⋆ archived hearts ⋆

A lazy smile tugs at your lips, and you let out a soft, breathy laugh. He hums in response, his lips brushing against the skin of your shoulder as he lets out a long, contented sigh, seeming to wake up just enough to squeeze you tighter. “Good morning,” he murmurs, voice thick and warm with sleep, a sound so comforting it wraps around you like the blankets you’re both cocooned in.

“Good morning,” you whisper back, closing your eyes and savoring the cozy quiet of the early morning, feeling like the world beyond these four walls doesn’t exist. His hand moves up to your back, fingers gliding softly over your spine, tracing invisible patterns that make you shiver, and you feel a little thrill at how easily he knows just how to make you melt.

In a lazy, playful tone, you ask, “Hey, baby, would you make me a cup of coffee?” There’s no rush behind your words, no real expectation—just the gentle banter that comes with mornings like this.

You feel him pause behind you, and he shifts, lifting his head just enough to look down at you, an amused glint in his barely-open eyes. “Coffee?” he echoes, his voice lilting with that endearing mix of surprise and mischief that always manages to make your heart skip a beat.

Then, without warning, he leans in closer, brushing a trail of soft kisses from your shoulder to the curve of your neck, pausing to nuzzle his nose against your skin. You giggle, helpless against the tickling warmth of his breath, and he lets out a low laugh, savoring your reaction.

“Beloved,” he says, his voice a soft murmur in your ear, holding that playful, poetic tone he uses when he’s in the mood to make you blush, “if you but asked, I would rearrange the very heavens so that the stars spelled your name. I would carve your likeness onto the face of the moon so that everyone who looked into the night sky would know the joy I feel when I look at you.”

Your cheeks heat up, and you can’t hold back a grin, biting your lip as you meet his gaze, his words sinking into you like honey. “You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, but there’s no real protest behind it. You’re too charmed, too wrapped up in the intensity of his gaze, the softness in his touch.

He just raises an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “What, you don’t believe me?” he asks, his voice light and teasing. But before you can respond, he’s shifting again, propping himself up on one elbow, leaning over you so that his face is only inches from yours.

“I’d do anything for you,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, no trace of the earlier humor—just a steady, quiet sincerity that steals your breath. “If a cup of coffee is all you want, it’s yours. But if you asked me to give you the whole sky… the gods themselves would find themselves slain at my hand if they tried to stop me.”

You’re silent, momentarily struck by the intensity in his gaze, the raw honesty of his words. He reaches up, his thumb brushing softly over your cheek, and you lean into his touch, your heart thrumming at the tenderness in his eyes.

Unable to hold back, you reach up and pull him closer, your lips meeting his in a slow, lingering kiss. He kisses you back just as softly, savoring the moment, his hand resting lightly against the curve of your jaw as if you’re something precious, something he doesn’t want to let go of.

After a long, quiet moment, he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed, and you’re both quiet, breathing in sync as you stay tangled up in each other. It’s the kind of morning that makes time feel like it’s stretching on forever, where you could stay wrapped up in him like this, in the warmth and softness of the moment, for as long as you like.

He lets out a long, contented sigh, finally opening his eyes to meet yours again, his expression so full of quiet affection it makes you feel like you could melt. “So,” he says, the corners of his mouth quirking up into a smirk, “about that coffee?”

You laugh, rolling your eyes as you playfully nudge him. “All that, and you’re still leaving me to get it myself?”

He chuckles, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close, resting his chin atop your head. “Alright, alright,” he says, finally untangling himself from the blankets as he sits up, stretching with a soft groan before leaning back down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. “One coffee, coming right up.”

As he slips out of bed and heads for the kitchen, you watch him go, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with the morning sun spilling across the room. He glances back over his shoulder, catching your gaze with a soft smile before he disappears around the corner, and you find yourself smiling back, your heart full in a way that words can’t describe.

“drinks!” doyoung waltzed into the room, balancing a platter. the ice in the elegant glasses clinked, colorful beverages shining in the sun falling through the huge window. 

johnny put down a bowl of chips. 

“ah, i’ve been waiting for that” yuta hummed like a purring cat and snatched the drink the second doyoung placed them down. 

“and an orange juice for a special lady” jaehyun appeared in front of you and handed you the glass. it had ice and a paper umbrella in it, a slice of lemon adorning the edge. 

you sent him a soft smile, puckering your lips in a pout. that’s a habit you developed ever since your pregnant belly started being too restrictive. it was a sign for ‘i wanna kiss you but i can’t move’

he leaned closer and planted a sweet kiss on your lips, knowing what you meant. 

“i wanna drink too…” you joked, pouting like a kicked puppy. 

“one more month baby” jaehyun said softly, sending you a reassuring smile. 

the evening went on, chatting and joking accompanied by the football match they were watching. 

you were slowly dozing off, partly paying attention to what they were saying. 

“y/n is almost as round as the ball now, look!” donghyuck giggled and your eyes snapped open at the mention of your name. 

“i wonder if your belly if bigger than a ball… i’d say it’s rather a basketball size, huh?” jungwoo pondered. 

a bitter pang overtook your heart. you know they didn’t mean it to sound rude but you couldn’t help but wonder if you’re really that… big… and round… and apparently so easy to target, too. 

jaehyun caught your unfazed expression and clicked his tongue. 

“you remind me of a ball too. your fuckass big head–“ he joked at haechan and everyone laughed, including you. 

and when you went to the bathroom, you missed jaehyun taking the youngest to the side. 

“do we have everything, baby?” your husband asked, pushing the cart. you looked at your notes, not even halfway checked. 

“we barely entered the mart” you grunted and looked up at him. his dimples poked in a boyish smile. 

“anything you’re craving right now, misses” he teased and you rolled your eyes. 

you may or may have not sneaked some of your pregnancy cravings into the cart but you didn’t think he’d notice. 

“shut up. it’s our girl, not me” you huffed dramatically and wrapped your hands around his arm. 

suddenly, a pretty girl appeared in the aisle. she had long, silky blonde hair and was wearing a really cute outfit. it displayed her long legs and the crop top she was wearing exposed her flat stomach. her face was perfect, makeup glowing like a model. 

you sulked upon seeing her figure. you missed your old body. you missed being able to walk around in outfits like these. hell, even fitting in jeans was out of your reach now. 

you realized that when she passed you by, jaehyun turned his head to look at her. 

wave of sadness washed over you, slowly letting go of his arm. you didn’t blame him, though. you were nothing compared to her. big belly, no makeup, hair in a normal ponytail. you haven’t dressed up in a while – and even if you did, you wouldn’t look like you would before. 

“i don’t feel too good. i’ll go back to the car” you mumbled, feeling like crying. you wanted to hide from the world… from your own husband. 

jaehyun’s features dropped in instant worry, turning to you.

“are you okay? i’ll drive you home. do you need to see a doctor?” he asked, panic in his voice. 

“i’m… no, i’m fine! just finish the shopping, ill wait in the car” you grunted and gave him your phone with the list, turning around on your heel. 

he has never ran enough a grocery shop so fast in his entire life. 

after almost sprinting to the car and loading the bags, he hopped in and scanned your face in search of pain. there was always a risk of you giving birth sooner than expected so he was just extremely cautious. 

he noticed your swollen eyes and wet tears. maybe it was just the hormones, it’s not like you haven’t cried before because he just killed a fly. (“what if that fly was pregnant too? what if it was a working father? what if–”) 

he started the car and reached out to grab your hand. you just played with his fingers to ease your nerves, a silent drive home. 

for the past two days jaehyun had a feeling that you were avoiding him. you’ve been either sleeping all day or hiding away in your bedroom. 

at the end of the day jaehyun decided to talk to you. but upon walking into the room, he saw you sitting at the edge of the bed. your loose shirt was slightly up, your fingers tracking red stretch marks on the side of your stomach. 

“hey baby, what’s up?” he hummed, walking up to you “we haven’t talked in a while, hm? everything okay?” 

you sighed and just pulled the shirt down, covering your belly completely. 

“look at me pretty, come on” he was starting to get worried. kneeling down to settle between your looks, he noticed your teary eyes.  

“i just feel so gross, you know?” you mumbled, gently rubbing your tummy. jaehyun sighed softly, relieved to hear that you’re not in physical pain. he put one of his hands on your knee, rubbing it in a soothing motion “like i know it’s inevitable but everyone keeps making comments and… and i just miss my old body. it may never be the same… and… it’s just dumb”

“don’t listen to haechan, he’s still a kid. he doesn’t know what he’s talking about” jaehyun said, trying to ease the tension 

“i saw the way you looked at the girl, in the store” you mumbled, lips quivering. he furrowed his brows and realization hit him like a ton of bricks. but before he could explain, you went on “and i get it, i’m so ugly now, i don’t even dress up. i can’t even put anything else than sweatpants… and don’t even mention heels. i get you.”

“oh honey… she had a cute outfit, that’s why i looked. i think you have a similar top, by the way. but also, i agree, i turned my head but… her face seemed familiar. you know that it was johnny’s ex?”

“what?” you asked, finally looking at him. the cute dimple smile painted his cheeks as he nodded.

“yeah. i just, i don’t know, was so shocked it was her so i just turned around. but not to check her out or anything. because you are–” he started.

“wait, the one with a foot fetish?!” you asked suddenly. 

jaehyun snorted loudly, hanging his head low. and here he was about to be romantic.

“yeah, her” he snickered and looked back up “but my point is, i only have my eyes on you. we both knew that pregnancy will change your body and i admire you so much. you’re so strong. and just know that, whether or not you will go back to your shape… the stretch marks will stay… will grow old and wrinkled… i will love you. those things don’t matter to me”

you shook your head and pulled the shirt over your face, something you did when too embarrassed to cry. and you did, small sobs choking out from under the material.

“you look beautiful to me. you’re carrying our baby girl and you really glow, to me” jaehyun said and stood up, hands going to rest on your shoulders.

“i love you” you cried and put your shirt down only to wrap your hands around his waist and sob into his shirt. he rubbed your skin in a calming way. 

“i love you more, pretty girl” he whispered into your hair.

after you’ve calmed down he helped you lay down and tucked you in. jaehyun laid down next to you and rested his head on his hand, adoring you with a soft smile.

“got it? you’re the prettiest” he hummed and placed a soft kiss on your lips. then, his hand sneaked to lift your shirt a bit.

he traced the red stretch marks with a feather-light touch and then put his hand gently on your belly. he felt small movements and warm feeling spilled over his heart.

“and i bet she’ll be equally beautiful, my little dandelion” your husband whispered softly. and you couldn’t help but grin, looking at his whipped state.

nct masterlist | event masterlist

taglist. @l3visbby ,, @laylasbunbunny ,, @planetkiimchi ,, @mon2sunjinsuver ,, @w3bqrl ,,

Clutching the small pen-like test in your hand, the two lines smiling brightly back at you. It's just been over a month since Eunhees third birthday and here you're sitting on the edge of the tube, holding the test in your hands. Tears rimmed your eyes. Were they from sadness? Not really, maybe a tinge of anxiety of Sans's reaction to a second pregnancy, but they were more like tears of happiness. San never mentioned any aversion to a second child, so you were happy about this.

Your hand softly rubbing over your stomach now, it's probably barely been a few weeks, but knowing you're carrying a child of San yet again, makes you feel nothing but warmth and happiness. Taking the test, you quickly rush into the bedroom, hiding the test somewhere in your things, so well that San nor Eunhee would ever find it, before joining your two favorite people in the living room again. San was lying on the floor, legs straight up into the air as he balanced Eunhee on his feet playing airplane. Her little giggles sound through the whole room and make you smile before she looks up and screeches upon seeing you. "Mommy!" Being let down carefully, she quickly runs over to you, hugging your legs tightly as she grins up to you.

"Having fun?" You ruffle her dark hair softly, bending down to pick her up and hold her on your hip, she has grown a lot recently. "Yeah! Daddy said we'll visit the uncles this weekend for dinner!" Her tiny arms are around your neck now to hold on for support as she tells you smiling. "Oh really? Then we'll have to make you look extra pretty hm? Want all of them swoon over how cute you are!" Softly poking her tummy now as she lets out giggles while kicking her feet now. Setting her down now she rushes over to San again who is sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching the endearing moment now.

"Are you two fine? I wanted to go out for a bit and get some chores done." Walking over to them, you crouch down placing a soft kiss on both of their cheeks. "Daddy got it all handled no worries!" San told you, he really was an amazing dad, he loved his little girl so much. After saying goodbye to them, you grab your purse and leave the apartment smiling with a plan.

The first stop is the printer shop, which takes on orders for personalized clothes. Entering you take a quick look around, before spotting the old man working there. "Good day!" You greet him, making him notice you and greet you back. "I need seven Shirts for man and one for a toddler, the big ones should have something along the lines of 'We'll be uncles again soon' and the little one 'I'll be a big sister soon'" You explain to the man, his eyes light up upon hearing your instructions, congratulating you. He said it would be done in around three days which was perfect timing, just done before the dinner with everyone.

Leaving the shop with a thank you, you make your way to the grocery store to cover up that your chores at hand were to get a few items there in case San asked you what you did.

Coming back home your eyes immediately catch San lying on the couch sleeping, with Eunhee on his chest also fast asleep. Putting the groceries you got away, before walking over to your little family, watching them for a few seconds. It was exciting how soon you'd be a little family of four.. five. Looking down at the cat moving around your feet now, slowly patting Byeols head. Scoping Eunhee up into your arms now, you softly wake up San. "Baby, let's go to bed, you got a schedule and need to sleep in a proper bed." After making sure San would go to bed, you bring Eunhee to her room. She just recently got it done, everyone of Ateez helped along, some put together the furniture, and others painted the walls. It was adorable how dear your little daughter was to everyone.

Laying her down now, you put the blanket over her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Turning on her bed light now, before leaving the room, leaving the door slightly ajar. Walking into your shared bedroom now, San was lying on his side waiting for you, typing away on his phone mindlessly. "She's sound asleep, I still left the door a bit open in case she has a nightmare again. I'm a bit worried she's been having them more often lately." You talk to him while getting changed, before laying down beside him, resting your head on his chest. "Don't worry it's normal, her brain is starting to understand and notice more things, it's normal for her to process more in her dreams and therefore get a few more nightmares, it'll settle down again baby." His hand was running through your hair mindlessly now, pressing a kiss to your temple, before closing his eyes, ready to fall asleep.

The next few days went by quickly, Eunhee though was getting a bit more restless, even sleeping in your and Sans's bed the last two nights. Waking up this Friday now you look down at her, noticing how there is a sheen layer of sweat on her forehead and her cheeks are pink. Laying your hand on her forehead now, she was burning up, oh my poor baby you thought. Getting up quietly, San was already gone for work. You quickly get a pair of new clothes, before making her a quick breakfast so she can take some fever medicine, taking along a bottle of water for her. Just as you were picking everything up, your poor baby started crying and calling for you. Rushing into the room, you place everything on the nightstand now before scoping her up in your arms, softly swaying her side to side a bit as her tiny body clutches herself to you.

"It's okay baby, mommy is here, mommy just got you some things that will make you feel better again soon.." Whispering soft words as her cries didn't seem to stop. Probably from feeling unwell and waking up alone. You wish San was here right now, speaking of the devil as your phone starts ringing, picking up and hold it to your ear. "Hello baby.." You greet him, still hushing your daughter as she slowly starts to calm down. "Is Eunhee crying? Is everything okay? Should I come home?" Worry seeped from his voice upon hearing his little princess cry so harshly. "No don't, I got this. She's running a little fever so I don't think she'll be able to come along tomorrow, I'll give her some medicine now and then rest with her." You explain to them, hearing Wooyoung cooe sadly in the background, you were probably on speaker right now. "Okay, if you need anything or need me to come home call me, I'll make it work!" He assures you before ending the call, Eunhees cries quieted down now.

"Let's get something in your tummy so you can take your medicine hm?" You helped her sit on the bed, before helping her eat, but she still insisted that she could eat alone. Giving the medicine to her now, you were glad she never put up a fight when it came to this, before handing her, her water bottle. "You'll feel better soon baby, just rest, do you want something from your room?" Patting her head softly she shakes her head and only points to the TV in your room. Turning it on, she immediately points to one of the new Wanteez episodes that recently came out making you smile turning it on for her. Byeol has settled down on her lap by now, as Eunhee munches on the fruits you brought her.

"Mommy will be in the kitchen yeah? I'll make some soup for you for later." She simply nods, too engrossed in the show watching her dad and uncles be silly. Standing up now, you get changed into some home attire before moving to the kitchen, writing one of your close friends to please pick up your order from the shop, as you won't be able to do it today with Eunhee having a fever. Getting started on the soup now, before moving on the cleaning a bit, checking up on Eunhee every now and then, she at some point falling asleep cuddling Byeol, before waking up again hungry and then continuing to watch the show.

At some point at noon, your friend brought your order, asking what it was as the old man didn't tell her, telling her she'd know soon and that it was a secret for now, before handing her a little thank you for helping you out. Hiding the bag now as San would soon be home and you didn't wanna spoil the surprise.

"Welcome home darling!" You shout from the bedroom, sitting beside Eunhee now as you two watch a Barbie movie, her eyes immediately moving to the opening door. "Daddy! You're home!" Moving to get up, she stumbles a bit before running up to her dad who picks her up, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek. "How is my baby doing hm? Feeling better?" She nodded, even though she was still feeling unwell, the fever down a little bit due to the medicine. "How about you and Daddy spend an amazing day tomorrow hm? I'll get those amazing little cakes for you from across the street." Sitting down with her on his lap, he leans against the headboard, the movie long forgotten as she nods. "Don't you wanna go to the dinner tomorrow?" Your eyes but his now as he shakes his head. "You took care of her the whole day, the first day is always the worst for a fever, I'll take over tomorrow and you go to the dinner, the boys will still be happy to see you," San explains making you nod and agree, this was actually perfect, that way you could give the boys their little presents first before planning to tell San.

So the next day came, you got ready for the dinner, before grabbing your purse and the bag with the shirts, saying goodbye to them before leaving for the restaurant.

"Y/N! We're here!" You hear Wooyoungs voice call out to you from one of the private rooms in the back, making you smile as you join them. "Hello everyone!" You greet the seven men, making them smile at you as you take a seat beside Jongho and Wooyoung. "How is Eunhee doing? San mentioned she had a fever? Poor thing.." Seonghwa asks you making you nod, telling them she was doing a bit better right now and how she was probably enjoying those little cakes right now San got them while you were still at home so Eunhee wouldn't be left unsupervised.

"So actually I'm rather glad San stayed at home today, that way I can give you guys this." Standing up now, you place the bag on the table before handing out the neatly wrapped shirts. Mingi and Yunho first as they had the biggest size, before continuing, instructing them to wait with opening till everyone had theirs. "Okay! I hope you guys will like this.. You can open now." Some were neatly opening the package like Seonghwa, while others ripped them open like Mingi and Wooyoung. Watching each boy look at the writing on the shirt now, mostly with big eyes, before Wooyoung springs up. "I'LL BE AN UNCLE AGAIN?!" His eyes were full of tears as he looked at you, nodding softly before being pulled into a tight hug. "Congrats dear, if you need any help from us tell us." Seonghwa was the next to speak up, hugging you tightly. Before Mingi approached you, being visibly excited about the news, softly jumping a little bit before hugging you tightly and even lifting you up slightly, making Jongho scream at him to be careful with you two. This made tears prick your eyes. "Jongho.." You softly whimper, laying your arms around the man, who seems to be unsure if he wants to accept but has no real choice, in the end, he places his arms around you carefully. Everyone else told you their congratulations and hugged you.

"So the plan is, I'd like all of you to wear these next Monday, I'll come around with Eunhee, she has her own shirt, before San arrives and that's how I want him to find out!" Everyone cheers now, liking the idea, looking over to Hongjoong now for his approval. "I like that idea, let's do it." He nods now, you were glad he was so supportive. The first time he was rather unsure of the pregnancy, of how the fans and society would react, but the moment he held Eunhee for the first time it was all over, he was absolutely smitten for the little girl like everyone else of them was.

"Do you hope for a boy or girl?" Yunho speaks up now looking over at you. "Honestly I don't care, I'd love him or her unconditionally either way." You smile softly, your hand rubbing over your still flat tummy, knowing fully well it will be bigger in a few months. The boys nod as they agreed, before the orders finally arrived, enjoying a nice meal with them, laughing and joking around.

It was a nice evening, the boys were talking a lot about how excited they were for the new baby, arguing over who would be the baby's favorite, as Eunhee's favorite uncles were by far Mingi and Yunho since her birth.

The evening soon ended, and they promised to keep quiet till the big reveal as you packed everything together and made your way home, hoping San was fine and that Eunhee was doing a bit better slowly. At home you peek inside the apartment, noticing the TV playing as you take your shoes off and make your way into the living room. "Baby, did daddy fall asleep?" You giggle quietly upon seeing Eunhee sit beside San and watch another Wanteez episode, Sans's arm around her as he was sleeping tightly. The little princess looks up as she hears your voice and nods to your question, as you crouch down in front of her. She probably wasn't tired yet from napping through the whole day, softly feeling her forehead now and sighing relieved feeling her fever down finally.

"Let's get you to bed hm? Did you have fun with Daddy today?" You pick her up, San waking up from the movement, blinking softly as he sits up and watches you carry Eunhee to her room, he luckily had changed her into her sleepwear already in case she was to fall asleep while watching the show. "Mhm.. Daddy showed me the new episode with the uncles.." Getting sleepy slowly, Eunhee rests her head on your shoulder as her arms hang loosely around your neck. "Oh wow, that must have been so exciting, we can watch more of that tomorrow. Let's sleep for now baby." Pressing a kiss to her forehead now as you enter her room, sitting down on her bed and laying her down, before pulling the blanket over her.

Leaving her room after taking one last look at her and joining San in the bedroom, watching him fight to stay awake waiting for you. "Sannie sleep if you're tired." Shaking his head, he mumbles a little tiredly watching you change out of your clothes and into one of his shirts to sleep, before laying down beside him. Opening your arms, he immediately scoots over, his arms wrapping around your waist as his head comes to rest on your chest, softly running your hands through his locks. He had recently dyed them red again, it suited him well.

Sunday went by rather quickly, Eunhee was better again, playing around with San and Byeol, helping you cook, and watching another Ateez show again.

So Monday came around, you got up quite early and got ready, making sure you packed Eunhees shirt and the pregnancy test, San looking at you confused still half asleep as you finished getting ready. "I'll visit Lotte World with Eunhee today, I promised her." Pressing a soft kiss to your husband's temple as he nods, a little bit sad he can't join due to work before you leave the room getting Eunhee ready now.

"Where are we going?" Eunhee looked at you curiously, her tiny arms holding onto your neck, her tiny legs kicking a little bit as you walked along the sidewalk in the direction of KQ. "We'll visit the uncles and prepare a little surprise for Daddy." Her eyes light up upon hearing that there will be a surprise for her daddy.. or because she'll see her uncles. Entering the elevator you press the floor of the practice room and let Eunhee stand on her own now, taking her hand as you lead her to the dance practice room. "Yuyu!!" Eunhees high voice screeches upon seeing the tall man, everyone turning to the two of you as Eunhee runs up to Yunho who immediately picks her up. "Hello little princess!" Yunho beams at her, he was always so sweet to her, often being the one to offer to watch her for a weekend or evening when you and San wanted to spend some romantic time.

"Eunhee darling come here for a second." Yunho sets her down again as you sit down on the floor, softly taking her hands when she reaches you. "What do you think about being a big sister hm? Would you like that?" She thinks for a second, looking at you nodding slowly. "If I stay Uncle Yuyu and Uncle Min's favorite!" She answers, making everyone laugh and Mingi cooe at her answer. "You'll always stay my favorite baby!" Mingi calls over, making you smile. "But yes.. I'd like to be a big sister!" She beams at you, making tears rim your eyes as you pull her into a hug, she has grown so much. "You'll soon be a big sis baby." You tell her, making her giggle and smile. Soon she was wearing her personalized shirt along with all of her uncles, Yunho holding the little girl in his arms right now.

"Okay, San should be here soon! I'll wait for him outside and then bring him inside!" Rushing outside the room, you close the door, looking around for your husband. After around ten minutes he finally arrived, looking at you confused. "Darling? I thought you and Eunhee were at Lotte? Where is she? Is she okay?" He looks around for his little princess worried now. "She is with the boys right now, you have to put this on though!" Holding up the blindfold now, he grows even more confused but lets you put it over his eyes. "I'm a bit scared, but I'll trust you." He tells you, taking your hand softly as you lead him into the room.

Taking one last deep breath, before taking off Sans's blindfold. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to get used to the lights, as he now looks at his fellow members and little princess, at first not noticing the shirts, but after ready them a few times his eyes grow wide as he now looks over to you, who was now holding the positive pregnancy test. "This isn't a joke, right? Are we getting another child? You're pregnant again?" His bag lying on the floor now as he looks at you with tears in his eyes and a big smile on his lips. "Yes, I wanted to surprise you." Your own tears in your eyes now, as San pulls you into a tight hug, picking you up and spinning you around laughing. "I'll be a dad again!" He giggles as he presses a soft kiss to your lips. "I love you so much." Laying his forehead onto your forehead, before looking down he sees his little girl tug on his pants softly to be picked up. "Who will be the best big sister?! You will be Eunhee!" He smirks at her as he picks her up onto his hip.

The rink is quiet when you arrive.

It always is at this hour—6:12 a.m., when the sky outside is still pale and sleepy and the world hasn’t fully woken up yet. 

The fluorescent lights hum softly above the ice, casting a cool glow across the empty arena.

This is your favorite time to skate.

No noise. No distractions.

No hockey players carving the ice to pieces.

Just you.

You step onto the rink carefully, the blades of your skates kissing the ice with a crisp, familiar sound. The chill rises through the thin soles of your boots, settling comfortably into your bones.

It feels like home.

You start with simple edges first, gliding slowly along the rink’s curve. Your muscles wake up gradually, remembering the rhythm your body has repeated thousands of times before.

Push. Glide. Turn.

Your breath fogs the cold air.

Today is one of the many important oractice days.

Regionals are only two weeks away, and your triple axel still isn’t landing the way you want it to. 

The rotation is there, but the landing keeps slipping just slightly off-center.

You can fix it. You know you can.

You gather speed across the rink, arms pulling inward as you prepare for the jump—

And then the doors slam open.

The peaceful silence shatters instantly.

Loud voices echo through the arena, followed by the unmistakable clatter of hockey sticks and gear bags hitting the benches.

Your stomach drops.

No.

No, no, no.

They’re not supposed to be here yet.

“Morning!” someone shouts.

You turn sharply toward the entrance, irritation already bubbling in your chest as the entire hockey team spills into the rink area like a storm.

Laughter. Shouting.

Heavy skates stomping against the floor.

And at the center of it all—

San.

You recognize him immediately.

He’s hard not to notice.

Tall, broad-shouldered, messy dark hair slightly damp like he just showered. His hockey jersey hangs loosely over his frame, sleeves pushed up as he casually twirls his stick in one hand.

He looks relaxed. Comfortable.

Like he owns the place.

Your jaw tightens.

San glances up toward the ice—and spots you.

For a moment, his expression flickers with mild surprise.

Then his lips curl into the faintest smirk.

“Didn’t know the rink was hosting ballet practice this early.”

Your eye twitches.

You push yourself toward the barrier, stopping just short of the boards as the team starts stepping onto the ice.

“Your practice isn’t for another hour,” you say sharply.

San tilts his head slightly.

His expression doesn’t look cocky the way most hockey players do.

Instead, he studies you quietly, almost curiously.

“Coach moved it earlier,” he replies.

“That’s not my problem.”

Your gaze drops to the skates hitting the ice behind him, already scratching deep grooves across the surface you just smoothed.

“You’re ruining the ice.”

A few of the players snicker.

San sighs softly, running a hand through his hair.

“You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true.”

Your voice sharpens.

“You guys tear it up and then expect figure skaters to practice on what’s basically frozen gravel.”

San taps the tip of his hockey stick lightly against the ice.

“You could always share.”

You stare at him.

Share?

“With you hockey players?” you repeat incredulously.

“You slam each other into walls,” you continue. “You skate like you’re trying to destroy the rink.”

San blinks.

Then he quietly says, “That’s… kind of the sport.”

A few of his teammates laugh.

Your cheeks heat with irritation.

“I have a competition,” you snap. “I can’t practice jumps on broken ice.”

San’s gaze shifts briefly to the center of the rink where you’d been skating earlier.

His eyes linger there for a moment.

Then he says something that surprises you.

“Show me.”

You frown.

“What?”

“The jump,” he clarifies. “The one you were working on.”

Your suspicion spikes immediately.

“Why?”

He shrugs.

“Curious.”

You narrow your eyes.

San doesn’t look like he’s mocking you.

If anything, he looks… genuinely interested.

Still.

You push yourself back toward the center of the rink.

“Watch carefully,” you mutter.

You pick up speed, heart pounding slightly as you prepare.

Your blade digs into the ice—

Takeoff. Rotation. Landing.

Your foot slips.

You barely catch yourself before falling, arms flailing slightly as you regain balance.

Behind you, the hockey players erupt into laughter.

Embarrassment burns through your chest.

You whip around toward them.

San isn’t laughing.

In fact, he looks slightly concerned.

“You okay?” he asks.

The question only makes you more irritated.

“Of course I’m okay.”

You glare at the ice beneath your skates.

The landing edge is rough.

Scratched. Destroyed.

You look back at him.

“This,” you say sharply, pointing to the ice, “is why I hate hockey players.”

San exhales slowly.

Then he glides toward you.

He stops a few feet away, leaning lightly against his stick.

“You’re blaming us for a bad landing.”

“You ruined the ice.”

“You messed up the jump.”

Your eyes narrow.

San’s voice remains calm.

“You know,” he adds quietly, “you hesitated on the takeoff.”

You blink.

“What?”

“Your shoulder dropped,” he says. “Right before you jumped.”

Your irritation falters slightly.

“You’re a hockey player.”

“Yeah.”

“So why are you analyzing my jump?”

San shrugs.

“I watch sometimes.”

The words catch you off guard.

“Why?”

He gestures vaguely toward the rink.

“You’re here every morning.”

You stare at him.

“So are you,” you point out.

He smiles faintly.

“Guess we’re both obsessed with ice.”

Your heart stutters for some reason you can’t explain.

You quickly push the feeling away.

“Stay on your side of the rink,” you mutter.

San raises his hands in surrender.

“Yes, ma’am.”

But as he skates away—

You can feel his eyes lingering on you.

And somehow…

That bothers you even more than the ruined ice.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The rivalry becomes routine.

You don’t remember exactly when it starts feeling like a pattern, but somehow every morning practice now includes the same sequence of events.

You arrive early. You warm up.

And then the hockey team storms in like a pack of loud, chaotic wolves.

Right on schedule.

You’re mid-spin one morning when the doors slam open again.

Voices echo across the rink.

“Morning, princess!”

You don’t even have to look to know who said it.

You glide to a stop slowly before turning toward the boards where San is leaning casually, already dressed in his gear.

Your eye twitches.

“Call me that again,” you say coolly, “and I’ll sharpen my blades on your skates.”

San tilts his head thoughtfully.

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a promise.”

A few of the other players laugh.

San pushes himself onto the ice, gliding effortlessly across the surface until he’s only a few feet away from you.

You hate how smooth hockey players skate.

It’s messy compared to figure skating, sure—but San moves with surprising control.

He taps his stick lightly against the ice.

“So,” he says, voice casual, “did you fix the hesitation?”

You fold your arms.

“What hesitation?”

“The one before your jump yesterday.”

Your irritation spikes immediately.

“You’re still talking about that?”

“You fell.”

Your glare sharpens.

“You want to test your luck today?”

San smiles faintly.

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“If you’re planning to threaten me again.”

Before you can respond, one of his teammates shouts from across the rink.

“San! Stop flirting and get over here!”

Your face heats instantly.

“He’s not flirting,” you snap.

San looks mildly offended.

“Wow.”

“You’re literally the most annoying person I’ve ever met.”

“That hurts.”

“It should.”

He pushes himself backward, skating away toward his team.

But just before he turns fully, he glances back.

And there’s something strange in his expression.

Something other than teasing.

You ignore it.

The rink manager eventually gets tired of the constant complaints.

Which is how you end up in the worst situation imaginable.

Late evenings. Shared practices.

One side of the rink for figure skating.

The other side for hockey drills.

You stare at the printed schedule taped to the office wall.

“This is ridiculous.”

The manager sighs.

“It’s temporary.”

“You’re sabotaging me.”

“They also need ice time.”

“They destroy the ice.”

“They said the same thing about you.”

You spin around.

“They what?”

“They claim your toe picks chip the surface.”

You stare at him like he’s personally betrayed you.

Toe picks chipping the ice?

That’s absurd.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first shared practice is chaos.

You’re stretching beside the rink when the hockey team arrives.

San notices you immediately.

Of course he does.

His eyebrows lift slightly.

“Well,” he murmurs.

“This should be fun.”

You step onto the ice without responding.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Music begins playing softly from your phone speaker near the boards as you glide across the rink, warming up.

Edges. Turns.

Speed building gradually.

Across the rink, the hockey players start drills.

Pucks slap against sticks.

Skates carve deep lines into the ice.

The noise alone is enough to irritate you.

You push harder into your practice.

Faster. Sharper. Cleaner.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice San watching.

He’s supposed to be running drills with his team.

Instead, he’s leaning against the boards.

Observing.

You ignore him.

You prepare for your triple axel.

Push. Edge.

Jump—

You land it.

Clean. Perfect.

Your heart lifts slightly in satisfaction.

Across the rink, someone whistles.

“Okay,” a voice calls.

“That was kinda cool.”

You look over.

San is clapping slowly.

Almost… impressed.

Your irritation immediately returns.

“Focus on your own sport,” you call.

San raises his hands.

“Relax.”

“You’re distracting me.”

“You’re the one yelling across the rink.”

“You started it.”

He skates toward the center line separating the two practice areas.

You follow instinctively.

Neither of you realize how close you’ve gotten until you’re only a few feet apart.

San leans lightly on his stick.

“You’re competitive,” he says.

“You’re annoying.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

You scoff.

“You hockey players think you own the ice.”

“And you figure skaters act like it’s sacred ground.”

“It is sacred.”

San laughs quietly.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re reckless.”

He gestures toward the ice beneath you.

“You jump into the air and spin three times on a knife blade.”

“That’s skill.”

“That’s terrifying.”

You hesitate slightly.

San tilts his head.

“Teach me.”

You blink.

“What?”

“One spin,” he says.

“Just one.”

“You’ll fall.”

“Probably.”

You stare at him for a long moment.

Then, despite your better judgment—

“Fine.”

You skate backward slightly, gesturing for him to move closer.

San sets his stick aside and glides toward you.

He looks strangely focused.

“Okay,” you say.

“Pull your arms in like this.”

You demonstrate slowly.

San mimics the position.

Badly.

“Your posture is terrible.”

“Be nice.”

“I’m being honest.”

You push gently on his shoulder to adjust his stance.

Your hands pause briefly against him.

His hockey gear is solid beneath your palms.

San freezes slightly.

Then you step back.

“Now spin.”

He tries.

It’s awful.

San rotates halfway before immediately losing balance.

He nearly crashes into you.

You jump back just in time.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“You’re hopeless.”

San laughs breathlessly.

“Your turn.”

“What?”

“Hockey stop.”

You narrow your eyes.

“Absolutely not.”

“Afraid?”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Prove it.”

You hesitate.

Then you sigh dramatically.

“Fine.”

San’s grin widens as he demonstrates.

“Build speed,” he says.

“Then turn sharply like this.”

You attempt it.

The result is catastrophic.

Your blades scrape loudly against the ice as you skid sideways.

Snow sprays everywhere.

You nearly fall.

San catches your arm instinctively.

For a moment—

You’re both frozen.

Your hand is gripping his sleeve. His hand is wrapped around your wrist.

Your faces are much closer than either of you expected.

Your heartbeat stutters. 

San looks… startled.

Like he didn’t mean to hold you this long.

You pull your arm away quickly.

“That was stupid.”

“You almost did it.”

“I almost died.”

San laughs softly.

But when you skate away—

You can still feel the warmth of his hand lingering on your wrist.

But the rivalry doesn’t disappear after that.

If anything…

It gets worse.

Because now you’re both determined to prove something.

You land jumps perfectly just to show off.

San performs ridiculous hockey tricks across the rink.

You ignore each other.

You glare. You argue.

But sometimes—

You catch him watching you practice.

And sometimes—

You find yourself watching him during drills.

And neither of you mention it.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The night everything changes starts like every other shared practice.

Cold rink air. Scraped ice.

And San being insufferable.

You’re tying your skates on the bench when the hockey team arrives, loud as always.

Gear thuds against the floor. Someone is arguing about stick tape.

You roll your eyes.

Then you hear San’s voice.

“Careful.”

You look up.

He’s standing a few feet away, already watching you.

“What?” you say flatly.

“You’re tying those too tight.”

Your hands pause mid-knot.

“Excuse me?”

“Your skates,” he repeats calmly.

“You always pull the laces too tight around the ankle.”

You stare at him.

“You’ve been watching my laces?”

San blinks like he’s realizing how strange that sounds.

“I just notice things.”

“Well stop noticing.”

“Okay.”

But he still watches you.

You sigh and step onto the ice.

Across the rink, the hockey team begins their drills.

Pucks slam against the boards. Skates cut sharp lines through the ice.

You try to ignore them as you warm up.

Edges first. Then spins.

Your body feels slightly off tonight.

Tired. Maybe you’re sick.

But you can’t afford to skip practice. Regionals are only days away.

You gather speed.

The triple axel.

You’ve been landing it consistently all week.

Your blade digs into the ice—

Takeoff. Rotation.

Landing—

Your edge catches.

Everything happens too fast.

Your blade slips sideways and suddenly the world tilts violently beneath you.

The impact is brutal.

Your hip slams against the ice.

Pain shoots through your leg instantly.

For a moment, the entire rink goes silent.

You hear the echo of your fall long before you feel the embarrassment.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a sharp gasp.

Across the rink, a hockey puck clatters to the ground.

“Hey—”

Skates scrape across the ice.

You try to push yourself up. Pain flares through your ankle.

You freeze.

Oh no.

“Don’t move.”

San’s voice is suddenly right beside you.

You hadn’t even seen him cross the rink.

He kneels carefully next to you, hockey gloves already off.

“What happened?”

“I’m fine,” you mutter automatically.

You try standing. Your ankle protests violently.

You wince.

San’s expression tightens.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

“That doesn’t look fine.”

The rest of the hockey team gathers near the boards, watching.

You hate this. You hate being seen like this.

“Just help me up,” you say quietly.

San slides one arm carefully around your back.

“Put your weight on me.”

You hesitate.

Then reluctantly lean against him.

He feels warm. Solid.

You hate noticing that.

You push yourself upright slowly.

The moment your injured foot touches the ice—

Pain flashes through your leg.

You suck in a breath sharply.

San immediately tightens his grip.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

“Not happening.”

“I can skate,” you insist.

“You can barely stand.”

“I said I’m fine.”

San looks at you for a long moment.

Then he sighs.

“You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re annoying.”

“Probably.”

Before you can protest—

San lifts you.

Completely off the ice.

Your brain short-circuits.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Preventing you from making it worse.”

“I can walk!”

“You just proved you can’t.”

You glance toward the hockey team.

Several of them are grinning.

One whistles.

Your face burns.

“Put me down!”

San ignores you and carefully steps off the ice. He sets you gently on the bench.

Your ankle throbs angrily.

San kneels in front of you, examining it carefully.

“Does this hurt?”

He presses lightly along the joint.

You flinch.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

He presses somewhere else.

You wince again.

San exhales slowly.

“You should get that checked.”

“It’s just a sprain.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know my body.”

San looks up at you.

His expression isn’t teasing anymore.

It’s filled with worry.

He’s actually worried.

“You have a competition,” he says quietly.

“I know.”

“Then stop pretending you’re invincible.”

You don’t respond. Because part of you knows he’s right.

The rink slowly empties as practice ends.

Players leave. Lights dim slightly.

Eventually it’s just the two of you left.

San sits beside you on the bench. Neither of you speak for a while.

Finally, he says softly—

“You push yourself too hard.”

You scoff.

“You literally play hockey.”

“Yeah.”

“And you slam into people for fun.”

“Not fun.”

You glance at him.

San stares out at the empty rink.

“It’s just… easier to ignore the pain when you’re moving fast.”

You blink slightly.

That’s… unexpectedly honest.

The silence stretches again.

Then San stands.

“Wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t move.”

“You can’t just tell me—”

He disappears into the hallway. You sigh.

Five minutes later, he returns.

With an ice pack.

You stare at him.

“Seriously?”

San shrugs.

“Basic first aid.”

He hands it to you.

Your fingers brush briefly.

The contact is small. But strangely warm.

You place the ice against your ankle.

The cold bites immediately.

San watches carefully.

“You scared me earlier,” he admits quietly.

Your head lifts.

“What?”

“When you fell.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

“You skated across the rink pretty fast.”

San rubs the back of his neck.

“Instinct.”

You look at him for a long moment.

The rivalry suddenly feels… different. Softer somehow.

Then you say the only thing you can think of.

“You’re still terrible at spinning.”

San laughs.

And somehow its the nicest sound you’ve heard all week.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Your ankle heals.

Mostly.

Not completely, but enough that you can skate again after a few days of forced rest.

You hate resting. You hate sitting still even more.

And somehow—

During those few days you weren’t at the rink…

You heard something strange from the other hockey players.

San kept checking the entrance. Every practice. Every time the doors opened.

Even though you weren’t there.

When you finally return, the rink smells the same as always—cold air, sharpened blades, faint rubber from hockey pucks.

You step onto the ice slowly. Testing your ankle.

It holds.

Good.

Across the rink, the hockey team is already practicing.

The moment San notices you—

He stops skating. His entire posture shifts.

You pretend not to see it.

You start warming up like normal.

Edges. Turns. Simple spins.

But you can feel it.

His eyes on you.

Watching. Again.

After a few minutes, he finally skates toward you.

“You’re back.”

You shrug casually.

“I live here.”

“Your ankle?”

“Fine.”

“Let me see.”

You glare at him.

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I just want to make sure you’re not about to collapse again.”

You cross your arms.

“You’re very dramatic.”

“You literally couldn’t stand.”

“That was days ago.”

San studies you carefully. Like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying.

Then he sighs.

“Okay.”

“Okay what?”

“Okay… I’ll trust you.”

You skate past him.

“Good.”

Later that evening, something unexpected happens.

Another figure skater shows up.

A guy.

Tall. Confident. Clearly experienced.

He steps onto the ice beside you.

“You practicing for regionals too?”

You nod.

“Yeah.”

“I’m Sunghoon.”

You introduce yourself politely.

Across the rink—

San notices.

You see it immediately.

His skating slows. His attention shifts completely.

Sunghoon glides beside you easily.

“You’ve got good rotation on your loop.”

“Thanks.”

“You want help with the entry?”

You hesitate.

Then nod.

“Sure.”

He demonstrates smoothly.

It’s helpful. Actually helpful.

Across the rink, San slams into the boards during a drill.

Hard.

One of his teammates laughs.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” San mutters.

But his gaze is still locked on you.

Sunghoon lightly takes your hands to guide the movement.

“Try it like this.”

But before you can respond, a hockey puck suddenly slides between you.

Fast.

It smacks the ice right beside your skate.

You both jump slightly.

Sunghoon frowns.

“What the—”

You look up.

San is skating toward you, his expression unreadable.

“Sorry,” he says flatly, “that puck got away from me.”

Sunghoon crosses his arms.

“Maybe control it better.”

San’s eyes flicker toward him.

There’s something sharp in his expression now.

You immediately recognize it.

Oh.

He’s jealous.

The realization hits you like a small shock.

San turns to you.

“You should watch where you’re standing.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You shot it at me.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

Sunghoon steps slightly closer to you.

San notices. His jaw tightens.

“Practice is over here,” San mutters to him.

Sunghoon shrugs.

“I’m not on your team.”

You almost laugh.

San exhales slowly like he’s forcing himself to stay calm. Then he turns away.

But his skating for the rest of practice is aggressive. 

Hard. Faster than usual.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Later that night, the rink empties again.

Everyone leaves. Except you.

And San.

You’re practicing your jump again.

The triple axel.

Takeoff. Rotation.

Landing—

Clean.

You smile slightly.

Behind you, someone claps.

You don’t even need to turn around.

“Were you spying on me again?”

San leans against the boards.

“Observing.”

“You’re creepy.”

“You’re dramatic.”

You skate toward him slowly.

“Why were you trying to take out my head with a puck earlier?”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were jealous.”

San blinks.

“I was not.”

“You were.”

“I don’t care who you practice with.”

You lean closer.

“Then why did you almost start a hockey fight?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

San groans softly.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

You tilt your head.

“Say it again.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Your lips twitch.

San notices.

And something in his expression shifts. His voice drops slightly.

“You think that’s funny?”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“Because you were clearly bothered.”

San pushes away from the boards slowly.

He skates closer. Closer.

Until he’s standing right in front of you.

The air suddenly feels different.

Quieter.

“You like making me jealous?” he asks softly.

Your heartbeat stutters.

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you’re smiling.”

Your breath catches slightly.

“You’re standing really close.”

“You didn’t move.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment. 

The rink lights hum quietly above you. Your blades scrape faintly against the ice.

San’s voice lowers again.

“You’re going to do great at regionals.”

The sincerity in his voice surprises you.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly.

San hesitates slightly. Like he wants to say something else.

Instead he just murmurs—

“Just don’t get hurt again.”

Your heart skips.

And suddenly the rivalry doesn’t feel like rivalry anymore.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Regionals arrive faster than you expect.

The rink looks different tonight.

Brighter. Louder.

Crowded with spectators filling the stands, voices echoing through the arena in a low constant hum. The ice has been freshly resurfaced, smooth and flawless beneath the lights.

Your stomach twists nervously as you lace up your skates in the locker room.

This is it.

Months of practice. Early mornings. Late nights.

All leading here.

You tighten the last knot on your skates and stand slowly.

Your ankle feels fine.

But your nerves are another story entirely.

You step into the hallway that leads toward the rink entrance—and nearly collide with someone.

San.

You both stop abruptly.

For a moment neither of you speak.

He’s dressed in his hockey uniform, helmet tucked under his arm. His hair is slightly messy like he rushed to get ready.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

You didn’t expect to see him here.

“I thought your game was tonight.”

“It is.”

“You should be warming up.”

“I was.”

The way he says it makes you suspicious.

“San.”

“What?”

“You came to watch my performance.”

He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“I had ten minutes.”

Your heart does something strange in your chest.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Silence settles between you for a moment.

Then San glances toward the rink entrance.

“You’re up soon.”

“Yeah.”

“You nervous?”

You hesitate.

“Terrified.”

San nods thoughtfully.

“That’s normal.”

“Easy for you to say. Hockey players just… slam into each other.”

“Not exactly comforting.”

You laugh quietly.

San shifts slightly, then reaches out. He crouches down in front of you.

Your brain freezes.

“What are you doing?”

“You tied these wrong again.”

He gently adjusts the laces of your skate, tightening them slightly around the ankle.

The movement is careful. Familiar.

You can feel your heart beat faster.

“You really notice everything, don’t you?” you murmur.

San finishes tying the knot and stands.

“Only with you.”

The words land heavier than he probably intended.

You stare at him.

San suddenly looks a little flustered.

“Uh—good luck,” he adds quickly.

“You too.”

He nods once before jogging down the hallway toward the hockey arena entrance.

You watch him go.

And your chest feels strangely warm.

Minutes later, you step onto the ice.

The crowd quiets, and the music begins.

Your entire world narrows to the rink beneath your skates.

You glide forward.

Every movement feels sharper tonight.

More focused. More deliberate.

Your routine flows smoothly.

Spins. Steps. Transitions.

Then the jump approaches.

The triple axel. The one that haunted your practices for weeks.

You gather speed.

Your blade digs into the ice—

Takeoff.

Rotation. Rotation. Rotation.

Landing. Clean.

The crowd erupts into applause.

Relief floods your chest as you continue the rest of your program, finishing with your final spin.

When the music ends—

The applause grows louder.

You bow breathlessly, heart racing.

For the first time in weeks, you feel proud.

Really proud.

Across campus, the hockey arena is roaring.

San’s game is intense.

Fast. Aggressive.

The scoreboard shows a tie late in the third period.

San skates harder than usual tonight.

His teammates notice.

“You good?” one of them asks during a quick break.

“Yeah.”

But his thoughts keep drifting.

Back to the other rink. Back to you.

He checks the clock.

Your competition should be ending right about now.

San exhales sharply.

Then he skates back onto the ice.

The puck drops. Thirty seconds later, San steals it.

He speeds down the rink, dodging two defenders before shooting.

The puck slams into the net.

Goal.

The arena explodes.

But San doesn’t celebrate for long.

The moment the final buzzer sounds, he’s lready skating toward the exit.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You’re sitting on the rink bench afterward, still catching your breath.

The arena is mostly empty now. Most skaters have already left.

Your medal rests in your hand.

Silver.

You stare at it quietly.

It’s not gold. But you’re still proud.

Footsteps echo suddenly through the arena.

You glance up.

San bursts through the doors. Still in his hockey gear.

Breathing hard.

Your eyes widen.

“You ran here?”

San skids slightly as he stops near the boards.

“Did I miss it?”

You blink.

“You had a game.”

“I know.”

“You’re insane.”

“Did you win?”

You hold up the medal.

“Second.”

San stares at it.

Then he smiles. A real smile.

“That’s amazing.”

You laugh softly.

“It’s not first.”

“So?”

“So it’s not—”

“You landed the jump.”

You freeze.

“How did you—”

“You always land it when you’re confident.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

San steps onto the ice. Still in his hockey skates.

“You’re not allowed on here,” you point out.

“Too late.”

He skates slowly toward you. You meet him halfway.

The rink is quiet now. Its just the two of you.

San looks at you carefully.

“You were incredible,” he says.

Your heartbeat speeds up again.

“You didn’t even see it.”

“I didn’t have to.”

The silence between you grows heavier.

Then San speaks again.

“You know… I didn’t hate sharing the rink.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You complained constantly.”

“Yeah.”

“You called figure skating dramatic.”

“It is.”

“You tried to hit me with a puck.”

“That was an accident.”

“It absolutely was not.”

San laughs softly.

Then his expression turns more serious.

“But I meant what I said earlier.”

“About what?”

“Watching you.”

Your breath catches slightly.

San rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.

“I notice things.”

You smile faintly.

“You’ve mentioned that.”

“I notice when you’re nervous.”

You step closer.

“I’m not nervous now.”

San’s eyes flicker slightly.

“Good.”

The distance between you is almost nothing now.

Your skates nearly touch.

“You know,” you say quietly, “you never admitted it.”

“Admitted what?”

“That you were jealous.”

San sighs.

“You’re still on that?”

“You absolutely were.”

“Fine,” he mutters.

“I was.”

Your smile widens slightly.

San shakes his head.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re such a softie.”

“I play hockey.”

“You tied my skates before my competition.”

San pauses.

Then he says quietly—

“Only because I care.”

Your heart stops for a moment.

The confession slips out so naturally he doesn’t even seem to realize he said it.

You stare at him. He blinks.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you murmur softly.

“Oh.”

Neither of you move for a moment.

Then you say gently—

“You know… I don’t hate hockey players anymore.”

San raises an eyebrow.

“Just one in particular?”

“Maybe.”

“And which one would that be?”

You lean closer.

“The annoying one who watches my practice.”

San smiles faintly.

“That guy sounds terrible.”

“He is.”

“But you like him?”

You shrug.

“Maybe.”

San laughs softly.

Then, finally, he takes your hand.

Your fingers lace together naturally.

“I think I liked you the first time you yelled at me about the ice,” he admits.

You groan.

“That was not romantic.”

“It was a little romantic.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re dramatic.”

You roll your eyes.

But you don’t let go of his hand.

San glances down at the ice beneath your skates.

“You want to show me that spin again?”

“You’re still terrible at it.”

“Maybe. But you’re going to teach me anyway.”

You smile.

“Maybe.”

Together, the two of you glide slowly across the empty rink.

The tension finally melted away.

Leaving something much better behind.

And somehow, the ice has never felt warmer.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

You are married to a man the whole kingdom reveres.

They call him brave. Unyielding. A sword that never dulls, a shield that never breaks. 

His name carries weight in the royal court, in the barracks, in whispered stories told by lantern light.

General Choi San.

Your husband.

But to you, he is a man who rarely comes home.

The first time you see him, he is not yet a legend.

Just a young soldier standing in your family courtyard, dust clinging to his robes, eyes sharp but uncertain. He bows too stiffly when your father speaks, hands clenched at his sides like he’s holding himself together.

You remember thinking.

He looked lonely.

The marriage is arranged quickly.

Efficiently.

Without love.

You are told he is honorable. Loyal. 

A man who will rise high.

A good husband.

And he is.

In all the ways that can be measured.

He provides. He protects.

He never raises his voice at you, never speaks cruelly.

But he is… distant.

Like a mountain you can see, but never touch.

On your wedding night, he sits across from you, still in his formal robes.

The candlelight flickers between you.

“I will not mistreat you,” he says.

His voice is steady. Practiced.

“I will fulfill my duties as your husband.”

You nod.

Because that is what wives are meant to accept.

Duty.

Not love.

But still, you had hoped.

Just a little.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Years pass.

And San becomes exactly what everyone said he would.

A general.

War calls him away more often than not.

The palace summons him at dawn, at dusk, at hours when the sky itself feels uncertain.

You learn not to ask when he will return.

Because the answer is always the same.

“I do not know.”

At first, you wait for him.

You sit by the door long after the lanterns burn low, listening for footsteps that never come.

You keep his meals warm.

You prepare tea that goes cold.

When he does return, it is always quiet.

The door slides open. Boots step inside.

And there he is—

your husband.

You greet him with a small smile.

“You’re home.”

He nods.

“I am.”

And that is all.

No embrace. No warmth.

Just… presence.

Still, you try.

“Did you eat?” you ask one evening, carefully placing dishes before him.

“I ate with my men,” he replies.

A lie.

You can see it in the way his chopsticks hesitate, in how quickly he finishes everything you’ve made.

But you don’t call him out. You simply refill his bowl.

Because loving him means learning the language he does not speak.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

When your son is born, something in you shifts.

Hope blooms again, fragile but persistent.

San stands beside you, holding the child awkwardly in his arms.

He looks… unsure.

Like he’s afraid he might break something so small.

“It is a boy,” you whisper, smiling weakly.

He nods.

“A strong one.”

You wait.

For more. For something softer.

Something that belongs to you, not the battlefield.

But it doesn’t come.

Though you see the way he lingers just a moment longer before handing the baby back.

The way his gaze follows the child as you cradle him.

It’s small.

But it’s there.

So you hold onto it.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Your son grows quickly.

Too quickly.

“Appa!”

The child runs through the courtyard, laughter ringing through the air.

San has returned early—rare, unexpected—and for once, the house feels alive.

Your son throws himself at him.

And for a moment, San freezes.

Then, slowly, he kneels.

Awkwardly placing a hand on the boy’s head.

“You have grown,” he says.

It’s not what the child wanted.

Not what you hoped for.

But your son beams anyway.

Because children don’t yet understand the weight of what is missing.

You watch them from the doorway.

Heart aching.

“He drew something for you,” you say gently later, handing San a piece of parchment.

Crude lines. Uneven ink.

A family of three.

San looks at it.

Really looks.

“It is good,” he says.

But he sets it aside.

Later.

Always later.

You stop waiting by the door eventually.

Not because you don’t care.

But because it hurts less when you don’t expect anything.

But you still leave a lantern lit.

Every night.

Just in case.

One evening, you gather the courage to speak.

“I waited,” you say softly, fingers tightening around your sleeve.

San doesn’t look up from removing his armor.

“I told you not to.”

The words land harder than he intends.

You know that. You always know that.

But it doesn’t make them hurt any less.

“I only wished to share a meal,” you reply, voice barely above a whisper.

Silence stretches between you.

“I am tired,” he says finally.

And that is the end of it.

You bow your head.

Because you have learned— love, for him, is something unspoken.

Something buried beneath duty.

Something that never quite reaches the surface.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Years pass like this.

Quiet. Lonely. Endless.

Until the day everything breaks.

Your son falls ill.

It starts small.

A fever. A cough.

Nothing alarming.

But it worsens. Quickly. Relentlessly.

You send word to San.

Again.

And again.

But the kingdom needs him.

The war does not wait.

“I tried calling for you…”

Your voice trembles when he finally arrives.

Too late.

He stands in the doorway, breath uneven, armor still on.

“I was in a important meeting,” he says.

You nod.

Of course he was.

“He kept asking for you,” you whisper.

San’s expression cracks.

Just slightly.

But it is enough.

He rushes to the bedside.

Takes the small, fragile hand in his own.

“I am here,” he says.

And the first time, his voice breaks.

But your son does not respond.

The silence is unbearable.

San falls to his knees.

And suddenly—

all the words he never said come pouring out.

“I should have come sooner.” “I am sorry.”

“I love you.”

Too late. All of it.

You sit beside him. Tears falling quietly.

You don’t blame him.

You never have.

But something inside you—finally—gives way.

After that, the house becomes unbearably empty.

San is there more often.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the one who waited for him the most is gone.

One night, you find him sitting alone.

Holding that old drawing.

The one he said was “good.”

His hands are shaking.

“I did not know how,” he says.

To no one.

To you.

To himself.

“How to love without losing everything else.”

You sit beside him.

Quiet.

“You did not have to choose,” you whisper.

But he did. He always did.

Duty over love.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Until there was nothing left to choose.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Years later, when illness takes you too—

San stays by your side.

He does not leave.

Not once.

He holds your hand.

Like he should have done all those years ago.

“I will stay,” he says.

You smile faintly.

“You always did,” you whisper.

“Just… not in the ways I needed.”

His grip tightens.

“I loved you,” he says, voice breaking.

You nod.

“I know.”

And that is what makes it hurt the most.

Because love was never the problem.

Only the silence of it.

The absence.

The later.

And when you close your eyes for the last time, San is still there.

But this time, he understands.

That love, unspoken, is love that fades.

Love that leaves.

Love that becomes regret.

And regret—

is the heaviest thing a man can carry.

Even heavier than war.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

“We’re gonna fail this exam if you keep doing this,” you tut as you flip to the next page. The sentences from the previous one barely stick in your memory, the words a sepia-toned haze.

"That statement is entirely rhetorical and you know it," he whispers, still creating patterns on your skin that leave a fire in their wake with a smirk that could make you fold ten times over.

Ever since you met Nicholas, he's always been stubborn about his desires, big or small. If it’s something as simple as touching you, he’ll do so without a care for what or who might stand in his way. He doesn’t mind the stares and pays no attention to commentary, cares little for the secondhand consequences that come from his decisions. For all its drawbacks, his willingness to go after anything and everything makes him such a good audio engineering major and confident student.

Just when he's on the cusp of frustrating you, he reminds you why and how he pulls you in so easily, even if he’s not completely yours and you’re not his.

The touches in crowded rooms help, too, even if you'll never admit it.

“Yixi…” you sigh as his hand inches higher, leaving yours in your lap as he runs more curves and swirls into your thigh.

"Have I ever told you how much I love my name when you say it like that, all flustered and shit?"

"We can't do this here," you chide him with a forceful murmur, but it holds no weight when you lean into it, into him, with a small smile on your lips that matches his own.

"Nobody can see us," Nicholas promises as he continues his path upward, toying with the zipper of your jeans. The rings on his fingers clink against your belt, and the sound is almost heavenly. You want to do more, but all the things you envision in your mind still wouldn't be enough. "And I can control myself. Question is if you can, tiánxīn." The term of endearment leaves his lips like water, effortless in its usage but volcanic in its impact.

It clenches at your heart and twists it so beautifully, it almost stops you from remembering all the boundaries you keep crossing. You think most days and nights that, with the way you act around Nicholas and vice versa, you won't come out of the whole arrangement alive.

"No strings," you said in the quiet of your bedroom after that first time three months ago, dead-set on guidelines he would've been stupid not to agree with. He had just broken up with Yeri, and you were too consumed with school and work to think of maintaining a stable relationship.

Every day, you tell yourself it won't last long, even if you spend a secretly copious amount of time entertaining the idea of something beyond the physical with him. You'll become a fleeting memory when he goes back to his ex-girlfriend or finds a new slice one of these days, fading into the shadows of his life filled with fraternity parties, basketball practice, and rich kids. Standing in the peripheral vision of someone as magnanimous as Wang Yixiang is inevitable, predetermined like fate.

It's best to enjoy it while you can, but it's hard to do so when you and Nicholas blur the edges of what it means to be beneficial friends.

Breaking from your thoughts, you realize his lips are a hiccup from yours. One accidental push forward and they'll touch, right there in the library for everyone to witness. From the gleam in his eye, you can tell he couldn't care less. He practically goads you to do it, hiking one eyebrow up at you in jest so you take the ultimate step.

Before you can do so, three people advance towards your study table. You recognize Taki and Maki from miles away, Nicholas's fraternity brothers donning red and bleach-blond hair, respectively. The third person, Nicholas's ex-girlfriend Yeri, is who makes your blood turn cold, her perfectly composed makeup and outfit dominating the entire room.

You retreat immediately from Nicholas's side, going back to staring down at your textbook and scribbling something quickly in the margin to look busy. Nicholas doesn't remove his hand from your jeans, but you feel it flex against your skin like he's just been burned.

"Hey, Nicho," Maki says to Nicholas with a wide smile, his teeth practically blinding. "Was wondering where you ran off to."

Nicholas takes his attention off of you and looks up at the younger kid, suppressing a scowl. "I told you I'd be in the library until 7. It's 5:45," he deadpans, saying the words with a calculated method he's never used with you.

"We were just making sure you remembered to bring the keg since the party's at 8," Taki adds. "I know Study Buddy keeps you busy."

Study Buddy, your official title to the PSI horde Nicholas hangs out with. You should feel hurt by the lack of address, being talked about instead of to like you're not even there. But Riki #1 and #2 don't have two brain cells to rub together, according to Euijoo and Harua, so there's no point in feeling provoked by their tactics.

"And you couldn't tell me that in a text?" Nicholas asks, jaw ticking.

Yeri pipes in with, "She's not coming, is she?" She tilts her head in your direction, black hair swishing, but you just continue reading the same line in your textbook over and over to avoid responding.

Strings, woodwinds, brass. Strings, woodwinds, brass. Fuck Yeri and her lackeys. Strings, woodwinds, brass…

"I don't think you have any business saying who does and doesn't come around my house," Nicholas bites back. "What are you planning on doing there, anyway? Need to find some fresh meat now that Sungho's dropped you? Wasn't it Jungwon last week?"

Yeri's bottom lip purses as she crosses her arms. "Just don't want people hanging around our group that'll feel uncomfortable, obviously."

Nicholas laughs, the sound as artificial as Yeri's nails. He removes his hand from your leg to emphasize the space between him and Yeri animatedly. "We don't have an our anymore. Haven't for a long time now, and I prefer it that way." Nicholas turns back to the red and yellow-haired meatheads with indifference. "I'll bring the beer. Let me get back to studying for my exam, yeah?"

The two guys skitter off as Yeri stomps away, and you exhale the breath you were holding in their presence.

Nicholas inches forward until his chest is flush with your side, invading your space the same way he was before the trio crashed your study session. "You okay?" he asks into the curve of your shoulder, lips stroking the skin like a paintbrush, gentle in its touches.

You nod slightly, the gesture the only thing you can manage. Normally, despite your introverted nature, you rarely let others make you feel small or leave a conversation like that without saying something in your own defense. But what could you possibly say that would make the passive aggressiveness sting less? Were they right? Would it make more sense for Nicholas to be anywhere but right next to you?

"Words, tiánxīn. Are you alright?" His words are so featherlight they clash with the deep timbre of his voice, and all your worries could melt from that alone if you weren't so absorbed by your own doubts.

You turn so you're looking directly at him and nod once more. "They're right, though. I don't belong at some big Psi Sigma Iota party."

"You belong with me," he says. It warms you down to your soles how easily he says those four words. "Even if it's at some trashy fraternity bender."

You giggle. "You know you're talking about your own fraternity, right?"

Nicholas grins and rolls his eyes. "I told you. I only joined because Kei needed a friend during Rush week."

"Right." Out of habit, you run your index finger over his plush bottom lip, no longer concerned with the attention of anyone else in the library, too lost in Nicholas to care about the reactions from your peers.

Nicholas leans into your hand, kissing your skin like it's all he cares to do with his time. "We still have an hour to kill," he says, "and there may be a stack upstairs with our names on it."

"Oh really?" You bite your lip. You used to be the girl who never socialized, stayed glued to books like it was her job, and kept her circle small. Now, Nicholas has you contemplating a quickie in a public place with serious intentions of accepting his offer.

As you pack up your stuff with a lust-clouded brain, you know for sure this thing with Nicholas can only end two ways, and you pray he won't leave you broken in the aftermath.

Yeri finds you before your next Musicology class with a deep grimace on her face. It was bad enough your shift at the coffee shop ended with a customer threatening to throw their "incorrectly-made" iced macchiato at you, but seeing Yeri now leaves an even worse taste in your mouth.

"This thing you have with Nicho, what is it?" she asks with no preamble. You appreciate her willingness to get straight to the point, but you're still taken aback. It's been ninety-days, ninety-five if you were being technical, since they had anything to do with each other. And they dated for only six months, which Nicholas called "some of the worst of his life."

"What are you, his mother?" You chuckle, mystified. "And I don't know what you're talking about, anyway."

"Don't play dumb."

"Not that it's any of your concern, but we're just study partners. Nothing more."

"You let study partners get that close to you in the library?" She blows out a breath. "Better be careful. Your reputation as the meek little nerd'll be over in a flash if you keep that up."

You take a step forward, boots landing hard on the tile floor of the hallway. Yeri's thrown off kilter by your advance, and it makes you smirk. "I suggest you go back to wherever your Lambo is parked and mind your fucking business."

She scoffs and makes her way to the glass doors of the building. Before she goes, high heels clacking like nails on a chalkboard, she holds one door so she can turn and say, "Just know that you're not the first person he's taken to the stacks. And you'll gain more than your fair share of the freshman fifteen if you keep eating takeout from Choi's."

Your eyes widen before you can stop them, your reaction being exactly what Yeri wants to see. She leaves you to stew with a smug grin on her face, getting the last word that knocks you off your feet.

You feel your heart crawl into your throat, the name of the fast-food restaurant you and Nicholas often frequent ringing in your ears. Choi's is one of the best spots in town within an affordable price-point, you reason. It has nothing to do with Nicholas's past. But how much do you really know about him, anyway? What important details have you gleaned from the ninety-five days he's spent in and out of your bed?

You hear Nicholas call your name from the other end of the hallway, and you can see his pink hair flowing without having to look back at him. You let the worries of your mind fall away when you turn around, plastering a smile on your face before he can question it. "Hey."

"We're gonna be late. You didn't have to wait for me." He pulls you in softly by the neck and kisses your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. It's another display of affection entirely out of the bounds of normal for your relationship, but you give in to it like you always do, because it feels nice to let yourself get swept up in him and his attention. To allow him to hold you close and keep the shadows away for as long as possible.

"We still on for studying after you get out of Humanities later?"

Your face scrunches up at his question. "I thought you had basketball practice after school."

"Was gonna skip it. Figured we could run by Choi's, split the galbitang you like."

You gulp a hefty breath of air at the sound of that name and hold the strap of your backpack tighter to your chest. "Maybe another night. I'm actually not feeling too well."

Nicholas runs a hand over the place he just kissed and laughs after another beat. "You're not running hot or anything."

"No, i-it's probably just a stomach bug. Euijoo wasn't feeling that great at the coffee shop this morning either."

Nicholas's smile slowly fades, comfort turning into confusion. "What's wrong?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know you, I can tell when you're not being honest." He presses his fingers to your face before cupping the left side of your jaw in his hand. "Your bottom lip quivers right before you lie."

Damn Nicholas Wang and his perceptiveness. You close your eyes, trying your hardest not to let the entire truth spill out of your mouth.

"Talk to me, tiánxīn," he says with raw sincerity, his eyes burning golden brown.

"Just got into it with Yeri, but I'm fine. It was nothing."

"It's not nothing if it's got you worked up like this." He runs his thumb across your cheek in slow circles and frowns. "Do you want me to talk to her?"

"And say what? I'm not your girlfriend, Yixi. You don't need to stick up for me."

Something flashes over his face, his frown set into something firmer, sadder and more solid. "Right." He steps away from you an inch, and it feels like a chasm has erupted between you.

You sigh. "Can we just forget this happened and go to class, please?"

"Sure, yeah, whatever you want." His words are clipped, straight to the point, but you know him the same way he does you. His emotions bleed through everything, as much as he tries to deny it. And you know he's pissed.

He says nothing throughout class, and you feel worse somehow for not hiding your conversation with Yeri better. Then you wouldn't be in such a predicament right now, worried about what Nicholas is thinking as you both write down notes you barely need.

Once your professor lets you out of class, Nicholas mutters something about not wanting to be late for practice, and your heart sinks watching him walk away with tense shoulders and not a single glance back at you.

You found him in the music room a week after the fall semester started, and a week before your relationship would change forever.

He was playing a song you didn't recognize on the piano, one with a beautiful melody that bled into a faster-paced bridge.

"I'm sorry," you said when he caught you staring, interrupting his playing. "I was looking for Mrs. Lee, and I just—"

"No, it's fine, really." His small smile sent a shot straight to your heart; your new classmate was not as scary as you initially predicted from his chocolate brown eyes, deep voice, and even darker clothing. "I was almost done anyway. You're in my Musicology class, right?"

You nodded, grinning. "Yeah, I sit in the back most of the time. Didn't think you noticed me."

He nodded back and ran his fingers along the keys in front of him. "It's hard not to notice you when you get all of the professor's questions right. We just started and you're showing everyone up already."

You blushed. "That wasn't my intention."

"No! It's okay, I like it."

He beckoned you to come closer, and you hesitated for a moment. You knew he had a girlfriend, her presence made known in the times you saw Nicholas entering class and Yeri running back to her own with a scowl on her face.

You sat down next to him on the bench and avoided brushing his shoulder with your own. "I'm Y/N."

"I know," Nicholas said with a smirk. "I'm Yixiang. But most people call me Nicholas. You can call me whatever you want."

He held his hand out for you to take, and his palm was so warm in yours, you should've known from that moment on that he would become far more than your seasonal classmate.

"This is a bad idea," Euijoo comments as you drag him by the hand into the fraternity house, PSI lit up with rambunctious partygoers and flashing neon lights. There's almost no room for the two of you to walk inside, but you make do in your efforts to grab drinks immediately from the island in the kitchen. You heard offhand comments from classmates about the party, and being off of work tonight gave you the perfect excuse to bring along your friend as a buffer.

"Come on, we don't have to stay for long! I just thought it'd be fun," you comment, although it's partly a lie.

You haven't spoken to Nicholas in two days, the longest you've gone without communication since you started spending time with him. You miss him so much it makes your muscles ache. It wouldn't hurt to scout the party for him to see what he's been up to, and if he's spending his night with someone who isn't you.

You search past the throng of people for Nicholas, recognizing some of his fraternity brothers in your search for him. There are some kids making out, others taking hits of joints, and a few even sleeping in the recliner chairs around the room. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot him against the wall with a beer in his hand, talking solemnly with a younger kid you don't know.

His hair is now dyed red, a stark color against the blue and purple lights strewn about the living room. He's wearing a tank top with a pair of baggy cargo jeans, the fit so perfect on him it's almost unfair. You yearn to go up to him and put your fingers through the loops of his pants, to pull him as close to you as possible and kiss him so everybody knows whose name he calls at night.

You're about to take the trek over to Nicholas's spot when Yeri comes up in the crowd to talk to him. He doesn't give her much attention, but he doesn't push her off or tell her to get lost. He splits his attention between his young friend and her, and the sight gnaws at your stomach.

"I don't know what you see in him," Euijoo comments from over your shoulder.

You take a sip from your solo cup to steady your nerves. "He's different from the others. You don't get it."

"You're right, I don't."

"He really is, Juju. I bet you would get along if you got to know him," you suggest, but you know your best friend won't go for it. You're more extroverted than Euijoo, but not by much, and he keeps his circle even tighter than yours.

"Maybe. I just hope you know what you've gotten yourself into," Euijoo comments before drinking from his own cup.

When you turn your attention away from Euijoo to point back at Nicholas, you find him already staring at you with a soft smile on his face. Meeting his eyes, his brown orbs twinkling in a way they weren't during his conversation moments before, the hairs at the back of your neck stand up. Your body buzzes from more than just the booze, and you wonder how much longer it'll take for him to cross the distance between you.

In the next second, he whispers something in his friend's ear before bee-lining over to you, his smile widening. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Surprise?"

He chuckles and kisses you on the cheek, his breath smelling of mint gum and whiskey. It's not a combination you would think to pair together, but because it's Nicholas, you think he can make any scent appealing. "Come with me."

You tell Euijoo you'll be back soon before following behind Nicholas, your hand wrapped tightly in his. You know he's leading you to his bedroom upstairs, but Maki stops you both before you even make it to the staircase.

"Nicho, Study Buddy! We were just about to play TDB."

"TDB?" you ask curiously.

"Truth or Dare or Bottle," Maki responds, "Not the greatest name for a game, but it's fun! Mixes Spin the Bottle and Truth or Dare together." He waggles his eyebrows, and some part of you worries how well this game ends up going for its participants.

"We don't have to if you don't want to," Nicholas says in your ear.

"No, let's do it. I'm down to play," you say, because it's true. Perhaps taking part in their pedestrian games will help you be seen as an equal in Nicholas's group rather than an outsider.

"Perfect!" Maki exclaims.

He motions with his drink for you both to join him in the sitting room off of the main hallway, and you see the group of people willing to play on the floor around the sectional. "Alright, two new players!"

You and Nicholas sit next to each other, and you scoot in closer when Yeri steps into the room with a lipstick-lined grin. She doesn't say a word, but she doesn't need to.

The game goes like normal, a handful of dares and truths passed around between the group that make some of you laugh or gag, or both. By the time your turn is up, you steel your nerves and pick "Truth" to be safe.

"How many guys have you slept with in the past six months?" Yeri asks abruptly, her cheshire grin spreading.

Nicholas flicks his head in her direction and gives her a piercing glare, but you put your hand on his shoulder to quell him.

"One," you answer. You take a swig of your beer and swallow down your irritation.

"Your turn, Nicho," Taki says.

Nicholas chooses dare, and you see Yeri pounce before anyone can stop her.

"Tell us how many people you've slept with in the past six months, Nicho." She says the nickname with venom, her remaining words breathy in their delivery.

"What the fuck, Yeri?" Maki asks, confused why she's taking it so far.

"I could probably answer for him, actually," she says with a laugh when Nicholas remains silent. "There was me, a lot. That one girl Chaewon you wanted to have a threesome with but didn't tell me about until after we had that break, so that's two. Oh! And we're forgetting—"

"Yeri, shut the fuck up before I drag you out of here," Nicholas warns, his jaw tensing and the muscles in his shoulders flexing hard.

"That's not even including how many girls he's kissed in between all of that," Taki interjects with a small laugh.

You feel incredibly exposed, unsure how to go about moving forward with such information Nicholas didn't give you the courtesy of knowing. You leave the circle immediately and run to the nearest doorway, trying to find your way out of the house with what feels like a million eyes on you. The urge to throw up is present in your gut, but you don't and won't feel safe to do so until you're back in your room away from the chaos of the party. You don't even try to find Euijoo; you just run.

But you're not the only one running.

Nicholas calls your name as he follows you out of the house and onto the front yard.

"Wait, goddamnit!" Nicholas yanks you back in by the hand. He runs his arms long your sides, terrified to let you go before he can explain himself, but it's all static in your ears. "Don't listen to their bullshit, please? It's not important."

"It is to me," you croak, stunned and shattered. "I feel like I don't know you."

Nicholas tries to reach out and touch your face, but you flinch. His own expression sets in a firm line, although it remains soft at the edges. "I'm me, tiánxīn. I'm your wise-ass study partner, remember?"

You shake your head, tears falling down your face rapidly. Some folks on the lawn are looking at you with confusion and pity, but you don't care right now. Not when your heart is breaking. "So I'm just supposed to let all the things I heard in there slide? Believe you when you say I'm enough for you when that's clearly not the case?"

With each question, your voice goes up a decibel, the alcohol making you brave in the face of all of your insecurities bubbling up to the surface.

"All of that stuff was before I ever met you. It has nothing to do with us."

"Sure." You bite down on your lip so hard the skin threatens to bleed.

"Think about it, Y/N. How many girls have I looked at since I've started seeing you?" he barks. "None, not a single one. I don't need anyone else, or want anyone else. All I want is everything I have with you."

"Why, because I fuck you too well for you to look elsewhere? And when that's not enough, what then?" You shed more tears as you shield yourself with your arms, stepping further away and staving off any attempts for Nicholas to break through the barriers of your fears.

He yanks at the sweaty ends of his hair, exasperated. "After all the time we've spent together, you think that all I care about is getting my dick wet?"

You say nothing, your tongue feeling like cotton and voice hoarse from exertion. Your silence is all he needs to hear, anyway.

His eyes burn as he says, "If you really think the only thing I want from you is sex—that all I see you as is some girl to screw around with—then you should just go. Now!" He raises his hand toward the lamp-lit street behind you, his arm shaking with anger.

You take another step back, stunned at how matter-of-fact he's being. The only thing that keeps you from falling apart all over the front lawn of the PSI house is Euijoo's hand suddenly clasping your arm. "Let's just leave, alright?"

The last picture you have of Nicholas is his chest heaving and his face wet from a mixture of sweat and tears, and you don't know if you'll ever erase such a sight from your memory.

As Euijoo drives you back to your dorm, your heart broken in a million fragments, you realize you should have listened to your friend and never pursued something with a guy like Nicholas.

The week without Nicholas has been painstakingly dull, grey and hollow in all the spaces he used to occupy.

You skipped class twice this week to avoid him and instead took a couple of extra shifts to fill the time, not wanting to waste away in your dorm room with only thoughts of him to make you feel worse. It wasn't much, but it was better than stewing in your misery.

Cut to today, eight days later, and you're somewhat on the mend, still keeping yourself occupied but stuck in an endless loop of suffering through the tint of Nicholas clouding your thoughts.

You and Euijoo are cleaning dirty mugs when Maki walks into the café, hoodie pulled up to fight the rain. Euijoo immediately steps in front of you before you can say anything, shoulders squared and expression gruff. "Whatever bullshit you're about to spew, I suggest you get out of here now before you're thrown out."

"All I want is a coffee man, I swear." Maki raises both of his hands in peace, and you put a hand on Euijoo's shoulder to prove you're okay with the younger guy coming inside.

"Just leave us for a second, okay? I'll be fine."

Euijoo flits his gaze between you both before nodding his head, going to the backroom to leave you and Maki alone.

"What can I get you?" you ask first, approaching the register with a steel tone.

"Iced Americano?"

You tap in the order and take Maki's cash from his hands, noticing the slight tremble in them when you take the bills and coins.

"So, I haven't seen you around," Maki notes as you whip up his order, and your eye roll is all you need to give him to kill his appetite for small talk.

You respond anyway. "Was I supposed to come around after whatever the hell happened that night?"

"I mean— Nicho's just been in a shit mood ever since. Figured it's because something happened between the both of you."

You say nothing following that comment, your heart sore from hearing Nicholas isn't faring any better than you are right now.

You hand Maki his drink, the cup already sweating from the melting ice, and he thanks you for the speedy service.

Before he leaves, he reaches into his pocket to pull out a couple of wrinkled pieces of paper and set on the countertop in front of you.

"I'll probably get killed for giving these to you, seeing as they were in the trash, but it's the least I can do after the shit my friends pulled on you before. And you deserve to know how Nicho really feels about you."

He gives you a small smile and walks out of the café, leaving you to read the contents of the documents alone.

One of them is a piece of sheet music, your name written at the top in quick squiggles. Even though the song is unfinished, with only the first few verses and half the chorus written without lyrics, you can still hear the strands of it in your ears as if it's coming through the shop's speakers. It brings a tear to your eye, its beauty enthralling. But what really makes the waterworks come is on the second page, a letter entirely penned with handwriting you could recognize anywhere.

I'm not good at being vulnerable, Y/N, but the one thing you deserve above all else is honesty, so here it goes.

Do you remember the first night you stayed over my place? I snuck you into the fraternity house when everyone was at some dumb sorority party across campus. We spent almost the entire night talking about music, even though we both had class in the morning. We didn't care, getting into it about what makes the perfect melody like we had all the time in the world to break it down together.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone saw me for who I was, not the fraternity brother who intimidates most people. It reminded me of when you interrupted me in the music room the first day we ever spoke. I was just a guy with a piano who played a song you were interested in hearing. And you've mesmerized me ever since.

And if I'm being completely honest here, there's another thing you need to know.

I told you before that the reason I broke up with Yeri was that she was getting too clingy and overbearing, and while a part of that was true, another reason we ended things was because of you. Well, because of me, really, and my feelings for you. Yes, I didn't know you very well back then, but what I felt for you in only a few days eclipsed everything I ever felt for her.

I've fallen harder for you every day. I love the way you don't let others' perceptions of me shadow your own, for your silly ramblings about the circle of fifths and that being your favorite form of pillow talk, how you take all of me beyond face value. We may come from different backgrounds, have particular interests, possess unique dreams, but I love that about you, too. About us.

I love you, tiánxīn, more than I've ever loved anyone else and in a way I never have before. I'm terrified once I tell you this, how you see me will change for the worst. Maybe that's why I've been holding this in, because I don't want to lose you. But love means there's always the chance of loss, and what we have is worth the possibility of heartbreak.

My heart is yours anyway. Break it; don't break it. Do with it as you see fit.

You find him in the music room again, a little over a hundred days later, the same song playing from the keys the day you first met.

You stand by as he continues the song, the ending notes of the bridge you remember so vividly piercing the air. It gives way to the final chorus, and it's just as beautiful as the first time you ever heard it. He also looks as devastatingly handsome from the back as he did all those months ago, neck veins on display from the cover of his denim jacket.

Nicholas senses someone behind him, and his shoulders slump before saying, "I'm leaving in a few minutes—" When he turns, finally seeing you there with teary eyes, his face contorts into a subtle but earth-shatteringly solid line. He doesn't know whether to frown or smile at you; you can tell. And he's quiet, deadly so. On your end, you don't know whether to run immediately into his arms or leave him be.

You choose neither, instead standing firm and trying to muster some piece of courage. Pulling the crumpled papers from your pocket, you reread some of Nicholas's writing. "You said that there's always the chance of loss with love, right?"

His eyes widen. "Where did you get that?"

You ignore the question. "Well, I've already lost you once, and I don't want to do it again. Not when the two of us have a lot left to say. Or rather, I do.

"I love you because you're incredibly headstrong, some would say bullheaded, talented by every definition known to man, and devastatingly handsome. Most of all, I love that you don't let the opinions of others guide you. You follow your own heart, your own compass, in a way that I admire every day.

"I love you, Wang Yixiang," you say, voice interlaced with unshed tears. "I've been in love with you for a while now, and I don't want to hide from it anymore."

That's all it takes for Nicholas to leap from the piano bench and launch into your arms. He entangles his hands in your hair and captures your lips in a devastatingly deep kiss, your tongues linking immediately. It's a week's long amount of pain that you spill into each other's mouths, eager to make up for lost time and catch up on what you both have been missing.

When you part, he rests his forehead on yours and smiles so wide it makes your heart ache with relief. "What took you so long, tiánxīn?"

You giggle and peck his lips once more. "I could ask you the same thing, Yixi."

He shakes his head and runs his fingers along your face. "We've been pretty stupid, haven't we?"

You nod, agreeing.

He kisses you again, sweet and slow, before taking your hand in his to leave the music room, going anywhere the wind takes you now that you're together.

Nicholas takes you back to the PSI fraternity house, immediately running up the stairs to his bedroom and caging you against the door. His movements are unrehearsed, unpracticed, yet he touches and kisses like he's done a million times before. As expected, all of it makes your cheeks burn wildly and your body hum for him like a guitar, plucked with the utmost care for him alone to admire.

He runs his tongue along your bottom lip before sinking his teeth into the plush skin. It makes you moan, and he eagerly swallows it with his mouth.

"I missed all the beautiful sounds you make when I'm this close to you, pretty," Nicholas murmurs, running his hands under your shirt to squeeze at your hips.

He shucks the fabric off of your skin and takes off your bra too in order to gain access to the swell of your breasts, toying with one of your nipples with his teeth. He suckles like it's the best thing he's ever felt between his lips, and you writhe in his hold from the small contact alone. Already, he's got you by the throat, your desire for him too deep to measure.

His hands work of their own accord as they go lower, removing your jeans and underwear in one swoop. You're completely naked before him in record time, all while he's still fully clothed.

"Weno," you whimper as his hand finally touches the cleft of your thighs, fingers gathering wetness from the pool of arousal that coats your pussy.

He murmurs in Mandarin So fucking beautiful before he's picking you up into his arms. He lays you down gently onto the bed, covering your body with his own once you're resting comfortably on his mattress.

Nicholas kisses his way down your body, savoring every inch, all while he's discarding his own clothes to put in a heap next to the bed. Denim jacket, tank top, baggy jeans. All of it is discarded by the time his breath is ghosting over your cunt, his underwear the last garment covering his beautiful skin.

He licks a long and deliberate stripe between your legs, stopping with the curl of his tongue at your clit, and you moan unabashedly, eager to let the sinful sounds rip from your throat. "That's it, tiánxīn. Let everyone know who you belong to," Nicholas goads, "Who I belong with."

He buries his face in your pussy, getting his chin and mouth soaked in your essence with the way he messily devours you. It's all building, the heavy feeling in your gut that's almost too much to bear. It's an exercise of restraint not to fall apart so quickly on his tongue after only a few minutes, but how can you not? You're building for him, because of him, to heights that only he's ever been able to take you to.

He slips his fingers inside of you, two ring-covered digits that feel both burning hot and icy cold, and after only a few moments of him scissoring you open and toying with your clit, you fall apart on his tongue. You feel boneless by the time he removes his face and hand from your pussy, but you know he's not done. Not even close.

"Open those beautiful legs for me, pretty. I want one more outta you," he commands with a sultry tone as he uncovers himself, his dick smacking against his abdomen with pre-cum pearling at the tip. Without question, you spread them wide for him to slide between.

He glides inside with ease after he lines himself up with your entrance, panting into your mouth at the feeling of you squeezing him tightly the second he slips in. "Fuck, I missed you," he says, his eyes boring into yours with raw emotion.

You keen under him and wrap your legs around him tighter, wanting him as close as possible. "I love you," you whisper into his mouth.

"I love you more," he replies before thrusting his hips sharply. You gasp into his mouth with every snap of his lower half into you, and you clamp down on his arms with your hands to take all the force he's giving you. Reaching your peak, you're unsure if you're unraveling so fast because of how long you've been without him or not, but you don't care. You want to fall apart again sooner rather than later.

"That's it, pretty, take all of it," he grunts when he bottoms out for the umpteenth time. "Such a perfect pussy, wrapped so tight around me."

"Jesus, Weno, I need to come," you whine on his tongue.

"Do it, tiánxīn. I'm close too, want to come with you," he pants. He quickly presses his hand between your bodies to flick at your clit hard and fast, and the cusp of your climax comes. You see white feverish light behind your eyes as you let your body burn in the throes of your orgasm.

Nicholas follows behind with breathless moans of your name and curses, spilling so deeply inside of you that you can feel the warmth of his release in your bones. He doesn't slide out of you, even when his hips slow. He stays intertwined with you as he rolls you both over. His back sticks to the bed as you stretch your body across the top of his, worn out but glowing.

"So, I guess this means I'm your girlfriend now, right?" you ask rhetorically once you've both caught your breath, quirking an eyebrow up at him.

Nicholas chuckles and squeezes you tightly against his chest. "If you know what's good for you. You're all mine now, tiánxīn," he whispers into the shell of your ear before kissing your temple.

As if I wasn't already yours, you think to yourself as you drift. In the moments before slumber takes you, you realize you've never felt more at home in your life than when you're in between Nicholas's arms. And when your eyes close for the night, knowing you'll wake up to the man who calls himself yours, you know your dreams cannot compare to the reality that is right now.

🏷️ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@yvampyr @prkhaven @filmnings @nephynes @lunegenic @hoonieyun @v4mpnicho @guliexe @starryjake @jsbluu

you mentioned once that you like horror movies, just in passing on a call that had ran way past the normal length. your voice had melted into a lulled and drowsy swing, and it made jo's skin buzz, like the first drink of ice water in the middle of the day- you had him wrapped around your finger. and your hand. and, well, your everything. he imagined you curled comfortably against your pillow as you mindlessly listed your top three classics.

"and theres a new one coming out next year that id like to see, i think," your voice dripped through the speaker, sweet like fresh honey. even stickier, too, the way jo had the phone pressed to his ear. he wanted to crawl through. you asked, "do you like scary movies, jo?"

"oh, yeah," jo cleared his throat, "love them."

he didn't lie. not necessarily. there were other movie genres he would rank below horror, but there were movie genres he would rank above horror, too. there were many, actually. most of them. he'd watch anything with you, though. and he probably should have waited a year for that movie you were excited about, but he couldn't.

jo had been on a few dates with you so far, and every one left him more curious. he was insatiable. your first date had been to a pottery studio that hosted weekend "sip and spins," where you both spent so much time trying to throw the perfect mug that you neglected to sip at all. jo had terracotta sludge up to his elbows, and you had to wash your hair twice that night to fully remove the clay remnants. no one else in the class struggled like the two of you. and you were the only ones completely sober.

of course, there was the second date, feeding ducks at the lake until you ran out of food and they became angry, very quickly and without mercy. you lost a shoe in the great escape, and jo had to brave the flock to get it back. your courageous knight, who anxiously looked over his shoulder the whole way back to you, shoe in hand.

he knew by the third date that he wanted you to be his, but he didnt say it. jo took you to dinner at your favorite restaurant. he offered to cut your steak for you, which you thought was something people only did in movies to infantilize their partners. nevertheless, you scooted your plate toward him. but the knife... there was something faulty about the knife, surely. he turned the plate every possible way, but the steak remained whole.

you ended up cutting your own filet into bite size pieces. and then you sliced jo's.

he was completely and utterly gone.

not being able to use a knife sort of shattered any confidence he had spent days conjuring to ask you to officially be his. instead, he walked you home, kissed your cheek, and left it at that. tonight, he was going to do it.

and it was going to be perfect.

"you look great," you said, bumbling over to where jo stood outside the cinema. the sun had just started to sink below the jagged edge of the city, washing the street in a pink summer glow. he held his hand over top of his eyes to see you clearly, smiling as you bound closer. close enough to wrap your arms around his torso. he felt himself stagger back at the unexpectedly intimate gesture, face growing hot as he dropped his arm and squeezed your shoulders closer to him. you spoke, voice muffled by his sweater, "and you smell good. is this shirt new?"

jo looked between you as you stepped back from his grasp, as though he had forgotten what outfit he had put together. as though he hadnt spent three days changing out tshirts for a sweater, khaki pants for jeans. he smiled, softly, eyebrows knitting together with amusement. he welled up his freshly brewed confidence and said, "new to you."

and then, because jo wasnt the type of guy to just drop an epic one-liner, he added, "and you look really good, too. and smell. good, i mean- you smell great."

"thank you for that clarification at the end, jojo," you laughed, squeezing his arm reassuringly. jo could have died in the street from the contact, from your dulcet giggle bouncing through his ears and right to his stomach. the maestro of butterflies- thats what you were. and within him stirred an eager ensemble. you looped your arm around his, dragging him to the entrance, "c'mon, we're gonna miss the trailers."

he held the door for you, and the smell of fresh, slightly burnt popcorn hit him in a gust. at the ticket counter, jo requested two tickets for the current horror movie that was out. he hadn't heard anything bad about it. that being said, he hadnt heard anything good about it, either. but it checked all the boxes: knife wielding freak in a mask, shock factor gore shots, and a jarring, jumpscare-riddled sound design. he hoped you would enjoy it.

since you were the expert, jo let you pick the seats, and once you'd tested out the view in a few spots, he sank down beside you in the worn leather auditorium chair. obviously a popular choice, the seat reclined a bit further than intended, sending jo into a minor panic and sending a few pieces of popcorn spilling over the side of the cardboard bucket. the two of you snickered silently as the lights dimmed.

the trailers were probably good; jo had no clue. his eyes flickered to you for half of them, only catching bits and pieces watching the way the colors and shadows melted over your features. he had to be very strategic about this. if you caught him staring once, it was sweet. the second time would have to be timed perfectly to not seem like he was the knife wielding freak, meaning he would let you glance his way first, seemingly unnoticed as he would be fully and totally invested in the reboot trailer before him. and then he would pick up where he left off, his vision tracing the lines of your face in the soft glow of the projector.

the first mistake jo made was getting so much popcorn. two humans could never safely consume this much popcorn in a 90 minute timeframe, but he misheard the employee at the snack counter and somehow ended up walking away with the extra-buttery jumbo bucket. the popcorn was good, fresh, but the sheer amount of it made it very messy. any slight movement had popcorn jumping out of the tub, bouncing down jo's thigh, sticking to the sleeve of your shirt.

so, one might imagine what began to happen during the movie, the scary movie rife with jumpscares and a staccato soundtrack. the situation would have been different for a romcom or action flick, but jo discovered that he might as well have been the audience member the filmmakers imagined when working out the timing of their scares: the empathetic viewer who would become attached to the main character right as the twist is revealed, the optimistic one who would believe the killer was really dead after the first climax, the gullible one who would believe the scene was over just before the killer busts through the door.

you might as well have been watching a comedy with the way you had to cover your mouth to suppress your laughs, shoulder racking against jo's as he jumped in his seat again. every jumpscare, which in your opinion were all very predictable and not executed well, had him clutching his chest, lap covered in popcorn. one time, you reached over him to grab a handful and even the slight movement of your hand in the corner of his eye made his ass leave his chair. he was incredibly miserable for someone who claimed to love scary movies, but you couldnt even be mad at him for lying.

before the halfway mark, you'd stepped on and worn more popcorn than you'd eaten.

"sorry," jo whispered, his voice straining to convey just how absolutely apologetic he was without disturbing everyone around you. he tried to laugh it off, in the same way you had no problem doing as you picked the popcorn out of your hair, but everything felt like it was crashing down around him.

"dont be," you whispered back. you rocked slightly in your seat, nudging his shoulder with your own as you flashed him a reassuring smile. "here, i have an idea. give me this."

jo held his breath, just for a second, as you reached over him and snatched the cardboard bucket from his hold. you situated it on your lap instead, leaving jo to figet with the stray yellow kernels stuck in the fold of his sweater. he had honestly been gripping the bucket so tightly that it was concave in the middle, shaped like some misfigured hourglass.

his hands were empty now.

your attention turned back to the movie, and so did jo's. without the popcorn, he had nothing. he was vulnerable to the elements of horror, shielding his eyes behind his hands. if nothing else, jo hoped you were having a good time watching him suffer. and you seemed to be. he noticed how you would anticipate a jumpscare and smile, small yet precipitately.

the only thing that made jo's heart race more than masked killers, that made his chest throb like buckets of fake blood might pour out of him, that gave him chills up his spine, was the feeling of your hand brushing his. your pinky tentatively grazed the ridges of his knuckles. jo opened his palm, not so tentatively, and slipped his fingers between yours, feeling the weight of your hand in his, the press of your palm. and yeah, his hand was a little sweaty, but you didn't seem to mind as you pulled his arm over the arm rest between you and cradled his hand in your lap.

jo was manually breathing, now, physically expanding and collapsing his lungs because his entire body was zeroed in on the point where your fingers interlaced. relax your wrist but not too much, he thought, and quit tapping your finger. the whole time his heart was thrumming ceaselessly in his ribs, he was counting the beats and dividing it by 60. was this the end?

jo felt your fingers squeeze around his, just lightly, just a flutter. he bit back the smile that threatened his lips. and surprisingly, he bit back the yelp that escaped his throat as another jumpscare flashed on the screen. because his hand was occupied, jo could only close his eyes and pray that the soundtrack would notify him of more peaceful times.

but it wasnt the soundtrack that pulled him out of his anguish; it was you, squeezing his hand, again- a signal. a soft, warm signal at the beginning of every jumpscare, and an even softer, warmer signal when it was safe for him to open his eyes. and on top of it all, you were intermittently feeding him popcorn, smiling wide every time his mouth instinctively opened upon seeing your free hand plunge into the bucket.

by the time the credits rolled and the lights intensified to a burning flourescence, jo had probably only watched 1/3 of the movie. if someone read a plot summary to him and asked if he had seen it, he wouldn't even be able to say for sure. he could tell them what color shirt you were wearing, the material, where every jumpscare in the last half was and how long they each lasted, the maximum bpm his heart could reach without sending him to the hospital, and how absolutely tantalizing your lips were. one would think it was lipgloss, but it was butter, concentrated right on the center of your bottom lip. but he didnt know shit about the movie's plot points, aside from the killer, of which every scary movie has some variant.

as you exited the theater, you didnt let go of his hand, swiping your thumb over the expanse of skin behind his. jo sighed, maybe too deeply, too relieved, and said, "well, that was great. great movie."

"yeah, you think?" you raised a brow at him, "what was your favorite part?"

you, jo thought, always you. instead, he gulped, furrowing his own brows as he combed through his most recent memories and found only you. he pressed his lips into a fine line and said, "um, when the guy was running... from the, uh, other guy."

you looked at him, shocked, and jo could only stare blankly as he tried to read you. were you mad that he lied about loving horror movies? were you upset that he spilled the popcorn everywhere? were you confused about his intentions, inviting you to the movies and keeping his eyes closed the whole time? all of these would be incredibly valid. you smiled, "that was mine, too."

it was then that jo remembered his goals for the evening. he didnt want to see that awful movie, but he thought you would. he was always thinking about you. his brain latched onto your response. that was mine, you said. mine. jo wanted to say it, looking at you. when he thought about you, he wanted to be sure. jo wanted to keep you forever; he wanted to kiss you, to say mine, mine, mine.

but instead of saying all of that to you, he realized he had just been staring, face focused, concentrated. you waved your free hand in front of his face, slowing to a halt in the theater hallway. the digital signs above the auditorium doors moved in slow sequences, imitating the thoughts you could basically see filtering behind his eyes. you grabbed his shoulder, "jo?"

"i want to kiss you."

jo had never been this bold. it scared him, and it sort of scared you. more than anything, it intrigued you. what else was he hiding? you smiled, encouraging him to say a little bit more, "okay."

"i want to kiss you, and i want to see bad movies with you," jo breathed, like it hurt him to reveal everything in such an uncalculated manner. like he hadn't rehearsed this for days on end in the outfit he'd picked out specifically for the occasion. he tacked on, as if you were concerned at all about the ethics of his confession, "and i dont care that its a waste of money."

"okay."

"and i want to do all of that, like, officially," jo said. and he was most confident, for it was the only part of the conversation that matched the version he practiced in his head, when he finished with, "as your boyfriend."

suddenly, he felt like the man running from the other man in his favorite scene, only the "other man" was your painfully delayed answer. it was as if you were testing him, seeing how long he could live comfortably in the silence between you. in a normal circumstance, jo loved the silence. but this was torture. just him, his shitshow of a proposition, and your glossy, kind eyes looking up at him. people continued to filter out of the theater behind you, weaving around your rigid bodies. jo imagined this was what rigor mortis felt like, his hands cold at his side, blood rushing to his head. or whatever blood did during rigor mortis. maybe the movie had mentioned it but he didnt know.

"well," you finally spoke, reaching for jo's wrists and placing them on your shoulders, a hand on each side of your neck, "you know i love movies, good or bad, and especially the expensive ones." you closed the gap between the two of you, and jo's breath hitched as you kept the hold on his wrists, laying his hands flat on your neck. "kiss me, and then we'll see about that last thing you mentioned. what was it?"

"boyfriend," jo whispered, voice small, suddenly so close to you that he could feel your pulse on his palms, beating just as fast as his.

"yeah," you smiled, "boyfriend."

and then, you pulled him all the way in, hands bunched in his "new-to-you" sweater. your noses bumped, and it was impossible to slot your lips together from how much he was smiling against you, but jo would have taken anything you'd given him. he snaked one hand into the back of your hair, deepening the kiss as if you weren't standing in the middle of the cinema hall. your lips moved against his, sweet like honey just as he expected, dreamed. and then, there it was- the sting of butter, salt on your lips.

jo ran his thumb along your jaw, angling your head just right to get one final, lingering taste of you. when he pulled away, you were breathless, would have been boneless had he not still been holding onto you. he anchored you to him, pressing your foreheads together as you caught your breath. you scanned his face, closer than ever. you counted his moles like points of a constellation, memorized the point of his chin, the slope of his nose. and jo did the same, studying everything he neglected to commit to his memory in the theater. which, by the way, wasnt a lot.

he did a lot of staring.

and he planned on doing a lot more, now that you were so close, within reach. jo dragged his thumb over your bottom lip. mine, mine, mine, he thought.

as if you could hear him, in an eerily supernatural, post-horror movie paranoia kind of way, you whispered, in that sweet, sticky voice against the pad of his thumb, "i'm all yours."

Jo swallowed hard. “Maybe we should head back. Storm’s coming.”

His father shot him a sharp look. “Don’t go soft on me now, boy. This is what we do, what our family has always done. Those hybrids took enough from us over the years. Time to balance the scales.”

Jo bit his tongue. He’d heard the stories a thousand times: so many times that he could remember them off the top of his head. How the deer folk had “raided” their crops, how one had supposedly gored a neighbor. But he’d also seen the antlers that hung above the crackling fireplace, carved from the mother of the very hybrid they were probably tracking right now. Balance felt a lot like vengeance wearing different clothes, Jo thought before sighing and pressing his lips together to nod at his father with a small smile. Anything to make sure his father didn’t suspect his real feelings.

Your scent hit Jo first.

Not the sharp musk of regular deer. Softer. Warmer. Something sweet lingered underneath—it curled low in his chest and made his breath catch, made the rifle feel suddenly too heavy, made the guilt bloom wider, darker, like ink dropped in water. Jo froze mid-step, boots sinking into the moss.

And the forest held its breath with him.

He could already picture you—small, trembling, eyes wide and fearful. The way your body would probably soften under threat, the same way it had been taught to soften as prey.

Jo’s grip loosened, just a fraction. The rifle suddenly felt like a betrayal pressed against his own ribs. He wondered, quietly, if when he finally saw you, he would be able to pull the trigger at all.

Or if some sick, ruined part of him would simply want to kneel instead.

His father moved ahead, boots deliberate, breath steady. The man who had taught him that mercy was just another word for weakness. The man whose hands had once pressed those same antlers that hung over the fireplace into 8-year-old Jo’s small palms and said, “This is what we do to what hurts us.”

Jo followed because he always followed. Because he didn’t know what else he was made for. What good are you if not obedient?

But every step felt like sinking deeper into something that wasn’t quite mud.

Then he saw you.

Through the thin veil of branches, half-hidden behind a fallen log draped in moss like an old blanket. Small. Trembling. Your ears—delicate, furred, twitching at every sound—flicked back against your hair. Delicate antlers, barely branched, caught the weak sunlight filtering through the trees. The baby doll dress you wore—far too thin for the morning cold—clung to your frame like it was trying to hold you together. Your legs ended in small cloven hooves that clicked softly against the frozen ground, delicate and wrong in all the right ways, but the rest of you looked heartbreakingly human. Frame wrapped in a tattered coat you’d clearly scavenged from somewhere kinder than these woods, faint tremble running through your hands as you clutched that bundle of foraged roots tight to your chest like it was the last soft thing left in the world.

You looked straight at him.

And Jo forgot how to breathe.

You looked like something that had wandered out of a dream he was never meant to have.

Your hands clutched the hem of your dress, knuckles pale, the fabric bunching as if it could shield you if you just held on tight enough.

The air turned thick, honey-slow, pressing against his ribs until every beat of his heart felt like an unsaid confession.

His father’s voice slid in low and steady beside him, calm as Sunday morning scripture. “Easy shot. Take her, son. First kill’s always the hardest, but it gets easier.”

Jo’s finger hovered over the trigger. The rifle felt impossibly heavy, heavier than the guilt of murdering something so innocent, heavier than the antlers mounted above the fireplace that still watched him every time he sat and drew in this living room. Your eyes met his again, wide and pleading, and something inside him cracked wide open, slow and wet like a wound that had been waiting years to bleed.

He couldn’t do it.

Before his father could react, Jo swung the barrel away and fired into the dirt at your feet. The gunshot exploded through the trees, violent and sudden, ripping the quiet apart like cheap cloth. You bolted, hooves kicking up leaves and frost as you disappeared into the underbrush with a startled cry that lodged itself somewhere behind Jo’s ribs and refused to leave.

“What the hell was that?!” His father roared, grabbing Jo by the shoulder and spinning him around hard enough to bruise. “You missed on purpose!”

“I—I slipped,” Jo lied through his teeth, voice shaking like a leaf in the wind he couldn’t control. “It won’t happen again. I promise.”

His father’s eyes narrowed, suspicion sharp as the knife he kept for dressing kills, but he let it go with a low sigh and grunt that still carried warning. “We’ll pick up the trail tomorrow. She won’t get far with that leg print. Looks like she might be limping a little already. Better not miss again.”

That night, Jo lay awake in the cabin, staring at the ceiling until the wood grain blurred into antlers and delicate cloven hooves. Every time he closed his lids, he saw yours again—full of fear and something else, something quieter. recognition, maybe. Like you knew exactly whose blood ran in his veins. Like you’d already learned what men like his father did to things that looked soft.

The next morning, he slipped out alone before dawn, boots quiet on the frost-hard ground, rifle left behind like a sin he wasn’t ready to carry anymore.

The forest felt different without his father’s shadow stretching ahead. Quieter. Heavier. It was waiting for him to choose what kind of monster he wanted to be. Jo was never good at choosing for himself, though.

He moved slow, following the faint trail of small hoof prints and the memory of your scent still clinging to the inside of his lungs. Sweet. Warm. Trembling not just from the frosty November air.

He didn’t know what he would say when he found you.

He only knew he couldn’t let his father be the one to finish what the family had started.

He wondered if you would run when you saw him coming or if you would simply wait, spine already bowing, eyes already softening. Submitting to a fate you had seen take all you knew.

Jo was six when he first saw something beautiful die.

It was not a deer, nor a rabbit.

It was the light in his mother’s eyes.

He remembers the exact moment it flickered out. She had been humming while folding laundry, the sound thin and sweet like early spring air, her hands moving carefully over his small shirts as if keeping them soft could keep him soft too. Then his father’s boots hit the porch heavily. The humming stopped mid-note. Her shoulders drew in, just a fraction, the way yours had behind that fallen log. The light in her eyes dimmed the way dusk takes the last color from the trees—slow, inevitable, leaving only the gray.

Jo had sat near the doorway, pencil still in his small hands, when he watched his father’s hand close around her wrist, not hard enough to bruise where anyone could see, but hard enough that the laundry slipped from her fingers and pooled at her feet like surrender. She didn’t cry out. She never did. just lowered her gaze and whispered something too quiet for Jo to catch, the same way you had clutched the hem of your dress like it could shield you from what was coming.

In every way, you reminded him of his mother. He wondered if he would become like his father and ruin all that's good. all that is made of softness and light.

That night, silence filled the home. His mother moved through the cabin like a ghost learning how to haunt her own body, smiling small and tight when Jo asked if she was okay, the smile never reaching the place behind her eyes where the light used to live. Jo learned then that some deaths don’t always leave blood. They leave empty rooms inside people.

He started practicing the same smile. learned to make his voice steady, even when his hands trembled—learned that you were no good unless obedient.

Years later, the same lesson still sat heavy in his chest as he followed your uneven prints deeper into the trees.

He kept walking, boots sinking slowly into moss that smelled of damp earth and old secrets. The forest felt like it was holding its breath again, waiting to see which version of him would arrive first—the boy who once held warm antlers and cried, or the man still trying to outrun the sound of his mother’s humming cutting off mid-note.

snap.

There you laid, your small frame half-curled against a fallen trunk, coat too thin, antlers catching fractured light. He could see the blood that seeped through your tights, turning white to red. Your eyes lifted, wide and fearful. He had seen this look before; he knew it all too well.

“I’m not…” the words came out cracked, uneven, too quiet for the weight they carried. “I won’t hurt you.”

The words felt stupid the moment they left him. Too gentle for a boy raised on rifles and revenge. Too soft for the son of a man who drilled the words “Grow up tough or die weak.” But they slipped out anyway, slow and trembling.

He took one slow step closer.

Then stopped.

Because you looked too much like her.

It wasn’t just the fear in your eyes, maybe it was the way your shoulders drew in, the way your spine already knew how to bow—to hide.

Jo felt sick. The part that had never quite learned how to be cruel the way his father wanted — ached to kneel instead. To press his forehead to the cold soil and beg you to run. To tell you he was sorry for the blood on your tights, sorry for the antlers above the fireplace, sorry for every time his mother’s light had dimmed and he had only learned to look away.

But he stayed standing.

Breath shallow. Rifle long abandoned back at the cabin like a sin he wasn’t ready to carry anymore.

The forest held its breath with him.

You didn’t speak. Just watched, ears flicking back against your hair, cloven hooves scraping faintly against the frozen earth—a tiny, helpless sound that lodged itself somewhere behind his ribs and refused to leave.

“I’m Jo,” he said, softer this time.

He lowered himself slowly, not quite kneeling, not quite standing — caught between the man his father made and the boy who still remembered what softness looked like. One knee brushed the moss. Cold seeped through his jeans like a warning.

Your eyes followed the movement.

Something in them flickered. Not trust. Not yet. Just the quiet, exhausted recognition of someone who had already learned what men with rifles sounded like when they lied.

“Jo,” you repeated, the sound of his name in your mouth felt wrong and right at once—soft, trembling.

“You’re hurt,” he whispered, the words slipping out unevenly, longer than they needed to be, then suddenly short, like breath catching on a hook. “Let me… I can help. I won’t—”

His hands moved before the rest of him caught up.

He ripped his jacket off. The heavier canvas slides down his arms with a quiet rustle that sounds too loud in the stillness. It drops to the moss beside him, forgotten. Then the flannel underneath—worn thin at the elbows comes off in one clumsy pull. Cold air hits his skin instantly, sharp as memory, but he barely flinches. All he feels is the sick ache low in his chest and the way his hands won’t stop shaking.

His arm stays outstretched, trembling.

The flannel dangles from his long, thin fingers—still warm from his body. Sleeves limp and dangling. The faint smell of wood smoke and something softer underneath, something almost like violets, maybe, or even the ghost of his mother’s laundry soap—clinging to the fabric.

a beautiful contrast against the blood, frost, and fear.

“Here,” he says, voice cracking small and uneven again. “Please. press it against the bleeding. It’s clean enough.”

Your ears flick back against your hair again, delicate fur brushing skin that looked too human, too breakable. Eyes full of fear, fear that this was all a trap. That once you took the offering, you would be signing away your life.

You reminded him so much of her it hurt to breathe.

The same way your shoulders drew in. The same way your fingers clutched fabric like it could ever be armor. The same quiet, ancient knowing that softness was just another word for something already marked for taking.

Jo’s throat tightened.

A short, brittle line of thought: I won’t become him.

Then longer, spilling slow and thick:

“I’m not asking you to trust me. Not yet. Not ever, if you don’t want, just… let the bleeding stop. Then I’ll back away. I’ll leave the flannel. I’ll walk backward until the trees swallow the sight of me whole. Whatever you need.”

You take the flannel.

Your fingers—small, trembling, still dusted with dirt from the roots you’d been clutching earlier—reach out slow, hesitant, like the fabric might burn you. They brush his first. just the lightest graze of skin against skin, warm from his body meeting the chill of yours, and Jo feels it like a spark dragged across dry tinder.

The fabric presses against the blood, soaking your tights, dark red blooming into the faded plaid, turning the scent of wood smoke and faint violets into the smell of metal and moss. You hold it there, shoulders drawn in tight, ears still flicking back against your hair in small, wary starts. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—, wide, full of that old fear that this was all a trap, that taking anything from a man like him meant death.

“…Why?”

The word came out small, cracked at the edges, barely louder than the scrape of your hoof against the frozen ground. Your voice is soft—trembling, but steady enough to cut through the quiet. “Why are you doing this? You shot at me. Your father… he would have killed me. Why give me your shirt when you should have just finished it?”

Jo’s breath caught.

“I don’t know’ is all he whispers.

But that was not the truth.

The real answer sat heavy and rotten behind his ribs, pressing outward until every slow inhale felt like it might split him open. The truth was, you reminded him of his mother.

He let out a shaky breath, the cold air fogging between you.

“I don’t know why I’m doing this. Not really. Maybe I’m just tired of watching beautiful things die. Maybe I’m trying to prove that I am not someone who will ruin everything soft it touches. Or maybe I’m just a coward who finally couldn’t pretend anymore.”

Jo’s hands stayed open and empty in the space between you, still trembling, palms up like an offering he didn’t know how to make clean.

Your ears flicked back again, delicate and wary. The flannel pressed tight to your leg, blood still seeping slowly into the fabric, “You think I’m beautiful?”

His cheeks burned.

The heat crawled up from his neck in slow, traitorous waves, staining his skin a soft, humiliated red that he couldn’t hide even if he tried. Jo ducked his head slightly, bare shoulders curling inward as if that could somehow shrink him.

“Yeah.” Jo’s cheeks burned hotter the second it left his mouth, a soft, humiliated pink blooming fast across his face, crawling up to the tips of his ears until even the cold air felt warm against his skin. He ducked his head lower, bare shoulders curling in tight like he could fold the blush away, hide the shy boy who had never learned how to say something gentle without feeling it in his whole body.

“I… I do,” he whispered, the confession long and trembling.

“I didn’t mean for it to sound like that. It just… slipped. You looked—I dont know…so soft when I first saw you. I haven’t seen anything like that in years…and I… I couldn’t pretend I didn’t see it. Couldn’t pretend I wasn’t tired of watching things like that disappear.”

“I’m sorry,” he added, softer still, the apology flowing long and gentle before it ended in a tiny, broken stop. “I know it’s stupid to say something like that right now. While you’re bleeding and scared, and I’m the reason.”

“…You really think I’m soft?”

The word hung there, fragile and uncertain, like something you were almost afraid to touch. Your ears flicked back again, slower this time, the delicate fur brushing your hair as your doe eyes stayed fixed on his flushed face.

“I haven’t felt soft in a long time,” you whispered, the sentence long and careful, then suddenly short, almost broken. “Not since the woods started feeling like they were always watching. Not since I learned that soft things get chased. So when you say it like that… it sounds like a trick. Like the kind of lie that comes right before the hurt. But your face is all red and you keep looking away like you’re scared I’ll laugh at you… and I don’t know what to do with that.”

You pressed the flannel harder against your thigh, shoulders still drawn in tight, A small whimper escaping you at the pressure on the wound—soft, involuntary, barely more than a breath. A tiny helpless sound that made Jo’s chest ache.

Your voice dropped even softer, trembling at the edges.

“Right now I feel anything but soft. I feel scared. And cold. And like if I let myself believe you even a little, it’ll hurt worse when you remember whose son you are.”

He swallowed, the sound small and wet, cheeks burning brighter as he risked the quickest glance at your face before looking away again, lashes lowering.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice barely there now, long and careful before it faded into a tiny, broken stop. “I’m sorry he exists. I’m sorry I come from him. I’m sorry that every time I try to do something gentle it still feels like I’m carrying his shadow on my back.”

The forest held its breath tighter, the cold pressing in while the faint scent of blood and moss curled slow around you both.

Your voice came out small, barely louder than the wind slipping through the bare branches.

“Your father will come to finish the job.”

The words landed soft and heavy between you, trembling at the edges like frost on a leaf that might crumble if touched wrong. They weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. They simply sat there, quiet and true, pressing against Jo’s ribs until the air felt too thick to breathe.

“I… I know,” he whispered, the confession long and shaky, flowing slow like something afraid to be heard before it suddenly broke short, almost too quiet. “He’ll come looking. Tomorrow. Maybe sooner. He doesn’t let things get away. Not when they bleed. Not when they’re… soft.”

“If he comes…” he murmured, the words long and trembling again, then suddenly short, almost pleading. “If he comes, I’ll stand between you. I’ll tell him I slipped. I’ll tell him I lost the trail. I’ll lie until my voice gives out. But I need you to believe one thing. Just one. I’m not him. Not yet. And I don’t want to be the reason you stop feeling soft.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead your voice came again, quieter, trembling at the edges but steady enough to reach him.

“…Then what are you going to do when he gets here and sees you kneeling in the dirt with no shirt, blushing like that, trying to protect something you were supposed to kill?”

Jo’s heart lurched, shy and ruined.

He let out a tiny, embarrassed breath, almost a whimper of his own, cheeks burning hotter as he whispered back, long and gentle before it ended in a small, desperate stop.

“I don’t know… but I’ll figure it out. Just… stay soft a little longer. Please. Let me tie the cloth first. Let me stop the bleeding. Then we’ll decide what comes next. Together. If you’ll let me.”

You give him a small hesitant nod, and he reaches forwards—fingers trembling as he knots it, slow, careful—not tight enough to hurt, never that—but enough to stem the red that keeps blooming dark against the faded plaid. His bare skin prickles in the cold, but the real shiver lives deeper. Somewhere behind his ribs where the boy who once cried over antlers still hides.

You watch him. Eyes softer than before, ears half-flattened, the delicate fur catching bits of fractured light. Your breath comes in small clouds that dissolve too fast, the way good things always do around men like him.

“I don’t know what comes next either,” he says, voice long and low, spilling like sap from a wound he can’t stop touching. “But I know the sound of my father’s boots. I know how heavy they fall when he’s tracking something soft.” A short pause. The forest exhales with him. “I won’t let them fall here. I’ll make sure of it…”

He sits back on his heels, knees sinking deeper into moss. The ground is cold and honest. It doesn’t pretend mercy is easy. Jo’s shoulders curl inward, bare and lightly freckled and suddenly too exposed, like stripping the flannel off had peeled more than just cloth away.

He thinks of his mother again—how she used to fold his shirts with gentle hands. How she taught him to be quiet the way other mothers teach songs.

You shift. A tiny sound escapes—half-whimper—and it hooks behind his sternum, pulls.

“Why do you look at me like that?” you whisper. The words tremble at the edges, then drop short. Sharp. “Like I’m something worth saving.”

Jo’s throat tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. Lets the silence stretch, uneven, heavy with everything he’s never been allowed to say. The blush still burns across his cheeks, stupid and boyish and impossible to hide. He ducks his head lower, lashes brushing skin that feels too hot for November woods.

“Because you are,” he finally murmurs, long and careful, each word weighted like stones dropped into still water. “Because I’ve spent my whole life watching soft things get taken apart. My mother’s humming. The light in her eyes. The way she’d press her face into my hair like I was the last tender thing left.” A sudden short breath. “And I never stopped it. Not once.”

He reaches out—not to touch, never without permission—but to brush a stray leaf from the edge of your coat. His fingers hover. Tremble. Fall back to his lap like they remember their place.

“I think…some part of me died with her light. The part that was supposed to stay gentle. The part that still believed I could protect softness—even if I was still half my father.”

Jo’s voice cracks small, then flows again, slow and tender. “But when I saw you behind that tree—ears flicking, dress too thin for this cold—I felt it wake up. The boy who once swore to shelter the softness he saw. The one who wanted to protect instead of poach.”

Your hoof scrapes the frozen earth. A small, restless sound. Your eyes stay on his face, searching for the lie you expect to find.

Jo swallows. The taste of wood smoke and fear and something sweeter—your scent still clinging to the inside of his lungs—sits heavy on his tongue.

“If he comes,” he says, the words long and trembling before they cut short, “I’ll stand in front of you. Shirtless and shaking and useless, probably. But I’ll stand.” A fragile smile ghosts across his mouth, gone as quick as breath on glass. “Maybe that’s all I’ve got left that’s mine. The shaking. The not-wanting-to-be-him.”

He leans forward just enough for the cold air to slip between you, carrying the faint trace of his warmth. The flannel knots hold. Red still seeps, but slower now. Like the woods themselves are deciding whether to let you bleed out or let you live.

Your fingers stay curled in the fabric he gave you. Small. Dirt-stained. Breakable in ways that make his chest ache with something too big for the name guilt.

“Stay soft,” he whispers again, the plea spilling long and desperate before it ends abrupt, almost too quiet. “Just… a little longer. Let me get you somewhere warmer. My father’s out till dusk. The cabin’s empty. There’s blankets. Water. No one goes in my room. It’s on the other side of the house.”

He stands slow, careful not to loom. Offers his hand—not demanding, just open. Palm up. Trembling like everything else about him.

“I know it’s stupid,” he adds, voice soft as moth wings against stained glass. “Asking a doe to follow the hunter’s son home. But I’m not hunting anymore.” A sudden short line, raw: “I wasn’t made for that sort of thing.”

The forest holds its breath again. Antlers of bare branches overhead catch the weak sun. Somewhere distant, a twig snaps—maybe wind, maybe boots, maybe nothing at all.

Jo waits. Heart hammering loud enough to wake every secret the trees ever swallowed. Blush still burning. Knees still moss-stained. Ready to kneel if that’s what it takes.

Ready to ruin everything he was supposed to be, if it means keeping one soft thing from dying in front of him.

“If I die. It’ll be something you will have to live with. knowing that something soft died within your hands. Are you okay with the possibility of that?”

Jo’s breath catches. The forest tilts, just a little. Like the chapel in your nightmares. Like every time his father pressed those antlers into his small palms and called it love. His outstretched hand stays frozen between you, palm still open, still trembling, the cold air licking across his bare skin like judgment dressed in wind.

He doesn’t answer right away. Lets the silence stretch long and uneven, heavy with every ghost he’s tried to outrun. The blush on his cheeks burns hotter, stupid and helpless, crawling down his throat until even swallowing feels like confession.

Because the truth is a knife turned inward.

“I’m not,” he whispers at last, the words spilling slow and thick, then breaking short. “I’m not okay with it.”

“That’s exactly why I won't let it happen.”

He rises then, slow, careful, the way you’d lift a baby bird with a broken wing. Picking up his jacket and placing it over your shoulder before stepping back— hand open. Only a tank top covering him as he shivered, cheeks still flushed.

“I know what I’m risking,” he breathes, voice cracking small before it flows again.

“If he finds out… if he sees me with you. alive and not blooded and cold… he’ll do god knows what..” A sudden short line, raw as bone: “But I’d rather he break me than let him break you.”

Jo’s hand stays open. Palm up. Trembling like everything else about him. The blush burns hotter, stupid and boyish, making him duck his head until lashes brush flushed skin.

You take it.

His hand—palm rough from years of gripping rifles he never wanted, calluses like small betrayals pressed into skin that still remembers how to tremble. The forest exhales around the touch, slow and deliberate, as if the trees themselves have been waiting for this exact fracture in the script.

Your fingers are smaller than he expected, colder, the faint grit of dirt and root-dust catching against his like secrets neither of you meant to share. Jo’s breath snags on something sharp behind his ribs, a hook pulled taut.

He does not pull you up right away.

Just holds. Lets the weight of your hesitation settle into him the way evening settles into the branches overhead—soft at first, then heavier, inevitable

The blush still burns across his cheeks, stupid and alive, crawling down his throat like it wants to confess everything before he can stop it. I’m not him, he thinks, the words long and looping, winding through the dark hollows where his mother’s humming used to live. I’m not him not him not him. But the thought frays at the edges, thins into something smaller. Yet.

You stand.

Hooves unsteady on the frost-hard ground, the flannel tied tight around your thigh now dark with your blood and his warmth, a ugly beautiful marriage neither of you asked for.

The baby doll dress clings where it shouldn’t, thin as prayer, and Jo looks away fast—too fast—because looking feels like sin stitched into his own bones long before he understood the shape of it. The way your ears flick back against your hair. The way your spine already knows the angle of surrender. It crawls up his throat, tight and suffocating, and the word protect withers there, sad and pathetic, never quite daring to escape whole.

Jacket too big, sleeves swallowing your wrists, the scent of wood smoke and faint violet soap wrapping around you like something that might almost be mercy. Jo steps back. One deliberate pace.

Then another. Giving you room the way he wishes someone had once given his mother—space enough to breathe without the shadow of boots falling too close. The cold bites at his tank top, sharp as memory, but he barely feels it. All he feels is the sick, ruined part of him softening at the sight of you in his clothes. Like maybe, for once, something he touched didn’t have to break.

The walk back is uneven.

Long stretches where the only sound is your hooves clicking softly against roots and his boots sinking deliberately into moss, then sudden short silences that stretch too wide, too thin, like the moment before a shot that never comes.

Jo doesn’t speak at first. Just walks beside you, close enough that your scent—sweet beneath the blood, warm beneath the fear—curls into his lungs and stays there. His bare arms prickle in the cold, but the real shiver lives lower. Somewhere between the boy who once cried over antlers and the man trying not to become the hand that mounted them.

You limp. Just a little.

He notices the way your ears flick back against your hair at every snapped twig, the way your spine bows in fear, how you try to make yourself smaller. It makes something in his chest ache like a bruise pressed too hard.

I won’t become him, Jo thinks. The words long and heavy, then sudden and small. I won’t.

But the thought tastes like ash. Because here he is, leading you deeper into the woods that belong to his father’s rifle, bare-skinned and blushing and already ruined by the simple fact that he wants to keep you breathing.

The cabin appears between the trees like a wound that never quite closed. Windows dark. Smoke curling lazy from the chimney. His father won’t be back till dusk—Jo knows the rhythm of those boots the way other boys know bedtime stories. Still, his pulse hammers louder than the wind.

He pushes the door open with his shoulder. The hinges sigh like they remember every secret the walls have swallowed. Inside, the air is warmer. Smells of wood smoke and old coffee and the faint ghost of his mother’s laundry soap still clinging to the curtains she never got to wash again.

Jo guides you to the far corner of the room—his room—past the kitchen table, attempting to hide the view of antlers hung above the mantel. He doesn’t even look at them. He can’t.

You sit on the edge of his narrow bed. The mattress dips under your weight, springs creaking soft and intimate. Your hooves rest on the worn rug, small and cloven. The jacket slips off one shoulder. The baby doll dress underneath rides up just enough to show the bare curve of your thigh.

Jo looks away.

Fast. Too fast. The blush slams back into his face, hot and helpless, staining his neck, his chest, every place the cold air touches now that he’s half-undressed and fully exposed. He ducks his head, lashes brushing flushed skin, the heat crawling all the way to the tips of his ears like it wants to burn the shame right out of him.

“You—uh,” he starts, voice cracking small and uneven before it spills longer, thicker, desperate. “You should… clean up. The blood. There’s a shower. Hot water. It’ll help. With the cold. With everything.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just turns quick, bare shoulders curling inward as he slips out of the room like the walls themselves might judge him for looking too long. The door to the hallway clicks shut behind him—soft, careful, nothing like the way his father’s boots ever sounded.

A second. Maybe two.

Just long enough for him to stand in the dim hallway, forehead pressed to the cool wood of the linen closet, breathing like he’d run the whole way back from the forest. His mother’s clothes are still there. Folded neat and small on the top shelf where she left them the last time she ever touched anything in this house. He reaches up slow, fingers trembling, and pulls down the softest things he can find—a worn cotton nightgown the color of faded lilacs, a pair of thick wool socks she used to wear when the floors got too cold, a cardigan that still smells, just barely, like the lavender she kept in the drawer.

He comes back.

Arms full of the quiet ghosts of her, the fabric draped over one forearm like an offering he’s not sure you’ll take. The blush hasn’t left. It just sits there, low and stubborn, making his skin feel too tight under the tank top. He sets the clothes on the edge of the bed beside you—careful, reverent, like they might bruise if he moves too fast.

“Here,” he whispers. The word long and careful, then sudden and small. “These were… hers. My mother’s. She would’ve wanted you to have them. Soft. Warm. Nothing like what you’re wearing now.”

His eyes stay on the floorboards. On the way your hooves rest so small and perfect against the rug. On anything but the way the baby doll dress still clings, thin and wrong and heartbreakingly right in the low light. The air between you feels thick again, honey-slow, pressing against his ribs until every beat of his heart feels like another unsaid confession.

He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t reach. Just stands there, bare arms prickling, blush burning hotter, the sick stitched-in part of him already softening, already kneeling in the quiet of his own mind while his body stays upright.

Waiting.

Hoping the shower will wash some of the blood away. Hoping the clothes will feel like mercy instead of another cage. Hoping—God, hoping—you won’t see the way his hands shake when he thinks about you standing under the water, ears flicking back against wet hair, spine already learning the shape of safety in a house that only ever taught surrender.

“I’ll wait out here,” he adds, voice spilling slow and thick before it cuts short again. “Take as long as you need. I won’t… I won’t come in.”

You slip past him without a word.

Hooves soft on the floorboards, the borrowed nightgown brushing your thighs. Jo doesn’t watch you go. Can’t. He turns his face to the wall instead, forehead pressed to the cool wood again. Anything to ground himself.

The shower starts.

Water hissing through old pipes. Jo slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, bare arms wrapped around them like that might hold the sick, ruined part of him in place. The blush is still there—low, stubborn, burning under his skin like the antlers above the mantel are watching him even now. She’s in there, the thought loops long and heavy, then snaps short. Naked. Wet. Wearing nothing but the sound of water and the echo of my hands on her thigh.

He presses his palms into his eyes until stars bloom behind the lids. I’m not him. I’m not him. The words spill thick and desperate, then thin out to nothing. i hope.

Minutes stretch. Honey-slow.

He pictures it anyway—the way the water would trace the delicate line of your curves, the way your ears would flatten wet against your hair, the baby doll dress peeling off like shed skin. The thought hooks behind his ribs and pulls. Gentle yet sick.

The water stops.

Silence rushes in thicker than before. Jo stands too quick, knees cracking softly. He keeps his eyes on the floorboards, lashes low, the heat crawling up his throat again when the bathroom door clicks open.

You step into the room.

His mother’s nightgown clings where the baby doll dress once did—faded lilac cotton worn thin at the shoulders, hem skimming just above your knees like it remembers the shape of someone smaller, someone, already halfway gone. The cardigan hangs open, sleeves too long, swallowing your wrists the same way his jacket had swallowed them in the woods. Wool socks bunch a little at your ankles, hiding the soft fur that edges your hooves. Your eyes catch in the lamplight, delicate and oh so beautiful, and your ears—still wet—flick once, uncertain, against the strands of hair that cling to your neck.

Your eyes find his and Jo feels it low in his stomach—a slow, sick twist, like the first crack in ice that’s been holding too long.

Jo’s breath catches. Not loud. Just a small, uneven hitch that sits behind his ribs like something trying to hide.

You look soft.

“I—” he starts, voice cracking small and raw before it spills longer, thicker, desperate. “You look… warmer. That’s good. That’s—yeah.”

The words feel stupid the second they leave him.

Jo’s voice cracked on the last word like a dry twig underfoot, the sound small and stupid in the quiet of his room. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, bare arm flexing awkwardly under the thin tank top, the fabric suddenly too tight across his chest.

His cheeks were already burning again—even hotter now, a deep, traitorous red that crawled all the way down to the hollow of his throat. He hadn’t had many interactions with girls. None, really. Not like this.

Not with someone who looked at him with those wide innocent eyes, ears still damp and flicking uncertainly against the strands of hair that clung to her neck.

The nightgown—his mother’s nightgown—hung soft and faded on your frame, the lilac cotton skimming just above your knees, the cardigan sleeves swallowing your wrists. You looked impossibly small there on the edge of his narrow bed, hooves tucked under the hem, and Jo’s stomach twisted with something that felt too much like hunger and too much like fear all at once.

He swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere near your socks instead of your face. "You… you can sleep here,” he managed, the words spilling out long and uneven before they snapped short.

“In my bed. It’s warmer than the floor. Cleaner, too. I’ll—I’ll take the couch in the living room. Or the floor right here if you want. Doesn’t matter. I don’t sleep much anyway.” A shy, embarrassed huff of breath left him, almost a laugh but not quite. “Haven’t had a lot of… company. Never really… yeah.”

His blush deepened, stupid and helpless, and he ducked his head lower, lashes brushing flushed skin as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The floorboards creaked under him like they were judging him for every fumbling syllable.

He turned then, slow and careful, bare shoulders curling inward as if he could make himself smaller, less threatening, less like the son of the man whose antlers still watched from the other room. His hand reached for the doorknob—anything to give you space, to let you breathe without his shaking presence crowding the air.

Your fingers brushed the hem of his tank top.

Just the lightest tug—small, hesitant, the fabric pulling taut against his back for half a second. Jo froze mid-step, breath catching sharp behind his ribs like a hook snagging on bone. The touch was barely there, but it burned hotter than the blush already painting his skin. He didn’t turn right away. Couldn’t. His heart hammered loud enough that he was sure you could hear it over the distant crackle of the dying fire in the living room.

“Stay,” you whispered. The word came out quiet, trembling at the edges, soft as the nightgown against your thighs. Not a demand. Just a plea wrapped in exhaustion and something gentler, something that made his knees feel suddenly unsteady.

Jo’s shoulders stiffened, then softened all at once. He turned back toward you—slow, like you might bolt if he moved too fast—and the blush flared hotter across his cheeks, crawling up to the tips of his ears until even the cold draft from the window felt warm.

His hand hovered uselessly at his side, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. “I… yeah?” The word cracked small and raw, then spilled longer, thicker, desperate. “You want me to… okay. I can do that. I mean—if you’re sure. I won’t… I won’t get too close or anything. I can sit right here on the floor, or on the edge of the bed if that’s better. Whatever you need."

You nod, slow and hesitant, like even the smallest agreement may still cost you everything. Your hooves click softly against the floorboards as you crawl onto Jo’s narrow bed, the faded lilac nightgown riding up your thighs without warning. The hem slips higher than you mean it to—barely, just enough—and for one fleeting second the soft white cotton of your panties catches the low lamplight, delicate and impossibly out of place against the worn quilt.

Jo’s breath slams out of him like he’s been punched.

His eyes go wide, cheeks flooding with a deep, helpless red that burns all the way down his neck and across his bare chest under the thin tank top. He stumbles back a half-step, hand flying up to cover his mouth like that could hide the way his whole body just short-circuited. The image sears behind his eyelids—soft skin, the tiniest edge of lace, the way the nightgown had clung for that one ruined heartbeat—and something hot and traitorous twists low in his stomach.

“I—I need a shower,” he blurts, voice cracking high and thin before it drops into a rushed, embarrassed mumble. “Right now. Like, immediately. The, uh… the blood. And the woods. And everything. Yeah. I’ll be quick. Super quick. Don’t—don’t worry about me. Just… sleep. Please.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s already spinning on his heel, bare feet slapping against the cold floorboards as he practically flees the room. The door clicks shut behind him harder than he means it to, and you hear his footsteps hurry down the short hallway like he’s being chased by his own pulse.

You tilt your head, ears flicking once in quiet confusion. The motion makes the damp strands of your hair brush your neck, and you shrug, small and tired, before curling up under the heavy quilt. The sheets smell like him—wood smoke and faint violet soap and something warmer underneath that makes your chest feel strangely tight.

You tuck your knees up, hooves tucked beneath the hem of the nightgown, and let your eyes drift shut. The wound on your thigh throbs dully under the proper bandage jo had left on the counter, but the bed is soft. Safer than anything you’ve felt in days.

Inside the tiny bathroom, Jo twists the shower knob all the way to cold.

The water hits him like a slap, icy needles against his overheated skin, but it doesn’t do a damn thing to cool the burn crawling across his face. He presses both palms flat against the cracked tile wall, head hanging low between his shoulders, tank top and jeans still on because he’s too mortified to take anything else off right now. Water soaks through the fabric in seconds, plastering it to his body, but all he can see is that brief flash of white cotton and the way the nightgown had ridden up over the soft curve of your thigh.

“Stupid,” he whispers to the steamless air, voice shaky and small. “So fucking stupid, Jo. She’s bleeding. She’s scared. She’s in your mother’s nightgown and you’re—God.”

His ears are ringing. The blush refuses to leave. It sits stubborn under his skin, hot and humiliated, every time he blinks he sees it again—that tiny, accidental glimpse that felt like the universe handing him something he had no right to look at. He slides down until he’s sitting on the floor of the tub, knees drawn up, cold water pounding against his back while he buries his face in his arms.

He stays there until his teeth start chattering and the worst of the heat finally ebbs out of his cheeks. Only then does he peel off the soaked clothes, towel off fast, and pull on a fresh pair of soft gray sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that still smells like the laundry soap his mother used to use. His hair is damp and sticking up in every direction when he pads back down the hallway, barefoot and trying to make himself as quiet as possible.

The bedroom door is still cracked open the way he left it. He hesitates on the threshold, one hand on the frame, and the sight of you stops him cold all over again.

You’re curled on your side in the middle of his bed, knees tucked up, the lilac nightgown pooled around your thighs and the too-big cardigan half-slipped off one shoulder. One ear twitches in your sleep, delicate and furred, brushing against the pillow. Your antlers catch the faint glow from the hallway light, small and barely branched, and your chest rises and falls in slow, even breaths. The bandage peeks out from under the hem, dark with dried blood but no longer spreading.

He swallows, the sound loud in the quiet.

“I’m… I’m back,” he whispers, even though you’re already asleep. His voice is barely more than breath. “I won’t come any closer if you don’t want. I’ll just… sit right here. On the floor. Like I said.”

He slides down the wall beside the bed, back pressed to the cool wood, knees drawn up to his chest. From this angle he can just see the top of your head and the gentle flick of your ear every few minutes, like even in sleep you’re listening for danger. Jo rests his chin on his arms and watches you, the blush still faint but steady across his cheeks.

Minutes bleed into longer ones. The cabin is silent except for the distant crackle of the dying fire and the soft sound of your breathing. Jo’s eyes start to feel heavy, but he doesn’t let them close all the way. He can’t. Not when his father’s boots could hit the porch at any moment. Not when the only thing standing between you and everything that’s ever hurt you is him—a shaking, blushing, shirtless-in-the-woods mess who still doesn’t know how to be anything but gentle.

He reaches up slowly, careful not to wake you, and tugs the quilt a little higher over your shoulder. His fingers brush the fabric for half a second—warm from your body—and he pulls back like he’s been burned, cheeks flaring hotter.

“Stay soft,” he murmurs under his breath, so quiet it’s almost nothing. “Just… stay soft a little longer. I’ve got you. I think.”

Jo leans his head back against the wall, damp hair leaving a wet spot on the wood, and lets his eyes finally drift shut. The last thing he sees before sleep drags him under is the gentle rise and fall of your chest beneath his mother’s nightgown, and the smallest, most fragile smile touches his lips—shy, ruined, and entirely his own.

The morning light filtered thin and gray through the cabin’s single window, the kind of pale November dawn that made the woods outside look like they were holding their breath. Jo stirred first—neck stiff, back aching from a night spent curled against the wall like a guard dog who didn’t know how to lie down properly. His legs were half-numb, one arm still wrapped around his knees, hoodie rumpled and damp at the collar from where his hair had dried overnight. The first thing he registered was the soft sound of your breathing, steady and close, still tucked under the quilt on his bed.

Then the phone rang.

It shattered the quiet like a rifle crack—old landline on the nightstand, shrill and insistent. Jo jolted upright, heart slamming against his ribs before his brain caught up. He scrambled for it on his knees, nearly knocking the receiver off the hook in his hurry to answer before it could wake you.

“Hello?” His voice came out rough with sleep, cracked at the edges.

His father’s voice filled the line, low and flat, the same tone he used when he was already halfway out the door in his mind. “It’s me. Listen, something came up. Me and a couple of the boys are heading up to the mountains for a real hunt. Big bucks, they say. Might be gone a week. Maybe two. Depends how the trail holds.”

Jo’s grip tightened on the phone until his knuckles went white. A week. Two. The words sank in slow, warm relief blooming low in his chest like something he wasn’t allowed to feel. No boots on the porch. No sharp eyes scanning the tree line. No new antlers being dragged home to hang above the fireplace. Just… space. Breathing room. Time. Just for awhile.

“Food in the fridge should last you,” his father continued, dismissive, like he was reading off a grocery list instead of talking to his only son. “Canned stuff in the pantry if you run low. There’s money in the tin on the mantel—your savings from the odd jobs. Use it if you need to go into town. Don’t blow it on nonsense. And don’t go soft while I’m gone, boy. I’ll know if you did.”

A short, humorless grunt on the other end. No goodbye. No be safe. No I’ll call when I’m headed back. Just the click of the line going dead.

Jo stared at the receiver for a long second after the dial tone buzzed in his ear, then set it back in the cradle with shaking fingers. His shoulders sagged, the tension leaking out of him in one long, shaky exhale. He pressed his forehead to the edge of the nightstand, eyes squeezing shut.

Relief tasted sweet and guilty all at once—because his father not caring felt like freedom, but it also felt like the same old knife twisting in the place where a father’s love was supposed to live.

He stayed like that until the floorboards creaked softly behind him.

You’d woken at the sound of the phone, ears flicking upright under the messy strands of your hair, small antlers catching the weak morning light. The lilac nightgown had slipped off one shoulder in your sleep, cardigan still half-draped over you like a borrowed shield. You sat up slowly, knees drawn to your chest, hooves tucked under the hem, watching him with those wide, wary doe eyes that always made his stomach do that stupid fluttering thing.

Jo lifted his head, cheeks already warming under your gaze. The blush crept in slow and traitorous, staining his neck and the tips of his ears even though he hadn’t said a word yet. He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, damp hair sticking up in every direction, oversized hoodie sleeves sliding down his wrists.

“That was… my dad,” he whispered, voice long and careful before it dropped short, almost too soft. “He’s gone. For a while. A week, maybe two. Hunting in the mountains with his friends. Said the food’ll last and… and not to worry about him coming back anytime soon.”

He swallowed hard, lashes lowering as he risked a glance at you. The relief in his own chest felt too big, too bright, like it might spill out if he wasn’t careful. “We’re alone. For now. No one’s coming. No boots. No rifle. Just… us. And the cabin. And whatever we decide to do with it.”

Jo shifted closer on his knees, not quite touching the bed, still giving you that careful half-step of space he’d been practicing since yesterday. His fingers twitched at his sides like they wanted to reach out and smooth the quilt over your lap but knew better. The faint scent of you—warm and sweet under the leftover trace of blood and his mother’s lavender—curled into the air between you, and his blush deepened, stupid and helpless.

Your ears flicked once, slow and uncertain, the delicate fur brushing against the strands of messy hair that still clung to your neck from sleep. The lilac nightgown had slipped a little further off one shoulder in the night, but you didn’t fix it right away. You just sat there, knees still drawn tight to your chest under the quilt, hooves tucked beneath the hem, watching him with those wide doe eyes that always seemed to hold more forest than fear now.

For a long moment you didn’t speak. The silence stretched honey-slow between you, thick with the faint scent of wood smoke still clinging to the walls and the warmer, sweeter trace of you that made Jo’s blush burn hotter under his skin. Then your voice came—soft, trembling at the edges like it was afraid the words might break if they came out too fast.

“…Oh so…we will be alone…?” you whispered, the word long and careful, almost tasting it before it dropped short, barely louder than the small sound of flames flickering in the fireplace. “For a whole week… maybe two? No one coming back? Not even… him?”

Your fingers curled tighter into the quilt, knuckles pale, the too-long cardigan sleeves swallowing your hands completely. One ear twitched back against your hair again, wary, but the other stayed half-forward, listening. Your gaze dropped to the bandage peeking out from under the nightgown, then lifted back to his flushed face.

“I'm safe…” A tiny, hesitant breath left you, almost a sigh. “For now.”

Your words landed soft and heavy in the quiet room, like snow settling on the windowsill outside. “I’m safe…” The way you said it—small, almost disbelieving, like you were afraid saying it out loud might make it disappear—made something in Jo’s chest twist tight and then slowly, carefully, loosen.

He stayed on his knees beside the bed, looking up at you with those wide, earnest eyes, the blush still painting his cheeks and the tips of his ears a soft, helpless pink. His damp hair stuck up in messy tufts, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands, and for a second he just breathed, letting your words sink into him like warmth after too many cold mornings.

“Yeah,” he whispered back, voice long and careful before it dropped short, raw at the edges. “You’re safe. For now. For as long as I can keep it that way. He’s gone… really gone. The mountains are far. He won’t come back early. Not for something like this. Not when there’s bigger game calling his name.”

Jo’s fingers twitched again at his sides. He wanted so badly to reach out—to tuck the slipped shoulder of the nightgown back into place, to smooth your hair, to do something, anything, that might make you feel steadier. But he didn’t. He kept that careful half-step of space, like he was still afraid even his gentleness might be too much.

Instead he swallowed hard, lashes lowering as he glanced at the bandage peeking from under the lilac hem. The dried blood had darkened overnight, but the fabric wasn’t soaked through anymore. Still, the sight of it made his stomach clench with guilt all over again.

“Your leg,” he murmured, the words spilling slow and tender. “It probably hurts more now that you’ve been still. I should… I should change it. Clean it proper. I’ve got stuff in the bathroom—antiseptic, fresh cloth. My mom used to keep a kit under the sink for when I was little and clumsy.” A tiny, shy huff of breath left him, almost a laugh but not quite. “I’m still clumsy. Just… in different ways now.”

He shifted back on his heels, ready to stand, but paused, looking at you again with that same soft, ruined expression.

“Only if you want,” he added quickly, voice cracking small before it flowed longer, gentler. “I won’t touch you without asking. Ever. You can stay right there on the bed.I’ll bring everything in here. Or… or you can come sit at the table if you feel like moving a little. I can make breakfast after. Eggs? Toast? There’s some jam left in the pantry that isn’t too old. And tea. I think we still have the kind with honey my mom liked.”

Jo rubbed the back of his neck again, the oversized hoodie riding up just enough to show a sliver of pale skin at his waist before he tugged it back down, cheeks burning brighter at the accidental exposure. The scent of you—warm, sweet, that faint trace of forest and fear slowly easing into something softer—kept curling into his lungs every time he breathed, and it made his heart do that stupid fluttering thing all over again.

He stayed low, not looming, not pushing, just there on the floor like he was still the boy who once cried over mounted antlers and never quite learned how to stop feeling sorry for the softness the world tried to take.

"You can change it."

The words were small, soft, barely louder than the crackle of the dying fire, but they hit Jo like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. His head lifted fast, eyes wide, the blush already crawling hotter across his cheeks and down his throat at the simple permission.

“Okay,” he breathed, voice cracking small before it steadied into something long and careful. “Okay. Thank you. I’ll be gentle. I promise. So gentle.”

He stood slowly, knees cracking from the night on the floor, and gave you one last shy glance before padding out of the room on bare feet. You heard him moving in the hallway—cabinet doors opening quietly, water running, the soft rustle of cloth being gathered. When he returned, his arms were full: a small wooden box with a faded red cross on the lid, a bowl of warm water, clean cloths, and a fresh roll of bandage. His hair was still messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows now, and the blush hadn’t faded one bit.

He set everything down on the nightstand with careful hands, then lowered himself to sit on the very edge of the bed—far enough that you still had plenty of space, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him. His eyes flicked to your leg, then quickly back to your face, like he was afraid even looking too long might scare you.

“I’m going to lift the hem just a little,” he murmured, voice low and trembling at the edges. “Just enough to reach the bandage. Tell me if you want me to stop. Any second. I’ll stop.”

You gave the smallest nod.

Jo’s fingers—long, a little cold from the hallway—reached out and gently took the edge of the lilac nightgown. He lifted it with almost painful slowness, stopping the moment the old flannel bandage came into view. The fabric was stiff with dried blood, dark against your skin. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing, and reached for the bowl.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he began to loosen the knot he’d tied the day before. “I’m so sorry this happened. That I was even there that morning. That my father—” His voice cracked and he cut himself off, focusing instead on his hands.

The old bandage came away slowly. Beneath it the wound wasn’t too deep, but it was angry and red, the skin around it tender. Jo dipped a clean cloth in the warm water and wrung it out, then looked up at you again, lashes low.

“This might sting a little,” he warned softly. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

He cleaned the wound with the gentlest touches imaginable—barely more than dabs, like he was afraid even the cloth might hurt you. Every time you made the tiniest sound, his ears (metaphorically) perked, and he paused, whispering another soft “sorry” before continuing. When it was clean, he patted it dry with a fresh cloth, applied a thin layer of ointment from the box, and wrapped it again with fresh bandage. His fingers brushed your skin only when absolutely necessary, and every accidental touch made the tips of his ears burn brighter.

Once it was done, he sat back a little, still on the edge of the bed, and let out a shaky breath.

“There,” he murmured, voice long and relieved before it dropped short. “All clean. It should feel better soon. I can change it again tonight if you want. Or tomorrow. Whenever.”

You simply nodded again.

The silence settled between you both.

Then your stomach growled.

The sound was sudden and loud in the quiet room, cutting through the soft crackle of the fire and the creaking of old wood like it had been waiting for the perfect moment to betray you. It was a deep, hollow rumble that echoed faintly off the walls, and your ears flicked back hard against your hair in pure mortification.

"Oh…"

Jo froze for half a second.

Then his whole face went bright, burning red—so fast and so deep it looked like it might actually hurt. The blush exploded across his cheeks, down his neck, and even across the bridge of his nose. He ducked his head instantly, one hand flying up to cover his mouth like he could hide the way his lips were twitching between a shy smile and sheer secondhand embarrassment.

“Oh—oh no,” he whispered, voice cracking small and high before it dropped into a flustered, gentle rush. “Your stomach… I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked sooner. Of course you’re hungry. You’ve been through so much and I just sat here talking and—”

He scrambled to his feet so fast he almost tripped over his own long legs, hoodie sleeves flapping as he steadied himself against the nightstand. The tips of his ears were glowing pink under his messy damp hair. He couldn’t even look at you directly for a moment, too busy rubbing the back of his neck with both hands like the motion might cool the fire in his face.

“I’ll make breakfast right now,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out long and earnest. “Eggs. Toast. Jam. Tea with honey. Whatever you want. I can bring it in here if you don’t feel like moving, or… or we can go to the table together. Slow. I’ll help you if your leg still hurts. I won’t let you fall. I promise.”

Jo finally risked a glance at you, eyes soft and wide behind the furious blush still staining his skin. His voice dropped quieter, almost shy.

“I didn’t even think… you probably haven’t eaten properly in days. I’m sorry. That was stupid of me. Let me fix it. Please.”

He took one small step back toward the door, then paused again, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie.

“Unless… you want to come with me?” he added, softer still. “The kitchen’s warmer. Fire’s going. You could sit on the couch if the chair’s too much. I’ll stay close. Whatever makes you feel safest.”

You looked down at your hands for a moment, fingers still curled in the too-long sleeves of the cardigan. Your ears flicked once, slow and uncertain, before you lifted your gaze back to him. The blush on his face was so intense it almost made your own cheeks feel warm.

“…I can come with you,” you whispered, voice small and careful, like you were testing the words as they left your mouth. “If it’s okay. I don’t want to stay in bed all day. My leg… it doesn’t hurt as much now. And the kitchen sounds warmer.”

You shifted slightly, hooves brushing against the rug as you sat up a little straighter. One hand came up to tug the slipped shoulder of the nightgown back into place, though the motion was shy and a little clumsy.

“I haven’t… eaten at a table in a long time,” you added, quieter still, the words long and soft before they dropped short. “Not since before everything started feeling like running. It might be nice. To sit somewhere normal. With you.”

Your eyes flicked to his still-burning face, and the tiniest, hesitant smile touched your lips—fragile, but real.

“…You’re really red right now,” you murmured, almost teasing, though your voice stayed gentle. “It’s okay. I’m not scared of you making breakfast. I think I’d like to watch. If that’s alright.”

Jo’s mouth opened, then closed again. The blush somehow deepened even more, spreading down his neck until it disappeared under the collar of his hoodie. He looked like he might actually combust on the spot.

“I—yeah,” he managed, voice cracking high before it tumbled into a flustered, earnest rush. “Yeah, of course it’s okay. You can come. I’ll help you walk. Slow. I promise I won’t let you put too much weight on it. You can lean on me if you need to. Or the wall. Whatever feels best.”

He stepped closer again, one hand hovering in the air like he wanted to offer it but was still too shy to actually reach. His eyes were wide and soft, the embarrassment still painted vividly across every inch of his face.

“I’ll make the eggs however you like them,” he added quickly, trying (and failing) to sound steady. “Scrambled? Over easy? I’m not… I’m not the best cook, but I can do eggs. And the toast won’t burn. Probably. And the tea—my mom always said honey makes everything feel a little less awful.”

He swallowed hard, then finally let his hand settle, palm up, between you—offering without pressure.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he whispered, the words long and careful. “No rush. We’ve got all morning. All week, really. Just… let me know when you want to stand.”

Your fingers—small, still a little cold from the morning air—reached out and slipped into his open palm.

Jo’s breath hitched so sharply it was almost a sound. The second your skin touched his, the blush that had already been burning across his face exploded into something deeper, hotter, until even the tips of his ears looked like they might catch fire. His hand closed around yours with the gentlest pressure imaginable, like he was afraid even holding you too firmly might break something fragile between you.

For one long second he just stayed there, kneeling slightly so he wouldn’t tower over you, staring at where your fingers rested in his like he couldn’t quite believe it was real. His thumb brushed once, barely there, across the back of your hand—warm and trembling.

“Okay,” he whispered, voice cracking small and shaky before it steadied into something soft and careful. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

He rose slowly, guiding you with him, never pulling, only offering steady support. When you stood, he immediately shifted closer on your injured side, letting you lean against him if you needed without crowding. His free arm hovered near your waist, not quite touching, ready to catch you the instant you wobbled.

“Easy,” he murmured, the word long and gentle. “Take your time. Your hooves… the floor might be cold. I should’ve grabbed socks for you. I’m sorry.”

You took one careful step, then another. Your injured leg protested with a dull throb, but Jo was right there—solid, warm, smelling faintly of laundry soap and the lingering trace of wood smoke from his hoodie. Every time you shifted weight onto the bad leg, his fingers tightened just a fraction around yours, and he slowed down even more.

The walk to the kitchen was quiet, filled only with the soft click of your hooves against the old floorboards and Jo’s occasional soft checks.

“Still okay?” he asked after a few steps, voice barely above a breath. “We can stop. Sit on the couch for a minute if you need. No rush. None at all.”

When you finally reached the small wooden table near the crackling fireplace, Jo pulled out a chair for you with his free hand, still not letting go of yours until you were safely seated. Only then did he reluctantly release your fingers, and even that seemed to cost him something—his hand lingering in the air for half a second like it missed the contact already.

He stepped back quickly, cheeks still glowing, and rubbed the back of his neck as he moved toward the old stove.

“I’ll start the eggs,” he said, trying (and failing) to sound casual. “You just… sit. Rest your leg. Tell me if you want anything different. Or if you want to go back to bed. I’ll carry you if you do. I mean—not carry carry, I just— I’ll help. However you need.”

Jo turned back to the stove, still rubbing the back of his neck like the motion might somehow calm the wildfire still burning across his face. He cracked eggs into a bowl with slightly shaky hands, the soft sound of the whisk filling the quiet kitchen as he started beating them. The old pan was already warming on the stove, a pat of butter melting and sizzling gently.

He was so focused on not burning anything that your soft voice caught him completely off guard.

“Do you… just stay home all day?”

The question was quiet, curious, a little hesitant—like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to ask something so ordinary. Your ears flicked once as you watched him from the table, chin resting lightly on your folded arms.

Jo froze mid-whisk.

For a second he just stood there, back to you, shoulders tense under the oversized hoodie. Then he slowly set the bowl down and turned around, cheeks already flushing that familiar deep pink again. He leaned back against the counter, one hand gripping the edge like he needed something to hold onto.

“I… yeah,” he admitted, voice long and careful before it dropped shorter, almost shy. “Pretty much. When my father’s not dragging me out on hunts. Which is… most days, lately. He says I need to learn. That I’m too soft. That staying inside reading or drawing or just… existing isn’t useful.”

He gave a small, self-deprecating huff of breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. The blush crept higher as he rubbed the back of his neck again.

“I don’t really have anywhere else to go. No school anymore. No friends that stuck around after everything with my mom. The town’s too far to walk to every day, and I don’t have a car. So… yeah. I stay here. Keep the fire going. Cook simple things. Fix whatever breaks. Wait for him to come back from whatever hunt he’s on.”

Jo glanced at you, eyes soft and a little sad behind the embarrassment still painting his face.

“It’s not so bad when he’s gone,” he added quietly. “The house feels… lighter. I can breathe. I usually just read or draw or sit by the window and watch the snow. Sometimes I talk to the trees like a crazy person.” A tiny, embarrassed smile tugged at his lips. “They don’t answer back, but they’re good listeners.”

He turned back to the stove, pouring the eggs into the pan. The soft sizzling filled the space between you again.

“What about you?” he asked after a moment, voice gentler, almost hesitant to ask in return. “Before… all of this. Did you have somewhere safe? People who… who made it feel less lonely?”

Your ears flicked back against your hair, slow and heavy, like the weight of the answer was too much to carry upright. You kept your chin resting on your folded arms, eyes fixed on the grain of the wooden table instead of meeting his gaze.

“…No,” you whispered, the word small and cracked at the edges. “Not really. Hunters killed my parents a long time ago. I don’t even remember their faces clearly anymore. Just… the sound of the shot. And the way the woods went quiet after.”

You swallowed, the sound soft in the warm kitchen. One hoof scraped lightly against the floor beneath the table.

“After that, some of my parents’ friends took me in. Other hybrids. A small group that stayed hidden deeper in the woods. They were kind. They fed me. Let me sleep between them when it got cold. Taught me which berries were safe and which ones would make you sick for days.” Your voice grew even quieter, trembling at the edges. “They were rabbits. Gentle. Always moving carefully. Always listening.”

You went quiet for a moment, the only sound the soft sizzling of the eggs in the pan.

“But the cycle never really stops,” you continued, barely above a breath. “Hunters found them too. One by one. Until it was just me again. I ran. Kept running. Hid during the day. Moved at night. When you first saw me behind that log…” Your ears twitched again, and your voice dropped even smaller. “I’d already been wandering alone for over a week. I think I was starting to forget what it felt like to sleep without one ear always listening for boots.”

You finally lifted your eyes to him—soft, tired, but steady.

“That’s why your father’s voice scared me so much. It sounded like every voice that ever took someone I loved.”

The eggs were starting to smell warm and buttery, but Jo had gone completely still at the stove. His shoulders were tight, the spatula forgotten in his hand. The blush that had been burning across his face moments ago had drained into something paler, something heavier. Guilt sat thick in his chest like stones.

He turned the burner down with slow, careful fingers before he trusted himself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice rough and low, cracking on the words. “God, I’m so sorry. That you had to go through all of that. That my father—that people like him—keep doing this. Keep taking and taking until there’s nothing left.” He let out a shaky breath, one hand coming up to press against his eyes for a second. “I hate it. I hate that I come from that. That I almost became part of it.”

Jo turned fully toward you, eyes glassy but soft, the blush slowly returning to his cheeks as he looked at you with something close to quiet devastation.

“You don’t have to be alone like that anymore,” he whispered, the words long and careful, almost pleading. “Not while I’m here. Not for this week. Not for as long as you’ll let me stay between you and whatever comes next. I know I can’t fix what happened. But I can… I can make sure you eat warm food. And you can sleep without listening for boots. And maybe… maybe feel a little less like the world only knows how to take soft things.”

He plated the eggs with slightly trembling hands, added a slice of toast, and brought the plate over to you, setting it down gently along with a mug of tea that smelled faintly of honey.

“Eat,” he murmured, voice still thick with everything he wasn’t saying. “Please. While it’s hot. I’ll sit with you."

The kitchen stayed quiet after that.

You ate slowly, the warm eggs and honey-sweet tea settling something deep in your chest that had been empty for too long. Jo sat across from you, chin propped on one hand, just watching you with soft eyes and that persistent pink still dusting his cheeks. Neither of you spoke much. You didn’t need to. The fire crackled, the snow kept falling outside, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence between you wasn’t heavy with fear.

When you finished, he quietly took your plate, washed everything by hand, and helped you back to the bedroom so you could rest your leg. He didn’t push. He didn’t hover. He simply existed beside you like he was learning how to take up space without scaring you.

Days passed like that.

Slow. Surprisingly gentle.

You both fell into something that almost looked like routine. Jo changed your bandage every morning and every night with the same careful hands, always whispering “sorry” when it stung, always blushing when your skin brushed his. You started helping in small ways—setting the table, folding the blankets, limping around the cabin on your better days while he hovered close, ready to catch you.

He read to you sometimes in the evenings, voice low and a little shy, while you curled up on the couch with your hooves tucked under the quilt. You told him quiet stories about the rabbits who had taken you in, and he listened like every word mattered. At night he still slept on the floor beside the bed, even though you’d told him more than once he could take the couch. He always shook his head, ears burning, and mumbled that he slept better knowing you were safe.

By the sixth day, the cabin no longer felt like a hiding place.

It felt like something closer to home.

You caught him on Sunday afternoon.

The light was soft and gold through the window, catching on the dust motes in the air. You’d woken from a light doze on the couch to the quiet scratch of pencil on paper. Jo was sitting on the floor a few feet away, sketchbook balanced against his knees, completely absorbed. His hair was messy, hoodie sleeves pushed up, and there was the smallest furrow between his brows as he worked.

He was drawing you again.

Not the version of you that had been bleeding and terrified in the woods. This one was softer. You were curled on your side in the lilac nightgown, one ear relaxed against the pillow, the faintest smile on your lips like you’d been dreaming of something warm. The lines were careful. Tender. Like he was trying to hold onto the version of you that finally felt safe.

When you shifted, the couch creaked. Jo’s head snapped up so fast he nearly dropped the pencil. The blush hit him instantly—deep, helpless, crawling all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stammered, voice cracking as he tried to close the sketchbook. “I didn’t mean to stare. You just… looked peaceful. I wanted to remember it. I can rip it out—"

You shook your head before he could finish.

Instead, you asked if he would teach you.

Jo went completely still. For a second he just stared at you, mouth slightly open, the blush somehow deepening even more. Then something small and shy and almost disbelieving flickered across his face.

“…Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, Um—I can do that.”

He moved to sit beside you on the floor, sketchbook between you, his long legs folding awkwardly. His hands were shaking a little as he showed you how to hold the pencil, how to let it rest lightly between your fingers instead of gripping it too tight. Every time your hands brushed, he pulled back like he’d been burned, cheeks burning hotter.

“You’re… really good at this,” he murmured after your third attempt at shading a simple leaf. His voice was soft, almost awed. “The way you see things. It’s nice.”

You worked in quiet for a while, shoulders slowly drifting closer until they were touching. Jo didn’t move away. If anything, he leaned into it, just barely, like he was afraid even that much might be too much but couldn’t help himself. The fire crackled. Outside, snow tapped gently against the glass. Inside, the only sounds were the scratch of pencils and Jo’s occasional soft instructions, his voice low and careful every time he leaned in to guide your hand.

By the time the light started to fade, your fingers were smudged with graphite and Jo’s ears were still pink.

The days after the drawing lesson settled even deeper into something warm and unspoken.

You and Jo moved through the cabin like you’d been doing it for years instead of barely a week. Mornings still started with him carefully changing your bandage, but now his hands lingered a little longer, and the soft “sorry” he always whispered came with the smallest smile. You helped him cook. He let you sit on the counter while he stirred, your hooves dangling, his shoulder brushing yours every time he reached past you. Evenings were spent on the floor with the sketchbook between you. He never pushed, but he always lit up—really lit up—when you asked him to show you something new.

At night he finally agreed to sleep on the couch instead of the floor, but only after you’d tugged on his sleeve and asked in that quiet voice if he was tired of the hard wood. He’d turned bright red and nodded, mumbling something about how the couch was “actually pretty comfortable” while avoiding your eyes.

The wound on your leg continued to heal. You could walk longer distances now without limping as much. Jo still hovered close anyway, one hand always ready to steady you, always pretending he wasn’t blushing when you leaned on him.

By Wednesday, the cabin no longer felt borrowed.

The phone rang on Friday afternoon.

Jo was in the middle of showing you how to shade the curve of an antler in the sketchbook when the old landline shattered the quiet. He froze, pencil hovering above the paper, and for a second the color drained from his face. Then he stood slowly, wiping his hands on his hoodie like he could wipe away the sudden tension in his shoulders.

He answered on the third ring.

“Hello?”

His father’s voice came through loud and rough, the same flat tone he always used when he was already halfway gone in his mind.

“Boy. It’s me. Listen, we got a big one yesterday. Real trophy buck. Twelve points. Took us damn near all day to track it down, but we got it. Clean shot.” There was a pause, like he was waiting for praise that never came. When Jo stayed silent, his father continued, almost boastful. “Turns out there’s a whole herd moving through the upper ridge. More where that came from. So we’re staying. Gonna set up camp proper. Don’t know how long. Could be another week. Could be longer. Depends on how the weather holds and how many we can bring down.”

Jo’s grip tightened on the receiver until his knuckles went white. He turned slightly away from you, but you could still see the way his shoulders curled inward, the way his free hand came up to press against his eyes for half a second.

“Food should still be fine, It hasn't been that long” his father went on, dismissive. “You know what to if it gets low. Don't be goin' soft whilst i'm gone.”

Another grunt. No goodbye. Just the click of the line going dead.

Jo stood there for a long moment after, staring at the receiver. Then he set it back in the cradle with slow, careful fingers. His back stayed to you for several seconds, shoulders rising and falling with one long, shaky breath.

When he finally turned around, the blush was gone. In its place was something heavier. Something tired and quietly devastated.

“He’s staying longer,” he said, voice low and rough. “Another week. Maybe more. They…um—got a y'know and there’s more of them. So he’s… he’s not coming back soon.”

He crossed the room slowly and sank down onto the floor beside you again, sketchbook still open between you. His hands were shaking. He stared at the half-drawn antler on the page like it had answers.

“I should feel relieved,” he whispered, barely loud enough to hear. “More time. More days where it’s just us. Where you’re safe. Where I don’t have to lie or hide you or pretend I’m someone I’m not.” His voice cracked. “But all I can think about is how many more he’s going to kill while he’s up there. How many more families he’s going to tear apart. And I hate that I come from that. I hate that part of me is still… relieved.”

You watched him for a long moment, ears flicking back against your hair as his words settled heavy in the quiet room. The half-drawn antler on the sketchbook between you suddenly looked too sharp, too much like the ones that had once hung above the fireplace. Jo’s hands were still shaking where they rested on his knees, and the way his shoulders curled made something deep in your chest ache.

Slowly, you reached out.

Your fingers—still faintly smudged with graphite from earlier—found his. You didn’t grab. You simply let your hand rest over his, small and warm, until he stopped trembling quite so hard. When he didn’t pull away, you shifted closer on the floor, close enough that your knee brushed his.

“…You’re not him,” you whispered, voice soft and careful, the words long before they dropped short. “You know that, right? You’re not the one out there with a rifle. You’re not the one bragging about twelve-point bucks and how many more you can kill. You’re here. With me. Choosing different. Every single day.”

Your thumb brushed once, barely there, across the back of his hand. One of your ears twitched again, soft and uncertain.

“I know it hurts,” you continued, quieter still. “Hearing him. Knowing what he’s doing. Feeling like part of you is relieved anyway because it means I’m safe a little longer. That doesn’t make you bad. It makes you human. It makes you… someone who’s been surviving the only way he knew how until he decided to be something else.”

You leaned in a little more, close enough that your shoulder pressed lightly against his. The lilac nightgown slipped off one shoulder again, but you didn’t fix it. Your voice trembled at the edges, but it stayed steady enough to reach him.

“I’m glad you’re relieved,” you whispered. “Because I’m relieved too. Because it means I get to keep sitting here with you. Drawing bad leaves. Eating your slightly burnt toast. Falling asleep knowing no one’s going to drag me out of this cabin in the middle of the night and shoot me dead.” Your ears flicked forward, soft and hopeful. “So let yourself feel it. Just a little. You don’t have to carry all of his darkness by yourself anymore. Not while I’m here.”

Jo’s breath hitched.

He stared down at where your hand rested in his, the blush slowly creeping back across his cheeks like it had never really left. His eyes were glassy, lashes wet at the edges, but when he finally looked at you there was something raw and grateful and painfully shy in his expression.

He didn’t speak right away.

Instead he turned his hand over and laced his fingers with yours, holding on like you were the only solid thing left in the room. His thumb brushed across your knuckles once, twice, like he was still learning how to accept gentleness without flinching.

“…Thank you,” he whispered eventually, voice cracking small and thick. “For saying that. For… for not hating me for coming from him. For staying even when you have every reason to be scared of this whole place.”

He leaned sideways until his shoulder rested more fully against yours, the sketchbook forgotten between you. The fire crackled softly in the other room. Outside, snow tapped against the window again.

Jo let out a long, shaky breath and rested his forehead against the side of your head, just for a second.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he murmured, barely loud enough to hear. “Even if it’s only for however long we have. I don’t… I don’t want to be alone in this anymore either.”

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

And for the first time since the phone had rung, the heavy weight in his chest seemed to ease—just a little.

The days stretched on without another call.

A week and a half passed in a quiet, golden haze. No boots on the porch. No sharp voice on the other end of the line. Just the two of you and the slow rhythm you’d built together.

You helped him cook now without him hovering quite so nervously—standing at the stove beside him, your shoulder brushing his as he taught you how to crack eggs one-handed. Evenings were spent on the floor with the sketchbook between you, your graphite-smudged fingers slowly growing steadier under his gentle guidance. He still blushed every time you praised his drawings. You still caught him staring at you like you were something he couldn’t quite believe was real.

At night he slept on the couch, but more often than not you both ended up talking long after the fire had died down—your voice soft in the dark, his even softer as he told you about the mother he barely remembered and the boy he used to be before the rifles and the antlers and the silence.

The cabin felt lived-in now. Your scent had settled into the blankets. His hoodie had found its way onto your shoulders more than once when you got cold. The wound on your leg was nearly gone, only a faint pink scar left behind.

And somewhere in the middle of all those ordinary, gentle days, something between you had shifted. Grown heavier. Sweeter. More impossible to ignore.

“You’re really okay now,” he murmured, voice warm with quiet wonder. His thumb brushed once, feather-light, over the scar. “I was so scared it would leave something worse. But look at you.”

He looked up at you then, cheeks already dusting pink, and the smile grew a little shy.

“I was thinking…” he started, then paused, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “We’ve been here a long time. My father still hasn’t called. The town’s only a few hours’ walk if we take it slow. I could… I could take you. If you want. Just for a few hours. We could get some fresh food. Maybe something warm to drink. New clothes that actually fit you instead of my mother’s old things. You don’t have to hide anymore. Not while he’s gone.”

He hesitated, then added softer, “I’d stay right beside you the whole time. I won’t let anything happen. I promise.”

You said yes.

The walk into town was slow and careful, but not because of your leg. Jo kept his pace deliberately gentle, one hand hovering near your elbow the entire way, ready to steady you even though you didn’t really need it anymore. The snow had melted into slush along the edges of the road, and the air smelled like pine and wet earth. Every time a car passed, Jo shifted a little closer to you, protective without even realizing he was doing it.

By the time you reached the small main street, your fingers had found his.

He didn’t let go.

The town was quiet—just a handful of shops, a diner with foggy windows, and the general store where Jo usually went when he needed supplies. A few people nodded at him in passing. No one stared. No one asked questions. For once, the world didn’t feel like it was watching.

The town was also relatively used to hybrids now. A few even lived among the human folk that resided there.

You noticed it almost immediately.

As you and Jo walked down the main street, hand in hand, you saw them—a pair of fox hybrids laughing outside the bakery, a tall deer hybrid man helping an older woman carry her groceries across the street, a young rabbit hybrid girl skipping ahead of her human mother without a single person giving them a second glance. No one stared. No one reached for a weapon or crossed to the other side of the road. The air didn’t carry that sharp, watchful tension you’d grown used to in the woods.

It felt… normal.

Jo noticed you noticing.

He gave your hand a gentle squeeze as you walked, his voice low and a little shy.

“It’s… different now than it used to be,” he murmured. “My father always acted like the whole world was against hybrids. Like we had to stay hidden in the woods or else. But the town’s changed since I was little. People got tired of the fighting. Some of the older folks still grumble, but most of them just… live. Same as everyone else.”

He glanced at you sideways, cheeks flushed.

“I was scared to bring you here at first. Thought someone might say something. But… I think you’re safe. Really safe. Even if someone did notice you’re not from around here, they’d probably just assume you’re visiting family or something.”

He led you into the small clothing shop first. The bell above the door chimed softly. The woman behind the counter—an older human with kind eyes—smiled warmly when she saw you, her gaze flicking briefly to your small antlers and delicate ears without a trace of fear or judgment.

“Jo,” she greeted, “good to see you. And who’s this?”

Jo went bright red instantly, the tips of his ears burning as he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

“This is… um. This is—y/n—” He glanced at you, then back at the woman, voice cracking a little. “She’s with me. We’re just… getting her some things that fit better.”

The woman’s smile only grew warmer, soft and knowing in the way older people sometimes looked when they saw something gentle unfolding right in front of them.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, y/n,” she said kindly, giving you a small nod that didn’t linger too long on your antlers or ears. “I’m Mrs. Satō. Jo’s been coming in here since he was knee-high. Always so polite. Quiet boy.” Her eyes flicked fondly to him, then back to you. “You two take your time. Let me know if you need help finding anything.”

She stepped back behind the counter, giving you both space, but the warmth in her voice stayed.

Jo looked like he might actually combust.

His ears were bright red, the blush crawling all the way down his neck as he gently tugged you toward the racks of clothes, still holding your hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“I—sorry,” he whispered quickly, voice cracking as he leaned in close to you. “I didn’t mean to just… blurt your name like that. I panicked. She’s nice, though. She won’t say anything to anyone. I promise.”

You glanced up at him, ears flicking softly, and gave his hand a small squeeze in return.

“It’s okay,” you whispered back, voice quiet but steady. “I don’t mind. She seems… kind. It felt nice. Being introduced like that. Like I’m someone who gets to be here with you.”

You looked around the small shop, taking in the soft sweaters and simple dresses, then back at him with a tiny, shy smile.

“I like that she didn’t look at me like I was strange. Or like I didn’t belong next to you.” Your voice grew even softer. “It made me feel… real. Like maybe I’m allowed to stand beside you without the world ending.

Jo’s blush deepened, but the shyest, most genuine smile tugged at his lips. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, still flustered but clearly touched by your words.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You are. You’re allowed. More than allowed.”

He stood awkwardly near you whilst you looked through soft sweaters and simple dresses, blushing furiously every time you held something up and asked his opinion. He bought you two new outfits without hesitation, using the money from the tin his father had mentioned, and only stammered a little when Mrs. Satō smiled knowingly at the two of you.

After that, he took you to the diner.

The bell above the door chimed as you stepped inside, the warm smell of grilled cheese and fresh coffee wrapping around you both. Jo led you to the same corner booth from before, his hand still loosely holding yours until you slid into the seat. He sat across from you, knees bumping under the table, ears still faintly pink from the clothing shop.

A fox hybrid waitress with kind eyes and a gentle smile came over to take your order. She didn’t stare at your antlers or ears—just greeted you both warmly before heading off to the kitchen.

Jo kept glancing at you across the table, one hand resting near yours like he wanted to reach for it again but was too shy to do it in public. The blush on his cheeks hadn’t fully faded.

You looked around the cozy diner for a moment—the foggy windows, the low hum of conversation, the way no one seemed to mind the two of you sitting there together—before your soft voice broke the quiet.

“Thank you for today,” you whispered. “For the new clothes. For letting me walk down the street without hiding. For… for introducing me to Mrs. Satō like I was someone who belonged beside you.” A tiny, shy smile touched your lips. “I liked hearing you say my name out loud. It made everything feel more real.”

Jo’s blush deepened instantly, but he turned his hand over so he could lace his fingers with yours properly, squeezing once.

“You do belong beside me,” he murmured, voice cracking a little with how earnest he was. “I want you to. More than I know how to say without sounding like an idiot.”

The fox hybrid waitress returned with your food—grilled cheese and tomato soup for both of you—and gave you both another warm smile before leaving you alone again.

You picked up your spoon, stirring the soup slowly before speaking again, softer this time.

“I think… I could get used to this,” you said, almost to yourself. “Coming into town sometimes. Sitting here with you. Not having to be scared every second.” Your ears twitched forward as you looked at him. “If you wanted to. I know we can’t stay forever. But while your father’s still gone… I’d like to come back here with you again. If that’s okay.”

Jo stared at you for a second, completely soft and flustered, before the smallest, most genuine smile broke across his face.

“Yeah,” he whispered, squeezing your hand again. “That’s more than okay. We can come back whenever you want. As many times as you want.”

The rest of the evening passed in a soft, golden blur.

After the diner, Jo walked you home slowly, your new clothes tucked in a bag between you, fingers still loosely linked. The sky had turned soft lavender by the time the cabin came into view, smoke curling gently from the chimney. Neither of you spoke much on the walk back — you didn’t need to. The quiet between you felt full instead of empty.

Once you were home, the routine felt easy.

Jo started the fire while you changed into one of your new sweaters and a pair of soft leggings. He made tea without being asked, setting a mug beside you on the couch before disappearing into the bathroom to wash up. When he came back, hair damp and wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, he looked shy all over again.

You were already curled up on the couch, hooves tucked under the blanket. When he sat down beside you, you turned to him, ears flicking softly.

“Thank you again,” you whispered, voice quiet but warm. “For today. For everything.”

Before he could answer, you leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. Your lips barely brushed his skin, but it was enough to make Jo go completely still. The blush exploded across his face so fast it reached the tips of his ears.

He didn’t say anything for a long second. Just stared at you, wide-eyed and flustered, one hand coming up to touch the spot you’d kissed like he was trying to hold onto the feeling.

“…Y-You’re welcome,” he finally managed, voice cracking.

Two days passed.

The cabin stayed warm and quiet. You helped Jo cook. He read to you in the evenings. You drew together on the floor like always. The kiss on the cheek lingered between you like something sweet and unspoken.

It was late afternoon when it happened.

You were sitting on the floor with the sketchbook in your lap, carefully shading the curve of a leaf the way Jo had taught you. He sat across from you, supposedly working on his own page, but his pencil had stopped moving minutes ago.

He was just… staring.

Not in a bad way. Soft. A little dazed. Like he was trying to memorize the way the afternoon light caught on your ears and the small furrow of concentration between your brows.

You felt his gaze and looked up.

Your ears twitched.

“…What’s wrong?” you asked gently, tilting your head. “You’re staring.”

Jo’s face went bright red instantly. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. His pencil slipped from his fingers and rolled across the floor.

“I—” he blurted, voice cracking high and flustered. “I want to kiss you.”

The words tumbled out before he could stop them. His eyes went wide the second they left his mouth, like he couldn’t believe he’d actually said it out loud. The blush spread down his neck as he ducked his head, ears burning.

You blinked at him for a second.

Then, soft and simple, you answered.

“…Oh. Okay.”

Jo’s head snapped up.

He looked at you like you’d just handed him something precious and fragile. His hands trembled slightly where they rested on his knees. He swallowed hard, voice barely above a whisper.

“Wait…Can I?” he asked, shy and earnest all at once. “Like right now?”

You gave the smallest nod.

Jo moved slowly, like he was afraid the moment might shatter if he rushed. He leaned across the small space between you, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek with the gentlest touch. His thumb brushed your skin once, trembling.

When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft. Careful. A little clumsy with how badly he wanted to be gentle. He tasted like the tea you’d shared earlier and something warm that was just him. He didn’t push—just stayed there, breathing you in, like he still couldn’t quite believe you’d said yes.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, cheeks flushed and eyes half-lidded.

“…Thank you,” he whispered, voice cracking small and honest. “For letting me.”

His hand stayed on your cheek, thumb brushing slowly over your skin.

“I’ve been wanting to do that again since the cheek kiss,” he admitted, barely breathing. “I just… didn’t know how to ask.”

You smiled, small and soft, and leaned in to brush your nose against his.

“You don’t have to ask next time,” you whispered back, clearing your throat. “You can just… do it.”

Jo let out a tiny, shaky laugh, the sound warm and disbelieving, before he kissed you again—slower this time, sweeter, like he finally believed he was allowed to keep this softness for himself.

The next two days passed in a warm, quiet haze. The kiss lingered between you like something new and fragile. Jo was even shyer than usual — blushing every time your hands brushed, stealing soft little kisses when you were drawing or cooking, but never pushing for more. You slept in the bed. He slept on the couch. The cabin felt smaller in the best way.

The storm rolled in hard and sudden.

Thunder cracked like something splitting open above the cabin, rattling the old windows and shaking the walls. Lightning flashed bright and violent, turning the bedroom stark white for half a second before plunging everything back into darkness. You woke with a sharp inhale, ears pinned flat, heart hammering so hard it hurt. The sound of heavy rain and another deep, rolling boom of thunder made something old and frightened twist tight in your chest.

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Bare hooves touched cold floorboards as you slipped from the bed and padded into the living room, the new pretty pink nightgown brushing against your thighs. Jo was already stirring on the couch when you reached him, sitting up fast the moment he saw your face in the dark.

“Hey—” His voice was rough with sleep, but soft. “It’s just thunder. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped close and gently tugged at the front of his shirt with trembling fingers, the way you had that first morning in the woods when everything had felt too big and too frightening.

“…Can you come stay with me?” you whispered, barely loud enough over the rain. “In the room?”

Jo was on his feet in an instant, one hand already reaching for you before he caught himself.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. “Of course. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want. Or right by the bed. Whatever you need.”

You shook your head, ears still low against your hair.

“No,” you said, voice small but steady. “It’s okay. We can just… sleep in the bed together.”

He went very still.

For a long second he just looked at you, the blush already creeping up his neck even in the dark. Then he gave a small, shaky nod, like the words had stolen something from his lungs.

“…Okay,” he whispered. “If you’re sure.”

You led him back into the bedroom.

The storm kept raging outside, but once you were both beneath the blankets, the thunder felt a little farther away. Jo lay on his back, stiff and careful, arms tucked close to his sides like he was terrified of taking up too much space. You curled on your side facing him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his body.

Minutes passed. The rain softened into a steady rhythm against the roof. Your breathing slowly evened out.

Then you shifted in your sleep, and your thigh brushed against him.

You felt it.

Hard. Hot. Pressing insistently against the front of his sweatpants.

Your eyes opened. You blinked in the dark, confused, ears twitching as you glanced down, then back up at his face. Jo’s eyes were squeezed shut, jaw tight, the tips of his ears burning even in the low light.

“…Jo?” you whispered.

He made a small, mortified sound and tried to shift his hips away.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, voice cracking. “I’m so sorry. It’s—it’s normal. For guys. It just… happens. Especially when I’m this close to you. It doesn’t hurt. I’m fine, I swear. It’ll go away on its own.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, still processing the feeling of him against you. Then, without thinking, your hand shifted beneath the blanket and accidentally brushed against the hard line of him.

Jo let out a broken, trembling whimper—high and needy, his whole body jerking like the touch had gone straight through him. His hand flew up to cover his mouth, ears burning crimson.

“I— fuck— I’m sorry,” he gasped, voice shaking. “That felt—I didn’t mean to make that sound. I’m really sensitive and you’re so close and I’ve never—I’ve never been this close to anyone before and—”

You looked at him in the dark, heart beating fast for an entirely different reason now. His eyes were glassy, desperate, full of want and embarrassment and something painfully tender.

You reached out slowly and touched his cheek.

“…It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind. I just didn’t know it would feel like that for you.”

Jo swallowed hard, breathing unsteady.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice barely there. “Please? I really want to kiss you right now.”

You nodded.

The kiss started soft—careful, almost hesitant—but quickly deepened into something needier. Jo made soft, shaky sounds against your mouth as his hand slid to your waist, trembling like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. When you pressed closer and your body brushed against the hard line of him again, he whimpered into the kiss, hips twitching helplessly.

“I’ve never…” he breathed between kisses, forehead pressed to yours. “I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want you. So much it hurts. Can I—can we…?”

You nodded again, just as shy.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I want to. With you.”

Jo moved like every second was something sacred.

He helped you out of the nightgown with slow hands, pausing to press soft kisses to every new inch of skin he'd uncovered. When he finally settled between your thighs, both of you bare and breathing hard, he looked down at you like you were something he was terrified of breaking.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, voice cracking. “Tell me if anything hurts. Or if you want to stop. I’ll stop. I swear on everything.”

The first push inside was careful, but it still hurt.

Jo moved slowly, trying his best to be gentle, but the stretch was sharp and unfamiliar. You sucked in a quiet breath, your body tensing beneath him as he tried to sink deeper. It burned—not unbearable, but enough to make your thighs tremble and your ears pin back slightly against the pillow.

Jo felt it immediately.

He froze the second your breath caught, eyes flying open to search your face in the dark.

“…Does it hurt?” he whispered, voice tight with worry. “I’m hurting you, aren’t I? I’m sorry—I’m so sorry.”

You nodded once, small and honest, your fingers curling into his shoulders.

“It’s okay,” you breathed, even though your voice was a little shaky. “It just… stings. A lot. Um...and you're bigger than I thought.”

Jo made a soft, devastated sound and immediately started to pull back, but you tightened your grip on him, keeping him close.

“No—don’t—don’t pull out yet,” you said quietly. “Just… stay still for a second. Please.”

He obeyed instantly, staying buried only halfway inside you, his arms shaking with the effort of holding himself still. His forehead dropped to yours, breathing hard.

“I’m sorry,” he kept whispering, voice cracking. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I should’ve gone even slower. I should’ve— God, I’m so stupid. Tell me what you need. I’ll do anything.”

After a moment, the sharpest edge of the pain eased into a dull, uncomfortable ache. You gave a tiny nod.

“…Its okay,” you whispered. “You can move a little. Just slow.”

Jo moved like you were made of glass.

Every thrust was shallow and careful, barely rocking his hips as he watched your face the entire time. Even so, a small, warm trickle of blood slipped out around him, staining the inside of your thigh and the sheets beneath you. Jo noticed it the moment it happened. His eyes widened with fresh panic.

“You’re bleeding,” he whispered, horrified. “I—I made you bleed. I’m hurting you too much. We should stop—”

You shook your head and pulled him down into a soft kiss, silencing him.

“It’s okay,” you murmured against his lips. “It’s normal. For the first time. It doesn’t hurt as much now. Just… keep going slow. Please.”

Jo looked like he might cry. He kissed you again, slower and sweeter, one hand cradling your cheek like you were something fragile and precious.

“I hate that I’m hurting you,” he whispered. “Even a little. I never want to hurt you ever again.”

But he kept moving when you asked him to—slow, careful, barely there thrusts that still made him tremble and whimper above you. Every time you made the smallest sound of discomfort, he would freeze and press kisses to your face, whispering apologies and soft praises until you relaxed again.

It didn’t last long.

Jo was already too overwhelmed, too in love with how close you were, too desperate to last. His rhythm stuttered, his moans growing higher and more broken against your mouth.

“I’m close—I’m so close,” he gasped. “I’m sorry—I can’t hold it—”

He pulled out at the last second with a shaky, high-pitched whimper, spilling warm across your stomach in thick pulses. His whole body shook as he came, face buried in your neck, soft apologies tumbling from his lips even as pleasure overtook him.

When it was over, he stayed there for a long moment, breathing hard, pressing gentle kisses along your shoulder and collarbone.

“…I’m so sorry,” he whispered again, voice small and guilty. “For the pain. For the blood. I should’ve been more careful. I should’ve gone even slower.”

You reached up and cupped his flushed cheek, guiding him to look at you.

“It’s okay,” you said softly. “It was my first time too. It was always going to hurt a little. But you were gentle. You stopped when I needed you to. That’s what matters.”

Jo’s eyes were glassy as he leaned down and kissed you again—slow, grateful, full of quiet devotion.

He carefully cleaned you up afterward with a damp cloth, his hands still trembling as he wiped away the small smear of blood from your thighs and the mess on your stomach. When he was done, he pulled you into his arms and held you close, one hand stroking your hair like he was trying to soothe both of you.

“…Next time,” he murmured against your temple, “I’ll be even gentler. I promise. I’ll go as slow as you need. Even if it takes all night.”

You smiled tiredly against his chest, ears flicking softly as you tucked yourself closer.

“I know you will,” you whispered back.

Outside, the rain had finally softened into a gentle patter.

The morning after the storm was quiet.

Pale sunlight filtered through the curtains, soft and gray, the kind that made the cabin feel wrapped in a gentle hush. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving behind the faint smell of wet earth and pine drifting in through the cracked window.

Jo woke first.

He was still curled around you, one arm draped carefully over your waist, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. For a long moment he didn’t move. He just lay there, breathing you in, replaying everything that had happened in the dark with a mixture of awe and lingering guilt.

When he finally lifted his head, his eyes immediately went to your face, soft and worried.

You were still asleep, one ear relaxed against the pillow, the new pretty pink nightgown you’d put on after he cleaned you up now slightly rumpled. He watched the slow rise and fall of your chest for a while, thumb brushing absentmindedly over your hip through the fabric.

Eventually, he slipped out of bed as quietly as he could.

He returned a little while later with a warm, damp cloth and a glass of water. He sat carefully on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. His free hand hovered for a second before he gently brushed a strand of hair from your face.

Jo’s voice was small and full of guilt as he sat on the edge of the bed, the glass of water held carefully in both hands like he was afraid even that might be too much.

You blinked up at him, still half-asleep, ears flicking softly at the sound of his voice. The ache between your legs was dull and present, but not sharp anymore. When you shifted slightly under the blankets, you felt the faint stickiness of where he had cleaned you the night before.

You reached out slowly and took the glass from him, fingers brushing his.

“…I’m okay,” you said quietly, voice still a little rough from sleep. “A little sore. It feels… strange. But not bad. Not like something’s wrong.”

You took a small sip of water, then set the glass on the nightstand before looking back at him. Your eyes were soft, honest.

“You didn’t hurt me on purpose,” you continued, voice gentle. “You were careful. You stopped the second I needed you to. And you kept asking if I was okay. That’s more than I ever expected from anyone.”

Jo’s ears burned brighter. He looked down at his hands, fingers twisting together in his lap.

“Still,” he mumbled. “There was blood. And you made that sound when I first pushed in… like it really hurt. I hated it. I hated knowing I was the reason you were in pain, even for a little while.”

You reached out and gently took one of his hands, pulling it into your lap. Your thumb brushed over his knuckles.

“It was my first time too,” you reminded him softly. “It was always going to sting. And yeah… it did hurt a bit. But it also felt good in other ways. Because it was you. Because you were shaking and trying so hard to be gentle and kept kissing me like I was something precious.”

You gave his hand a small squeeze.

“I don’t regret it,” you said, quieter now. “Not even a little. I’m glad it was with you.”

Jo finally looked up at you. His eyes were glassy, the blush still high on his cheeks, but there was something warm and relieved in his expression now.

“…Really?” he whispered.

You nodded.

“Really.”

He let out a shaky breath, then carefully leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment.

“I’ll run you a bath after breakfast,” he murmured against your skin. “With warm water. And I’ll make something easy to eat. You should rest today. I can do everything. You don’t have to move if you don’t want to.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand still holding yours.

“And… if you want, later… we can talk about it. Or not talk about it. Whatever you need.” His voice dropped even softer. “I just want to take care of you. However you’ll let me.”

You smiled, small and tired but genuine, and tugged him down until he was lying beside you again.

“Breakfast sounds nice,” you whispered, curling into his chest. “And the bath. But right now… just stay here a little longer. With me. Please…?”

Jo wrapped his arms around you carefully, pressing another kiss to the top of your head.

“Okay,” he breathed. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Four weeks.

Four quiet, golden weeks had slipped by since the night of the storm.

The cabin had settled into something that almost felt like a real home. Mornings started slow—Jo waking first, pressing soft kisses to your shoulder before slipping out of bed to make breakfast. You would join him eventually, still sleepy in one of his hoodies, ears flicking as you stood beside him at the stove. He was gentler with you now, always checking in with soft touches and quieter questions, especially after sex. And there had been sex—slow, careful, and achingly tender. He still got overwhelmed every time, still finished too quickly more often than not, but he always stayed close afterward, kissing every inch of you he could reach while whispering how much he cared.

Some afternoons you walked into town together. You held hands the entire way. You ate grilled cheese at the diner, shared milkshakes, and wandered into the little shop where Mrs. Satō always smiled knowingly when she saw the two of you. Jo bought you colored pencils and a new sketchbook without you even asking. You bought him a simple card game one day, just because it made him light up when you suggested playing it by the fire at night.

The sex had gotten a little easier. The pain had faded after the first few times, replaced by something warmer, something that made you both breathless and shy and close. Jo was still careful—almost painfully so—but he was learning your body the same way you were learning his. Every time he touched you, it felt like he was still surprised he was allowed to.

And through it all, there had been no word from his father.

Not a single call.

Jo wasn’t the type to worry about his father. He had spent most of his life learning how to exist in the spaces between that man’s moods. But four weeks was too long. Even for him.

It was late afternoon when the thought finally settled heavy in his chest.

You were both on the floor again, sketchbooks open between you. The fire crackled low. You were carefully coloring in a small cluster of flowers you’d drawn earlier, tongue poking out slightly in concentration. Jo had his pencil in hand, but he hadn’t drawn anything in nearly twenty minutes.

He was just watching you.

But this time, the look in his eyes was different. Softer in some places. Tighter in others.

You glanced up and caught him staring again. Your ears twitched.

“…You’re doing it again,” you said gently, setting your colored pencil down. “Staring like something’s wrong.”

Jo blinked, like he’d been pulled out of a fog. He rubbed the back of his neck, ears burning faintly.

“Sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to. I just…” He hesitated, then let out a quiet breath. “It’s been four weeks. Since he last called.”

The words hung in the air between you.

Jo looked down at his sketchbook, though he wasn’t really seeing it.

“I keep telling myself it’s fine. That he’s just caught up with the hunt. That he’s probably drinking with his friends somewhere in the mountains and forgot about me. He’s done that before.” His voice dropped lower. “But four weeks is a long time. Even for him. And I keep thinking… what if something happened? What if he got hurt? Or what if he’s on his way back right now and we don’t know?”

He finally looked up at you, eyes soft but uneasy.

“I’m not worried about him,” he said honestly. “Not really. But I’m worried about what it means if he suddenly shows up. About what that would do to this.” His gaze flicked around the cabin—to the shared blankets, the second sketchbook, the faint traces of your scent now woven into everything. “I don’t want to lose this. I don’t want to lose you.”

Jo reached across the small space between you and gently took your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“…I don’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly. “Part of me wants to keep pretending everything’s fine. That we have all the time in the world. But another part of me is scared that the second I let my guard down, everything’s going to change again.”

Jo's worries shattered on a Monday night.

The banging came just after midnight.

It was loud. Violent. The kind of sound that didn’t belong in the quiet of their little cabin. Jo shot upright in bed, heart slamming against his ribs. You woke with a sharp gasp beside him, ears pinned flat as another round of heavy knocks rattled the front door.

Jo was already moving before his mind fully caught up. He grabbed the first thing he could find—an old hoodie—and yanked it on as he stumbled out of the bedroom. You followed close behind, the new pink nightgown brushing your thighs, still half-asleep and confused.

When Jo opened the door, cold night air rushed in.

Two police officers stood on the porch, their faces grim under the porch light. One of them—an older man with tired eyes—stepped forward slightly when he saw Jo.

“Jo?” he asked carefully. “Jo, son of Rokujo?”

Jo’s throat felt dry. He nodded once, still gripping the edge of the door.

The officer’s voice was low, steady, but there was no easy way to say what came next.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he said. “Your father was found earlier today. Up in the mountains. Looks like he was tracking a buck… and it turned on him. Gored him. He didn’t make it. We aren't sure how long it had been since the attack. He was cold when we found him.”

The words landed like stones.

Jo didn’t speak right away. He just stood there in the doorway, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, staring at the officer like the man had spoken in a language he didn’t understand. Behind him, you had gone completely still, one hand lightly touching the back of his shirt.

The second officer, a younger woman, spoke softer.

“We’re very sorry for your loss. We know this is sudden. We’ve already handled the… remains. There’s some paperwork that needs to be filled out, but it can wait a few days. We just wanted to let you know in person.”

Jo’s fingers tightened on the doorframe until his knuckles turned white. His ears were ringing. He could still hear the last phone call in his head—his father’s voice bragging about the big buck, saying he was staying longer.

And now he was gone.

Killed by one.

Jo swallowed hard. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet and rough.

“…Are you sure it was him?”

The older officer nodded once.

“His things were with him. We confirmed it.”

Silence stretched between them.

Jo didn’t cry. He didn’t yell. He just stood there, breathing slowly through his nose, eyes fixed somewhere past the officers’ shoulders. You could feel the tension in his back beneath your fingertips—the way his shoulders had gone rigid, like he was trying to hold something enormous inside his chest.

After a moment, he gave a small, jerky nod.

“…Thank you,” he said, voice barely there. “For coming to tell me.”

The officers exchanged a glance. The woman spoke again, gentler this time.

“If you need anything—grief counseling, help with arrangements, anything at all—you can call the station. We’ll check in on you in a couple days.”

Jo nodded again, but it was clear he wasn’t really hearing them anymore.

When the officers finally left, the cabin felt too quiet.

Jo didn’t close the door right away. He stood there in the cold night air for a long moment, staring out into the dark trees like he was waiting for something else to appear. When he finally shut the door, the click of the lock sounded final.

He turned to look at you.

His face was pale. His eyes were glassy, but no tears had fallen yet. He looked lost—like the ground had suddenly shifted beneath his feet and he didn’t know where to stand anymore.

“…He’s gone,” Jo whispered, voice cracking on the words. “He’s actually gone.”

He just stood there for another second, staring at nothing, before his legs gave out beneath him.

He dropped to his knees right there in the middle of the living room, the impact soft against the old wooden floor. His hands came up to cover his face as his shoulders started to shake—not with loud sobs, but with the kind of quiet, broken trembling that looked like it hurt to hold in. His breath came out in short, uneven gasps.

You moved without thinking.

You knelt down in front of him, the hem of your nightgown pooling around your legs as you reached for him. Your hands found his wrists gently, trying to coax his hands away from his face.

“Jo…” you whispered, voice soft but steady. “Hey. Look at me.”

He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lift his head either. His fingers stayed pressed over his eyes like he was trying to hold himself together by force.

You shifted closer, knees touching his, and carefully pulled one of his hands down so you could see his face. His eyes were glassy and red, but still no tears had fallen. He just looked completely lost.

“…He’s gone,” he choked out again, voice raw. “He’s really gone. And I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with that.”

You cupped his cheek with one hand, thumb brushing just beneath his eye.

“I know,” you said quietly. “I know it’s a lot. Even if he was… even if things were bad between you, he was still your father. That doesn’t just disappear.”

Jo let out a shaky breath and finally looked at you. His eyes were wide and wet, full of something heavy and confused.

“I keep thinking I should feel something bigger,” he whispered. “Grief or relief or… I don’t even know. But mostly I just feel scared. Scared of what happens now. Scared that everything we’ve had these last few weeks is about to get ripped away. Scared that I’m going to have to become something I don’t want to be because of this.”

You leaned in and rested your forehead against his, your voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to figure everything out tonight,” you told him gently. “You don’t have to feel one specific way. You can be sad. You can be relieved. You can be angry. You can feel nothing at all. All of it is allowed.”

Your fingers threaded gently through his hair as you continued, soft and honest.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “No matter what happens with the cabin or anything else. I’m right here. We’ll figure it out together, okay?”

Jo’s hands finally dropped from his face. He reached for you instead, gripping the fabric of your nightgown like he needed something solid to hold onto. His forehead stayed pressed to yours as he let out another shaky breath.

“…I don’t want to lose this,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t want to lose you.”

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him into your chest as he stayed kneeling on the floor. One of your hands stroked slow, soothing lines down his back while the other cradled the back of his head.

“You’re not losing me,” you murmured against his hair. “We’re still here. You and me. That hasn’t changed.”

Jo didn’t say anything else for a long time.

He just stayed there on his knees, clinging to you in the middle of the quiet cabin, while the weight of everything finally started to settle over both of you.

The next two weeks were quiet in a way that felt wrong.

The police came back three days after that night. They brought boxes—his father’s belongings from the mountain trip, along with the old truck that had been sitting in impound. Jo signed the papers on the kitchen table without saying much. His signature was steady, but his eyes stayed blank. When they handed him the keys to the truck and told him the cabin and land were now legally his, he just nodded once and closed the door behind them.

After that, Jo moved through the days like a ghost.

He still got up in the mornings. He still made coffee. But he did it all in silence, his movements slow and mechanical. Most days he sat on the couch for hours, staring at nothing, sketchbook unopened on the floor beside him. When you tried to talk to him, he answered in short, quiet sentences. When you touched him, he leaned into it, but the warmth in his eyes was dimmed. It seemed that even his father death had broken something soft. The light in his eye dimming the same way his mother had.

You did your best to stay close anyway.

You cooked when he forgot to eat. You sat beside him on the couch even when he didn’t speak. At night, you pulled him into bed and held him until he eventually fell asleep, your fingers carding gently through his hair. Some nights he reached for you in the dark, desperate and wordless, and you let him bury himself in you—slow, quiet—like he was trying to remember how to feel something again.

But most of the time, he was just… gone. Present in body, but somewhere far away in his mind.

It was late one evening, nearly two weeks after the police had come, when he finally spoke.

You were both on the couch. The fire had burned low. Jo was sitting with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together, staring at the floor. You had been gently rubbing slow circles on his back for a while, not expecting anything.

Then, without looking up, he said quietly,

“…My mom used to hum when she did the laundry.”

His voice was rough, like it had been sitting in his throat for days.

“She had this soft voice. It wasn’t loud or anything, but it filled the whole cabin. I used to sit by the door and just listen to her while she folded my clothes. She’d smile at me sometimes… but it never really reached her eyes. Not after a while.”

Jo swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around each other.

“My father hated when she hummed. Said it was annoying. Said it made her sound weak. One day he came home and she was humming, and he grabbed her wrist so hard the laundry fell everywhere. She didn’t cry. She just… went quiet. Like she always did. And I sat there watching, too scared to say anything.”

He let out a shaky breath and finally looked over at you. His eyes were glassy, but no tears fell.

“I think that’s when I learned it,” he said softly. “That softness gets punished. That if you care too much, or feel too much, someone will take it from you. My father made sure I knew that every single day. And my mom… she tried to protect me from it. In her own way. But she couldn’t even protect herself.”

Jo’s voice cracked a little as he continued.

“Now he’s gone. Killed by the same thing he spent his whole life hurting. And I don’t know how to feel about it. Part of me is relieved. Part of me feels guilty for being relieved. And part of me just… misses the idea of having a father, even if the one I had was never really mine.”

He turned toward you fully then, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

“I don’t want to become him,” Jo whispered. “I’ve spent my whole life terrified that I would. But now that he’s gone… I don’t know who I’m supposed to be without that fear hanging over me. Without him.”

He reached for your hand and held it tightly, like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“I’m scared,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “Scared that without him here, I’ll still find ways to ruin the good things. Like you. Like this.”

You squeezed his hand gently and leaned in closer, resting your forehead against his.

“You’re not him,” you said softly. “You’ve never been him. Even when you were scared. Even when you didn’t know how to be gentle… you still chose to be. With me.”

You brushed your thumb over his knuckles.

“Your mother sounds like she loved you the best way she could,” you continued quietly. “And I think she’d be proud of the way you’re trying so hard not to become like him. You don’t have to have all the answers right now. You’re allowed to grieve him and still be angry at him. Both things can be true.”

Jo closed his eyes and let out a long, tired breath, leaning into your touch.

“…Thank you,” he whispered. “For staying. For listening. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”

You wrapped your arms around him and pulled him into a quiet hug, letting him rest his head against your shoulder.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured. “We’ll figure out who you are now… together.”

A week passed.

It moved slowly, like the cabin was learning how to exist in this new quiet. The grief didn’t disappear, but it settled into something heavier and more constant, like snow that refused to melt.

Jo was still quiet most days, but he wasn’t completely gone anymore. He started eating the meals you made without needing to be coaxed. He showered without you having to gently remind him. Some mornings you would wake up to find him already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, just breathing. Other mornings he would reach for you in his sleep, pulling you closer without saying a word.

He still hadn’t touched his father’s truck.

It sat outside like a ghost of its own, keys hanging on the hook by the door where Jo had left them. Every time he passed them, his eyes would linger for a second before he looked away.

One quiet afternoon, you found him in the living room with the sketchbook open on his lap for the first time in weeks. He wasn’t drawing anything new—just slowly shading over an old drawing of yours, like he needed something to do with his hands. When you sat down beside him, he didn’t speak right away. He just leaned his shoulder against yours and kept shading.

Later that evening, after dinner, he finally said something.

“I keep thinking about the truck,” he admitted quietly, staring at the fire. “It’s mine now. Everything is. The house. The land. All of it.” He let out a slow breath. “Part of me wants to sell it. Drive it into town and never look back. But another part of me… I don’t know. It feels wrong to just get rid of it like it never existed.”

You reached over and took his hand, threading your fingers through his.

“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” you said softly. “There’s no rush. You can sit with it for as long as you need.”

It took another week.

A quiet, heavy week where Jo seemed to be turning something over and over in his mind. He was still gentle with you—still reached for your hand in the evenings, still let you curl against him at night—but there was a new kind of stillness in him. Like he was finally starting to look forward instead of just surviving the present.

Then one quiet morning, while you were both sitting at the small kitchen table with half-finished mugs of tea, he spoke.

“I sold the house.”

His voice was low, careful, but steady. He wasn’t looking at you when he said it. His eyes were fixed on the steam rising from his mug.

You blinked, caught off guard.

Jo continued before you could respond, his fingers tightening slightly around his cup.

“I didn’t want to keep it. I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep living here. Not after everything. Not with all of his things still in the walls. Not with the way the woods feel like they’re still watching me. I almost killed you on this land.” He finally looked up at you, eyes soft but determined. “I want to go somewhere else. Somewhere we can start over. Just us.”

He swallowed, voice dropping even quieter.

“Maybe the city. Or… or even just the town. Somewhere closer to people. Somewhere that doesn’t feel like his.” His thumb brushed anxiously over the rim of his mug. “I already signed the papers. The buyer is paying cash. We can leave whenever we’re ready.”

Jo’s ears were faintly pink, like he was nervous about how you’d react. He reached across the table and gently took your hand, holding it like he needed the contact to keep going.

“I know i should’ve talked to you first,” he admitted, voice cracking a little. “I know that. I just… I needed to make the decision before I lost the nerve. This place… it’s never going to stop feeling like his. And I don’t want to raise a life here. Not with you. I want something that’s ours. Something that doesn’t carry all of that weight.”

He looked at you then, eyes searching, vulnerable.

“I want to start new with you,” he said softly. “Somewhere we can just… be. Without ghosts. Without having to look over our shoulder every time we hear boots on the porch that aren’t there anymore.”

Jo squeezed your hand gently.

“Only if you want to,” he added quickly, almost shy. “If you don’t want to leave, we can figure something else out. I just… I couldn’t stay here anymore. Not and still feel like I could breathe.”

He waited, thumb still brushing over your knuckles, his expression a mix of hope and quiet fear.

You were quiet for a moment after he finished speaking, your fingers still loosely curled around his. The words settled slowly between you—heavy, but not unwelcome.

Then, slowly, a small smile tugged at your lips.

You looked at him with soft eyes, ears flicking once as you gently squeezed his hand in return.

“…Okay,” you said quietly.

Jo’s head lifted a little, like he hadn’t expected it to be that simple.

You continued, voice gentle but steady.

“I understand why you did it. This place… it holds too much. Too many shadows. Too many memories that don’t belong to us.” Your thumb brushed over his knuckles. “If selling it helps you breathe again, then I’m glad you did.”

You tilted your head slightly, thinking for a moment.

“We don’t have to go far if you don’t want to,” you said. “The town is nice. We already know some people there. Mrs. Satō is kind. It wouldn’t feel completely new.” Your voice softened a little more. “Or… we could go a town or two over. Somewhere close enough that it still feels familiar, but far enough that it doesn’t carry the same weight. Somewhere we can still walk to the diner. Still have quiet mornings. But start fresh.”

You smiled again, smaller this time, but warm.

“I don’t mind where we go,” you told him honestly. “As long as it’s with you. I trust you.”

Jo stared at you for a second, the tension in his shoulders visibly easing. His ears burned pink as he let out a shaky breath, like he’d been holding it since he first said the words.

“…Really?” he asked, voice cracking just a little. “You’re not mad that I didn’t tell you first?”

You shook your head.

“I’m not mad,” you said softly. “I know you needed to do it this way. And… I want a new start too. Somewhere that’s ours. Somewhere we don’t have to keep looking over our shoulders.”

You leaned forward slightly, resting your free hand over his on the table.

“We’ll figure it out together,” you promised. “Whether it’s the town, or the next one over, or somewhere else entirely. I’ll go wherever you want to go.”

Jo’s eyes softened, glassy with quiet relief. He turned his hand over so he could properly hold yours, squeezing it like he was anchoring himself to the moment.

“…Thank you,” he whispered. “I was so scared you’d think I was rushing. Or that I was making decisions without you again.” He let out a small, shaky laugh. “I don’t want to do this without you. Any of it.”

You smiled again, gentle and sure.

“You’re not,” you said. “We’re doing this together.”

Jo brought your hand up and pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles, lingering there for a moment like he needed the reassurance.

“Okay,” he murmured against your skin. “Then… let’s start looking. Together.”

It took a week to pack everything.

Most of his father’s things were quietly sorted through and let go. Jo moved through the cabin slowly, like he was walking through rooms that no longer belonged to him. You stayed close the entire time, helping when he asked, and giving him space when he needed it. When he found an old photograph of his mother, he held it for a long time before carefully tucking it into the small box of things he wanted to keep.

On the morning you were supposed to leave, Jo stood in the middle of the living room with the truck keys in his hand. He didn’t move for a while. You walked up behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back.

“We don’t have to rush,” you said quietly.

He let out a slow breath and covered your hands with his.

“I know,” he murmured. “I just keep thinking that once I lock this door, it’s really over.”

You didn’t push. You just held him tighter until he was ready.

When he finally turned around, he rested his forehead against yours for a moment.

“I’m ready,” he whispered. “I think I’ve been ready. I just needed to say goodbye.”

He locked the cabin for the last time.

The truck was already packed with everything the two of you were taking. Jo helped you into the passenger seat like he always did, then climbed in beside you. For a long second, he just sat there, staring at the cabin through the windshield. Then he started the engine and pulled away without looking back.

The drive took just under two hours.

You sat in the passenger seat with your hands folded in your lap, watching the trees thin out and the roads become wider and smoother. Jo drove in silence for most of the way, one hand resting on the gear shift, the other loosely holding the steering wheel. Every now and then his fingers would twitch, like he was still getting used to the idea that this truck—once his father’s—now belonged to the two of you.

When you finally pulled up in front of the small house, the sun was already starting to dip low.

It wasn’t much—a modest two-bedroom with faded blue siding and a small porch that creaked when you stepped on it. But it had a little yard, and the windows let in plenty of light, and most importantly, it didn’t carry the weight of the cabin. No antlers on the walls. No memories soaked into the floorboards.

Jo turned off the engine and just sat there for a moment, staring at the house through the windshield.

“…This is it,” he said quietly, almost like he was testing the words out loud.

You reached over and gently placed your hand over his on the gear shift.

“It’s nice,” you said softly. “It feels… calm.”

Jo let out a slow breath and nodded. He looked over at you, ears faintly pink, eyes soft but still carrying that tired, careful look he’d had ever since his father died.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” he asked. “With leaving everything behind? With… starting over with me?”

You smiled, small and warm, and squeezed his hand.

“I’m sure,” you said. “I want this. I want to start somewhere new with you.”

Jo’s shoulders relaxed just a little. He brought your hand up and pressed a slow kiss to your knuckles before finally opening the truck door.

The first night in the new house was quiet.

Most of your things were still in boxes, stacked in the living room. The two of you ended up sitting on the floor together, eating takeout from a small diner down the road. Jo was quieter than usual, but not in the heavy, distant way he had been before. This silence felt different—thoughtful, almost peaceful.

After you finished eating, he leaned back against the wall and looked around the empty room.

“It’s strange,” he said after a while, voice low. “Not hearing the wind through the trees. Not wondering if my father’s boots are about to hit the porch.” He glanced at you, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips. “I keep waiting for the fear to come back. But it’s not here.”

You shifted closer and rested your head against his shoulder.

“It’s going to take time,” you said gently. “For both of us. But we don’t have to rush. We can just… be here. Together.”

Jo was quiet for a moment. Then he turned his head and pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he murmured. “But I’m really glad you’re here.”

You reached up and gently touched his cheek, guiding him to look at you.

“You chose to be kind,” you said. “Even when it was hard. Even when you were scared. That’s why I’m here.”

Jo’s eyes softened. He leaned in and kissed you — slow, warm, and a little shy, the way he always kissed you when his heart felt too full.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“…Thank you,” he whispered. “For choosing me too.”

The house was still mostly bare, but the bedroom was one of the few rooms that felt somewhat ready. Before leaving the cabin, you and Jo had quietly ordered a bed, mattress, and a few other basics to be delivered ahead of time. When you stepped inside earlier that evening, the simple wooden bed frame and fresh sheets had already been set up in the center of the room, waiting for you.

After finishing the takeout on the living room floor, Jo stood up and gently pulled you to your feet. He didn’t say anything at first—he just laced his fingers through yours and led you down the short hallway.

The bedroom was dim, lit only by the soft glow from the hallway light spilling through the open door. Jo turned to face you, his cheeks already faintly pink as he reached up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“…Can we go to bed?” he asked quietly, voice low and a little shy. “I want to be close to you. Properly.”

You nodded.

He guided you to the bed, and helped you out of your clothes slowly, his hands warm and careful. When you were both bare, he pulled back the covers and laid you down on the new bed before climbing in after you. For a while, he just held you, his fingers loosely laced with yours as he traced slow patterns over your skin.

Eventually, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were soft, tired, but warm in a way they hadn’t been in a long time.

“…Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “I just really want to feel close to you right now.”

You smiled and nodded.

Jo leaned in slowly, one hand cradling your cheek as he kissed you. It started gentle — warm and unhurried—but deepened as your fingers curled into his shoulder. He made a soft sound against your mouth, his hand sliding down to rest at your waist.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he whispered. “I don’t think I’ve said it out loud yet… but I do. So much.”

Your chest tightened at the quiet honesty in his voice.

“I love you too,” you whispered back.

Jo’s ears burned pink, but he smiled—small and shy—before kissing you again. This time it was slower, deeper, full of everything he’d been holding in.

His mouth moved down your neck, then lower, kissing along your collarbone and the curve of your breast with slow, lingering presses of his lips. His hands stroked your sides, your waist, your thighs—gentle and warm, like he was trying to memorize the feeling of you beneath him. Every so often he would pause to look up at you, checking your face with those soft, worried eyes, as if making sure you were still okay.

When he finally settled between your legs and pushed inside you, it was slow and careful, just like always. He let out a shaky breath against your neck, his arms trembling slightly as he sank deeper.

“You feel so good,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ll go slow… I promise.”

He kept his word.

Jo moved in deep, unhurried strokes, his forehead resting against yours as he rocked into you. One of his hands found yours, fingers lacing together beside your head while the other cradled your cheek. He kissed you between every soft thrust—sweet, lingering kisses that made your chest feel warm and full.

You could feel how much he was trying to make it last for you. His breathing grew heavier, and quiet, desperate little sounds kept escaping him every time you clenched around him, but he didn’t rush. He stayed slow, sensual, focused entirely on you.

When you finally came, your back arching softly off of the sheets—jo kissed you through it, swallowing your soft moans as his hips kept moving in that same steady rhythm.

Only after you had come down did he let himself go.

His thrusts grew slightly faster, more desperate, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he whimpered your name.

“I’m close—I’m so close,” he gasped.

You nodded, and he pulled out at the last second with a broken, shaky moan. He came across your stomach in warm pulses, his whole body trembling above you as he rode it out. His forehead stayed pressed to yours, breathing hard, one hand still tightly holding yours.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Jo eventually lifted his head, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy. He looked down at the mess on your stomach, then back at your face with a soft, embarrassed expression.

“…Sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I still can’t last very long with you.”

You reached up and gently touched his cheek, smiling.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “I like it when you lose control a little.”

Jo let out a small, shaky laugh and leaned down to kiss you again — slower this time, sweeter. He carefully cleaned you up before pulling you into his arms, tucking you against his chest.

He held you close, one hand stroking gently up and down your back— fingers traced slow patterns along your spine.

“…I think we’re going to be okay,” he whispered into the quiet. “For the first time, I really believe that.”

You smiled against his skin and pressed a soft kiss to his neck.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “We are.”

© 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝗱𝗮𝗿𝗲 2026 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗲𝗱.  𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌𝖾  𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌  𝖺𝗋𝖾  𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖺𝗅  𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽.  𝗎𝗇𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾𝖽  𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖽𝗎𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇,  𝗈𝗋  𝗋𝖾𝖽𝗂𝗌𝗍𝗋𝗂𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇  𝗂𝗌  𝗉𝗋𝗈𝗁𝗂𝖻𝗂𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝗹𝗶𝗸𝗲𝘀 & 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗿 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱! 𝗮𝘂𝘁𝗵𝗼𝗿𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗲: this is my longest fic to date with 26,281 words total. i've been writing this since the beginning of my blog and finally got the time to sit down and finish it. im so proud of this. i absolutely loved writing jo and our sweet deer reader. i absolutely loved building scenes for this as well. im not sure if mid way it looks / feels rushed,, i really wanted to get into the other scenes of the fic since i knew if i kept writing more and more details it would reach 30k words heh so some scenes may feel / look a bit rushed.. sorry !! but anyway ! i adored writing this. the concept started out so small and grew to become something so beautiful. i hope you guys enjoy and love this fic as much as i do.

𝗇𝗌𝖿𝗐 𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 open . . . . .  : @ikigaijo @blueuijoo @0wisewisdoom @d3adg1rlie @yudaism @sh1n3-4h4na @starl0stt @yeonyeonbun @vickiluvsjo @ampiesworld @rubyidk @maytaurus20 @whoisgwyn  @simplyscrewed @meowieshibal @zzniya @1014b @deerhuntings @tokunodoll @crushonfuma @enha-crumbs @zucchini-thepowerfull @pendragonfaye @guliexe @natthefreak @sailorinthesie @rikusqirl @mitsuyas-version @freetobeey  @xukeiko @fumaid @livelaughloveseventeen @berrysoft7 @gummiiiee @radxdga @hhoneylix @crdteezv @pageraf @yandere-stories @jpow345 @itzhbu @reisdoll @horangiungnico @patrickbatemansgf @yethoughts

“I really do wonder when you both will stop being such bad examples to our students.” The green eyes of Professor Sera—headmistress of Kairos—stared right into your soul. Then they flickered to the man sitting beside you, in his annoyingly straight posture.

Nakakita Yuma.

What had you ever done to end up in the same environment as Nakakita Yuma?

Sure, he was a pretty guy; sharp, cold eyes and perfect pink lips—most definitely the type you’d read about and fantasize at night. But once an asshole, always an asshole. You couldn't believe that this was the guy by whom you were so taken on your first day.

“If I may, Headmistress,” His canines flashed in the candlelight as he put on that infamous flirtatious smirk, “why am I here? Princess here—” He shot you a pesky glance, “—is the one who decided to scare off all my students.”

“Not all of them!” You shot back, "At least now you know which one of your students aren't absolute nitwits.”

"At least they're not all soft like yours.” Yuma mumbled loudly enough for you to hear.

“And what’s wrong with being soft?” You were on the verge of throwing your chair on him, “What’s wrong with appreciating the softness of magic? Unlike you, I take pride in knowing I can conjure with my bare hands.” Tiny sparks were emerging from your fingertips. Yuma’s smirk only became more annoying.

“As expected from our spoilt, aristocratic princess.” 

“Oh you little motherfu-”

“Alright children, that's enough.” Professor Sera’s words, though silent, were grave enough to make you turn away from Yuma, cross your arms and stare defeatedly at the floor. Just because he embraced the new mathematical version of magic did not mean that he had the right to criticise your traditional methods. So what if you came from an ancient line of mages? You were certainly not the flamboyant peacock he made you out to be.

“Professor Astagne,” The wizened old lady sighed, “could you please apologise to Professor Nakakita and swear not to pull such shenanigans again?” And before Yuma could shoot a cocky retort at you— “And Professor Nakakita, could you swear not to fuel the anger of your fellow professor?” 

At such times, the responsible adult thing to do would be to give your ego up, apologise with all your chest and make childish promises. But who was to say that the both of you were responsible adults? Grudgingly, a few mumbled apologies were uttered and you were soon ushered out of the office, with Professor Sera saying that she had ‘less childish matters’ to attend to. 

You were sure she did. After all, managing a school like Kairos—the famed Academy of The Arcane—was no cake walk. Established a thousand years before your birth, Kairos, in addition to being an institution of knowledge and wisdom, was a place where mad scientists were considered normal. A place for invention, chaos and new birth. 

And the man fixing his coat next to you was one such inventor, the youngest mage to have mixed traditional magic with scientific methods. Nakakita Yuma, however annoying he was, was famed throughout the kingdom for his intellectual prowess. Therefore, it was no mystery that you and him would have detested each other’s guts. 

You were from the famed mage family of Astagne, a family no king nor his kin would have ever dared to go up against. The Astagne Dukedom was rumoured to have been started by one of the oldest witches of the land—the first of her kind: transformation mages.

You took pride in your mana; transformation was no joke for the human body—having taken the lives of many great minds when they ventured too deep into its secrets. Thankfully, medicinal plants had been bred by the time your great grandparents were born and now, you could change your quill into a parrot in front of your students with a wave of the hand. All you had to do was pop a leaf into your mouth once a month.

“Come on princess, get that frown off your face.” Yuma leaned down to match your eye-level (those gorgeous eyes, you were close to breaking), “Proper duchesses don't frown.”

“It’s good that I’m not a duchess then.” You spat back, “I have the sudden urge to wipe that smirk off your face,” You stepped closer to him and glared, “permanently.” 

“Cute.” Yuma chuckled, “Word of advice, don’t mess with my class materials again.”

“I’ll do that when you stop spewing nonsense about my family.” You hissed, “Telling your students that traditional magic doesn't work as well anymore—what utter rubbish!” You poked his chest with your finger, “Mark my words, Professor. One day, when your technology destroys this galaxy, I'll be there to tell you I told you so.” With that, you threw your cape behind you and rushed down the hallway, the sound of your shoes tapping against the hard marble echoing against the walls. 

Yuma stared at the floor for a moment, and then looked in your direction. Even in the dark, you burned like the sun—blinding him and anybody in your path. He sighed and slipped his hands into his pockets, kicking a small pebble. Then he made his merry way out and down the hall to the gardens. Sitting down on his favourite bench, he leaned back and stared at the dusty moon. Eventually, consumed by the smell of flowers and the cold wind, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to be consumed by his thoughts.

The Astagne family matriarch was a puissant mage; your grandmother was a stubborn woman, preferring to fight death rather than embrace it. A brilliant transformations professor herself in the past, she was one of the reasons that Yuma found your posting suspicious. Nepotism, he concluded, when you were hired without giving the professor’s test like everybody else. 

Pure luck, he said, when you turned out to be the biggest hit amongst the students, with more and more third year students flocking to your classes. In the end, he had to accept the fact that you were a good teacher—teaching the students not only how to use their mana, but also the ethics, the kindness, and the deliberations behind every magical decision. When he first saw you teach, he was bewildered. And not in a good way.

What sort of professor could ever teach their students to reject new forms of magic? New inventions? New ideas? Magic erupted from your hands as if it was the way you breathed, your mana floating around the room like snowdrops; how beautiful old magic was—Yuma had forgotten about it in his conquests for unfamiliar, avant-garde forms of scientific magic. 

His final straw however was when you had proclaimed at lunch with the other professors, that you wholeheartedly disliked technology, saying that the olden ways were far better and magnificent. Technology took away the ‘soul’ of it all, as you said. It was a pity that you had to find out in that way, Yuma thought, that you had to be introduced to the other transformations professor in a heated debate, in which a poor macaron got destroyed. 

“Daydreaming all by yourself, asshole?” 

And then there were two.

Yuma slowly opened his eyes and smiled, before he turned his eyes to the side, “That was some great acting back there.” He sat up straight and fixed the collar of his coat, “Why ever did the theatre not accept you?”

“They said they don’t accept the granddaughters of batty old bitches.” You chuckled. Reaching into your pocket, you pulled a thin cigarette and with a snap of your fingers, lit it up. A subtle warmth spread through your chest, a quiet intoxication, evoking a mix of pleasure and melancholy. 

The professor thought for a moment, and then opened his mouth, only to close it again. He settled for a soft hum, “Not going to offer me one?” Yuma turned his gaze back to the starry sky, “I know we’re rivals but that’s just rude, princess.” 

“Fuck off.” You smiled, handing him the cigarette, “I had them custom made—less tobacco. I don't want to wake up tomorrow feeling like shit.” You made a vomiting motion, making Yuma smile softly, “I am sorry about the pigeons by the way.” 

Yuma waved his hand in a dismissive manner, “Technically did help to figure out the dimwits. That idiotic son of that viscount should be tested for the absence of a brain.” He scoffed, “I swear these children of royalty get easy access to all this beautiful knowledge while all the blooming talent in those villages and dumps go unnoticed.” He glanced over and smiled meekly, “Sorry for bringing all that up.”

“It’s alright.” You hummed, “To each their own passion, professor.”

Silence settled between the two of you, but it was not the hostile kind, the ones that usually filled the space between you two in the biting quiet of lecture halls or meeting rooms. This one was softer, stretched thin between the curl of smoke and the rustle of leaves. You watched the ember at the tip of the cigarette glow and fade, like a heartbeat you couldn’t quite steady.

Though he seemed as cold as an icicle on the outside, you knew the other transformations professor was…..how would you put it? Soft? Kind? 

Good?

For how could you ever comprehend any good being left in the world? Not after what happened to your own kin. ‘She could have been saved’, your sister had died from a carriage accident, all because your parents refused life-saving modern medicine. 

The Astagne family was famed all over the realm for their strict use of traditional magic. Any mention of technology within the family meant being cast out. That marked the moment you were set on inheriting the dukedom from your grandmother. Which meant your publicity would weigh heavy on your chances to get the crown. And when a handsome, unconventional professor debated with you on the uses of magic and accidentally crushed a macaron in the process, you knew you had the perfect chance.

A perfect rival, a perfect enemy, a perfect lie. Because hatred was easier to perform than doubt and far easier than grief.

“And what of our appointment, Professor Nakakita?” You took a puff.  “Tomorrow?” 

As the ember ignited, a faint glow pulsed at its tip, sending tendrils of fragrant smoke curling into the air. You handed it to Yuma, who hummed, and took a long swig of the cigarette. Each exhale released a haze that lingered, momentarily shrouding the space in a transient veil of gray, as though time itself had slowed, as it always did when you were with your fellow professor.

“Does 5:30 work for you?” He asked, blowing smoke, “I know you have some academic matters you need desperate help with.” The smoke unfurled like silk in the dim light, swirling sensuously, dancing upward in languid spirals, carrying whispers of tobacco, earth and faint sweetness.

“Of course, my dearest professor.” You said soothingly, cigarette smoke dancing on your lips. 

You reached a hand out and brushed a strand of hair from his face. Bathed in moonlight, Yuma looked ethereal, as if touched by a quiet magic. His eyes caught the lunar shimmer, reflecting a calm otherworldly gleam. The moonlight wove through his hair, setting individual strands aglow, appearing as liquid silver around his face. 

“Are you sure you don't have any other commitments tomorrow?” You stood up with a groan, “I do not want a repeat of last time.”

“I checked my calendar this time, love.” He put on that cocky smirk, “I’m not entirely an idiot you know.”

You chuckled and leaned down, placing your hands on his shoulders, “Only an idiot would help me.” 

Your lips met gently at first. Then, your mouths parted slightly, a thin wisp of smoke—dense, fragrant, and warm—slipped between them. The smoke, smooth and slightly bitter, swirled in the shared space, blurring the edges of sensation, adding a hazy layer to the night. It filled your mouth with a warm, ephemeral presence, neither fully tangible nor fully imagined.

“Tomorrow then, professor.” You pulled away and adjusted your coat, “I’ll make sure to send along a reminder.” You turned on your heel and trotted away, feeling awfully sleepy after your midnight-smoke.

“As if anyone could ever forget you.” Yuma mumbled incoherently. Only an idiot would ever help you. He took a final puff of the dying cigarette and exhaled it out, watching the smoke dance upwards. With a final look to the moon, Yuma got to his feet and followed in your steps.

Well wasn't he the biggest idiot of them all?

_____________

A popular observation amongst the students of Kairos was the fact that Professor Nakakita was nothing like you. Though you two taught the same subject, you were as different as sky and sea. And it was particularly evident in the style of your offices.

His office was a study in shadow and precision, a stark contrast to the sun-drenched, herb-scented chaos of your own workspace. Where yours overflowed with potted plants, sun-bleached scrolls and the clutter of student projects, his was a sanctuary of dark polished wood and cool, muted light. 

No sunlight dared to intrude here, instead, a series of softly humming orbs of stabilized lightning—his own invention—hovered near the ceiling. His desk was a fortress of order. Neat stacks of parchment, a silver compass, several pens that wrote in different colored inks without inkwells, and a small, intricate model of a celestial gear-system sat. And then there were the gadgets—they were everywhere.

Strange contraptions ticked and whirred on every available surface—rings spinning within rings, glass spheres filled with shifting constellations, delicate instruments that pulsed with violet light. Wires snaked between them like veins, connecting one invention to another in a way that made your eye twitch just looking at it. It was hideous. It was fascinating. And currently, you were elbow-deep in one of them.

“This,” you said, squinting at the small cube in your hands, “is either going to explode or summon something unpleasant.”

Behind you, Yuma didn’t even look up from the papers spread across his desk. “If it does, do try not to die on my floor. The paperwork would be unbearable.”

You clicked your tongue, turning the cube over. It whirred in response, a soft pink glow flickering along its edges. “So you admit it might explode.”

“I admit,” he said calmly, scribbling something down, “that you have a remarkable talent for turning harmless objects into hazards.”

“Oh please.” You pressed down on one of its panels. It shifted under your touch, rearranging itself with a click. “Unlike you, I don’t need a hundred moving parts to make magic happen.”

“And unlike you,” he replied, finally glancing up, “I prefer my magic to be stable and not dependent on monthly leaf consumption.”

The cube in your hands suddenly unfolded, pieces sliding apart with mechanical grace until it resembled a delicate, spinning lattice, soft light pulsing through it. Your eyes widened despite yourself. “…Alright,” you muttered, “that was mildly impressive.”

“Mildly?” Yuma leaned back in his chair, arms crossing as that infuriating smirk crept back onto his face. “That, princess, is a self-regulating mana stabiliser. It took me three months to perfect.”

“And yet,” you tilted your head, “I could achieve the same effect with a flick of my wrist.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, “and exhaust yourself in the process. Very efficient.”

“And mine is prettier too.” You grinned, now idly fiddling with another gadget—a multi-layered orb that shifted between states of solid, liquid and gas when you tapped it with a specific rhythm. It was currently a swirling, misty vortex in your palm.

“You’re going to destabilize its calibration,” Yuma said, not looking up from the assignments he’d gone back to grading. 

“It’s fine. It likes me.” You tapped it again, and it solidified into a perfect sphere. “See? It’s more obedient than your students.” 

“Probably registering your annoyance as an output." He finally glanced up, his eyes narrowing. “Put it down.”

“You’re no fun.” You placed the orb back but didn’t move from the cabinet. Instead, you watched him grade. His pen moved with swift, sure strokes, occasionally pausing to scribble a note in the margin. “Who’s that? The viscount’s son with the missing brain?”

“No, thankfully. This one is actually promising.” A faint smile brushed across his face, “She’s proposing a mana-conservation theorem for transformation spells.” He held up the parchment. “See? This is the kind of thinking that bridges our fields.”

“Bridges?” You stepped closer, leaning over to look. “That’s your side of the river trying to build a dam on mine.”

“And yet we achieve irrigation.” He set the paper down. “You’d know that if you ever attended my lectures.”

“And bore myself to death?” You scoffed, “No thank you, I’m quite alright.”

“You’re particularly chipper today.” Yuma sighed, a sound that was both exasperated and fond, “Put that down.” He said, as you plucked a clockwork beetle from his shelf, “I’m serious, don’t toy with that one.”

“Or what?” You said, voice just a fraction of a tone lower. Seductive, of course. He’d promised a 5:30 session and had kept you there for half an hour not doing anything. How was a poor woman supposed to survive?

You turned on your heel and walked toward his desk, the faint hum of his inventions trailing behind you like a chorus. Without a word, you propped yourself up on the edge of the polished dark wood, settling right in front of where he sat, far too comfortable for someone who had been warned not to touch anything in the room. Your hands rested beside you, fingers brushing against neatly stacked assignments, and then you shifted.

You made a small show of adjusting your skirt—a daring piece of fabric that was shorter than your usual attire, in a deep red that contrasted sharply with the somber tones of his office. You let your knees fall slightly apart, the movement casual as a Sunday morning.

Yuma leaned back in his chair, eyes slowly making their way up, taking in the line of your legs and the way the fabric draped. He simply watched, expression unreadable, a slight tilt to his head.

“Is this….” He began slowly, voice quieter now, measured in that infuriating way of his, “your idea of appropriate academic attire?” You smiled sweetly. 

“My, Professor,” you hummed, leaning back on your palms just a little, “I wasn’t aware you paid such close attention to what I wear.”

“It’s hard not to.” Yuma replied smoothly, his own legs spreading just a bit, “Not when our princess wears such scandalous things.” He gasped a faux gasp, “Whatever will the students learn from you, darling?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you said lightly, voice dipped in honeyed mockery, “perhaps they’ll learn confidence. Something your lot seems to lack.” His eyes flickered, “Or maybe,” you continued, letting your foot swing idly where you sat on his desk, “they’ll simply learn how to hold someone’s attention.”

How could he even begin to explain that the sun always held everybody's attention?

Yuma’s chair scraped against the floor as he stood, the sound cutting clean through the low hum of the room. For a moment, he didn’t move—just looked at you from where he stood, something unreadable settling into his expression. You didn’t shift, didn’t so much as breathe differently as he closed the distance, a challenge for him. His hands came down on either side of you, palms flat against the wood, caging you in without a single inch of hesitation.

“You talk too much, darling.” His gaze never wavered from yours. 

“And you don’t talk enough,” you shot back just as quietly. The air stilled and it was barely another second more before his lips were on yours. 

Your lips met his in a fierce clash, the kiss deepening instantly as his mouth claimed yours with a hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. You tasted the faint bitterness of coffee on his tongue, mingled with the sharp edge of his cologne, and you leaned into it, matching his intensity. Time stretched, the world narrowing to the heat building between you, his hands sliding up your sides to grip your waist, pulling you flush to him.

“I think we ought to shut that pretty mouth up, hmm?” Yuma broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest. But he didn't give you a chance to retort; his mouth captured yours again, rougher this time, teeth grazing your lower lip in a way that sent sparks racing down your spine. 

His arms hooked under your thighs, strong fingers digging into the soft flesh as he hauled you closer, lifting you until your legs wrapped around his waist. The sudden shift pressed your core against the hard line of his erection through his trousers, and he ground against you, building a slow ache that made your breath hitch.

You clung to his shoulders, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt, refusing to yield even as the pressure of his hips rolling into yours drew a soft, involuntary sound from your throat.  Yuma kissed you harder, his body pinning you in place as he rocked forward, the clothed barrier between you heightening every thrust of his arousal against your sensitive folds. The desk creaked under the force, papers shifting forgotten beneath you, but neither of you cared—the room's mechanical hum faded into the background, drowned out by the ragged cadence of your shared breaths.

Finally, Yuma pulled back, his eyes dark and stormy as they locked onto yours. He stepped away to sink into his chair, the leather sighing under his weight as he leaned back, legs spreading wide in invitation.

“Come here, darling.” One hand patted his thigh firmly, the gesture commanding, “Why don't you sit your pretty little self down?” His tone left no room for argument, laced with that mean edge you both loved and loathed.

“Bossy as ever I see.” You slid off the desk, a smirk tugging at your lips despite the flush heating your cheeks, “Pray tell professor, is that why your students listen so well?”

You moved towards him, straddling his lap in one fluid motion. Your thighs bracketed his, your skirt riding up as you settled against him, the heat of his body seeping through. You rocked your hips, grinding down onto the rigid bulge straining his pants, the motion slow and taunting, drawing a sharp inhale from him.

His hands gripped your hips, guiding your rhythm with a firm squeeze, but you resisted just enough to make him work for it, circling your pelvis in lazy figure-eights that pressed your clothed pussy against his erection. Each slide sent jolts of tension coiling in your core, your breaths mingling as you leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Do you like that Professor? Or should I stop?”

“Stop?” Yuma's response was a dark chuckle, his fingers tightening to halt your movements for a beat, making you whine in protest, “We both know you’d rather die than stop now. Go on love, show me how badly you want this.”

You obliged, picking up the pace, the seam of your underwear dragging just right against you as his hardness throbbed beneath. Emboldened, you reached down, fingers fumbling with his belt, tugging it open and shoving his pants down his hips to free more of him—but before your hand could wrap around the base of his cock, a sharp knock echoed through the office door.

The sound shattered the haze, and you froze, eyes widening as reality crashed back in. Yuma's grip on you tightened for a split second, his jaw clenching, but he released you with a muttered curse.

“Under the desk. Now.” You scrambled off his lap, skirt askew and pulse racing, ducking beneath the heavy wooden desk just as the knock came again. The space was cramped, your back pressed against the cool paneling as you huddled there, while voices began to filter in from the door.

“Professor Nakakita?” The door creaked open, and a hesitant voice broke the tension. “Sorry to bother you, but I had a question about arcane circuits.”

If there was one thing you were known for throughout the entire academy, it was for loving your students like they were your own kids. The gentlest professor to ever exist, as the students had dubbed you—a fairy godmother in her own right. But goddamn did you want to punch a wall when a student interrupted your weekly dick session. They really ought to have more respect for your poor, dying pussy. 

You knelt there in the dim space under the desk, knees pressing into the worn rug, your heart hammering as you peered up at him through your lashes. Yuma's exposed cock stood rigid just inches from your face, still half-freed from his pants, the sight of it making your mouth water despite the risk. You met his gaze with wide, innocent doe eyes, a silent plea mixed with mischief, your lips parting slightly as if begging for permission—or defiance.

Yuma cleared his throat, shifting in his chair to angle his body toward the door. “Of course, come in. What's the issue?” He leaned forward, one hand dropping casually to the desk's edge, but you saw the subtle flex of his jaw, the way his free hand hovered near his thigh, resisting the urge to push you away. The student stepped closer, oblivious, launching into a detailed query, words tumbling out in nervous bursts.

Oh well, dick was dick. And your pussy was screaming, crying and tearing out her soul. And he was right in front of you. 

Emboldened by the shadows and the thrill, you leaned forward, your breath ghosting over the heated length. Slowly, so slowly, you wrapped your lips around the tip of his cock, tongue swirling gently as you took him in inch by inch. The salty taste of him flooded your mouth, and you hollowed your cheeks, sucking softly at first, your eyes never leaving his face. Yuma's explanation faltered for a split second—a brief pause that he covered with a cough—before he continued.

“Yes, the primary coil needs to be aligned precisely……no, not like that.” His fingers twitched against the wood, knuckles whitening as you bobbed your head, taking more of him, your lips stretching around his girth while your hand braced against his thigh for balance.

You worked him with teasing slowness, tongue tracing the underside of his cock, sucking in rhythmic pulls that made his hips jerk involuntarily. The student's voice droned on, asking for clarification on a diagram, and Yuma answered through gritted teeth, his words measured but his breathing uneven. “Refer to page 47, it'll make sense.” Though the only thing making sense right now was the feel of your tongue on him.

Sweat beaded at his temple; he was trying so hard to stay composed, the mean glint in his eyes promising retribution as they flicked down to you. You hummed around him, the vibration drawing a barely suppressed groan that he masked as a thoughtful hum, a side of you reveling in how you unraveled his control.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of your mouth gliding up and down his length, slick with saliva, the student murmured thanks and backed toward the door. “Appreciate it, Professor.” The latch clicked shut, and the room fell silent save for the faint whir of his inventions. Yuma's hand shot down immediately, fingers tangling roughly in your hair, yanking your head back until his cock slipped free with a wet pop. 

“You little minx.” He said, voice low and venomous, as he gripped tighter, forcing your sly gaze up to his furious one.

Without another word, he thrust forward, shoving his cock back into your mouth and fucking your face with brutal snaps of his hips. You gagged at the sudden depth, tears pricking your eyes, but you took it, hands clutching his thighs as he used you relentlessly. 

“Love playing games, don’t we princess?” Yuma snarled, pulling your hair to control the pace, his shaft slamming against the back of your throat over and over. Saliva dripped down your chin, your lips swollen and stretched, his words sending heat pooling between your legs. When he finally slowed, chest heaving, he hauled you up by your arms, pulling you onto his lap. 

“Let's play one then.” Yuma seemed to sneer at you, “Let's see how quiet our princess can be, shall we?” 

Yuma's grip on your hips tightened like iron vices, his fingers digging into your flesh as he yanked you fully down, the chair creaking under the shift in weight. Your skirt bunched up around your waist, the fabric a crumpled mess, and he ripped your panties to the side, the thin material tearing audibly. His cock, pulsed hot against your entrance, slick from your mouth and his own arousal.

You sank down onto him slowly at first, gasping at the stretch as he filled your pussy completely, but he didn't let you set the pace—his hands slammed you down harder, forcing you to bounce on his length, each thrust upward meeting your descent with a punishing force. Mean, mean Yuma, but hey it wasn't like you were complaining. 

“Faster.” He demanded, one hand sliding up to pinch your nipple, the other spanking your ass sharply. You rode him like that, whimpers escaping as his cock hit deep inside you, claiming every inch of your submission.

Your body jolted with each descent, his cock dragging against your inner walls, hitting that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Wet slaps echoed through the office as your pussy swallowed him over and over, juices coating his shaft and dripping down to his balls. You tried to match his rhythm, rolling your hips in a defiant grind, but he spanked your ass hard, the sting blooming across your skin. 

“I said, faster, sweetheart.” Yuma demanded, “Ride me properly or I’ll stop.”

Tears of pleasure pricked at your eyes as you bounced on him, thighs trembling from the effort, breasts heaving with each ragged breath. His cock throbbed inside you, stretching you wide, the friction building a fire in your belly. Yuma's hips bucked up to meet every drop, his mean thrusts driving deeper.

“Fuck—nghhh so fucking tight.” He moaned, his breath hot against your neck as he bit down, his canines grazing your skin like wind grazed tall grass, “Milking my cock like you’re made for this, yeah?”

You rode him harder, chasing the edge, your moans turning into pleas as the pressure coiled low in your gut. His hands guided you, one spanking your ass in sharp rhythm while the other held you down, grinding your clit against his pubic bone with every plunge. 

"Fuck, yes…." he groaned, pulling you down for a messy kiss. "So damn desperate aren’t we?” 

His words pushed you closer as you ground down, clit rubbing against his pelvis, until the coil snapped. You came hard, walls fluttering around him, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Yuma followed with a guttural moan, thrusting deep one last time, flooding your pussy with hot cum, spilling out around his base as he held you tight. 

You collapsed forward, your forehead resting against his shoulder as the last aftershocks trembled through you. The air in the office, once crisp with the scent of old paper, was now thick and humid, laced with sex and salt.

Gathering the last of your strength, you pushed yourself up, your thighs trembling as you lifted off him. A soft, wet sound punctuated the motion, followed by a hot, messy trickle down your inner thigh. You reached for your discarded underwear and skirt; the fabric felt strange against your oversensitive skin as you stepped back into it and zipped it up. You smoothed your hands over your hair and used the edge of your sleeve to wipe hastily at the smudged corner of your mouth.

Yuma watched you from his chair, which was pushed back from the desk. His own clothes were in disarray—trousers undone, shirt rumpled and sticking to his chest. He made no move to fix himself yet, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and tracking your every move with a possessive, sated focus. As you bent to retrieve your fallen shoe, he finally spoke, his voice a rough, warm scrape in the quiet room.

“So,” he said, the ghost of a smirk touching his swollen lips. “When’s our next consultation?”

You turned to face him, leaning back against the edge of his now very compromised desk. You crossed your arms, a picture of nonchalance that was betrayed by the flush still high on your cheeks and the knowing glint in your eye.

“Well,” you said, your tone light and cheeky, “I was thinking perhaps after I finish evaluating the mid-term practicals.” You tilted your head. “Say…Thursday? Five-thirty?”

Yuma’s smirk deepened as he slowly began to do up his trousers, his eyes never leaving yours. “Five-thirty,” he repeated. “I’ll clear my schedule. And perhaps,” he added, standing and stepping into your space again, his finger hooking under your chin, “we can finally test the structural integrity of this desk. Properly.”

You laughed, a soft, breathy sound, and swatted his hand away. “Insatiable.”

“Only for you, princess,” he murmured, the words a low promise against your temple before you slipped out of his reach and walked out, leaving him alone in his somber office

________________

Your classroom was awash in golden. 

Sunlight streamed through the tall arched windows in molten sheets, warming the rows of desks and setting the suspended charms above your students’ heads aglow. Vines curled lazily around the ceiling beams, occasionally blooming tiny white flowers. The air smelled of lavender, old books and mana smoke.

“Transformation,” you said, pacing slowly before the class, “is not simply the changing of matter. Anybody with enough mana and half a brain can alter form.” You waved your hand lightly and the silver goblet on your desk melted fluidly into the shape of a dove, “The difficult part is understanding the nature of a thing.” The dove fluttered upward, crystalline wings catching the light.

“A poor transformations mage forces change. A good one persuades it.” Several students scribbled frantically. You smiled proudly and continued, “For example, if I wished to transform—”

The classroom door creaked open and you ignored it. There were very few people in Kairos irritating enough to interrupt your lectures without permission. And only one arrogant enough to do it smiling.

Leaning against the doorway as though he owned the place stood Yuma, dressed immaculately as always, black gloves tucked beneath one arm. His other hand held a sealed letter. The sunlight from your room didn't seem to touch him; he was a silhouette of dark wool and cool indifference. And, unfortunately for your peace of mind, he looked unbearably smug.

Yuma crossed one ankle over the other and inclined his head ever so slightly. “Don’t let me interrupt, princess.” 

“You already are.” You turned back toward the board with a tight smile, “Now, as I was saying—”

“Interesting metaphor, by the way.”

“Excuse me?” You said.

“The whole persuading magic thing.” He gestured vaguely with the envelope. “Very poetic. Very you.” A few students snorted. Little shits. You inhaled deeply through your nose.

“As I was saying,” you continued sharply, “transformation relies heavily upon emotional resonance—”

“Though perhaps,” Yuma interrupted again, “you should explain to them what happened last time you relied on emotional resonance.” A louder laugh this time in response to which you narrowed your eyes dangerously.

“That,” you said sweetly, “was a controlled academic incident.” You scoffed, “And everybody learned valuable lessons.” 

Yuma hummed thoughtfully. “Such as?”

“That they should mind their business.”

The class dissolved into laughter. You were going to kill him. Turning away from the door once more, you clapped your hands together and summoned a swirl of pale blue mana between your palms. “Now then. Emotional imprinting within transformation magic is tied directly to—”

“Professor Astagne.” 

“What.”

Yuma unfolded the letter very very slowly like a man moments away from becoming the cause of a murder. “I have something important.”

“Then perhaps,” you snapped, “you should wait until I am done teaching.”

“Oh, but this concerns you.”

You turned slowly, arms folding across your chest. “If this is another one of your pathetic attempts at public humiliation—”

“The Headmistress requested your presence later this evening. And,” Yuma said, clearly enjoying himself far too much, “she specifically requested that you wear formal attire.” A collective chorus of “ooohs” erupted through the classroom. The students practically vibrated with curiosity now.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Thank you, Professor Nakakita,” you said through clenched teeth, “for your wonderfully timed interruption.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You can leave now.”

“I could.” Instead, he looked around your classroom leisurely, gaze flickering over the vines, the sunlight, the floating charms. “You know,” he mused, “your students look significantly less terrified than mine.”

“That’s because they actually like me.”

“Mm.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “A miracle.”

Something inside you snapped at that moment. Of course you didn’t actually hate him all too much, but nobody, nobody, interrupted your classes. 

Your mana slammed into the room in a sudden pulse of heat. Gasps erupted throughout the classroom as crimson butterflies burst violently from seemingly nowhere, swirling upward in furious spirals. Their wings glowed like embers, red light flooding the room as they gathered around you in a storm of irritation. Every student immediately went silent and Yuma’s smirk only deepened.

You stormed toward the doorway, your heels striking sharply against the stone floor, butterflies scattering in your wake like sparks from a fire. Stopping directly in front of him, you jabbed a finger against his chest.

“You,” you hissed quietly, dangerously, “are an unbearable, insufferable menace.”

Yuma glanced down briefly at your finger against him before meeting your eyes again. “Yes,” he said calmly, “and you’re making butterflies again.” Behind you, several students audibly swooned and you were an inch away from strangling his pretty neck.

Without a word, he handed you the folded parchment. Your fingers closed around it, the paper crisp and official against your skin. The red butterflies began to dissipate, fading from solid form into shimmering motes of light, then into nothing. The classroom was utterly silent. You looked at neither him nor your students as you turned and walked back to your desk.

Yuma remained in the doorway for a moment longer, his arms still crossed, but his posture had lost its lazy arrogance. He watched you—the set of your shoulders, your pretty little fingers on the letter—and then, without another interruption, he turned and left.

____________

There were moments in your life that replayed with such terrible clarity that no amount of time could dull them. Your sister’s death was one of them.

The rain that night had poured from the heavens with violence, turning the cobblestone roads slick with mud and water, the wheels of the carriage struggling against the storm as servants shouted over the thunder. You remembered the horses screaming, the sharp crack of wood splintering and the sound of metal collapsing inward. And then you remembered silence.

For one impossible second, the entire world had gone silent. Until your sister cried out.

You had been too young to understand why grown adults panicked the way they did. Too young to understand why your mother kept insisting traditional healing methods would work. Too young to understand why your father looked more horrified at the suggestion of modern medicine than at the blood soaking through your sister’s dress.

You remembered kneeling beside her, her trembling hand gripping yours weakly, the healer saying she could still be saved. There was technology now, he had said—scientific procedures, mana-assisted reconstruction, new methods from the capital. Your sister could live.

Your parents had refused immediately. The Astagne family did not rely on artificial intervention. The Astagne family did not taint themselves with technological procedures. The Astagne family trusted old magic. Old magic that failed.

You remembered screaming at them, begging. You remembered your mother crying into her gloves while your father stood rigid as stone, insisting the family would not abandon its principles. 

Principles. Such a lovely word for cruelty. Your sister had died before sunrise and something inside you had died with her.

Grief was a fascinating thing. At first, it arrived softly. It hollowed you out from the inside, leaving behind an ache so vast you thought it might swallow you whole. For months, you wandered through the Astagne estate like a ghost, listening to relatives murmur the same cursed phrase over and over again.

“She could have been saved.” You heard it at the funeral, in hallways, behind closed doors, sometimes in your dreams. She could have been saved. 

Eventually, grief became anger. Then anger became purpose. You learned very quickly that the Astagne family would never listen to tears. Tradition had rooted itself too deeply into their bones. Your grandmother ruled the dukedom with ancient blood and older ideals, and if you wished to change anything—to drag your family into the future kicking and screaming—you would need power. Influence.

A fucking crown.

And for that, you needed the public to adore you. So you crafted a version of yourself carefully—the traditional prodigy, the noble transformation mage, the beautiful granddaughter carrying on the sacred legacy of House Astagne.

And then came Nakakita Yuma. Brilliant, unconventional, infuriating, perfect Nakakita Yuma

A man publicly associated with scientific magic and modern innovation. A man your family would hate on instinct alone. The ideal enemy for the public to observe while you carefully positioned yourself as the beloved traditionalist.

Now you stood before the towering doors of Professor Sera’s office with that same dreadful feeling twisting in your stomach. Late evening sunlight bled crimson through the stained-glass windows, painting fractured colours across the marble floor. Somewhere below, students laughed faintly in the courtyards, blissfully unaware of how fragile the world truly was.

The butterflies from earlier had long vanished, but irritation still simmered beneath your skin—though whether it was directed at Yuma, your family, or yourself, you no longer knew. Perhaps all three.

Before you could second-guess yourself further, you pushed the doors open. Professor Sera sat behind her desk, eyes unreadable over steepled fingers. Two men occupied the chairs opposite her desk, their presence commanding enough to make the entire room feel smaller.

King Yudai sat lounging slightly back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other with effortless confidence. Gold gleamed against the dark fabric draped over his shoulders, rings catching the low candlelight whenever he moved his hands. His smile came easily—sharp and charming in the way all rulers seemed to be.

Beside him sat his husband, King Fuma. Calm, elegant and composed, with eyes that were far too perceptive for your liking. Silver embroidery threaded across his formal robes like flowing water, his posture straight yet relaxed beside his husband’s more casual demeanour.

Together, they looked every bit the monarchs the kingdom adored. And unfortunately for your peace of mind—they were both looking directly at you. 

“Your Majesties.” You bowed elegantly, “Headmistress.”

Professor Sera gestured toward the empty space before her desk. “Come in, dear.” You obeyed, pulse steady despite the growing unease in your stomach.

Fuma studied you quietly for a moment before speaking. “We’ve heard quite a bit about you, Professor Astagne.”

“That depends entirely on who you heard it from,” you replied smoothly. 

Yudai laughed. “Oh, I like her already.”

“Dangerous statement, Your Majesty. You should reconsider it.” Professor Sera sighed tiredly.

“Most things worth liking are dangerous,” Yudai replied casually. Now you understood why the kingdom adored him.

“Though,” Fuma continued, glancing briefly around the room, “I was under the impression Professor Nakakita would be joining us as well.”

Your brows furrowed faintly. “Professor Nakakita?”

“Yes,” Professor Sera answered. “Did he not mention it?”

“No.” You said, as if scandalised by the very idea of him mentioning something to you (“I said faster, sweetheart), “No he didn-”

“That’s because she stormed out before I could.”

The familiar voice arrived alongside the sudden opening of the office doors. Yuma stood there slightly breathless, hair faintly dishevelled, one hand gripping the doorway as though he had run all the way here. His coat sat crooked on one shoulder.

Yudai snorted softly. “Rough evening?”

“You have no idea,” Yuma muttered, straightening himself quickly before stepping inside properly. His eyes flickered toward you briefly—just briefly—but long enough for you to catch the annoyance buried beneath his expression, or perhaps concern. You chose annoyance—far easier that way.

“Professor Nakakita,” Fuma inclined his head politely.

“Your Majesties.” Yuma bowed. His gaze shifted toward the final empty chair, unfortunately right beside you. 

Professor Sera smiled far too knowingly. “Sit down, both of you.”

You resisted the urge to sigh dramatically. Yuma crossed the room and sat beside you without complaint, though you made certain to shift your chair the smallest possible inch away from his the moment he settled down.

Yudai’s mouth twitched close to a grin. Yuma leaned back in his seat with practiced calm, fixing the cuff of his sleeve as though he hadn’t arrived looking like he’d sprinted through the entirety of Kairos. You crossed your legs and looked in the opposite direction. The performance resumed effortlessly.

“You’re late,” you remarked coldly.

“And yet,” Yuma replied smoothly beside you, “still better company than most.” 

You scoffed loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. Professor Sera closed her eyes briefly, perhaps reconsidering every life decision that had led her here.

“You two,” she said, voice carrying the exhausted weight of a woman abandoned by the gods long ago, “will behave yourselves for the duration of this meeting.” Neither of you responded, which was response enough. “I mean it.” She pointed between the two of you with surprising severity for somebody her age. “No arguing. No setting things on fire, transforming royal property, sabotaging experiments or psychologically tormenting one another for the next hour.”

You blinked innocently. “I would never.”

Beside you, Yuma gave a solemn nod. “The accusation alone wounds me.”

Professor Sera stared at the both of you in silence. Then she turned toward the kings with the look of somebody moments away from early retirement. “You see my predicament.”

You straightened in your chair, deciding it was perhaps time to regain at least a fraction of dignity. “What exactly is this regarding, Your Majesties?”

Fuma’s sunlit grin softened into something more professional as he leaned forward in his seat. “As you know,” he began, “Kairos has long been considered one of the greatest magical institutions in the realm.”

“Flattery before responsibility, eh Your Majesty?” Yuma beside you gave a small hum. 

“You wound me, Professor.” Fuma placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “I’m being sincere.” Fuma continued smoothly before either of you could resume bickering. “Every few years, the kingdom hosts an academic programme for exceptional upper-year students. The selected students are invited to the capital,” he explained, “where they’ll spend a week exposing themselves to career paths beyond Kairos.” Fuma continued, “There’ll also be practical evaluations, mana demonstrations, collaborative projects between disciplines—”

“And,” Yuma interrupted dryly, “considering this kingdom’s love of spectacle, some sort of social event.”

Yudai pointed at him. “See? This is why I like him.”

“The royal palace,” Fuma said, ignoring the interruption entirely, “will be hosting a formal ball at the conclusion of the programme. A celebration of Kairos, its students and its contributions to the kingdom.”

Several thoughts struck you simultaneously. A royal ball with hundreds of nobles, public visibility and political opportunity. Your grandmother would foam at the mouth from excitement.

Professor Sera watched both you and Yuma with deeply suspicious eyes, “The palace specifically requested two head professors to accompany the students throughout the duration of the visit.”

A horrible, dreadful silence followed. As if Professor Sera had just told you that the world was to end tomorrow and you were to be hung, drawn and quartered. Which, in your defense, you were about to be! Slowly you turned toward Yuma. Unfortunately, he was already looking at you, equally horrified.

“No.” The both of you said simultaneously.

Yudai smiled brightly. “Yes.”

You sat up straighter immediately. “Headmistress, with all due respect, there are far more qualified professors—”

“There are not.” Professor Sera cut in swiftly.

Yuma frowned beside you. “Surely Professor Yixiang would—”

“Professor Yixiang set a laboratory curtain on fire last week. And Professor Euijoo,” Sera continued, “cannot survive three consecutive days without insulting monarchy as a concept. That leaves,” Professor Sera said pointedly, “our two most successful transformations professors.”

“You cannot seriously expect us to supervise students together for several weeks.” You said, with a worried laugh.

“I can,” Fuma said calmly. “And I do.”

Beside you, Yuma rubbed slowly at his temple. “Your Majesties, with all due respect, our teaching methods are fundamentally incompatible.”

“Your students,” Fuma replied, eyes flickering between the two of you, “achieve the highest collaborative scores in the academy.” That shut both of you up. Because annoyingly—he was correct. Your students worked absurdly well together.

Yudai leaned back with a victorious grin. “Besides, the students already adore this whole rivals thing you two have going on.”

You nearly choked and Yuma went perfectly still beside you. Professor Sera suddenly looked deeply interested in literally anything else.

“Excuse me?” you said carefully.

“Oh please,” Yudai waved dismissively. “Half the kingdom probably knows about it by now.”

“Your public debates are very popular.” Fuma added helpfully.

“There are betting pools.” Yudai said. “Mostly regarding which one of you will snap first during faculty meetings.” You stared at him in horror. Beside you, Yuma looked moments away from leaving the kingdom entirely.

Professor Sera coughed awkwardly into her hand. “In any case—the decision has already been approved.” A pause. Then, with the calmness of an executioner delivering a sentence, “You leave for the capital together in two weeks.”

Well wasn’t this a fucking treat? 

By the time you reached your office, irritation had settled so deeply beneath your skin it hummed. The moment the door shut behind you, you kicked your shoes off and made straight for the windows, throwing them open to let the evening air spill inside, your office greeting you like an old friend.

“You walk remarkably fast for someone so dramatic.”

You closed your eyes. Of course he followed you. Without turning around, you reached into your desk drawer and retrieved your cigarette case. “If you’re here to annoy me further, I should warn you that I’m armed.”

Yuma shut the door behind him. “You’re always armed.”

You lit the cigarette with a flick of your fingers, inhaling deeply before offering him one without looking. A familiar routine now, a thought that probably should have alarmed you more than it did. By the time you turned around, Yuma had already settled himself against the edge of your desk, the tip of his cigarette glowing as he inhaled.

“Well,” you muttered, collapsing onto your couch, “this is catastrophic.”

“You say that about most things.” Yuma exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “The students will survive.”

“We both know I am not talking about the students, Yuma.” You groaned loudly, throwing an arm over your face. “Do you understand what this means?”

“That we’ll be supervising magically unstable young adults in the capital?”

“That my grandmother is going to hear about this.”

Yuma hummed quietly, cigarette balanced between elegant fingers. “She’ll probably adore the idea.”

“She’ll adore the publicity,” you corrected bitterly. “Kairos representatives attending royal programmes? Palace invitations? Formal balls?” You sat upright suddenly, thoughts beginning to move faster now.  Yuma narrowed his eyes slightly. That was never a good sign. You stood abruptly and began pacing. “This could work.”

“That sentence concerns me deeply, princess.”

“No, listen.” You turned toward him sharply, excitement beginning to flicker beneath your frustration. “The capital is filled with nobility.” You gestured wildly as you spoke, your mana sparking faintly at your fingertips. “If I handle this correctly, I could massively improve public favour before inheritance discussions even begin.” Yuma’s expression shifted subtly. You continued, thoughts spilling too quickly to stop. “The Astagne elders care about reputation above all else. Somehow I could pressure them into accelerating succession.” 

For the first time since leaving Sera’s office, genuine excitement bloomed in your chest. Finally—an opportunity, a real one. You moved closer unconsciously as you spoke, animated now, cigarette smoke curling around you in pale ribbons. 

“Do you understand what this could mean?” you said, eyes brightening. “If I gain enough influence early, I could start changing things before my grandmother dies. Funding modern healing divisions, integrating scientific magic into traditional institutions—”

“Changing the Astagne family from the inside?”

“Exactly!” The word left you instantly, without an inch of hesitation or doubt. And for a moment, Yuma simply watched you.

The room had grown darker while you spoke, evening shadows stretching slowly across the floorboards, but your office still glowed softly around you. Golden light caught against your hair, against the fierce determination written plainly across your face. You looked so…..hopeful. 

Yuma lowered his cigarette slowly. “How far are you willing to go for this?”

The question settled heavily between you. You studied him carefully before answering. “I’ll do whatever I must.” Something inside Yuma’s chest tightened painfully at how quickly you answered. “I can’t let another person die because my family is too obsessed with preserving old ideals.” Your fingers tightened around the cigarette. “I won’t.”

Yuma stared at you for a long moment through the following silence. And suddenly—all he could think about was the first winter you’d arrived at Kairos. You had been freezing, not metaphorically. Actually freezing—too stubborn to wear the heavy fur-lined cloaks students carried around campus because you claimed they were “hideously ugly.” 

He remembered finding you outside one evening in the snow, hands red from cold, kneeling beside an injured bird trying desperately to heal its wing with trembling mana. You’d looked furious when he draped his coat over your shoulders. Then immediately fallen asleep during faculty briefing the next morning because you’d spent half the night caring for the creature.

Soft—that was the problem. For all your sharp words and theatrical anger and carefully crafted pride—you were so damn soft. And the world had not been kind to soft things, in his experience. 

“You really don’t know when to stop, do you?” Yuma looked down at the cigarette burning between his fingers.

You smiled faintly. “Do you expect me to, Professor?” 

You moved closer to him, standing between his legs where he sat perched against the edge of your desk. Your hands went slowly to either side of him, palms resting against the wood as you leaned in just enough for him to catch the scent of smoke clinging to your clothes. Yuma looked at you with a curious expression, eyes flickering between your eyes and your lips, as if he was unsure where his destination would be. 

Sweet, soft girl of magic. Who was he to expect anything from you? Other than the poetry of life? 

“No.” Yuma said, his hands coming up to rest on your waist, as the cigarette lay abandoned somewhere. “No I do not, princess.”

______________

The next morning, Yuma’s office looked worse than usual. Not untidy—god no, the man would rather perish than allow disorder into his workspace—but occupied. Every available surface had become overrun with dismantled mechanical pieces, mana circuits and blueprints layered meticulously atop one another.

At the centre of the chaos sat Yuma, sleeves rolled to his elbows, glasses perched low on his nose, one hand holding a tiny screwdriver while the other adjusted the inner framework of what appeared to be a compass. 

Yuma narrowed his eyes. “…Interesting.” The office door burst open. Yuma didn’t even look up. “Go away, Yixiang.”

Professor Yixiang ignored him immediately and sauntered inside anyway, carrying two cups of coffee and the overwhelming energy of a man permanently moments away from causing trouble. Unlike Yuma’s composed elegance, Yixiang existed in a state of stylish catastrophe. His robes hung half-open over dark clothes, several burn marks decorated one sleeve and his hair looked as though he’d lost a physical altercation with static electricity. Which, considering the curtain incident—was entirely possible.

“You wound me.” Yixiang placed one coffee down beside Yuma’s elbow. “I come bearing peace offerings and this is how you greet me?”

“You set laboratory three on fire yesterday.”

“In my defence,” Yixiang said solemnly, “the experiment was beautiful.”

“It exploded.”

“Beautifully.” Yuma sighed. The compass sparked again in protest. “You know, most people spiral after romantic tension.” Yixiang’s eyes flickered toward it before grinning. “You apparently build increasingly unstable machinery.”

Yuma finally glanced up. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh come on.” Yixiang dragged a chair around dramatically and sat down backwards on it, folding his arms atop the backrest. “The entire academy knows you and Astagne are going to spend several weeks together in the capital.”

“We are supervising students.” Yuma’s eye twitched faintly as Yixiang hummed sarcastically. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yes, that was the goal.” Yixiang took a victorious sip of coffee. “Besides, this is objectively entertaining for everyone except the two of you.” Yuma stared at him blankly. Then went back to fixing the compass with significantly more force than necessary. “It’s like she’s your other half. You spend half your time arguing with her.”

“And you spend half your time arguing with Professor Byun.” Yuma replied smoothly. “Should I inform the academy you’re secretly in love as well?”

Yixiang looked offended. “That is entirely different.”

“Is it?” Yuma raised a brow at his colleague. 

“Yes.” He pointed toward himself proudly. “Our hostility has artistic depth.”

“You threw a textbook at him last month.”

“He threw it first.”

“You set his cape on fire.”

“He was being irritating.”

“And you,” came a voice from the doorway, smooth as silk, “have apparently mistaken arson for courtship.”

The office door stood partially open behind you, golden morning light spilling across the dark wooden floor. Beside you stood Professor Euijoo, posture immaculate as always, robes pristine. Unlike Yixiang, Euijoo looked composed down to the last thread. Which only made the faint twitch near his eye funnier.

Yixiang straightened immediately. “Professor,” he greeted brightly, as though he had not been discussing arson moments ago, “to what do we owe the pleasure?”

You stepped fully inside, arms folded loosely across your chest. “Professor Byun required access to Yuma’s archive records.” Your eyes flickered toward Yixiang knowingly. “Though now I’m wondering if we interrupted something intimate.”

“There is nothing intimate happening here,” Euijoo said flatly.

“Tragic life you live, Professor.” You replied sympathetically.

Yixiang pressed a hand dramatically over his heart. “Finally. Somebody understands me.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Yuma muttered.

You wandered further into the office leisurely, your gaze sweeping over the dismantled gadgets scattered across Yuma’s desk. “Wow,” you sighed, “it somehow became uglier overnight.”

“It’s called progress, princess.” Yuma gritted his teeth.

“It’s called visual assault, Nakakita.” You shot back and Yixiang snorted loudly, to which Yuma shot him a look. You leaned slightly over the desk to inspect the floating compass, the sleeves of your blouse slipping down your arms. “What’s this one for?”

“Directional mana tracking,” Yuma answered automatically before he could stop himself.

You hummed softly. “And does it actually work, or does it just explode?”

Euijoo looked between the three of you with increasing disappointment. “Do all transformation professors behave like unsupervised teenagers?”

“Yes.” You and Yixiang answered simultaneously. 

Euijoo sighed the sigh of a man abandoned by dignity itself and stepped toward Yuma’s shelves. “The archive reports?”

“Second cabinet.” Yuma pointed without looking. “Top drawer.” Euijoo moved toward it efficiently and Yixiang immediately followed. Uninvited.

“Euijoo,” he said conversationally, “if I died tragically in an explosion, would you mourn me?”

“No.”

“What if you caused the explosion?”

“No.”

“What if I left you my books?”

“I already own better books.” Euijoo sighed, looking ready to run away to a countryside barn and live his peaceful life far from Yixiang who was clutching dramatically at his chest, “You destroyed my lecture hall, you idiot.” Yixiang opened his mouth to argue further, only for Euijoo to grab the stack of archive reports from the cabinet with one sharp movement. “We’re leaving before you ignite something else.”

“You say the sweetest things to me.” Yixiang sighed, though you noticed the slight sparkle in his eyes. Euijoo looked physically pained. You smiled into your hand to hide another laugh, but your attention drifted elsewhere before you could stop it.

Unwillingly, to Nakakita Yuma. 

He had returned his focus back to the compass resting open on his desk, dark brows furrowed in concentration as he adjusted one of the inner mechanisms. The lightning orbs above cast silver light across the sharp lines of his face, catching against the bridge of his nose and the strands of dark hair falling over his forehead. Tiny pink sparks flickered beneath his gloves as mana moved through the machinery, illuminating the edges of his hands for fleeting seconds.

How irritatingly beautiful he was.

A thin sheen of sweat glimmered faintly near his temple from hours spent hunched over inventions since morning and you nearly swooned like a Victorian lady at the sight. He was truly terrible for your mind. Yuma suddenly glanced up directly at you. You looked away instantly.

“Are you staring at my equipment again?” he asked mildly.

“Your office is an eyesore,” you replied smoothly. “You should burn at least half these gadgets.”

“Oh?” He said calmly, “Why do you keep touching them, princess?” Before you could retaliate, Euijoo cleared his throat pointedly from the doorway, clearly deciding he’d witnessed enough strange behaviour for one morning. “Professor Astagne.”

“Right.” You adjusted your sleeves and stepped away from Yuma’s desk, though not before noticing the faintest twitch of amusement near his mouth.

Yixiang waved dramatically as you moved toward the door. “Goodbye! Try not to devastate our dear Nakakita too badly during the capital trip.”

“Try not to explode anything before lunch!” You returned sweetly.

Euijoo looked exhausted already. You fell into step beside him once outside the office, the heavy door shutting behind you with a soft click. The bustling sounds of Kairos returned—the hum of magic drifting through open corridors.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Euijoo sighed quietly. “I understand him now.”

You glanced sideways. “Understand who?”

“Yuma.” Your brows lifted faintly. Euijoo stared ahead with the expression of a man making peace

with a terrible truth. “You’re both exhausting.”

You burst into laughter again as the two of you disappeared down the corridor together.

__________

The morning Kairos departed for the capital arrived wrapped in gold.

Sunlight spilled across the academy towers in molten streaks, catching against stained glass windows and marble pathways until the entire campus seemed to glow with anticipation. Students flooded the courtyards in excited clusters, trunks levitating beside them with varying degrees of magical control. The air buzzed with noise, laughter, nerves and the crackle of unstable mana from overly excited third-years attempting to show off before departure. 

You descended the academy steps radiant enough to rival the damned sun itself. From where Yuma stood beside the luggage transport carriage, sleeves rolled as he loaded the last of the students’ trunks, his eyes lifted the moment you appeared at the top of the staircase.

Your cloak rested loosely over your shoulders, crimson fabric shifting around your legs as you walked down the stairs with sunlight caught in your hair. Tiny charms woven into your sleeves glimmered faintly with each movement, reflecting gold against your skin. Yuma looked away before he could embarrass himself.

“Well,” came Yixiang’s smug voice beside him, “that expression was horrifyingly fond.”

Yuma shoved another suitcase into the carriage harder than necessary. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He scoffed, “You take your meds today, Yixiang? You’re projecting again.” 

“I did take them, actually.” Yixiang smoothed down a stray hair, “And the only one projecting here are your sparkly eyes, Nakakita.”

Yuma ignored him with the long-suffering patience of a man who had considered murder multiple times before breakfast. Meanwhile, you reached the courtyard below and immediately became mobbed by students.

“Professor Astagne!” “Professor, is it true the royal palace has floating gardens?” “Professor, can you really turn someone into a frog permanently?”

“Only if they deserve it,” you answered solemnly. Several students looked delighted by this information. 

“Right!” Professor Sera’s voice cut sharply through the chaos. “Everyone collect your assigned transport groups immediately. We leave within the next ten minutes.” Students scattered at once. You adjusted your gloves absently as you approached the line of travelling vehicles waiting outside Kairos’ gates, then stopped. 

Carriages?

The world seemed to narrow all at once. Wooden wheels. Horse reins. The creak of leather. For one terrible moment, sunlight disappeared beneath memory—twisted metal. Shattered glass. Your sister’s hand limp in yours. Blood. “She could have been saved.”

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it felt difficult to breathe. No.

No no no—

You hadn’t prepared for this. Nobody told you it would be carriages. Your fingers curled into your sleeves as the cold spread sharply beneath your skin. Around you, students continued talking and laughing, utterly unaware of the sudden roaring sound filling your ears. A hand caught your wrist.

“Professor Astagne.”

You blinked sharply. Yuma stood beside you now, expression perfectly composed despite the sharpness in his eyes. “Honestly,” he sighed loudly enough for nearby students to hear, “must you stand in the middle of the pathway dramatically? Some of us are attempting to leave this century.”

A few students laughed nervously nearby. You realised what he was doing. Covering it up; giving you an exit before anyone noticed. Your throat tightened unexpectedly. Before you could respond, Yuma tugged you forward beside him, already continuing toward the front carriage as though nothing had happened.

Your feet obeyed automatically. The courtyard noise returned in scattered fragments as Yuma guided you alongside the line of waiting carriages, one hand still lightly closed around your wrist beneath the cover of your cloak. Students rushed past in excited clusters, trunks floating overhead, professors shouting instructions into the chaos.

His grip loosened only once you reached one of the front carriages—a polished black thing lined with silver detailing and enchanted lanterns hanging from either side. Without giving you enough time to think yourself into panic again, Yuma opened the carriage door and looked back at you expectantly. “Get in.”

“This isn’t my assigned carriage.” You blinked. “I was meant to ride with Euijoo.”

“And now you’re not.” 

Before you could argue further, Yuma gently but firmly ushered you inside. The interior smelled faintly of cedarwood, velvet seats lining either side beneath curtained windows. Your heartbeat still hadn’t fully steadied by the time you sat down stiffly against the seat. A second later, Yuma climbed in after you and shut the door behind himself. He sat opposite you calmly, adjusting his gloves as though none of this was remotely strange.

“Professor Nakakita.”

“Hm?”

“This is not your carriage either.” You said, trying to keep your voice as steady as possible, “You cannot simply steal transport assignments.”

“I absolutely can.”

Outside, muffled voices drifted through the carriage walls. Then suddenly a sharp knock against the window.

Yixiang’s deeply offended face appeared through the glass. “Why am I with Euijoo now?”

Yuma didn’t even blink. “Euijoo can survive your company for one carriage ride.”

From somewhere outside came Euijoo’s exhausted voice, “Unfortunately.”

Yixiang gasped dramatically. “You see how cruel he is to me?”

“Yes,” Yuma replied flatly through the door. “Go away.” The carriage jolted as Euijoo dragged Yixiang away from the window. Peace returned and you let out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding. Yuma’s attention shifted back toward you, that teasing edge from moments ago softening as he looked at you again.

“You’re pale,” he said quietly.

Outside, students continued loading luggage and climbing into transport groups. Horses shifted restlessly against stone pathways, leather harnesses creaking. Your stomach twisted again. The carriage dipped slightly as Yuma leaned forward, elbows resting loosely against his knees. His voice lowered carefully.

“Look at me.”

You hated how easily your eyes obeyed. His expression remained calm and steady—the same composed face he wore while solving magical equations or calming unstable mana reactions.

“You’re alright.” He repeated softly.

Your throat tightened painfully. “It was a long time ago,” you whispered, though the words sounded unconvincing even to yourself. You swallowed hard and looked down at your hands instead. “It’s stupid.”

“No.” He said immediately, his gaze not leaving yours. “It isn’t.” Since when had he sounded so damn gentle? Then Yuma leaned back against his seat and crossed his arms. “For what it’s worth,” he said lightly, intentionally shifting the atmosphere before you drowned in it completely, “if this carriage crashes, I’ll save you first.”

You stared at him flatly. “How romantic.”

Outside, Professor Sera’s voice rang through the courtyard. “All carriages depart immediately!” The horses shifted and the carriage lurched gently forward. Your fingers tightened against the velvet seat beside you and a second later, Yuma’s hand rested quietly over yours.

“This will be alright.” He said softly.

And somehow—with him sitting across from you like this—you almost believed it.

_________

If there was one thing they’d called you ever since you were a child, it was intuitive. 

Your grandmother used to say the Astagne bloodline carried a peculiar sensitivity toward the world around it—that transformation mages, by nature, understood change before it arrived. They sensed shifts in the atmosphere the way birds sensed storms.

As a child, you had known when servants were about to enter rooms before the doors opened. You knew when flowers in the garden would wilt days before they browned. Once, at eight years old, you had burst into tears during dinner because you claimed one of your father’s hunting hounds was going to die. It had collapsed from illness the next morning. You simply learned to trust the feeling because your intuition was rarely wrong.

Which was precisely why the sensation sitting at the bottom of your stomach now frightened you so deeply.

The carriage rolled steadily along the roads, wheels crunching over gravel pathways while golden morning light filtered through the curtains in shifting patterns. Outside, distant chatter drifted between the moving vehicles, accompanied by the sound of horses and rattling harness chains.

Everything appeared normal, peaceful even. And yet, something felt wrong, like the silence before lightning struck.

You sat stiffly against the seat, fingers curled into the fabric of your cloak as that awful feeling lingered beneath your ribs. The harder you tried to dismiss it, the worse it became. Was this fear? Trauma? Or intuition? You couldn’t tell anymore.

Across from you, Yuma sat with one leg crossed neatly over the other, a book resting open in his hands. He looked composed as always, dark eyes scanning lines of text while sunlight flickered intermittently across his face through the carriage window. At least, he looked focused, until the page stopped turning. His eyes lifted slowly from the book toward you.

Yuma watched the way your fingers tightened against your sleeve, the way your gaze kept drifting toward the windows and the subtle tension in your shoulders each time the wheels struck uneven ground. A small crease appeared between his brows.

Before Yuma could say anything, a sharp knock sounded against the front driver’s window. The small glass panel slid open with a creak, letting in a burst of cold air alongside the driver’s voice.

“Professors,” the older man called politely, reins gathered tightly in his gloved hands, “we’ll be entering the mountain pass shortly. The roads are snowy this time of year, so the carriage may become a little rough for a few minutes.”

Snow—you felt your heartbeat stumble against your ribs. You forced your expression into something smooth before Yuma could look too closely.

“That’s alright,” you answered lightly. “Thank you for the warning.” The driver nodded once before shutting the panel again. Silence returned, but it no longer felt calm.

The carriage rolled onward steadily for several moments before the terrain gradually began to change beneath the wheels. Smooth gravel paths gave way to rougher stone and uneven earth, the carriage swaying more noticeably with every turn. Outside the curtained windows, sunlight slowly dimmed beneath towering mountain shadows. Your breath caught as a white layer came into view. 

Snow blanketed the world beyond the glass in endless silver-white drifts, thick layers gathered across pine branches and rocky cliffsides alike. Frost clung to the carriage windows in crystalline patterns while cold mountain fog rolled slowly between the trees.

It was beautiful and horrifying. Suddenly all you could hear was splintering wood and metal bending. Your sister screaming once—only once—before silence swallowed everything whole. The carriage jolted sharply over uneven ground and you flinched. 

Across from you, Yuma closed the book in his lap quietly. He didn’t say your name, but you felt his eyes on you anyway. The carriage wheels crunched heavily through snow outside as the mountain road narrowed dangerously along steep cliffsides. Wind howled faintly beyond the carriage walls now, cold enough to rattle the lantern hooks overhead.

Your breathing had become too shallow. Every glimpse of snow beyond the window made your chest tighten worse. The same weather. The same roads. The same awful cold. Another rough jolt shook through the carriage and your hand shot toward the edge of the seat beside you to steady yourself.

Yuma’s hand closed quietly over yours again.  “It’s just snow,” he said softly.

“It wasn’t last time.” The words escaped before you could stop them. 

Outside, the mountain winds howled louder against the carriage walls as snow thickened along the narrow pass. The horses slowed over the icy road ahead, their harnesses rattling with every uneven turn. The carriage lurched violently sideways and your stomach dropped.

What if the wheels slipped? What if the axle cracked? What if the horses lost footing? What if— 

Another sharp jolt. Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

What if the road gave way? What if the carriage overturned? What if you were trapped again—cold hands, blood in the snow, your sister not moving…

You inhaled sharply. Nothing came in properly. The air suddenly felt too thin and too little. Your fingers trembled violently beneath Yuma’s grip as your thoughts spiralled faster and faster, each one crashing over the next before you could stop them.

What if the brakes failed? What if this mountain collapsed? What if everyone died because you ignored your intuition—

Your chest tightened so sharply it hurt. The carriage walls seemed smaller suddenly, the sound of the wheels unbearably loud. Your heartbeat thundered against your ribs so violently you could hear it. You tried breathing deeper. It didn’t work—the next inhale stuttered halfway. Your vision blurred faintly around the edges. Everyone was going to die.

Everyone was going to die and it was all because of you again as alway—

“Professor.” Yuma’s voice sounded distant. You shook your head quickly, one hand flying toward your chest as though physically holding yourself together might help. It didn’t. 

The carriage rocked again. Your breathing broke completely, your lungs refusing to cooperate no matter how desperately you tried to force air into them. Panic clawed viciously up your throat, hot and suffocating and impossible to outrun. The world tilted sickeningly.

“Sweetheart.” 

You barely registered movement before warmth suddenly settled around your shoulders. A cloak, heavy, dark, Yuma’s. The familiar scent of smoke and machine oil wrapped around you as he pulled the thick fabric securely over your shaking form. Your vision swam badly now. You couldn’t focus properly. Couldn’t breathe properly. What if the wheels—

“Look at me.”

Yuma’s voice cut through the panic sharply enough to catch your attention for half a second. You gathered all the strength left in you to look up. At some point during your spiralling thoughts, he had crouched in front of you despite the unstable road, one hand braced firmly against the seat beside your knee to steady himself as the carriage shook beneath you both. 

“Breathe for me, hmm?” 

You tried and your chest seized painfully instead. Another breath shattered halfway through. “I can’t—” 

“Yes, you can.” Yuma reached up, gloved hand resting carefully against the side of your face. Warmer than winter sunlight. “You’re here,” he said firmly. “Not there. Here.”

The carriage jolted again. You flinched violently. His grip on you tightened.

“The wheels are fine,” he continued before you could voice the fear aloud. “The road is stable. The horses are trained for mountain routes.” How did he always know? How did he always know exactly what terror lived inside your head? Your eyes burned suddenly.

“I can’t do this again,” you whispered brokenly.

Something inside Yuma’s expression cracked at that. “You are not going through that again,” he said quietly. The cloak around your shoulders tightened further as he pulled it closed against the cold. “Stay with me.”

Your breathing still came unevenly at first, sharp and shaking. Every inhale caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat, but Yuma remained steady in front of you through all of it, one hand warm against your cheek while the other held the cloak tightly around your shoulders.

“Good,” he murmured quietly as you managed a fuller breath this time. “Again.” The carriage continued rocking beneath the mountain road, though somehow the movement no longer felt quite so violent with his voice grounding you through it. “In.” You inhaled shakily. “Slowly.” The air burned less this time. “Out.” You exhaled weakly. 

Your vision remained blurred around the edges, exhaustion settling heavily into your bones now that the panic had begun loosening its claws from your chest. The adrenaline left you trembling in its wake, every muscle aching with the aftermath of fear. Another breath, slower now. Yuma’s thumb brushed lightly beneath your eye before you even realised tears had slipped free.

“You’re alright.” He repeated.

And this time, you almost believed him completely. The carriage swayed gently again over the snowy road, but your body no longer reacted with violent panic. Instead, exhaustion settled over you all at once, heavy and overwhelming. Your head dipped forward slightly and Yuma shifted closer, until your forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. One of his hands moved instinctively to the back of your head, fingers threading slowly through your hair.

Soft, so impossibly soft with you.

“You’ve exhausted yourself.” He murmured quietly above you. You made a faint sound that might have been agreement. Or protest. You weren’t entirely sure. Your eyes felt unbearably heavy now. “Sleep for a while.” Yuma said.

The hand in your hair continued its slow rhythmic motion, smoothing gently through the strands near your scalp in a way that made the lingering panic finally begin melting from your body completely.

Outside, snowstorms and mountain roads continued blurring past the carriage windows. Inside, however, warmth wrapped around you from every side. Your breathing slowed further. Your body gradually softened against him as exhaustion finally claimed victory over fear.

And just as your eyes slipped fully shut, the carriage emerged from the mountain pass. Sunlight flooded suddenly through the windows in brilliant golden streams, washing warmth across the dim carriage interior all at once. Snowy cliffs gave way to open skies and rolling hills beneath the afternoon sun.

Yuma looked down at the sudden brightness spilling across your sleeping figure curled against him. He smiled. That was exactly what you reminded him of. 

Sunlight. Warm enough to soften even the coldest things. Blinding enough to make people forget themselves entirely. 

And so very easy to love. 

___________

You were about to positively jump off the royal bell tower the second you got the chance. Because waking up curled against Nakakita Yuma’s chest had quite possibly been one of the most humiliating experiences of your academic career. 

The moment consciousness returned, you had frozen completely. Warmth, his coat beneath your cheek, one of his hands resting loosely against your waist beneath the cloak wrapped around you both. And worst of all—his heartbeat, a calm metronome near your ear. You had jerked upright so quickly you nearly concussed yourself against the carriage wall.

Yuma, infuriatingly enough, had merely opened one eye lazily from where he sat beside you and said, “Good afternoon.” As if you had not just spent god knows how long asleep on him. As if your dignity had not completely ascended into the heavens.

The rest of the journey afterward had been agonising. You spent nearly the entire ride staring stiffly out the carriage window while pretending immense interest in passing scenery. Forests. Rivers. Villages. One particularly ugly sheep. Anything except the man sitting beside you.

Meanwhile, Yuma simply returned to reading his book with the composure of a saint and the smugness of a devil. Occasionally, you could feel him glance at you over the top edge of the pages. Every single time, your ears grew hotter. Not one word about it was spoken. By the time the kingdom finally came into view at nightfall, you were mentally preparing your own funeral.

The capital glittered beneath the evening sky like spilled gold. Towering palace spires pierced the heavens in elegant silhouettes while thousands of enchanted lanterns illuminated the streets below in amber light. Marble bridges crossed glowing canals, music drifted through crowded plazas and distant bells echoed through the city air.

The carriages barely crossed the outer gates before royal attendants descended upon the exhausted students like a military operation. Trunks vanished and room assignments appeared and the students were herded toward the grand hotel adjacent to the palace district. By the time you finished ensuring your students were settled properly and not attempting illegal spellcasting from balconies, you felt half-dead. Unfortunately, the universe despised you personally.

Because upon receiving your own room assignment—you discovered your suite connected directly to Yuma’s through an adjoining door. Clearly the gods found your suffering entertaining. You had stared at the door for a solid thirty seconds after entering your room. Then contemplated murder.

Now, however, freshly bathed and wrapped in a silk robe, you sat before the vanity mirror near the hotel window, exhaustion slowly melting from your body beneath the warmth of candlelight. Your damp hair fell loosely as you unfolded the letter resting in your hands once more. 

Harua’s handwriting curved elegantly across the page, even his penmanship looked expensive. A small smile tugged faintly at your lips as your eyes skimmed the words. Harua had always written the way he spoke—warmly, dramatically, and with far too much gossip packed into one page.

You leaned back in the vanity chair with a tired sigh, the letter resting loosely between your fingers. Outside your window, the capital shimmered endlessly beneath the stars. For a brief moment, things almost felt peaceful. Three sharp knocks sounded against the adjoining door connecting your room to Yuma’s.

Peace was never an option with him around. 

“Come in before I change my mind.” You called lazily, eyes still scanning the final lines of Harua’s letter.

Yuma strolled inside with the kind of ease belonging only to people entirely too comfortable in your presence. You caught sight of him first through the vanity mirror. That certainly did not help your ongoing efforts to preserve your sanity.

He was dressed in a loose white shirt with the sleeves rolled carelessly to his forearms and black trousers sitting low against his hips. The top buttons of the shirt had been left undone, exposing just enough skin to make you suddenly remember you were, in fact, a mortal woman with weaknesses. His dark hair remained slightly damp from a shower, falling messily across his forehead instead of its usual composed styling. Yuma shut the door quietly behind himself before his eyes found you sitting at the vanity. A slow smile curved onto his face.

“Well,” he drawled, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, “that hardly seems fair.”

You lifted a brow at his reflection in the mirror. “What doesn’t?”

“You looking like that while I’m attempting to behave professionally.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Since when have you ever behaved professionally?”

“An excellent point.” His gaze lingered for a second too long over the silk robe draped around you before he pushed himself away from the doorframe and wandered further into the room.

Not once did he mention the carriage. Not your panic or the way you’d fallen asleep against him afterward, nothing. The silence surrounding it felt strangely intimate. Like something precious placed quietly between the two of you without needing acknowledgment.

“What’s that?” Yuma asked, glancing at the letter in your hands. 

“Harua wrote to me.” At that, Yuma’s expression shifted and you caught it immediately in the mirror. You smiled. Oh, this was far too easy. “My,” you hummed innocently, folding the letter carefully, “was that jealousy I just witnessed, Professor?”

Yuma scoffed softly. “Why would I be jealous?” He approached slowly behind you now, hands tucked loosely into his pockets as his reflection grew larger in the mirror.

“Perhaps,” you continued sweetly, “you’re threatened.”

“By a man who uses scented parchment?” Yuma stopped directly behind your chair then, gaze flickering over the open letter resting in your hands. “So this is Harua.” He murmured. “The palace advisor?”

“Assistant royal advisor,” you corrected. Your eyes narrowed at his reflection. “You sound awfully judgmental, Professor.” 

Yuma’s gaze lingered on your reflection quietly for a moment longer before he tilted his head slightly. “You look happy.”

The words caught you unexpectedly. You looked away first. “It’s been a while since I’ve been back here,” you admitted quietly. 

Yuma hummed softly behind you. A faint smile tugged at the corner of your lips. God that smile would kill you one day. 

“You really are beautiful like this, you know.”

The words, spoken so low and with such uncharacteristic softness, hung in the air between you. They were a different kind of magic, one that bypassed all your defenses and settled somewhere warm and vulnerable beneath your ribs. You couldn’t hold his gaze in the mirror any longer. You looked down at the folded letter in your hands, the expensive parchment suddenly feeling trivial. 

Yuma didn’t speak again. He simply stepped forward, closing the final distance. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, his touch firm and warm through the thin fabric. You watched his reflection as he leaned down, his eyes locked on yours in the glass.

Yuma’s lips met the side of your neck, just below your ear, just a soft press of warmth. Then he opened his mouth, and the wet heat of his tongue traced a slow path along your skin. A shiver, violent and delicious, racked your body. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second before you forced them open, determined to watch.

And god, he looked fucking divine.

In the mirror’s frame, you saw the intense focus on his face, the way his lashes lowered as he tasted you. You saw the corded strength in his forearms where his sleeves were rolled, the careless perfection of his disheveled hair. You saw the faint, possessive gleam in his eye when he caught you watching him watch you. He was devouring you, and he wanted you to see it.

Yuma sucked lightly, then soothed the spot with his tongue, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. One of his hands slid from your shoulder, down over the silk covering your arm, his fingers tracing idle, burning patterns.

“Mmm,” he hummed against your neck, the vibration going straight to your core. He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes again in the mirror. “You’re tense.” His lips curved against your skin. “Harua’s letters are that stimulating?”

“Bastard.” You whispered, but you arched your neck, giving him better access.

He took the invitation, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp before laving the sting away. Yuma’s free hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head further. “All those plans in your head,” he murmured between open-mouthed kisses along your throat. “All those cunning little performances. It must be exhausting.”

It was. The weight of the dukedom, the memories the city stirred, the performative grace of the palace—it was a cage of gilded pressure. And here he was, offering release.  

Yuma straightened, both hands returning to your shoulders, his thumbs kneading the tight muscles at the base of your neck. His eyes, still holding yours captive in the mirror, were serious now. “Would you like to destress, Professor?”

The answer was in the way your skin hummed under his touch, in the way your breath hitched, in the hungry way you were watching him. You let the last pretense fall away, your voice dropping to a low, wanting murmur. “Would I never say no to that?”

The decision had been made the moment he walked through your door. A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face in the reflection, all sharp edges and dark promise. His hands slid from your shoulders, down your arms. 

In one smooth motion, he leaned down again, his arms wrapping around you from behind. He didn’t kiss your neck this time. Instead, he pressed his lips to the shell of your ear, his voice a velvet-rough command that sent a fresh wave of heat straight through you.

“Then let’s forget about everything for a while hmm?” 

Your robe pooled around you, the fabric clinging to your curves like a second skin, the sash still loosely tied. Yuma knelt before you in one fluid motion, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud, his hands smoothing down your thighs, parting them with tenderness.

You watched him carefully—his dark eyes fixed on you, his lips parted, the hungry set of his jaw. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the inside of your left knee, then your right, working inward with a slow reverence that made your breath catch. 

His fingers hooked into the robe's hem, nudging it aside just enough to expose your core, the fabric bunched around your hips. Yuma inhaled deeply, his warm breath ghosting over your slick folds, and a low, appreciative hum vibrated from his throat.

"Already wet for me, sweetheart," he murmured, the words a soft growl against your skin, “You’re too sweet sometimes.” 

“Am I?” You hummed, lips curling to a smirk, “Or are you just that starved, professor?”“Oh?” Yuma tilted a brow, “Someone’s brave tonight.” 

“I’m always brave, Nakakita.” You scoffed, “You just don’t notic—” Of course the bastard shut you up with his tongue before you could finish. 

Yuma’s tongue flicked out, a single bold stroke that parted your lips and circled your clit with clinical precision. You gasped, your hands flying to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands. 

He moaned into you, the vibration sending a tremor through your entire body, and he repeated the motion, slower this time, savoring. Your grip tightened, tugging sharply as he lapped at your entrance, his tongue dipping inside before dragging back up to your clit. His moans grew louder, muffled against your pussy, the sound filthy and worshipful. 

Yuma buried his face deeper, his nose pressing against your mound as his tongue worked in frantic, circular patterns, alternating between broad licks and focused flicks. You ground down instinctively, your hips rolling against his mouth, and he let you take control, his hands gripping your ass to steady you as you rode his face.

"Fuck…ngh—Yuma…” You hissed, pulling his hair harder, forcing his mouth flush against your clit. 

Yuma groaned in response, the sound vibrating through your core, and he doubled his efforts—sucking your clit into his mouth, lashing it with his tongue, then diving back down to fuck you with his tongue deep inside. 

Your thighs trembled, clenching around his head, and you rode his face with abandon, the chair creaking beneath your frantic movements. Yuma pulled back just enough to breathe, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and desperate. 

Though what oxygen did he need when he was in the presence of your sweet cunt?

"That's it—use my mouth like a good little princess." He dove back in, his tongue spearing into you relentless, his thumb pressing on your clit to add pressure, “Mmh so sweet—cum for me, sweetheart.” 

You cried out, your release building like a tidal wave, and you yanked his hair so hard his scalp must have burned. He moaned into your pussy again, the sound pushing you over the edge.

Your climax crashed through you, your body arching, your thighs clamping around his head as you rode his face through every spasm. 

Yuma didn't stop—lapping, sucking, groaning against your slick flesh, drinking every drop until your shaking subsided. Only then did he lift his head, his chin wet, his lips swollen, his eyes full of possessive pride.

“Destressed yet?” Yuma pressed a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then murmured, "Or shall we go another round, professor?”You both knew you were going to have more than just one more round that night.

____________

“Never thought I’d live to see the day you actually step into the capital again.” Harua’s attentive eyes peered at you over the rim of his tea cup as he sipped at it, fondly inhaling the vapours of lavender. 

“And yet here we are.” You smiled, raising your own cup in an invisible toast. 

Around you the cafe was brim with calm catastrophe, conversation and a whole lot of charming confections. The golden sunlight of the afternoon filtered through the gold rimmed windows like light from the heavens, bathing everything—customers and cakes alike—in a radiant sparkly blanket. 

It was a familiar place to you; in the past you’d hang out here almost every other day with Harua when you were both stupid teenagers who had no idea what they were going to do with their life. The cafe’s moonstone layered floor held emotions of every memory—from innocent happiness to teenage angst to gory grief. You could point out the exact place you’d once sat at after your sister passed, and all your stomach could take was tea but Harua had forced down a cupcake telling you that you looked worse than a blue finned fish. 

Now he sat in front of you, picking at the exact same cupcake (his preferences stayed suspiciously constant), dressed in royal blue robes with a silver brooch pinned to his chest—the symbol representing King Fuma. Though he claimed very humbly to be the assistant royal advisor, you knew that sharp tongue of his—sharper than a freshly made quill—was the reason Fuma was renowned for his strategic decisions regarding kingdom welfare. More so, you knew your childhood best friend could make even a spy his friend.

Which was perhaps why he controlled the espionage sector at the palace. Harua certainly was more than he showed himself to be—the youngest member of the royal council. And apparently the perfect candidate to have apprentices only a few months younger than him. 

“Maki put that down.” Harua sighed, glaring over the rim of his teacup. Across the table, Maki froze mid-motion with an entire sugar sculpture swan halfway off the dessert tray.

“I was observing it.” He defended solemnly.

“With your mouth?” Harua deadpanned.

Beside him, Taki continued eating quietly with the expression of a man long accustomed to this exact situation. His black hair fell into his eyes as he calmly slid the dessert tray further from Maki’s reach without even looking up.

“Why are you encouraging him?” Taki remarked flatly toward you. “You’re both terrible influences.”

The capital outside buzzed faintly beyond the windows, though here inside everything felt pleasantly suspended in time. You hadn’t realised how much you missed this place until now, the familiarity of it settling somewhere deep in your chest.

Harua watched you over his teacup for a moment before speaking again. “You look less homicidal than usual.”

“What a lovely thing to say to an old friend.”

“It’s true.” He set the cup down delicately onto its saucer, silver rings glinting against slender fingers. “You disappeared from the capital after the funeral and returned looking ready to set Parliament on fire.” Harua tilted his head slightly. “This is an improvement.”

You looked down briefly at the lavender-hued tea swirling in your cup. The funeral—the word still felt heavy. Taki and Maki exchanged a subtle glance beside Harua before tactfully redirecting their attention toward the pastries instead. They knew, not details perhaps, but enough. Harua always surrounded himself with people he trusted absolutely, which meant they were intelligent enough not to pry.

Harua’s sharp eyes flickered over your face briefly before he leaned back into his chair. “Well,” he said smoothly, “if your plan to overthrow your family’s entire worldview is still progressing, you’ve picked an excellent week for it.”

You leaned forward, the smile of a 16 year old creeping back to your face. How you missed your conversations with your assassin of a friend.  “Who’s attending?” Harua’s smile turned slow and dangerous. Now there was the royal advisor.

“The entire upper court, for starters. Half the noble houses are attending specifically because Kairos is visiting.” He ticked points off elegantly against his fingers. “Three foreign ambassadors. The western trade ministers, several military advisors. And,” he added lightly, “your grandmother.”

“When did she arrive?” you asked.

“This morning.” The Astagne matriarch never arrived anywhere quietly. Harua studied your expression with quiet attentiveness. “She’s already aware you’re here.”

You leaned back slowly in your chair, fingers resting loosely around your teacup as thoughts began moving rapidly behind your composed expression. A ball and a court, bread and circuses, how perfect.

“That look is precisely why the royal family both adores and fears you.” Harua sighed softly. 

“Only fears?” you asked dryly.

Maki, mouth already full of stolen pastry despite previous warnings, pointed vaguely at you with a fork. “For what it’s worth,” he mumbled, “I think overthrowing old corrupt noble systems is very brave.”

Harua closed his eyes briefly. “You cannot say things like that in public.”

“But he’s right.” Taki tilted his head to the side, resembling an oversized puppy.

“You’re both terrible apprentices.”

“You raised them.” You smiled sweetly into your tea. 

Harua looked deeply tired all at once, looking at his apprentices with their mouths covered in sifting sugar.  “I’m assuming you can see who’s waiting outside the cafe, professor?” Harua said, taking a bite of his cupcake, on whose icing Taki and Maki’s were fixed.

“Professor?” You chuckled, maintaining eye contact, “Since when do you call me professor?” 

“Since you started terrifying impressionable young minds professionally.” Harua took another delicate bite of his cupcake while beside him Taki physically wrestled a sugar-coated spoon out of Maki’s hands before he could commit further crimes against public dignity.

The assistant royal advisor, meanwhile, remained entirely unbothered. That was another thing about Harua. Nothing ever truly escaped his attention. Neither politics nor spies and certainly not the man currently lingering outside the café window pretending very badly to admire flower arrangements. You didn’t turn immediately. You already knew. Harua would never have mentioned it otherwise.

Instead, you stirred your tea lazily, watching the liquid swirl against porcelain while afternoon sunlight warmed the table between you all. “How long has he been there?” you asked.

“Since approximately three minutes after you arrived.”

Taki finally glanced toward the café windows. “Tall one by the fountain?”

Maki looked delighted. “Oh, I thought he was an assassin.”

“Aren’t spies technically assassins with better manners?” you mused.

Outside, the capital continued moving in elegant chaos. Nobles wandered crowded streets draped in expensive fabrics, royal guards crossed marble bridges in gleaming uniforms and somewhere nearby a violinist played softly enough to drift into the café whenever the doors opened.

And beside the fountain across the street stood Asakura Jo. Tall and still, dressed in dark robes sharp enough to blend into any crowd while simultaneously commanding attention. Black hair framed his features and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, his posture remaining perfectly composed despite the bustling city around him. An Astagne spy through and through. You had known Jo since childhood. Which unfortunately meant you also knew he never appeared without reason.

“That eager to see me, hm?” Your eyes flickered toward the window finally. The moment your gaze landed on him, he straightened subtly and inclined his head once in acknowledgment. “Well,” you murmured, setting your teacup down carefully, “there goes the remainder of my peaceful afternoon.”

Maki looked genuinely sympathetic. “Should we fake your death?”

Harua pinched the bridge of his nose. “You cannot suggest assassination every time inconvenience appears.”

Taki quietly raised a hand without looking up from his pastry. “Statistically speaking, Maki is unfortunately correct.”

“You see what I endure?” Harua said to you tiredly.

“You trained them.” A laugh escaped you softly as you rose from your seat, smoothing down the fabric of your coat.

“A mistake I regret hourly.”

Outside the window, Jo remained unmoving near the fountain, a shadow summoned by blood itself.  You reached into your pocket and tossed a few gold coins onto the café table before Harua could object. Then paused briefly beside him. “You’ll attend the ball?” you asked quietly.

Harua looked up at you, sharp eyes gentling faintly. “Of course.” A small smile touched his mouth. “Somebody has to witness your catastrophes.”

You snorted softly before turning toward the cafe doors. As you stepped outside into the golden afternoon light, the city noise swelled around you. Jo’s dark eyes lifted to meet yours from across the street. 

You gave the smallest tilt of your head and the spy pushed himself silently away from the fountain at once. You crossed the street, the noise of the capital swelling around you in elegant chaos. Jo met you halfway.

Up close, he looked exactly as you remembered—tall enough to cast shadows over most people, clothes immaculate despite the crowded city streets and sharp black eyes trained instinctively on everything around him. The Astagne family had always preferred their spies intimidating and Jo excelled at it effortlessly.

And yet, the moment you smiled brightly at him, genuine warmth curling across your face, the man visibly blinked in surprise. People often forgot that spies were easiest to read when nobody expected them to be human.

“Well,” you said lightly, folding your hands behind your back as you fell into step beside him, “you look horrifying as ever.”

Jo stared at you for half a second longer before a faint exhale escaped him, “Lady Astagne.”

“Oh don’t sound so formal.” You nudged his arm lightly with your elbow as the two of you began weaving through the busy streets together. “We’ve known each other since I was small enough to bite people.”

“You did bite people.” Jo shook his head faintly, though the sharpness in his posture had softened ever so slightly already. As if he didn’t bite people alongside you. 

The Astagne family hotel stood further within the upper district of the capital, close enough to the palace to remind everybody exactly how influential your bloodline remained. You could already see portions of its towering ivory exterior between the buildings ahead.

For a while, the two of you walked in a comfortable quiet. Then softly, you asked, “How’s your mother?”

“She’s…” He paused briefly. “managing.”  

Your chest tightened. You glanced toward him carefully as the two of you crossed a marble bridge overlooking one of the city canals below. “The illness worsened?”

A muscle ticked once in Jo’s jaw before he nodded faintly. “She can barely stand some mornings now.”

The afternoon suddenly felt colder. You knew his mother. She used to sneak sweets into your pockets when your grandmother wasn’t looking—a gentle woman with tired eyes and soft hands perpetually smelling of herbs.  And like most Astagne household servants—she obeyed the family traditions absolutely. No modern medicine, no scientific intervention and no exceptions. Even if it killed them. 

Jo kept his eyes ahead as he spoke again, quieter now. “She refuses outside treatment.” Of course she did. Because generations of fear and loyalty ran deep enough to become religion inside the Astagne estate. 

Casually—as though adjusting your sleeve, you slipped a small glass vial from the hidden pocket inside your coat, clear liquid shimmering inside. If there was one thing Byun Euijoo was useful for, it was cooking up medicine. 

Jo’s eyes widened slightly. “My lady—”

“Don’t be dramatic,” you murmured under your breath, pressing the vial discreetly into his gloved hand as pedestrians passed around you. “It’s only a month’s dosage.”

Jo looked genuinely alarmed now. “If the matriarch finds out—”

“She won’t.” You continued walking smoothly as though nothing had happened.

Jo remained frozen beside you for half a second before hurrying to catch up. “My lady,” he repeated quietly, voice rougher now, “you shouldn’t—”

“You know,” you interrupted lightly, gaze fixed ahead, “when I was younger, I used to think loyalty meant dying for people.” The city wind stirred gently through your hair as you spoke. “Now I think it means wanting them to live.”

Jo stared at the small vial hidden carefully within his palm. You smiled faintly without looking at him. “Don’t tell anybody.”

Something complicated flickered across the spy’s expression then. Gratitude? Guilt? Or perhaps loyalty? You’d have loved loyalty. 

“Yes, my lady.” He said softly and it no longer sounded like obedience to the Astagne family. It sounded like obedience to you. And fuck did that power feel so delicious.

__________

You’d always hated the colour red. No matter how many times you wore it, there was always a faint dislike for the hue settled deep in your heart. Sitting in front of your grandmother in a room colored entirely in that shade of blood, you understood why. 

Red meant the Astagne family. And the Astagne family meant blood splattered across the bones of the innocent. 

Rich crimson drapes cascaded from towering windows embroidered in gold thread, heavy enough to block sunlight entirely. Red velvet furniture sat arranged with oppressive elegance across polished floors while ruby chandeliers burned overhead like suspended drops of blood. Even the tea served before your grandmother carried a reddish tint from imported herbs.

Everything in the room screamed Astagne—power, purity, control.

You sat perfectly poised across from your grandmother with your ankles crossed neatly and your hands resting gracefully in your lap. The Astagne matriarch watched you over the rim of her teacup with terrifyingly sharp eyes. Time had silvered her hair and thinned her frame but nothing—not death, nor illness, nor gods themselves—had managed to dull the sheer force of her presence. 

“You’ve grown thinner.” She remarked coolly.

“And you’ve grown ruder with age.”

Unexpectedly your grandmother smiled into her tea. “You sound more like your sister every year.”

The words struck cleanly beneath your ribs but you maintained your expression flawlessly. Years of noble training had made sure of that. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silence settled briefly between you both while servants moved quietly around the suite pouring tea and adjusting candles. None of them spoke above whispers in your grandmother’s presence. Fear had a way of shrinking people.

“So,” the matriarch said eventually, setting her cup down with delicate precision, “tell me about Kairos.”

You nearly laughed; there it was—the real conversation. You smiled politely instead. “It remains chaotic as ever.”

“And Nakakita Yuma?”

Your fingers almost tightened against your lap. You exhaled sharply through your nose in practiced annoyance. “Insufferable.”

A flicker of approval crossed her sharp features already. “He still insists on poisoning young minds with machinery and mathematical theory?”

“Oh constantly.” You scoffed dramatically, leaning back slightly in your chair. “You’d think he personally invented mana itself with the way he lectures.”

In your mind flashed the image of him half-undressed in your office. Shirt loose at the collar exposing his neck, dark eyes, his mouth against yours whispering the filthiest pieces of poetry. Let’s forget about everything for a while, hmm? You took a calm sip of tea.

“Last week he implied transformation magic was becoming obsolete.” You sighed deeply. A blatant lie. But your grandmother’s expression hardened nonetheless. Excellent. 

“Arrogant boy,” she murmured coldly. 

“Oh, impossibly so.” You shook your head with theatrical irritation. “If he speaks about ‘mana efficiency’ to me one more time, I may actually kill him.” Another lie, because unfortunately you rather enjoyed listening to him speak.

Especially when his voice dropped low and soft against your throat. And when he moaned high right at your ear before he licked a stripe up your neck—you really are beautiful like this, you know. 

Your grandmother watched you carefully for a long moment. Then she laughed—a sound that startled even the servants. “You hide it well.” She observed. “The temper.” Her sharp eyes gleamed faintly. “The temper that runs through this family.”

Ah. Not the kisses then……shame.

“You remind me very much of myself at your age.” Your grandmother rarely complimented anybody. The old woman leaned back slowly into her chair, studying you.  “You’ve represented the family well these past months,” she said calmly. “Public opinion continues improving.” 

Of course it did. The brilliant young Astagne professor opposing dangerous modern magic beside the kingdom’s most infamous scientific mage? People adored that narrative. You had crafted it carefully. Piece by piece. Lie by lie.

Kiss by kiss.

Your grandmother continued quietly, “The court speaks highly of you.” You lowered your gaze modestly despite the triumphant pulse already beginning beneath your skin. “And,” she added, “I believe the time may soon come to formally announce my successor.” Your heartbeat thundered once.

There it was. There it fucking was.

Years of careful performance. Years of smiling through grief and fury and hatred. Years of pretending. All crystallising into this moment. You looked back up at her.

“I would be honoured, grandmother.”

The old woman nodded, satisfied, proud and deceived. The meeting continued a little longer after that but the moment you stepped back out into the hotel corridors, the pressure in your chest finally released. Victory tasted sharp and electric beneath your tongue. Your heels clicked against polished floors as you walked away from the crimson suite with your head held high.

The servants bowed lower when you passed now. Even Jo standing near the staircase looked at you differently. Not merely as the matriarch’s granddaughter, but as something approaching inevitable.

And god, you hated how fucking amazing it felt.

_________

“Yuma you do realise we’re supposed to parade as enemies?” “I am aware.” The professor beside you glanced sideways without the slightest bit of shame.

“Then why,” you said slowly, eyeing the alarming lack of distance between your shoulders, “are you walking like you’re attached to me by divine decree?”

Around you, the capital’s main market square surged with life. The students had scattered almost immediately upon arrival—some crowding around enchanted jewellery stalls while others lost their minds over magically animated desserts and street performers conjuring miniature dragons from sparks of mana.

Somewhere to your left, Euijoo was already stopping two students (and one puppy-eyed Wang Yixiang) from attempting to purchase illegal spell crystals. Peacefully, of course, as peacefully as a man could while questioning every life decision he had ever made.

“You’re exaggerating,” Yuma replied calmly.

The bustling square wrapped around you both in waves of sound and colour; merchants yelling over one another, magical trinkets glittering beneath hanging lanterns and the scent of baked sugar and smoke drifting warmly through the air. Above the market, long banners embroidered with the royal crest fluttered lazily in the wind. It would have felt almost relaxing—if Yuma was not currently invading every inch of your personal space.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “You’re impossible.”

“Should have said that two nights ago too, princess.” He mused, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

You looked moments away from shoving him directly into a fountain. Before you could, however, your expression shifted slightly. Then you leaned closer just enough for only him to hear. “It’s fine anyway.” Yuma’s gaze flickered toward you. You kept your eyes ahead casually as you continued walking through the crowded market together. “Harua helped, and Jo.” Understanding crossed his face almost instantly.