.•:｡✧ ♡ ✧｡:•

His hand rested possessively on the small of your back; you'd caught his eye once, and the promise there made your stomach flip. This tour had been a whirlwind of stolen moments: quickies in dressing rooms, heated makeouts in tour buses. But tonight, he had other plans.

Minho's room is at the end of the hall, the one with the killer view all the guys envied during check-in. As you reach the door, he fishes the keycard from his pocket, flashing you a sly grin.

“Night, guys,” he calls over his shoulder, his voice carrying that signature playful lilt. The members murmur their goodnights, dispersing to their own rooms with tired waves and a few lingering laughs.

Chan claps Minho on the back. “Get some rest. We've got soundcheck early.”

Minho nods, but his eyes are already on you, dark and intent, like he's been holding back all night.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the world. The room is massive, all sleek modern lines and muted luxury. But it's the floor to ceiling windows that dominate, stretching from the king-sized bed to the far wall, offering an unobstructed panorama of the city below. Traffic crawls like fireflies, distant figures hurrying along sidewalks, unaware of what’s about to unfold above them. Minho locks the door, turns, and his gaze locks on you—intense, predatory.

"Finally, alone," he murmurs, his voice low and teasing as he steps closer.

His hands find your waist, pulling you flush against him, and before you can respond, his lips crash into yours. Minho's tongue slips past your lips, demanding, exploring, before his teeth graze your lower lip in a sharp bite that makes you gasp.

He chuckles against your mouth, the sound vibrating through you. "That's it, make those pretty sounds for me."

His fingers dig into your hips, holding you in place as he deepens the kiss, biting down again, harder this time, tugging your lip between his teeth until it stings. You whine softly, and his eyes darken with satisfaction. He loves that—your little whines, the way they betray how much you crave him.

“Little minx.” He grabs your hand, pulling you deeper into the room.

The space is opulent: a sitting area with a leather couch, a minibar stocked to the brim, and that bed—massive, with crisp white sheets begging to be ruined. But Minho bypasses it all, heading straight for the windows.

“Kitten,” he murmurs, voice rough from the performance, stepping close.

His fingers trace your jaw, tilting your face up for a kiss that's all heat and demand. Tongues tangle, his body pressing you back toward the windows. You taste the adrenaline on his lips and feel his cock hardening against your thigh through his jeans.

He breaks the kiss, lips trailing to your ear. “I've been half-hard all-night thinking about this. Fucking you right here, where anyone could look up and see.”

The little gasp you let out has him smirking. Minho's mouth trails down your jaw, hot and insistent, nipping at your skin before he reaches your neck. He sucks hard, right at the pulse point, his tongue flicking over the spot as he draws out a mark that'll bloom purple by morning.

Another bite, deeper, and you moan, the sound echoing in the quiet suite. He spins you around, pressing your back to his chest, his arms banding around you. From here, the view hits you full force—the endless sprawl of lights, the distant hum of life. Minho's breath is hot against your neck. His hand slides up, fingers wrapping around your throat—not squeezing yet, just holding, a promise of what's coming.

“Look at that,” he whispers, his other hand sliding up to cup your breast through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple until it hardens. “All those people down there. They have no idea what's about to happen up here.”

Minho rests his chin on your shoulder. “Perfect spot, isn't it? No curtains to hide behind.”

He grinds his hips into your ass, his dick now fully hard, and he bites your neck again, sucking until you're arching into him.

Your body responds before your mind can catch up, a needy whimper escaping as his teeth graze your shoulder. “Minho...” His name is a plea, but he just laughs softly, nuzzling your hair.

“Are you already wet for me, kitten? Thinking about having all those eyes on you?” he taunts.

“Yes,” you admit, voice breathy. The truth is, the risk turns you on more than you want to say.

His fingers slip under your skirt, moving your underwear to the side and then sliding between your folds, finding your clit and circling it slowly. You buck against his hand, slickness coating his digits.

He groans, pumping two fingers inside you, curling them just right to make you moan.

“Fuck, you're soaked. You like the idea of getting caught, don't you? Dirty little kitten, getting off on strangers seeing me stretch this tight pussy.” He thrusts his fingers deeper, and you cry out, hands bracing against the glass. The cool surface shocks your palms, but it grounds you as pleasure builds.

Minho pulls his fingers free abruptly, bringing them to your lips. “Taste yourself.”

You suck them clean, eyes locked on his reflection in the glass, the act making your core clench.

“That's my good kitten,” he murmurs, but he's not satisfied yet.

Your heart is pounding against your chest, the thrill of it all making you ache deep in your belly when Minho gives his next order. “I want your clothes off. Now.”

His hands find your waist, grabbing the hem of your shirt as he lifts, pulling it over your head. Then he works on your bra, practiced fingers easily unhooking it. Next goes your skirt and underwear, leaving you completely bare before the window.

Minho presses a chaste kiss to your cheek as his hands wander your body. “Hands on the glass, ass out. Bend for me.”

You comply, palms flattening against the cold pane, arching your back. The chill seeps into your skin, contrasting the fire building inside.

Minho steps up behind you, pressing himself into you, letting you feel his throbbing cock. “Look down there, kitten. All those people. Imagine if one glances up—sees you spread open, begging for my dick.”

He slaps your ass lightly, the sting blooming into heat. You whimper, pushing back against him.

“Please, Minho—” you whine, pushing back against him.

The city sprawls out below, a sea of lights and distant figures—anyone who looked up could see you like this, splayed out, vulnerable. The thought makes your heart pound, a mix of fear and thrill that Minho knows you love. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your hips as he grinds his still-clothed erection against your ass.

“Let them watch,” he growls into your ear, nipping at the lobe before his fingers dig into your thighs, spreading them wider.

You hear the zipper of his pants, the rustle of fabric, and then he's free—his cock pressing hot and insistent against your entrance. He doesn't tease for long; just enough to get himself slick with your juices, stretching you full in a single stroke.

You cry out, the sound muffled against the window as he sets a punishing rhythm, slamming into you from behind. Each thrust jolts your body forward, your breasts rubbing against the glass, nipples hardening from the friction and exposure. Minho's hand snakes around to your throat again, pulling your head back slightly so he can bite at your shoulder, marking you anew while he fucks you deep and relentless.

“Whine for me,” he demands between grunts, his hips snapping harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the room. Your moans spill out uncontrollably, high and needy, as he drives you toward the edge, the risk of being seen only heightening every sensation.

Minho's teeth graze the side of your neck, sharp and teasing, before he sinks them in just hard enough to make you gasp, the sting blooming into heat as his tongue follows, sucking greedily at the skin. He leaves another dark bruise there, claiming you with every pull of his mouth while his cock drives deeper into your pussy, each thrust a deliberate grind that hits that spot inside you over and over. The rhythm is merciless, his hips snapping forward with a force that rocks your body against the window.

His free hand abandons your hip, sliding around your front to find your clit, fingers circling it roughly, slick with your arousal. He pinches and rubs in tight, insistent strokes, matching the pace of his pounding thrusts, pushing you higher with every touch.

“Come on, kitten,” he growls against your neck, his breath hot and ragged, voice laced with that commanding edge that makes your walls clench around him. “I want to feel you shatter.”

His mouth marking your throat, his fingers working your swollen clit, his thick length stretching and filling you builds the pressure unbearably fast makes your moans turn into desperate whines that fog the glass.

You can't hold back; the orgasm crashes through you like a wave, your pussy spasming around his cock as you cry out, body trembling and arching back into him. Waves of pleasure pulse from your core, making your legs shake, but Minho doesn't let up, thrusting through your climax, drawing it out until you're oversensitive and whimpering.

Only then does he pull out with a wet slide, his hand fisting his cock as he pumps himself once, twice. Hot spurts of cum land across your ass, painting your skin in sticky ropes that drip down your cheeks, marking you in yet another way. He leans in close, his chest heaving against your back, lips brushing the fresh bite on your neck as he catches his breath.

Taglist:

you're somehow in a situation where you're both having a heated banter about something related to greek mythology.

"so you think humans are better than gods?"

"obviously not. gods literally control everything."

"yeah, and they're also emotionally unstable TODDLERS with lightning."

"brave of you to insult zeus while drinking wine, sweetheart."

you dramatically bring your hand to your chest, your eyes wide as you stare at chan. "he literally cheated on everyone he's ever loved. i'm allowed to insult him."

"you're just jealous he could pull."

"no," you tilt your head to look at your boyfriend, the ladle forgotten in the pasta dish as you turn to face him. "i'm judging his personality, not his terrible taste in women."

"terrible?" he questions, walking you against the counter beside him, propping you up and placing you on it. chan leans in to place an open-mouthed kiss onto your shoulder, his hands rubbing the sides of your thighs as he stands between your legs.

"don't argue with me," you pout, still a bit tipsy on the wine you were both having. you've almost finished the bottle now, you notice as you reach for it. chan lifts the shirt up just a little, reaching to play with your nipples, earning a moan from you; his other hand reaches to pull your soaked panties to the side, teasing your clit just a little, enough to get a reaction from you.

your fingers grip the bottle tighter as you look into his eyes. "you like it when i argue with you, bub. don't you? gets you really needy, and wet for me." he mumbles into your skin, his thumb rubbing your clit, switching between rubbing and pinching. you whine, dropping the bottle onto the counter next to you, gripping onto chan's bare shoulders. your nails now digging into his skin.

"s-still sensitive," you whimper into his mouth as he presses soft kisses to your lips. "yeah? that didn't stop you 15 mins ago when you were crying out my name. i know you have it in you, one more. hm?"

your legs come to wrap around his waist, bringing him closer to you - close enough to feel his boner against your thigh.

"o-one more," you nod, letting him carry you back into your bedroom, pasta long forgotten now.

"we'll see about that, sweetheart."

Paris had a way of dressing its sins in velvet and lace. By day, it smelled of bread ovens, horse leather, and wet stone. Ladies walked beneath parasols while gentlemen debated politics in polished salons. But by night, gas lamps flickered along the boulevards like strings of captive stars behind iron balconies and lace curtains; the city hummed with secrets that smelled faintly of floral perfume, cigar smoke, and danger. A city that understood hunger; this was the city where Hyunjin belonged.

The aristocracy treated him like an exquisite poison too fascinating to avoid but too dangerous to trust. In the upper districts, where the old nobility still clung to their titles like heirlooms that refused to tarnish, no one said his full title unless necessary. In salons and parlors, he was spoken of the way people spoke of ghosts that would only cause one harm if they were invoked unnecessarily.

A nobleman. An artist of startling brilliance and, if the whispers were to be believed, something else entirely. Something not meant to walk among ordinary people, an Oddinary who had found the favor of King Louis XIV only to remain in Paris for the next few lifetimes.

He lived in a tall, narrow house near Montmartre, where painters, poets, and creatures like him drifted through the dark hours. His studio windows burned with candlelight long after the rest of the street had gone quiet. It was where the air smelled of oil paint, sulfur matches, and canvas. Your father owned a modest bookbinding shop nearby, and when business was slow, you sometimes busied yourself by carrying finished work to clients yourself. That was how you ended up climbing the narrow stairs of a studio on Rue des Abbesses, clutching a sketchbook, carefully wrapped in brown paper and twine, someone from the aristocracy had commissioned.

You expected a servant to answer the door. Instead, it opened to reveal him.

He stood barefoot on the wooden floor, tall, ethereally pale, with a spill of dark hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck with a long velvet ribbon. His shirt sleeves were rolled, streaked with old paint and charcoal. Behind him, the studio looked like a battlefield between inspiration and chaos where both sides were losing to procrastination or perhaps indecision. Paintings leaned against the walls. Half-finished canvases glowed under the soft winter light. Hyunjin himself stood in the middle of it all like something that had stepped out of a myth and forgotten how to return.

His eyes lingered on you a moment too long. Not rudely, just curiously like a cat watching something small and unexpected wander into its territory. Your fingers gripped your parcel tightly, caught mid-breath; you felt a strange mix of darkness and decadence swirl around you.

“You’ve brought the sketchbook,” he said softly; his voice had the smoothness of aged wine.

You nodded cautiously and held it out. “From Monsieur Lenoir’s bindery.”

Hyunjin took it from your hands, his fingers brushing yours for only the briefest moment, but something inside your chest fluttered strangely, like a candle wick catching flame for the first time. It was intoxicating. He noticed; you knew he had because the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly, making him look strangely hungry.

You told yourself you would not think about him again. You were sensible, practical, a daughter of the working bourgeoisie with responsibilities and a future that did not include mysterious noblemen with dangerously strange lilac-hued eyes.

But Paris had its own sense of humor. Hyunjin returned to the shop a week later with another collection of sketches that needed binding. His conversation with your father was held in hushed voices too quiet for you to decipher, but you felt his eyes follow you.

Then again, the week after, with several old leather-bound books that needed to be repaired, the faded and split covers were evidence of their repeated use. Your father adored him and everything he could bring you; nobility meant prestige, and prestige meant more money to raise your station.

Occasionally, Hyunjin would appear with no clear reason at all, browsing the shelves of your father’s store as though he was searching for the perfect gift. You tried not to watch the way Hyunjin watched you, tried not to notice how he always seemed a little too close when speaking. It was hard not to remember the faint burst of warmth that lingered when his fingers brushed yours again, like the kiss of a spring breeze as the seasons changed. Each time he was slightly too close, you would feel your heart flutter once again.

Paris was not subtle with its rumors, and you learned the truth quickly after Hyunjin began appearing at your father's shop more frequently. Ordinaries were rare among the aristocracy. His kind lived on desire, affection, and the intimate surrender of human hearts and bodies. Not always violently, sometimes gently but always inevitably. This had made your decision absolute, until it was no longer your choice.

That was how you ended up climbing the narrow stairs of a studio on Rue des Abbesses, for a second time in the rain-silvered afternoon light. The bundle of repaired first editions wrapped in a silk scarf, once again you knocked, but this time when the door slowly opened you stepped forward, crossing the threshold that would be your downfall.

Hyunjin leans against the window frame, his silk waistcoat unbuttoned just enough to be scandalous, a smirk gracing his plump lips. He looked like something that had stepped out of a myth and forgotten how to return. Your mouth felt too dry as his eyes wandered your form.

“Your father is very diligent to return my books so quickly,” he murmured, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Does he know where he sends his precious daughter?”

You swallowed and took a fortifying breath. “No, sir, I do not believe so.” You held the parcel out to him, and he stepped towards you with an elegance that was impossible, inhuman.

His voice lowered as he took the books from you, tossing them towards a sheet-covered chaise. “But you do, don’t you?”

You couldn’t move even as his long, graceful fingers brushed against your wrist. “Yes,” you breathed unevenly. His smile grew, but it showed no warmth, only something more accustomed to hunger. His fingers encircled your wrist, tugging you into him, catching you as you stumbled before he pressed his lips to yours. His kiss is not gentle; it's consuming. The way he tilts your face, the way he holds you to him, is all him keeping you under his intoxicating spell. His tongue sweeps across your bottom lip, demanding entrance, and you submit, letting him take what he wants from you in the few minutes you have before he pulls himself back to his senses and pushes you away.

Confused and discombobulated, you flee his home, tripping on the steps and skittering on the wet cobblestones until you find yourself grasping the handle of your father’s store, safety mere inches away. The pattern continues over the next few weeks: Hyunjin returns to grant your father his business, your father, in his gratitude, finishes the work he is given, and Hyunjin returns to receive his items. Until one evening, as dusk folded over the rooftops.

It was the third time that you had climbed those cursed steps to his home, Hyunjin opening the door before you even knocked. “I wondered how long it would take,” he murmured silkily. You stepped inside, letting the door click behind you in a sound that rang with finality.

Hyunjin pulled you against him once more, his fingers grasping your hair to tug your face upward, his lips bruising against yours. In a matter of moments, you found yourself lifted and then dropped onto the plush velvet of the chaise you had seen the last time you had visited, your skirts pushed up as his hands touched you everywhere. Your head spun as each kiss seemed to steal your breath until you found yourself gasping as Hyunjin’s fingers touched you where no other had

“Oh…ah…I’ve never…” you breathed heavily only to be quietened by another of his all-consuming kisses.

“Shhh, ma petite, I will ensure you enjoy this,” he whispered against your skin before one thin finger pressed inside you, followed by a second, making you stiffen beneath him. “You are doing so well already, mon cœur.” He kissed you again, and you felt your body give in to him, your legs opening wider to accommodate him. He slowly stretched you open, each movement of his digits massaging your walls and making you writhe with pleasure; the first wave of intense rapture washed over you, suddenly causing you to cry out, your legs shaking and your chest heaving while he laughed silently against your neck. You hadn’t recovered before you felt something much larger and hotter push its way inside of you, filling you and pushing you to your limit.

“Ah… Too much,” you whimpered, clinging to him uselessly, your body betraying you, seeking even more from him.

“Oh mon cœur, you are doing so well,” Hyunjin whispered, his voice sounding like silk covered steel. Snapping his hips against yours, he took exactly what he needed from you, the heat and delight that surged through you undeniable. He was not gentle, his hunger more important than your comfort, but you were too lost in him to notice when your body began to shiver, and your walls squeezed him tighter; he groaned, his eyes darkening and his teeth sharpening as he thrust into you harder still until he let out a loud and desperate moan filling you with the warmth of his seed.

You lay still beneath him, the realization dawning on you slowly that you had let him take your first moment of sacred love from you without even a whisper of protest. “Sir…” you mumbled weakly, feeling as though your whole body was suddenly too heavy.

“Hyunjin.” He smiled softly, the first smile that actually reached his eyes that you had seen since you had become acquainted with him. “Call me Hyunjin.”

“Hyunjin, I….” you began, unsure of what you should say.

“You should return to your father.” He finished for you, straightening his clothes and helping you with yours. “You will feel better in the morning, ma petite”

Hyunjin helped you to the door, your movements stiff and body sore, holding the door for you before closing it behind you and locking it, leaving you standing alone on the stairs to the cobblestone street to think about the choice you had just made.

You managed to avoid him for exactly a week before you could avoid him no longer. One unfortunately cool Autumn day, after spending hours hunched over ledgers, you stepped into the mostly empty streets only to find him waiting for you. Unlike before, his pale skin seemed pearlescent, the lilac hue in his eyes mixing pleasantly with golden brown irises and his smile less predatory. You stopped several feet from him, unsure of what you should do, the memory of your heavy and aching body from your last encounter ingrained in your mind.

“I seek only to be a confidant for the afternoon.” He bowed his head in greeting. “Would you care to join me for a meal?”

You smiled politely; just a meal would not hurt you. After all, you would be in public; he could not act untowardly in public. “I will join you, Hyunjin.” His smile was genuine as he stepped forward, offering you his arm and leading the way through the breezy cobblestone streets and alleys until you reached a café near the river. You slowly realized that this was one of the quiet corners of Paris where the aristocracy rarely wandered, but artists flourished.

It began with wine, then laughter, and before you could really think, you had once again fallen under his hypnotic spell, only this time he held himself to a higher decorum than he had in private. “You are different now. Why?” You watched him carefully as he sipped wine and leaned leisurely in the chair.

He paused, seemingly needing to find a palatable way to explain things to you. “I was hungry the first night we met, starving by the time of your second visit, but now I am sated.” His eyes searched yours in hopes you could read between the lines, but instead he leant closer, his voice a whisper like velvet sliding across gravel. "I am a parasite draped in silk, mon cœur; people that… grow close to me… they do not live. You shared some of your life with me, and I am eternally grateful, but it is possible that I will take too much."

You met his gaze. “I know,” you replied simply; perhaps it was the wine, maybe the warmth of the tiny cafe, but the feeling that settled over you now that you were sat so close to him was not one of fear but one of fascinated inebriety.

“Then you do me a kindness that I can never repay,” he murmured, sipping slowly from his glass. So it began in earnest without illusion, without promises or declarations of love, just evenings spent in places that you would not be recognized. In places where Oddinaries could entertain their human companions without judgement or whispers.

-

Winter came as it always did, icy winds whipping the city streets and scattering the last of the leaves that clung to trees for longer than they should have. When the snow did come, it blanketed the region with glittering piles of pristine whiteness covering the grime that clung to the cobblestones. In his candlelit studio where music drifted from an old gramophone, and the scent of paint lingered in the air, Hyunjin was once again painting you. Never formally posed, always just moments in time that he wanted to keep. You reading near the window, you laughing at something foolish he said, or you half asleep on the chaise while rain tapped the glass.

“I want you to leave Paris.” His voice was loud in the hush of the room.

You looked back at him, his brush hovering mid-stroke, his eyes soft with the plea of a man who knew what he was doing was wrong. “You asked me to leave before, then came to find me.” You sighed, laying your book on the floor beside the armchair you were sitting in.

He began painting again, a frown gracing his beautiful features. “I want to protect you, but I can’t be apart from you,” he admitted, softly stepping around the easel to reach you. “You deserve more than this, more than me.”

“Hyunjin. I am happy.” You smiled softly. “You do not feed on me often, and I have had no ill effects.”

“Mon cœur,” He whispered quietly. “I will kill you eventually.”

“Eventually is not tonight, Hyunjin.” You chuckled breathlessly, standing to meet him, your lips pressing carefully to the corner of his lips. The low vibration that emanated from his chest was all the warning you were given before he picked you up effortlessly and pinned you to the wall, your skirts tugged away from your body as his fingers plundered your entrance, the sharp twinge of pain quickly morphing into pure bliss.

His lips pressed to your throat as you helped him with his breeches, only clinging to his shoulders when he was pushing his thick cock into your now dripping hole. “Then I will feast from you tonight to prove you wrong, mon cœur.” Your mind lost all sense of time every time he was inside you, giving you pleasure so pure that you could never give him up. You cried out softly as his leaking head bumped against your cervix, coaxing you to move in rhythm with him. Your hips rolled on their own accord while you wailed, your head falling back against the wall as he sped up his thrusts, bouncing you like a ragdoll in his arms.

“Hyunjin,” you cried as your high crashed over you, your walls clamping down around him as he continued to roll his hips. His lips met yours as he helped you to ride out your pleasure. But he did not stop; he only spread your thighs further and snapped his hips against you harder, the loud smack of wet flesh mixing with shattered breaths and your weakening sobs.

“After this I will take you to bed and take you again and again until morning,” he growled, his long fingers moving between you to press harshly against your pearl.

“Gods. Hyunjin,” you sobbed, your voice cracking as you again tightened around him, this time a gush of fluid covering his lower half as your breathing became labored. The world tilted sharply as your fingers tangled in his hair, his voice growing rougher with each whisper of his name from your lips.

“So good for me, mon cœur, so pretty as you fall apart.” He muttered savagely against your cheek, kissing the tears that were now rolling down your face. He pulled himself from you, leaving you empty and confused before throwing you over his shoulder and taking you to his room, where he stripped you nude before entering you once more. Your mind, body, and soul shattered somewhere between the second and third time you reached heights that seemed impossible for humans. You were hovering somewhere between consciousness and dreaming, your limbs getting heavier, your breathing becoming more difficult until Hyunjin finally finished with you, filling you with the warmth of his seed and leaving the world darkening in front of your eyes; it was like drowning in velvet.

When you awoke, Hyunjin was pacing, a frantic look in once again golden brown eyes, stopping only as you groaned softly to rush to your side. His hand gripped yours in an iron-like grip.

"Forgive me, mon cœur, forgive me," he whispered like a prayer you would make to the Lord in church when the world felt like it was ending. "I took too much, I was too rough..."

You blinked at him languidly, your eyelids feeling heavier than usual. "I'm fine, Hyunjin, just tired from a night of debauchery," you tried joking, but he seemed to sink further into himself.

"I will walk you home, I will tell your father I have defiled you, and you must be kept away from me." He mused, collecting your things to help you dress. "Perhaps, I could warn him that I am being treated for a wasting illness that would keep him vigilant of your health."

You allowed him to dress you and carry you through his home, each idea sounding more absurd than the other. "Or, we could just be more careful?" you whispered, hopefully interrupting his stream of consciousness.

Hyunjin's face softened for a moment before slowly turning sad. "I will be the death of you, my dearest girl."

-

Spring finally made its presence known when the breeze began to warm, and the pale shoots of new growth covered the trees that surrounded the streets of Montmartre. As the city returned to life, your father's binding business had grown on the coattails of Hyunjin's reputation. No longer did you need to spend hours going through ledgers and occasionally delivering finished products; your father hired others to do that for you, and you now spent your days at home in the growing wealth that came with success.

Hyunjin was open to taking full advantage of this fact and regularly took you on tours of the gardens and galleries dotted across the many arrondissements, giving you a taste of the world that you had never previously imagined.

It is late afternoon when a black lacquered carriage arrives outside of your home. You watched from the upstairs window, waiting for Hyunjin to visit, but when he steps from the door that is opened for him by the driver, your eyes widen. Such extravagance will never go unnoticed, but as he made his way towards your home, you could not resist going to him despite your shortness of breath by the time you reached him.

Today, Hyunjin looked every bit the aristocrat, his silk cravat tied with effortless precision, and his long, dark hair tied low with a velvet ribbon as he stared out at the golden glowing cobblestones of the Champs-Élysées. But you saw the flicker of something inhuman in the way his shadow seemed to move independently of the rest of the world in the late afternoon sun.

"We are almost there, mon cœur," he smiled, his voice a low, melodic cello note. He reached out, his gloved hand holding yours as you stared out of the carriage window at the world he belongs in and that you are just interloping upon.

Still in awe, you grinned at him, "Where are we going, Hyunjin?" This was only the second time you had ever seen this part of the city where the tree-lined avenue spilled into gardens and luxurious restaurants. He didn't answer just pressed his lips to the back of your hand, the kiss lingering and soft.

The carriage rolled to a stop before the Arc de Triomphe. The brand-new limestone monument stood as a massive sentinel against the afternoon sky at the edge of the city. The huge grassy expanses of garden that surrounded it were sparsely filled with people enjoying the warm spring air. Hyunjin tightened his grip on your hand as the driver opened the carriage door for you; bystanders stared as Hyunjin emerged into the sunlight, helping you down, before placing your hand in the crook of his arm and leading you closer to the magnificent structure.

"It’s beautiful," you whispered, though your breath hitched, overwhelmed that he would bring you to such a special place; your body swayed slightly even with his support.

His smile grew but didn't fully reach his eyes. "Be careful, mon cœur," he murmured, steadying you. "You have grown paler since I got to you."

"It is nothing, Hyunjin, I am just tired." You smiled softly, taking in the intricate carvings. The vault held the names of victors that you would never know or care about, but the carvings were among the most beautiful things you had ever seen.

Away from the view of onlookers, Hyunjin removed his gloves and cupped your face, the smoothness of his skin on yours warming you from within. "Look at me, mon cœur, truly look at me, for just a moment." His voice sounded desperately human for a moment; you met his warm lilac-tinged eyes and took in the sorrow that shimmered deep within them. "I am leaving Paris tomorrow."

"Hyunjin, I don't understand." Your heart stuttered in your chest.

"I have spent my life taking," he began, his voice trembling. "Taking beauty, taking inspiration, taking... life. It is my nature. I didn't know how to stop. But then I found you, and for the first time, I wanted to give…” his forehead dropped to rest against yours.

Your eyes grew wet. "I don't understand," you cried softly, clutching at his silk lapels. "I want to be with you. I don't care if I'm tired".

"I care!" he broke, his voice cracking with a raw, human sob. He pulled you into a crushing embrace, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. "Every day I stay with you, you grow thinner. Your pulse grows fainter. I am a poison, and I am killing the only thing I have ever truly worshipped."

"I cannot be without you," you wailed quietly. Hyunjin caught a tear from your cheek with his thumb, looking at it as if it were a diamond. He leaned down, pressing a lingering, bittersweet kiss to your lips, a kiss that tasted of salt and a desperate, protective love.

"Get well for me," he murmured against your mouth. "Bloom again, my beautiful muse. And when you are strong enough to withstand me, maybe I will return to you as more man than shadow." Untangling himself from your arms, he retreated back to the carriage, the pink and orange hues of the beginning of dusk painting him as ethereal. The door swung shut quickly behind him before the horses started pulling away. Leaving you alone in the cooling air.

-

Spring gave way to summer, and as the warmth and length of each day increased, so did your father's wealth and influence. Buoyed by Hyunjin's influence, you found yourself being moved to a grander house in a gas lamp-lit street far from the streets of Montmartre, where you had begun your dalliance with Hyunjin. But your strength did not follow suit; your weakness only increased as you failed to leave your room for long periods at a time, only taking company when your father insisted before returning to the window of your room to watch the street below, hoping you would see him return to you.

The smell of jasmine permeated the air as you walked the Champs-Élysées, the sweet scent not erasing the bitter taste that remained from your last visit, and that painful night those few months ago. You had not returned there until today when your father insisted you leave the house for your health, that the sun would help with your pallor, so your chaperone, Charlotte, had taken you to the one place you had dreaded revisiting. Carrying a basket of light refreshments, she led you towards one of the tree-shaded grassy verges where she laid out a lace-covered blanket for you to sit on while she left you to read as she fetched some treats from one of the bakeries you had passed only minutes earlier.

Opening your book on your lap, you stared at the printed words, the dappled light creating random patterns upon the pages; you couldn't concentrate; you found it hard to concentrate on anything other than Hyunjin. The breeze stirred warm and fragrant, gently fluttering the pages, but you didn't move to stop them; it didn't matter. The bitterness that had taken root in your soul was spreading like a slow-acting poison; it dulled everything around you so you no longer really felt anything other than deep sadness and regret for giving so much of yourself to Hyunjin.

The sound of musical laughter caught your attention, brought you out of your melancholic thoughts and back to the present moment. Your chaperone was returning, though not alone; the young man beside her carried a wicker basket loaded with pastries and bread. His delicate features caused your heart to flip momentarily; he was obviously not of the human world; he was too beautiful, but you were sure he was not like your Hyunjin.

"Madame," Charlotte smiled brightly, "The baker's assistant assured me that it would be best if you selected your own croissant." The man smiled dazzlingly, dimples appearing on his freckled cheeks, as he lowered himself before you so you could pick whatever you wanted from the basket. Your hand hovered over the still warm pastries, your eyes unable to focus on anything other than the cerulean eyes that looked at you like he could read your heart.

"I would suggest this one, but the choice is yours, my lady." He spoke softly, his voice like honeyed silk.

"Thank you," you whispered, selecting the one he suggested, a feeling of warmth and comfort filling you unexpectedly.

"Thank you, sir," Charlotte repeated, but for a moment the world seemed to still, then fall away; he couldn't be a baker’s assistant; his waistcoat looked like it was made of fine silk, and his long silver blonde hair was tied with velvet ribbon. He was an Oddinary. Your heart suddenly ached, causing him to flinch; his attention fell back on you.

"My lady? Are you alright?" His voice deepened, the blue of his eyes changing to the color of stormy seas as his concern grew.

"I am not feeling that well," you whispered breathlessly, the pain in your chest aching through your whole body, "Charlotte, we must return home."

Charlotte's eyes widened in alarm. "Ma'am, of course. I will summon a carriage immediately." She turned and rushed onto the promenade, flapping her hands in worry, trying to catch the attention of one of the drivers nearby.

"I can help you if you let me," he murmured desperately, the concern in his voice clear despite the softness of his tone. "Please let me."

"Keep away from me," you hissed. "You cannot help me." You stepped back from him, your eyes not leaving him to make sure he could not touch you.

His face paled slightly as he frowned, his beautiful eyes almost pooling with tears. "Hyunjin sent me to help you," he whispered softly, noticing the way your eyes widened at the mention of the name. "He worries about you. He has stopped painting, stopped drawing, and stopped living. He cannot be without you, but he cannot be with you; he doesn't wish for you to waste away."

Charlotte was rushing back towards you with a police officer and carriage driver in tow. Realizing you only had moments, you closed your eyes, allowing the tears to begin falling. "I am not able to live without him; tell him that I will die either way; there is no life to live without him in it".

"Madame," the officer interrupted before you feigned fainting, allowing the officer to catch you. He did, before he turned his head towards the carriage driver. "Get your carriage now; she needs a doctor."

You stayed in the officer's arms, allowing him to carry you in a way that was modest enough for an emergency, as Charlotte wrung her hands in worry, babbling about you being well only moments ago. The young Oddinary managed to disappear into the crowd that began to appear wanting to know what the fuss was about. By the time you had miraculously come around and been put into the carriage, Charlotte had promised you that she would never take you back to the Champs-Élysées.

-

Autumn returned to Paris slowly; the gold and rust of the fallen leaves gave way to the shrouded mists that often clouded the city streets in the early morning hours. Rain pattered against the windows of your father's home; the grey light bled through the curtains of the parlor, illuminating the pile of letters stacked with trembling neatness, matched the wilting lilies on the mantle, and the shawl draped over the armchair, the detritus of someone who now moved through life as though they were no longer whole. You sat on the love seat closest to the fire; you felt a chill despite the flames that danced in the hearth, the fine china cup that Charlotte had bought you now cold.

Despite the still sun-filled days, your bones grew frigid, a cough rattled your chest even when the breeze blew warm. You knew that you were no longer the girl you had been a year ago, young, hopeful, and naive. You were now haunted by an ache that would never leave you, a phantom that existed only within the walls of your father's home. Spending hours reading poetry by the window, your fingers traced the lines of flowery words, but you absorbed none of them, or staring at the collection of sketches and half-finished paintings you had rescued from abandonment in the first few days after Hyunjin left.

That warm afternoon in the spring was the last time you set foot in his home on Rue des Abbesses. From the moment you had stepped inside, you had been stopped by the empty blankness of it: the chaise you had spent nights sitting on was covered by a sheet, the easel he would use beside the window was gone, and the endless shelves of books now stood empty; only scraps of paper that must have fallen in his rush to leave remained. You collected what you could as tears streamed down your face; mostly, they contained rough images of you doing mundane things. Occasionally, there was a flower or a still life, but all his finished works were gone. You had returned home with a parcel of loose paper wrapped in a silk handkerchief that you had found and tied with one of the velvet ribbons Hyunjin would tie his hair with, the ribbon becoming the last piece of him that you could hold.

Finally, the frost came. It silvered the rooftops of Paris before dawn and clung to the iron balconies like mourning lace. Autumn let the summer finally depart the city without fanfare, leaving only brittle leaves and skies the color of old bruises. Paris breathed in the chilly air deeply, but you could not. You began to spend your days in bed, refusing to even allow the curtains to be pulled, eating only when someone forced you and sinking into the melancholy that had replaced a good part of your soul.

It was just after sunset when a loud knock echoed through the house, the sound sharper than it should have been; followed by the sound of your father's voice, first muffled but growing in anger until he was shouting. Your bedroom door swung open. "You will not see her, I forbid it." Your father's voice was harsh.

Hyunjin strode into your room, faltering when his golden eyes found you.

"Hyunjin," you breathed shakily. "You came back." Tears tracked down your cheeks, and you reached for him as he walked to your bedside and fell to his knees.

"Mon cœur, forgive me; you were meant to flourish in my absence, not fade." Hyunjin almost sobbed before placing soft kisses on your knuckles.

"You did this to her?" Your father asked with a cold calmness that you had never seen.

"I thought distance would spare you from ruin, but I have only condemned you to a slower agony." Hyunjin's voice cracked in a way that was far too human, his eyes not lifting from your hands. "I never thought..."

"No, you did not think," your father muttered bitterly. "You left her and expected the world to just continue? You think I did not know that you would sneak her away? You think I did not know what you were doing unchaperoned in the darkness? I thought you had disappeared because you had gotten her with child and did not wish to do the right thing, not that you had stolen her very soul from her".

Hyunjin hung his head; the guilt and regret that rolled off him palpable. "I prayed that you would move on, that you would find a suitor that would bring you happiness and children."

Your father's eyes remained hard, a sharp bark of cold laughter leaving him. "Prayers of the damned are not heard by anyone." He turned, leaving you alone with Hyunjin; the weight of his words obviously affected him.

The silence that settled after your father’s departure was thick, oppressive; only the crackle of the dying fire and your own ragged breaths filled the space. Hyunjin knelt before you, hands trembling in yours, his golden eyes luminous with unshed tears. The autumn dusk pressed at the window, painting the room in bruised violets and shrouded gold.

You reached out, your fingers feather-light against his cheek, feeling the chill of the night clinging to his skin. “Hyunjin, I tried to live as you wished. I tried to forget...” your voice faltered, breaking on the swell of your grief, “but the world is empty without you.”

He pressed a kiss to your palm, desperate, reverent. “I am so sorry. I never wanted to be your ruin, only your refuge. But I see now, my absence was as cruel as any curse.”

You leaned forward, your forehead resting against his. “If loving you is a curse, then let it be ours to bear.”

Hyunjin’s breath hitched, his fingers curling around yours as if anchoring himself to your mortal warmth. “If you will have me,” he whispered, voice raw, “I will not leave you again, whatever the cost. I will face your father’s wrath, the world’s scorn, anything but your sorrow.”

The weight of your father’s condemnation lingered, a shadow in the corners of the room, but you clung to Hyunjin as if he were the only light left. He drew you into his embrace, careful and trembling, cradling you as though you were spun from glass and longing.

Outside, the city’s bells tolled for nightfall, and the wind carried the scent of dying leaves through the open window. An omen of what would soon be realized.

-

The first snow arrived like a funeral veil.

It drifted past the windows of Hyunjin's home in silent white sheets, obscuring the world beyond the glass until nothing remained but pale ghosts of trees and the black skeletons of the surrounding buildings. Frost crawled across the panes in twisting patterns that resembled ancient runes, and every gust of wind made the old house groan as though something buried beneath it longed to be heard.

The fire struggled in the hearth. Its orange glow painted the room in wavering shadows that stretched and twisted over the walls, transforming familiar objects into strange silhouettes. The darkness seemed alive tonight, gathering in corners and beneath furniture, patiently waiting for the flames to die.

You sat wrapped in a faded velvet blanket, your body still weakened by the heartbreak that had nearly claimed you. Even now, weeks later, your bones felt hollow. Your pulse fluttered beneath your skin like a trapped moth.

There had been moments before his return when you had wished to see death standing at the foot of your bed. But perhaps worse, there had been moments when Hyunjin had looked at you with hunger. Not because he wished you harm, because he had been terrified, truly terrified that your dying soul would call to the darker parts of him. The parts he spent every waking moment fighting.

A kettle whistled softly.

Hyunjin emerged from the shadows carrying a porcelain teacup. The steam curled upward like wandering spirits. "Drink," he said. His voice was low enough to disappear into the crackling of the fire.

You accepted the cup; his fingers brushed against yours, cold despite the hot cup in his hands. But they were always cold now, no matter how close he stood to the flames, no matter how many blankets covered him, and no matter how tightly he held you.

"You're staring at me." A faint smile touched his lips.

"I am," you murmured softly, still admiring his beautiful face.

"Why?" His gaze lingered on your face, his eyebrows crinkling just slightly.

"Because you're still here." You smiled serenely; his smile vanished instantly. "I keep expecting to wake up and discover I imagined it." Your chest tightened. "Hyunjin..."

"You were dying." His voice sharpened unexpectedly; the words seemed torn from him. His eyes lifted to meet yours; the gold glimmered faintly beneath the lilac in his irises, something ancient and inhuman. "I thought I had lost you."

Silence settled between you, heavy and almost suffocating.

You set the teacup aside and reached for his hand. The moment your fingers touched his, some of the tension left his shoulders. "You didn't lose me."

"No." His thumb traced the inside of your wrist right over your thready pulse. "But I almost did." The way he said it made the room feel smaller. As though the shadows themselves were listening.

You swallowed. "Hyunjin..."

"Hm?" He hummed, placing another log beside the hearth for when he would need to stoke the flames.

"What happens to creatures like you when they kill their human partner?" Your words were the softest whisper, but the question struck him like a blade; his hand froze.

The fire cracked sharply, the only thing that dared make a sound. For several moments, he didn't speak, didn't move, just stared at the flames before him.

"Who told you to ask that?" The venom that bled into his voice was unmistakable, as though the question alone could destroy everything.

"No one." You swallowed hard as he turned back to you, the darkness in his eyes showing his burgeoning anger.

His gaze narrowed. "Then why?"

You looked into the flames, your nerves not allowing you to meet his eyes any longer. You had seen him watching over you, seen the exhaustion beneath his eyes and the fear. But you had seen something else too, something that looked horribly like temptation and need. "I want the truth."

"You already know the truth." He dismissed you almost too easily.

"No," you turned toward him. "I know the stories people whisper in corners."

His jaw clenched. "Stories exist for a reason."

"Then tell me." You pleaded; the silence stretched.

At last, he leaned back in his chair; his expression had become distant, as though he were looking through years instead of across the room. "If one of my kind consumes a soul completely..." His voice was quiet, “...we become stronger." The flames reflected in his eyes, making the lilac of his irises disappear momentarily. "Years of life are added to our own."

"How many?" You asked carefully, your voice barely above a whisper.

"It depends on the soul." He sighed, sounding almost like he was reciting a fact.

The answer sent a chill through your body. "You make it sound like a currency."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "To creatures like me, it is."

You stared, chewing the inside of your cheek before you were brave enough to speak, "and if you took mine?"

His eyes snapped to yours; the room seemed to darken despite the flames in front of you both. "I never would."

"But if you did," you pressed gently, needing to know what would happen.

The muscles in his throat tightened. "I wouldn't need to feed for decades." The words came reluctantly, like a confession.

"But that's not all, is it?" You swallowed, knowing he was holding something back.

"No." He looked away, shamed and guilty. "I would lose the bond."

Your breath caught in your throat. "The bond between us?"

"Yes." The single word sounded devastating. He stood abruptly and crossed the room; the shadows seemed to follow him. "I would lose you."

You watched his rigid silhouette beside the window; snow drifted beyond the glass, making the world look like a graveyard.

"And what would happen to you?" You breathed.

For a long moment, he said nothing, as though he had to weigh his words carefully. Then he laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. "I don't know." His reflection stared back at him from the dark window. "Some say we lose pieces of ourselves every time we take a soul." His voice dropped lower. "Others believe we become monsters, well more monstrous than we already are."

"You don't believe that." You murmured, worrying the inside of your lip.

He finally turned. The look in his eyes made your heart ache. "I believe I've seen it."

The room fell silent again. You could almost hear the snow landing against the roof. Slowly, you rose from your chair; your legs trembled visibly. Hyunjin crossed the room immediately, with one hand settled at your waist before you could stumble. The gesture was instinctive, both protective and possessive.

You looked up at him. "If I become ill again..."

"No." The answer came too fast, too sharp.

"Hyunjin," you begged, your voice sounding tired and slightly hollow.

"No." His grip tightened on you.

"If I begin dying..." you tried again.

"Stop." His voice cracked; the sound startled both of you. You had never heard him sound afraid before. His eyes glistened in the firelight. "Don't ask me this."

"But you know what I'm going to say." You almost whimpered.

"I know." His breathing had become uneven. "And the answer is still no."

You reached up and touched his face. He closed his eyes instantly. Leaning into your hand. Like a starving man seeking warmth. "If my body fails me," you whispered, "I don't want to die alone."

His lips parted. "I would never leave you, not again, not ever."

"I know." You breathed wearily.

"I would stay until your last breath." The agony in his voice nearly broke your resolve.

"Then if the end comes..." You whispered, his eyes opened. "...let it be you."

The room became utterly still. Even the fire seemed to quiet. Hyunjin stared at you as though you'd spoken a curse. "You would ask that of me?"

"I would trust you with it." You mumbled.

His expression crumpled, not completely, just enough for you to glimpse the devastation beneath. "I have spent every day fighting the hunger that wants to take you from me." His voice was barely audible. "And now you're asking me to become the thing I fear most."

Tears burned behind your eyes. "I'm asking because I love you, Hyunjin."

His eyes closed as a shudder ran through him. "You make impossible things sound beautiful," his voice sounded ancient, tired, and broken.

The wind howled. Snow struck the windows. The world beyond the glass panes vanished beneath white darkness.

At last he pulled you against him. You felt his arms wrap around you. Felt the cold of his body. Felt the fierce way he held you, as though he could shield you from death itself. His lips brushed your forehead with a kiss so gentle it hurt. "If that day ever comes..." The words trembled. "...I will be there."

You buried your face against his chest. "And?"

His arms tightened. "And I will hate myself for it." A tear slipped down your cheek; Hyunjin lowered his head. His forehead rested against yours.

The firelight caught the gold in his eyes, turning them molten. Devastatingly beautiful, dangerous, and devoted.

"But listen to me." His voice became firm. Almost commanding. "That day is not tonight." You nodded slowly. "Not this winter." His thumb brushed away the tear on your cheek. "Not for many years."

The shadows gathered around the edges of the room. The freezing snow fell outside. Yet somehow, standing in his arms, you felt safer than you ever had. As though death itself waited beyond the door... And Hyunjin stood between you and it. Even if it was only for now.

-

Spring arrived quietly; no fanfare accompanied it, no celebration. Just glimmers of green dusting the dark, cold branches of the trees and puddles that grew larger in the sun as the days wore on.

The snow melted from the roads around your father's house, giving way to the beginning of wildflowers and soft green grass in the garden. Birds nested in the oak tree once more. Warm sunlight spilled across stone walls that had spent months imprisoned beneath frost.

The world was waking, but you were not; your room smelled of lavender and old books. Fresh air drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of blooming roses from the garden below, but even that sweetness could not disguise the truth lingering in every corner of the chamber.

Your time was running out, your body failing. It wasn't truly sudden; it was simply inevitable, like the ocean's tide returning to shore. Hyunjin's return in the autumn had bought you months. Months of stolen mornings, laughter beside the fireplace, walks through the snow-covered streets when your strength had allowed it. Months of being loved by Hyunjin once more. But it would not last forever; you had always known that.

Now the sunlight painted pale gold across your blankets as you lay against a mountain of pillows, too exhausted to sit upright for long. The sound of the bedroom door opening made your eyes flutter toward it. Hyunjin stood in the doorway, and for a moment neither of you spoke.

The sight of him stole what little breath remained in your lungs. He looked exactly as he always had, beautiful and untouched by the passage of time. His dark hair was tied at the nape of his neck with a long velvet ribbon, a silk waistcoat in the color of mulberry wine making his eyes seem even more inhuman. Yet something about him seemed older now, as though grief had already begun carving itself into his soul.

Slowly, he crossed the room. "You should be resting."

A faint smile touched your lips. "I spend all my time resting."

His mouth twitched at the corner. "A fair point, mon cœur."

The mattress dipped as he sat beside you, and immediately his hand found yours, as if he could not bear the distance, as if every second mattered now.

"You came early." You murmured quietly.

"The sun was rising." His thumb brushed over your knuckles. "I wanted to see it with you."

You turned your head toward the window; pink and gold stretched across the horizon, the morning sky looked painted by angels or perhaps ghosts. "Do you remember," you whispered, "when I thought I wouldn't survive the winter?"

His expression tightened. "Don't."

You smiled sadly. "...Hyunjin."

"I don't want to talk about that." He pleaded, his voice trembling on the last word.

"You told me it would not be for many years," You breathed softly.

His eyes closed, and for a moment he looked almost angry not at you, at fate or perhaps the world, at everything he could not fight any longer. When he opened them again, they glistened. "I know."

Silence settled gently between you, heavy with everything neither of you needed to say aloud. Eventually you squeezed his hand. "Come here."

His gaze lifted, and without hesitation he slipped onto the bed beside you carefully. One arm wrapped around your shoulders as he drew you against his chest. You sighed; the familiar cold of him felt comforting now. Your head settled beneath his chin; his heartbeat remained slow and steady beneath your ear, a rhythm you had fallen asleep to countless times, a rhythm that would continue long after yours stopped. The thought should have frightened you; instead it only made you sad.

"I love you." The words escaped before you could stop them. Hyunjin's arms tightened instantly as though he were afraid you might slip through his fingers like smoke.

"I love you too." His voice cracked; the sound broke your heart.

You tilted your head to look at him, his eyes holding the sadness of someone who had already known too much loss. You reached up, pressing your lips to his, pouring all your unspoken desires into it, your hands sliding up his chest knowingly.

Hyunjin groaned quietly, "ma petite, please do not tempt me more than you already do." His arms tightened around you to hold you even closer.

"Hyunjin... please just once more," you mumbled against his lips. "I, I need to feel you."

Hyunjin relented; you knew he would. He had come back to you already hungry, and despite your protests that he needed to feed, he had refused. He lifted you, easily pushing aside your pillows to lay you beneath him, his hardness pressing against you before you had even really begun.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he rasped against your neck, sliding his hands down your body to the bottom of your night dress, "tell me if I am not gentle enough."

His cold fingertips traced up your legs, pushing the fabric you wore higher as he went, each movement slow and gentle as though memorizing you in a way you didn't quite understand; his lips followed, pressing softly against your lips, cheeks, throat, and chest, worshipping you with tenderness that seemed reverent. When his fingers found their way to your folds, he groaned, musically slowing further when he heard your gasp.

"Hyunjin, my love, please," you whimpered beneath him, "please".

He pressed another soft kiss to your lips, one filled with promises he wished he could keep. "I will give you everything you need, mon cœur."

You shuddered as he pressed one long finger inside you, your walls accepting him without resistance, with how desperately you needed him.

"You feel like heaven," he purred, pushing another digit inside you to ensure you were ready. You sighed in pleasure, his thumb caressing your pearl with practiced grace. Slipping his fingers from you, he slid his thick, heavy cock through your folds, collecting your wetness before slowly pushing himself inside you. Your walls stretched, the feeling of pure bliss filling you the moment he filled you completely.

"Gods..." You sobbed, your fingers gripping his arms tightly as you arched into him.

"There are no gods here, mon cœur," Hyunjin rasped, rolling his hips languidly. "Only you... only me... only this". Each movement pulling exquisite pleasure from your body. You closed your eyes tightly, reveling in the feeling that was washing over you in waves, each one sending you higher until you were about to shatter. "Look at me." He commanded gently.

Your eyes snapped open before you could register what was happening, meeting his, once again, golden eyes. His forehead rested against yours as he pulled one of your legs up around his waist. The cry that fell from your throat as he sped up the angle of his length, sending fire through your veins, had him claiming your mouth to swallow every sound you made.

Your body shook, and your breath weakened further as you fell over the edge of your high, your chest heaving as Hyunjin groaned desperately, stilling deep within you as you felt the warmth of his seed fill you. "I love you, Hyunjin, I love you".

"Mon cœur," he drawled, almost sounding inebriated, his head buried in your neck, leaving languid kisses on your skin, which now glowed luminous in the early morning light.

Still tangled within the softness of your sheets, his fingers traced the sunken curve of your cheeks, hollow of your throat, until he reached your pulse. The slowing, fragile flutter of your heartbeat barely registered beneath his touch, the sound of your now quietly rasping breath registering in his ears. Horror flared in his heart. "No... Please no... Mon cœur, stay with me," his voice broke, a desperate whisper against your hair. He pressed a trebling kiss to your temple, his hands moving in a panic to redress you, to keep your cooling skin warm, to ward off the inevitable.

A ghost of a smile crept across your face, bittersweet and secret. "It's alright, Hyunjin, this is what I wanted. Every touch... every kiss... All of you."

He shook his head, eyes wide with horror and regret. "I have damned you." His tears fell, warm and silent, marking time with your fading breath.

"No, Hyunjin, I did." Tears spill down your cheeks, mingling with his. "I just wanted to be yours one last time."

He understands then, the truth blooming like poison in his chest. “You knew,” he whispers, voice breaking. “You knew it would kill you.”

You manage a small guilty nod.

He shakes his head, denial a litany on his lips as he presses frantic kisses to your eyelids, your brow, your mouth, trying to breathe life back into you. "I will find a way to save you, I... Please... you are my heart... my everything. You can't..."

"You gave me life, Hyunjin, now I am giving you mine." You shush him with a whisper of a kiss, your word growing narrower and dimmer as the minutes pass.

Hyunjin held you tighter, as though his sheer will could tether you to him, to keep you beside him always. The sunlight continued climbing higher; its warmth spilled across the bed, across your blankets, across your intertwined bodies. You watched dust motes dance through the golden beams like tiny stars suspended in the air. Beautiful, fragile, temporary, just like your life.

"Hyunjin?" You breathe so quietly anyone else would have missed it. "Thank you, my love."

The words shattered something inside him; you felt it, felt the tremor that ran through his body, the way his breathing faltered. "For what?"

"For finding me." A tear slipped down your cheek. "For coming back for me... for loving me."

His face disappeared into your hair. "I should be thanking you, mon cœur"

Your vision blurred, the edges growing darker. "Why?"

His answer came quietly as grief had stripped away every mask, every defense, every carefully guarded wall he had constructed in the eternity he had walked the Earth. "Because before you, I only existed." His voice shook. "But with you..." A trembling breath passed through his lips. "...I lived."

The sunlight wrapped around both of you, the gentle golden light endless as it warmed the room. You wished you could stay there forever, in his arms, in that moment. But some journeys were meant to end.

Your breathing slowed; each inhale felt more distant than the last, the quiet way it felt like slowly slipping underwater. You felt no fear, only peace, only love, only your Hyunjin.

The final thing you heard was his voice, soft against your hair. "I love you." The final thing you felt was his embrace. Holding you as though he could keep your soul from drifting away. The final thing you saw was sunlight. Then everything became still.

Hyunjin remained exactly where he was, one arm around your shoulders, the other entwined with your fingers. The silence that fell over the room suffocated him.

The birds continued singing outside, and your roses swayed in the breeze. The world carried on.

But his world had ended, and for a long time he did not move; he simply held you. As though love alone could bridge the impossible distance between life and death. As though if he stayed there long enough, you might wake and smile at him once more.

But the sunlight continued to climb, and eventually the truth settled around him like a shroud. You were gone. "My love," he whispered into the quiet room, and though no answer came, he held you a little tighter. One final time before learning how to live forever without you.

Mon cœur - my heart Ma Pettite - my little one

a/n: Thank you for reading my lovelies once again you are the light of my life and I wish to give you all cookies xx

Taglist (open): @christopher-bangnaldoskzz @armystay89 @damnyouficc @roamingpolar

@tara-skyhold @bakedlilgoonie @krishastumblernow @mrsseals16 @fawnpeaks

The first thing Chris feels is you.

Your warmth pressed against him, the soft rise and fall of your breathing, the way your hair spills over the pillow in a mess he wants to tangle his fingers in. He blinks awake slowly, the room still dim with early morning light, and instinct pulls him closer before he’s even fully conscious.

He slides an arm around your waist, fitting himself against your back like your bodies were designed to fall into this shape. He noses lightly at the curve of your shoulder, inhaling that familiar scent that always, always settles something deep in his chest.

God, he loves waking up like this. Loves that this is his life now.

He presses a slow kiss to your shoulder. Then another. And another, moving toward your neck, savoring the tiny shiver your body gives even in sleep. Your skin is warm under his lips, soft and inviting, and he can’t resist trailing a line of lazy kisses along the slope of your neck.

You stir and he smiles against your skin before lifting his head. He leans in and softly kisses your lips, a gentle coaxing meant to bring you into the morning.

Your eyelids flutter open, heavy with sleep, and then you see him. Just see him. And you smile. Sleepy, warm, impossibly sweet.

Chris feels his heart pull tight in his chest.

Years. Years of marriage, years of waking up beside you and it still hits him the same way. How lucky he is. How unreal it sometimes feels that he gets to love you like this, quietly, closely, every single morning.

“Morning,” you whisper, voice raspy and soft.

His own smile widens as he leans in and kisses you longer this time, slow enough to savor. “Morning, baby,” he murmurs against your lips.

He pulls back just enough to kiss your forehead… then the bridge of your nose… then your temple. He could kiss every inch of you if mornings weren’t so short. If life didn’t always call him away.

“What time is it?” you mumble, eyes half-closed as you press your face into the pillow.

Chris doesn’t even think about checking. He doesn’t want to break the moment, doesn’t want to bring reality into this warm little world of just you and him.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says instead, brushing his hand soothingly down your arm. “You can sleep a little more.”

You give him a small, grateful smile, the kind that makes his chest feel full. “‘Kay,” you whisper, eyes already drifting shut again.

Chris tucks the blanket a little higher around you, then slides his hand to your back and rubs slow, comforting circles. He watches your breathing settle, watches your body relax into the softness of sleep, and he stays like that until he’s sure you’re drifting off again.

Only then does he press one last kiss to your temple. “Love you so much,” he whispers.

And then, he quietly slips out of the bed to check his other girl.

-

The hallway is quiet when Chris steps out of the bedroom, closing the door with the softest click he can manage. He stretches once, pushes his messy hair to the back, but even the stiffness of sleep can’t dim the warmth settling in his chest.

Then, he pads down the hallway on bare feet, instinctively avoiding the spots on the floor that creak. He reaches the bedroom door at the end of the hallway, already cracked open the way it always is, and gently pushes it wider.

There she is.

Adonia.

Addie.

His little flower bud.

Still bundled under her blanket, curls spread over the pillow like a tiny halo. One fist tucked under her cheek, the other loosely gripping her stuffed bunny. Her chest rises and falls in that soft, steady rhythm that only toddlers have—pure, peaceful, unbothered by anything in the world.

Chris steps inside quietly, heart tightening in that familiar way. She’s so beautiful. His daughter. His little family made real.

He sits on the edge of her tiny bed and leans over to brush a stray curl off her forehead. He’s quietly admiring her as she looks different in some ways, but very familiar in a way.

That’s why they named her Adonia. Because she’s beautiful. Because she carries both of you in her little features so perfectly.

Addie has your eyes—bright, expressive, full of warmth even when she’s half-asleep and cranky. Your smile too, that same heart-melting curve that makes him weak every time he sees it. But she has his lips—the shape, the pout, the way they curl when she’s about to cry or laugh. And the curls… definitely his. Wild, soft ringlets he could kiss for hours.

She’s the best of both of you. As if the universe took the beautiful parts of you and his and wove them into something even more precious.

Chris still remembers how quickly Addie came into your life after the wedding—barely a year after you said your vows. He remembers holding her for the first time, tiny and new and perfect, and realizing that life didn’t just get better after marriage… it blossomed. She made everything brighter, softer. She made everything more worth waking up for.

He watches her now and feels something in him unclench. When she’s like this—still, peaceful, safe—it makes him feel like he’s actually doing it right. Like he’s keeping her protected, like the world is quiet enough for her to rest without fear.

A small smile tugs at his lips. He leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her temple, careful not to wake her. Her little nose scrunches in her sleep, and he feels his heart melt all over again.

“Daddy loves you so much,” he whispers, even though she can’t hear it.

Chris rises slowly, taking one last look at her sleeping form before slipping out of the room. He leaves the door slightly ajar—just enough for her to feel safe, just enough for him to hear if she needs him. He lets out a quiet breath, the kind that comes from having everything he’s ever wanted under one roof.

Now, he’s ready to start his day.

-

You wake slowly and feel a little reluctant to leave the comfort of the bed Chris guided you back into. It takes a moment for your mind to catch up to your body, but when it does, you realize two things:

One, the spot beside you is empty. And two, there’s the sweet, delicious smell of pancakes drifting down the hall.

You smile and slip out of bed. You pad your way toward the hallway, still wrapped in lingering sleep. When you reach the bedroom doorway, you pause because the view in front of you steals your breath a little.

Chris stands in the kitchen, back turned to you, cooking breakfast with an ease that comes from years of perfecting his Sunday-morning routine. He’s wearing a white sleeveless T-shirt and grey sweatpants, his hair still messy from sleep, curls falling over his forehead in that way you adore. His shoulders are broad under the thin fabric. His waist trim. His back warm and familiar and somehow still enough to make your heart stutter after all these years.

He lifts a glass to his lips and takes a sip of his green smoothie, the one he insists on drinking every morning because, “Baby, I can’t do coffee, you know that.” You watch his jaw flex gently as he swallows, sunlight catching on his profile.

And you think about how married life hasn’t dulled anything. If anything, it’s made the feelings deeper. More steady and overwhelming in the best way. You’re lucky. So incredibly lucky that he is yours to wake up to, to come home to, to build this life with. You’re so busy admiring him that you don’t realize he’s noticed you until he speaks.

“Well?” he says without looking up, a playful lilt to his voice. “You gonna just stand there staring? Come on—make yourself useful.”

You huff a quiet laugh, pushing off the doorframe, your steps slow and sleepy as you walk toward him. But instead of grabbing something to help, you slide your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades.

“Mmm,” you mumble. “I’m helping.”

He lets out a soft chuckle, the kind that vibrates through his back and into your chest. His free hand finds yours where it rests around him, his thumb stroking slowly over your knuckles.

You stay like that and him flipping pancakes with one hand, you clinging to his back like he’s your personal heater. It’s warm. It’s familiar. It’s perfect.

After a moment, he turns off the stove, sets the spatula down, and gently turns in your arms until he’s facing you. Without hesitation, he tightly wraps you up like he’s gathering you close after weeks instead of hours. His chin rests on your head for a moment before he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your hair.

“Sleep okay?” he murmurs against you.

You hum, a half-asleep, half-content sound. “Mmhmm… warm…”

“Cute,” he whispers, brushing a hand along your spine.

You tilt your head up. Your soft, sleepy eyes meeting his, full of wanting.

Before you even have to say a word, he leans down and kisses you. Slow. Gentle. Sure. The kind of kiss that makes your warm and fuzzy. You melt into it.

This quiet morning routine, the affection, the ease, the warmth—is one of your favorite parts of marriage. A little reminder each day of how deeply you love and cherish each other.

Chris pulls away just enough to rest his forehead against yours, smiling.

“Good morning, love,” he whispers.

You smile as you feel every ounce of tenderness he holds for you, wrapped in just those three words.

“Morning,” you softly mutter back with a smile.

Chris captures your smile with one more kiss, a long, slow, lingering kiss before pulling away. When he finally lifts his mouth from yours, he brushes his thumb along your cheek.

“Go wake Addie,” he murmurs.

You raise an eyebrow playfully. “You wake her. You know she’d prefer that.”

He flashes that dimpled smile you married him for. The one that still melts your entire heart no matter how many years have passed. “I already made breakfast,” he says, teasing. “So it’s your turn.”

You sigh dramatically, tossing your head back as if he’s given you the hardest job in the world. “Fine,” you say with exaggerated defeat.

Before you go, you lean up and steal a quick, sneaky peck from his lips. Chris chuckles, shaking his head as you turn and leave the kitchen.

You head down the hall, pushing Addie’s bedroom door open softly. She’s still curled up in bed, cheeks flushed pink from sleep, curls tangled in every direction. She looks so peaceful that you hesitate. A part of you wants to let her dream a little longer, hold onto this tiny version of her that grows more every day. But she has preschool and Breakfast is waiting, so is Chris. So you approach slowly. You sit beside her small form and gently brush her curls back from her forehead. Then you rub her back in soft, slow circles, your voice a whisper meant only for her.

“Addie… sweetheart… time to wake up, baby.”

She stirs, tiny fingers twitching against her blanket. Her eyelids flutter once… twice… and then her eyes finally blink open, still dazed and heavy with sleep. When she finds your face hovering above hers, you give her the softest smile.

“Good morning, angel.” You lean in and press a kiss to her warm little temple.

Addie rolls onto her back, staring blankly at the ceiling like she needs a full minute to load the world. You keep rubbing her belly gently, fixing her pajama that is wrinkled and rumpled from sleep, knowing she needs time. Her lashes flutter again, and then she slowly turns her head toward you.

Her voice is small, raspy from sleep when she asks, “…Where’s Daddy?”

You almost scoff—almost. Because of course you expected that. Of course she wants her daddy first thing in the morning.

But you just smile. “Daddy’s in the kitchen, baby. He’s making breakfast.”

She nods, rubbing her eyes with her fists, and you help her sit upright. Her little legs dangle over the edge of the bed, feet searching for the floor. The moment they touch down, she pushes herself up and starts walking in wobbly, slow steps that teeter from side to side. You stay close behind, hands ready in case she stumbles.

She’s still half-asleep, curls a messy halo around her head, clutching her stuffed bunny by the arm. “Daddy…” she mumbles as she toddles down the hallway. “Daddy…”

And the moment she enters the kitchen, Chris’s entire face lights up.

He beams, wide and bright, eyes softening at the sight of her. Addie’s arms already stretch toward him even though she’s still a few feet away, desperate to be held.

Chris doesn’t wait. He crosses the kitchen in three quick steps, meets her halfway, and scoops her into his arms. Addie instantly melts against him, burying her face into the crook of his neck like it’s the safest place she knows.

“Good morning, my little flower bud,” he whispers into her hair, rubbing her small back with big, gentle hands. “Did you sleep well? Did you dream about Daddy? Dream about Mommy? Maybe bunnies? Hmm?”

Addie mumbles something incoherent, clinging tighter, and Chris presses a soft kiss to her cheek.

You stand there, watching your husband with your daughter in his arms with morning sunlight wrapping around them like a warm embrace and your chest expands with something deep and full and certain.

This sight. This moment. This quiet love in the kitchen. It convinces you all over again that you married the perfect man. That this life is everything you ever wanted.

And more.

-

Breakfast is peaceful—at least, as peaceful as it can be with a three-year-old.

Chris settles Addie into her booster seat, making sure her curls aren’t caught in the straps, brushing a kiss on the top of her head before placing a plate of small pancakes in front of her. He sits beside her, not eating yet because of course he doesn’t. He’s too focused on her.

You watch them as you sip your drink, elbow propped on the table.

Chris cuts the pancakes even smaller, nudging the plate closer to her. “Small bites, okay? Don’t rush.”

Addie nods earnestly… then immediately shoves one whole pancake into her mouth anyway.

Chris laughs softly. “That’s not a small bite.”

She looks at him with innocent eyes, cheeks full, and he gives up instantly because he always does. He wipes syrup off her chin with a napkin, smiling at her like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Which, of course, she is.

Your chest warms watching them together. Seeing Chris dote on Addie like this always hits deeper than you expect, a reminder of how much love sits in the small corners of this house.

Addie is almost done, nibbling on the last piece of pancake when you speak.

“Okay, sweetheart,” you say gently. “Time to get ready for school.”

Addie freezes mid-chew. Then comes… the pout. Not just any pout. Chris’s pout. His lips exactly—soft, full, pushing outward in the most dramatic display of toddler betrayal.

She turns slowly to look at her father, eyes wide and pleading like he might rescue her from this terrible fate.

You have to press your lips together to stop a laugh. Of course. Of course she’d look to him. Of course she thinks he can save her. She really is a daddy’s girl.

And you believe now more than ever what people say— A father is a daughter’s first love.

Addie mumbles, voice tiny and hopeful, “Daddy get me dressed?”

You look at Chris. Then shrug, not hiding your satisfaction at all. “I mean… she asked for you,” you say lightly, lifting your hands like your fate is out of your control. “Who am I to deny her?”

Chris glares at you playfully, eyes narrowing. “You’re not off the hook. If I’m doing this, you’re doing the dishes.”

You shrug again, even more dramatically this time, letting a teasing smile spread over your face. “I have no problem with that.”

He shakes his head, but his dimples betray him. He stands and holds out his hand to Addie. “Come on, love bud. Let’s go pick out something cute to wear.”

Addie immediately slips her tiny hand into his, sliding off the chair with clumsy toddler determination.

You watch them walk together down the hallway—her wobbly steps beside his steady ones, her small fingers curled trustingly around his. She looks so tiny next to him, and yet so sure, so loved, so safe.

Your heart fills, warm and full, overflowing with quiet gratitude. This is your family and you wouldn’t trade any of it, not even a single second of it, for the world.

-

Chris stands in front of the bedroom mirror, pulling his shirt off the hanger. The crisp white cotton slides over his shoulders, settling perfectly against his back as he rolls it down his arms. Button by button, he closes it while watching his reflection. He smooths it once, then reaches for his slacks, sitting low on his hips the way you like. By the time he loops the belt through, fastening the buckle, he already feels put together.

Work-Chris. Responsible. Structured. A grown man with a family and a mortgage and a daughter who thinks he personally hung the moon.

He lifts the tie from the dresser and loops it around his collar. His fingers work automatically, but he pauses halfway and calls out, “Babe? Can you help me?”

He knows you’ll come. You always come. Despite knowing that Chris is more than capable of putting on a tie by himself.

A moment later, you appear in the doorway like a scene he’s watched a thousand times and still isn’t tired of. You cross the room toward him, hands already reaching for the tie, your fingers brushing his chest as you begin tightening the knot.

He focuses on buttoning his cuffs just so he won’t have to look directly at your face, but he still feels it. The heat, the mischief of that look you give him when you’re about to test his self-control on a weekday morning.

Chris sighs through a laugh and places a hand on your waist. “Stop giving me the eyes,” he warns, voice soft, low, already failing. “I’m gonna be late for work.”

But even as he says it, he pulls you closer, letting his hands rest on each side of your waist.

You finish the knot, smooth the tie down his chest with your palm, then slip your arms around him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“I only get a little time with you before your other girl steals you away again,” you tease, lips brushing the edge of his jaw.

“I’m your husband,” He reminds you with his dimpled grin. “I’m yours first. Always.”

You give him a pout like you don’t believe him at all… and then your smile turns sly. “Oh, is that so?” you purr into his ear, fingers already hooking the edge of his belt and tugging, undoing the buckle with practiced ease.

Chris closes his eyes for a beat—not in refusal, but because god, he wants. He badly wants it. “Babe…” he sighs, helpless. “I’m gonna be late.”

You lean up and capture his lips in an open-mouthed kiss, slow yet deep, before murmuring against his mouth, “The economy isn’t going to collapse if you skip work for one day.”

His laugh dissolves into a groan as he kisses you again, harder this time. Your bodies fit together like magnets, your hands tracing his abs through his shirt while his find your hips, your lower back, the familiar shape of you. He lets himself drift just for a moment into that space where it’s only you, only this, only heat and closeness and the life the two of you built.

And then—

“Daddy!”

You scoff instantly. “There. Your side chick is calling.”

Chris breathes a laugh against your cheek. “I’m yours. Always,” he reminds you once more with a quick kiss on your cheek.

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart!” He calls back before you slip behind him to grab his suit jacket from the chair.

You hold it up for him, letting him slide his arms in, smoothing the shoulders and tugging the fabric into place. When you step in front of him to fix his collar and flatten the lapels, he finds you staring up at him—mischief still there, lust still there, but something warmer threaded through it.

Your hands trail slowly over his shoulders, down his arms, and you sigh like you’re confessing a secret. “No wonder Addie is obsessed with her dad.”

He laughs under his breath, cheeks warming, heart swelling. You’re being ridiculous and flirty and impossibly cute and he loves you for all of it.

Before he can say anything, he pulls you in by the hips and gives you a slow, lingering like a promise that there’ll be more of this for the rest of your life.

“Daddy!” Addie calls again, louder this time.

You roll your eyes dramatically. “Go. Your little girlfriend is waiting.”

Chris presses his forehead to yours for a beat, smiling. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the thought runs through him like a quiet current:

I’m the luckiest man alive. I get both of you.

Then he steps away, still smiling, still warm, heading toward the door and toward the little girl who owns the other half of his heart.

-

Before Chris even reaches the front door with Addie’s backpack slung over his shoulder, he steps back into the hallway where you’re waiting. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your lips—quick enough that Addie, busy putting her shoes on the wrong feet again, doesn’t notice.

You touch the side of his arm gently, giving him that soft, familiar morning smile. “Have a good day at work, love.”

“You too,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along your jaw before pulling back.

Then you crouch down in front of Addie, fixing her curls once more and tucking it behind her ears. “Bye, my little sunshine. Have the best day ever, okay? Mommy will pick you up later.”

Addie tips her face up eagerly, giving you a sloppy kiss right on the corner of your mouth—half-miss, half-success. You laugh, brushing your cheek with your thumb, and Addie beams like she did something amazing.

“I’m gonna paint a rainbow today!” she declares proudly.

“I can’t wait to see it,” you say, smoothing your hand over her curls.

Chris watches the two of you with a warm chest and a full heart before he reaches out his hand. “Come on, lovebug. Time to go.”

Addie slips her tiny fingers into his, and Chris guides her toward the car. But before stepping out, he turns around like he always does and gives you one more wave, one last soft look.

You wave back, that domestic tenderness in your eyes, and it tugs a smile from him he doesn’t even try to hide.

He carries Addie to the car, buckles her in, checks the straps once more, then slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine.

“Daddy,” Addie says immediately, “can we listen to my song?”

Chris laughs quietly. “Of course we can. Which one?”

She hums dramatically, sorting through her imaginary playlist. “Um… the blue one!”

He taps the screen, and the melody fills the car. Addie lights up, kicking her feet rhythmically, singing off-key but passionately. Chris joins in without meaning to, catching her grin through the rearview mirror.

“We sing it at school too,” Addie says between verses. “Miss Hana said we gonna paint today! Big paint! Like—” She stretches her arms wide in her seat. “THIS BIG!”

Chris pretends to be shocked. “No way. That big?”

“Yes way,” she insists, nodding so hard her curls bounce. “I’m gonna use purple and yellow and pink and more purple.”

“That sounds like the perfect rainbow,” he says.

“It’s gonna be soooo pretty. And then I show you and Mommy and then put it on the freeze.”

By freeze, she means the fridge. It takes him a second, then he smiles. “Of course. Right in the middle.”

The drive is short, but it’s his favorite part of the morning—her soft singing, her sleepy eyes, the sunlight catching the top of her head. Just the two of them in their own tiny world.

When they pull into the preschool lot, Addie’s excitement softens. She looks out the window, then up at him. “Daddy? You come inside?”

“Of course,” he says.

He parks, unbuckles her, and lifts her into his arms. She tucks her face into his neck for a moment—shy, just for this beat. He rubs her back reassuringly.

Inside the classroom, Miss Hana greets her warmly. “Good morning, Addie!”

Addie steps closer to Chris’s leg for a second before peeking up at him. He crouches to her height, presses a kiss to her forehead. “Have the best time painting, okay? Make a big rainbow for Mommy and Daddy.”

“Okay.” She throws her arms around him. “Love you, Daddy.”

He hugs her just as tightly. “Love you more.”

She toddles toward the art corner, bunny dangling from one hand, curls bouncing. Just before she joins the other kids, she turns for one last look and waves her tiny hand. He waves back, heart full.

As he walks out of the building and toward his car, he’s already can’t wait to come home to his girls tonight.

-

The house feels strangely quiet after the front door closes, in a way that only parents understand, the kind that carries both peace and a hint of loneliness.

You slip into the kitchen with your notepad, pen tucked behind your ear as you start listing this week’s groceries. Milk, eggs, fruit, Chris’s green smoothie powder, chicken thighs…

You walk around the kitchen, opening cabinets, checking the pantry, making sure you’re not forgetting anything. The fridge hums softly as you pull it open to check the produce drawer. A few apples left. Half a bag of spinach. No more yogurt. Add that to the list.

When you shut the fridge door, your hand drops from the handle slowly because the photos stuck there are impossible to ignore. They’re like little pockets of time frozen in place.

Your eyes land first on the one you always stop at of Chris holding newborn Addie on his bare chest, her tiny body no bigger than his forearm, her hand curled around absolutely nothing but air. His head is tilted down, hair falling into his eyes, expression so full of awe it almost hurts to look at. You remember that day so clearly. How scared he was to hold her. How gentle he became the second she touched him.

Next is the photo from her first birthday—three of you squeezed together, Addie clutching her smash cake with frosting all over her face, Chris smiling his impossible dimple smile, your cheeks pressed together. The joy in that picture lives in the corners of the frame like sunlight that never fades.

Your fingers drift to the beach photo. Little Addie standing ankle-deep in the surf, face scrunched in panic as a tiny wave brushed her toes. Chris was mid-laugh, holding her hands while she looked betrayed by the ocean. You can almost hear her wobbly little, “Daddyyyyyy,” echoing in your mind.

And finally, Halloween. You dressed as Rapunzel, blonde wig trailing down your back, fake flowers pinned along the braid. Addie, dressed as Pascal the chameleon, perched on your shoulder—well, she was supposed to perch, but the picture caught her tugging your wig with both hands, nose scrunched in concentration. You remember Chris wheezing from laughter behind the camera. A soft, delighted sigh slips from your lips before you even notice it.

These pictures… this life… this home…

The grocery list sits forgotten on the counter. Because right now, all you can feel is the warm, overwhelming truth rising in your chest:

You love your little family so much. More than you ever thought possible. More than you could ever put into words.

And standing there in the quiet morning light, surrounded by the echoes of every memory that brought you here, you realize you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

-

The preschool doors open and the kids trickle out, tiny backpacks bouncing against tiny legs. You spot Addie immediately with paint smudged on her cheek, curls wild, her bunny tucked under her arm like always.

The second her eyes land on you, she lights up. “MOMMY!”

She barrels toward you in those uneven, excited steps, and you catch her, lifting her easily into your arms. She wraps her arms around your neck and nuzzles into you, still smelling faintly of snacks and finger paint.

“Hi, baby,” you murmur, kissing her temple. “Did you have fun today?”

Addie pulls back, grinning wide. “YES!”

On the way to the car, she keeps talking—breathless, animated, the way only a three-year-old can. The moment you buckle her in and close the door, she’s already launching into a story before you even sit in the driver’s seat.

“Mommy, today I sat next to Aster.”

Your eyebrow raised in curiosity. “Aster?”

“Mm-hmm!” She wiggles happily in her seat. “He’s my friend. He has a Dino lunchbox. I like him.”

You smile to yourself as you start driving. “Oh? You like him?”

“Yes,” she says confidently, kicking her feet. “I wanna sit with him every day.” Then she adds, dramatically: “ALL day long.”

Your heart squeezes so tightly it almost hurts because she’s so sweet, so open, so earnest. The kind of openness you hope the world never takes from her.

“That’s very cute,” you say, glancing at her through the mirror. “Does Aster like you too?”

She nods so hard her curls bounce. “He said I draw the best rainbow. And—and I wanna marry him.”

You almost laugh, but it bursts out mostly as a soft, overwhelmed breath. “Marry him, huh?”

“Yes.” She nods again as if this is a legally binding decision. “We’re gonna get married and eat chicken noodles every day.”

Your heart turns to warm mush. “Well… you have to ask Daddy first before marrying Aster,” you tease.

Addie gasps and immediately bursts into giggles, covering her mouth with her tiny hands. “Moooommy!” she squeals. “Don’t tell Daddy!”

“I won’t,” you promise, biting back a laugh.

You glance to the back and lower your voice as you add, “It’ll be our little secret.”

She shushes you dramatically, pressing her finger to her lips. “Shhhh, Mommy. Daddy will be SO sad.”

You can’t help but laugh and she laughs because you’re laughing. Her adorable giggles fill the car until the whole space feels lighter, brighter, warmer. As she settles down, humming softly to herself and clutching her bunny, you glance at her again in the mirror.

So small. So earnest. So full of love already. And your heart feels full to the brim.

-

You’re stacking cans into the pantry when you hear the soft slap-slap-slap of small feet padding into the kitchen.

“Mommy,” Addie says, clutching the hem of her little shirt, “can I help cook dinner? I’m a big girl now.”

You smile, shutting the pantry door with your hip. “I know you are, honey. Mommy just… don’t know what to cook yet.”

She gasps like this is a crisis. You pretend to gasp with her. Then you lower your voice, conspiratorial. “What if we call Daddy and ask him?”

Her whole face lights up—eyes, cheeks, everything. “YES. I miss Daddy.” She runs over and grabs your hand to tug you toward the counter where your phone is.

You pull her close to your side and hit the video call button even though you know he’s probably still in the middle of work. The call rings twice and then Chris’s face fills the screen with the faint hum of the office behind him. The second he sees you both, the tiredness melts off him like it was never there.

“There’s my girls,” he says, voice warm and uneven in that way it gets when he’s smiling too hard. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t know what to eat for dinner,” Addie announces immediately, leaning practically nose-first into the camera. “Mommy said we can ask you.”

Chris softens even more. “Oh yeah? What does Addie want?”

She starts listing every food she’s ever loved. “Chicken nuggets. Chicken noodles. Fried chicken. Um… pizza? And… and… ice cream!”

You snort into your hand.

“That’s a lot of chicken, baby. But how about …” He pauses as if the decision is deeply important. “Curry?”

Addie blinks. Then nods, very seriously. “I like curry too. I can cook it for you, Daddy.”

“Oh?” Chris leans closer to the camera, eyebrows lifted. “You’re gonna cook dinner for Daddy?”

“Yes,” she says firmly. “But Mommy does the knife because knives are danger.” She pats your arm. “But I can stir.”

You brush her hair back from her forehead, trying not to laugh. “She’s very confident.”

“Good,” Chris says, absolutely enamored. “Daddy can’t wait to come home to Addie’s curry. I’m already excited.”

Before you can say anything else, Addie starts blowing rapid-fire flying kisses at the screen rather aggressively.

Chris actually wheezes. “Oh—okay—Daddy’s catching them—ow—okay, that one was strong—”

You’re laughing now, and Addie is thrilled with herself.

Finally, you tell Chris, “We’ll let you get back to work, Daddy.”

“Yeah,” he sighs softly, “but that helped a lot. I love you both.”

“We love you,” you say.

“LOVE YOU,” Addie screams into the phone.

“Come home safely,” you mutter at Chris.

“Come home safely, Daddy,” Addie echoes while waving her little hand.

“Bye, bye,” Chris says while waving at you and Addie through the screen before ending the call.

You put your phone away and look down at your daughter. “Well, chef. Ready to cook dinner?”

She nods so hard her pigtails bounce. “YES.”

Addie drags the little step stool across the kitchen floor with the determination of someone twice her size, the wooden legs scraping lightly until she plants it beside the counter with a triumphant hmph.

“I’m ready,” she declares.

You tie her tiny apron with her favorite cartoon animals on it and she lifts her chin proudly while you knot it. Then you tie your own right beside her.

“Okay, chef,” you say. “What’s first?”

She taps her chin dramatically, thinking hard. “We wash the veggies.”

“That’s right.” You fix the hair caught on the strap of her apron. “Because clean food is…”

“…happy food,” Addie eloquently answers.

“Good girl!” You smile with pride knowing that she remembers what you taught her.

You help her carry the carrots and potatoes to the sink. She rolls up her sleeves and scrubs them with far too much enthusiasm, sending little splashes of water up your arm.

“Addie,” you laugh, stepping back, “are we washing the potatoes or giving them swimming lessons?”

“They like swimming,” she insists. “They’re having fun, Mommy.”

You shake your head, smiling as you reach for a towel to dry the overly-happy potatoes.

While you chop the vegetables, Addie watches very intently as if she’s watching a magic show.

“Mommy is very good at cutting,” she honestly says with awe in her eyes.

“Thank you so much, Addie,” you say with a smile.

“Daddy can’t cut like this. Daddy cuts… weird.” She wiggles her fingers to demonstrate.

You try not to laugh so hard you mess up your chopping. “We’ll keep that between us.”

When the pot warms on the stove, she climbs onto the stool again, wooden spoon in hand like a wand.

“Be careful,” you warn. “The pot is hot.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

You add the vegetables and she stirs, both hands on the spoon, whole body working with each circle. Her lower lip jutting out as concentration wrinkling her forehead.

“You’re doing great, Addie, ” you tell her.

She beams. “Daddy will be so proud.”

“He already is,” you say with a gentle pat on her head.

As the curry block melts into the broth, the kitchen fills with that warm, comforting smell. Addie sighs happily and leans in a little too close to the pot, trying to catch a whiff of the curry. “Smells so good, Mommy,” she says softly.

You keep her steady by placing a hand on the small of her back. “Because you’re doing such a good job at it, lovely.”

You both lean over the pot, watching the steam rise. Addie gently bumps her head against your shoulder and whispers, “Daddy’s gonna love it so much.”

You kiss the top of her head. “He’s gonna love it because wemade it together.”

Addie glows and resumes stirring with renewed passion, humming her little song again as the evening light pours into the kitchen, warm and golden, wrapping the two of you in the softest, sweetest kind of quiet family love.

-

The table is almost done, just need to put the cutlery in place when the familiar rumble of Chris’s car curls through the quiet evening like a warm drumroll.

Addie’s head whips in the direction of the door and then her whole body lights up. “Daddy!” she squeaks.

Before you can say a word, she’s already sprinting, socks skidding on the hallway floor, her little ponytail bouncing behind her like a tiny exclamation mark. You watch her go, heart swelling in that too-big, too-full way only she can summon.

She plants herself right in front of the door, bouncing on her toes. One hand clamps dramatically over her mouth, her version of self-control. The other curls into a tiny fist at her chest, vibrating with excitement.

You lean against the doorway, smiling at the scene you’ve already watched a hundred times but never get tired of.

The lock clicks. The doorknob turns. The door inches open. Addie’s whole body trembles. When Chris steps inside, she explodes. “DADDY!!”

Chris flinches exaggeratedly like she’s startled the soul out of him. “Whoa! You surprised Daddy!”

Addie giggles, delighted with herself. “Welcome home, Daddy!”

He bends, presses a tender kiss to the top of her head, then toes off his shoes while she clings to his pant leg like a very affectionate koala. Once the shoes are off, he scoops her up with a warm grunt, settling her on his hip like she belongs there.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing her cheek with his nose.

She beams and hugs him tight.

He turns then, carrying all that warmth straight toward you. The moment he reaches you, he leans in for a soft, quick kiss on your lips, familiar and grounding all at once.

“Hi,” he says quietly, smile touching the corners of his eyes.

You feel your own smile unfurl. “Welcome home.”

The words slip out sweeter than you intend, threaded with relief and affection and that little spark of I’m so glad you’re here. And as he steps closer, Addie nestled against his shoulder, the scent of the curry drifting from the kitchen, you feel that gentle, everyday happiness settle into your chest.

He’s home.

Your little family is together again.

-

Chris settles into his chair with a low, content sigh, the kind that only comes after stepping back into the hum of his own home. Addie is already swinging her legs under the table, humming a tune with curry-smudged enthusiasm. You sit beside him, brushing your shoulder lightly against his, that small point of contact grounding him in a way the rest of the world never does.

Dinner spirals into the usual soft chaos. Addie babbles between spoonfuls, you tease him gently about the way he nearly burned his tongue, he sneaks glances at you the way he always does. Domestic serenity loops around him like warm steam from the curry.

When the lull hits, he turns to the smallest member of the trio. “So, Addie,” he says, scooping another bite. “How was school today, sweetface?”

Addie lights up, chest puffing with importance. “Daddy, we painted! I made a flower and Miss Hana said it’s beautiful!”

Chris nods, taking your hand and holds it in him on the table. “I’m sure Miss Hana is right.”

“Aster also said it’s beautiful,” Addie continues, waving her spoon dangerously, “And then he drew a dinosaur for me!”

Your soft giggle bursts out immediately beside him, and Chris freezes mid-chew.

Aster?

He turns to you sharply but you just widen your eyes like you’re innocent, but the grin tugging at your lips gives you away.

Chris shifts his gaze back to Addie, slipping into fatherly interrogation mode like flipping a switch. “And who is Aster?”

Addie, unbothered and glowing, shrugs. “Aster is my friend. He’s good at drawing dinosaurs. I like him. I wanna play with him all day!”

Your laugh escapes you and you quickly deflect by wiping your mouth with a napkin.

He clears his throat, straightens, narrows his eyes. “You can’t play with him all day.”

Addie blinks. “Why, Daddy?”

“Because,” he says, pointing a dramatic finger at his chest, “your daddy is supposed to be your number one partner for drawing. And coloring. And everything forever.”

Addie pauses, processing this Very Serious Information, then says with absolute innocence, “But Daddy… I can play with Aster at school.”

Chris inhales like she has stabbed him with a crayon.

You lose it beside him, covering your mouth to keep your laughter contained, but it breaks through anyway. Addie starts laughing because you’re laughing, her little shoulders shaking.

Chris puts on his sternest face. “That’s it,” he declares. “No more school for you, young lady. You stay home now. Forever. You can leave the house again when you’re eighteen.”

Addie giggles so hard she almost drops her spoon.

You lean your head toward his shoulder with a warm, delighted grin. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m being serious,” he insists, though the corners of his mouth betray him. “Dead serious.”

Addie laughs even harder, her cheeks pink and shining. Chris finally cracks, the authoritative dad act melting away into a laugh that rumbles up from somewhere he only ever uses at home, with you two. His girls.

The sound fills the kitchen, cozy and warm. And Chris feels it again, that quiet truth that never leaves him: there’s no place he’d rather be.

-

Chris sprawls on the carpet like he’s made of soft clay, letting himself be molded into whatever role Addie assigns him tonight. In her newest scenario, he is apparently a Very Hungry Giant, and she is the chef of an elite five-star restaurant made entirely of plastic utensils. Her tiny hands scoop invisible stew into a tiny pink bowl, and she toddles over with all the seriousness of a surgeon.

“Daddy, eat,” she commands, shoving the air toward his mouth.

Chris opens wide. “Nom, nom, nom, nom… Delicious.”

She beams, already racing back to her kitchen station to cook the next course. He can’t help the quiet bloom of pride in his chest. Hours away from her always leave a little ache, playing like this smooths it over. Better than any salary raise or office compliment. This is where he gets patched back together.

After a while, she drifts to another toy, her attention fluttering to glittery blocks. Chris takes that moment to sink onto the sofa like a man rediscovering gravity. His joints sigh.

He doesn’t have long to savor the peace, because he hears your footsteps. You ease down beside him with a slow exhale that tells him everything he needs to know about your day.

Without thinking, he reaches for you, looping an arm behind your waist and tugging you gently until your side melts into his. You fit there like you’ve lived in his ribs for years.

“You’re tired,” he murmurs.

“A bit.”

“You never let me help,” he says, soft but playfully scolding.

You smile. “You helped plenty.”

He nudges your temple with his nose, unconvinced, and then he just… sinks into you. His face nestles into the curve of your neck, his lips brush there in small, wandering kisses. The kind that don’t demand anything. The kind that simply tells that he missed you.

Your giggle hums through him and that only encourages him. He trails kisses from your neck to your jaw, then your cheek, savoring every little sound your body gives him. When he finally pulls back an inch, you look slightly dazed, slightly amused. He cups your face, thumb grazing the softness of your bottom lip.

You hold his gaze in the same warmth like you always do. “Why are you staring at me like that?”

His voice drops into a low wonder. “How are you getting more beautiful every day?”

You scoff, flustered, which only makes him smile deeper. He leans in, kissing you slow and intimate, something lit from within. When he pulls back just an inch, he murmurs against your lips, “How is that fair, mmh?”

Your breath fans his mouth. You’re smiling. He steals that smile in another kiss, deeper this time, his fingers threading into your hair as if he could draw you closer still.

Which is exactly when a small body wedges itself between your chests with the force of a determined squirrel. “Daddy!” Addie scolds, puffing her cheeks. “Daddy is my best friend, not Mommy!”

You laugh behind her tiny back, already retreating. Also because you’re used to this.

Chris tries to keep a straight face and fails immediately. “Mommy needs cuddles. She’s tired.”

“No!” she huffs, wrapping her arms around his neck in a possessive tangle. “Daddy mine!”

Chris bites back a laugh, widening his eyes as if shocked. “Mine? But Mommy is my wife, so I’m hers first.”

Addie reels back with betrayal blazing in her little eyes. “Daddy mine!”

You’re already shaking with silent laughter but Chris can’t resist pushing it one notch further. He hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you in tight again, so now he’s holding both of you at once, his favorite tug-of-war.

That’s the final straw as Addie’s face scrunches, her mouth wobbles, and then she bursts into dramatic, heart-splitting tears.

You lose it. Your laughter spills out, warm and helpless, as you gather her into your arms. “Oh, Addie baby,” you soothe through your smile, rubbing her back. “You silly girl.”

Chris holds her too, kissing her temple as she sobs into his shoulder. He murmurs between soft pats, “Daddy’s always yours. Always. But Daddy loves Mommy too. I love both my girls so much. There’s room for everybody.”

Addie hiccups, sniffling, her little hands clutching both of you. You fold your arms around them both, tilting your forehead against Chris’s.

Warmth pools around the three of you like a soft quilt: tangled limbs, shared breath, shared warmth. His family, all in one embrace.

-

Chris settles onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping softly under his weight. Addie is already tucked beneath her pastel blanket, only her curls and the round tip of her nose poking out, blinking up at him like a sleepy little owl. Her stuffed bunny rests on her chest, its whiskers flattened from love.

Chris gently lifts it aside so he can open tonight’s story book. “Ready for your story, my little lovebug?”

She nods, her thumb inching toward her mouth before she remembers he asked her to try not to suck it at bedtime. She hesitates. Then tucks her hand under her cheek instead.

He pretends not to see the struggle so she can feel proud and begins to read. His voice softens without him trying, slipping into that warm register he didn’t know he had until she was born. The kind made for stories about magical forests and animals who

As he reads, his hand drifts into her curls. They’re springy and wild, the same way his were as a kid, but soft like yours. He brushes a few strands away from her forehead, fingertips moving in slow, gentle motions designed to ease the last bits of the day out of her tiny bones.

Her breathing starts to change. Slower. Heavier. The kind that tells him she’s drifting.

He keeps going anyway, voice a low, steady river sliding over the words.

Addie’s eyes flutter. Open. Close. Open again with an effort that makes his heart twist. She wants to stay awake to hear him. She always does.

He leans closer, brushing her hairline with his thumb. “Daddy’s right here,” he whispers, barely more than breath.

Her lids fall one final time and this time, they stay. Her lips part in a soft pout she definitely inherited from him. Her bunny slips from her hand, so he places it gently under her arm.

He finishes the last line of the story in a hush, more for himself than her. Then he closes the book with careful, reverent hands and settles it on the nightstand.

For a moment, he just watches her. The tiny rise and fall of her chest. The way her arm curls protectively around her bunny. The innocence, the peace. The trust.

He leans down and presses a quiet kiss to her temple, lingering there until he feels his own breath steady. “Daddy loves you so much,” he murmurs.

He slips off the bed like a shadow, easing toward the door. He leaves it slightly ajar, the way she likes, letting a sliver of hallway light follow him out. He looks at his daughter once more and lowly murmurs, “Goodnight.”

And when he steps into the hallway, closing the bedtime world behind him, he exhales. Not tired, but full, filled to the brim with love so gentle it almost aches.

-

You’re halfway through patting moisturizer into your cheeks when you hear his footsteps. There’s a familiar cadence to them, a soft eagerness threaded through each step, and you don’t even need to look up before Chris slips into the bathroom.

His arms wrap around your waist immediately, pulling you into the solid shape of his body. Your back fits against him like you were carved with the same blueprint. His chin nudges your shoulder, and then his lips follow, brushing your skin with feather-kisses that rise in little sparks.

You giggle, your hands still working through your skincare. “The first lady is sleeping and now, you’re going to your mistress, mmh?”

He breathes a laugh against your neck and you catch his eyes in the mirror. They’re warm brown, soft around the edges, the kind of gaze reserved only for you. You reach for your lip balm, dabbing it on, and he lifts his head just a little as if he wants to watch every movement you make. He’s feeling the silky fabric of your camisole between his fingers when he notices something.

“Did you wear this set when you were pregnant?” he asks, voice low and casual but with that unmistakable undercurrent.

“Yeah,” you reply simply.

The smirk crawls onto his lips before he even tries to hide it. He presses another kiss to your neck, slower this time. “I thought so.”

He leans in until his mouth hovers at your ear, his breath warm. “You know I think you were the sexiest when you were pregnant.”

You scoff, reaching for your brush. “Of course you do.”

Chris gathers your hair in one hand to help you brush it, the other hand slipping under your camisole with such casual familiarity it sends a buzzing warmth down your spine. His palms rest on your stomach, thumbs tracing delicate shapes against your skin.

“I liked seeing you with the baby bump,” he murmurs. “Loved it, actually.” Then his hands glide upward, cupping your breasts through the fabric. “And these were… unbelievable.”

Your laugh breaks through before you can stop it. “We both know what you really liked was the baby-making part.”

He doesn’t even pretend otherwise. “Obviously.”

You turn in his arms, looping your hands around his shoulders. His hands settle naturally on your hips, warm and reassuring. “I don’t think I’m ready for it,” you say softly.

He nods without hesitation, fully understanding. “Okay.”

But then that glint slips into his eyes again, sly and teasing. “Not ready to get pregnant again… or not ready to share me?”

You narrow your eyes at him and gently push him away. “This is the end of the discussion.”

He tries to bite back another smirk, fails spectacularly.

You poke his chest lightly. “Living room. Now. You promised we’d watch that movie tonight.”

He leans in, kisses you once and when he pulls away, he can’t help but tease you again. “It’s the latter, right?”

You playfully pinch at his waist and glare. “Christopher!” you scold.

“Ouch!” He yelps rather dramatically and then bursts into laughter. “Okay, okay, I’m going.”

His hand trails along your waist as he steps away, and you catch the reflection of his smile in the mirror before he leaves the room.

-

Your body sinks into the warm cradle of the cushions, Chris’s arm draped over you like he’s trying to stake an adorable territorial claim. The glow of the TV flickers across both of your faces as the movie begins threading itself along… though you already know Chris is only half watching. His real show sits right beside him. His thumb strokes your upper arm in lazy arcs, the rhythm hypnotic.

A few minutes in, he exhales, a thoughtful huff against your hair. “I’m just saying… it is the right time,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “Addie’s old enough for a sibling. They’d have the perfect age gap. She’d have someone to play with. Someone to—”

You flick your gaze to him, unimpressed. “Focus on the movie.”

He grins but obediently turns his eyes toward the screen, though you can practically hear the gears in his head plotting. For a moment, you think he’s actually going to behave. For a moment.

Then his hand drifts under the blanket. His palm settles over your belly. Fingers tiptoe to the waistband of your shorts, nudging the elastic like it’s the doorway to some forbidden temple.

You swallow a laugh, shifting slightly, but he follows your movement with precision worthy of a veteran strategist. “Christopher…” you warn.

“Hm?” Innocence. Absolute faux innocence.

He turns your face toward him, tilting your chin lightly. His mouth finds yours, slow and then coaxing, teasing. His hand roams over your waist, hip, up your ribs, down your thigh in a wandering pilgrimage.

You pull away with a sigh, breath shaky, eyes narrowed because you know exactly what this man is up to. “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” he asks, eyes wide with fake purity that lasts maybe half a heartbeat before he steals another kiss, deeper this time, fingers tightening on your waist.

That’s it.

You straighten, reach for the remote, and shut the TV off with a decisive click. The room folds into quiet.

Chris watches you, pupils blown wide, hope shimmering on his face like he’s trying not to smile too hard.

You set the remote down, look him dead in the eye, and declare, “Yeah, okay. Let’s make babies tonight.”

His grin unfurls, slow and victorious, like he just unlocked the final chest in some mythical treasure room. He slides closer, voice a low purr against your lips. “Knew you’d come around.”

And then he kisses you with the kind of promise that could light the whole house.

-

The house has gone fully quiet now that the movie is off and the door is closed, you’re both in the safety of the shared bedroom now. You settle on his lap, your back resting against his chest with your legs pulled high and open. You glance down, catching the way his cock is snug inside you — a sight that both arouses you and sends a shiver down your spine.

Chris holds you as if you’re something he’s waited all day to unwrap, his breath warm against the curve of your neck. His arms circle you in a way that feels almost ceremonial, as if he’s marking a moment he doesn’t intend to forget. Your hips shift, just a little, just enough to feel that slow, deep press of his length, and all the air leaves your lungs in a shaky sound. It’s not loud, but breath and almost desperate. It’s the kind of sound he lives for.

His hand trails down south, fingers exploring with lazy confidence, touching you right on your bundle of nerves in a way that has your breath catching again. He’s patient, maddeningly so, as if he wants to memorize every small reaction you give him. Every hitch of your breath. Every subtle tremble.

“Chris…” You breathlessly whisper his name.

He responds with a soft laugh against your shoulder, the kind that curls warm in your stomach. His lips find your skin, leaving slow, practiced kisses along the line of your neck. Each one coaxes another sound from you, each one loosens you a little more in his hold.

Your fingers dig into his forearms. Your head tips back against him. You’re not sure when the pleasure started to cloud your thoughts, when the ache stopped and turned into something sweet and overwhelming, but Chris feels every shift in you. He always does.

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs against your ear, voice sinking into you like warm honey. His other hand comes up, holding your waist, guiding you, steadying you. “Just let it happen.”

You let your body answer his. You let the rhythm build, slow and deep, enjoying the way his fingers circling on your clit. Soon, you find yourself rocking into both his hand and his cock until your breath turns into soft, broken sounds he swallows with kisses to your jaw.

You’re trembling now, not from pain, but from the way he’s coaxing you toward that familiar edge with steady, knowing hands.

Chris feels the moment your body yields, the way your breath stutters and your walls tighten around him. His lips brush your temple, his voice low and full of affection as he whispers, “There you go… that’s it, baby”

You unravel against him, sinking into his chest as if your bones have melted. He holds you through every wave of it, his arms strong and steady, his touch gentle now that he’s guided you exactly where he wanted you.

“Such a good girl… coming for me like that,” he murmurs with a haste kiss on your parted mouth.

The world softens. The room blurs. All you can feel is the solid of his body against you, the heartbeat against your back, the way he holds you like you’re his entire gravity.

And Chris looks at you like this is the closest thing to paradise he’s ever touched.

-

The air between you feels charged enough to spark, and Chris moves slowly yet with certainty, guiding you forward until the mattress receives you. You’re lying on your stomach, head melting into the plush of the pillow.

He settles behind you, close enough that his breath grazes the back of your shoulder. His hands bracket your hips first, gliding up along your waist like he’s exploring his favorite place. There’s no rush in him. Just intent. The kind that wraps itself around your spine and tightens everything inside you.

His fingers trail along your side, lingering, appreciating, claiming. His body presses lightly to yours, just enough contact to make your breath hitch, to remind you that he’s right there, holding himself back on purpose. You can feel his desire without him giving you everything — just the weight of him, the warmth, the promise.

You shift, lifting yourself until you’re on all fours, needy without meaning to, and he catches the movement with a knowing sound, low in his throat. His hand curves over your hip, guiding, controlling, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Then he leans in, lips brushing the curve of your shoulder, fingers slipping between your slick folds.

“Already desperate for me?”

You try to answer, but the words tangle in your breath, and the tiny laugh that escapes him tells you he loves that. His other hand slides into your hair, gathering a gentle but possessive hold, the kind that makes a breath caught in your throat.

He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, humming as his fingers are now circling on your pulsating clit. “You’re dripping all over my hand, baby,” he whispers to your ear.

You still can’t respond with the way he has you wrapped, claiming and possessively. You grip the sheets as he dips his fingers into your wetness just to feel your tightness wrapped around them.

He pulls away slightly to palm your sex with his hand, fingertips lightly grazing your clit with intention. “I don’t think you’re ready for me,” he teases, a grin plastered to his face.

You drop your head to the side but that only allows Chris to place ferocious kisses on your exposed neck. His teeth nipping lightly at the skin, sharp and hot.

“Chris, please…” you whine as your grip at the sheets tighter, desperate.

He lets out a breathless chuckle. “You’re so cute when you beg, baby,” he mutters, breathe hot against your ear before he bites at it.

“Please…” you plead once more just to please him.

That does it as Chris finally moves, a slow, steady push of his body aligned with yours, letting you feel his hard length brushes over your sex — the full intention of him without crossing that last line.

Hid hand moves from between your legs to stroke his swollen member, using the tip to tease around your entrance, smearing your essence all over. When he pushes inside, he pushes just barely an inch, not enough to satisfy you. Yet the tension winds hotter, tighter, you exhale a shaky breath.

“This much is enough for you,” he mutters with a hot kiss pressed to your shoulder.

You whine before you can stop yourself, the sound raw with frustrated need.

Chris smiles against your shoulder, a warm curve of lips that feels far too triumphant. “Want more?”

You eagerly nod. “Yes.”

Chris rubs his plush lips across your shoulder blade and asks again, “You think you can handle it?”

You turn your head to the side, meeting his eyes and daringly stare into them. “You know I can take you well,” your voice dripping in audacity and heat.

That seems to amuse him as a grin bloom on his face, dimples sunken deep into his cheeks. He's never been able to deny you anything, but this is just too fun. He presses his lips to the sensitive spot behind your ear, nipping gently before purring, “Look who’s being all needy for me now.”

Without warning, he pushes the remaining length into you in one rough thrust until he’s fully sheathed in your warm, velvety walls. His self-control has been wearing thin, but he can't deny how good it feels to give into it.

Your eyes widen at the sudden sensation, a gasp falling from your lips with a heady mix of surprise and pleasure. Your fingers clutch the sheets, your pulse stumbling, your body alive with every inch of him inside you.

He keeps you close to him, breathless and aching, the world narrowing to the heat of his hands and the quiet authority in his voice.

“Oh, yeah,” he sighs as his hands gripping at your hips, keeping you where he wants you. “You can handle it.”

For a moment, Chris holds you like that — wanting, waiting — and lets the anticipation devour both of you.

-

For a moment, Chris stays still to let the tension coil tighter inside you. When he draws back, it isn’t to abandon you but to shift, to guide you with a quiet certainty that makes your whole body follow his hands without thought.

Through the reflection in the vanity mirror, he watches your face intently as he starts moving in slow, deep thrusts that drag every inch of pleasure out of you before gradually turning desperate, his control slipping.

"That’s it," he rasps, fingers digging into your hips as he pulls you back onto him with bruising force. "Take it—take all of me."

His voice is wrecked, the teasing edge gone, replaced by pure hunger. He leans down, biting at your shoulder, breath hot against your skin. "God—You always feel so fucking good."

Your fingers curl into the sheets. Your breath stutters. In each passing second, you can’t contain your moans anymore but let them spill free from your parted mouth that eventually turns into a cry of both pain and pleasure.

He leans down to sweetly mutters into your ear. “You sound perfect, like always, baby.”

And just when you’re melting into the moment, he slows and pulls out, making you whimper from the sudden emptiness.

Then, he gently grabs your waist, maneuvering you like you were merely a ragdoll for him to play with. He’s making you lay onto your side with a steadiness that feels protective and hungry all at once.

He kneels on the bed and lifts your leg with one hand, guiding you until you’re open to him, your bodies around curved each other in a way that makes you feel both cherished and claimed. You can feel him slowly easing into you once more, the length of his cock fits, full and snug, you believe you have taken his shape. The way he starts moving sending jolts of pleasure through you and that familiar feeling begins to build once more.

The first movements are deliberate, controlled, meant to drag every ounce of pleasure through you in long, spiraling waves. His hand holds your leg up just enough to deepen everything, and the angle sends heat shimmering up your spine. You can’t contain the sounds that slip out of you.

“Mmm...” The noise escapes your lips unbidden.

Chris lets out a low, possessive growl in response, taking in the reaction. “Like that, baby?”

His pace grows more intentional, more intimate, until you’re shaking with how close you are, how intensely he has you drawn tight under him, how loudly you’re moaning, calling his name in desperation.

And just when your breath breaks and your body clenches in anticipation… he slows. Then stops.

Your whole body trembles with the denied release, your gasp half-plea, half-frustration. Chris bends down to press a kiss on your shoulder, a soothing contrast to the torment he’s giving you. “Not yet,” he murmurs, voice thick with desire and control. “I want you to come apart exactly the way I want.”

His hand strokes your thigh, calming and possessive, keeping you suspended in that exquisite, trembling edge where he seems determined to hold you until you’re completely undone for him.

This time, he shifts along with you as he makes you lay on your back, your head hitting the pillow just right. You look at him with your heavy-lidded eyes, breathless and dazed. You tangle a hand in his curls and look him in the eyes as you mutter, “You’re enjoying it too much.”

Chris grins, his gaze dark and filled with satisfaction, his hand grasping your chin to make you look at him. He's enjoying this probably a bit too much, but he can't help it, he loves having this power over you. And you look so perfect beneath him, so beautiful and needy, his.

He leans down until his face is just inches from yours, his breath hot on your skin. “You know what else I enjoy?”

He pauses, his thumb gently stroking your lip, waiting for you to ask.

You drop your hand to the nape of his neck, playing with the tendrils of hair there. “What?”

He smirks, moving his hand from your chin to trail down your body, fingertips tracing lightly over your collarbone to your chest, continuing down your stomach until it rests just below your navel.

“The look on your face when I bring you to the edge. That look of pure, beautiful desperation that makes me want to give you everything, yet at the same time makes me want to hold you like this a little while longer.”

He leans down and places a kiss just above your hip, not stopping until he gets to where he wants.

Your eyes flutter shut as you feel the warmth of his breath against your wet cunt, the anticipation almost too much. He looks up at you, eyes dark, lips curving into a smirk before he leans forward, his tongue slipping out to taste you, licking you like he’s enjoying ice cream on a hot summer day.

“Chris, baby…” you sigh as you slumped on the pillow, helpless.

You feel the vibration of his hum as he murmurs against you, enjoying every moment of his ministrations. His hands find your thighs, spreading them just a bit wider, his touch soft and gentle yet possessive and demanding.

“Shhh, love. Let me take care of you,” he purrs, his voice sending another jolt of pleasure through you. “Let me hear those pretty sounds you make.”

Overwhelmed, you close your eyes but it’s only heightening the other senses. You feel his slick tongue tracing circles on your clit, his fingers curling inside you, the obscene noises of his wet mouth meeting your drenched sex. It’s all feels too much.

When you open your eyes, you find him looking up at you, making eye contact, watching your every reaction, every sound you make. He's completely focused on you, on bringing you pleasure, on making you feel good. And oh, he loves every second of it.

Chris pulls back just as your breathing hitches, your thighs trembling, fingers clawing at the sheets, but he stops, leaving you hovering on the edge.

He smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, gaze locked onto yours. “Not yet, baby,” he purrs, voice rough with desire. “Want to feel you come around me.”

His fingers replace his tongue, teasing slow circles—just enough to keep you right there, but not enough to let you fall. He lifts himself up just enough to hover above you, allowing your hand to reach his face, cupping his jaw.

“You’re really planning to wear me out, huh?” you ask with a tired yet smug smile.

Chris gives a lazy, cocky smile at your question. Of course that's his plan; he knows you're already exhausted, but he can't get enough of you.

“The one and only plan,” he says, fingers still slowly moving in torturous circles. “I'm going to wear you out—make you a whimpering, trembling mess before I let you finish.”

Chris leans forward, catching your lips in deep, heated kiss as his hand moves to align his cock to your entrance. His breath trembles against your lips as he pushes it in, easier this time but not less satisfying.

You open your legs wider, giving him more room to penetrate you deeper and when you know he’s buried to the hilt, you wrap your legs around him, not letting him pull away even an inch.

He softly chuckles as he breaks the kiss. “You’re not letting me get away this time, huh?”

You shake your head, grinning. “Not a chance.”

Fortunately, Chris can't resist you any longer either, he needs you now. He kisses you deeply, his tongue sliding against yours in practiced motions. His hands grip your hips hard, pulling you closer to him as he starts moving.

He moves at a slow, steady pace that allows you to feel every drag of his cock against your walls, his skin brushing yours in the slightest movement, his heat blending with yours. You look at him and he looks back into your eyes, a hand finds yours and you interlace it as the two of you continue moving in sync, becoming one in the moment.

And suddenly, it all feels too much that you get hit by a wave of emotions. Love, devotion, longing and everything in between stirred inside you until you can’t take it anymore but let them pouring out of you.

Chris feels your tears against his skin and he knows he needs to take it easy. He still wants to give you pleasure—that's his goal after all—but he doesn't want to hurt you, either.

“Hey, baby…” he coos against your hair, voice gentler now. His hands leave your hips to wipe gently at the tears streaming down your face. “Am I going too rough? Are you hurt?”

The genuine concern and care in his voice makes your heart aches in the best way. You cradle his face with both hands, holding it like a fragile object.

“I just love you so much,” your voice shakes at the end of the sentence from the weight of meaning it carries.

Chris wasn’t expecting that. His thrusts slow, his grip on your waist softening as he stares down at you, your fingers lightly trailing his jaws now, your eyes wet but happy. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, his voice breaking just a little.

“Babe—” He kisses you, deep and lingering, before pulling back just enough to murmur, “I love you so, so much.”

Then he moves again, but slower, deeper, pouring every ounce of that love into each roll of his hips, his hands cradling you like you’re something precious. “My wife… my love…” he whispers between kisses. “My forever.”

Soon, his breathing is ragged, his movements getting more intense, more desperate. He needs to see you come apart, he needs to be the one to make you feel this way—it's more than a want, it's a need.

“That's it, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin, so close. “Come for me. Come for me… Come for me, darling. Don't hold back.”

You do, you feel your high closing in, it’s coming fast and irrepressible. Your eyes screwed shut, your hands gripping at his arms now, nails digging into the flesh. You feel it building and building inside you until you can’t take it anymore.

“Chris…” you sharply gasp, nails digging deeper into his skin.

He feels you come around him, he knows you're feeling overwhelmed with pleasure and that thought alone is almost enough to send him over the edge. He doesn't stop like he usually does, letting you ride it out—he knows he can’t wait another second for his turn so he keeps moving, his pace rougher, his eyes locked on yours.

“Just a little bit more, yeah?” he moans, his voice heavy with want, his grip on your waist tightening.

“Take a little bit more for me,” he manages to say, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nibbling gently

And you let him, you let him chases his own high as you grip his shoulders, wrapping your legs tighter around him to ground yourself in the moment.

Chris loses himself in you, in the way you feel, in the way you let him take what he needs without hesitation. His rhythm falters, his breathing ragged as he buries himself deep one last time, his release crashing over him with a groan that’s half your name, half a supressed profanity. He collapses against you, still trembling, his lips pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder as he catches his breath.

You gently curve an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close and allowing you to place tender, little kisses on his temple down to his jaw. You ignore the sheen of sweat coated his forehead and make a new trail of kisses there.

Chan exhales shakily at the sensation of your soft kisses—your lips brushing his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his mouth—while his palm presses possessively against your stomach. His other hand tangles in your hair, pulling you closer as he murmurs.

“Take it all…” His voice thick with reverence. “I want you full of me.”

He holds you there, both of you still trembling from the aftershocks, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. The intimacy is almost overwhelming—the way he adores you, the way you let him claim you so completely.

When he finally speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper. “All mine.”

-

The blanket is pulled to your chest like a shield against the aftershocks pulsing through your body. You’re still stretched across the sheets, limbs loose and heavy, trying to gather your breath back into something steady. Your skin still hums, your heartbeat roaming everywhere at once.

Chris sits beside you, propped on one elbow, wearing that victorious little curve at the corner of his mouth that you want to smack and kiss in equal measure. His thumb softly brushes at the damp trails on your cheeks as if he wants to erase every trace of what he caused but also absolutely loves that it’s there.

You scoff, still breathless, voice scratchy but playful. “Guess who made another girl cry today?”

He doesn’t even pretend to look guilty. That smug glimmer only deepens as he strokes your cheek again, eyes warm and utterly unrepentant. “Guilty,” he says, softness wrapped around the tease.

You want to roll your eyes, but instead he leans in, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s slow, almost lazy, like he wants to savor the taste of the moment lingering between your lips. You sink into it because you can’t help the warmth, the steadiness of his hand on your jaw, the familiar pull of affection.

But then, a sound sound cracks through the quiet of the house.

Both of you stop moving for a heartbeat to hear better, to know for sure that they two of you didn’t imagine it. The sound is distant, muffled behind walls, but unmistakable. That tiny, trembly cry you’ve learned by heart.

Addie.

Maternal instinct scrapes you back into awareness like a bell rung inside your bones. You pull back and whisper, already shifting upright, “That’s her”

Chris is already moving. He grabs his sweatpants from the floor, tugging them on in rushed, uneven motions before padding toward the hallway.

As Chris goes to check on Addie, you sit up with a groan and tug the blanket tighter just long enough to breathe through the soreness. Clothes are scattered across the floor like a breadcrumb trail of earlier choices. You gather them quickly, slipping into the first things you find, fingers fumbling slightly as you fix the straps of your camisole.

A minute later, Chris reappears in the doorway of the bedroom, his brows drawn with concern. “She wants you,” he says gently.

That makes you pause because Addie usually prefers her dad to help her ward the nightmares away or whenever she cries at night.

“Me?”

He nods. “Yeah, you.”

That’s all it takes for worry to spark through you. You hurry past him, bare feet padding over the hallway floor, your pulse accelerating not with panic but with that deep-rooted instinct that something in your little girl needs you.

The door to her room is cracked open, a faint spill of warm nightlight glowing through the gap. You step inside with Chris following right behind you, putting on a smile as you take another step.

Addie is sitting upright in her little bed, knees tucked close, small fists scrubbing at swollen eyes. Her face is blotchy, her lip trembling, her breaths uneven. She looks heartbreakingly tiny in her pastel blankets. And when her gaze finds you, she breaks.

A wail spills out of her, raw and scared, and you rush to her side. She practically launches herself into your arms, climbing into your lap, straddling you with the fierce urgency only children possess. Her arms lock around your neck and she buries her wet face into your chest, sobbing against your skin as if you’re the only thing keeping her anchored.

You hold her tight, one hand smoothing circles over her back, the other cupping the back of her head. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” you whisper into her hair, rocking her slightly. “Mommy’s here. Mommy’s right here.”

Chris kneels beside the bed, brushing her messy hair out of her face with gentle fingers, his voice soft with concern. “Hey, flower bud. What’s going on, hmm?”

It takes time for the sobs to settle into sniffles. Addie hiccups, clinging to you with little shuddery breaths. When she finally lifts her head, her lashes are stuck together with tears.

You tuck a strand behind her ear. “Sweetie… what’s wrong? Why were you crying?”

She tries to speak, but her voice stutters through leftover tremors. “I… I h-heard… Mommy crying.”

You feel a breath caught in your throat while Chris’s eyebrows shoot up. He glances at you, biting back a smile he really shouldn’t be wearing right now.

You keep your voice calm as you ask again. “You heard… Mommy crying?”

She nods hard. “And s-screaming. A-and… the door was closed so I… I couldn’t check on Mommy.” Her lip wobble returns. “I wanted to help you.”

Oh. Oh, this pure, innocent child.

Heat creeps up your neck as last hour’s… volume… flashes through your mind. You and Chris exchange a look that is entirely too knowing.

Chris’s mouth twitches. You kick him lightly with your toe. But your heart squeezes at the sincerity in Addie’s face — the worry, the protectiveness far too big for her small body.

You kiss the top of her head, lingering. “Oh, baby… thank you for caring about mommy.” You stroke her cheek. “I’m so sorry the door was closed.”

“I’m sorry, baby, I think Daddy closed the door,” he admits under his breath. “Accidentally.”

You send him a look that promises conversation later and then you cup Addie’s jaw gently, guiding her to look at you. “Mommy’s okay, sweetheart. I promise. Mommy’s safe. Mommy’s not hurt at all.” Your voice softens even further as you hold her little body tighter. “Thank you for worrying me. Oh, my little Addie is such an angel.”

She sniffles, leaning into your hand before wrapping her arms around you again, clinging like she doesn’t want to let go.

After a moment, you ask, “Want to try going back to sleep?”

She immediately shakes her head, cheeks puffing out, eyes wide and glistening.

You hide a smile. “What do you want then?”

Addie gazes up at you with that innocent, hopeful twinkle. “Can I… have a cookie?”

Your laugh is soft, warm, because she is just so adorable with her tear-flushed cheeks and tiny, wobbly voice.

“Okay,” you say, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “One cookie. Just one.”

She nods quickly, but then—

“Can I have it with milk, Mommy?”

You tuck her hair behind her ear, smoothing it down. “Yes, you can.”

Then you look at Chris, who is already halfway toward standing. “Daddy,” you say, voice light but aiming, “cookie and milk for Addie, please?”

He straightens and puts a hand over his heart like you’ve given him a mission of national importance. “Yes, ma’am.”

Addie sniffles and reaches out her hand toward him as he stands, and Chris takes it, giving it a little squeeze before heading for the kitchen.

You hold your daughter close, feeling her tiny heartbeat slowing against you, grateful for the sweetness — even in the chaos of midnight tears.

-

Chris watches you move around the kitchen in that soft, warm hush that only exists in the middle of the night. Addie waits curled into the sofa like a sleepy kitten, blanket clutched under her chin, eyes drooping while she watches you both move around the kitchen.

He pours milk into a small pot and sets it over low heat. The quiet hum of the flame fills the silence… until he sidles up next to you at the counter. He bumps his shoulder into yours, voice dipping low, mischief weaving through the air like static.

“I told you to be quiet.”

You turn your head slowly, giving him that look. You hiss back under your breath, “It was because you insisted about making babies and went at it like you were trying to put ten babies all at once inside me.”

Chris fails as he tries to bite back a grin and angles his body closer, lowering his mouth to your ear. His breath ghosts over your skin. “I’m not sorry at all.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs, not hard at all, but he yelps dramatically anyway. “Ouch! Violence! Our daughter is watching!” He clutches his side like he’s wounded in battle, giving you wide, wounded eyes just to make you roll yours.

You don’t indulge him. You just grab Addie’s cookie from the counter and walk away, refusing to deal with your husband’s ridiculousness.

He watches you go — the sway of your walk, the sleepy tenderness in the way you settle beside Addie. You offer her the cookie with a whisper-soft smile, brushing crumbs from her cheek as she leans into you, trusting, safe.

Chris warms the milk just right, pours it into her favorite cup, and turns toward you two. Then he catches you give him that look again. The one you weren’t even trying for. The one with tenderness layered over the remnants of desire. A warmth that pulls him in every time. He feels it. In his chest, in his pulse, in the slow curl of a smile tugging at his mouth.

Even in the dim kitchen light, with your daughter half-asleep beside you, you still manage to give him those eyes.

And he, predictably, eternally, is drawn to them.

-

A long moment later, Chris is the only one left in the kitchen, rinses the glass and plate Addie used, wipes the counter, flips the switch. The kitchen instantly bathed in darkness.

Your laughter mixed with Addie’s giggles carrying down the hall and it tugs him forward, making him impatient to join in.

When he steps into the bedroom, he finds you tucked beneath the covers with Addie curled into your side, her tiny fingers clutching your shirt while you stroke her back in a slow, sleepy rhythm. She blinks up at you, lids heavy, murmuring something small and warm, and you nod along like her words are the most important ones ever spoken. You always do that. You meet her softness with a softness of your own, as if you were made to fill this exact shape in her world.

Chris feels that sudden swell in his chest. That unguarded, unshakable ache.

You open your eyes when he approaches, catching him mid-admiration. Your lips curl into that tired, sly smile that never fails to tilt his gravity.

“Stop giving me the eyes,” you whisper.

He does the opposite. His hand drifts to your face, thumb brushing the warm bend of your jaw. He lets his gaze linger, unshielded, telling you everything he knows words trip over.

“I love you,” he murmurs.

Your smile softens like dawn light stretching across a quiet street and you open your mouth to say it back to him but someone else beat you to it.

“I love you too, Daddy,” Addie mutters with drowsy eyes.

You softly chuckle at it and repeat the words with sincerity and affection brimming in your eyes. “We love you, Daddy.”

And Chris feels those words in his flesh and bones, and beneath them — his heart.

He leans in and kisses you long enough for his pulse to steady, long enough for something in him to settle. Then he leans over to kiss Addie’s forehead, her tiny sigh puffing against his cheek.

When he finally slides beneath the covers, he reaches for your hand automatically, like muscle memory born from another lifetime. Your fingers lace with his. His thumb traces lazy arcs along the back of your hand, and your breathing gradually slips into the gentle cadence of sleep.

Soon, the room falls into silence.

Chris stays awake a little longer, anchored by the weight of your hand in his. Addie’s tiny breaths flutter against your chest. Your fingers stay curled with his, even in sleep, as if your body refuses to let go of him even for a moment. And something inside him unfurls, warm and steady, like a lantern being lit behind his ribs.

He looks at the two of you and feels the future tug at him in quiet, glowing shapes. Not the kind of future that arrives all at once. The kind that grows like a tree. Slow, patient, unwavering.

He can already see it. Mornings with bedhead and pancakes for breakfast. Afternoons where Addie’s legs get longer, where your laughter fills corners of the house he hasn’t even paid attention to yet. Evenings where he comes home to chaos and comfort braided together. Maybe little footsteps trailing behind Addie someday, siblings with her smile or your eyes, each one another small miracle he never thought would be his.

He thinks about birthdays and scraped knees and tiny backpacks. About school plays where he records the entire thing even though he swears he won’t. About you in the kitchen, rolling your eyes at him while he shows the kids the same silly magic trick over and over again. About holding you on the couch after everyone’s finally asleep, closing the day together in the warmth of each other’s arms.

He lets the visions spill softly through him, each one planting another root. His thumb drifts over the back of your hand again and then presses a kiss to your knuckles as if sealing the moment into something he can carry forever.

This life didn’t just happen to him. It bloomed around him, piece by piece, until it became a garden of everything he once only dreamt about.

And as he watches you and Addie sleep, Chris feels it with a clarity that sweeps through him.

He’s ready for every season this family will grow through. Ready to watch you bloom in new ways. Ready to watch Addie stretch into whoever she becomes. Ready to welcome every new branch, every new beginning, every new laugh that will one day echo through these walls.

This is only the first chapter.

And with his girls sleeping beside him, hearts beating steady and close, Chris promises himself he’ll spend a lifetime tending to this future. Letting it grow. Letting it flourish.

Because nothing feels more certain, more hopeful, more beautiful… than knowing his family has so much blooming left to do.

-

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You stood on your balcony, hip propped against the rail. The same unlit cigarette turning over and over in your fingers.

Truthfully, you'd given up the habit years ago. But just having the option, or pretending you did, was nice on nights like this.

Your partner didn't seem to bother to remember details about you. Like where you were in your cycle, what you really meant when asked them for cuddles late at night. You'd built a life with them over the years you'd been together. You'd stayed through the good and the bad. But why did it feel like it was more bad than good lately?

"Funny seeing you out here." Minho was home.

"Hi, Minho." You didn't look up from your twirling, like if you focused on it hard enough you could get your mind to stop spiraling.

Honestly, you didn't mind your late night chats with Minho. He'd help you keep yourself in the present, pause the spirals you worked yourself into. He was a welcome distraction. Well, most nights.

See, the thing is, Minho is just so damned attractive.

And here you are, hormones pulsing in your veins, through your mind, making your clit throb. And he just offers his usual teasing smirk, mouth pulled just to the side. Fucker.

"Rough night?" He stands beside you, well, as beside you as he can with the railing between you.

"Somebody give the man a prize" but there's no humor in your voice. For months, closing in on a year now, you'd been trying to get your partner to focus on you. Keep a calendar. Track when you were feeling especially needy, even though you would still make it known. But here you were, distracting yourself while the only thing he seemed to do was keep track of it to push you away. To hurt you. To neglect.

Still that cigarette twirls, Minho tracks the movement with his eyes.

"Come have a drink." He looks to you, the disbelief written on your face. "You and I both know you've got at least two hours before he even remembers you're home. One drink."

Finally, the twirling pauses.

One drink. A moment to disconnect. Why not?

"Yeah. Okay"

~~

Minho couldn't believe his luck. That you'd agreed to come over for that drink. The woman he'd fallen for so slowly, he didn't recognize it until it was too late.

He'd prided himself on being a respectful neighbor. Considerate, quiet. Willing to help when asked but not butting in.

Then you had moved in and he couldn't stop himself.

You were considerate in all the same ways he was. Quiet, but not unkind. He honestly couldn't remember you being especially notable until he started finding you outside late at night several months ago.

He'd overheard the fight through the walls. The first real disturbance you'd ever caused in his evening routine. Agitated voices vibrated through his walls, no subject carried over. But the door slammed and he couldn't not look.

And that started your routine. Every night he was home and heard your back door shut, he'd go to the balcony to see you. Some weeks he saw you only once, some weeks he would see you every night without fail.

Tonight was no different. He heard the voices, listened to the door shut and he couldn't stop his feet from taking him outside. To you.

The summer heat is oppressive tonight and yet you're still outside, hair sticking to your neck, same cigarette spinning, just like every night. And to Minho, you are beautiful in your restlessness. In your resolve to endure, but he's done simply watching you suffer. So he offered you a drink

—

Now, you were in his living room, glass in hand. Cigarette left on your balcony, no longer twirling around like the thoughts in your head.

You really weren't sure what Minho had poured for the two of you. You were too busy taking in your new surroundings to worry with that. His apartment was the same as yours, a fairly spacious one bedroom. But neater, reflecting the person that inhabited it.

It held plenty of personality through photos in frames and books on the shelves, but everything had a place. Minho seemed so well contained through all your late night conversations, it made sense his apartment would be the same.

You sipped from the glass in your hand. Something sweet, but in the same way overripe fruit is sweet, with a full bodied bite at the back. Far more enticing than the candy sweet of a mixed drink.

He joined you on the couch, his own glass filled with the same liquid, and soft music floating from somewhere in the kitchen.

"So what was it that had you standing in the heat tonight?" He's never one to be indirect, if he can help it.

"Same as always." You tried to be very noncommittal in your answers. How were you supposed to tell your extremely attractive neighbor that you couldn't distract your partner from their hobbies for even a few hours. Heaven help you that you wanted to fool around every now and again.

Minho just hummed back at you. He'd be lying if he said he didn't already know.

One night, he'd been outside waiting for you. Not really anticipating you, but hoping. He'd caught the tail end of your conversation through the door before you could shut it.

"Why are you so needy? I just want to have some time to myself to do my hobbies."

You'd apologized to the voice before shutting the door a little harder than you'd meant to.

Minho was not a stupid man. He'd thought your visits seemed to have a bit of a pattern. He'd thought that you just really liked watching the moon as it finished filling in and slowly started to wane. He'd not imagined that it was far more precious of a reason than that.

You were needy. A terrible way to describe it. Physically wanting, would be better. Emotionally, too, with how some of the conversations had gone. He just needed to work up the courage to provide. Oh, how he craved to do that for you. To provide whatever solace you needed for however long you would let him.

Now, here you were. Tucked safely into the corner of his couch, legs crossed under you, and a glass of his favorite wine in your hand. He could get drunk on that image alone, forget drinking with you.

The two of you talked about everything and nothing, just like if you'd been on the balcony. The only difference now being the addition of alcohol and the subtraction of a railing. You'd gravitated to the middle of the couch without meaning to, showing him pictures on your phone to go with the stories you shared. Trips with your friends, holidays with family, stupid memes sent about shows the both of you watched. A spell had been cast on the both of you somewhere between glasses two and three, only broken when your knee finally pressed into Minho's thigh.

You paused. Taking in how close you'd gotten, each of you a mirror of the other. One leg extended to touch the ground, the other folded in due to the back of the couch, heads leaning in to look over the phone screen as you chatted. Suddenly, you were face to face with Minho, his slightly glassy eyes searching your face. "You're so pretty."

You blinked at him, cheeks warming from both the alcohol and the compliment. "You're one to talk."

He did that blinking thing he does when he's bewildered or doesn't believe what he's hearing. Lots of little fast blinks as he shakes his head, the smallest smile forming

"Seriously, Minho," you aren't sure what possessed you to touch him, your hand finding its home in the center of his chest. Was it always this firm? Did you not know because he preferred to keep himself covered? Always just out of reach across the railing of his balcony? A wild concept. Now that you knew, you never wanted to stop touching him. Firm, and warm, and really here with you.

Your eyes stayed locked where your hand rested, but Minho's didn't. They trailed up your arm to your face, seeing the need start to glaze your eyes over. He leaned in.

You fell into the kiss greedily, your hand wrinkling the front of his shirt as you pulled yourself closer, straddling his waist.

He wasted no time. His hands steadied you before working their way under your shirt, your skin burning everywhere he touched. You were so soft and here and his, at least for right now. And greedy, possessive creature he could be, he wanted to keep you as long as you'd let him.

You only broke the kiss when his hands found your breasts, overly sensitive tonight, and you moaned into his mouth.

"Oh, kitten," he moved to kiss down your neck, his hands never stopping. "If you're going to sound like that, I'll need to hear it in my bed."

You let out another sound and nodded, your hips grinding down onto his. You could feel him, hard already, pressing against your core. You'd ended up on the balcony in a baggy t shirt and fabric shorts, hoping to entice your partner, but catching Minho instead. You knew in the back of your mind you should feel guilty. Guilty about where you were right now, about not reacting to the pet name, about a lot of things, really. But after feeling the evidence that he wanted you, wanted to continue this and not leave you unsatisfied, you couldn't think outside of these walls.

You really weren't prepared for him to lift you. You thought he'd put you down, walk you to his bed. But Minho is full of surprises. And you gasp when he drops you onto his made bed, comforter cushioning the fall. You giggle before pulling him back down to you, eager to continue kissing him.

He tasted better than you'd imagined in your wildest dreams. The desperation and the wine only adding to how sweet the moment was.

Now that you'd made it to his bed, Minho made quick work of your shirt. His mouth trailing down from yours to suck marks onto your chest. He left his first one just under your collarbone, the next at the base of your breast.

When he came up for a breath, you pulled his shirt off. His chest was better than you imagined from the brief touch on the couch. His broad shoulders and well defined muscles were things of absolute beauty. Honestly, you'd love to look longer, but there were more pressing matters at the moment.

Minho's hands made their way down your sides, while his mouth landed back on your chest. He took a nipple into his mouth and began to suck on it, giving pointed licks every now and then. His hands finally reached their goal and started to toy with the waistband of your shorts.

He slowly dipped a hand underneath and let out a groan into your skin. "No panties?" He clicked his tongue at you. "What a desperate little kitten." He pulled your shorts down fully now. "Not to worry. I'll take care of you."

Minho's fingers trailed lower, brushing against the soft skin of your inner thigh. You shivered at the contact, your fingers digging into the skin of his shoulders.

"So sensitive." He moved his attention to your slit, thumb slowly circling your clit, middle finger pressing at your entrance.

The sounds you were letting out at this point surprised even yourself, sounding so wanton you wouldn't have recognized them as your own.

"Do you want this?" Minho's eyes flashed with an intensity you weren't prepared for. "Do you want me?"

"Yes. Fuck, Minho. Yes."

With your consent, he sank his finger into you, quickly curling it to make you buck your hips into his hand. Your back arched off the mattress, pressing your chests together. You wanted to close your legs and lock his arm where it was, but he'd placed his leg inbetween yours, stopping the movement. All you could do was dig in with your nails and rock against him.

He worked another finger in, bringing you close to your peak, before stopping suddenly, and pulling his hand away.

"No… don't…" You looked up to Minho, who was smirking, pleased with himself.

"I'm sorry, kitten," Minho rolled you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up. "I need to feel you clench like that around me. I can't take those sweet little sounds of yours anymore."

You heard him pull down his own bottoms, the slide of fabric against skin, before they fell to the ground. The next thing you felt was him prodding against you. He stroked himself up and down your slit, coating himself in your slick.

"Fuck," he lined himself up with your entrance. "So wet for me. Perfect."

You both let out a moan as he seated himself inside you. He felt like he was in your stomach with how he stretched you out, fitted you around him, molded you to him.

He began to move slowly, not wanting to cause you any discomfort, but as he heard only sounds of pleasure fall from your lips, his pace increased. You arched your back further into his grip on your hips, letting him fully control the pace. The coil in your stomach retightening from where it had been earlier, seeming to burn brighter than before.

"Minho…" you could feel yourself about to unravel.

"Gonna come for me, kitten?" He kept his tempo. "Come on my cock. Come for me. Now."

You let go once he said "now", like your body couldn't wait to obey his command. He fucked you though it, only slowing slightly when your moans turned to whimpers.

He turned you again, to face him, and repositioned the pair of you further up on the bed. "Now, do it again," he entered you again, letting out a sigh of relief at being back inside, "This time I want to see your face."

You were about to protest, but with a roll of his hips, he silenced you. "I know you can take it. I can feel it." He thrusts into you a few more times, slowly but pointedly. "Fuck, you're sucking me in. You can take it. You can give me another."

Minho's hips turned mean, he picked a punishing pace. With your hands able to reach him, you started to leave scratches down his back.

"So close, kitten. Fuck, so close." His hips started to stutter. "Can feel you clenching around me again. Gonna come with me?"

You nodded your head, back arching off the bed. Minho sneaked a hand in between you to rub circles on your clit, pulling you with him.

The second coil snapped faster than the first, your legs pulling Minho into you, your cunt sucking him in as it clenched around him.

He finished shortly after you, both of you grinding through it to prolong the feeling.

Minho collapsed onto his forearms and kissed you again. He pulled out slowly, both of you wincing slightly at the loss.

You rolled into his chest, not wanting to feel too far from him. He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you in, and planting a kiss on the top of your head.

"Needy little kitten." He nuzzled against you more.

You just buried your face into his chest in response, your cheeks heating again from his comment.

His fingertips traced patterns against your skin causing you to shiver and press yourself into his side further. Your chest pressing into him the most, causing your breath to catch in your throat.

You were so sensitive from what just happened. What did just happen? Now was not the time to think about that. With Minho's hands on your skin and your nipples peaking up again from merely brushing against him, you had more important things to do than think.

you had just about enough last week. he came over unannounced, you had errands to run and wasn’t having it. when you told him to leave, he kept asking. you kept saying no. he left after 15 minutes of back and forth, rolling his eyes and a quiet ‘whatever’. he hasn’t texted or called since, which you were sure was supposed to happen sooner or later. casual sex, ghosting before it gets serious, these weren’t things unusual to you. but with minho, it was always more than casual for you.

the first time was so mind-blowing you thought it was just the alcohol because it couldn’t be this good sober, right? well, the second time was better. and very sober. for casual sex, he talked a lot. you talked back until you couldn’t. there were times when he wanted to come over just to make you come twice and then he would leave. never asked for anything in return. so when you first told him no you were confused by his reaction. it wasn’t like minho to let his emotions get the best of him.

it was safe to say you were losing your mind. you couldn’t decide if you should text him. of course he should apologize for ever trying to pressure you into anything, but you were borderline insane at this point. you haven’t been able to make yourself come, not with toys, not with your pillow, not with porn.

you decided you weren’t going to torture yourself any longer. you had to call him.

he called first though. right when his contact name was already half typed into the search bar. your heart sank before you pressed the green button. you waited until he said anything. you could hear him breathing. then, low and quiet: “let me make it up to you”

you gulped, took a shaky breath and said “okay”. he hung up first. ten minutes later he was knocking. you were already standing there, opening it for him. he didn’t wait a second longer, eager hands landing on both sides of your face, pulling you in. your back hit the wall before you knew it, his thigh slotted between yours. his kiss was sweet, slower than you expected. more meaningful. his hands didn’t stay in place for long, wandering down your sides, pulling the hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head back. his kisses moved across your jawline, behind your ears. you couldn’t speak. you just let him.

when his lips fell to your neck, pressing soft, wet kisses there, your hips arched, and he made a strained noise. it was a warning and you weren’t going to stop. a hand pressed on your left hip, either urging you to continue or stop, but when his tongue traced a line on your neck, you moved again. he gasped against your neck, followed by a small groan. it wasn’t like him to make this much noise so early, but you weren’t you about to complain.

you were so lost in the friction, his lips moving so slowly on your most sensitive spots that you didn’t even notice his left hand tracing the skin just above your waistband. you gasped when you felt it, and he looked up at you. you were nodding before he even said anything. he wasn’t smug like always, didn’t have some snarky remark like always, didn’t tell you how desperate you were for him. he just gave you what you needed.

your eyes fluttered closed when his hand slid below your waistband, the pads of his fingers already feeling the soft material of your panties. your lips parted just enough for a small, desperate sound to slip past them. he looked into your eyes once more, “you sure you want it?” “yes, minho, plea- oh-“ before you could get the words out his fingers slid over you, feeling your warmth carefully. he sighed like it physically hurt him how wet you already were, but he still didn’t comment on it. he just continued teasing you in tight circles until you were tearing up and begging him for more.

he kissed the shell of your ear, whispering a small ‘bedroom’ before he was pulling out his hand, leaving you trembling. you walked to your room on wobbly legs, and he followed. you laid down on your bed, and he stopped at the edge. your brows furrowed, confusion making its way to your face. “what?” you asked. he looked unsure.

“do you want to be on top?” your jaw went slack. you had been asking him for that since forever. he never let you. being in control of your pleasure and your body was his biggest turn-on, and you knew that, so you stopped asking. you liked when he was in control, and that’s why his question had you breathless. he did say that he wanted to make it up to you. but this wasn’t what you had expected. however, before you started overthinking, you nodded, moving to the side so he could lay down. he moved hesitantly, but laid down, back to the headboard. you slipped into his lap, still a bit unsure. his hands slid up your thighs, settling on your hips. “come here” he said softly. you did. you kissed him slow, and he let you. you don’t know how long you two made out, but clothes disappeared slowly with each passing minute, a sheer layer of sweat on both your bodies, your breathing turning heavier. your hips twitched every once in a while, a moan passing from your mouth to his. he was hard. so hard that you could feel the veins pressing through his pants. every time you moved he twitched a little beneath you, and you liked it. you didn’t exactly feel like you were in control, but the way he behaved was completely different than usual.

you were soaking wet too, and it would’ve been uncomfortable if you weren’t so distracted by his beautiful and pillowy lips. you had been impatient since the second he kissed you, but if you were finally given this chance, you would make the most of it. make him pay for a whole week of torturing you. now it was your turn to have him breathless and you were going to make him beg for this. beg for your touch, for you. you kissed your way down his neck, and he didn’t stop you. you smiled against his skin, and kissed back up, stopping before touching his ear. then, you whispered “are you gonna let me do this forever? or are you going to accept defeat” he chuckled, still a strained sound, and said “you want me to beg?” you looked up at that. you didn’t answer, just continued your little pecks on any skin you could reach.

your hips did twitch uncontrollably, making him groan. he was hanging on by a thread, and you couldn’t imagine anything better. so you did it again, this time on purpose. a long, slow grind against him, and what left his mouth wasn’t restrained or controlled, it was a tiny sigh that sounded like defeat and desperation. you had him.

your kisses continued down to his chest, your knees slowly moving from next to his hips down between his spread legs. your hand pushed the edge of his shirt up, revealing just enough skin for you to play with. your kisses were wet, open-mouthed, and annoyingly patient. your pinky slipped just into the waistband of his boxers, and his hips twitched up. you searched his eyes again, the corner of your lips curling upward from his pained expression. he wasn’t having it. but you weren’t either, not without his words. you lowered your head back down, but before your lips hit his skin, he gave in. “okay, fine, jesus, just— please”

your thighs squeezed in attempt to control the ache, but it didn’t work. he said it. minho did, with his own mouth, beg you to do anything to him.

you could have continued. could’ve teased him until he was tearing up and a mess, but maybe another time. this wasn’t exactly the most patient you’ve ever been. so, you reached for his waistband, waiting for a nod before pulling his pants and boxers down at once. he was beautiful, leaking at the tip and twitching every few seconds. you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this hard. your hand came first, wrapping loosely around the base just to feel. you pressed a small kiss to the tip and he hissed. his hands came up behind your head, not pushing, just there to anchor. your tongue came next, lapping at him, barely anything, but enough to taste him, and for him to go insane. “fuck— oh god, please. i need-“ he cut himself off with a moan when your lips wrapped around the tip, sucking just enough to make his hips buck. his breathing was irregular, sometimes too fast sometimes he just wasn’t breathing. you’ve never seen him like this, and it was everything you never knew you needed.

you took him deeper, just to test it, even though you basically never gave him a proper blowjob before. he didn’t ask you for one, and for you it just felt too personal. but you were doing it. you felt him everywhere. his scent, his taste, his warm and pretty hands tangling in your hair while your mouth moved on him sloppily. you weren’t trying to do anything mind-blowing, you were just letting him feel you, but he sounded so beautiful you thought he was going to come just from this. sure enough, thirty seconds in, he stopped you.

“oh— jesus, baby you need to stop. i don’t wanna come yet” you pulled off slowly, smiling. you didn’t need to tease him with words, you just had to be a little patient.

you sat back into his lap, hands pulling your shirt over your head slowly. he just watched, hands resting at his sides. your pants were next, slow and painful even for

you. he had to stop breathing when you sat back on him, almost bare, your thin and absolutely soaked panties the only thing separating you. your hips started moving again, your hands resting on his chest. you went slow, but for you it felt insane. you were close already, his quiet groans urging you to continue. you didn’t realize you were coming until minho mumbled a small ‘holy shit’ completely out of breath. that didn’t stop you at all, finally pulling your panties to the side. you watched every single detail on his face as you raised yourself up, his tip nudging at your entrance. you sank down, taking him easily. his eyes widened, then he squeezed them shut, head falling back against the headboard. your hips worked him to the edge so quick you had to slow down just to enjoy it a little longer. he didn’t talk as much as he usually did, but you didn’t mind, because it meant that you had him completely lost and out of his mind, so you took it as a compliment. a little whisper of your name was what took you there again. you wanted to come, but you knew that he would follow right after, so you stopped.

“fff- oh fuck— why’d you stop? i want you to come” you exhaled shakily “cause you couldn’t hold it if i did” he chuckled “yes i could, come on” you rolled your eyes, but moved again. you worked yourself up slowly, his moans were constant, desperate and beautiful. you knew you were going to

come, but couldn’t speak anymore. you didn’t stop this time, grinding slowly until you fell over. you were loud, squeezing him as you came, hips only slowing when it got too much.

you looked up, and he was done for. his eyes were wide and panicked, you weren’t even moving anymore, but you felt him twitching. he was about to come. “yeah?” you asked “can’t hold it, min?” you moved teasingly and his hands flew to your hips to stop you “n- no, i can, just, fuck, stop