but notice. His throat tightens around a sigh he can’t release. The act’s over. He’s done what he needed to do – or rather, what Yunho wanted him to do. That should be enough.

Good, he thinks, bitterly. He got his show.

Mingi forces himself to take a step back, every muscle in his body stiff and aching from restraint. He’s careful not to let the exhaustion show in his face. Not to let his true feelings creep into his expression. This must be how you’ve been operating every single day. 

As Mingi reaches for the doorknob, San flinches back. His eyes are still wide, whole body on alert, ready to defend himself from any more attacks to his throat. The knife is too close to him again. At this angle, Mingi leans in close enough for the camera to see but low enough for only San to hear. 

“Just keep your head down,” he murmurs, voice barely audible, “please.”

It’s his voice again, not someone else’s words he was expected to recite. This was real.  

When the door pushes open again, Mingi’s not surprised in the slightest when he sees Yunho already making his way back into the living room. A spike of fear of not being convincing enough stabs through Mingi, and he grabs San’s shirt to drag him out of the room. 

San doesn’t put up a fight. He lets himself be manhandled into the room, shrinking under Yunho’s steely gaze. 

He even stumbles a little as he’s pushed towards him. Once within reach, Mingi sets the knife down on the coffee table, not missing how it felt in his hand whatsoever. 

Yunho looks San up and down. Analyzing, absorbing the confusion, the shock in his face. He had hoped Mingi would do a little more to discipline him, but… he can always do that himself later. 

The quiet fury he felt hasn’t completely gone away yet.

Unbeknownst to Mingi, he was right: Yunho had to step away, go back to you and calm down enough to not want to kill him anymore. He’d seen red as he walked into his bedroom, your glossy eyes cast downwards at your wrist. He could barely look at you without feeling that familiar burn start to spark in his chest, the kind that always ends with an eruption if left unchecked. Or worse, provoked. He’d made himself sit down, count his breaths, press the heels of his palms into his eyes until the static ringing in his head faded to a low hum. You nuzzled into his shoulder, seeking comfort of your own, but also because you knew it would help him extinguish some of the fire that was raging through him. 

“I’m okay, Daddy. Promise.” You whispered, kissing his shoulder for good measure. 

But he cracked his knuckles and stared off into space, unblinking. “No you’re not,” he said in a monotone voice, looking down at your wrist again, “that fucker hurt you. He–” he had to cut himself off in the middle of speaking. 

You attempt to roll your wrist, maybe to try and show him that you really were okay, but you wince when it gets to a certain angle. You cease all attempts to prove that you’re not hurt, as it’s only serving to make him angrier. The two best things to do in these types of situations are always: be quiet, be there for him. So you held his hand and promptly shut up. You leaned into him as he watched the camera feed on his laptop, your eyes closed. 

You didn’t want to see. 

With an icy kiss to the back of your hand, Yunho made you an even colder promise. 

“I will never let anyone think they can touch you like that again.” 

By penalty of death. 

Now face to face with San again, Yunho feels that same anger flaring up again. Yunho’s jaw clenches tight, every ounce of self-control is working to stay his hand. But the more he looks at San, the more he’s reminded that you’re in his bed right now, gingerly resting your wrist on an ice pack, trying to hide your tears from him. 

“That’s all, San.” He says, lethally calm like an emperor deciding to spare a gladiator’s life in the colosseum, “Go home.” 

He tosses San’s phone onto the coffee table, and it lands with a loud bang! 

San blinks once. Twice. Three times. Did he hear that correctly? 

He doesn’t move at first. No one does. No one dares. San from fear, Mingi from experience. It was never this easy. They both wait specifically for the catch, the final word, anything more, but nothing else comes. What they do get is a noticeable rise in anger from Yunho, the longer San stays put.   

Sparing one last look at Mingi out of the corner of his eye, San hurriedly snatches his phone and makes for the door, panic rising in his throat every second longer he stays in there. Even though Yunho doesn’t move towards him whatsoever, it feels like he’s chasing him down the hallway. San can’t breathe properly until the elevator doors close and send him back down. Each floor taking him further and further away. 

The cold air outside swipes at him, trying to pull him apart as he walks through it. At times, he breaks into a run. Both to beat the cold, and to put even more distance between him and that place. He just wants to go home. He needs to be home now. He’ll take the lecture from Hongjoong anyday, no matter how severe it will be. 

Around the corner from the dorms, he finally has the thought to check his phone. 

Eighteen missed calls from Wooyoung. Five texts from Yeosang. Three from Jongho. Two voicemails from Seonghwa.

Nothing from Hongjoong.

Somehow, that’s worse than anything. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Walking back into the dorms, he’s hit full force with a frantic Wooyoung, nearly tackling him in a hug as soon as he crosses the threshold. The entire dorm comes alive with questions, loud voices overlapping each other, each one fighting for an answer first. It takes him a minute to realize everyone is there now – Jongho and Yeosang must have come over while he was gone. The thought reignites the avalanche of guilt, that they were called to make sure they didn’t leave either. But it’s nothing compared to how he feels when he sees Hongjoong.  

He stands apart from the others, Seonghwa, as always, by his side. Ever still the parents of the group. He doesn’t look away from San, nor does the cold glare subside one bit when their eyes meet. Wooyoung is still clinging to him, demanding to know what happened, voice cracking between relief and panic, but San can’t hear any of it. Everything narrows to Hongjoong. In the meantime, he placates Wooyoung by mumbling a half-hearted, “I’m fine”, ignoring his questions about why his throat is so red.  

Meeting Hongjoong’s eyes again, he finds he can’t bring himself to explain anything. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. What could he even say? That he’s sorry? That he thought he was helping? That he didn’t even think twice before running there like an idiot? Every excuse that flashes through his head sounds pathetic before it even reaches his tongue.

Hongjoong finally moves, slow and deliberate, pushing past Wooyoung and Yeosang until he’s standing right in front of him. The exhaustion etched into his face makes San’s stomach twist – the insane amount of stress and lack of sleep manifest in the deep, dark circles under his eyes, and in the way he can barely stand without shaking. 

He grabs San by the shoulder, nails digging into his skin through his hoodie, “Why would you ever go there? Why?”

San’s mouth dries instantly. Now’s the time to pick the best excuse, but he can’t bring himself to lie to him. The truth is terrifyingly plain and simple. He tears his gaze away from Hongjoong’s, unable to look him in the eyes after what he’s done. 

“I… she called me.” 

“Yes, I know,” Hongjoong says, his voice raising slightly, looking at Wooyoung from the corner of his eye, “but my question remains the same: why the fuck would you go there without telling anyone?” 

San shifts his weight, bowing his head. “She begged me to help her…” 

Seonghwa crosses his arms across his chest, one of his hands rubbing his temples as he listens. 

“Wouldn’t the first person she calls be Mingi, and not someone she hasn’t met yet?” Hongjoong asks, fighting to keep his emotions under control. He’s close to failing. 

The mention of Mingi’s name makes him subconsciously rub at his throat again, the phantom pains of being held up against the door coming back as he recalls the memory. 

“She– she said she just clicked on the first name she saw, hyung. I’m sorry–”   

“Bullshit, your name was first. Fucking think, San!” Hongjoong pushes him back by the shoulder, every bottled emotion finally exploding out of him at once for all to see. Yeosang steps back further, away from the eruption. Jongho and Wooyoung do as well, getting further from the blast zone, away from the shrapnel as their leader unravels before them. Seonghwa doesn’t move, eyes wide and fearful. It’s rare that Hongjoong raises his voice to this level, that he gets pushed over the edge into a freefall. 

No one knows quite what to do but to let the flames die out naturally. 

He just has to burn first. 

San’s heart is in his throat now, beating him from the inside out and choking him. 

Hongjoong continues, “What if he had hurt you like he hurt Mingi? You know I can’t call the police, you know that I can’t protect you–” 

He turns away from him abruptly then, hiding his face as tears race to his eyes. It’s one thing to hear it from someone else, another to hear it inside his head, but something else entirely to say it out loud. To admit defeat. 

At that moment, San realizes it isn’t anger behind Hongjoong’s tone. It’s fear.

Fear that they’re losing. Fear that he’s losing control. Fear that maybe he’s already lost it. Or never even had it to begin with. 

“I can’t stand this anymore,” Hongjoong admits, the words falling out of him like they’ve been clawing their way up for days, “I can’t stand knowing I let this happen to all of you… I can’t do it.” 

The message echoes and dies against the walls.

The air in the dorm stills, the intense silence settling like the aftermath of an atomic bomb. The fallout seeps into their clothes, their skin, their lungs, covering them head to toe and inside out. A shaky, broken exhale forces its way out of Hongjoong’s chest, and he covers his mouth to try and force it back in. 

No one knows what to do, nor what to say. Even Seonghwa, who stands as still as stone behind his best friend, is unsure on how to navigate this. 

Hongjoong only feels worse that he’s made everyone uncomfortable, and he turns away, hiding his face in his hands as he tries to pull himself together. But it’s too late, everything that he’s repressed is coming out, demanding to be felt, seen, and heard with or without witnesses. Seonghwa finally is able to step forward, wrapping his arms around the poor leader and gingerly bringing him into a hug. 

They stay like that, the dorm quickly becoming a museum of statues. Everyone sits with their own thoughts and feelings in the fallout. 

“Come on,” Seonghwa murmurs after a few minutes, low enough that only Hongjoong can really hear, “you don’t have to fix it right now.” 

He nods towards his room, only as a suggestion. If he’d like to stay out here with them, he won’t push him against it. But Hongjoong lets his hands fall to his sides, head still bowed and turns towards Seonghwa’s door. Without another word, he guides the crumbling man from the room with a practiced gentleness, and an innate protectiveness for those he loves most. He blocks him from view as much as he can, all the while telling him that ‘it’s okay’ under his breath. Once he opens the door, he turns back to look at the other four. An unspoken ‘don’t move’ is clear in his expression, even if he doesn’t say it outright. They hear it loud and clear nonetheless. 

Once the two of them are out of the room, the others exhale the breaths they’ve been holding. Wooyoung finally breaks the stillness of the room by collapsing onto the living room chair, slumped further down than one would sit normally. Jongho begins to pace, every once in a while looking up at San before quickly looking away. Neither Yeosang and San move yet. Yeosang watches San, San watches the floor. His head is swimming, vision blurring. He needs to sit down and have a drink of water, but it’s like there’s a concrete block weighing his feet down. Rooted to the spot. He blinks and suddenly feels Yeosang’s hand on one of his wrists and an arm wrapping around his shoulders, keeping him upright. The adrenaline crash nearly makes him pass out, not trusting his feet to hold his weight as he’s guided to the couch to sit and take deep breaths. 

The silence that follows is thick and disoriented. They’re all waiting for someone to fill it, but… the person who usually would is currently out of commission. No one will volunteer. No one wants the job. To take it from Hongjoong is to tell him that they no longer trust him with the position, when in fact he’s the only one that could possibly save them. They need their guiding light, the one they’ve poured their trust in all these years to do what’s best. As of right now, they’re rudderless. 

A ship without a captain…

Behind the left ajar door of Seonghwa’s room, he sits his best friend down on his bed, crouching in front of him. 

“What do you need most right now?” 

Hongjoong doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicker towards the door they came through, registering the lack of voices outside. They need him. He knows. It’s so tempting to put on another brave face, but he’s already worn through his inventory. The lie sits right there, at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be said. 

Making a decision of any kind is too overwhelming.  

​​“I need to not be the leader. Just for a couple hours.” He may as well practice. Mr. Kim’s criticism still rings in his ears, buzzing around him like a mosquito. 

Seonghwa nods once, with no hesitation. “Then you’re not.”

No question. No judgement. 

“Do you need me to stay?” Seonghwa asks, ready to stay and begin this Everest climb of damage control, or to disappear like smoke. Like he was never here. Whatever he needs, he’ll do it quickly, and without question or judgement. All he waits on is his word. 

He only receives a small, barely noticeable shrug in response. But he can work with that. Although it’s not often that Hongjoong doesn’t say outright exactly what he wants, Seonghwa is a good reader of body language and he knows his friend like the back of his hand. 

He rephrases his question, “Would you like to be alone for a minute?” 

It’s less pressure, less judgement. And it pays off. Hongjoong nods, wiping under his eyes with his sleeve, wanting nothing more than a softer silence. No more voices in his head than his own, even if the things he says to himself aren’t the prettiest. A chance to regroup, come back to himself if he can, knowing everyone is safe and within shouting distance so he can focus on being the leader they need him to be. There’s a part of him that screams at him to act now, to devise a perfect plan now, but it would be no use to push himself again. There’s simply no gas left in the tank for strategizing anything. So he looks up at Seonghwa, nodding again, this time more clearly. More sure of his decision. 

“Okay,” Seonghwa says, his knees popping a little as he stands back up and heads towards the door, “we’ll be right outside if you need anything.” We. Such a small word makes a world of a difference. Letting him know that not just one person has his back, but all five, just beyond the door. They’ll do anything for him. 

“Hwa…” he calls to him softly, right before he leaves. Seonghwa turns around, one hand staying on the doorknob, “tell San…”

He doesn’t have to say it. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Seonghwa says, closing the door behind him. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

They were so quiet, Seonghwa didn’t even realize they were in the middle of a serious conversation just outside. 

Wooyoung perks up when he notices his return, “Hyung, you won’t believe what San’s saying about–” 

“I probably can.” Seonghwa interrupts with a sigh, setting himself down on the same couch he fell asleep on earlier, next to San and Yeosang. Nothing Yunho has done can really surprise him anymore after tonight. 

At least, he hopes that remains the case. 

“No,” Wooyoung insists, “it’s about Mingi.” 

This piques his interest tenfold. What about him? What happened now? Seonghwa leans forward, keeping his eyes on the younger man. Wooyoung looks over at San, his hands clasped together, hunched forward with his elbows resting on his legs. Still, he stares at the floor, unsure of what to make of his memories.

“He…” he’s unsure how to put it, or how to begin relaying the information to him, “I don’t know, it’s like he was… suddenly on his side.” 

Seonghwa blinks. “What do you mean?” 

San quickly retells the story of what happened since the phone call that got him to leave in the first place, almost down to the minute. He skips around when it comes to Yunho having you give Mingi head mere feet from San. Touching on it, but not exactly giving him a play by play. He doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath from Seonghwa when he admits that he may have pushed you away from him. 

He can’t help but wonder how he’s sitting here, living to tell the tale. 

“You did what we couldn’t do. You said ‘no’.” Seonghwa says eventually, after a brief pause, taking all the information in. 

“In a suicidal way, yes.” Yeosang mutters under his breath.  

San just ignores him and continues, “But anyway, it was Mingi who came in and… I guess ‘corrected’ me. And he seemed pretty damn serious about it.” 

“It is pretty damn serious when you’re dealing with a fucking psychopath–” Wooyoung quips. 

Jongho shushes him. 

“Even his threats were serious-sounding…” San continues, “but I couldn’t help but feel that he didn’t genuinely mean anything he was saying. I know how he looks when he’s dead serious about what he says, and I didn’t see that at all. The volume was there, and the harsh words but… I don’t know. There was also something he said right before letting me out. He said, ‘just keep your head down, please’. Like after all that he did, he was trying to help me.” 

Seonghwa leans back against the couch, mind working overtime to try and piece everything together. There was definitely something more to Mingi’s sudden switch in loyalty, he knew there had to be a good reason. Not just fear, but something more. 

Please. That’s the word that stuck out the most. It wasn’t a warning nor a threat from Mingi,  moreso a plea. He was begging him to keep quiet, stay small, get out as quickly as possible. 

“There’s something more to it,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. “If Yunho was watching, Mingi wouldn’t risk saying anything that could look disobedient. So why say that at all?”

“You think it was some sort of hint?” Yeosang asks, looking around at the others to see if they’re asking the same question themselves. 

Seonghwa doesn’t answer right away. He runs a hand down his face, feeling the exhaustion in his bones, the fog of too many sleepless nights. But through it, the pattern starts to emerge, everything lining up to make sense the more he thinks about it. If he’s right, and he prays that he is, then Mingi has started a dangerous game. 

And they need to help him. 

“He’s playing along,” Seonghwa says finally, his tone careful, like he’s testing the words out loud for the first time. “If Yunho thinks he’s got him back under control, Mingi can get closer. Gain his trust again.”

Jongho blinks. “You really think that’s what he’s doing?”

“I know that’s what he’s doing,” Seonghwa replies, a bit firmer now. “He knows Yunho better than any of us. He knows exactly how to act to make him believe it. There must be some sort of plan or strategy he has to gain his trust and get her out.” 

The room shifts. Not in sound, but in energy. A fragile kind of hope begins to form, cautious and newly born.

San breaks the silence, his voice quiet. “We have to trust him.” 

Seonghwa nods in agreement. 

“We should ask him whenever he gets back.” Yeosang suggests, checking the time on his phone. 

More nods of agreement. They won’t pass judgement yet, not until they hear from Mingi what they hope to be the truth. 

The room is no longer tense, nor thick with fear. It’s anticipation, a glimmer of hope that they have been craving for a sign of. That fabled light at the end of the tunnel. No one wants to get their hopes up before they confront Mingi and get to the bottom of his behavior, but…

If San and Seonghwa are right, the first step to ending this has begun. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Yunho’s manager has been watching him for weeks. All of them, really. It’s his job to make sure his idol is at the top of his game, on time, the peak of his health, etc. It helps to be behind the scenes, an inside look on the group as the cracks begin to form. The way the whole room quiets when Yunho walks in, the subtle distancing in the dance practice room and during variety shows. The way Mingi flinches and has to calm himself down any time someone appears behind him unannounced. 

He’s been hopeful that the hiatus will sort things out. But a week has already passed, and Yunho is nowhere to be found, once again. Only Hongjoong still comes to the KQ building, to lock himself in his studio and not come out until the sun rises again. Mingi had come in once, throwing his jacket onto the back of a chair in the practice room. He didn’t even practice, just sat there in peace and quiet. Nothing in here gave him trauma flashbacks. He locks the doors so no one can surprise him or interrupt him. It’s almost therapeutic. There are good memories within these walls. He focuses on them more than anything else, and it makes him feel like himself again. At least for a while. 

Yunho’s manager had started to follow both Yunho and Mingi. Not every day, but just enough to see the patterns. Always the same route, the same apartment complex deep within the city, far from the dorms, far from the company. 

Mingi rarely goes in unless Yunho’s already there. 

The manager happened to be there the day that Mingi left his jacket in the practice room. He knew it wasn’t right to snoop, and he hadn’t meant to. He simply had picked it up, with every intention of putting it in Mingi’s studio so it’s safe. The jingling of keys in the pocket made him curious. At first, he assumed it would be his dorm key, but these ones didn’t look like those at all. Not even close. 

This one had a number attached to it. He knows exactly what it stands for, too: the room number in that apartment. 

Without thinking, he pockets it. 

Yunho had told him that he was going to go visit his family for the week. He checks his phone. Yunho typically leaves his family home to come back to Seoul in the mid-afternoon to get ahead of rush hour traffic, and it’s already almost a quarter to six o’clock. There’s no text saying anything about coming back yet, so he assumes he’s still in Gwangju. And Mingi had poked his head into Hongjoong’s studio before he left, asking if he would like anything from the convenience store near the dorms. 

It was now or never. 

He knows it's technically breaking and entering. A tremendous breach of trust and privacy that he has sworn to protect, and not easily gained from Yunho. 

But the hallway is empty. The key fits in the door perfectly. It opens without resistance, into the unfamiliar environment of a clearly lived-in area. The air inside feels stale, like it’s been trapped inside for months. The curtains are drawn tight, blocking the daylight. The interior is immaculate, like whoever owns the apartment cleans for sport every day. Everything appears almost normal, except for the faint trace of perfume and something metallic in the air. The walls, though painted white, are greyed by what they’ve seen. What they’ve been reluctant witnesses to. 

Then he hears someone hurry to their feet from behind a door left slightly ajar. There’s no time to turn and run before you dash out to the common area, ready to greet Yunho home. 

Or, who you thought was Yunho. 

Your cheerful, “Hi, Daddy!” dies on your tongue as soon as it sinks in that… this is definitely not Yunho.  

Once your eyes meet, you freeze in place. Your eyes are stuck wide, afraid to move or even make a sound, your cheery smile fades instantaneously. The two of you stare at each other, both wondering if the other is really here. The manager recognizes you immediately. It creeps up on him after months of not seeing your case in the public eye, but he knows who you are. The reddened marks around your wrists, and the gaunt, haunted look you wear permanently tell him everything he needs to know. The strange behavior from the group all makes sense now. They must all know about you. His face drains of color. 

Your stomach churns violently. You’ve let someone see you. And the look on his face lets you know full well that he knows you’re not supposed to be here either. 

“Y-you’re–” The man stammers, looking all around the apartment, suddenly registering how empty it is. How much like an oversized prison cell you’re both in. 

He pulls his phone out of his pocket, rushing to dial the police. 

Panicked, and frightened beyond comprehension, you take a step back. Yunho was literally due back any second, having just gone to the store to get food for you both so you could make dinner together. You were looking forward to something so… domestic. So close to a normal, cute relationship. Now it was all crumbling down. And if the police were notified, you’d be forced back out into the world. Ripped away from Yunho forever. The thought mortifies you. 

“Please,” you whisper, but the urgency in your voice is akin to a scream, “please don’t, he’ll–”

If nothing else scared him, the look on your face as you see something over his shoulder chills him to the bone. 

Instantly you drop down to your knees, face pale and body shaking uncontrollably. He pauses, his finger hovering over the call button on his phone. The police just one tap away. An end, so close it frightens you. 

But it’s nothing compared to the horror of Yunho appearing in the doorway behind the stranger. At least, to you he was a stranger. 

The man stumbles backward, nearly tripping over his own feet in shock. “Yunho–!” 

“Hyung.” The word sounds like a threat itself. His voice is so dark, you’ve never heard him like this before. This is another level of angry Yunho. Somehow beyond fury, beyond rage. This was nuclear. 

This was wrath. 

“Doll.” Yunho snarls, stalking towards his manager like a wolf about to rip apart his prey, “Go to my room. Now.” 

The last word hits like a bullet, causing you to sprint back where you came from, closing the door quickly. You hide on your side of the bed, furthest from the door. You bring your knees up to your chest, rocking yourself back and forth as a comfort, but nothing can possibly help you now. No matter how many deep breaths you take, you cannot stop shaking. The burns on your legs start to itch, reminding you of the fire. The lengths Yunho will go to punish you for something like this. 

What could possibly be worse than setting the bed on fire? 

Unfortunately, it dawns on you that you’re going to find out. 

The muffled sounds of pleas and begs fall on two pairs of deaf ears. It’s selfish, but you just know whatever he does to him is mere child’s play compared to what awaits you. A sickening crack coming from the living room churns your already weakened stomach, and you press down on the center of your wrist, trying to find that pressure point that relieves nausea, if just a little bit. Your teeth begin to chatter, your heart rate quickly approaches mach speeds the more you think yourself into a spiral. 

You desperately want someone to show up and hold you. Convince you beyond hope that you’re going to be okay. You stare at the door over your shoulder, willing someone to be on the other side, just about to open it and let you crawl into their awaiting arms, safe and warm. 

But no one comes. 

And no one will. 

No one but Yunho. 

The bedroom door bursts open, and you shriek in surprise at the sight of him. 

Blood stains his hands, parts of his clothes, crawling about halfway up his forearms. There are small flecks of blood spatter across his neck, and along his right cheekbone. The strong scent of copper invades your nostrils, metallic and strong. You instinctively shrink further back as he stalks right up to you. 

He crouches down directly in front of you, staring you down, his breathing erratic and heavy. There’s no emotion behind his eyes, only pure fire. Wrath. 

“You let him see you.” It’s more of a statement than a question. 

Your heart sinks all the way down to the lobby. Sheer panic engulfs you, like the fire almost did. Your skin crawls. The body remembers. 

“I– I–” How will you charm your way out of this one, Y/N? You look up at him dumbly, about to make your excuses. Innocently, you thought it was him. No one else had a key to the apartment, it wasn’t outrageous that you would trust that it was him. The manager had caught you by surprise. 

Suddenly, he yanks you up to stand by your hair. You bite back a yelp of pain, knowing far worse is heading straight for you. 

“Bet you wanted him to see you. Call the police. You wanna leave me? Hm?” His fist flexes, burning your scalp as he pulls at your roots. 

“No! No, Daddy, I don’t want to leave you, please, I promise–”

“You know,” he says with a humorless laugh, “you almost convinced me of that. But you’re just a lying little slut, aren’t you?” 

Your vision blurs as tears spring to your eyes. 

“No, Daddy, no– e-everything happened so–” you swallow, heart leaping into your throat in the middle of your sentence, “so fast, I– thought you– he was–” 

It’s then that your head is violently turned to the side. The world is knocked sideways, and you don’t recall wanting to turn your head for any reason. You don’t even realize he had hit you until a few seconds later. Completely dazed, you blink in surprise. 

He’s never punched you before. Ever. You cradle your cheek with a trembling hand, already feeling your jaw begin to swell. The pain blooms and pulses, discoloring your skin. Your eyes swim with tears now, flowing freely down your cheeks as you look back at him, stunned. Heartbroken. 

“Daddy…” you try again, hands desperate to hold onto his shirt, pull him closer, convince him again, but he doesn’t want to hear it. He doesn’t want you to touch him. He even smacks your hand away from him, keeping you at arm’s length like you’re contagious. 

One more try. One more desperate plea. “I love you.” 

Yunho’s jaw clenches.  

“No, you don’t.” 

You’re too busy trying to convince him otherwise, begging him silently with your eyes to believe you again, that you don’t notice what he holds in his other hand. 

He presses it to your face, and your skin burns. You try to push whatever it is away, but you instantly go lightheaded the more you breathe in. It’s sweet. Sickly sweet, to the point of nauseating. 

A violent rush of memories floods your brain. You’d met up with him somewhere… you can’t remember where. The music was deafening, not your scene. He was beautiful under the colored lights of the club. Maybe you had one too many drinks, but you felt off. The night was swirling around you, your face burned, you asked him to drive you home… 

You woke up here. 

He’s strong enough to keep you from moving him away from you at all. You try not to breathe for as long as you can, but that only exacerbates the situation. When your lungs force you to take a breath, they’re deep, inhaling as much of the toxins as they can before you restrict them again in a vicious cycle. You scream against the rag. But Yunho is deceptively patient. Especially when it comes to punishments. 

He’ll wait. 

Your vision goes black soon after. 

It’s been four months. Four months since you had the conversation with your husband about having an open marriage, because he wanted to try something new. The conversation is still taking up space in your mind like it was yesterday he sat you down on the couch in the house you share.

“Honey, you know I still love you,” He kept repeating after saying the possibly most shocking things you’ve ever heard. “I’m just afraid we’ll get tired of each other if we don’t try this.. We promised to be together forever, but aren’t you wondering what else is waiting for you out in the world?”

“No,” Is all you could say. A million questions run through your mind as he sits in front of you, kneeled down on his knee with your hands in his as you sit on the couch. “I married you because I want to be with you. And only you.” Your voice is shaky, trying to hold back the tears.

He notices the way you react and squeezes your hands in his.

“And I want to be with you, baby. I wanna be with you for the rest of my life, which is why I feel like this is the best we can do for now.” He tried explaining, but it didn’t help. 

“I just don’t understand? Are you not happy with me? Am I not satisfying you enough? Is it me? Am I doing something wrong?” The questions fly out of your mouth before you’re able to hold back. He quickly shakes his head, holding your hands even tighter. 

“No, no not at all. Look, I was just thinking we could do this for a year, maybe? A year where we are still married, but see other people in the meantime. When the year ends, we’ll be back to just us, and because we promised to stay together for the rest of our lives, a year won’t seem as much. This will be the only time we get to see other people for the rest of our lives, baby. It’s not a bad thing, it's only gonna strengthen our marriage in the end.” 

For some twisted reason, you saw his point. If you agreed to this, he would have a year to be with whoever he wanted, to get everything out of his system. So you agreed. You told him you agreed to do this for a year, but there had to be rules.

You had to tell the other person when you started seeing someone. No sleeping with a bunch of people, you have to tell the other person who you’re sleeping with (mostly for safety reasons). And NO one is allowed into the bedroom besides husband and wife.

And so this has been going on for four months now, and your husband is out with his girlfriend. Since this wasn’t against your deal, you couldn’t say much against it, so you just nodded and pretended to be okay. He started seeing her a week after the deal was made, a woman from his office, and the news broke your heart. He was barely home anymore, spending all of his time at her place.

The pain of hearing your husband of 8 years loving someone else was unbearable, and yet you couldn’t even get yourself to see someone else. It felt so wrong. 

It was a friday night and you’re sitting on your couch in your shared home, and your husband just left to have a weekend getaway with his girlfriend. You’re staring at the TV that has been going for hours with some bad reality TV-show, when you finally realize how sick you are of sitting home alone while your husband is out. You grab your phone and without thinking too much, you download Tinder. 

It wasn’t an app you’ve ever tried before, since your husband and you have been dating since you were teens and got married at an early age. But you quickly figured out the app and set up your profile. 

Swiping left and right on guys was more fun than you imagined, getting a few matches here and there. There were all different types of profiles on this app. Guys looking for serious relationships, guys looking for hookups, couples looking for a woman to add to their threesome. Men who opened with “hey sexy” or bios that included “I’m not looking for anything serious unless it’s with Sabrina Carpenter.”

So when his profile popped up, you hesitated.

His picture captures you immediately, and you’re taken back with his beauty. He was… breathtaking. But not in that overly filtered, red flag kind of way. There was warmth in his eyes, even in photos. A calm kind of confidence. One picture had him sitting at a piano, another laughing in the passenger seat of a car, sunlight washing over his face like it knew exactly where to land.

No shirtless mirror pics. No awkward drunk group-pictures. No fish.

“Park Seonghwa.” You read his name out loud. His bio was short. “Looking for something good. And maybe someone to watch bad TV with.”

You stared at his profile for a full two minutes before swiping right, mostly convinced it wouldn’t be a match anyway.

But then-

It’s a match!

Suddenly your heart starts to beat faster and you sit up straight on the couch while looking at your phone.

Did you just match him? Probably the most handsome man you’ve ever seen?

Your stomach did a weird little flip. You waited. Twenty minutes. An hour. Maybe he wasn’t the type to message first. Maybe he matched by accident. Or maybe-...

Park Seonghwa Are you watching something awful right now? Be honest.

You look at your screen for a few seconds before reacting. A smile spreads across your lips as you open his message and type back.

Me Love Mansion: Season 6. There’s a guy crying because no one likes his magic tricks.

You quickly see the dots that indicate he’s typing.

Park Seonghwa That sounds deeply tragic. And also like something I’d binge while pretending I hate it

Me You’re one of those people? “This show is terrible” but suddenly you’ve watched 8 episodes and you know everyone’s star sign.

While you wait for his answer, you enter his profile once again. You can’t help looking at his pictures, mesmerized by how beautiful this man is. You almost get a feeling of recognition while looking at him, like you’ve seen him on a poster or in an ad or something. His profile doesn’t inform about his occupation, but you’re sure he must be showing that face off somewhere. 

A new message pops up.

Park Seonghwa: I have a spreadsheet

You laughed out loud for the first time that night.

You: So what’s your favorite actually-good movie then?

Park Seonghwa: You’re asking a very serious question to someone who owns a full set of replica lightsabers

You: Oh, so you’re very serious about it

Park Seonghwa: Yes. Star Wars. All of it. Even the prequels. Especially the prequels. I said what I said

I’m at my third Star Wars movie of the day. The movies are over two hours each, so you can imagine how eventful my day is so far

You can’t help but smile while you type out your answer. 

Me As a person who doesn’t know much about the franchise, I can’t tell you whether I’m impressed or slightly worried. Maybe I should put on a Star Wars movie and give it a chance?

An answer ticks in a few seconds later.

Park Seonghwa If you do, watch “The Last Jedi”. I just started mine, we can watch it together but separately

You don’t know how a guy you’re only a few messages deep with has you convinced this is the best way to spend your night. You decide to play the movie and message him you’re watching it too. This is the most action you’ve gotten in months, but somehow it's the perfect way to start this journey of an open-relationship. 

Maybe.

The movie begins and Seonghwa introduces some of the characters as they show up on screen. You find yourself laughing at his messages, smiling and waiting for him to text you the next thing. A feeling you haven’t felt in years, despite being married to who you’re convinced is the love of your life. But you can already tell that Seonghwa is a completely different type of guy, and for once, you actually don’t feel alone in the house you share with your husband. 

The movie ends and you’re hundreds of messages deep.

Park Seonghwa Now that we’ve concluded that “The Last Jedi” is part of an amazing franchise but not at all the best movie, I wanna admit that I’ve never looked so much at my phone during a Star Wars movie. I feel like I’m cheating on my favorite series

The text makes you giggle and you’re quick to type your answer.

Me Despite enjoying the movie, I must admit that I didn’t see half of it because I was focused on my phone. But I’ll gladly give Star Wars another chance someday

You see the text bubble appear and then go away a few times, making you curious about what he’s about to say. 

Seonghwa: We could talk about the movie over dinner tomorrow?

You stare at your screen for what feels like forever, feeling like a teenager receiving a text from her crush. This overwhelming feeling Seonghwa leaves you is something completely new, but despite it being a new and slightly scary feeling, you can’t help but feel excited. And so your fingers start typing.

Me I’d love to! After arranging your upcoming date with Seonghwa, you decide to head to bed. You’re meeting him at a restaurant in the city tomorrow, Saturday. He offered to pick you up, but you’ve seen too many horror movies to give your address to a stranger before meeting them, so you came up with an excuse to meet him there. 

You get comfortable in bed before opening his profile once again to look at his pictures.

This man… wow.

But just like before, a feeling of recognition hits you and you study his pictures a bit more. You’re sure you would remember him if you had met him, because who would forget a face like that? But it doesn’t ring a bell.. 

You open a new tab on your phone and search for his name. Perhaps he has been in a show you’ve seen on tv, maybe on a poster somewhere. There’s no way this man isn’t showing off his looks somehow. 

His name pops up on your screen.

A gasp leaves your lips and you stare at him in awe. 

It can’t be him! No no no no no… 

The name, the face, him in a suit. Everything washes over you. You throw your phone away from you and bury your face in your pillow. 

In your mind, you’re getting transported to a specific night, one year ago. Your husband has your arm in his and you’re walking side by side in your finest attire. You’re laughing at something your husband's co-worker said, when you sense a powerful presence enter the circle at the company dinner at your husband’s job.

“Oh, I want to introduce you to someone,” Your husband says as he turns you towards the newest member of the group. “My boss, Park Seonghwa.”

You stare up at him, Seonghwa slightly taller than your husband. His gaze adverts to you as he reaches out his hand. But as you give him your hand, he doesn’t do a normal handshake. He gently takes your hand in his and sends you a warm smile. Something in his eyes makes you lose all concentration, as you’re lost in his beauty. 

And then it all made sense. You’ve thought these exact thoughts before. A year ago at the company dinner and again tonight. 

Everything in your mind is going 100 m/ph and you suddenly feel confused. Does he know you’re married to his employee? Does he remember you? You’re pretty sure he doesn’t, or else he would have said something. And now you’ve arranged a date with him. 

You grab your phone again, considering if you should cancel the dinner, but something in you stops that from happening. The words don't appear in your head when you try to get out of the situation, so you delete the nonsense you’ve written so far, and decide to take things as they come. You place your phone on your night stand and get comfortable under the covers, trying your best to fall asleep.

On a couch across town, Seonghwa is still looking at his phone, looking at the text-bubbles come and go. When it doesn’t result in a text from the woman he has been texting all night, he goes to look at your profile for the 29th time tonight. 

He didn’t expect much from Tinder.

Honestly, it had been a joke. A dare, technically. His assistant downloaded it on his phone one night after too many glasses of wine at a company dinner and said, “You need to date someone who doesn’t know what your net worth is.”

So fine. He swiped. Occasionally. Mostly out of boredom, sometimes out of curiosity. Everyone started blending together. Bios full of yoga poses, forced “entrepreneur” energy, one woman who said she manifested her future husband every morning through herbal tea and moon rituals.

But then he saw you.

He found himself leaning back against the cushions, phone in hand, grinning like an idiot as your replies came in. You weren't trying to be impressive. You were just herself. And that was more magnetic than anything he’d seen in months. He didn’t even realize he’d been texting for two straight hours until his phone buzzed with a calendar notification:

Dinner with Executive Team – 9 AM monday.

He groaned. Whatever. He’d been in back-to-back meetings all week. He could allow himself one night to just… feel normal. Human.

“What’s a woman like you doing here?” he’s asking himself with a smirk, scrolling through your pictures. 

He had planned to go to bed early, have a peaceful night and get up early tomorrow, but he’s been too fascinated by the woman on the other side of the app. The tug on his lips doesn’t go away as he gets up from the couch and decides to head to bed, already accepting that he won’t get up early tomorrow. 

But one thing is for sure.

He’s very satisfied with the way his night went.

***

Saturday arrives, and you find yourself in front of the restaurant you agreed to meet Seonghwa at. You haven’t had any contact since you arranged the date, besides the check-in he made earlier today to ask if you were still down for dinner.

You feel the nerves in your body when you open the door, not having felt this feeling since you started dating your husband. The restaurant is in an area of town you usually didn’t visit - it is more expensive than you are used to. But not spending money on dates with your husband, and only cooking food for one for the past four months has resulted in you having a bit more money than you usually do, so you could go big for one night and spend some money on a good restaurant. 

The restaurant has a dark design with marble and wooden interior. The light is dimmed and you notice couples occupying tables throughout the restaurant. 

This is actually happening. You are going on a date with him.

With Seonghwa. 

It suddenly hit you and once again, you starting to doubt if this was a good idea. You have come to the point where you wanted to date, but dating your husband’s boss seems like the next level. Will your husband be okay with this? Will Seonghwa be okay with this?

Suddenly feeling like your legs are about to give out, you turn around to head outside but you are instead met with a human wall. A set of hands grab your waist to steady you, making sure you won’t fall by the sudden collision. 

“Running away already?” The voice asks, darker than you remember but also soft with a small tease. You look up to see Seonghwa’s soft eyes, slightly covered by some dark pieces of hair. Being a few inches from his face, you can’t help but freeze to study how absolutely amazing he looks up close. 

His almost black eyes, bushy brows, how his upper lip looks slightly bigger than the other, the most perfect nose you’ve ever seen.. Everything is too perfect, you don't know how to react. 

The sudden realization that his hands are on your waist wakes you up, and you stand back up straight to take a step away from him and his undeniably stunning face. 

“Uhm, no I.. I mean, I- no. I didn’t..” Your struggle with words makes him chuckle and he seems to brush off your awkward first meeting quicker than you. 

“How about we find our table?” He asks with a smile, placing his hand on your back to lead you further into the restaurant. 

“Mh-hmm.” Is all you manage to get out, wanting to kick yourself in the head for almost walking out on this man. 

The restaurant is a rooftop spot. Quiet, upscale, city lights spilling in through the glass walls. A jazz trio played somewhere in the background, subtle and elegant. The staff seem to know him, your table is ready immediately, tucked in a quiet corner with a view of the city lights. He orders a bottle of wine without looking at the menu, his tone smooth and confident, and then turn all his attention to you.

“Tell me something,” he says, resting his chin on his hand, “How have you lived your entire life and last night was the first time you watched a Star Wars movie?”

You blink at him. “You start with the hard questions?”

He smile. “I like to skip the small talk.”

You giggle. And from there, the conversation goes rather smoothly. Then easier as the wine warms your chest and his eyes never stop watching you like you were the most interesting person in the world. He asks thoughtful questions. He doesn’t talk about himself unless you ask. And when you do, he’s vague, says he works in business, likes privacy, that his life isn’t all that exciting.

Which is a lie, you are sure.

This man radiates luxury. His watch alone could pay for your college loans, and he never once checked it. And then somewhere between the wine and the main course, it starts to gnaw at you. The weight of the secret you’re keeping. Or at least… the one you thought is yours alone.

You clear your throat, reaching for your glass again even though you didn’t really want another sip.

“I should tell you something.”

He tilts his head. “Are you okay?” he senses the way your behavior changes and tries meeting your eyes.

“Yeah,” your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes, too nervous to break the truth that you know this man in front of you. “Or.. I don’t know, no, yes-no..” Your heart is beating fast. “Look, I’m sorry, but I feel like I have to be honest with you. I don’t want you to waste your time sitting here, and if you don’t feel comfortable after receiving this information I totally understand, so if you’re freaked out we can pretend this never happened and I won’t-..”

“Look,” Seonghwa places his hand over yours, totally calm, meeting your eyes. “Did you kill someone?”

“No!” You try keeping your voice down. Try.

“Do you need me to hide a body?”

“No!?”

“... Are we related?”

You tilt your head “No? I hope not…?”

“Then we’re good. I won’t be freaked out.” He shrugs, leans slightly back in his seat and sends you a smile as he picks up his glass.

You look at him, really look, and then just say it.

“You’re my husband’s boss.”

A beat. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t react. Just blinked once, slowly.

“Is that so?” he asked softly.

“I figured it out when I looked you up after we matched. I wasn’t… trying to snoop, I swear, I just got curious. And then I remembered you from the company dinner last year. Anyway, I wanted to say something in case it made this… weird for you.”

He smiles gently, setting down his glass. “It doesn’t.”

You blink. “Really?”

“I knew who you were the moment I saw your profile.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh.”

“But I still swiped right,” he adds, voice low, calm. “And I still wanted to meet you.”

“…Why?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at you for a moment, and something in his gaze makes your skin heat. “Because I wanted the honor of inviting you out for dinner.” he says.

Your breath catches. You don’t know what to say to that, so you stay quiet, letting the words sit between you like warm embers.

“And now that we’re being honest,” he continues gently, “That little thing on your finger.” He points to the gold band with a small diamond around your finger, proving to everyone, including yourself, that you’re still in a marriage.

You give a small, helpless laugh. “Oh.. Yeah, it’s not what it looks like. Or maybe it is? I don’t think so, actually, I don’t know what this looks like, but I’m not doing anything I’m not supposed to do-...”

“You don’t have to explain anything,” he says.

“No, I want to,” you reply, surprising yourself. “I need to.”

So you tell him. About the open marriage your husband suggested. About how you agreed, naively thinking it would be equal. About how he’d found someone in a matter of weeks while you’d sat at home, trying to convince yourself you weren’t just waiting. You watch Seonghwa carefully for a reaction. There is none, no judgment, no discomfort. Just a quiet focus that made you feel safer than you’d felt in months.

“But it’s actually a really good idea. I mean, we get the chance to see other people and do whatever we want, so we won’t cheat on each other later on,” you shrug, looking down at the wineglass instead of the piercing eyes in front of you. “It’s preventing us from hurting the other person in the end.” you say, finally. 

He sits quiet, just taking in your words. You can’t read his eyes, he just listens. But you don’t feel judged by the man in front of you. His eyes show too much warmth for you to be intimidated. 

“I don’t understand.” he finally says. 

“You know, if we date other people now, we won’t feel the need to do so in the future.” 

“No, I heard every word you said loud and clear,” he leaned forward in his chair, voice still soft. “I just don’t understand why he would need to.. you know.. date others when he has you.” 

Seonghwa was trying his best to not push. He could easily have said “I mean, if I was your husband, I wouldn’t want to see other people. I wouldn’t ever want another woman.” but he is still in the stage of getting to know you, doesn’t want to scare you away, and despite remembering you from the company dinner last year, he only remembers what impression you left him. A quick introduction and laughs shared in a circle of multiple people, but somehow his eyes kept drifting to you.

Your laugh, your dress, the way your eyes sparkled under the lights. It had stayed with Seonghwa for a year, so when he saw your profile on a dating app, he knew he had to shoot his shot. Unaware of what the circumstances are between you and your husband. 

But he doesn’t ask for more explanation. Instead, he shifts the conversation, just slightly, easing it toward lighter things, books, music, how you both secretly hate networking events.

And somehow, the night never felt heavy again. When dessert comes, some delicate French pastry you can’t pronounce, he insists you try the first bite. When your laugh returns, brighter this time, he smiles like that was the reward he’s been waiting for.

Later, as he walks you to your ride, you feel lighter. Like maybe it was okay to want something new. Someone new.

“I still want to see you again,” he says, standing beside the car door. His hand brushes your wrist, soft and brief. “If you want that too.”

You nod.

“I do.”

He opens the door for you, then leans down just enough to meet your eyes.

“Then let’s take our time.”

In the cab on the way home, you can’t stop smiling. You haven’t even finished closing the door behind you before your phone buzz.

Seonghwa: Text me when you’re home safe, yeah? No pressure, just want to know you’re good.

You smile into the hallway light. God, he’s that kind of man. You kick off your heels, phone still in hand, fingers already typing back.

You: Home. Warm. A little wine-dizzy but safe. Thank you for dinner.

Seonghwa: Thank you for giving me a chance. Sleep well xx

You sit on the edge of your bed for a moment longer than necessary, phone against your chest, still fully dressed. The night felt soft around the edges, like it wasn’t quite real. Like maybe you’d dreamed it. His smile, the way he listens to you like your words matter, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

And he knows. That was the wild part. He knows you’re married, to his employee, no less, and he still treats you with more care and curiosity than your own husband had in months. You let yourself fall back into bed, fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling with the ghost of his cologne still caught in your hair.

***

On this incredibly boring Monday, the rain started halfway through your meeting, and by the time you stepped outside, it had gone from a gentle drizzle to a full-on, cinematic downpour. You stand beneath the awning outside your building, arms crossed, watching as the other employees disappeared into warm cars and dry seats.

Your husband was supposed to pick you up. You agreed to that last week, so you texted him before you left, but no response. Not a word. That was twenty-five minutes ago. 

Your fingers tightens around your phone as you glance down the street for the fifth time. Just water streaking down your coat sleeve and your phone screen lighting up.

Not from him.

But from Seonghwa.

Seonghwa I debated texting you for ten minutes. This is me giving in. Hi.

You smile immediately, shoulders relaxing under your scarf as you type back.

You Ten minutes? I’m flattered. 

Three dots. Then:

Seonghwa Are you still at work or did you escape?

You exhale slowly, already smiling before your fingers move to reply.

You Currently trying to escape. But I’m waterlogged and standing under a leaky bus shelter.

A pause.

Seonghwa Do I want to know why you’re waiting for a bus in a rainstorm?

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him, but because you did. And that felt… a little dangerous. But you type anyway.

You Husband said he’d pick me up after work. Then forgot.

You don’t know the reason why your husband didn’t pick you up today. But it was not the first time this has happened. Last time he was busy hanging out with his girlfriend, having his phone on silent. 

Three dots danced at the bottom of the screen for a long moment before his reply came in:

Seonghwa Tell me where you are

You don’t answer right away. Another bus pass, wrong line again, and your fingers ache from the cold.

You Seonghwa. I’m fine. It’s just a little rain

Seonghwa Sure. And I’m a little meteorologist. Tell me where you are

You bite your lip, watching as a bus rumbled past - not yours. 

You Seventh and Willow. But you don’t have to, it’s okay

Seonghwa I’m already in my car. Don’t argue with me while you’re catching pneumonia

Your lips curve in spite of yourself. You pulled your scarf tighter.

Seonghwa On my way. Five minutes. Don’t wander off or find a mysterious love interest in a bookstore while I’m driving

You spotted his car before you saw him.

It turns the corner slowly, headlights washing across the slick pavement, wipers dragging across the windshield in a steady rhythm. The passenger window rolls down just enough for him to lean towards it.

“Hey, get in,” he says, his tone easy and unaffected by the weather. “You look like you’ve been here a while.” 

You step forward, your boots making soft splashes in the puddles, and slide into the passenger seat. The warmth of the car is immediate, and you exhale, feeling some of the tension leave your shoulders. The car hums quietly as Seonghwa drives through the rain-slicked streets. He’s keeping his eyes on the road, but every now and then, his gaze flickers over to you, the small, concerned crease in his brow visible in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice steady but soft. He’s not pushing, just checking in.

You nod, brushing your damp hair back and glancing out the window. The cold air from the rain has soaked through your coat, and your clothes cling to you uncomfortably. The heater in the car is doing its best, but you can still feel the chill.

“I’m fine,” you say, though your voice sounds a little too quiet. “Just... a little wet. Didn’t expect next time you’d see me, to be me looking like this.”

Seonghwa doesn't respond right away, but you catch the small shift in his demeanor, a brief, thoughtful silence. His hands grip the steering wheel lightly as he drives through the darkened streets, navigating without hurry.

“Do you want to stop somewhere?” he asks, keeping his tone casual, though you can sense the care behind it. “Grab something warm?”

You think about it for a second. A warm drink, maybe a cozy corner of some café, those were things you used to enjoy. But the idea of sitting in a café, dripping wet and freezing, doesn’t feel right tonight. It feels… forced. You want warmth, sure, but not from the outside world.

You glance at him, then back at the road ahead.

“Actually,” you start, “could we just... go to your place?” your words surprising yourself. “If it’s not too much, of course.”

Seonghwa blinks, a soft smile curling at the corner of his lips, but he doesn't ask any questions. Instead, he simply nods, his gaze shifting back to the road as the corners of his mouth deepen into a fond, knowing expression.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low. “I mean... you’ve had a long day. You’re drenched.”

You shrug, even though a small part of you is shocked by your own words. "I’m fine. I’m not in the mood for a date-date or whatever. Just... somewhere warm. And I don’t wanna be alone tonight. If you don’t mind.”

The silence between you two feels more comfortable now, the tension from the earlier moments gone. It’s like a weight has lifted, neither of you needs to pretend anymore.

“Alright,” he says, his voice warm, “to my place it is.” The car turns into a quieter street, and Seonghwa taps his fingers lightly against the steering wheel, his smile still lingering.

When you step out of the car and into the rain, Seonghwa’s hand briefly touches the small of your back, guiding you toward the building. The touch is gentle and reassuring.

His apartment is warmer than you expected when you step inside. It’s spacious, sure, but it’s not the cold, intimidating type of wealth you might expect from someone like him. It’s cozy in a way that’s unexpected, like he’s curated it with care, each little thing in its place. You can tell he’s put thought into making this space a refuge, a place of comfort. 

“I can grab you a towel,” Seonghwa offers immediately, his voice soft. He’s already moving toward the bathroom, but when you shake your head, he pauses. “Are you sure? I’d feel better if you changed into something comfortable.”

You glance down at yourself, feeling how soaked your clothes are, and how tired you are of pretending like you don’t need help. You nod. “That would be nice, actually.”

He smiles, but it’s not a proud smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like he’s quietly relieved, like he wants to take care of you in a way you didn’t realize you needed. “I have a few shirts you can borrow,” he says, a hint of hesitation in his tone. “Nothing fancy, just... dry.”

You watch him for a moment, the way he’s trying to gauge your comfort level without pushing too hard. It’s the first time you’ve seen him unsure of anything, and it’s a little disarming.

“That sounds perfect,” you say, giving him a small, appreciative smile.

He moves quickly, purposefully, heart thudding a little harder than usual. Not from nerves, but from quiet anger. Who forgets to pick up their wife in the middle of a downpour? He doesn’t let the frustration show on his face. He just breathes through it, reminding himself that this moment isn’t about him. It’s about making you comfortable. It’s about undoing a little bit of whatever damage your husband didn’t think twice about causing.

He returns with a shirt and a pair of sweatpants. A soft, worn-in tee, and hands it to you. The fabric is warm to the touch, and it smells faintly of him. He doesn’t linger too long, but there’s something in the way he carefully places it in your hands that makes you feel safe, like he genuinely wants you to be okay, not just physically, but emotionally too.

“Take your time,” he says softly, backing away. He nods toward the hallway. “Bathroom’s down to the left. I’ll make some tea. You’ll feel better.”

It’s a simple offer, like he’s willing to offer you warmth without making you feel indebted to him. When you disappear into the bathroom to change, you can hear him bustling around in the kitchen. You take a deep breath and let yourself relax for the first time in what feels like forever.

When you return, towel-drying your hair with one of the fluffy hand towels he left out for you, you’re practically swallowed in his clothes. The shirt hangs loose over your frame, the waistband of the sweatpants tied tight around your hips. You’ve never felt so ridiculous and so safe all at once.

Seonghwa looks up from the kitchen and immediately gives you that soft, amused smile. “Okay, that’s a look.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Stylish, right? You might not get these back.”

“I was just about to say they suit you,” he replies, not missing a beat.

You laugh, and it’s small, but real, and it makes something warm twist in his chest. He’s pacing, sleeves pushed up as he moves easily around the kitchen. A kettle is on, two mugs already waiting. You catch the scent of honey and ginger in the air, something warm and slightly sweet.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” you murmur, padding into the kitchen and wrapping your arms around yourself.

He glances up from stirring the honey. “You’re cold. You’re tired. I want to.” Then, with a softer voice: “Let me take care of you. Just a little.”

That shouldn’t make your stomach flutter the way it does.

You sit at the counter, fingers curling around the mug he places in front of you. You’re so used to handling everything on your own that this small act of care feels like a luxury.

He leans against the counter opposite you, arms crossed casually, like he’s trying to keep a respectful distance. But he can’t help stealing glances at you. Not hungry, not suggestive, just thoughtful. Quietly admiring.

“You’ve had a long day,” he says after a pause, not prying. “Want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, sipping your tea. “Not really.”

“That’s okay,” he says immediately. “We can just sit.”

No questions. No expectations. He wouldn’t make you relive any of it. Not the rain, not the waiting, not the part where someone was supposed to show up and didn’t.

You let a little smile play at the edge of your lips. “You’re... very good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being comforting. It’s like you have a degree in it or something.”

Seonghwa chuckles, eyes crinkling just a little. “I’m just treating you how I think you deserve to be treated.”

He means it.

He means it.

You set your mug down. “You don’t even know me.”

Seonghwa smiles, not missing a beat. “I’m working on it.”

He leans slightly on the counter, arms still crossed, eyes steady on yours. “But I’ve picked up a few things. You’re the kind of person who checks in on others even when you’re the one having a bad day. You’re a little stubborn when it comes to letting people take care of you - you want to do things yourself. And when you’re tired, you get kind of funny. Like, weirdly funny.”

You laugh under your breath, and so does he.

“And tonight?” His smile softens. “You needed someone. I was close by. That’s all it takes.” There’s no hidden meaning in his voice. No pressure. Just the kind of honesty you’re not used to from a man.

You meet his eyes, and there it is. The kind of tension that doesn’t scream or flirt, it just hums. You glance around his kitchen. The wooden cabinets, the tiny potted herb garden on the windowsill, the slightly chipped mug in front of you. “Your place… it’s not what I expected.”

“Let me guess,” he teases, “you thought it’d be floor-to-ceiling glass, steel counters, and an automatic espresso machine?”

“Something like that.”

He grins. “I like homes that feel lived in. I don’t like that cold, overly-modern stuff. I like that I can comfortably show off my collection of magnets without having to worry if it fits in with the rest of the home.” He points to his fridge and you notice the huge collection of magnets. You let out a soft giggle.

You like that answer too much. You shouldn’t, but you do.

“I like it,” you say softly, not just about the apartment. The warm cup rests between your palms, grounding you, and Seonghwa leans back against the counter beside you, sipping his own. Then, without a word, he sets his mug down and starts rummaging through a cabinet.

You squint at him. “What are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder with a small, almost mischievous smile. “We’re making cookies.”

You blink. “We are?”

“We are now,” he says simply, already pulling out a bag of flour.

You let out a soft laugh and step up beside him. You don’t ask if he needs help. You just join in. And he doesn’t say anything, just gives you a smile so gentle. Ten minutes later, the kitchen is a disaster.

The butter refuses to cooperate, slipping through your fingers and plopping to the floor. You try again, and this time it sticks to your hands so stubbornly that Seonghwa has to come to your rescue, giggling as he wipes it off with a spatula.

“Here,” he says, a soft chuckle escaping him. “Let’s try that again.” 

You giggle, brushing hair out of your face. “I swear, never make cookies.” 

“Oh, I can tell,” he teases, but there’s no judgment in his tone, only encouragement. “It’s okay. It’s the thought that counts.”

Later, flour explodes from the bag as it’s accidentally knocked over. It snows down across the counter, your arms, his shirt. You both freeze, and then burst into laughter. A moment later, the chocolate chips spill, scattering everywhere. 

Eventually, you both give up, the half-mixed dough resting lopsided in the bowl. You sat on the counter, legs swinging slightly as Seonghwa stood beside you. The bowl rests on your lap as he hands you a spoonful of raw dough, and you take it without hesitation.

“I think we killed it.” Seonghwa says proudly, scooping up some cookie dough for himself, using the same spoon.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you say around a mouthful. You sit side by side in the wreckage of flour and chocolate chips, warm tea forgotten, sharing bites of something that didn’t quite turn out the way it was supposed to, but still feels like a win.

You’re mid-laugh when he pauses, his eyes softening as they settle on you. Without a word, he steps a little closer, and his hand lifts. Gentle and careful.

“There’s a little…” he murmurs, brushing his fingers just above your eyebrow, where a streak of flour has settled. His thumb grazes your skin as he wipes it away, but he doesn’t pull back right away.

His touch lingers.

You feel it all the way down to your spine. His warmth, the closeness, the way his eyes briefly drop to your lips before meeting your gaze again. The air feels thick, like something unsaid is pressing at the edges of the moment. 

“Got it,” he says quietly. But he doesn’t move. And neither do you.

You’re still perched on the counter, his body angled toward yours, only a breath between you. He leans in slightly, gaze dropping again, first to your lips, then back up to your eyes, like he’s asking without words.

You lean in too.

Your knees bump against his hips, and your breath catches, held in your chest like it’s afraid to break the moment. His hands finds the counter next to you, grounding him, pulling him even closer. So close you can count every faint freckle on his skin. So close his breath hits your cheek.

And your phone rings.

Loud. Sharp. Invasive.

You freeze.

The moment shatters like glass.

Seonghwa pulls back slowly, but his hand stays on the counter near you, and he doesn’t turn away. Your phone rings again, and your eyes flick to the screen.

“Husband.”

You swallow hard, something sinking in your chest. Seonghwa doesn't say anything. He just watches, his expression soft but unreadable, and steps back enough to give you space. Not far, just enough. You hesitate for half a second. Then you slide off the counter, still warm from where your knees had brushed against him, and answer.

“Hello?” Your voice is thinner than you meant it to be.

He turns away, not out of anger, not even disappointment, just… quiet. Respectful. Still the same steady, gentle man, already reaching for the dish towel to start wiping flour from the counter like he’s giving you time. Giving you privacy.

But the warmth between you hasn’t disappeared.

It just simmers now, quiet and unsaid. Still there. Still waiting.

You murmur a few short replies into the phone, keeping your tone neutral. You hang up a moment later, your fingers still loosely wrapped around the device, like you’re not quite sure what to do with it. Seonghwa glances at you, not questioning, not pressing. Just that same soft-eyed look, like he sees everything without needing it explained.

You clear your throat and set the phone down on the far end of the counter. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” His voice is quiet. He offers you the tiniest smile. “You didn’t miss much. The cookie dough was starting to melt anyway.”

You laugh under your breath, and he smiles a little wider.

“I should… probably get going soon,” you say.

“Yeah.” He nods slowly, “Whenever you’re ready, I’ll give you a ride.”

You change into your old clothes, now warm and dry after Seonghwa took care of it. You finish tying your shoes and glance up at him. His movements are calm, deliberate, like he’s giving you space to process, to gather yourself. His gentleness is almost too much to handle right now, and you wonder if he knows how much he’s doing, just being there. Just being himself.

The drive back to your place is calm, the city lights flickering by as Seonghwa keeps his focus on the road, his hand steady on the wheel. Every now and then, his eyes flicker toward you, like he’s checking, making sure you’re okay. 

When he finally pulls up to your house, you hesitate for a second before opening the door. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, “You really made my day.” and finally, and he offers you that smile of his. It’s small, but it reaches his eyes. 

“Anytime,” he replies softly, as if there’s no question.

You step out of the car, the door closing behind you with a soft click. You stand there for a moment, watching his headlights fade into the distance, a quiet warmth settling in your chest.

***

A week has passed since that night. The one where everything had almost felt like it could change. The small, sweet moments that lingered in the kitchen, the silent tension, and that quiet brush of his fingers against your face. But you hadn’t really spoken much after that.

Seonghwa had been giving you space. He never pressed, never pushed, just sent a message here and there, something light, something simple. Asking how your day was, letting you know he was there if you needed to talk. It was as though he understood the weight on your shoulders, the things you were still trying to process, and he respected that.

You’d found comfort in those texts. They were a gentle reminder that there was still kindness out there, that not all men were careless or indifferent. But you hadn’t been ready to dive into anything more. Not yet.

So you let the days pass, lost in work and the usual noise of life, where everything felt like it was moving forward and standing still all at once.

When you walk into the house that evening, expecting to be alone, the air feels too still. Almost oppressive. You take off your shoes, drop your bag, and then, suddenly, you hear it.

Moans.

Loud and unmistakable.

Your heart skips a beat. The noise comes from the bedroom.

You freeze, panic washes over you in a way you never thought you’d feel. The reality hits harder than a slap, and before your mind can catch up to your body, your feet are already moving, silent, quick, out the door.

Your husband. With her.

The woman he’d been seeing for months. The one you knew about. From his work. The one he swore wouldn’t ever step foot in your bedroom.

But she had. They had.

The rules didn’t matter now.

You can barely remember how you made it out of the house, your heart pounding like it’s trying to escape your ribs. You don’t stop to think. You just grab your coat and rush outside, the cold air stinging your cheeks. You get on the bus, not thinking clearly or caring about anything other than getting away.

Away to the last place that felt safe.

Seonghwa opens the door looking completely confused in a loose hoodie and gray sweatpants, as if he’s been lounging or about to sleep. His hair is slightly tousled, his face soft with surprise, but when he sees you standing there, shaking and crying, everything about him changes.

His eyes widens, his body tensing as if his instincts slammed into overdrive.

“Hey-..hey, what’s going on?” His voice cracks a little, pure concern bleeding through. “Are you-, are you okay? What happened?” He barely waits for an answer before stepping forward, one hand reaching out like he’s afraid to startle you, the other already pulling the door wider. “Come in. Come here. Please.”

You don’t even remember how you’d made it to his place. You didn’t call, didn’t text, didn’t even know where else to go. You are just… there. Your legs moved on their own. He gently takes your wrist, guiding you inside like he thought you might fall apart if he let go. And maybe you would.

“I-I didn’t know where else to go,” you whisper, your voice trembling so much the words barely came out. “I walked in and they were… in the bedroom. Our bedroom. I heard her, and him-”

Your breath hitched. The shame, the heartbreak, the betrayal all crashed into you again like a tidal wave. Seonghwa freeze, his face shifting from confusion to something like disbelief, followed by an ache so deep it flickered across his features before he could hide it.

“You’re shaking,” he breathes, like that was the only thing he could focus on to keep himself from doing something rash. “Gosh-, come here.”

Then he pulls you in. Not tentative. Not gentle like before. But firm. Warm. Protective. His arms wrap around you completely, hands cradling the back of your head, the middle of your back, holding you like he was trying to piece you back together with just his embrace.

You broke.

The sob that escaped you was raw, tearing through your chest as you collapsed against him. His hoodie quickly dampened with your tears, but he didn’t care. He only held you tighter.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers into your hair, over and over again, his voice thick, arms unyielding. “I’m so sorry. I’ve got you, okay? I’ve got you.”

A few hours passed. The silence of the apartment is heavy, and the soft hum of the city outside filters in through the windows, but none of it seems to matter. Seonghwa sits on the edge of the couch, his gaze fixed on you as you sleep, curled up with a blanket around you. Seonghwa didn’t move you. He wouldn’t dare. Your face is peaceful now, but he knows, he saw the remnants of the tears still streaked on your cheeks.

He watches you for a long moment, longer than he should have, just to be sure you were breathing easy, that your face wasn’t tight with the pain you’d carried in. He adjust the blanket around your shoulders once more, fingers brushing your arm like a silent promise: I’m here.

Then he slips away into the kitchen.

The lights are dim. He doesn’t turn on the overheads. Only the small one above the sink cast a quiet glow, painting gold over the counter and the delicate steam curling from the mug of tea he never ended up drinking.

He cleans slowly. Methodically. Not because there is much to clean, but because he needs to do something with his hands. He needs to focus on anything but the image of you curled on his couch with your cheeks still damp from crying. Something about seeing you so hurt, so vulnerable in his home, keeps his chest tight and his thoughts moving. He wants to be nearby, just in case you wake up and need him. 

He didn’t know what to do when you broke. His instinct was to hold you, to gather you up and shelter you from everything, but he’d hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to. God, he wanted to, but because he didn’t know if it was what you needed.

You are still married. Still healing. Still so fragile it makes his chest ache.

And yet, he can’t stop thinking about how you came here. To him. Not a friend. Not a hotel. Him.

What did that mean?

What could it mean?

He’s still standing at the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel, when he hears the soft shuffle of your footsteps behind him. You’re quiet, hesitant, still wearing the same clothes from earlier. Sleep clinging to your features, eyes puffy, hair slightly mussed, your voice rough when you speak.

“Seonghwa?”

He turns once.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, barely looking at him. “For just… showing up. For staying. I didn’t mean to take up your whole night.”

Seonghwa sets the tea towel down gently and shakes his head “You didn’t take anything,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You look at him, startled by how easily he says it, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather have you.

“I feel ridiculous,” you say quietly, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “Showing up here. Crying like that. Falling asleep like a mess on your couch.”

Seonghwa looks up from the sink where he’s rinsing a cup, then reaches for the towel draped nearby to dry it. He moves slowly, deliberately, as if not to startle you. “You’re not a mess,” he says. “You’re human. And tonight was… a lot. You shouldn’t have had to hear that. Especially not in your own home.”

You nod once, lips press tight, your eyes tracing the pattern of the granite countertop.

“I guess I just didn’t expect it to hurt like that,” you whisper. “I agreed to this open marriage, I knew what it meant. All he had to do was follow the simple rules we made; let the other person know when you’re dating someone and don’t bring them into the bedroom. But hearing them like that… it was like everything I’d been pretending not to feel came crashing in.”

He steps a little closer, still drying the mug but slowing as he listens.

You look up at him then, eyes glassy. “I didn’t mean to bring it all here.”

“You didn’t bring anything but yourself,” he says, voice softer now. “And for what it’s worth… I’m glad you came. I’ve only seen you a few times, but I-” He hesitated, then smiled faintly, “I wouldn’t have wanted you to go anywhere else tonight.”

Your chest tightens. Something in his words, his expression, the way he stands there drying a cup like it was the only way he can keep his hands from holding you.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” he adds, glancing down at the towel in his hand, placing the cup on the counter. “But when I saw you at my door, I didn’t feel interrupted. I felt relieved.” he huffs a quiet breath, laughing under it, ”I didn’t want anyone else to be the one you went to. Is that selfish? Maybe. But—”

He didn’t get to finish.

The towel was halfway folded in his hands when you moved.

Three fast steps.

Your fingers gripped the front of his shirt, pulled him down before he could process what was happening, and you kissed him.

Hard. Needy. Quietly desperate.

You needed to. You needed to feel if this was more than just you feeling crazy. Could you really find safety in someone who isn’t your husband? How could this man you’ve met 3 times the past two weeks, be the most thoughtful and supportive person in your life at the moment?

The towel slips from his hand, landing forgotten on the kitchen floor. He kisses you back like it’s the most natural thing in the world, hands finding your cheeks, pulling you close without hesitation. The warmth of him spreads through you instantly, grounding, solid, safe.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

Not until the kiss breaks, just enough for breath.

“I…” you whisper, suddenly unsure.

He smiles, gently, almost in disbelief. “You caught me off guard.” He’s smiling, eyes warm, his thumb brushing your side like he can’t stop touching you now that he’s started. 

“I don’t know why I did that,” you whisper, nervous now, terrified he might say it was too soon. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m really glad you did it.” His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with hunger, and you can feel the weight of his desire pressing against you, but there was hesitation, just a flicker of it.

You mumble the words, barely loud enough for either of you to hear. “Is this... too fast?”

A beat passed. Then another. 

“No,” he says softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Not if it’s you. Not if you’re the one reaching for me.”

Your breath catches, the lump in your throat returning. Not from grief this time, but from something gentler. Something like hope. 

“You set the pace. I’ll follow.”

And he means it. Every word.

You reach for him again, pulling him in. The kiss is firmer this time, your lips claiming his with more urgency, your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt as if you couldn’t get close enough. He groans into your mouth, his hands tightening around your waist, as if holding you in place is the only thing keeping him from losing control.

Your hands slid by the hem of his shirt, fingertips barely grazing over his warm skin, and you feel him tense beneath your touch. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“Fuck,” he rasp. “I’m barely holding on.”

“Good,” you whisper, and lean up to kiss him again.

His hands are on your waist, his grip tight, but there is still a slight hesitation in him. It’s as if he was torn between wanting to be the good guy, wanting to respect your boundaries, and the overwhelming, suffocating need to give in to everything you’re offering. His lips meet yours again, deeper this time, and the kiss is frantic, hungry, as though he can’t get close enough, can’t touch you enough.

You barely register your back hitting the edge of the kitchen island until his hands curl under your thighs and lift you effortlessly. You gasp, startled by the sudden motion, but his strength… the ease of it, the way he settles you gently onto the counter like you’re precious, it makes you shiver.

You wrap your legs around his hips instantly, locking your heels at the small of his back, and it pushes him in deeper, his length perfectly aligned with the ache between your legs.

The moment your bodies aligned, you both gasped.

You feel him.

Thick and full and undeniably hard, straining against the soft gray fabric of his sweatpants. He’s pressed right against your center, the outline of him so vivid you can practically trace it with your eyes.

You gasp. He curses. 

“I can see you,” you whisper, voice wrecked, eyes flicking down to where his sweatpants clung to him, every thick inch outlined and throbbing. “You’re so hard.”

He lets out a strangled groan. “Don’t say that. Don’t fucking say that-”

You can't help but grind once against his member, and you whimper as his hips rolled forward, slow and deep. His cock drags up the seam of your heat, the head catching perfectly where your clit throbs. It’s too much and not enough. The layers between you only made it worse.

He feels you. Wet, warm, pressed against the inside of your panties, where your thin leggings clings like a second skin, doing nothing to hide how badly you want him. His mouth crashes onto yours, and it was different this time, no hesitation, no restraint. Just teeth and tongue and desperation. Your hands were in his hair now, tugging, dragging him closer. He presses against you, hard enough to make you moan, and God, you feel him, thick, hard, straining against his pants.

But something occupies your mind.

“Wait,” You keep your legs wrapped around him. You don’t let go. Immediately, he stills. His breathing ragging, chest rising and falling against yours. His hands are warm on your thighs where they rest, thumbs rubbing soft, slow circles into your skin like he’s grounding you. His forehead presses gently against yours, both of you still catching your breath. 

“I want to,” you admitted, your voice wrecked. “So bad. But I need… I need to say it first. To him.”

Him. Your Husband.

For the first time in months, you hated that your husband was in your mind right now. 

His gaze lifts to yours instantly, and for a second, you brace yourself for disappointment. But it never comes.

He nods. “I know,” he pulls back and kisses your forehead. “Just because he broke your rules does not mean you should do it too.” He’s way quicker to understand than you’ve ever imagined. He’s too good.

“I’m sorry… I really want to.” You say, finding his eyes. “But I feel like I have to tell him that I’m seeing someone, let alone his boss, before I do something.”

“Hey,” he cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin, the warmest eyes you’ve ever met. “You don’t have to explain, I totally understand.”

You try smiling but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. “It’s not you. I’m just not in the right headspace, and if we did this right now, I think I’d just… think too much. Regret it. Not because of you! But because of everything else.”

“I know,” he says gently, brushing your hair back with a touch that’s nothing short of reverent. “You don’t have to decide anything right now. If you want to do this or not. Whatever you end up deciding, I’ll respect. But if you decide you want to do this, with me sometime, I don’t want you to feel any pressure. I’m not going anywhere, I’ll wait for you.”

And God. That. That is the thing. He isn’t demanding. He isn’t jealous. He isn’t angry or annoyed or trying to guilt you into a decision.

He just understand.

“You’re kind,” you say, swallowing the lump in your throat. “You’re really fucking kind.” 

A silence fills the space between you, your gaze dropping down to where your bodies meet. You look up at him, cheeks flushed. “If I hadn’t said stop… would you have?”

His eyes darkens. He smile, not cocky. But honest.

“Not a chance in hell.” The weight behind those words makes your chest ache. “Can I do anything for you?” 

You glance down at yourself, then let out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “I probably need a shower. I look like someone who lost a fight to her own life.”

He grins at that, easing back just enough to slide his hands to your waist. Before you can say another word, he’s lifting you down from the counter with a firm but gentle grip, like you’re something precious, and threading his fingers through yours.

“Come on,” he murmurs, tugging you softly. “Shower. I’ll get everything ready.”

You trail behind him to the bathroom, your hand still tucked in his. He moves around the space with practiced ease, grabbing towels, adjusting the water, and even laying out the same sweatpants and oversized t-shirt you wore the last time you were here.

When he places them carefully on the counter, he gives you one last glance, warm and soft. “Take your time, your clothes are on the counter. I’ll be in the living room when you’re done.”

You nod, suddenly overwhelmed in a completely different way. “Seonghwa?”

He pauses in the doorway, looking back at you.

“Thank you. For… not making this weird.”

His smile is soft, patient. “It’s not weird. It’s okay.”

A few minutes later, you’re still in his bathroom, the warmth of the steam and the quiet hum of the fan giving you a moment to breathe. To be alone and let the water rinse some of it away. Not the pain of today, but the weight of it, just for a moment.

You change into the familiar sweatpants and soft T-shirt he left folded neatly by the sink. They still smell like him. When you open the door again, the hallway’s dim, and the softest light glows from the living room. 

He’s sitting on the couch, one arm resting over the back, a blanket already draped across the cushions, like he’s been preparing your little corner of the world for you. 

“Perfect timing,” he says, patting the space beside him with a grin that’s equal parts teasing and gentle. “I was about to start a movie without you and pretend I didn’t.”

You laugh, your heart lighter already. And as you cross the room and curl into his side beneath the blanket, it’s not the movie that matters. It’s the feeling that you’re safe here, with him.

And for the first time in a long time, that’s more than enough.

***

The boardroom is quiet when Seonghwa walks in the next day.

He’s always early, by design. It gives him time to breathe, to set the tone, to sit at the head of the glass table with everything already in place. His laptop is open, a black pen lined up perfectly beside his notepad, and his eyes skim the agenda, though he already knows it. But his focus isn’t on the day’s schedule.

Not yet.

It’s still on you.

Not the way you looked when you walked into his apartment yesterday. Exhausted, crying, your whole body weighed down by things you hadn’t said yet, but the way you looked curled up against him hours later, asleep on his couch, tucked into his side beneath a blanket like you’d always belonged there.

You had cried. You had kissed him. You had let him hold you. He’d kissed the crown of your head.

And he didn’t sleep much that night.

Not because you didn’t let him, if anything, you were warm and quiet, breathing slow against him. It was the way you felt in his arms that kept him awake. Like he was holding something fragile and sacred. Like if he moved, even slightly, you might disappear.

In the morning, you stirred first. Groggy and quiet, blinking sleepily against his chest before murmuring something about needing to go home and change before work. He offered to take the day off. Said he could cancel everything. That he didn’t care.

But you shook your head with a tiny smile. Insisted that he go.

You even teased him for hovering. Called him “overly attentive.” He’d rolled his eyes, pretending to be annoyed, but when you leaned in and kissed him goodbye, soft and sleepy, he nearly asked you to stay.

But you left. And he watched the door long after it closed behind you.

Now he’s here. Under sterile lighting. A boardroom full of chatter. And across the table sits the man who used to be your husband in everything but legality.

He walked in laughing - with her - like it’s just another Thursday. The girlfriend is practically attached to him, all smiles and subtle touches, like they don’t work under the same roof. Like they’re not sneaking around as if people haven’t noticed. Seonghwa doesn’t look up immediately. Just lets his fingers tap softly against the side of his coffee cup. 

Measured. Calm. Focused.

“Morning,” your husband says with that too-casual tone, like everything’s perfectly fine.

“Morning,” Seonghwa replies, flat and cool.

He doesn’t do anger like most people. It simmers quietly in him, contained, controlled. He doesn’t lash out. He remembers. He watches. He files things away until the time is right.

Today’s not the day.

But he is watching.

The meeting starts. The others file in, small talk filling the space. Projector humming, documents shuffling. Seonghwa opens the presentation. Keeps his voice even.

“I’d like to keep today’s meeting brief,” he says, voice smooth and low. “We’re focusing on timelines, project deliverables, and accountability.”

His gaze flicks to your husband. The pause is barely a second too long. “Especially accountability.”

There's a flicker in the man’s expression. He shifts in his seat, coughs once like he’s about to make a joke, but one look from Seonghwa shuts him down. The meeting ticks forward. 

Then your husband speaks up.

“I think the delay in deliverables came down to a lack of communication, not really our fault,” he says, flashing a grin at his girlfriend like she’ll have his back.

She does.

But Seonghwa is already leaning forward, calm but sharp. “And who was responsible for communicating that timeline to the vendors?”

Silence.

Your husband clears his throat. “Well… technically, I was. But-”

“Then let’s not redirect blame.” Seonghwa’s voice doesn’t rise. It never needs to. “If you were the lead, you’re accountable. End of story.”

The table goes quiet. The girlfriend shifts awkwardly. And your husband, he looks like he wants to argue but doesn’t dare.

Good.

Seonghwa could say more. So much more. He could talk about how you came to him last night after being ignored for months. How you told him things you never said to anyone. How you almost gave yourself to him. How you let him hold you, warm you, kiss you, keep you safe. How you fell asleep against him like he was the only place you felt okay.

He could say how he’s never going to forgive this man for not seeing you. For making you feel small. For letting you cry alone in your kitchen while he flirted with someone new on the clock.

But Seonghwa keeps it inside.

He lets the meeting run its course. Makes his points. Keeps his composure. Because no one knows what you are to him.

Yet.

And when it’s finally over, he gathers his papers slowly. Closes his laptop with care. And doesn’t look back once.

Because there’s something about seeing that man across from him, pretending like he still owns your heart, when Seonghwa knows what it feels like to have you kiss him good morning, in nothing but his hoodie, after a night of quiet healing.

He’s not done protecting you.

And your husband? He doesn’t even realize he already lost.