anna

he laid out on the bed , his shirt lifted so you could see the sliver of his skin — a lazy smirk on his face as you sat on your knees. “you look a little flushed princess.” his hand coming up to your cheek. “you said you wanted to do it , you getting cold feet?” jaehyun knew you were inexperienced , he’d been taking things extra slow with you but sometimes you surprised him and he didn’t stop you. “n-no.” you started. “bu-but what if i do it wrong , what if i bite you or something?”

“you’re not gonna bite me baby.. and who knows i might like shit like that.” he chuckled seeing your face flush even more. “come on you’re a big girl.” his hands wrapping around your thighs. “and i’m here to help you , i promise.” you bite down on your lips , forming a pout — he let out a low groan , he didn’t care how sloppy it might be , he needed to feel your lips around him. “it’s just like a lollipop.”

“ok-okay.” he smiled softly , his big hand caressing your cheek. “good girl.” he unbuckled his pants. “go ahead , take my cock out baby.” his eyes were low as he watched you nervously fiddling around with his pants , lifting his hips up to allow you to pull them down enough to pull his cock out , your eyes widening at his length. “yo-you’re really big.” he laughed softly. “touch it baby.” he groaned softly as you held his soft cock in your hands. “yeah baby , now move up and down.” you obeyed. “slowly.” he trailed off as you moved your hands , pre-cum dribbling down his cock. “fuck princess , keep going.”

“now give the tip a little kiss.” lowering your head down , kissing the red tip , the sticky essence coating your lips. “good girl ; open your mouth.” he ran his hands through your head softly. “go slow.” parting your lips , letting his cock slowly slip into your mouth. “fuuuuck.” he groaned , hissing when your teeth grazed the vein. “shit baby , careful with your teeth , you’re doing so good though …. so fucking good.” he praised , your muffled moans , sending vibrations through his cock. “sh-shit , you like sucking my cock?” he groaned , he tugged at your hair softly , desperately wanting to push your head down and make you gag on his cock — shit he was about to cum. “wait fuck hold on baby , stop..”

“did i do something wrong?” you pulled off of him , your lips swollen , eyes read and teary — and fucked out. “no , of course not – fuck you were too good i almost came.” he huffed out a breathless laugh. “isn’t that a good thing?” you titled your head to the side confused , you were killing him. “ye-yeah , but i didn’t want to overwhelm you.” his cock was still hard , twitching against his stomach — you didn’t know what you were doing, but you picked it back up. “baby wait you don’t—fuck!”

he hissed as you bobbed up and down on his length. “god -baby- fuck.” you smiled , mouth full of his cock. “fuck i’m gonna cum.” you kept going , jerking off what couldn’t fit in your mouth , his cock twitched before his cum shot into your mouth , some of it leaking out the corners of your mouth. “ah shit , that’s enough pretty.” you pulled off of him , cum and spit coating your lips. “did i do good.”

“good?” he chuckled breathlessly. “baby you sure you haven’t done that before?” you flushed , swatting his chest. “jae stop..” he pulled you into his lap. “you did so good.” your need for him growing as he praised. “ja-jae.” he rubbed soft circles into your thighs. “getting needy pretty?” you whimpered, nodding. “you did such a good job only right i help you now right?” you core burning with anticipation. “sit on my face.”

“h-huh?” “sit on my face, i want you to smother me with that pretty pussy.” he pulled you further up. “come on let me taste you.” he whispered , hissing the insides of your thighs. “want you to ride my face , use me.”

there were exactly a thousand guests in attendance tonight. family, friends, business partners, celebrities, investors, socialites, industry executives from every corner of asia, people whose names appear in magazines and headlines and billion-dollar reports. the ballroom itself looked almost unreal – dripping crystals suspended from the ceiling, white roses woven into towering arrangements, soft gold lighting reflecting against polished marble floors. every detail had been curated to perfection. fitting for the wedding of the heirs to two of the most influential beauty empires in the country.

“we have been waiting for this union for years now,” mrs. zhong continues, and somehow every person in the room hangs onto each word she says. she has always had that effect on people.

“my one and only son, chenle…i am very happy and excited as you take on this next chapter,” her eyes land on him briefly, full of pride, “i know you will be extraordinary, as you are in everything you do.”

a wave of soft applause spreads through the room. chenle beside you gives a polite nod, composed as ever. 

then her attention shifts entirely to you.

“and of course, my beautiful daughter in law, y/n zhong…,” the warmth in her voice softens you completely. the last name making your heart flutter. you don't know if you'll ever get used to hearing it.

“i’ve always wanted you as my real daughter,” she says with a small smile painted in her signature crimson lipstick,  “and now i can finally say you are.”

your chest tightens in the best way possible. you smile back before you can even think about it, eyes sparkling beneath the lights as emotion swells quietly inside you. because unlike the cameras and contracts and business articles surrounding this marriage…this part felt real. 

lili zhong was someone you had admired long before you ever understood what admiration truly was. 

you can remember it as if it was yesterday – being seven years old inside the towering headquarters of zhong cosmetics, your tiny dress shoes squeaking against the floors as you and chenle ran through the halls without a care in the world. the building had felt gigantic back then, less like a corporate empire and more like your personal playground. you remembered hiding beneath reception desks with chenle while assistants searched for the two of you in panic. remembered spinning around in leather office chairs worth more than most people’s rent. remembered sneaking into empty conference rooms just to press random buttons on expensive remotes.

and then lili zhong walked out.

and the entire atmosphere shifted the moment she appeared. not much different from how it is now. employees straightened immediately. conversations stopped mid-sentence. people moved aside for her without being told to. she carried herself with grace and effortless authority, shoulders back, chin lifted slightly, heels clicking sharply against the floor like a metronome everyone unconsciously followed. but what fascinated you most wasn’t the fear or respect she commanded. it was how composed she looked doing it. 

you remembered watching from next to chenle as she reapplied her lipstick using the reflection of a glass wall, precise and graceful like second nature. one smooth swipe of red. cap clicked shut. then immediately back to discussing quarterly projections as if perfection came as easily as breathing. prim. proper. poised. she was untouchable. and you had been completely mesmerized. 

from that moment on, you’d wanted to become the kind of woman lili zhong was – respected, strong, confident – the type of woman who could walk into a room and have the world rearrange itself around her. and now, standing beneath thousands of glittering lights with the zhong diamond resting heavily on your left ring finger and her son beside you, you suddenly wondered if this was the closest you had ever come to becoming her. 

“i wish you both a fruitful marriage,” she says with a subtle wink in your direction, a wave of laughter spreading softly through the ballroom. your face warms instantly because everyone here understands exactly what she means. not just the merger between zhong cosmetics and yü skincare. not just the billions this marriage would bring. not just the headlines already flooding social media tonight.

but heirs too. children with the zhong name. future successors beautiful enough to belong on campaign billboards before they could even walk.

“may it always be filled with prosperity and success,” mrs. zhong continues, lifting her glass slightly, “and may the two of you continue bringing honor to our families and our companies.”

camera flashes explode around the room like lightning. you can already imagine tomorrow’s articles.

THE GOLDEN COUPLE OF BEAUTY

CHINA’S MOST POWERFUL MARRIAGE!

LOVE, LUXURY, AND LEGACY.

“this country has not seen such a beautiful couple before.”

the applause is immediate. a thousand guests rise to the toast without hesitation, crystal glasses lifting beneath the chandelier light. from the stage, the entire ballroom looked dipped in gold. 

“to mr. and mrs. zhong.”

“to mr. and mrs. zhong!,” the crowd echos. 

you lift your champagne glass with a smile so genuine it almost hurts. because despite everything, despite the pressure and expectations and business contracts hidden beneath layers of silk and diamonds – you were happy. maybe pathetically so. 

you have loved zhong chenle for most of your life. 

before the magazines started calling him the future of luxury cosmetics. before investors nicknamed the two of you the golden couple. before marriage turned into obligation instead of possibility.

and there was a time, too. a time when chenle used to reach for your hand first. a time where the two of you spent entire afternoons running through corporate buildings while your parents attended meetings. a time where he’d steal your desserts at dinners and complain when other boys talked to you at events. a time where marriage jokes from your families made both of you groan dramatically before dissolving into laughter. 

back then, it had felt harmless. like something far away. until you both turned eighteen. when meetings became serious. when contracts replaced teasing. when your families stopped asking and started deciding. 

that was when everything changed. 

because every time chenle looked at you after that, it was no longer with warmth – it was resentment.

you became the physical reminder of every choice he would never get to make for himself. the life he would never get to live. the love he would never get to experience freely. 

somehow, the public never noticed. that was the worst part – chenle was terrifyingly good at pretending. like right now, with one hand resting against the small of your back, he looked every bit like the devoted husband he wanted the media to believe him to be. calm smile. soft gaze. protective touch. 

the perfect heir beside his perfect wife. 

and the cameras adored him for it – “mr. zhong, look here!” “mr. zhong, one more picture with your wife!” “you two are stunning together!” 

his fingers flex lightly against your waist as another round of flashes goes off, and anyone watching would think the gesture is affectionate. loving, even. but you know chenle well enough to recognize performance from sincerity. his hand only ever lingers when people are watching. once they turn away, he lets go like touching you burns. 

still, your heart betrays you. every. single. time. because some part of you still remembers the boy before all of this. the boy who used to grin at you with missing front teeth and tell everyone you were his favorite person in the world. 

the boy you always pictured on this day.

“i can’t wait for this to be over,” chenle murmurs beside you, barely moving his lips. to everyone else, it probably looked like he was whispering sweet nothings into your ear. 

“perfect!,” someone gushes behind a camera, “they look crazy in love.”

the irony nearly makes you laugh. 

chenle turns toward you then, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with such practiced tenderness that several people nearby audibly swoon. you hate how your stomach flips. 

he’s beautiful at pretending to love you. 

sometimes beautiful enough that you can almost pretend with him. 

the reception continues in a blur of diamonds, champagne and endless congratulations. one by one, some of the most influential people in the country approach your table to greet the two of you personally, every gift placed before you looking absurdly expensive. 

chenle smiles effortlessly but if someone looked closely enough, they would notice you speaking far more than he was, carrying conversations, thanking guests, asking about their families and businesses with perfectly timed warmth. prim. proper. poised. you had learned from the best. every time chenle’s expression dulled slightly, you stepped in before anyone could question it. when his attention drifted you redirected conversations smoothly. when his smiles became visibly strained, you compensated with your own brightness. and you’re convinced no one notices his lack of sincerity. or maybe they do and simply choose not to acknowledge it. because appearances mattered more than truth in a room like this. 

“you two truly are perfect together,” an older woman sighs while admiring the two of you, “just look at how attentive your husband is.”

“he always takes good care of me,” you reply quickly, smile never faltering, the lie sliding off your tongue so naturally it almost scares you. chenle glances at you briefly after that comment. you can’t tell if he’s irritated or grateful. perhaps both. 

minutes pass like that. more smiles. more photos. more toasts. more champagne. your cheeks begin aching from smiling so much but you endure it anyway. this was your wedding day. everything is supposed to be perfect. until–

“excuse me,” chenle suddenly says beside you after another round of greetings, “i need to use the restroom.”

you immediately nod before anyone else can react, “of course.”

one of the investors chuckles knowingly, “already escaping from married life, mr. zhong?”

a ripple of laughter follows. chenle gives them a charming grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, “just five minutes. i'll be right back.” he leaves with calm steps, posture still immaculate beneath his suit. you continue smiling after he disappears into the crowd. 

five minutes pass. then ten. then twenty. people begin noticing. 

“where’s your husband?” someone asks casually. 

you let out a soft laugh, “probably being dragged into another business deal somewhere.” they laugh with you easily. and you cover for him again. and again. and again. 

by the thirty-minute mark, you can practically feel whispers beginning to bloom around the ballroom like perfume in the air. so you straighten your spine further, lift your chin slightly, and you smile brighter. if chenle was going to disappear from his own wedding reception, then you would make sure no one noticed the crack forming underneath the surface. you continue greeting guests alone, accepting congratulations with elegance polished into your bones. 

mrs. zhong watches you from across the ballroom, sharp eyes lingering knowingly on your solitary figure. she says nothing. because she knows her son. how loud his resentment has been years,  months, weeks building into this. but she also knows you. and she trusts you’ll be perfectly fine. that’s why she chose you for her son anyway.

chenle finally returns before he hit the forty-minute mark. your eyes find him immediately across the ballroom. his tie is slightly loosened now, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to catch instantly. his expression remains composed. but the second he reaches your side – you smell it. whiskey. strong enough to linger beneath his cologne. 

and truthfully? you don’t really mind. chenle was always easier when he drank. looser around the edges. less cold. less careful about keeping distance between the two of you. sometimes…he even looked at you like he used to.

and after disappearing for almost forty minutes, he was going to have to sell this act twice as hard. 

“there you are,” you say smoothly as another cluster of guests approaches the two of you. before you can even fully turn toward them, chenle’s hand settles against your waist. firm. far more natural than earlier. 

“sorry,” he says quietly near your ear, voice lower now, slightly roughened by alcohol, “got cornered.”

you hum in acknowledgement, not bothering to call him out. he was lying, obviously. but this version of chenle was infinitely more tolerable than the sober one who treated your marriage like a prison sentence. 

“mr. and mrs. zhong!” another investor greets excitedly, approaching with his wife beside him, “we were just saying you two look unbelievable together tonight.”

normally, chenle would give a polite smile, a practiced nod, maybe rest his hand on your back for exactly five seconds before pulling away. instead, he pulls you closer. 

“thank you,” he says easily, “my wife makes it difficult not to stare.”

your breath nearly catches. it was the first time he’d call you that. his wife. and you hate how much you loved hearing it. 

the investor’s wife practically melts on the spot, “oh, he adores you.”

you knew that couldn’t be further from the truth. chenle’s just performing harder now. making up for lost time. and annoyingly enough, he’s very good at it. throughout the next hour, he barely left your side. and you’d be lying if you said it didn't affect you. drunk chenle was dangerously convincing. this version of him looked softer around the edges, dark eyes warmer beneath the ballroom lights. he smiled more. touched you more. occasionally leaned close enough that his shoulder brushed yours naturally instead of mechanically. like right now-

“you’re doing that thing again,” he murmurs quietly, only for you to hear. 

“what thing?”

“over-smiling,” his lips twitch faintly, “your cheeks are probably hurting.”

the fact he noticed at all sends something uncomfortable fluttering through your chest. 

“i’m fine.”

“mhm,” his pointer finger lightly grazes your cheekbone, soft and careful, “liar.”

your heart stumbles embarrassingly fast. you hate that alcohol makes him kinder. or maybe not kinder. just more honest with his attention. 

another camera flash bursts in front of you both. another perfect photo for the headlines tomorrow. you wonder if anyone would still call the two of you the golden couple if they knew chenle only touched you this much after drinking enough whiskey to blur the resentment out of him.

you enjoyed the rest of the wedding reception. or maybe endured was the more accurate word. either way, you played the role of the perfect wife flawlessly. enough to fool an entire ballroom full of billionaires. by the time the reception finally ended, your cheeks ached from smiling and your feet hurt from hours in heels. 

still, there was a strange warmth sitting inside your chest because despite everything – you had married the boy you love. even if he no longer loved you back.

⚜️ THE MARRIED LIFE ⚜️

the drive home is quiet. chenle sits beside you, his gaze lost outside the window. he doesn’t look at you once. the alcohol from earlier seems to have worn off already. funny how quickly the warmth disappeared from him too. 

eventually, the gates to the mansion slid open. your mansion now. your home for the rest of your life. the estate stood enormous against the night sky, lights glowing warmly throughout the property. it was less of a house and more of a private villa, complete with a fountain in the middle, sprawling gardens, balconies overlooking the endless green landscape, rooms neither of you would probably ever step foot in. beautiful but cold.

the car comes to a stop and before the driver can even fully open the door, chenle steps out first. you follow shortly after, one of the maids helping you with your dress as you stepped inside the mansion. the grand foyer stretches high above both of you, chandelier light reflecting against polished floors. 

chenle was already halfway up the left staircase. “night,” he finally says. flat. automatic. not even turning around. like the two of you didn’t just celebrate a once in a lifetime event people dream of. 

he disappears down the left wing leading to his bedroom without another word. you stare after him for a moment before quietly turning toward the opposite staircase. right side. your side. your room.  

lili zhong had arranged this mansion for the two of you a month before the wedding, insisting that it would help ease the transition. she genuinely believed that if the two of you lived together beforehand, chenle would eventually come around, that proximity would soften him, that he’d remembered the closeness you once had. you remembered how hopeful she sounded while showing you around the estate.

“give him time,” she had told you gently, “chenle’s stubborn, but he’s a good boy.”

you wanted to believe her. you really did. so for a month before the wedding - you tried. you asked him about work. about basketball games you knew he loved. about the restaurants you knew he liked. you sat beside him even when he barely acknowledged you were there. you tried being patient. understanding. gentle. it didn’t work. and in the end, your efforts never mattered anyway. because whether chenle liked it or not, the wedding was always going to happen. 

now that it had, the distance between you felt even larger. married yet sleeping in separate bedrooms like strangers forced under the same roof. it’s whatever, really. the mansion had far too many empty rooms anyway.

three months pass like that.

the routine becomes almost mechanical. you wake up separately. leave for work separately. return home separately. 

real conversations only happen at the office. meetings. sale projections. marketing campaigns. brand collaborations. like business partners instead of husband and wife. which, you probably should have expected. 

at home, chenle barely spares you a glance. he doesn’t sit beside you on the sofa. doesn’t ask about your day. doesn’t linger in rooms you enter. dinners are eaten across opposite ends of a table long enough to seat twenty people comfortably, silence filling the space where conversations should’ve been. sometimes the only sounds are the clink of silverware against plates and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

and at night, the lights still glow beneath two different bedrooms. you’ve never stepped into his this entire time. and he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what the colors of your walls were. sometimes you wonder if he stays awake as long as you do. 

one night, you walked into the living room to find him watching basketball. for the first time in weeks, he actually looked alive. completely relaxed against the couch, eyes fixed on the television while quietly reacting under his breath. stephen curry had just made an impossible three-point shot and chenle actually laughed softly, shaking his head with genuine enjoyment lighting his face. you had almost smiled seeing it. because it reminded you of the boy he used to be. then he noticed you standing there and immediately, everything disappeared. his posture straightened. his expression flattened. he watched the rest of the game in complete silence, pretending not to care when curry hit the game winning shot minutes later. pretending he hadn’t been enjoying himself at all before you arrived – that one hurt more than you expected. you realized then that your presence drained the life out of him. he physically could not relax around you anymore. 

so eventually – you stopped trying to fill the silence. stopped asking if he wanted dinner together. stopped lingering in shared spaces hoping he might speak first. 

if chenle wanted distance that badly, then fine. you would give it to him. even if the loneliness of this massive mansion swallowed you whole because of it. 

⚜️ THE OTHER WOMAN ⚜️

you couldn’t help it though. every night, no matter how much you told yourself to stop caring, you still waited for the sound of chenle’s bedroom door shutting. just to make sure he came home. 

some nights he came home early, footsteps echoing through the quiet mansion before midnight. other nights, he returned a little later, long after you were supposed to be asleep, the distant sound of his shoes against the floor enough to finally let the tightness in your chest loosen.

he never knew you waited. or maybe he did. either way, neither of you acknowledged it.

but tonight was different.

the grandfather clock in the foyer had already struck two a.m. nearly fifteen minutes ago, the sound heavy and hollow throughout the massive estate. 

chenle has never been out this late.

you glance toward the entrance again before lowering your gaze to the untouched cup of chamomile tea in your hands. it had gone cold almost an hour ago, when you first realize how late it was and your husband was nowhere to be heard. 

“did chenle say where he was going tonight?” you ask the maid standing nearby.

“no, mrs. zhong,” she answers carefully, “but he did call for the driver around twenty minutes ago, he should be making his way back.” 

and it’s ridiculous, really, how your maid knows more about your husband's whereabouts than you do. 

“okay,” you nod gently, setting the untouched tea aside, “go ahead and get some rest,” you offer her a smile despite the exhaustion sitting heavily behind your eyes, “i’ll wait up for him.”

“are you sure, mrs. zhong? i could wait instead.”

you wave her off, “it’s a wife’s duty to take care of her husband.” 

she smiles politely at your response, “okay mrs. zhong, i’ll be here when you need me.” 

“thank you,” you say genuinely. 

she bows her head slightly before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you alone with the silence again. the moment she’s gone, your smile fades. slowly, you rise from the sofa and make your way toward the grand staircase. more specifically  – the left staircase. chenle’s staircase. the one you never use.

the mansion had been designed almost absurdly symmetrical, splitting the house in two. like the house itself understood the distance between you. 

you settle onto the second step quietly, smoothing the fabric of your silk pajama dress beneath you, waiting for him to come home. your eyes drift across the foyer absentmindedly – the massive chandelier overhead, the single round table with the antique vase filled of flowers you didn’t even like, and the wedding portrait hanging near the entrance your mother-in-law gifted. it always made your chest ache a little. you looked so happy in it. chenle looked convincing.

you wonder if this is what arranged marriages are supposed to feel like. waiting around in silence for someone who never notices you waited at all. you lean your head lightly against the staircase railing. maybe he was working late. maybe he was drinking. maybe he didn’t want to come home anymore. the last possibility settles the heaviest. 

your mind drifts despite yourself, back toward the beginning. a time when chenle used to text you constantly whenever he went anywhere. texts that were as silly as:

look at this ugly dog i found

watch basketball with me, i have popcorn

and others, that always made you smile and your heart race:

just tried the new restaurant down the street from our favorite tea place. i have to bring you there..it will make you cry tears of joy.

i saw this dumpling plushie and it reminded me of you, so guess who has a new dumpling plushie

let’s go on trip this weekend, just me and you…already got the flight tickets 

my mom’s annoying me. come save me. please. 

where are you? i’m picking you up

you used to be the first person he looked for in every room. now you barely knew what was going on in that mind of his. a soft laugh escapes you suddenly, quiet and humorless. if the tabloids could see you now, they’ll realize just how easy it is to create fake gold.

another thirty minutes pass when headlights appear through the front windows. your body straightens instantly before you can stop yourself, heartbeat quickening embarrassingly fast. 

the front doors open moments later, chenle walking in. his tie hangs loose around his neck, dark hair slightly messy like someone has been running their fingers through it repeatedly. he smells faintly of alcohol, expensive cologne and perfume that definitely wasn’t yours. your stomach drops before you can even process it fully. it’s sweet, floral, feminine – not familiar. 

chenle freezes the second he notices you sitting on the staircase. for a brief moment, genuine surprise flashes across his face. 

“what are you doing up?” he asks, voice rough and tired. 

you force your expression to remain soft, normal, “waiting for you.”

something unreadable flickers in his eyes. guilt. maybe. or irritation. you can never tell with him anymore. whatever it is, it disappears almost instantly.

“go to bed, y/n,” he says with a sigh, already sounding exhausted by the conversation before it even begins. then he walks past you. just like that. and something inside you finally snaps. 

there were many things that you could let slide. chenle ignoring you. chenle barely speaking to you unless necessary. chenle looking at you with those cold eyes sharp enough to cut skin open. chenle hating you for a life neither of you truly chose. 

but this? coming home way past midnight smelling of alcohol and another woman’s perfume while wearing lipstick marks on his neck like he didn’t even care enough for you to hide them???

a wife could only take so much. 

you could only take so much. 

before you know it, you’re standing abruptly and following him up the staircase. his staircase. your slippers hit the marble harder with every step as anger burns hotter beneath your skin. he pushes open his bedroom door and you follow him inside immediately, shutting it sharply behind you, the sound echoing through the room.

it’s your first time entering his bedroom in the four months you’ve been married. that realization alone feels pathetic. it’s cleaner than you expected. dark walls. dark sheets. expensive furniture. floor to ceiling windows overlooking the green landscape, similar to yours. it looked less like the room of a married man and more like a luxury bachelor suite. nothing about it felt like there was space for you. 

“are you fucking cheating on me?!” you demand, voice coming out harsher than intended, anger cracking through the polished composure you spent years perfecting.

chenle groans immediately, dragging a hand through his hair before kicking his shoes off carelessly, “i don’t want to fucking talk about this right now.”

you ignore him completely, hurt and fury already boiling too violently inside your chest. 

“is this why you hate me so much?,” you ask, voice rising, “because you’re already in love with someone else?!”

that catches his attention instantly. his head snaps toward you so fast it almost startles you.

“what?”

you let out a bitter scoff, “oh my god, chenle!,” you gesture toward him angrily, “you have her scent all over you, there’s lipstick all over your neck–i’m not fucking stupid.”

your voice gets louder with every word. so much for grace. so much for being poised. right now you’re just angry. hurt. humiliated. 

chenle stares at you for a second before rubbing both hands down his face tiredly, “i’m not fucking in love with someone else,” he mutters. 

“then what the fuck is this?!”

silence stretches for half a second.

“i needed to get laid.”

chenle laughs once humorlessly, “if you haven’t noticed,” he says coldly, “i’ve basically been fucking abstinent for four months and i just…needed a release.”

it’s almost sickening how that makes you feel better. your anger doesn’t disappear but the crushing feeling in your chest eases slightly knowing there wasn’t some other woman holding his heart while you sat here playing the perfect wife. it was just sex. not love. 

you step closer before you can think better of it. chenle’s brows furrow slightly at the sudden closeness. 

“if you need to get your dick wet, you come to my room.” 

his expression changes instantly, genuine shock flashing across his face. you continue before he can interrupt. 

“no one else’s.”

your chest rises sharply with each breath.

“i’m your wife now, for fuck’s sake.”

chenle just stares at you like he genuinely doesn’t know what to say.

“i don’t care if this marriage was arranged for business,” you snap, “you do not get to cheat on me…again.”

that room falls silent after that. you can practically see the conflict moving behind chenle’s eyes now. because he hates this. all of it. the marriage. the expectations. the loss of freedom. but you can also tell he didn’t expect this reaction from you. didn’t expect you to claim your place beside him so bluntly. 

“besides,” you add bitterly, “we need to have a child eventually, as our parents love to remind me,” your laugh comes out hollow, “you’d be doing me a fucking service.”

irritation flickers in chenle’s face immediately. but you don’t stay long enough to examine it. you turn sharply and walk out before he can say anything else, your heartbeat pounding violently in your ears as you cross to your side of the mansion. 

⚜️ THE BEST FRIENDS ⚜️

the two of you never talk about that night again. it got buried beneath the same routine. work meetings. silent dinners. passing each other in hallways without speaking. but something had changed after that. because you opened a door that night. and whether or not chenle chose to knock was entirely up to him. 

it takes another month before he finally does. 

chenle can’t believe he’s actually considering this. he stands in his bedroom, staring at the half empty whiskey glass in his hand. this was insane. he was about to walk into your room and what? sleep with his wife? his best friend? except he’s not even sure that title still belongs to the two of you anymore. 

best friends didn’t look at each other the way he looks at you now – like you were both the wound and the knife that caused it. best friends didn’t spend five months barely speaking despite living under the same roof. best friends definitely didn’t resent each other enough to split a mansion into separate lives. 

chenle exhales sharply before taking another shot. not enough to get drunk, just enough for that liquid courage to settle into his bones, silencing the voice in his head that told him this was wrong and allowing himself to knock on your door.

he knows this is so hard to do because of him. he knows he’s been irrational. resenting you for decisions neither of you truly got to make. taking every ounce of frustration and grief and anger about his life and placing it onto your shoulders because it was easier to have someone to blame than to accept that this is his reality. 

and yet despite all of that – the only thing you had ever truly asked of him during this marriage was to not cheat on you…again. you could’ve demanded affection. attention. a real marriage. instead, you simply looked him in the eye and told him to come to you first. that memory hasn’t left his head since. 

another sigh escapes him before he sets the empty glass down and finally walks out of his room. the hallway separating your bedroom feels strangely longer tonight. every step making him question himself again. this was a terrible idea. he should turn around. go back to his room. pretend this impulse never happened. but fuck, he needs to get laid…right now. 

the knock startles you instantly. you glance up from your bed in confusion. it’s almost midnight. no one ever knocks this late and the maids only enter when called. for a second, you wonder if something’s wrong. 

slowly, you slip off the bed and walk toward the door, your silk, short pajama dress flowing around you. and there he is – standing in the hallway looking strangely tense beneath the dim lights.

for a moment, neither of you speaks. then chenle says flatly–

“i want to have sex.”

simple. direct. like he’s discussing a business proposal instead of standing outside his wife’s bedroom at midnight. your chest tightens painfully because somehow, even after everything, a part of you still hoped he’d come here for another reason. that maybe he missed you. maybe he couldn’t sleep either. maybe tonight, after months of silence, he finally wanted to talk to you like he used to.

but of course not. he wasn’t your chenle anymore. and this was your marriage - transactional. carefully detached. emotionally hollow.

“okay,” you answer softly after a second, stepping aside to let him in. 

chenle walks past you quietly, eyes scanning your room almost curiously. unlike his bedroom, yours actually looked live in. warmer lighting. books scattered across tables. skincare and makeup products lining the vanity. blankets thrown carelessly across the couch near the windows – and trinkets, gifts, specifically from him – scattered around different parts of the room. 

the dumpling plushie he got you when you were fifteen all because it reminded him of you.

the vintage camera on your shelf he bought behind your back when you were sixteen because you had mentioned once, only once, that you loved taking pictures because it made moments feel permanent. he remembers showing up the next day with your dream camera like it was nothing. “don’t say i never support your hobbies,” he teased. 

even those damn crybaby figurines he bought you when you were seventeen were lined carefully beside your bookshelf. every single one from the collection you obsessed over years ago. you had a frown on your face over not getting the rare one from a blind box once and chenle spent nearly two weeks secretly hunting every figurine down until your collection was complete. you used to tell him he was insane for it. he used to think seeing you happy made the effort worth it. 

suddenly the room feels suffocating. because there are pieces of him everywhere in here. small reminders scattered throughout your life of proof that before everything fell apart – chenle used to love you loudly. maybe not romantically. maybe not in the way you wanted. but enough to memorize the smallest things about you. enough to notice every passing comment and quietly turn it into something real. 

chenle rubs the back of his neck awkwardly before finally looking at you fully and for the first time in months – he doesn’t look angry when he does. if anything, he looks shaken. then he clears his throat.

“we don’t have to make this…” he pauses, brows furrowing slightly, “more than what it is.”

“okay,” the answer leaves your mouth too quickly. too easily. like you’ve already accepted that this was how it was always going to be. 

he nods, leading the way as he reaches for the buttons of his pajama shirt. you look away the second the fabric slips from his shoulder, the room suddenly feeling warmer. chenle drops his shirt onto the chair near your vanity while you remain frozen beside the bed, fingers nervously toying the hem of your pajama dress.

neither of you knows how to start this. that becomes painfully obvious almost immediately. there’s no romance here to guide the moment. no affection softening the edges. just tension and awkwardness. 

finally, because if you stand there any longer, you think your heart might actually burst through your ribs, you reach beneath the fabric of your dress. with shaky fingers, you hook the elastic of your underwear and slide them down your legs, stepping out of them and leaving it on the floor. you keep the pajama dress on through, the thin material clinging to your curves. 

the room goes still. chenle's eyes lift instinctively toward you, tracing the silhouette of your body before darting away almost immediately. and somehow that reaction hurts more than if he’d stared openly. because this feels like restraint. like guilt. like he is forcing himself not to want you.

you climb onto the bed quietly, trying desperately to appear calmer than you feel. 

“you can turn the lights off if you want,” you murmur softly. 

and maybe that was better. maybe if he couldn’t see you, he could pretend you were just another one of his one night stands. maybe the darkness would erase the history between you, leaving only the physical need. darkness settles over the room instantly, softened only by the lights outside filtering through the windows. 

chenle approaches the bed slowly afterward, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he climbs in beside you, leaving enough distance between your bodies. neither of you speaks. there’s nothing comforting to say. just the sound of breathing filling the dark room. 

then, he finally reaches for you. his hand settling against your waist, his palm warm against the thin fabric of your dress. he pulls you toward him and your breath catches immediately. and it’s sad, really, that despite the coldness, despite the hate, you’ve wanted this for years. you want him so badly it feels like a physical ache in your chest. 

you close your eyes as he shifts closer, the last fragile layer of distance between you finally disappearing. he doesn’t lift the dress, simply just bunching the fabric up around your waist, exposing your hips and thighs to the cool air. he doesn’t kiss you. he doesn’t whisper your name. he simply positions himself, his cock hard and pressing against your entrance…and he thrusts in. 

“fuck,” chenle groans under his breath, his hand gripping your waist harder instinctively, digging his fingers into your skin, “you’re so fucking tight.”

your breath catches painfully at the stretch, a sharp, searing pressure tearing through your center as your body struggles to accommodate the sudden intrusion. your fingers unconsciously claw into his biceps, gripping the hard muscle as a gasp of genuine pain escapes your lips. it hurts – more than you expected it to. there was no slow build up to soften any of this. no tender words whispered against your skin to ease the transition. this wasn’t lovemaking. 

for chenle, this is only a physical release, a way to drown out the noise of his own sadness and the crushing weight of his expectations. for you, it was simply duty. the possibility of giving both families the heir everyone expected from the moment your engagement was announced. just two emotionally exhausted people trying to fulfill a role they’d been pushed into years ago. 

chenle notices your pain immediately. you know he does because his movements stall, his body freezing inside you for a beat. in the dim light, you see his brows furrow, a flicker of something – hesitation, perhaps, or a ghost of the boy he used to be – crossing his features. he gives you a moment to adjust, his chest heaving against yours, but. neither of you say anything. 

what would even be the point? there are no sweet words to be exchanged here. no declarations of love. only uneven breathing filling the dark room and the occasional strained sound slipping from both of you despite yourselves. 

chenle keeps his eyes fixed downward, jaw tense like he’s trying not to think too hard about any of this. about you. about the way you feel wrapped around him. about what this act actually means for the two of you.

your fingers loosen from his arm eventually, your grip shifting to the silk sheets beneath you, bunching the fabric in your fists as the initial, blinding ache slowly dulls into a manageable throb. but as the physical pain recedes, a different kind of agony takes its place – one that is far more suffocating, your mind cruelly reminding you that this is the boy who used to hold your hand while crossing the street to make sure you were safe. the boy who bought you random gifts because they reminded him of you. the boy you had loved with a purity that now felt like a joke. and now, here you are, beneath him in a silence so heavy it felt suffocating. 

he doesn’t try to make it last. he doesn’t try to find your pleasure or bridge the emotional divide between you. he simply drives into you with a mechanical, rhythmic intensity, his movements devoid of affection.

he lasted six minutes before it was finally over. 

chenle curses softly under his breath as he paints your walls white. his forehead drops briefly near your shoulder, breathing unevenly before finally stilling completely. the room falls quiet almost immediately afterward except for both of your breathing. 

then, chenle carefully pulls away. he begins to shift back but freezes mid-motion, his eyes dropping toward the sheets beneath you, the air in the room vanishing – small, vivid spots of red stain the white sheets. 

“shit,” he breathes, his entire expression changing instantly. the detachment he had maintained through the act vanishes, replaced by a sharp, jagged edge of alarm, “are you okay?”

the concern in his voice catches you off guard more than anything else. real, genuine concern that you haven’t heard from him in years. the same boy who used to worry if you’d scraped your knee. 

still trying to steady your breathing, you blink at him tiredly, “what?”

“you bled,” he says immediately, eyes darting back toward the sheets before the realization visibly crashes into him. his face tightens, jaw locking as the implication sinks in. 

“fuck, y/n…,” he exhales sharply, “are you a virgin?”

you stare at him for a long second, the silence stretching between you. you feel empty, raw and utterly exhausted. you shrug lightly, “well,” you mutter dryly, “as of a couple minutes ago, i no longer am.”

chenle looks at you like you’ve just punched him in the chest. there’s disbelief there. guilt. and worst of all – pity.  you hate it instantly. you aren’t a porcelain doll. you are the owner of an empire and you had walked into this encounter with your eyes wide open. 

“don’t look at me like that,”  you scoff, reaching for your blanket and pulling it over you, “it’s not a big deal, chenle. it was gonna happen one way or another.”

he lets out a frustrated sound immediately, dragging both hands through his hair, “why do you keep saying that?!,” he snaps suddenly. 

you blink, startled at the sharpness in his tone, the sudden eruption of emotion, “because it’s true.”

“no, it’s not,” his brows pull together harder, frustration and disbelief bleeding into his voice, “and this is a big deal. i just took your virginity.”

“and?!” you shoot back instantly, emotions finally cracking open.

“it was always yours to take!”

silence. thick. heavy enough to suffocate the entire room. chenle stills completely. the lights spilling through the windows cast shadows across his face, but you can still see the shock there clearly. he looks haunted, as if you’ve just revealed a truth he wasn’t prepared to handle.

“what?” he asks quietly. 

“unlike you,” you say bitterly, your chest rising sharply, “i never thought marrying my best friend was something so repulsive.”

the words hit hard enough that chenle just stares at you. stunned. because he genuinely cannot understand it. 

when he found out about the arrangement years ago, it felt like his entire life stopped belonging to him. suddenly every conversation had contracts hidden beneath it, every family dinner felt staged, every interaction between the two of you became another reminder that his future had already been decided before he even got a say. he panicked. rebelled. slept with girl after girl trying to desperately prove to himself he still had freedom. he still belonged to himself. still had choices before marriage locked him into a life he never asked for. 

but you – you just accepted it. 

you didn’t run. you didn’t scream. you didn’t burn the world down to get away.

he remembers sitting in those meetings, hating every single second of it and every single time he looked at you – you were just sitting quietly beside him. calm. composed. nodding along politely whenever someone addressed you. you never argued. never pushed back. never looked angry enough. 

and chenle convinced himself that meant you didn’t care. that maybe this really was just business to you, too. he resented you for it. resented the way you accepted everything so easily while he felt like he was suffocating. resented the way you let your parents decide both of your lives without fighting harder beside him. resented how fake everything started feeling after that. like your friendship had never really belonged to the two of you. like it had been another transaction always meant to happen. 

just like tonight. 

just like this bed. this room. your first time. 

the reality settles sickeningly into his chest. because despite all his anger, despite all the resentment he carried for years – this should have been special. not because virginity itself mattered to him. but because you did. somewhere beneath the layers of bitterness, the boy who loved you was still there, and he realizes with a jolt of horror that he is the one to turn this moment into something cold. another deal to complete. another box to check.

for the first time in months, chenle genuinely feels ashamed standing in front of you. 

you slide beneath the blankets completely, turning away from him. your voice goes cold again. controlled. composed. your expression slowly shutting down. piece by piece. the same way it always does whenever he hurts you. it’s a practiced defense, a wall built from years of his indifference.

“i’ll have the maid clean the sheets tomorrow.”

chenle opens his mouth slightly. then closes it again. because there’s nothing he can say that fixes this. nothing that gives you back the moment he just ruined. he cannot un-take your innocence.

“if you’re done here,” you murmur quietly, “you should just go.”

the guilt eats him alive, gnawing at his insides as he stares at your curled-up form. yet, chenle walks out anyway. 

⚜️ THE MOTHER IN LAW ⚜️

you get your period two weeks later and it annoys you far more than it should. the second you see the faint streak of red, disappointment settles heavily into your chest before you can stop it. pathetic. you actually let yourself hope that one night would be enough. that somehow, despite how cold and emotionally disastrous it had been, it might’ve at least resulted in something tangible. something that would finally make this marriage feel like it’s moving forward instead of rotting quietly in place. something that would finally make this mansion feel like a house. 

you’re afraid of the possibility it won’t happen again. not after the way things have been recently. 

it’s gotten worse between you and chenle. at least before, when he looked at you, there was fire there. albeit, not the good kind…but fire, nonetheless. 

now, it was just stone cold. and every now and then – guilt. it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself around you anymore. and every single time you notice it, sorrow settles deeper inside your chest. guilt isn’t love. you don’t want him feeling sorry for you. you want – no. you force yourself to stop that thought before it finishes.

wanting things from chenle only ever leads to disappointment. 

“y/n, dear, how are you and chenle?” mama li’s voice breaks through your thoughts. she’s sitting elegantly across from you in the living room, posture perfect even in something as simple as afternoon tea. sunlight pours through the massive windows behind her, catching the gold resting against her fingers as she lifts her teacup gracefully. 

she’s beautiful in the same terrifying way chenle is. composed. sharp. impossible to fully read. sometimes looking at her hurts because all you can see is him. 

she asked the question gently. but there’s always command hidden beneath her voice, years of power woven naturally into every word she speaks. 

“uhm,” you hesitate, “i don’t know, mama li,” the nickname leaves your lips naturally. it always has, “i don’t think we’ll ever go back to the way we used to.”

for a moment, genuine sadness flickers across her face. she exhales softly before offering you a small smile, “just give it time,” she says gently, “you know he’s always loved you.” 

your chest tightens painfully. it’s what everyone says. your parents. his parents. family friends. employees who watched the two of you grow up together. everyone insists chenle loved you once. maybe still does. but lately, you’re not so sure anymore. maybe everyone simply misunderstood him all these years. maybe being comfortable around someone your entire childhood wasn’t the same thing as loving them. 

after all – chenle himself has never actually said it. not once. 

mama li studies your expression carefully before continuing, “chenle has always been difficult with his emotions,” she says with a quiet sigh, “but that boy would follow you around everywhere when you were younger. you were the only person who could calm him down whenever he got upset.”

you force out a faint smile, “that was a long time ago.”

“feelings don’t disappear that easily,” she replies smoothly. 

you wish you believed that. instead, you take another sip of tea to avoid answering. 

“even so, my dear,” her eyes linger meaningfully on you, “i hope you’re not forgetting your duties.” 

there it is. the real reason behind this conversation. behind her visit.  

children. heirs. you suddenly feel exhausted. you don’t know what to say. you’ve only slept with chenle once. and considering the fact you got your period this morning, you’re very aware you are not pregnant. still, you can’t exactly tell his mother that her son barely touches you. so instead, you straighten your posture slightly and force your voice to remain calm. 

“we’re trying.”

mama li’s expression brightens immediately, genuine excitement sparkles in her eyes, “well, that’s wonderful news,” she says warmly, “we have to continue our legacies after all,” she adds with a soft smile, lifting her teacup once more. 

legacy. sometimes you wonder if anyone in this family actually understands how lonely that word feels. 

⚜️ THE DRUNK WIFE’S PINKY PROMISE ⚜️

it’s been a month since mama li’s visit. and half a year since you and chenle got married. he hasn’t touched you once since that night. not even accidentally. no lingering touches while passing each other in hallways. no brushing shoulders. no quiet midnight knocks at your bedroom door. absolutely…nothing. 

and lately, the restlessness sitting inside you has started turning into panic. because six months into marriage and you still weren’t even close to being pregnant. your parents ask constantly. mama li asks so often that your stomach knots every single time. even the public has started wondering. the media hasn’t said anything outright yet, but you’ve seen the headlines. 

WHEN WILL THE GOLDEN COUPLE ANNOUNCE THEIR FIRST HEIR?

A BOY OR A GIRL? IT SHOULD BE ANY DAY NOW.

and worst of all — people at work were starting to notice things too. the whispers had gotten louder these past few weeks:

why do you never arrive together? why do you leave separately? why do the two of you never eat lunch together despite literally being married? were you both simply that professional??? or did you secretly hate each other???

the stress had been eating at you slowly. you feel like you’re being watched even more so than usual. 

so tonight, for the first time in months, you finally leave the mansion for something other than work. with your best friend - yizhou ning-qian. if anyone understood arranged marriages, it was her. except for the obvious difference that her husband, kun qian, absolutely adored her. even with their seven year age gap, they worked. somehow effortlessly. which honestly made your own marriage feel even sadder by comparison. 

“have you tried initiating it?,” yizhou asks casually, sipping her tequila.

the two of you were tucked away inside one of the private rooms at a high-end bar where membership alone cost more than most people’s yearly salaries. dim lights glowed against velvet seating while soft jazz echoed faintly beyond the closed doors. 

you stare at her, “yizhou,” you say flatly, “i can’t even get close enough to try.”

she snorts immediately, the sound sharp and mocking of the situation.

“every time i walk into a room,” you continue, “he leaves. immediately.”

"man,” she sighs, shaking her head, “chenle seriously needs to grow the fuck up.” you can’t even disagree. “this was always going to be our lives,” she continues, taking a quick sip of her drink, “and honestly? it’s not even that bad.”

another tequila shot arrives at the table. she pushes it toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye.

”i mean,” she giggles, “we’re literally billionaires! it can’t get better than this.”

you burst into laughter with her despite yourself, the alcohol finally beginning to warm your chest pleasantly. 

“exactly!,” you groan dramatically after downing the shot in one go, “all we have to do is marry someone else rich and pretty yet chenle thinks the world has ended.”

yizhou nearly chokes, laughing, “god, he’s just been too spoiled.”

the two of you dissolve into another fit of giggles. and if it was any other person, you’d feel awful for trash talking your husband. but she was your best friend, one of your safe spaces. and it feels good to laugh. you haven’t done that in a while. 

yizhou wipes beneath her eyes dramatically before leaning back against the couch, “if anything,” she says, still grinning, “you guys are the luckiest out of all of us.”

your smile falters, “and why’s that?”

”you married someone you already know…someone you already love.”

the words silence the laughter instantly. the love you carry for chenle is a heavy, aching thing – a devotion that has survived his coldness and his resentment. but love is a two-way street. and chenle has shown it loud and clear that he didn’t share those same feelings for you. 

“he doesn’t love me, yizhou,” you say quietly. 

for a second, she just stares at you. then suddenly, she bursts into even louder laughter. ”yeah,” she says sarcastically between giggles, “and my husband is fucking poor!”

you shove her shoulder weakly while laughing. considering kun was literally one of the ten wealthiest men in the country, the statement sounds ridiculous. 

her expression softens after laughing, “y/n,” she says more seriously now, “that boy has loved you since before we even knew what love was.”

“you don’t know that,” you whisper, chest tightening painfully as you shake your head immediately.

“oh, please,” she rolls her eyes, “everyone knows that.”

you sigh into your drink. you wish people would stop saying that. it just lets the hope linger longer. just reminds you of the boy he used to be. just makes the man he has become feel more like a tragedy.

”seriously,” she continues, leaning forward now, “he just needs to wake up from whatever self-pity hole he dug for himself.”

you stare down at the amber liquid in your glass quietly. 

“i mean, come on, he has to know that it could be worse,” she adds. 

“how could it be worse than this?”

”jaemin’s literally arranged to marry someone he actually hates,” she points out, “and even he isn’t acting as childish as chenle,” she reaches for your hand then, intertwining her fingers through yours. 

“it’s not your fault, y/n.”

your throat tightens at her comfort, the alcohol heightening the vulnerability of your emotions. 

“and sooner or later,” she says softly, "chene's going to realize that too. he’s going to realize that while he was busy hating the arrangement, he was losing the only person who actually gives a damn about him.”

you drank a lot more than you should’ve. at first, it was just to loosen up. but somewhere between the expensive tequila, the soft jazz playing in the private room and yizhou’s ridiculous stories, the warmth spreading through your body started feeling addictive. every shot made things quieter. lighter. your thoughts blurred around the edges. your chest stopped hurting so much whenever chenle crossed your mind. for the first time in months, you weren’t thinking about the empty side of your dinner table or the way your husband avoided looking at you like eye contact physically pained him. 

you were just laughing. drinking. existing. and maybe that’s why you didn’t realize how much time had passed until yizhou was shoving your purse into your hands while laughing at your completely incoherent attempt to put your heels back on. 

by the time your driver finally pulls into the mansion’s driveway, it’s nearly three in the morning. the second the car door opens, cold air hits your face and you instantly regret every decision you made tonight. 

“mmm,” you groan softly while stepping out drunkily, “why is the ground moving?” you complain.

“the ground is not moving, mrs. zhong,” your maid says gently while helping steady you. you squint suspiciously at the marble steps leading toward the front door. you manage to stumble inside the mansion without face-planting into the floor. barely. if it wasn’t for your maid’s help, you’d be on the ground. 

“its uh–kay,” you mumble as your maid carefully tries helping you remove your coat, “mmm okay, i can take care of myself. i’m a professional. i’m a…ceo of being okay!”

you absolutely are not. your words are slurring into a thick, honey-like mess and you nearly take out a priceless vase with your shoulder before you finally collapse onto the bottom step of the right staircase. 

upstairs, chenle hears your voice immediately. he had been awake. waiting. though he’d never admit that out loud. usually, when he came home from work, your bedroom light would still be visible through the tiny crack beneath your door. 

tonight, it had been dark. 

and when he checked downstairs earlier under the excuse of getting water, you hadn’t been in the living room either. and for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely, it unsettled him. so tonight, he intentionally left his bedroom door slightly cracked open. just enough to hear when you returned home. 

and now here you were. sounding very, very drunk. 

chenle exhales sharply before stepping out into the hallway. he makes his way downstairs quietly only to stop midway down the staircase at the sight in front of him. you’re sitting on the bottom step of your staircase now with your head slumped against the railing while your maid looks one second away from panicking. 

“i said i’m okayyyy,” you groan. 

“sir zhong,” the maid says immediately in relief the second she notices him. 

your head snaps upward clumsily at her voice, eyes unfocused as you follow her gaze. chenle stands halfway down the staircase dressed in dark sweatpants and a loose shirt, his hair looking unbelievably soft. he looks unfairly handsome for three in the morning – a devastatingly beautiful statue carved from ice and moonlight. 

“mrs. zhong is drunk,” the maid explains carefully.

“i’m not drunk,” you counter immediately. then your body sways sideways slightly and she catches your shoulder before you topple over completely. 

she turns back toward chenle helplessly, “i’m trying to help her up the stairs, sir. she might hurt herself without guidance.”

chenle’s jaw tightens slightly. then he nods once. “i’ll take care of it, you may go.”

she bows politely before quickly disappearing down the hallway, leaving the two of you alone. silence settles briefly. chenle walks down the remaining stairs slowly before stopping in front of you. 

“you drink now?” he asks flatly, clearly not amused. 

you squint up at him from the floor, “wow,” you mumble, a small, crooked smile playing on your lips, “judgmental much? mr. perfect.”

stubbornly, you attempt standing on your own. terrible decision. the second you rise, the world spins 360 degrees. chenle reacts immediately, one arm hooking firmly around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest. the contact is electric. it’s the first time in months he's touched you with any kind of intent, and the sudden heat of his body against yours makes your breath hitch. he is solid, warm, smelling of expensive soap and something uniquely him.

you blink up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach out, poking his chest weakly with a finger, “you’re not the only one,” you whisper, your voice losing its playful edge and becoming raw, “who wants to forget.”

the words come out quieter than intended. more honest too. you’re too drunk to notice the way his face softens for half a second. deep down, he’s always known it. he just never wanted to acknowledge it – the fact that you were hurting, too. 

he reaches forward, his hand cupping your face and squishing your cheeks together, forcing your lips into a pout. his brows furrow, gaze scanning your flushed face, “you know you’re not good with alcohol.”

you sway weakly at his wrist with a dramatic scoff, “psh, whatever.”

then you wriggle yourself fee from his hold before turning toward the staircase again, “i’m a big girl now,” you mumble stubbornly as you begin walking upwards, “i can do it.”

chenle hums behind you, not convinced in the slightest. you make it about five steps before the world starts tilting unpleasantly again. he was right. you were never good with alcohol. your head feels heavy. your feet hurt from the heels you still haven’t taken off and suddenly the stairs look impossibly long and all you want to do is fall asleep right here.

with a defeated sigh, you finally turn around. and only then do you realize how close chenle actually is. he’s standing just two steps below you. close enough that if you slipped backward even slightly, he’d catch you instantly. it softens you immediately. the way he still followed you. your expression crumbles into something smaller, softer.

“lele,” you mumble quietly, the nickname naturally slipping from your lips. you haven’t called him that in years. not since everything between you became sharp and complicated. 

chenle visibly freezes. the air in the stairway seems to solidify, trapping him in the space between who he is now and who he used to be.

your lower lip juts out slightly as you blink at him tiredly, “i need help,” you admit finally, your voice small and stripped of all its corporate armor.

his heart stops. he swears the world stops moving. because you sound exactly like her. not the polished corporate heiress version of you who sits through board meetings with perfect posture and calculated smiles. not the wife who carefully measures every word around him now. 

you sound like the girl he used to know. the one who used to cling onto his arm after getting tired at amusement parks. the one who cried dramatically over a barely scraped knee and demanded he carry her because “best friends are supposed to help each other.” the one who looked at him as if he were the only source of light in a dark world.

you sounded like the girl he loves. 

before business meetings hollowed everything out between you. before his own resentment poisoned every room you shared. 

chenle exhales slowly through his nose, a shaky breath that rattles in his chest. he sighs, and for the first time in years, the sound isn't one of annoyance, but of defeat.

“come on, you big baby,” he mutters. 

the tease slips out so effortlessly it surprises both of you, a sudden echo of a decade ago. your eyes widen slightly, he hasn’t sounded like that with you in a very long time. before you can even respond, chenle bends slightly and hooks an arm beneath your knees. you let out a tiny squeak as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, bridal style. instinctively, your hands grab onto his shoulder, settling against his chest automatically as he starts carrying you up the stairs properly this time. his warmth surrounds you immediately, steady and safe, your alcohol fogged brain melting into it without resistance. 

chenle tries very hard not to think about how natural this still feels. how your body still fits against his as if they were two pieces of a puzzle designed by a higher power. he feels your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, a subconscious grip that mirrors the way you used to hold onto him when you were children. years ago, this would’ve been normal. he used to carry you all the time. after you fall asleep in the car rides home. after twisting your ankle once trying to impress him at basketball. after you threw a dramatic tantrum at sixteen because your heels hurt during some charity gala. back then, touching you was easy. now it feels dangerous. 

he pushes your bedroom door open with his shoulders before walking inside. carefully, he lowers you onto the mattress. but the second he starts pulling away, your hands grab onto him tighter. 

“not yet,” you mumble immediately, tugging him downward with surprising strength until he half falls onto the bed beside you. your arms wrap around him instinctively, face burying against his chest, holding him close. 

chenle freezes for half a second. then exhales slowly. because fuck. he missed this. he missed you. not the tense silence between board meetings. not the careful distance. not the version of you that flinches emotionally every time he looks at you now. but this – warm and soft and clinging onto him like he was still your safest place in the world. 

your hugs always used to calm him down faster than anything else. even now, after everything, his body relaxes embarrassingly quick the moment your arms tighten around him. he lets himself stay there for a little while. just a little. his hand settles carefully against your back as your breathing slowly evens out. 

eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you properly, brushing your hair away from your face gently, his fingers lingering slightly longer than necessary. 

“why’d you drink so much anyway?” he asks softly. 

and maybe it’s the alcohol. maybe it’s the exhaustion. or maybe you simply miss your best friend too much to keep pretending you don’t. because suddenly, you start talking to him like he’s still that person. 

“my husband won’t touch me,” you mumble sadly.

the words hit him directly in the chest. especially because you say it like your husband and the man currently holding you are two entirely different people. his eyes widen slightly, heat creeping into his face almost instantly and he’s almost grateful you’re drunk enough not to notice. 

“and everyone keeps asking me about children, lele…” your voice grows smaller, “it’s just–it’s too much,” you pout slightly afterward, eyes glossy and tired. 

chenle’s guilt continues to grow. he knows all of the pressure has been landing on you. his mother stopped bringing children up around him months ago. your parents tread carefully too. everyone gives him space, shows him more grace. he think’s it’s because everyone is afraid that if they push him too hard, it will make him snap completely. make him finally leave. no one realizes he never actually could. not when the thought of a world where he wasn’t with you, even in this broken, tragic way, felt more impossible than the marriage itself.

“do you even want a child?” he ask quietly, not sure why he keeps this conversation going. maybe because this is the most honest the two of you have been with each other in years. 

you shift, turning on your side to find a more comfortable position, and in the process, you instinctively seize his hand again. without a second thought, you tug his arm around your waist, pulling him flush against you until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. the position nearly wrecks him. because this used to be normal too. movie nights. sleepovers. lazy afternoons tangled together on couches while studying. you always used to curl into him naturally like he was home. and he used to hate having to leave, always wanting more time with you.

“it wouldn’t be that bad to have one,” you admit softly, your fingers playing absentmindedly with his, tracing the lines of his palm, “i mean…we have all the money in the world.”

chenle huffs quietly through his nose, a small, dry sound. it always comes back to that, doesn't it? the money. the wealth. the legacy. the gold-plated chains that bind you together.

“we could have twenty and still have plenty left over,” you add with a sleepy, whimsical giggle.

that actually almost makes him laugh. the image of the two of you with twenty children running around this mansion sounds absolutely insane. he can barely handle one drunk wife right now. still, his chest feels strangely warm hearing you talk like this – domestic, hopeful, almost dreaming. it stirs something in him that he thought he had buried under layers of corporate coldness.

chenle doesn’t even know if he wants children. at least, not like this. not because families and investors expect it. not because it’s another duty to fill. 

suddenly, you shift again, turning in his arms to face him fully. your movements are slow, languid, you lift your hand, fingers grazing his jawline with a touch so light it’s almost a hallucination. you caress him carefully, your eyes searching his with a heartbreaking intensity.

“give me a baby, lele,” you whisper. 

his entire body stills. every muscle locks. he knows its the alcohol talking. 

but, fuck.

the way you’re looking at him right now could ruin him. chenle would give you anything. money. houses. companies. his entire fucking life if you asked for it. just – not like this. not when it would feel like another transaction instead of something real. 

his hand slides carefully into your hair instead, “why do you want a baby so badly?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

you shrug faintly. then your expression softens into something heartbreakingly vulnerable. 

“i just don’t want to be so lonely anymore.”

his heart breaks instantly. completely. it’s his fault. he is the one who built the walls. he is the one who turned this house into a gilded cage. 

“so…” you mumble sleepily, eyes barely open now, “will you give me one?”

hope flickers across your pretty face so softly it nearly kills him. 

he swallows hard, “not right now, y/n,” he says gently. your expression falls immediately and the guilt twists violently inside him again. so he adds.. quietly…“maybe someday.”

your eyes lift toward him again slowly. then, you raise your pinky between the two of you.

“you promise?” 

chenle stares at it and suddenly he’s thirteen again. you don’t link pinkies the way others do. you once declared that it “felt fake” and that crossing fingers didn’t feel lucky enough for important things. so, the two of you had invented your own ritual. your own secret language of loyalty.

carefully, with a tenderness that makes his chest ache, chenle takes your hand and he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the very tip of your pinky finger.

“i promise.” 

your sleepy face brightens instantly. you grab his hand and softly kiss the tip of his pinky too. 

a promise sealed.  except this promise wasn’t as simple as the ones before. 

eventually, your body relaxes fully against his chest while his fingers continue stroking slowly through your hair until you fall asleep in his arms. chenle stays there longer than he should, watching you sleep peacefully against him, finally not hurting for a little while. once he’s sure you’re completely asleep, he carefully slips out of bed. but before leaving, he gently pulls your heels from your feet one by one. then he places a glass of water and two pieces of tylenol on your nightstand. the same way he used to after parties years ago. for a while, chenle just stands there staring at you. then quietly, he turns the lights off and finally lets the night end. 

⚜️ THE DEATH GUMMY ⚜️

another month passes. and things were starting to shift subtly. you’re not entirely sure what happened that night you got drunk. honestly, most of it is blurry fragments in your memory – warm arms, soft whispers, the feeling of safety you hadn’t felt around chenle in years. 

whatever happened though, it softened chenle a little. just a tiny bit. 

he still doesn’t initiate a conversation unless absolutely necessary. still keeps most of his thoughts locked tightly behind careful expression. still retreats into himself more often that not. but he doesn’t leave rooms as soon as you enter anymore. and slowly, he starts joining you for dinner again. you ate silently, still on opposite ends of the table but at least he was there now. 

then, one night, you found him in the living room watching an episode of f.r.i.e.n.d.s. normally, you would’ve turned around to avoid making him uncomfortable. instead, chenle glanced at you briefly, eyes soft, not leaving, not telling you to go away either. so, cautiously, you sat on the opposite end. the two of you watched an entire episode, occasionally laughing at the same jokes. at one point your laughter overlapped and both of you went awkwardly still afterward. but even that tiny moment felt precious. more than you could ask for. 

maybe everyone was right. maybe chenle simply needed time. 

today, the two of you are at yü skincare headquarters. a product development meeting. one of the company’s biggest launches planned for next year. your team had spent nearly eleven months developing a new type of vitamin e supplement. and because you took your work seriously, you always insisted on testing products yourself. if consumers were putting your products into their bodies, then so would you. 

the testing room buzzes quietly with concentration. there are only five people here today – you, chenle, your assistant, mark lee – head of the vitamin research development team, and another researcher seated nearby typing notes rapidly into a laptop. 

mark steps forward excitedly, holding the newest batch carefully, “today is mainly flavor testing,” he explains, “we finally stabilized the texture, so now we just need to ensure the taste is actually enjoyable for the mass market.” he places one small green chewable into your palm. then another into chenle’s, “we infused it with natural fruit extracts to eliminate the vitamin aftertaste.”

you nodded absentmindedly, your mind already drifting toward the logistics of the rollout. you trusted mark implicitly – he was one of the best in the industry.

without a second thought, you and chenle both placed the gummies into your mouths.

and that’s when everything goes wrong.

your throat locks almost instantly. your eyes widen violently. for half a second, you think you might have swallowed wrong. but then your airway starts closing. fast. 

you can’t breathe. 

in a blind surge of terror, you slapped your hand hard against chenle’s arm, the sound sharp in the quiet room. his head snapped toward you, and every ounce of color drained from his face. he watched, in horror, as you began to turn a terrifying shade of red, your mouth opening desperately, gasping for air that wouldn't come. your eyes were wide, filled with a raw, primal terror.

chenle reacted before anyone else could even process what was happening. he lunged forward, gripping your shoulders with a strength that nearly knocked you back, facing you fully.

“Y/N?!” his voice was tight, laced with immediate alarm.

your lips parted, but no sound emerged – only a wet, wheezing struggle. you clawed at your own throat, your nails digging into your skin in a desperate attempt to open the airway.

a wave of pure, unadulterated terror hits chenle, his eyes darting around the room frantically, searching for the cause, mind racing through every possibility.

“what the fuck happened?!," he roared, voice echoing off the sterile walls.

the room froze. everyone stood paralyzed, their faces masks of confusion and sudden fear. no one answered. no one has answers. the silence was suffocating, broken only by the horrific, whistling sound of your struggle to breathe. chenle’s gaze snapped to the tray of green gummies. he pieced it together then.

“we’re there kiwis in these?!” chenle demands sharply.

mark blinked, nodding quickly, his voice trembling, “uh–yes, sir. we infused it with concentrated kiwi juice because it–”

“SHE’S ALLERGIC!,” chenle’s voice cracks through the room so loudly everyone jumps. 

you were deathly allergic to kiwi. not mildly allergic. not uncomfortable. deathly. a single slice of the fruit in a room could make your throat itch, a concentrated extract delivered directly into your system was a death sentence.

his breathing turns uneven instantly as fear floods his system. you’re not coughing anymore. you’re struggling. really struggling. your body starts slumping sideways in your chair and chenle catches you immediately before you hit the floor.

“hey–hey, stay with me!” his voice shakes. 

for the first time in years, he completely loses his composure in front of other people. he was no longer the cold heir, he was a terrified boy watching the only person he truly loved slip away.

“her bag,” he barked, the command slashing through the chaos, “someone get me her fucking bag now.”

your assistant rushes forward immediately, handing your bag over. another employee is already yelling for medics outside the room. everything becomes chaotic around him. but chenle barely hears any of it. all he can focus on is you. the violent red of the reaction was fading into a ghostly, terrifying pallor. your lips were tinged with a bruised blue, and your head kept dipping weakly, your consciousness flickering like a dying candle. your hand, resting against his suit jacket, felt colder with every passing second. for one horrifying, timeless moment, he genuinely believed you were dying.

“look at me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent and wrecked. he gripped your face, his fingers trembling against your cheeks, trying to force your unfocused eyes to lock onto his. “y/n, look at me! stay with me!”

your eyelids fluttered, your pupils blown and hazy. you could see him – the panic in his eyes, the sheer, unadulterated terror – but you couldn't reach him. you were drowning on dry land.

“fuck—!” he let out a choked sound, his hands shaking violently as he dove into your bag. he tossed aside your wallet, your phone, a lipstick, his movements frantic and clumsy, “where is it–where the fuck is it–”

then finally – the epipen. you always carried it for emergencies. 

relief crashed through him so hard it was almost physical, a wave of adrenaline that surged through his veins. he didn't hesitate. he didn't even remove your clothing, he slammed the injector hard against your outer thigh, the needle piercing through the fabric of your trousers with a sharp, clinical click.

“stay with me,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken, “please, please stay with me.”

the seconds that followed were an eternity of agonizing silence. chenle held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, watching your face for any sign of life. then it happened – you let out a sudden, violent gasp, a broken, desperate inhale that sounded like a sob. it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. oxygen flooded back into your lungs, and the sudden rush of air brought a torrent of tears that spilled from your eyes, soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

chenle exhales shakily like he forgot how to breathe too, his forehead nearly dropping against yours from relief, his eyes closing tight.

“that’s it,” he whispers frantically, his voice a breathless wreck, “that’s it, baby, breathe.”

he doesn’t even realize what he called you. he only cared that your hand, though weak and trembling, was curling around his fingers, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you anchored to the earth. chenle grips tighter immediately, as if letting go would allow the death that had just brushed past you to return and take you away. 

“you’re okay,” he keeps repeating, “you’re okay. i’ve got you, i’ve got you.”

his breathing is uneven. his eyes are glossy. everyone in the room is staring now because they’ve never seen zhong chenle like this before.

but chenle doesn’t care about appearances anymore. not when he thought he was about to lose you forever. 

⚜️ THE ONLY CHOICE HE’S EVER MADE ⚜️

chenle never visits you in the hospital.

the first day, mama li told you he was busy dealing with the fallout at work, there were investigations happening now, meetings with legal teams and a very furious chenle. the second day, you waited. by the third day, you stopped expecting him entirely.

your private hospital suite overlooks the city skyline, expensive and pristine in the way only billionaires could experience. fresh flowers arrive every morning from companies and family friends. assistants rotate in shifts outside your door. nurses practically hover around you like you’re made of glass. everyone treats you like you almost died. which, to be fair, you technically almost did. still, you feel fine now. a little tired maybe. but alive. 

your father is currently standing near the windows watering the ridiculous amount of plants someone sent earlier when the question finally slips out of you quietly.

“has chenle come by?”

he pauses mid-motion before looking over his shoulder at you. then slowly, he shakes his head, “sorry, sweetheart.”

you look down at the blanket pooled over your lap, “you were right, dad,” you admit softly, your voice sounding hollow in the vast room.

his brows furrow, “i’m right about a lot of things…but what is this one about?”

you force out a weak laugh, “maybe it would’ve been easier to marry someone i didn’t love.”

that makes him stop completely. he places the watering can onto the nearby table before he walks toward your bed. your father has never been particularly good with emotions. he showed love through stability, protection and business lessons disguised as life advice. still, he takes the seat beside your bed quietly. 

“sweetheart,” he says carefully, “there are positives and negatives in every situation. and sometimes…the choices we make can hurt more than we expected them to—but you already made your decision,” he sighs softly, “and just like every good business deal, you have to commit to it fully.”

you almost smile. trust your father to turn emotional comfort into a corporate lesson. 

“trust your instincts,” he adds quieter this time, his hand patting yours awkwardly. it’s probably the closest thing to emotional reassurance he knows how to give. it helps a little. 

“thanks, dad,” you murmur. 

he nods once before leaning down to kiss the top of your head gently, “get some rest.”

then he leaves you alone again. the second the door shuts, the loneliness creeps back in. because despite his words – the only person you actually wanted to see was chenle. 

unbeknownst to you, chenle visits every single night.

always after midnight. always once he’s certain you’re asleep. he slips into your hospital room quietly, dressed in dark clothes and exhaustion. the first night, he genuinely thought you looked dead. too still. too pale. fear hit him so hard he crossed the room immediately just to place a trembling hand near your face and make sure you were still breathing. only after feeling your warm breath against his skin did he finally relax. after that, it became routine. every night he checks your breathing first. sometimes, he sits beside your bed for hours in complete silence, staring at you while guilt slowly eats him alive from the inside out. 

because you could’ve died.

and worse–

you could’ve died believing he hates you. 

chenle doesn’t think he would’ve survived losing you. that realization was a cold, jagged blade, cutting through the carefully constructed armor he had worn for years. it terrified him more than anything else. for years, he convinced himself the opposite, that you were the reason he felt trapped, the reason his life no longer belonged entirely to him. the reason everything started feeling planned and suffocating. but the second your breathing stopped sounding normal – none of that mattered anymore. all he remembered feeling was pure, violent fear. 

the memory keeps replaying in his head every night no matter how hard he tries to shut it out. your hand grabbing his arm desperately, your face turning red, the sound of you struggling for air, the way your fingers slowly weakened in his grasp, the horrifying weight of your body slumping against him and worst of all – how cold he felt. like someone had dumped ice water directly into his chest. 

he hates that it took a near-death experience to shatter his delusions. he hates that he had been so blind. fear like that doesn't stem from obligation. you don’t unravel, you don’t scream into the void, and you don’t beg a person to breathe if all they ever were to you was a responsibility — he hates how almost losing you made him realize that everything he felt for you had always been real. not planned. not arranged. not a script written by two powerful families to ensure a monopoly on the cosmetic industry.

because long before contracts existed. before business meetings and inheritance talks and engagement announcements – chenle loved you. 

he loved you when you were thirteen, sealing promises with kissed pinkies. he still remembers the first time you came up with it. the two of you had been sitting on the rooftop terrace of your parent’s vacation house, legs dangling over the edge while sharing melted popsicles in the middle of summer. “crossing fingers feels fake,” you complained dramatically after he broke a promise to watch a movie with you the week before, “people break pinky promises all the time.” he laughed, “so what? we sign contracts now?” you rolled your eyes before grabbing his hand. then, with complete seriousness, you pressed a tiny kiss against the tip of his pinky finger. “there,” you said proudly, “now it’s permanent.”  after that, every important promise between the two of you was sealed that way. he never broke a single one. 

he loved you at fifteen when you attended every single one of his basketball games with his number painted proudly across your cheeks in bright blue despite both your parents immediately scolding you for putting “cheap toxic paint” on your skin. you didn’t care though, you sat front row, screaming, “that’s my lele!,” every time he scored. he used to pretend to act embarrassed in front of his teammates while secretly searching for you in the crowd every few minutes just to make sure you were still there. you always were. and after the games, you’d rush toward him, still wearing his jersey, eyes sparkling. no victory ever felt as good as seeing you proud of him. 

he loved you at sixteen when your vintage camera became permanently filled with blurry pictures of him. half the photos were terrible – his face cut off, him mid-yawn, him glaring because you kept shoving the camera into his face while he was trying to eat. but mixed between those were softer ones too like him asleep in the car with his head tilted towards you, him laughing with his head thrown back, pictures of the two of you together. he once asked why you took so many pictures of him and you shrugged like it was obvious, “because you’re my favorite person.” he thinks maybe that was the first time his heart ever genuinely stuttered inside his chest. 

he loved you when you were seventeen, in a moment so sudden it had nearly knocked the wind out of him. he remembered the weight of the shopping bags in his hands, the handles digging into his palms, and the sheer, unfiltered joy radiating from you. you had spent weeks in a state of mourning over your crybaby figurine collection, devastated after failing to pull the secret rares. you hadn’t asked him for help – you never did – but chenle had watched your disappointment from the sidelines, and it had felt like a physical weight in his own chest. he spent nights contacting resellers behind your back until he found every missing figurine himself. when he finally handed you the completed set, the expression on your face had been blinding. you had looked at him as if he were the center of the universe. without a second thought, you reached up, grabbed his face in your small hands, and pressed a fervent, lingering kiss to his cheek. “i love you the most!” you squealed, your voice high and breathless with excitement. chenle remembered the way the blood had rushed to his face, a heat so intense it felt like a fever, while you remained blissfully oblivious, already turning back to admire your figurines. in that moment, he had realized that your affection was a drug, and he was already hopelessly addicted.

and deep, deep down, he knows he loved you at twenty-four. especially on the day you became his wife. the moment those heavy doors opened and you stepped inside wearing that white dress you spent months carefully choosing – he forgot how to breathe. everything around him blurred instantly. time slowed to a crawl, yet he felt his entire future rushing toward him at the same time. all he could see was you. the slight tremble in your hands, the way your eyes shimmered with a mixture of hope and fear, and the way you looked at him as if he were still your favorite person in the world, despite everything. you looked beautiful. not in the polished, public way magazines later described. not like “the perfect heiress.” you looked devastatingly you. and chenle wanted so badly to reach for you, pull you close, wanted this marriage to be real in every way that actually mattered. when the officiant gave the command to kiss the bride, his chest ached with a sudden, sharp grief. it felt cruel that this – a choreographed moment in front of a thousand witnesses – was your first kiss together. he remembers leaning down slowly, your lashes fluttering, lips soft and warm and gentle against his. and for a second, chenle forgot there were a thousand people surrounding you both. forgot cameras existed. forgot he was angry. kissing you felt terrifyingly natural, like a missing piece of his soul finally clicking into place, a homecoming he should have claimed years ago.

but the truth was, he had loved you long before he even had a word for it. back when the two of you were six years old and accidentally broke expensive glass tubes inside one of the zhong cosmetics labs while playing tag in the rooms. assistants had panicked instantly, someone yelled, another employee nearly cried seeing the shattered equipment all over the floor. you got scared immediately, eyes filling with tears as adults crowded around the two of you. and without even thinking, chenle stepped in front of you protectively, “it was my fault,” he lied. he remembered the feeling of your watery gaze on the back of his head while he stood there, taking the brunt of the scolding from every adult on the floor. he hadn't cared. the only thing that mattered was that you weren't crying anymore. later that evening, you had secretly slipped half of your dessert onto his plate, whispering that “heroes deserve rewards.”

everything else in his life had been a predetermined path. the schools, the internships, the board meetings, the carefully curated image of a successor. his life had been a series of checkboxes marked by people who didn't care about his heart.

but all those moments – the pinky swears, the blue paint on your cheeks, the secret figurines, the shared dessert – those belonged entirely to him. entirely to the two of you.

loving you was the only choice he ever truly made on his own. 

it had happened naturally, quietly, and without permission. he had built this love in the secret spaces of his heart, and in his desperate, panicked attempt to protect his freedom, he had almost destroyed the only thing that had ever actually set him free.

he hasn’t forgiven himself for any of it yet. not for avoiding you all these years. not for making you lonely inside your own marriage. not for turning your first time into something cold and painful. not for the way your face looked when you admitted you just didn’t want to be lonely anymore. and definitely not for freezing in that meeting for even half a second before realizing what was happening.

which is exactly why he can’t face you while you were awake right now. he physically can’t. because the second you look him with those eyes of yours, he’s terrified he’ll completely break apart in front of you. he imagined himself sobbing at your bedside, begging for a forgiveness he didn't believe he deserved.

and everyone keeps reminding him stress is bad for your recovery. the irony was a bitter pill to swallow. chenle knew he was the primary source of stress in your life. so, he remained a shadow, visiting only in the dead of night, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. it was pathetic. it was cowardly. but it was the only way he knew how to love you without hurting you further.

by the third day, your regular hospital meals suddenly disappear. instead, trays arrive with your favorite comfort foods – steaming siomai, all types of dumplings, wonton noodles – all warm and prepared exactly the way you like them. you can’t hide your smile when you see them because there is only one person in the world who knows your comfort order by memory, a relic of a childhood where he used to sneak you treats when you were sad. you stared at the tray fondly. chenle might not have visited you, but this feels like proof he still cares anyway. 

and by the fifth day, you’re completely over it. everyone is being ridiculously dramatic. you feel so energized already. bored out of your mind. still, every doctor insists your body needs more recovery time after the severity of the reaction. your parents refuse to let you leave early and the only person who actually has the authority to pull you out, your husband, isn’t taking that risk either.

you end up staying in the hospital for two more days before finally coming home. 

⚜️ THE AIR ⚜️

when chenle got home that afternoon, he’s exhausted. the past week had destroyed him more than he let anyone sees. he barely slept. barely ate. and every single time his phone rang unexpectedly, panic seized his chest before he could stop it. 

he loosens his tie tiredly as he walks through the mansion doors, mentally preparing himself to go to the hospital to pick you up. but as he walks into the kitchen — he freezes. 

you’re standing there, alive and healthy, wearing one of your silk pajama sets while leaning casually against the island, sipping water and scrolling through your phone like nothing happened.

for a second, he thinks he’s imagining you. you weren’t supposed to be released for another three hours. then again, you were stubborn enough to convince almost anyone to do what you wanted eventually. no one ever really knew how to tell you no when you looked at them with that specific, determined glint in your eyes.

“you’re home.” 

the sound of his voice quickly diverts your attention from all the emails you were catching up on to him. you glance up and in his eyes – you see the difference. the armor he usually wore wasn't just cracked – it was gone. his eyes were wide, vulnerable, and shimmering with a relief so profound it looked like pain. slowly, you place your phone down on the counter, smiling at him gently. 

“i’m home.”

for the first time all week, he remembered how to breathe again. like he had given you all of his air and it’s now finally being returned to his own lungs. 

the briefcase he was carrying hit one of the glass tables with a loud, jarring crash. he didn't care. he didn't even look at it. he crossed the kitchen, closing the distance between you and collided with you, pulling you into his arms so suddenly and with such force that the air left your lungs in a small gasp.

chenle hugs you tightly. desperately. like he needs physical proof you’re still here. still warm. still breathing. 

your eyes widen in shock, breath hitching against his shoulder. then, slowly, you let your guard down and wrap your arms around him, feeling the frantic, erratic thumping of his heart against your ear.

“i thought i was gonna lose you.”

his voice cracked, the sound raw and jagged against your hair. the confession was stripped of all pride, all resentment, and all the distance he had spent years cultivating. the fear was completely exposed, leaving him naked before you.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, though you stayed in his arms. the sight of him broke your heart. there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin looked sallow from lack of sleep. and then, a single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his cheek.

you froze. in all the years you had known him – from the boy who chased you through the labs to the man who ignored you across the dinner table – you had never seen chenle cry. not once.

with tenderness, you lifted your hand and brushed the tear away, your fingertips lingering on his skin, impossibly soft.

“zhong chenle,” you murmur softly, voice trembling with a mixture of ache and affection, “you really think you can get rid of me that easily?”

his eyes close briefly at your touch like your fingers can undo the pain inside him. he doesn’t answer, doesn’t joke, doesn’t hide behind sarcasm or distance or that cold indifference he perfected over the years. instead, chenle just pulls you back into his arms again, holding you tighter this time. and for the first time in years, you let yourself lean into him fully. 

eventually though, reality settles back between the two of you. chenle slowly loosens his hold first. the second he realizes how tightly he’s been clinging to you, his expression shifts immediately. he clears his throat quickly and takes a half step back like distance might help him regain control again. 

“i’m glad you’re okay,” he says quietly, guarded again.

before you can even process the moment properly — he leaves. just walks out of the kitchen entirely, leaving you standing there alone trying to understand what the hell just happened. 

none of that made sense.

chenle has spent the last six years hating you. yet, for a few minutes, he had held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. you stare at the doorway long after he disappeared through it. confused. hopeful. terrified. you didn't want to read too much into a moment of panic-induced weakness, but the ghost of his heartbeat was still echoing in your ears.

until your phone buzzes nonstop, dragging you back to reality, life continuing on like your world hadn’t just tilted.

⚜️ THE MISTAKE THAT ALMOST TOOK YOU FROM ME ⚜️

the next day you’re back at the office like nothing happened. your heels click softly against the marble flooring of yü skincare as staff members greet you nervously on your way toward your office.

you settle into your executive chair with a quiet sigh, immediately scanning through the pile of reports waiting for you. the vitamin incident had already become a nightmare with legal teams involved, quality control investigations and public relations teams working overtime to keep information contained. 

you press the intercom button lightly, “send mark lee in.”

less than a minute later, the heavy door to your office swung open to huang renjun, human resource manager. his posture was stiff, his expression carefully neutral, yet there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes that immediately set off alarm bells.

your brows furrowed as you continued flipping through a document, “where’s mark?” you asked, your voice cool and professional, “i need the updated reports on the supplement.”

renjun coughs awkwardly, the sound immediately making you look up, something about his expression feeling off, “ma’am…” he hesitates, “he’s no longer with the company.”

your hand stills completely against the papers, “…what?”

“he’s been terminated.”

“i didn’t receive a resignation letter, nor did i authorize a termination,” you pointed out calmly, though your eyes narrowed, “explain.”

renjun uncomfortably shifts beneath your gaze, “sir chenle fired him.” you stare at him for a moment, trying very hard to not let your surprise show too obviously. renjun clears his throat again, “he actually fired everyone involved in the vitamin project.”

your mind raced. chenle was many things – arrogant, distant, and emotionally stunted. but he was never impulsive when it comes to business. he was a strategist who weighed every risk. for him to wipe out an entire department without a single consultation, without even a courtesy to call you, meant he had completely lost his composure.

you force your expression neutral anyway, “i see. you may go, renjun.”

renjun bows quickly before practically escaping your office. the second the door shuts, you lean back into your chair slowly. you should be angry. technically, you are. chenle had overstepped every professional boundary, sabotaging your chain of command and stripping you of your most experienced researchers. but beneath the irritation, a treacherous warmth bloomed in your chest. for the first time in six years, chenle had been emotional. he had been protective. he had burned down a project just because it had dared to hurt you. it was a violent, impulsive gesture of care, wrapped in the guise of corporate cruelty.

that night, you leave your office long after most employees have already gone home. the building is quieter now. the endless clicking of keyboards and ringing phones reduced to distant murmur somewhere far below. through the massive windows lining your floor, the city glows beneath the dark sky, millions of lights flickering like stars against the glass. 

you wrap your blazer tighter around yourself before stepping out into the hallway. your heels echo sharply against the tiles as you make your way toward the glass bridge connecting yü skincare headquarters to zhong cosmetics tower beside it.

the bridge had always fascinated everyone. two billion dollar companies physically connected in the middle of the skyline. a symbol of merger. of power. of the marriage between you and chenle. you used to love walking through it. now it just feels symbolic in the cruelest way possible — close enough to see each other yet still separated by glass. 

you knew these buildings like the back of your hand. every hallway. every hidden office. ever late-night corner where you and chenle used to sit as teenagers avoiding meetings your parents forced you into. the memories follow you all the way across the bridge tonight. 

by the time you reach the executive floor of zhong cosmetics, the receptionist has already gone home. only chenle’s personal assistant remains seated outside his office. the man immediately stands and bows politely the second he sees you. 

“mrs. zhong.”

you nodded once, your gaze fixed on the closed doors. “is he busy?”

his assistant hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing at the clock. “yes, ma’am, but… you may go in.”

you don’t bother knocking, simply pushing the doors open and walking inside. his office is dim except for the warm lighting near his desk and the city lights pouring through the windows behind him. chenle sits in his massive leather chair, sleeves rolled up slightly while scanning through documents with quiet concentration. he doesn’t look up immediately, probably assuming it’s just his assistant.

“you fired mark lee?” your voice cuts cleanly through the room, chenle’s attention snapping upward instantly. for a fleeting second, relief flickers across his face, like part of him still instinctively checks whether you’re okay every time he sees you now. then the expression disappears again, turning into something neutral. 

“who’s that?”

you exhale slowly through your nose, already irritated, “chenle,” you say flatly, “mark lee. head of the vitamin research team.”

understanding clicks across his face immediately, but it isn’t accompanied by apology.

“ahh,” he leans back slightly in his chair, “yes. that guy. how could i forget.”

the dismissiveness in his voice immediately annoys you further as you walk deeper into his office, “you cannot fire my people without consulting me first.”

chenle finally sets the file in his hands down, “your people are my people,” he says coolly, “that’s the whole point of this marriage.”

you ignore the sting in that statement – the reminder that in his eyes, you are just another asset to be merged.

“i want him back on the team.”

his jaw tightens almost instantly, “no. y/n.” 

the answer comes too quickly. too firmly. 

you stop dead in front of his desk now, arms crossing, refusing to back down, “chenle,” you say, your voice carefully modulated, fighting to keep the anger out, “mark lee has been employee of the month for seven consecutive years. he’s one of the best researchers in the industry. he’s valuable to this company and firing him is a strategic mistake.”

"valuable people don’t almost kill my wife."

the room goes still. your heartbeat stumbles slightly at the sharpness in his voice, at the way he says my wife. the possessiveness of it nearly undoes you, but your frustration and stubbornness is stronger.

“for fuck’s sake, chenle,” you snap, the poise you’ve spent years perfecting finally cracking, ”it was an accident!”

his expression hardens immediately, “an accident?”

"yes, an accident!," you throw your hands up, “he didn’t even know i was allergic to kiwis!” 

which was true. almost nobody did. allergies were weaknesses and weaknesses were dangerous in industries like yours. information could be weaponized to easily. chenle knew that better than anyone. 

suddenly, he stands, furious enough that his chair rolls backward sharply against the floor. his palms slam loudly on his desk, a sound that cracks through the office. 

“an accident that almost took you from me!”

his voice hits the room heavily — raw, furious, terrified — completely unraveled in a way you’ve never heard before. you stare at him across the desk, chest tightening painfully before anger rushes back to protect you from the hope that can completely blind you.

“oh please,” you scoff bitterly, rolling your eyes, “i bet you’d be jumping up and down if i actually died. it would have been the perfect exit strategy for you wouldn’t it? no more obligations, no more arranged marriage.”

the second the words leave your mouth, the atmosphere changes completely. the heat of his anger vanishes, replaced by a cold, suffocating stillness. chenle freezes, his eyes locking onto yours, hurt plastered all over his face.

“what?” he whispers.

your own emotions spill over immediately afterward. because you’re angry too. and hurt. and most of all, confused. you don’t know what he wants anymore. he needed space, you gave him space. you offer him a physical relationship that benefits him, he barely even touched you. and now – now he’s acting like he cares.

“you’ve spent the last six years making it very clear that you hate me,” you say, refusing to let your voice shake, “you’ve avoided me, ignored me and treated me like a burden. so don’t suddenly start playing the caring husband because i almost died. don’t pretend you have a heart now just because you’re scared of the paperwork a death certificate would cause.”

his expression breaks even more. the anger is gone, replaced by a look of such profound devastation that it almost feels like a crime to feel the way you do.

“i don’t hate you.”

and he sounds painfully, devastatingly honest.

you stare at him from across the desk, your heart beating so loudly it almost drowns out the silence filling the office. chenle doesn’t look away from you. the room feels too small now. too full of things neither of you know how to say. 

“you don’t get to say that now,” you whisper finally, your voice cracking, “not after all these years.”

he looks down sharply, jaw tightening hard enough for you to see the muscle twitch. then he laughs once, a miserable, dry laugh. 

“i know.” the words come out rough. he drags a hand over his face like he’s trying to pull himself back together. it doesn’t work. “i know,” he repeats weaker this time, sounding small and hollow. 

you watch him carefully now, even more confused. zhong chenle never falls apart. not publicly. not privately. not ever. he is the gold standard of control – composed, untouchable, a man carved from ice and expectation. yet, standing before you, he looks like he’s seconds away from total collapse. 

your anger starts cracking around the edges as you look at the boy in front of you. you were always weak when it came to him. if there were a list of your weaknesses, he’d be right there, on top of that damned fruit.

“chenle…”

he suddenly shakes his head. he physically can’t let you comfort him right now.

“do you know what i thought when you stopped breathing?”

the question hangs in tha air as you hold your breath. 

“i thought,” he exhales shakily, “i thought the last thing you were ever going to believe…was that i hated you.”

he finally looks at you again then, completely wrecked, his eyes bloodshot and swimming with a grief that has been simmering for years. 

“and i couldn’t fucking breathe,” he admits quietly, his voice trembling, “because all i could think was that you were going to leave me believing i didn’t love you.” 

the world feels like it stops spinning. love. he said love. not care. not obligation. love. your lips part slightly but no sound comes out. chenle laughs bitterly again before shaking his head. 

“you’re right. i spent years blaming you for everything because it was easier than admitting i was scared,” he confesses, his gaze searching yours, “scared that none of my choices were mine anymore. that my entire life was a script written by our parents,” he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, “but loving you…that was the only choice that was actually mine.”

that brings tears to your eyes instantly. chenle looks at you helplessly now. he doesn’t know what to do with all the emotions spilling out of him anymore. 

“and i ruined us anyway.”

he moves then, walking around the desk quickly, finally removing the barrier that always sat between the two of you. you think he’s going to stop in front of you.

instead – he drops to his knees. 

“what are you–”

before you can even process the gesture, his arms wrap tightly around your waist, forehead pressing against your stomach and finally — he breaks completely. you feel the shuddering breath leave him in a great, racking sob, his grip tightening almost painfully around you, tears slipping down his cheeks. 

“i’m sorry.”

the words come out cracked. wrecked. nothing like the polished man the world knows. 

“i’m so fucking sorry.”

you cover your mouth with your hand, stifling a sob of your own, even though you could already taste the salt from your own tears. this is the same boy who never apologizes unless forced to. the man who would rather bleed out than let people see weakness. and here he is, kneeling at your feet, clinging onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him together. 

“i’m sorry for all of it,” he gasps, his voice breaking, “for hurting you, for making you feel lonely, for making you believe i hated you when i—,” his voice breaks completely. 

slowly, tentatively, you thread your fingers through his hair. the moment your touch meets him, chenle exhales a shaky, broken sound against your stomach, his entire body shuddering. even a small gesture of comfort from you is enough to undo him.

“stop that,” you whisper, voice trembling.

your heart is breaking for him, for the boy who spent years pretending to be a monster so he wouldn't have to admit he was a prisoner. you can't stand to see him like this – on his knees, apologizing as if he is something broken and discarded at your feet, rather than the person you’ve loved for all of your life. 

you gently tug at his hair, coaxing him to look up. when he finally does, his eyes are swimming with tears, his expression completely defenseless. in this moment, everything else feels distant and irrelevant. there is only one overwhelming realization pouring through your chest:

chenle loves you. 

the boy you spent years mourning while standing right beside him this entire time still loves you. your heart feels too full for your body. before you can overthink it, before the fear and doubts can return, you slide your hands down to his face, pulling him upward carefully.

“get up,” you murmur through your own shaky tears. chenle obeys immediately, still staring at you like he’s afraid this moment isn’t real. your hand slides slowly against his cheeks, wiping his tears away before settling on his jaw.

“you really love me?” 

the question is a fragile thing, barely a whisper, floating between you like glass that could shatter at the slightest breeze. you sound disbelieving, your voice trembling with the weight of six years of silence and cold shoulders.

chenle’s expression dissolves. the hardness in his eyes, the armor he’s worn since he was eighteen, it all melts into something so painfully tender it nearly wrecks you. 

“i always have,” he confesses. 

that’s the final blow. the last shred of distance, the last wall of resentment.

you kiss him first.

but chenle returns it immediately, kissing you back like he’s been starving for it, years of tension snapping instantly. his hands come up to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, enough to pull a gasp from you while your fingers tangle tightly into his hair. 

this kiss feels nothing like your wedding day. it’s not polite. not careful. 

it’s desperate. it’s the sound of two people drowning and finally finding air. all the years you spent silently loving each other crashing together at once. he kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every moment he wasted. every cold shoulder. every lonely dinner. every time he walked away instead of reaching for you. 

your back bumps lightly against the edge of his desk. he breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, his forehead pressing against yours, both of you panting, breaths mingling in the charged air.

“fuck,” he whispers against your lips, his voice a wrecked, needy rasp, “i missed you so fucking much.”

the words makes your head spin. you don't let him breathe, pulling him back down, your mouth seeking his with a hunger that matches his own. his grip on your waist tightens, and in one fluid, powerful motion, he lifts you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the desk. papers scatter, sliding across the desk and fluttering to the floor. he doesn't give a damn about the reports. the only thing that matters is the heat of you.

you wrap your legs around his waist automatically, pulling him into you as he steps between your knees. he crashes his lips back onto yours, his tongue sweeping through your mouth with a possessive urgency. this isn't just lust, it’s an exorcism. he is purging years of loneliness, and you are drinking him in, fingers clutching his hair, pulling him closer as if you could merge your very souls.

“do you know-,” he groans, his voice sounding almost angry at himself, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin of your jaw, “-how long i've wanted to do this properly?”

“stop talking then,” you tease, your voice breathy and laced with desire. you reach down, hooking your fingers into his belt loop, tugging hard, dragging his hips flush against your center.

chenle lets out a grunt as he grinds his cock firmly into your clothed core, the friction sending a jolt of pure electricity through both of you. he freezes, a shudder racking his entire frame, his breath coming in jagged hitches.

“wait... wait, baby,” he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he forces himself to pull back just an inch.

“what’s wrong?” 

“i really, really want to do this,” he rasps, “but...not here.”

you laugh softly and it almost undoes him. almost makes him take back what he just said. with a tiny smile on your lips, you nod, “okay.”

then you glance around the wreckage of his desk, your smile turning into something playful, “do you need help finishing up those reports first, then?”

“are you crazy?” he asks, though his tone is fond. he doesn't let go of you, his hands sliding down to squeeze your hips one last time before he helps you down.

“we’re going home...right now.”

the ride home is a blur of friction and heat. for the first time in your marriage, you don't sit in separate cars. you spend the entire journey tangled together in the backseat, the partition slid up to shield you from the driver’s view. you can’t stop kissing him. you can’t stop laughing into him, feeling the giddy, overwhelming rush of being loved back.

chenle is just as relentless, his mouth roaming all over your exposed skin, leaving a trail of dark, possessive marks that claim you as his. every time you try to catch your breath, he finds a new spot to kiss, his hands roaming your curves.

the air in the car is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and arousal, the silence of the ride punctuated only by the sound of wet kisses and the shaky, happy sighs of two people who have finally come home.

⚜️ THE MASTER BEDROOM ⚜️

as you step through the front door, chenle is practically jumping beside you, a boyish grin plastered on his face. he looks at you with a hunger that is now subdued by an overwhelming sweetness.

“race you to the top!,” he shouts.

before you can even process the challenge, he’s already bolting up the left staircase, his laughter echoing through the foyer.

“lele! this isn’t fair! i’m in heels!” you squeal, your voice sounding lighter than it has in years. you run up the right staircase anyway, feeling like a kid again – the version of you that loved him without fear, and the version of him that followed you everywhere. 

by the time you reach the top, breathless and flushed, he’s already there, leaning against the railing with a smug, sparkling expression. 

“that was not nice, you should’ve given me a head start!,” you complain, crossing your arms and pouting, a childish expression you haven’t dared to show him in a lifetime. he chuckles then, stepping forward, his presence enveloping you as he pulls you back into his arms. 

his finger lifts your chin to tilt you face up to his, “and what does the winner get?,” he asks, eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and adoration. 

you lean back slightly, a playful, daring glint in your eyes, “hmm…you get to choose.”

he quirks a brow, gaze dropping to your lips, “choose what?”

“my room or yours?” you say with a smile that looks innocent but tastes like a provocation. 

a slow grin spreads across his face, “how about ours?”

“ours?” confusion flickers across your features. 

without a word, he takes your hand and begins leading you. he doesn't turn toward the left wing or the right…instead, he guides you toward the central hallway – the one you’ve spent months ignoring. it was the dead zone of the house, a place too painful to acknowledge because it represented the void in your marriage. the hallway that leads straight to the master bedroom.

as you walk, he slides behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist in a tight back hug, pulling your back flush against his chest. he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, his breath hot and steady as he pushes open the two grand double doors.

you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. the room is breathtaking. grand and dipped in gold. 

“wow,” you whisper, stepping inside, “i haven’t been in here since your mom gave me the tour…i thought it would’ve collected cobwebs by now.”

“it did,” he whispers against your ear, his voice thick with a sudden, piercing apology, “i had the maids clean while you were in the hospital. i wanted it to be perfect for when we finally came home together.”

you turn in his arms, looking up at him. a small, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips., “maybe i should’ve eaten that kiwi a lot earlier.”

chenle’s grip on your sides tightens, his expression shifting into one of genuine panic, “don’t joke about that, baby. please.”

you giggle, the sound soft and melodic. he scolds you, though his eyes are softening, “it’s not funny, y/n.”

“i’m not smiling because of the kiwi,” you reply softly, your voice barely a breath.

“then why are you smiling?” he asks, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

you look away for a second, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment, “i just…i really like it when you call me baby.”

chenle’s heart is practically audible in his chest, his gaze intensifying as he tips your chin up gently, making you look into the depths of his devotion.

“i love you,” he declares, the words sounding like a vow.

“i love you, too,” you whisper back.

he kisses you then – not the desperate, starving kiss from the office, but something slow, sweet, and profoundly tender. it’s a promise of a future. a seal on the new life you’re starting.

then, without warning, he breaks the kiss and sweeps you off your feet. you let out a startled gasp, clutching his shoulders as he lifts you bridal style. he carries you across the room with effortless strength, eyes locked on yours, matching smiles on your faces before placing you carefully in the center of the massive king-sized bed.

as chenle looms over you, the playful energy morphs into something more deeper. he moves with deliberate, agonizing slowness, as if he wants to memorize every single inch of you, making up for every second of the years he spent pretending he didn’t want you. 

he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that starts as a whisper and grows into a demand. his tongue swirls against yours as you moan into his mouth, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“you have no idea,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low, gravelly vibration, “how long i’ve dreamed of kissing you.”

his hands move to the hem of your blouse, fingers grazing your skin and sending jolts of electricity through your nerves. he undresses you with a reverence that borders on worship, peeling away the fabrics slowly, pausing to kiss the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, and the middle of your breast. when you’re finally bare beneath him, he pulls back for a moment, his eyes darkening as he drinks in the sight of you.

“you're so beautiful,” he whispers, his gaze heavy with adoration. 

he descends slowly, lips finding your breast as he takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly, you let out a sharp gasp, your back arching off the mattress. the sensation is new – a focused, searing heat that radiates from your chest down to your core. he alternates between soft licks and deep, demanding suctions, moving from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of wet, burning kisses across your ribs.

“lele…oh, god,” you whimper as he continues trailing lower, his tongue tasting the skin of your stomach, circling your navel and teasing the very edge of your underwear. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of his skin mixing with the luxury of the room, your breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

you’ve only known one kind of intimacy ever – that cold, transactional night with him that left you feeling empty. this is different. this is a slow burn, a deliberate awakening.

as he slides your underwear down your legs, he settles between your thighs, pushing them wide. you feel a surge of vulnerability, a sudden flash of inexperience that makes you shy away slightly.

“wait, chenle…i've... i've never…” you start, your voice trembling.

chenle looks up at you, a tender, knowing smile on his face, “i know, baby. just relax. let me take care of you.”

the first contact of his tongue against your clit pulls a soft moan out of you, a sensation you weren’t prepared for. the feeling of pleasure, making your hips instinctively jerk upward, arching off that mattress in a desperate search for more. he presses deeper, his tongue swirling in a slow, rhythmic motion that targets the most sensitive part of you.

“do you like that?” he mumbles, his voice a low, vibrating growl against your wetness, the heat of his breath sending fresh shivers racing down your spine.

“yes…” you whisper shyly, voice trembling. you try to keep your eyes open, wanting to witness the sight of him. but you don’t get to watch for long before your eyes begin to roll back, lids fluttering as he begins to feast on you with a sudden, hungry intensity. he’s no longer just tasting you – he’s consuming you. his tongue flickering rapidly, alternating between broad strokes and sharp, pointed pressure that makes your toes curl. when he suddenly sucks your clit into his mouth, creating a powerful vacuum of pleasure, your vision blurs into a haze of white and gold. you are completely undone. the tension in your lower belly coils tighter and tighter, building into a frantic crescendo that makes you feel like you're vibrating.

“chenle, i’m… i think i’m…” you gasp, your fingers clutching the silk sheets until they bunch up in your fists.

“go on, baby. give it all to me,” he encourages, his voice thick with desire. he works his tongue faster and harder, driving you relentlessly toward the edge.

as he does, he glances up, his dark eyes focusing on the sight of you – your head rolled back, your mouth parted in a silent, desperate gasp, your body arched, your nipples peaked.

he reaches up, grabbing your hand and locking his fingers with yours, anchoring you to the bed. you squeeze his hand with everything you have, clinging to him as the world finally shatters. you cum hard, your clit pulsing against his tongue in a series of intense spasms that leave you sobbing for air. the release is so overwhelming that it feels as though you're floating in a void of pure euphoria, a level of pleasure you never knew existed. you collapse back into the pillows, panting heavily, chest heaving as the aftershocks continue to ripple through you.

chenle slowly lifts his head, your pleasure glistening on his lips. he looks at you with a mixture of triumph and pure, unadulterated love. he crawls back up your body, kissing your forehead, your nose, and finally your lips, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

you reach up then, your fingers hooking on his tie. it’s already loosened from your earlier desperation. you tug on it firmly, finally removing it. 

with a low, needy sound against his lips, you sit up, beginning to undress him, your movements hurried and clumsy with eagerness. buttons pop and fabric slides until he’s completely naked, his skin warm against yours. 

your breath hitches in your throat. you hadn’t seem him fully the first time – but now, in the soft glow of the bedroom, you can’t seem to look away. your gaze drops to his cock.

driven by a sudden, bold curiosity, you reach out, your fingers wrapping around the warm skin of his shaft. 

chenle lets out a sharp, strangled whine, his hips jerking towards your touch instinctively. the sound is so visceral, so unlike the composed man the world knows, that you freeze, your eyes widening.

“did that hurt?” you whisper, looking up at him with genuine concern, as if you've just discovered a secret vulnerability.

a small, breathless smile tugs at his lips, though his eyes are clouded with lust. he shakes his head slowly, his voice a strained rasp, "no, baby... fuck, it feels so good. you drive me insane–,” he kisses you again, pulling back just an inch, forehead resting against yours, breath hot on your skin, “-but you need to stop,” he groans, the sound vibrating in his chest, “i need to be inside you.”

he carefully guides you back to lay on the bed, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you closer to him. he spends a long moment just looking at you, his gaze roaming over your flushed skin and swollen lips.

“i’m sorry about before," he whispers, “i promise i’m going to make up for every single second of it,” he says, voice thick with emotion before grabbing your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your pinky. and before he can let go, you pull his hand towards you, returning the kiss to his pinky too – not the innocent promise of children, but a mature, desperate vow of devotion. chenle’s breath hitches, the small gesture acting like a catalyst, snapping the last thread of his restraint.

he doesn't rush though. he moves with a slow, reverent precision, parting your legs with a gentle nudge of his knee, his eyes never leaving yours. as he positions himself, the head of his cock brushes against your entrance, slick and searing hot. you gasp, your hips instinctively arching upward, seeking the friction. chenle lets out a shaky exhale, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back. he enters you in one slow, agonizingly steady glide.

“oh...chenle,” you moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. you’ve never felt so full.

he freezes for a moment, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, a low groan escaping his throat, “you're so tight... so warm. i can't believe you're actually mine.”

then he begins to move, and it is nothing like the clinical urgency of the first time. this is a dance. he pulls back until he is almost out, only to plunge back in with a slow, heavy thud that makes you cry out. every thrust is deliberate, designed to make you feel the weight of him, the heat of him, and the sheer intensity of his love.

“chenle... please,” you whimper, your fingers clawing into his shoulders, “right there... don't stop.”

“i've got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips leaving searing trails of heat.

he picks up the pace slightly, the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room. then he reaches down, his hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, thumb circling your swollen nub, perfectly timed with the deep, rhythmic thrusts of his hips. the combination is electric. you feel that same tension building again, faster this time, a coil of pleasure tightening with every stroke. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase any remaining space between you.

“look at me,” he commands softly. you open your eyes to find him watching you with an expression of pure, unadulterated worship, “tell me you feel it. tell me you know how much i love you.”

“i feel it,” you sob, your voice breaking, “i love you...i love you so much, chenle."

the words breaks something inside him. his movements become more urgent, more passionate, though he never loses that sweetness. he begins to whisper things against your skin – promises of a future, apologies for the past, and raw admissions of how much he craved this specific moment.

as the climax begins to crest, you feel your walls clamp down on him in tight, rhythmic waves. you gasp his name, body shuddering under the force of a release that feels like a spiritual cleansing. chenle lets out a guttural, strangled cry, his body stiffening as he delivers a few final, powerful thrusts. he pours himself into you, his own release consuming, his head falling at the crook of your neck as he gives in to the euphoria, collapsing onto you, his chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapping around you in a protective, crushing embrace. for a long time, the only sound in the room is the synchronized thumping of two hearts finally beating in the same rhythm.

“i love you,” he whispers into your hair, his voice exhausted but certain.

⚜️ THE REST OF YOUR LIFE ⚜️

you wake up to the sound of light snoring from your husband, his arms locked firmly around your naked waist, your back flushed against his bare chest. the warmth of skin on skin is electric, but it’s the prominent, hard bulge of his cock pressing firmly into the small of your back that makes your breath hitch.

you pinch your arm, a sharp sting that confirms this isn't a fever dream. 

then you shift gently in his embrace, turning in the circle of his arms to face him. as you move, his cock slides against the curve of your hip, dangerously close to your core. the proximity makes your pussy clench instinctively. you’ve always loved chenle but this kind of hunger was new - a desperate need to be consumed by him.

“stop staring at me, you creep,” he teases, his voice thick with sleep.

you let out a breathless laugh, swatting his shoulder. the sound of your own laughter feels foreign yet right.

it hits you then – the terrifying, beautiful ease of it all. like the past six years of coldness, the resentment, and the silence were just a bad dream, easily erased by the heat of his body.

sensing your sudden silence, chenle opens his eyes. the gaze he meets you with is soft, searching, and filled with an intensity that makes your heart race. 

“what are you thinking about?” he asks softly, his hand drifting up to thread his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp.

“just… thinking about how nice this is,” you whisper, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips.

“yeah?” he lets out a playful hum, his eyes shimmering with complete adoration, “think you could do this with me for the rest of our lives?”

you lean in then, kissing him softly, “yes,” you murmur against his lips with absolutely no doubt, “you’ve always been the only person i could ever do this with.”

chenle’s heart stutters. he had thought his love for you had reached its peak, but every time you surprise him with your tenderness, the feeling grows, expanding until it feels like he might burst.

“do you think this would still be nice with twenty kids?”  he teases, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

you recoil slightly, a look of genuine horror flashing across your face. “what?! i’m not giving you twenty kids, chenle! are you insane?!”

he bursts into a loud, genuine laugh, his eyes disappearing into crescents, his kitten-like smile whiskers prominent. as he calms down, he smirks, leaning closer, “i’m not the one who wants twenty kids. i’m pretty sure it was my beautiful wife, coming home drunk a month ago and begging me for a baby.”

you groan, your face flushing a deep crimson as you try to rack your brain for any memory of such a confession. but you don’t remember anything.

“i was drunk! i wasn’t in my right mind!”

“hmm,” he draws the word out fondly, his hand sliding down from your hair to trace the curve of your hip,  “how many kids do you actually want then?”

“two,” you admit shyly, looking away.

“only two? baby, this mansion would go to waste,” he teases, a playful smirk on his face.

“okay… three then,”  you say, trying to hide the smile growing on your face.

“what if one of them feels left out?”

“four. and that’s it!” you exclaim.

in one fluid motion, chenle rolls you onto your back, pinning you beneath his weight, his eyes dark with lust, his hard cock hitting your thigh with a heavy thud. 

“guess we should start getting to work then,” he smirks.

you giggle underneath him, pulling him in for a quick kiss before murmuring against his lips, “can you do that thing you did last night first, though?” you ask, cheeks burning.

“what thing, baby? i did a couple of things.”

the embarrassment is overwhelming, but the craving is stronger. you bite your lip, unable to say it aloud.

“c’mon, mrs. zhong, owner of two beauty empires,” he teases, his voice a low, sultry drawl, “you can tell your husband exactly what you want.”

“go down on me again, chenle,” you whisper.

he grins, a predatory yet loving expression, “of course, baby… but you do know that’s not how babies are made, right?”

you groan, shoving at his chest, “i really don't care.”

he chuckles, the sound vibrating in his chest before he slides down your body. he doesn't stop until his face is buried between your thighs, letting out a low moan at the scent of your arousal, his hot breath ghosting over your clit before his tongue makes a slow, wet sweep from your bottom to the top, tasting every drop of your longing.

⚜️ THE OFFICE ⚜️

when you get to the office later that day, arriving in the same car, and walking through the lobby of yü skincare together – the atmosphere shifts. you can feel the collective intake of breath from the staff, the employees practically vibrating with curiosity, eyes darting between you and chenle, trying and failing to hide their sheer shock. you don't blame them. for seven months, your marriage had been spent apart. to see him not only accompanying you to your door but looking at you with an expression of raw, unfiltered adoration is enough to send the office gossip into overdrive.

your eyes scan the room, landing on a familiar figure – mark lee is back at his desk, focused and working. a surge of triumph rushes through you. you’ve won.

the moment the heavy door to your private office clicks shut, the professional facade vanishes. chenle doesn't waste a second. his hands are instantly back on you, grip firm and possessive as he spins you around to face him, pinning you lightly against the edge of your desk.

you grin, your eyes dancing with mischief, “i see mark lee is back,” you say teasingly.

chenle huffs a small, amused breath, his forehead resting against yours, “yeah, he’s back. but tell him he’s walking on a very thin line,” he murmurs, though there’s no real heat in the threat. you laugh, a genuine, light sound, and shove his shoulder playfully. 

his expression shifts, the playfulness melting into something achingly sincere as he cups your face in his hands, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a reverence that makes your heart stutter. 

“you know i’d give you everything you want, right? just say the word and it’s all yours.”

it’s not just a statement – it’s another confession, a continuation of the vow he’s been making since you woke up. 

“i told you,” he whispers, his gaze searching yours, “i’ll spend the rest of this life, and every single one after that, making it up to you.”

you let out a soft, breathless laugh, feeling a warmth spread through your chest, “when did you become such a sap?” you tease, reaching up and winding your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck to pull him down.

the kiss is slow, languid, and deep – a sweet contrast to the hunger of the morning, but filled with the same desperate need to be close. as your tongues slide together, the corporate world outside the door ceases to exist, there is only the scent of his cologne, the heat of his body, and the overwhelming realization that you are finally, truly, loved.

⚜️ THE FULFILLED PROMISE ⚜️

it didn’t take long after that before you finally got pregnant.

you and chenle fucked all the time. and it wasn’t even to conceive – the two you just physically could not get enough of each other. the mansion became your personal playground. you were pretty sure there wasn’t a single square inch of the estate that hadn’t felt the heat of your bodies. 

like that one time when you both got home after a charity gala. you had worn a red dress that hugged every curve, the slit climbing dangerously high up your thigh. all night, chenle had been a predator in a tuxedo, his gaze burning into you, hand possessively gripping the small of your back, whispering filth into your ear while you smiled for the cameras. he didn't want to network, he wanted to rip the dress off your body. the moment the heavy doors of the mansion clicked shut behind you, the facade crumbled. he didn't even let you take off your heels. chenle grabbed you by the waist, hoisting you up with a grunt of effort and placing you down onto the large, circular marble table that sat centrally between the grand staircases, not even caring about the priceless antique vase sitting on top of it. he didn't waste time with foreplay – he reached down, bunching the red silk upward, exposing your lace panties and with one violent tug, he ripped the lace aside, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the vast foyer. “i’ve been thinking about this since the moment you put this dress on,” he growled, voice raw. he freed his pulsing cock, already leaking pre-cum, and shoved it into you in one deep, punishing thrust. you moaned his name so loud, back arching off the marble, legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper. the sound of your shared moans bounced off the high ceilings, filling the foyer with the raw noises of pleasure. he fucked you desperately, hips slamming against yours with a wet, slapping sound that could be heard all around the mansion. you knew the maids were nearby, you could almost feel their shocked eyes on you, but the thought only made you wetter. you gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his tuxedo jacket, sobbing his name as he hammered into you, driving you toward a shattering climax that left you shaking and drenched.

then there was the discovery of the billiards room. it had been a forgotten wing of the house, dusty and silent until you both stumbled upon it during a lazy afternoon. the moment the door closed, the atmosphere shifted. the green felt of the billiard table looked like an invitation. chenle didn't even let you stand still. he lifted you up the billiard table, hiking your dress up and spreading your legs wide. “you smell so sweet,” he murmured, breath hot against your inner thigh. he didn't hesitate, burying his face in your pussy. his tongue was your favorite  weapon – broad, wet, and relentless. he licked your folds, swirling around your clit, making your toes curl. he fingered you with his other hand, two fingers sliding deep inside your soaking walls, stretching you while his tongue continued to drive you insane. it was an intense combination. you were sobbing, fingers clutching his hair. just as you reached the peak, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and dripping. he didn't give you a second to whine about it, grabbing your hips to help you down then bending you forward until your chest was pressed against the green felt. “look at you,” he whispered, his voice a dark caress, “always so ready for me.” he entered you from behind, his cock filling you completely over and over again. the friction of the billiard table against your skin and the relentless pace of his thrusts sent you over the edge. he fucked you ruthlessly, his hand reaching around to pinch your nipples over your pajama dress, his chest heaving against your back. every thrust was a claim, a promise that you belonged to him, until he finally groaned, filling you with a hot, thick surge of cum that left you both breathless and spent.

and also that one time in the hot tub, it wasn’t even night time…it was pure daylight, the sun was out, illuminating every inch of the outdoor sanctuary. the risk of being seen by the gardeners or the staff was immense, but the adrenaline only fueled the fire. you were draped across him, your legs wrapped around his waist as you rode him. the warm, bubbling water splashed around you, clinging to your skin. chenle’s hands were everywhere – one gripping your ass to keep you steady, the other reaching up to grab your breast. he leaned in, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking it hard, his tongue swirling around the peak. you threw your head back, your moans echoing across the open terrace, completely uninhibited. you could feel the vibration of the water and the rhythmic slide of his cock deep inside you. every time you sank down, you felt him hit your cervix, a sensation that made you whimper and cling to his shoulders. “who cares if they see?” he gasped, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a mixture of lust and adoration, “let them see who you belong to.” he gripped your waist tighter, lifting you slightly before slamming you back down onto him. the splashing grew more violent, the water churning as the pace increased. you rode him with a frantic energy, your clit rubbing against his pelvic bone with every downward stroke. when the climax hit, it was explosive. you screamed his name into the open air, your walls clamping down on him in tight, rhythmic waves, while he groaned, thrusting one last time and flooding you with his cum under the bright, midday sun.

and then there was that one week honeymoon that chenle insisted on, saying that he never got to give you a proper one. you two spent a week in the most luxurious private resort in hawaii. the resort is beautiful, open to the tropical air and the rhythmic crash of the ocean, but you barely saw the view. you were too occupied by your husband. for seven days, the world ceased to exist. there were no board meetings, no family expectations, and no corporate rules – only the sound of wet, slapping skin and the desperate gasps of two people becoming one. he fucked you in the private pool, the warm water swirling around your hips as he held you against the edge, his cock sliding in and out of you with a frictionless ease that made you scream into the salty air. he fucked you on the outdoor daybed, under the moon, the linen sheets soaking through with your combined juices. he would spend hours worshipping your body, his tongue tracing every curve, every fold, before driving himself into you with a force that left you shaking and sobbing his name. 

and of course, eventually, you fucked in both of your offices. the two of you tried to keep it professional at first but at one point, you just couldn’t stop yourselves. i mean, no one can fire you anyway. and the two of you spend so much time at work it just makes sense. your favorite routine involved the desk — when you were the one who gets to play, disappearing from view while chenle continued a conference call. the contrast was intoxicating, his voice, cool and commanding, discussing quarterly projections, while your mouth was wrapped tightly around his cock. you would suck him with a focused intensity, swirling your tongue around the head and taking him as deep as your throat would allow, listening to the slight hitch in his breath and the way his hand gripped the edge of the desk to keep from groaning. when he finally hangs up, he would haul you out from under the desk by your waist and slam you down onto the edge of it, “my little slut wants to play, huh?” he’d growl against your lips as you cling to the desk for dear life, heels digging into the carpet. he took you right there in the center of his power, filling you to the brim.

but still...nothing beats fucking in your shared bedroom, this was where the real intensity lived, especially on the nights when chenle’s gaze turned dark and determined. on those nights, he didn't just want to fuck you – he wanted to possess you completely. he would start by flipping you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees in doggy style. he loved the view of your arched back and the way your ass looked spread wide for him. he would grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, and thrust into you from behind. the sound of his balls slapping against your cheeks echoed through the room, a raw, primal beat that drove you insane. he would reach forward to pull your hair back, whispering filth into your ear about how much he loved the way you took him. then, he would flip you onto your back, hoisting your legs up high,  sometimes draping them over his shoulders, so that he could penetrate you at the deepest possible angle. in this position, there was no escape. he drove himself in until he hit your cervix, each thrust a heavy, thumping blow that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. “look at me,” he would command, his eyes burning with an obsessive kind of love, “tell me you're mine.” the friction and the intensity pushed you toward a peak you had never experienced before. in the heat of those nights, you discovered the sensation of squirting – your pussy drenching the sheets and leaving you gasping for air. the feeling of losing control, of your body literally overflowing with pleasure, sends chenle into a frenzy. he would fuck you even harder, driving you through multiple, shattering orgasms, his own release coming in a hot, thick flood that filled you completely, leaving you both tangled in the damp sheets, hearts racing in a synchronized rhythm of absolute devotion.

now, a year into marriage and you were two months pregnant with your first child.

it hasn’t been easy, your baby was stubborn – which you honestly should’ve seen coming knowing how stubborn its father is (and you, too). 

the pregnancy had stripped away your usual composure. for a woman who navigated the cutthroat world of billionaire cosmetics with a steady hand, the loss of control was infuriating.

your morning sickness wasn't just “morning”sickness – it was a rolling tide of nausea that lasted the whole day. you had spent the last few weeks throwing up everything from expensive lobster to plain crackers. to add to the misery, your breasts had swollen, becoming agonizingly sore to the touch.

you were, in a word – grumpy. a whirlwind of mood swings, snapping at assistants and sobbing over the smallest of things, existing in a state of perpetual irritation. which was especially unfortunate considering you had never been particularly good at dealing with discomfort. you are a billionaire. struggle is not your forte.

still, chenle had been unbelievably sweet and understanding through all of it. he spent his days balancing both companies and his nights massaging your back or holding your hair back while you retched into the toilet, kissing your forehead with a tenderness that still made your heart ache.

today, you were plagued by a craving so specific, so visceral, that it felt like a physical hunger. you wanted a tomato-egg dish. but not just any version. it had to be right.

chef sung ahn, a culinary genius, was currently in the midst of a crisis — seven bowls of the dish sat on the marble island, each one a slightly different variation of seasoning and texture. and yet, none of them were right.

you pushed the seventh bowl away with a pout, your lower lip trembling. you knew you were acting like a spoiled child, but as you rested a hand over your still-flat stomach, you reasoned that you were carrying what is about to be the most spoiled heir in the country. it only made sense. 

the heavy thud of the front door announced chenle’s return. he stepped into the kitchen, shedding his blazer and loosening his tie, his eyes immediately landing on the scene.

“baby,” he murmured, stepping behind you and pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head.

his scent, expensive cologne and the lingering musk of a long day at the office, usually calmed you, but today you were too frustrated to be fully appeased, “what’s going on in here?”

you let out a dramatic groan, leaning back into his chest, “your stupid baby wants a certain taste, and the chef can’t do it!" you complained, pouting up at him, “nothing tastes right, chenle! everything is wrong!”

chenle looked from your frustrated expression to the exhausted but patient chef sung ahn, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

“i’m so sorry, chef. she’s been incredibly sensitive since the pregnancy started. i think we're dealing with a very demanding little one.”

chef sung ahn smiled knowingly, unfazed by the seven wasted bowls. he was paid far too much to be offended by the complaints of a pregnant billionaire.

“that’s perfectly alright, mr. zhong. my wife was exactly the same way. i remember a week where she nearly kicked me out of the house because the toast was too loud.”

the two men share a low chuckle while you try not to roll your eyes. his wife was valid and you know it. 

“i think i know exactly what she wants, though,” chenle said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming soft and confident.

"i’ll take care of it. thank you, chef. you can head out for the day."

as the chef departed, chenle took his place, rolling up his sleeves and exposing his forearms. you remained seated on the bar stool, watching him. there was something hypnotic about the way he moved – the precision of his knife, the way he cracked the eggs with one hand, the sizzle of the tomatoes hitting the pan.

as the aroma began to waft through the air, something happened — for the first time in hours, the nausea in your stomach vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense surge of appetite.

your mouth watered. the scent was an exact match – not to a michelin-star recipe, but to a memory. a flash of nostalgia hitting you. you were seventeen again, shivering under a duvet in your room, delirious with a fever. chenle visited you with a simple, home-cooked tomato-egg dish. it hadn't been fancy, but it had been made with a quiet kind of care that had spoken louder than any words.

you looked at your husband – the man who had once been your best friend, then your cold stranger, and now the love of your life. a small, amused smile tugged at your lips. your baby, barely the size of a fruit, was already exerting its will, bypassing the expertise of a world-class chef to demand the specific, nostalgic touch of its father.

god, you thought, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips as you watched him plate the food. the baby already has a favorite. what a traitor.

chenle finished the dish quickly, the steam curling upward, carrying that precise, comforting scent that had finally silenced the storm in your stomach.

he slid the bowl in front of you, the colors vibrant and the aroma intoxicating. as you picked up the spoon to take a bite, he stepped towards you. 

“how is it?” he smirks teasingly. because he knows you. and he knows it’s exactly what you needed. 

you let out a soft, involuntary sigh of contentment, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a verbal compliment just yet. instead, you pouted, looking up at him through your lashes. without warning, you reached out and gripped the fabric of his shirt, bunching the material in your fist and tugging him towards you as you burrowed your face into chest.

“you’re not allowed to go to work anymore,” you mumbled against his shirt, “you’re staying with me. every second of every day.”

a low, vibrating chuckle erupted from his chest, the sound echoing against your cheek. he wrapped his arms around you, hands splaying across your back.

he adored this version of you – the spoiled, demanding, vulnerable woman who only wanted him.

“i’m perfectly okay with that,” he whispered, his voice dripping with fond adoration. 

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes shimmering. the stubbornness was still there, but it was softened by a deep, aching affection.

you reached up then, hooking your arms around his neck to pull him down toward you for a soft, lingering kiss filled with tenderness and love.

⚜️ THE END ⚜️

an: weeee!!!! did i spend my entire weekend glued to my computer writing this like a loser? yeah…i did. but i had to ride on the high of inspiration and delusions before i lose it or else this would take me months to finish lmao. anyways, i loved writing this! and i’m also realizing it’s very easy for me to write for chenle idk it’s always so fun for me!!! fun game: can you guess what kind of dad chenle is!! aka can you guess the gender of the baby??? put in the comments what you think! 😉 (i do have the answer). and please let me know your thoughts! thank ü for reading, much love to ü 💛

EXTRA: GENDER REVEAL PARTY

🏆 likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated

💳 if you enjoyed this story and would like to show extra support, my kofi is open! (i’m so broke rn guys pls spare some change 😔🚬)

🥂 wedding guest list: @markiepoo4eva @haru-lvsjiho @underscuare @starcandybby @flowerpote @markclle @myrainbowgelpen @ajjunicesblog @musken23 @yayayawnnz @untitledtyun @girloftherem @neotannies

he sits himself down at the foot of his bed and lifts your skirt over your torso. his hand shakes as it approaches your clothed pussy. 

you can still turn around. you still haven’t technically done anything.  

when his fingers finally make contact with your pussy, he swears he feels a jolt of electricity going straight down to his dick. no turning back now. his index and middle fingers move in circles—careful at first, then settling into a steady rhythm around your clit. 

you don’t react immediately and it lulls jaehyun into a false sense of security. he almost jumps when you speak. 

“jae – hic –hyun? wh… what are you doing?” 

it takes a moment for jaehyun to steel his nerves. he tries to ignore your question, unsure how or what to answer. it’s his first time doing… this. what was he supposed to reply to you.

“s-stop… it feels – hic – weird.” 

this time he’s sure he can’t just pretend you didn’t say anything. his brain rummages through an appropriate response. 

coercion’s the only thing that comes to mind. “shhh, just… just enjoy this, yeah? i’ll make you feel real good.” 

you don’t answer. 

his fingers continue moving against your clit, but it doesn’t take long for your next protest to come. 

“s-stop… it feels…” you trail off. 

“good right?” jaehyun finishes your sentence. “this feels nice?”

“mmh,” you hum back.

“yeah? you like this? like it when i do…” he says, trailing his fingers down your slit with pressure, “this?”

the wet patch in your panties spread and jaehyun can’t believe his eyes. you’re actually getting turned on by his touch. if he is a pervert, he wagers that you’re one too. fucking slut.

you gasp at his touch, then shake your head, “nooooo. i –hic– just now…” 

jaehyun doesn’t need to be told twice; his fingers return quickly to your swollen clit. he likes it that you’re honest. 

i need to fuck her brains out. 

your soft gasps melting into whines and moans bolsters his ego and encourages him in this endeavour. he leans down against your panties and his tongue licks a strip down your slit, ending at your clit. the taste of you through your panties whets his appetite. 

when he finally pulls off your panties, he’s shocked at how fucking drenched you are. he presses his face flush with your pussy and swirls his tongue around your clit. your thighs tremble at his touch. whimpers and incoherent thoughts fall out of your lips. 

“baby girl, you taste so fucking sweet,” he murmurs against you before dipping his tongue back into you. 

your hips buck as you squirm against him. your hands reach out to grab something, anything, only able to reach the sheets besides you. jaehyun can tell that you’re close. something evil glints in his eyes.

“use your words baby girl,” he coos. 

he watches from between your legs. your eyes, half-lidded, lips parted and drool spilling over. you look so completely fucked out and he hasn’t done much. 

you whine, head spinning too much to string together a coherent thought. all you want is his touch on you. 

“use your words,” he says, this time a little more stern. 

“w’na… i want… come,” you manage and he smiles like he’s just won a millionaire dollars. 

“good girl. good girls get rewarded.”

his lips connect with your core again, this time with a renewed passion: he wants to watch you, taste you, as you fall apart on his tongue. it doesn’t take long for that to happen. your voice reaches a higher pitch, your back arches further into the bed and your entire body tenses. 

“coming! coming!” your voice strains. 

still jaehyun doesn’t let up. his fingers dig into your hips holding you against his face and preventing you from wriggling out of his grip. even as your hands carelessly swats at his face, trying to push him off, his tongue continues as he wrings out your orgasm. 

you get a brief respite when he finally removes himself from between your legs but it’s short-lived. jaehyun’s quick to replace his tongue with two fingers, burying them deep in you. 

your body jolts at the sudden intrusion. 

“look at you, so… so wet for me. aren’t you a little pervert? getting off to me doing this to you?” 

blood rushes to your cheeks and the tops of your ears. you want to protest him, but can’t find the words in your brain – half clouded by the haze of your intense orgasm, half by the alcohol. instead, you find yourself just shaking your head. 

he laughs at your measly attempt. 

“are you sure?” he says with a false incredulity. “just listen to how wet you are.” 

his fingers thrust into your cunt with a greater force, amplifying the sloshing between your legs. even as drunk as you were, you still flush with embarrassment. 

“you’re such a good slut for me, aren’t you? so wet and needy,” his tone is condescending, “if i didn’t know any better, i’d think you wanted this.” 

you want to fight back at his last sentence, scream at the top of your lungs that it’s not true. you want to defend yourself. but all your stupid mind could think about was how good his fingers fucking you felt. 

“n-no…” is all you say. you’re sure it came out as self-assured and defending. yet all jaehyun heard is a soft careless mumble. he would have missed it, if he hadn’t been paying attention. 

“no?” he repeats, “oh sweet baby, my sweet dumb baby. how can you say no when you’re clenching so tightly around me? bet you wished this was my cock instead right?” 

your mind is hazy and you can’t think straight. you try and try. but all you can think about it pleasure twisting inside of you. you feel it building up, tightening and tightening and you know it’s about to explode. you can’t even remember what was it that you wanted to say.

tears well in your eyes as your whines and whimpers turn into a loud mewl when your orgasm comes crashing down on you. the immense tension all at once releases and your body jolts through every wave of ecstasy crashing through you.  

“fuck, didn’t know that my sweet little slut could squirt so much.” 

squirt? you’re sure that you’ve never done that before. jaehyun’s fingers leave you and you almost let out a whine at the emptiness between your legs. 

in all of jaehyun’s eagerness, he doesn’t bother actually pulling down his boxers or jeans. instead, he just releases his aching, leaking cock from his pants and lines it up with her drenched hole. 

you can still turn back.  

with a thrust of his hips, he buries himself, and any semblance of rationality, deep within you. 

(and really, jaehyun reasons, it’s your fault. you shouldn’t have made such delicious sounds. you shouldn’t have made it so easy. you should have said no, kick him away. but there you lie, halfway asleep, halfway enjoying his touch. which idiot would turn this opportunity away?)

“you’re so fucking… perfect,” he groans, his voice is guttural, rough like concrete. like it’s taking everything in him to not turn into a feral dog, “you’re like my own personal cum dumpster.” 

you try to shake your head in protest. 

“say it, baby girl. say ‘i’m’...” jaehyun waits for you to repeat after him. 

“i-i…” 

“i’m,” he repeats again, “my dumb, dumb slut. i know you can do it.” 

“i’m,” you say, partly to prove that you’re not dumb like he says; you can still say words. surely that must mean you’re not completely dumb, right?

“your,” jaehyun continues. 

“your.” 

“cumdumpster.” 

“c-c…” this time the words are stuck in your throat as humiliation washes over you. 

“my pretty pretty little thing, you can do it,” jaehyun goads in a sickeningly sweet voice. 

you swallow, mind hazy from relishing in his praises. “cumdumpster,” you repeat. 

he laughs, as he starts moving his hips. whatever words that you could’ve said melts into drawn out whimpers and whines. each thrust gets progressively more impatient. he fucks you like a child opening presents on christmas day: eager and excited. 

“fuck, you make me feel like a complete virgin.” 

his comment may have made you feel something, if you weren’t so completely dazed. you could focus on all but one thing: the pleasure between your legs. your hips buck against his, angling them so that he hits the spot. and when he does, a long string of incomprehensible words tumble out your lips. for that, you’re awarded with his hand around your throat. 

“baby girl’s so fucking dumb she can’t speak properly,” he taunts, “since you can’t say anything that makes sense, then just shut up.” 

his grip tightens against the sides of your neck. he cuts off the oxygen and chokes down any sounds back into your throat.  

“woah,” a smirk creeps across his face, “you like being choked, don’t you?”

he leans down right beside your ear and whispers like it’s a secret, “your cunt got so fucking tight. slut.” 

his words shouldn’t send chills down your spine, but they do. 

he starts thrusting into you again, rougher this time. you want to tell him to stop, you want to tell him that you can’t breathe, you want to tell him that he’s hurting your neck. but no words form, though you’re not sure if it’s the orgasm, alcohol or lack of oxygen that’s causing it. it hurts. it hurts. it hurts.

still, it feels like your body betrays you when your orgasm nearly tears you apart. no words or sound form, even when his hand leaves your neck. you heave and draw in the oxygen that your lungs yearned. you’re sure if he had choked you for a second longer, you would have passed out. 

he doesn’t give you time to breath or bask in the afterglow, instead choosing to continue his tirade against your uterus. each thrust prolongs your orgasm just a bit more, until your cunt’s so sensitive that each thrust brings fresh tears into your eyes. 

“oh-fuck me,” he groans as he frantically pulls himself out of you. his hand jerks his cock a few time before the searing ropes of white cum cover your inner thighs. 

"Give it a second, Hee. You’re being impatient," Jake said, his tone remarkably calm for a guy dealing with someone as sleep-deprived as his best friend. "I just recalculated the shear stress. If we want it to hold a literal city bus, the viscosity needs to be higher at the point of exit. Check the temperature again."

Heeseung sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted. Not the kind of exhausted you get from staying up late to cram for an exam, but the kind that settled into your bones and stayed there. The kind that came from spending six hours in back-to-back engineering lectures, three hours at the campus library, and then four hours swinging through the soot-stained alleys of the city trying to make sure nobody got mugged on their way home from work.

Being Spider-Man was a full-time job that paid zero dollars and offered zero sleep.

"If I check the temperature one more time, I'm going to throw this beaker at the wall," Heeseung whispered.

"Don't do that. Glass is expensive and I'm not cleaning it up," Jake replied, finally looking up. He leaned back in his swivel chair, his hair a messy nest of brown curls. He looked at Heeseung—really looked at him—and frowned. "You look like a zombie, man. When was the last time you actually closed your eyes for more than twenty minutes?"

"Yesterday? Maybe?" Heeseung leaned back, his spine popping in three different places. "I tried to nap during Fluid Mechanics, but the professor has a voice like a foghorn. It’s impossible."

"You’re going to crash," Jake warned, pointing a pen at him. "And when you crash, you’re going to miss a ledge, and then I’m going to have to explain to your mom why you’re in a full-body cast. I’m not doing that. She scares me."

Heeseung opened his mouth to argue, but his phone buzzed on the metal table. The vibration was loud in the quiet lab, a sharp zzzt-zzzt that made him jump. His reflexes were so keyed up that his hand shot out and grabbed the device before the screen even fully lit up.

It was a notification from the group chat, named something completely ridiculous, because Sunoo was the one who insisted on naming it.

Heeseung’s heart did a weird, fluttering skip when he saw your name. He swiped the screen open, the brightness of the display making him wince.

It was a photo. A grainy, flash-brightened picture of a massive, glistening plate of chili cheese fries. In the background, he could see the tacky neon signs of the 24-hour diner near the edge of campus.

Your face was partially in the frame, tucked next to Sunoo’s, both of you grinning like idiots. He thought he saw Yunjin somewhere in the back, too, but his eyes were fixed on you.

You looked vibrant—your hair a little messy, your cheeks flushed from the cold night air, and your eyes sparkling with that bright shine that always seemed to draw people toward you.

Heeseung stared at the photo. He stared at the way you were laughing, the way your hand was reaching for a fry, and he felt a sharp, familiar ache in his chest. It wasn't his Spider-sense warning; it was just plain, old-fashioned pining.

He wanted to be there. He wanted to be sitting in that cramped booth, arguing with Sunoo about music or listening to Ni-ki complain about basketball practice. Most of all, he wanted to be near you. He wanted to hear your voice without a police scanner crackling in the background.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard. He started to type: Save some for me?

Then he paused. He looked down at his hands—his knuckles were bruised from a fight with a car thief two nights ago, and his fingernails had traces of black grease under them. He looked at the red and blue suit stuffed into the bottom of his backpack, hidden under a pile of dirty laundry and a copy of Thermodynamics for Dummies.

He couldn't go. He was a junior engineering student with a secret identity and a lab report due. He was the guy who was always too busy, too tired, or just plain gone.

"She looks cute in that photo, doesn't she?"

Heeseung flinched, nearly dropping his phone. Jake was leaning over his shoulder, a knowing grin on his face.

"Shut up," Heeseung muttered, quickly locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket.

"I didn't say who 'she' was, but you clearly knew," Jake teased, sliding back into his seat. "Just text her, Hee. Tell her you’re coming. Take a thirty-minute break. The web-fluid isn't going anywhere."

"I can't," Heeseung said, his voice flat. "I have too much to do. And besides… she's… she's her. Look at that photo. She’s friends with everyone. She’s pretty, she’s nice, she’s literally the campus sweetheart. And I’m just the guy who falls asleep in the back of the room and smells like chemicals."

"You smell like nice laundry detergent and existential dread, actually," Jake corrected. "And she likes you, man. She always asks where you are when you don't show up to the hangouts. Sunoo says she mentioned you three times yesterday."

Heeseung’s heart gave another annoying thud. "She was probably just wondering if I died. It’s a valid concern."

"She thinks you’re mysterious. Use it to your advantage."

"I'm not mysterious, Jake. I'm a mess." Heeseung looked back at the beaker of soup. "I’m a guy who spends his nights hanging off the side of a skyscraper because I have an overactive sense of responsibility. I can't take her to a diner. It took me three weeks to tell her my last name because I was so worried that some guy in a mask was going to follow her home."

Jake’s expression softened. He reached over and clapped Heeseung on the shoulder. "You’re doing a good thing, Hee. But you’re allowed to be a person, too. You’re allowed to want the fries."

Heeseung looked at his phone again. He imagined walking into the diner. He imagined the way you’d look up, your face lighting up when you saw him. You’d probably slide over to make room for him in the booth, your shoulder brushing against his, smelling like that sweet, flowery perfume you always wore.

He was just about to reach for his phone again when the silence of the lab was shattered.

A small, black box on the workbench—the police scanner Heeseung had modified to pick up local precinct frequencies—erupted into a burst of static.

"All units, we have a code 3. High-speed pursuit in progress. Suspects in a black SUV heading north on Mapo Bridge. Shots fired. Repeat, shots fired."

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly. The warmth of the diner photo, the longing, the simple desire for a plate of fries—it all vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. Heeseung’s posture straightened. His eyes went from tired to laser-focused in a matter of seconds.

Jake cursed under his breath, turning back to his laptop to pull up the city’s traffic cam feed. "That’s heading right toward the residential district. If they don't stop them at the bridge, things are going to get messy."

Heeseung didn't say a word. He stood up, grabbing his backpack from the floor. He didn't look like a shy engineering student anymore. He looked like someone who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and didn't have time to complain about it.

"Viscosity is still low," Heeseung said, his voice tight. "But it’ll have to do." He reached into his bag and pulled out the mask. The fabric was soft, but it felt heavy in his hands—a reminder of everything he had to give up every time he put it on.

He moved to the shadows at the back of the lab, where the security cameras had a blind spot he’d mapped out months ago. He stripped off his oversized hoodie and jeans, the cool air hitting his skin. He pulled on the suit, the tight fabric clinging to his frame like a second skin. It was damp in a few spots from his earlier patrol—he really needed to wash it—but he didn't have time to care.

He thought about you. He thought about the diner. He thought about the fries.

Then he pulled the mask over his head.

The world turned red and digital. The heads-up display flickered to life, highlighting the fastest route to Mapo Bridge. The HUD also showed a lingering notification in the corner of his vision—a small icon representing the group chat message he hadn't replied to.

Heeseung swiped the notification away with a flick of his wrist.

"Save me some caffeine for when I get back," Heeseung said, his voice now filtered through the suit’s vocoder, sounding deeper and more confident than he felt.

"I’ll have the lab results ready by the time you're done," Jake replied, already typing again. "Try not to get shot. It’s bad for the suit’s aesthetic. Also, blood is really fucking hard to get out of spandex."

Heeseung didn't respond. He moved to the window at the back of the lab—the one he’d loosened the latch on weeks ago. He slid it open, the cold Seoul air rushing in, whipping against his masked face. He climbed onto the ledge, looking out over the city.

The lights of the skyline stretched out before him, a sea of neon and glass. Somewhere out there, you were laughing in a diner. Somewhere else, people were in danger.

Heeseung took a breath, checked his web-shooters, and dived into the night.

The fries would have to wait. The city wouldn't.

The fluorescent lights of the lecture hall felt like they were vibrating. It was 9:00 AM on a Friday, and Heeseung was pretty sure he was vibrating, too—partly from the four shots of espresso Jake had practically force-fed him ten minutes ago, and partly from the sheer, bone-deep exhaustion of having spent the last five hours chasing a stolen SUV through the narrow backstreets of Mapo.

He sat in the very last row, slumped so low in his seat that his chin was almost touching the scarred wood of the desk. He had his hoodie pulled up, the fabric shielding his face from the harsh glare of the overhead lights.

His eyes were bloodshot, the whites of them crisscrossed with tiny red veins that throbbed in time with his heartbeat. Every time he blinked, it felt like someone was dragging sandpaper across his corneas. Not pleasant.

He didn't look like a hero. He looked like a guy who had spent the night fighting a losing battle with his bedsheets.

His knuckles were still stinging, tucked safely into the pockets of his sweatshirt. He’d taken a nasty hit to the ribs during the chase—one of the suspects had a literal crowbar—and every breath he took felt like a dull knife scraping against his lungs.

Sure, he healed faster than most, but there was only so much that he could do. But the SUV was in a ditch, the suspects were in zip-ties, and the police had recovered three crates of stolen tech.

A win. Theoretically.

But as Heeseung stared down at the blank pages of his notebook, his brain felt like it was made of wet cotton. The professor, a man who seemed to take personal offense at the concept of joy, was droning on about structural integrity and load-bearing beams.

It was ironic, really. Heeseung spent a lot of his life now thinking about structural integrity—mostly while swinging off of it—but right now, he couldn't even remember how to spell the word 'load.'

He shifted slightly, trying to find a position that didn't make his side ache, and his gaze drifted downward, scanning the sea of heads in the lecture hall.

The room was packed. It was one of those massive, stadium-style halls where everyone looked like a tiny speck from the back. But Heeseung’s eyes found you instantly.

It was like his brain had a specialized tracking system just for you. No matter how many people were in a room, no matter how loud the noise or how dim the light, his focus always snapped to you. You were sitting three rows down, tucked into the middle of a row next to Sunoo.

Even from this distance, you looked like you belonged in a different world than him. You were leaning forward, your chin resting in the palm of your hand, looking perfectly awake and attentive. And pretty. So pretty. You wore a soft, cream-colored sweater that made you look warm and approachable, the kind of person people instinctively wanted to stand near.

Next to you, Sunoo was busy doodling in the margins of his notebook, his soft hair catching the light. He looked bored out of his mind, but every few seconds, he’d lean over and whisper something in your ear, making you let out a small, silent laugh that made Heeseung’s chest tighten.

Heeseung watched the way your shoulders shook slightly when you laughed. He watched the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He felt a familiar, dull ache in his throat. This was his routine. He watched from the shadows, a silent observer in a life he wasn't quite sure he was allowed to join.

He was so busy staring—so busy memorizing the curve of your neck and the way you tilted your head—that he didn't realize Sunoo had looked up.

Sunoo’s eyes scanned the back of the room, squinting against the light, until they landed on Heeseung. A huge, mischievous grin broke across his face. He didn't care about the professor’s lecture on tension or the fifty other students between them. He raised a hand high in the air, waving enthusiastically at Heeseung.

Heeseung froze. He wanted to melt into the floor. He wanted to vanish into the vents and crawl back to the lab. He didn't want to be perceived—not like this, not when he looked like he’d been dragged behind a bus.

Sunoo nudged you, pointing toward the back row.

You turned around.

The air seemed to leave the room. Heeseung stopped breathing entirely. For a second, he forgot about his bruised ribs, his ruined sleep schedule, and the lingering smell of exhaust on his hoodie. He just saw you.

Your eyes locked onto his, and for a heartbeat, your expression was one of pure surprise. Then, your gaze softened. You took in the dark circles under his eyes, the messy state of his hair, and the way he was practically hiding in his oversized clothes.

Instead of turning back around, you gave him a small, sympathetic smile. It wasn't the courteous smile he saw you give everyone else. It was softer. Kinder. It was the kind of look that said, I see you, and you look like you're having a really hard time.

Heeseung felt a jolt go through his body. It was his Spider-sense this time, but it was wrong. It was malfunctioning. There was no danger in the room, no ceiling about to collapse, no hidden villain in the front row. But his skin was prickling, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and his stomach felt like it had dropped into his shoes.

He couldn't look away. He felt like he was caught in a spotlight. You crinkled your nose at him—a tiny, playful gesture—before turning back to the front of the room, leaving him breathless and reeling.

He was so dazed that when his phone started vibrating against his thigh, he almost jumped out of his skin. He fumbled for it, his hands clumsy and trembling, nearly knocking his notebook off the desk. He caught the phone just before it hit the floor, his heart racing.

He ducked his head, hiding behind the person in front of him, and checked the screen.

It was a text from Jake.

Heeseung blinked, his face flushing a deep, hot red. He risked a glance to his left. Jake was sitting five seats away, pretending to take notes, but he had a tiny, smug smirk on his face. He didn't even look up, just tapped his pen against his desk in a rhythmic, mocking beat.

Heeseung looked back at his phone, his thumbs hovering over the screen.

Heeseung’s hand flew to his forehead, rubbing frantically at his skin. He felt like a total idiot. He was a superhero. He fought criminals. He saved lives. And here he was, getting bullied by his best friend over a girl who had done nothing but smile at him.

He looked down at you again. You were back to taking notes, your head bowed. Sunoo was back to doodling.

Heeseung let out a long, shaky breath, leaning his head back against the wall. The exhaustion was starting to win again. The adrenaline of the smile was fading, leaving him feeling heavy and hollow.

He closed his eyes for just a second. Just one second.

The professor’s voice became a distant hum. The scratching of pens on paper sounded like rain. Heeseung drifted, his mind floating somewhere between the Mapo Bridge and the diner from the night before. He imagined you sitting next to him, handing him a fry, telling him it was okay to be tired.

Zzzt-zzzt.

He snapped awake, his head jerking forward. He had no idea how much time had passed—five minutes? Ten? The lecture was still going. The room hadn't changed.

He checked his phone again.

Heeseung stared at the message. You haven't seen him in forever. You wanted him there. You were asking for him.

He felt the familiar tug-of-war in his chest. One side of him—the tired, lonely side—wanted to say yes immediately. He wanted to sit on a floor in a crowded dorm room, surrounded by his friends, and just exist. He wanted to be near you without a mask on.

But the other side—the side that currently had a bruised rib and a police scanner in his bag—was already calculating the risks. Tonight was Friday. Friday nights were busy. Crime didn't take a night off just because some college juniors wanted to have a mixer. If he went, he’d be distracted. He’d be checking the time every five minutes.

He’d be a ghost at the party, just like he was a ghost on campus.

He looked at your message again. He could almost hear your voice saying it—that bubbly, sweet tone that made even a text message feel like a hug.

He started to type. I’ll try to be there.

Then he deleted it.

I have a lot of work to do. Maybe next time.

He deleted that, too.

It was a non-committal, cowardly answer. It was the best he could do.

He put the phone away and tried to focus on the lecture. Something about trusses. Something about equilibrium. He looked at the back of your head, the way your hair bounced slightly as you wrote.

He felt like he was walking a tightrope. On one side was the life he wanted—the life where he was just Heeseung, the guy who liked you. On the other side was the life he had—the life where he was a secret, a symbol, a protector.

He didn't know how much longer he could stay in the middle.

The lecture finally ended with a sharp, dismissive comment from the professor. The room erupted into the chaotic sound of zipper-closings and chair-shuffling. Heeseung stayed put, waiting for the crowd to thin out. He didn't want to get caught in the rush. He didn't want to have to talk to anyone.

But Sunoo had other plans.

From three rows down, Sunoo stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and started climbing over seats toward the back. You were right behind him, moving a bit more gracefully, navigating the narrow aisles with ease.

Heeseung’s heart started that annoying hammering again. He scrambled to pack his things, stuffing his notebook into his bag with trembling hands. He accidentally knocked his pen onto the floor and had to dive under the desk to retrieve it.

When he sat back up, Sunoo was standing right in front of him, leaning against the desk with a grin that was far too bright for this early in the morning.

"Heeseungie! You survived!" Sunoo chirped, poking Heeseung’s shoulder. "You look terrible. Like, really, truly awful. Did you get hit by a truck?"

"Rough night," Heeseung muttered, pulling his hoodie tighter around himself. He kept his head down, focusing on the zipper of his bag. "Just a lot of studying."

"Studying? You're always studying," Sunoo scoffed. "You’re an engineer, not a monk. You need to live a little."

"I live plenty," Heeseung said, finally looking up—and immediately regretting it.

You were standing right behind Sunoo. Up close, the kindness in your eyes was even more overwhelming. You were looking at him with genuine concern, your head tilted slightly to the side.

"Are you okay, Heeseung?" you asked, your voice soft and steady. "Sunoo’s right, you look exhausted. You’re not getting sick, are you?"

"No," Heeseung said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat, trying to sound like a normal human being. "No, I'm fine. Just... didn't sleep much. Projects and stuff."

"Well, you should come tonight," you said, stepping a little closer. Heeseung could smell your perfume now—something light and sweet, like cherries. It was a dizzying contrast to the smell of burnt rubber that was still clinging to his skin. "Yunjin and Megan missed you at the diner last night. We all did."

We all did. Heeseung felt like he was melting. "I... I'll try. I have a lab report due, but maybe I can finish it early."

"Don't let Jake help you," Sunoo joked, glancing over at Jake, who was finally standing up from his seat. "He’ll just talk about physics until your ears bleed."

"Hey, I heard that!" Jake called out, walking over to join the group. He looked perfectly fine, of course. He hadn't been the one chasing SUVs. He’d just been the guy in the chair. "And for the record, physics is fascinating."

"It's nerd talk," Sunoo countered.

While they were bickering, you stayed focused on Heeseung. You reached out, your fingers lightly touching his forearm for just a second. The contact felt like a lightning strike. Heeseung almost flinched, his muscles tensing under your touch.

"Seriously, Heeseung," you whispered, so the others wouldn't hear. "Take some rest. You look like you're carrying the whole world on your shoulders."

Well, you hadn't been too far off.

Heeseung looked into your eyes, and for a terrifying moment, he thought you knew. He thought you could see right through the hoodie, right through the lie, and see the red and blue suit hidden in his bag.

But you just smiled—that sweet, soft smile that made everyone love you—and gave his arm a tiny squeeze before letting go.

"See you tonight?" you asked.

"Yeah," Heeseung said, the word leaving his lips before he could stop it. "Yeah. See you tonight."

You beamed at him, then turned to Sunoo. "Come on, Sunoo, we’re going to be late for our elective."

"Damn, already? Bye, Heeseung! Bye, Jake the Nerd!" Sunoo waved over his shoulder as the two of you headed toward the exit.

Heeseung stood there, frozen, watching you walk away. He watched the way you navigated the crowded hall, waving to a few other people, clearly the person everyone wanted to talk to.

"You're so whipped," Jake said, leaning against the desk next to him.

"I'm not whipped," Heeseung muttered, though his face was still burning.

"You literally just promised to go to a party after spending all night getting beaten up by car thieves. You can barely stand, Hee. How are you going to survive a party?"

Heeseung slung his bag over his shoulder, the weight of the suit shifting against his back. He felt the ache in his ribs, the sting in his knuckles, and the fog in his brain.

"I'm... not," he said.

"What do you mean?" Jake asked him, tilting his head.

Heeseung looked toward the door where you had disappeared.

"I panicked," he admitted. "I can't go. I have patrol. Plus, I think I'm falling behind in some of my classes."

He walked out of the hall, his heart still doing that strange, fluttering dance. He was exhausted, he was hurting, and he was a mess. He hated that he lied to you, that he got your hopes up. If he could even call it that. Heeseung wasn't sure you actually cared about him. You were polite like that... it didn't mean anything.

He just hoped the city would stay quiet for one night. He just wanted that for a few hours, where he could be Heeseung, and not the guy in the mask.

But as he walked down the stairs, he felt a familiar prickle at the base of his neck. It was faint—barely there—but it was a reminder.

The city never stayed quiet for long. And he was the only one who could hear the noise.

The night air was sharp, biting through the thin spandex of the suit as Heeseung perched on the cold steel of a suspension cable. Below him, the Han River looked like a sheet of black glass, reflecting the neon hum of the city. Usually, the height was where he felt most at home—away from the crowded hallways and the crushing weight of his engineering textbooks—but tonight, his mind was miles away.

Specifically, it was stuck in a dorm room on the other side of campus.

He checked his suit’s internal clock. 11:45 PM. By now, Soobin’s mixer was in full swing. He could almost hear the muffled bass of the music through the walls, smell the cheap snacks, and see you laughing in the middle of a circle of people.

He imagined you looking at the door every time it opened, wondering if he was finally going to show up. Or maybe you weren't. Maybe you had already forgotten the stuttered "yeah" he’d given you in the lecture hall.

He let out a long, foggy breath that clouded his eye lenses for a second.

"You’re brooding again, Hee. I can hear the dramatic pouting through the comms."

Jake’s voice crackled in his ear, sounding far too crisp and awake. Heeseung could hear the faint click-clack of a keyboard in the background. Jake was likely sitting in their shared dorm, surrounded by three different monitors and at least two empty ramen cups.

"I’m not brooding. I’m patrolling," Heeseung muttered, shifting his weight. His ribs still throbbed—a dull, rhythmic reminder of the crowbar from the night before—but the adrenaline of being in the suit usually acted as a decent enough numbing agent.

"Patrolling is just brooding with more gymnastics," Jake countered. "Why are you even out there? I told you the police scanners have been dead for an hour. Go to the party. Go see the girl. Live a little before you turn into a literal gargoyle."

"I told her I had a lab report," Heeseung lied, even though Jake knew better.

"No, you told me you had a lab report. You told her you’d see. Which, in girl-code, means you’re coming. If you don't show up, you’re just the guy who flaked."

Heeseung winced. "I can't just... walk in there, Jake. Look at me. I’m exhausted. I’ve got a bruise the size of a dinner plate on my side. I wouldn't even know what to say to her. Spider-Man can talk to anyone, but Heeseung? Heeseung can barely order a coffee without tripping over his own feet."

"That’s the secret, man. You’re the same guy. The mask just gives you an excuse to stop overthinking. Just pretend you’re wearing the suit under your clothes. Big, hero energy. You got this."

"You were invited, too. Why don't you go? You don't have to be here, y'know. Go live your life."

Jake paused for a moment before responding, "Solidarity, dude." Heeseung cracked a smile at that. There were times he felt that his best friend was too kind to him, and this was one of them.

"I'm hanging up now," Heeseung said.

"Fine. But don't come crying to me when Sunoo texts me saying you missed the best party of the semester. Be safe, Spidey."

The comms went dead with a soft beep. Heeseung sighed, standing up on the cable. He looked toward the campus buildings in the distance. He really should just go home. He should sleep. He should be the responsible student his parents thought he was.

But his feet didn't move toward the dorms. He shot a line of webbing toward the underside of the campus bridge, swinging out into the open air. The wind rushed past him, tugging at the suit, and for a few seconds, the heavy thoughts in his head felt a little lighter.

He was just finishing a sweep of the perimeter near the south entrance when his Spider-sense gave a tiny, almost imperceptible prickle. It wasn't the "get out of the way of a speeding bullet" kind of warning. It was more of a "pay attention" nudge.

He stuck to the side of a brick pillar under the bridge, his gloved fingers clinging to the rough surface. He looked down.

There was someone walking on the pedestrian path above.

Even from the shadows, he knew it was you. You were walking alone, your dress a bright spot against the dark pavement. You looked a little tired, your shoulders slumped, but you were still smiling as you looked down at your phone. You were probably texting the group chat, telling them you’d made it out of the party and were headed back to your dorm.

Heeseung felt that familiar, painful tug in his chest. You were so close. If he just climbed up, if he just took off the mask...

But he stayed still, hidden in the dark. He watched you walk, a silent guardian who couldn't even say hello.

You were halfway across the bridge when you stumbled. It was a small thing—your foot caught on an uneven piece of concrete—but it was enough to make you lurch forward. Your phone, which you’d been holding loosely in your hand, slipped from your fingers.

He watched it happen in slow motion. The phone hit the ground, bounced once, and started sliding toward the gap between the bridge floor and the railing.

"Well, fuck," Heeseung murmured.

You gasped, lunging for it, but your fingers missed the glass by an inch. The phone slid through the gap, vanishing over the edge.

Heeseung didn't even think. He didn't have time to.

He let go of the pillar, dropping into a freefall. He shot a web at the underside of the bridge to swing himself upward, his body arching through the air. He saw the phone—a small, silver rectangle tumbling through the darkness toward the rocky bank of the river.

He tucked his knees to his chest, spinning once to gain momentum, and reached out. His fingers closed around the cool metal of the phone just a few feet above the ground.

With a sharp flick of his wrist, he shot another web toward the bridge’s support beam, using the tension to slow his descent. He landed silently on the pavement directly in front of you, his boots hitting the concrete with a soft thud.

He stood up slowly, the phone held safely in his hand.

You were frozen, your eyes wide, your hands still hovering in the air where you’d tried to catch the device. You looked like a deer caught in headlights—breathless, shocked, and incredibly pretty. The moonlight hit your face just right, and for a second, Heeseung forgot he was supposed to be a mysterious hero. He just wanted to stare at you.

But then he remembered. He was wearing the mask. He wasn't the guy who stuttered in the back of the lecture hall. He was Spider-Man.

He stepped forward, the white lenses of his mask narrowing as he looked at you. He felt a strange, intoxicating rush of confidence. It was like Jake said—the mask was an excuse.

"Looking for this?" he asked.

His voice was different when he was in the suit. It was steady, tilted with a bit of a playful edge that he could never manage as Heeseung. He held the phone out to you, the screen still glowing with a half-finished text message to Sunoo.

You blinked, finally coming back to your senses. Your face went from pale shock to a deep burning within seconds.

"Oh my god," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. "You... you caught it. How did you... I didn't even see you."

"I have a habit of being in the right place at the right time," he said, stepping even closer. He was well within your personal space now, close enough to smell the faint scent of cherries on your skin. It made his head spin. "You should be more careful, sweetheart. Gravity is a clingy boyfriend. It’ll take everything you give it."

You let out a small, breathless laugh, reaching out to take the phone. Your fingers brushed against his gloved hand—a tiny, electric spark that made Heeseung want to jump out of his skin. But he didn't move. He held his ground, watching you tuck the phone into your pocket.

"Thank you," you said, looking up at him. You were still blushing, your eyes searching the blank white lenses of his mask. "I would have been so dead. All my photos, my notes... everything was on there."

"Can't have that," Heeseung said. He leaned one hand against the railing of the bridge, posing slightly. It was a total Spider-Man move—arrogant, smooth, and completely unlike him. "A girl like you shouldn't be walking home alone this late anyway. It’s dangerous."

"A girl like me?" you teased, finding your voice again. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, a gesture he’d seen you do a thousand times in class. "And what kind of girl is that?"

The kind I’ve been staring at for six months, he thought. The kind who smells like cherries and makes me forget my own name.

"The kind who’s too distracted by her phone to see a superhero swinging by," he said instead. "The kind who probably had a long night at a party she didn't want to leave."

You looked surprised. "How did you know I was at a party?"

"Lucky guess. You look like you’ve been dancing. Or at least trying to avoid being danced on."

You laughed again, a bright, genuine sound that filled the quiet night. "You're not wrong. It was a bit much. My friend Soobin throws loud mixers."

Heeseung felt a pang of jealousy. He was talking to you. He was actually having a conversation with you, and he wasn't fumbling his words. You were looking at him with admiration, with interest. You liked this version of him.

"Well," he said, pushing off the railing. He knew he couldn't stay too long. The more he talked, the more likely he was to slip up. "Since I’m already here, I might as well make sure you get to your door in one piece. Wouldn't want gravity to try anything else tonight."

"Are you offering to walk me home?" you asked, a mix of curiosity and something else in your eyes. "Is that part of the superhero service?"

"Special occasion," he said.

He didn't walk with you, exactly. He hopped up onto the railing, crouching there like a bird, moving along the edge as you walked on the pavement. It was a show-off move, and he knew it, but he couldn't help himself. He wanted you to keep looking at him.

"So," you said, looking up at him as you walked. "Do you do this often? Save phones from certain death?"

"Only for pretty girls," he said. The words came out so easily it almost scared him. "The guys usually have to buy their own replacements."

You flushed again, ducking your head. "You're a flirt, Mr. Spider-Man. I didn't expect that."

"I've been told I have a certain charm," he said. "Though usually, I’m just told to be quiet and stop webbing up the police cars."

The walk to your dorm felt far too short. Usually, the trek across campus felt like a marathon when Heeseung was carrying his heavy engineering bag, but tonight, he wanted the bridge to stretch on forever. He listened to you talk—really talk. You told him about how you were tired of school, how you missed your family, and how you had this one friend who was always disappearing.

"Heeseung," you said, the name hitting him like a physical blow. "He’s an engineering major. Super smart, but he’s like a ghost. He said he’d come tonight, but he flaked. Again."

Heeseung felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He looked away, staring out at the dark trees lining the path. "Maybe he’s just busy. Engineering is hard."

"I know it is," you said softly. "I just... I worry about him. He looks so tired all the time. Like he’s carrying a lot of weight."

Heeseung turned back to you. You were looking at him, but he knew you were thinking about him—the other him. The messy, tired version.

"He’s lucky to have someone like you worrying about him," he said, his voice dropping a bit.

You smiled, a sad, sweet little thing. "I hope so. Anyway, this is me."

You stopped in front of your dorm building. The lobby lights were bright, casting a long shadow behind you. You turned to face him, your hands tucked into your sweater sleeves.

"Thank you again. For the phone. And the walk."

"Anytime," Heeseung said. He stayed on the railing, looking down at you. He wanted to reach out. He wanted to tell you that he was right there. He wanted to tell you he was sorry for flaking.

But he just gave you a two-finger salute. "Sleep well, sweetheart. And stay away from the edges."

He shot a web at the top of the building and swung away before you could say anything else. He didn't look back until he was three roofs away.

He landed on a ledge, ripping the mask off his face. His skin was cold, but his cheeks were burning. He leaned his head against the brick wall, his heart racing.

He loved it. He loved the way you looked at him. He loved the way you laughed at his jokes. He loved being the guy who could make you blush.

And he hated it.

He hated that he had to hide behind a mask to get you to notice him. He hated that he was jealous of his own shadow. He hated that the version of him you liked wasn't the version that had to sit next to you in class and pretend he didn't care.

"How was the walk?" Jake’s voice came through the comms. He’d clearly been listening.

"Shut up," Heeseung said, his voice cracking.

"You called her sweetheart, Hee. That was bold. A little cheesy, but bold."

"I'm going home, Jake."

"Yeah, yeah. See you at the dorm, lover boy."

Heeseung stuffed the mask into his bag and started the long walk back. He felt like a fraud. He felt like a hero. But mostly, he just felt like a guy who was falling deeper and deeper into a hole he didn't know how to climb out of.

He looked up at your window as he passed your building. The light was on.

He wondered if you were thinking about the hero. He wondered if you were still mad at the guy.

He didn't have the answer. He just had a bruised rib and a secret that was getting heavier with every swing. He walked into the shadows of his own dorm, the ghost returning to his grave, while the hero stayed tucked away in a backpack, waiting for the next time gravity tried to take something precious away.

The gym was a cavern of echoes, the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of a basketball competing with the squeak of sneakers against the polished wood. Heeseung sat on the bleachers, shoulders hunched, feeling like he was vibrating out of his skin. He was only here because Jake had insisted he needed "human interaction" that didn't involve soldering irons or police scanners, but as usual, Heeseung felt more like a ghost than a person.

"You look like you’re waiting for a root canal," Yunjin said, nudging his shoulder.

Heeseung blinked, shaking himself out of his trance. Yunjin was sitting next to him, her eyes glued to the court where Soobin, her boyfriend, was currently setting up a three-pointer. She looked perfectly comfortable, her legs crossed, a relaxed smile on her face.

"I’m just tired," Heeseung muttered, pulling the strings of his hoodie until the fabric partially obscured his face. It was his default defense mechanism.

"You’re always tired, Hee. It’s your brand," she teased, but her attention quickly snapped back to the game as Soobin made the shot. She let out a loud whistle that echoed through the high-ceilinged room. "Nice one, babe!"

Heeseung looked down at the court. It was a heated game of pickup. Soobin was holding his own, and Jay—always the most charismatic and driven of the bunch—was leading the flow with a bold, effortless energy that Heeseung secretly envied. Then there was Riki.

Riki was a sophomore, like you. Even though he was a year younger than the rest of the group, he moved like a blur of sheer, terrifying talent. He played with a professional level of focus, his eyes sharp as he navigated the court.

Heeseung watched them move, his brain unconsciously tracking their trajectories, calculating the force needed for a jump. It was an engineering habit, but also a survival one. He knew exactly how fast Jay was going to pivot before he even did it.

"Nice hustle, Riki!" Jay called out, clapping his hands together. He wiped sweat from his forehead, looking like he could go for another three hours. Jay didn't do anything halfway; if he was playing a casual game, he was playing it like it was the finals. "Riki, you’re dropping your shoulder on the drive. Keep it square!"

Riki rolled his eyes, leaning over with his hands on his knees. "I'm not dropping my shoulder, Jay. I'm just dying of thirst. I forgot my water bottle in the dorm and my throat feels like a desert."

"Determination, Riki! Push through it!" Jay joked, though he was grinning.

Riki checked his phone, which was sitting on the sidelines. A small, knowing grin touched his face. "It's fine. I texted for reinforcements."

Heeseung didn't think much of it until the heavy double doors of the gym groaned open. The sound of the basketballs hitting the floor seemed to sync up with the thumping of Heeseung’s heart the moment you walked in.

You weren't dressed up like you were for the mixer. You were wearing jeans and a hoodie, your hair pulled back in a half-up, half-down. You looked casual, comfortable, and devastatingly pretty in the harsh, yellow gym lights. In your hand, you held a large, bright red bottle of Gatorade.

"Reinforcements are here!" you called out, your voice carrying across the court.

Riki’s face lit up. He jogged over to the sideline as you approached. To anyone else, it might have looked like a romantic gesture, but everyone knew the truth. You and Riki had been friends since you were toddlers. Your parents were practically family, and the two of you had grown up like siblings—or even twins, given you were the two sophomores in a group of juniors.

You were each other's safe haven. He was the one person who could text you at 9:00 PM to complain about a water bottle and actually get a response.

"You're a lifesaver," Riki said, snatching the bottle and taking a massive gulp.

"You're a dork," you replied, reaching out to ruffle his sweaty hair, which he dodged with a laugh. "I was right in the middle of a movie, you know. I expect interest on this delivery."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll pay you back in snacks later," he said, already turning back to the guys.

The game didn't start back up immediately. The guys drifted over to the sideline to grab their own drinks, congregating near where you stood. Heeseung stayed on the bleachers, feeling his skin start to prickle. He wanted to say something, to wave, to let you know he was there—but he also felt that familiar, heavy shyness pinning him to the metal bench.

"Hey, look who showed up," Sunoo said, appearing from the other side of the gym where he’d been chatting with some other students. "The hero of the hour."

You laughed, leaning against the padded wall near the court. "I'm just the delivery girl. How's the game going? Is Jay winning by sheer force of personality yet?"

"Always," Soobin said, walking over to press a quick kiss to Yunjin’s cheek as she hopped down from the bleachers to join the group.

Heeseung felt like he was watching a movie he wasn't cast in. He stayed seated, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He watched you interact with them—the way you joked with Soobin, the way you easily matched Jay’s boldness. You were the glue. You always were.

"So," you said, your eyes shining with a sudden, excited energy. "Speaking of heroes, I have to tell you guys something crazy. You’re not going to believe what happened last night after I left Soobin’s."

Heeseung, who had been trying to look at his shoes, felt his entire body go rigid. He knew exactly what you were about to say. He reached for his own water bottle, which was sitting next to him on the aluminum seat, and took a long, desperate swig to keep his mouth from going dry.

"What happened? Did you run into a cat again?" Riki teased, leaning on his knees.

"No!" you said, swatting at his arm. "I dropped my phone. Like, right off the side of the bridge near the dorms. I thought it was gone. I was ready to cry."

"And?" Jay asked, crossing his arms, looking genuinely curious.

"And Spider-Man caught it," you said, your voice going a little higher in pitch. "I’m serious! He literally dropped out of the sky, caught it mid-air, and landed right in front of me."

Heeseung’s throat suddenly decided to stop functioning. He tried to swallow the water he’d just taken in, but it went down the wrong pipe. He erupted into a violent, hacking cough, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the Gatorade you’d brought.

"Whoa, Hee, you okay?" Jake asked, looking up at him with a suspicious, knowing glint in his eyes.

Heeseung wanted to sock him in the jaw, but he couldn't answer. He just kept coughing, clutching his chest, while Yunjin patted his back with a little too much force. "Geez, breathe, Heeseung. The water isn't going anywhere."

Once the coughing fit subsided into a pathetic wheeze, Heeseung wiped his eyes and tried to look normal. It was impossible.

"You were saying?" Jay prompted you, completely ignoring Heeseung’s near-death experience. (Heeseung was grateful for this.)

"He was so... I don't know, charming?" you continued, your cheeks flushing. "He didn't just give it back and leave. He actually talked to me. He was so witty and cool. He even walked me to my dorm building. Well, he swung along the railings while I walked, but still. He was so smooth."

Heeseung felt a strange, conflicting surge of emotions. Half of him—the Spider-Man half—was incredibly proud. He’d done that. He was the charming guy you were gushing about. The other half—the Heeseung half—felt like he was being stabbed in the heart with a dull pencil. You were blushing over a version of him that didn't even have a face.

"Smooth, huh?" Jay said with a chuckle, bouncing the basketball once. He wasn't being mean, just his usual audacious, skeptical self. "The guy wears spandex and crawls on walls. He’s probably some theater major in a unitard who likes the attention. It's a bit theatrical, don't you think? The whole 'mysterious hero' act?"

Heeseung’s eye twitched. A theater major? He spent ten hours a week doing differential equations and another twenty recalibrating web-fluid viscosity in a basement that smelled like ozone.

"It's not an act, Jay," you defended, your voice firm. "He saved my phone. He didn't have to do that. And he was really nice. It felt... I don't know, real."

"It's a mask," Riki added, taking another sip of Gatorade. "Anyone can be 'smooth' when nobody knows what they actually look like. He's probably a forty-year-old dude with a receding hairline."

"He is not!" you exclaimed, laughing. "He sounded young. And he was... I don't know, athletic? Obviously."

Heeseung wanted to scream. He wanted to stand up, rip off his hoodie, and show them the bruise on his ribs. He wanted to tell Jay that a "unitard" didn't have reinforced carbon-fiber padding. But he just sat there, looking every bit as depressed as he felt. As one would feel after hacking their lungs out in front of their long-time crush.

"I think he's cool," Sunoo chimed in, always the one to support a good story. "He makes the city feel more like a movie. I’d love to meet him."

"You just want a selfie for your Instagram, Sunoo," Soobin pointed out.

"And? It would get, like, a million likes."

You turned away from the guys then, your gaze drifting up toward the bleachers. You saw Heeseung sitting there, looking small and rumpled. Your expression softened, and you walked over to the base of the bleachers.

"Heeseung," you said, your voice much gentler than it had been when you were arguing with Jay. "You’ve lived here longer than some of us. Have you ever seen him up close? Spider-Man, I mean?"

The group fell quiet, all eyes turning toward Heeseung. Jake had his arms crossed, watching Heeseung with a look of pure, unadulterated amusement. He was enjoying this way too much.

Heeseung felt the weight of everyone’s gaze. He felt your eyes—so bright and curious—waiting for his answer. He felt like he was suffocating.

"I... uh," he started, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat and tried again. "No. Not really. I mean, I've seen him on the news. In the distance, maybe."

"You don't think he's cool?" you asked, noticing his lack of enthusiasm. The disappointment in your voice makes him want to throw himself off the Lotte World Tower. Without his web-shooters.

Heeseung felt a petty, irrational urge to defend his civilian self. If you liked the hero so much, maybe you should know that the hero wasn't all that special.

"I don't know," Heeseung said, shrugging with a forced nonchalance. "I think he's probably... mid. Like, he’s just a guy doing his job, right? It’s kind of a lot of work for not much reward. And the suit is probably really itchy."

The silence that followed was heavy.

You looked at Heeseung like he’d just grown a second head. Your eyebrows shot up, and your mouth hung open just a tiny bit. "Mid? Heeseung, he saves people! He caught my phone from like a fifty-foot drop!"

"Yeah, but... he could’ve just used a net or something," Heeseung said, digging his own grave. "The swinging looks dangerous. It’s statistically inefficient."

Oh, God. A net? Really?

"Statistically inefficient?" you repeated, shaking your head. "You are such an engineer, Heeseung. Honestly, sometimes I think you don't have a romantic bone in your body."

You turned back to the guys, clearly done with Heeseung’s "mid" take. "Ignore him. He’s just being a hater because he’d rather be looking at a blueprint than a hero."

"Hey, I'm not a hater," Heeseung protested, but it was too late. The guys were already moving back toward the court.

"Back to the game!" Soobin yelled.

You stayed on the sideline for a few more minutes, chatting with Yunjin. Heeseung watched you from the bleachers, his heart feeling like it was being squeezed by a giant, invisible hand. He’d done it. He’d successfully annoyed you. You were currently thinking he was a boring, uninspired buzzkill, all while you were harboring a crush on his alter-ego.

Jake caught his eye from across the court and mouthed the word: Mid?

Heeseung flipped him off under the cover of his hoodie.

As the game resumed, the gym filled with the sounds of squeaking sneakers and the heavy thud-thud-thud of the ball. Heeseung tried to focus on the game, but his mind was spinning.

He was his own worst enemy. He was competing with a version of himself that didn't exist in the daylight. He was jealous of a piece of fabric and a pair of white lenses.

When the game finally ended an hour later, the guys were exhausted. They collapsed on the sidelines, panting. You were still there, helping Riki pack up his bag, still talking about the bridge incident to anyone who would listen.

"I'm telling you, his voice was so familiar," you said to Yunjin as you both walked toward the exit. "But I can't place it. It was like... I've heard it a million times but in a different context."

Heeseung, who was walking a few paces behind you with Jake, felt a cold shiver run down his spine.

"Maybe you should ask him for his number next time," Yunjin joked.

"I should," you laughed. "I wonder if he has a phone. Or does he just use a tin can and a web?"

The two of you disappeared out the doors, your laughter fading into the night air.

Heeseung stopped in the middle of the parking lot, staring at his shoes. The cool night air felt good against his skin, but it didn't help the knot in his stomach.

"You really leaned into that hater angle, didn't you?" Jake said, bumping his shoulder.

"I didn't know what else to say," Heeseung admitted, his voice quiet. "I can't exactly agree with her, can I? 'Yeah, I'm super charming and my voice is amazing.' That would be even weirder."

"You could’ve just said he was okay. You didn't have to call yourself 'mid'. That's a blow to the ego, man."

"It's the truth," Heeseung sighed. "Heeseung is mid. Spider-Man is the one she wants."

"She’s talking to you in class, Hee. She’s bringing Gatorade to your friends. She’s worried about your sleep schedule. She doesn't even know Spider-Man’s real name."

"Exactly," Heeseung said. "She likes the mystery. If she knew it was just me... the guy who chokes on water and talks about statistics... she’d be disappointed."

Jake looked at him for a long moment, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "I think you're wrong. I think she'd be relieved. But you're too stubborn to see it."

"Whatever. I'm going to the lab," Heeseung said, turning away.

"It's 11:00 PM!"

"The web-fluid won't recalibrate itself, Jake."

Heeseung walked away, his shadow stretching long and dark behind him. He looked at the silhouette on the pavement—the tall, lean shape of a boy in a hoodie. It looked nothing like the hero on the news. It looked like a ghost.

As he reached the lab, he didn't turn on the lights. He sat in the dark, surrounded by the smell of acetone and chemicals. He pulled the mask out of his bag, the white lenses staring back at him in the moonlight.

"Charming," he whispered to the empty room. "Smooth."

He threw the mask onto the workbench and put his head in his hands. He was winning the war against crime, but he was losing the war for your heart—and the worst part was, he was losing it to himself.

He stayed there for hours, the only sound the distant hum of the city he was sworn to protect. He thought about your smile, the way you’d defended him against Jay, and the way you’d looked at him on the bleachers.

He wanted to be the hero. But more than that, he just wanted to be the guy you didn't think was mid.

And right now, that felt like the hardest mission he’d ever faced.

The university basketball arena was a different beast than the quiet, echoey gym where the guys played pickup games. Tonight was a legitimate campus event, and the energy was electric. The air was thick with the smell of overpriced popcorn, floor wax, and the collective roar of a thousand students who had nothing better to do on a Tuesday night than scream themselves hoarse.

Heeseung sat in the middle of a packed row of bleachers, and he was currently losing a very difficult battle with his own eyelids.

He had been out until 4:00 AM. A group of specialized thieves had tried to break into a high-end tech warehouse near the docks, and Heeseung had spent most of the night playing a high-stakes game of hide-and-seek among shipping containers. By the time he’d webbed the last guy to a crane and made it back to his dorm, the sun was already threatening to peek over the horizon.

He’d had exactly two hours of sleep before his first lecture, and the three cups of coffee he’d downed since then were currently doing absolutely nothing.

On his left sat you. You were wearing a university hoodie that looked slightly too big for you, and you were cheering with an intensity that made Heeseung’s head throb in a rhythmic, dull way. On his right were Yunjin and Megan, who were currently busy taking selfies and trying to spot Soobin and Jay on the court.

"Look at them! Jay is actually terrifying when he’s in the zone," Megan shouted over the noise, pointing toward the court.

Jay was indeed in the zone. He was moving with that signature bold, charismatic style, barking plays at the rest of the team. Riki, the star sophomore, was weaving through defenders like they were standing still, and Soobin was a literal wall under the basket. Jake was darting around the perimeter, his eyes sharp, looking for an opening.

It was a great game. A thrilling game.

And Heeseung was about five seconds away from passing out.

The roar of the crowd started to sound like a distant ocean. The bright, flickering lights of the scoreboard blurred into a singular, warm glow. Heeseung felt his chin drop toward his chest. He snapped his head back up, blinking rapidly, trying to focus on the orange blur of the basketball.

Stay awake. Stay awake. You’re in public. You’re with her. Don’t be weird, he told himself.

But his body was done. Every muscle ached from the dockyard fight, and the warmth of the crowded arena was like a heavy blanket. His head started to nod again. It was a slow, rhythmic movement. Down... up. Down... further down...

He didn't mean for it to happen. He didn't even realize it was happening. But as his consciousness finally slipped away, his head tipped to the left. It drifted through the air until it found a soft, steady place to land.

Your shoulder.

You froze. You had been in the middle of shouting something to Yunjin, but the words died in your throat the moment you felt the weight of Heeseung’s head press against you. You looked down, your eyes wide. You sat perfectly still, your back as straight as a board. Your face was very warm.

You didn't move an inch, terrified that any slight shift would wake him up. You could feel the weight of his head, the softness of his hair against your skin, and the warmth of his breath through your shirt. It was the most domestic, heart-stopping moment of your life, and you were currently being broadcasted to the entire friend group.

Heeseung was out cold. His breathing was deep and even, his face finally relaxed and free of the stressed engineer expression he usually wore. Without the glasses and the constant look of worry, he looked... peaceful. Vulnerable.

Yunjin noticed almost immediately. She nudged Megan, pointing at the two of you with a mischievous grin.

"Oh my god," Megan whispered, fumbling for her phone. "Look at the sleepy little guy. He finally crashed."

"Don't," you hissed, though you didn't move an inch. You were terrified that if you even breathed too deeply, he’d wake up and realize what he was doing, and the resulting awkwardness would probably cause him to flee the state.

"I have to," Megan said, her thumbs flying across her screen as she opened the group chat. "The guys need to see this. Heeseung actually chose a person over a nap in the library. This is historic."

Sunoo, who was sitting in the row directly in front of you, turned around with a devious glint in his eyes. He saw Heeseung slumped against you and let out a tiny, delighted giggle.

"Is he dead?" Sunoo asked, reaching out a finger.

"Sunoo, stop it," you whispered, trying to sound stern.

But Sunoo was Sunoo. He leaned over and very gently poked Heeseung’s cheek. Heeseung didn't even flinch. He just let out a tiny, soft sigh and tucked his face a little closer into the crook of your neck, seeking the warmth.

"He's definitely dead," Sunoo concluded. "Or he’s just really, really comfortable. Look at his face. He looks like a kitten."

Megan snapped a picture—the flash was off, thank goodness—and sent it to the group chat with the caption: rip heeseung. he’s never living this shit down!

You felt your face heating up. You could feel the warmth of his skin through your hoodie. It was a strange sensation—having him so close. Usually, there was a visible three-foot radius of complete secrecy around Heeseung, but right now, that wall was completely gone.

You felt a sudden, sharp surge of protectiveness. You knew how hard he worked. You saw the dark circles under his eyes in class, the way he was always the last one to leave the lab, and the way he seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his back. You didn't know why he was so tired—you just knew that he deserved this rest.

"Leave him alone," you said to Sunoo, who was reaching out for a second poke. "If any of you wake him up, I will personally make sure you don't get any of the snacks I brought."

Sunoo pouted but retracted his hand. "Fine. But if he drools on you, don't say I didn't warn you."

You looked down at him again. His eyelashes were long and dark against his skin. You noticed a small, faint scratch on his jawline that you hadn't seen before. You wondered how he got it. He was always getting these random little nicks and bruises—clumsiness, he called it.

You leaned your head back against the bleacher, trying to stay as still as possible. The game continued below you. Riki made a spectacular dunk that sent the crowd into a frenzy, but you didn't jump. You didn't even cheer. You just sat there, smiling like an idiot, leaning into his touch.

It was a strange feeling. You were still thinking about the bridge—about the hero who had saved your phone and walked you home. He had been so smooth, so confident. And yet, here was Heeseung, who was the complete opposite. Heeseung was quiet, awkward, and currently using you as a warm pillow.

And yet, you found yourself wanting to tell the whole world to be quiet. You wanted the announcers to stop talking, the cheerleaders to stop dancing, and the crowd to stop roaring, just so he could get another twenty minutes of rest.

You found yourself shifting just a tiny bit, making sure he was as comfortable as he could be. You didn't care about the game anymore. You didn't care about the group chat or the fact that Megan was probably recording a video of the two of you right now.

You just cared about the way his breathing hitched for a second before smoothing out again.

Then, the buzzer for halftime went off.

It wasn't just a buzzer. It was a sharp, loud, electronic blare that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of your bones. It was designed to be heard over ten thousand screaming fans, and in the relatively enclosed space of the arena, it sounded like a bomb going off.

Heeseung didn't just wake up. He launched into consciousness.

His Spider-sense, which had been blissfully dormant while his brain tried to recover, suddenly screamed DANGER at the sudden, violent noise. To his sleeping brain, the buzzer sounded like a building collapsing or an explosion in the dockyards.

His body reacted before his conscious mind even realized where he was.

He jerked upright with such force that he nearly knocked you over. His eyes snapped open, wide and bloodshot, and his hands instinctively flew to his wrists, his fingers twitching in the specific motion used to fire a web-string.

"Who? What? Where?" he barked, his voice loud, jagged, and full of a combat-ready adrenaline that absolutely did not belong in a college basketball arena.

He scrambled backward, his sneakers squeaking against the metal bleachers as he tried to create distance from the "threat." He nearly tumbled over the row behind him, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard he was sure everyone could see his hoodie vibrating.

He looked around wildly. He didn't see a villain. He didn't see a falling crane.

He saw the court. He saw the cheerleaders starting their halftime routine. He saw a thousand students looking confused.

And he saw Sunoo, who was currently doubled over, clutching his stomach as he laughed so hard no sound was coming out.

"Oh my god," Megan wheezed, holding her phone up. "I got the whole thing. I got the jump-scare of the century."

Heeseung’s brain finally started to catch up with his body. The red mist of adrenaline began to clear, replaced by a cold, crushing wave of realization. He felt the phantom weight of your shoulder where his head had been just seconds ago.

He turned his head slowly, his neck feeling stiff and heavy.

There you were.

You were looking at him with a mix of genuine concern and a tiny, suppressed smile. Your shoulder felt suddenly very cold and empty, and you were still slightly tilted from the force of his sudden departure.

"Good morning, Sunshine," you said softly, your voice a calm anchor in the sea of his panic.

Heeseung stared at you. He felt like he was hovering about three inches off the ground. He looked down at his shirt, his hands trembling as he smoothed out the fabric.

"I... did I..." he stammered, his face rapidly turning a shade of red that was probably visible from the moon. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—was I leaning on you?"

"For about twenty minutes," you said, tucking a loose hair behind your ear. "You looked like you needed it. You were out like a light."

"Twenty minutes?" Heeseung whispered, horrified. He checked his chin, his hand frantically searching for any sign of drool. He had visions of a giant, embarrassing wet spot on your hoodie. He imagined the group chat. He imagined moving to a different country and changing his name to something like 'Evan'.

"You didn't drool, Heeseung. Relax," you said, noticing his panic.

"I... I'm so sorry," he repeated, his voice barely audible over the music playing on the loudspeakers. "I didn't sleep much. I was... studying. Late."

"Must have been some intense studying," you said. "You jumped like someone had just pulled a fire alarm."

"I have a startle response," he lied, his heart finally starting to slow down. "Engineering stress. It’s a real thing."

"Sure it is," Sunoo chimed in, finally catching his breath. "Riki is going to lose his mind. He didn't think you were capable of physical contact with anyone other than a calculator."

"Sunoo, don't you dare," Heeseung groaned, burying his face in his hands.

But it was too late. On the court below, the halftime break had started, and the guys were heading toward the bench. He saw Riki grab his phone from his bag, look at it, and then immediately whip his head around to stare up at the bleachers.

Riki caught Heeseung’s eye and gave him a massive, theatrical thumbs-up, grinning like a maniac. Jay, standing next to him, looked at the screen, looked up at Heeseung, and just shook his head with a smile. And then there was Jake, with his eyes wide, like he was doing a double take. Right before launching into a fit of laughter, grabbing Soobin’s shoulder as to not topple over.

Heeseung wanted to vanish. He wanted to turn into dust and be swept up by the janitorial staff.

"They're never going to let me live this down," he muttered into his palms.

"It's just a nap, Heeseung," you said, reaching out and gently patting his arm. The touch was brief, but it sent a jolt of electricity through him that was stronger than any buzzer. "It's not a big deal. Honestly, it was kind of nice to see you actually relax for once."

Heeseung looked at you through the gaps in his fingers. You didn't look annoyed. You didn't look creeped out. You looked... happy?

"You're not mad?" he asked.

"Why would I be mad? You're a good pillow," you joked.

Heeseung let his hands fall, his face still glowing pink. He looked down at the court, where Jake was now waving at him mockingly.

"I'm still going to kill Megan for taking that video," he said, though there was no heat in it.

"Good luck! I’ve already uploaded it to the cloud," Megan said, not looking up from her phone. "You’re a viral sensation in our circle now, Hee. Embrace it."

The rest of the game was a blur for Heeseung, but for a completely different reason. He wasn't sleepy anymore. He was hyper-aware of everything. He was aware of the inch of space between his arm and yours. He was aware of the way you smelled like cherries and laundry detergent. He was aware of the fact that for twenty minutes, he had been closer to you than he had ever been to anyone in his life—without a mask on.

As the final buzzer sounded—which Heeseung handled much better this time, only flinching slightly—the crowd began to pour out of the stands.

"We're going to meet the guys at the diner," Yunjin said, standing up. "You guys coming?"

"I think I should go back and actually sleep in a bed," Heeseung said, his voice a bit more stable now. "I don't think my heart can take another halftime buzzer."

"I'll walk with you," you said, surprising him. "I'm a bit tired too. All that cheering is exhausting."

Heeseung’s heart did a little flip. "You don't have to. You should go eat with the others."

"I want to," you said, and there was a finality in your tone that he didn't dare argue with.

The walk back to the dorms was quiet. The campus was cool, the air smelling of damp leaves and distant woodsmoke. For the first time, Heeseung didn't feel the need to fill the silence with technical facts or stammered apologies.

"Seriously though," you said as you reached the fork in the path where you had to head toward your building. "Get some sleep, Heeseung. You're working too hard."

"I'll try," he said. "Thanks for... you know. The shoulder."

"Anytime," you said, giving him a small wave. "See you in the lecture hall tomorrow? Try not to fall asleep on the professor’s shoulder."

"I'll do my best," he promised, face heating up.

He watched you walk away, the same way he had on the bridge. But this time, he wasn't crouching on a railing. He was standing on his own two feet.

He felt a strange sense of victory. Spider-Man had saved your phone, sure. Spider-Man had been charming. But Spider-Man had never felt the warmth of your shoulder or the way you had protected his sleep.

Maybe being Heeseung wasn't so "mid" after all.

He walked back to his dorm with a slight spring in his step, oblivious to the fact that his phone was currently vibrating in his pocket with a relentless stream of messages from the group chat.

He didn't care about the photos. He didn't care about the jokes.

He just cared about the fact that for twenty minutes, he didn't have to be a hero. He just had to be a guy who was tired, and you had been there to catch him.

He reached his door, unlocked it, and collapsed onto his bed without even taking off his shoes. As he drifted back off to sleep—this time a real, deep sleep—his last thought wasn't about web-fluid or crime rates.

It was about the way you had called him 'Sunshine'.

The night was quiet, but the air against Heeseung’s face was anything but calm. He was currently crouched on the side of a brick chimney three stories up, his gloved fingers finding purchase in the mortar. Below him, the university campus was a map of orange streetlights and long, dark shadows.

It had been nearly two weeks since the basketball game—two weeks since he had practically catapulted off your shoulder in a state of sheer panic—and the memory still made his stomach do a weird, uncomfortable flip every time he saw you in the lecture hall.

He hadn't been sleeping much (which wasn't new). Between the mountain of engineering projects and the fact that a group of carjackers had decided to make the north side of the city their personal playground, Heeseung was running on fumes and caffeine. But tonight, his... patrol had taken a very specific, very intentional detour.

He shot a line of webbing toward the roof of your dorm building, swinging through the crisp night air with a practiced ease. He landed silently on a ledge just above the fourth floor. He knew which window was yours. He’d "accidentally" seen it from the ground enough times to memorize the position.

He crawled down the brickwork, moving like a shadow, until he was perched just to the side of the glass. He stayed in the darkness, the white lenses of his mask narrowing as he looked inside.

This was not creepy, by the way. He was not being creepy. He was just a guy checking on his... friend. Or something like that.

The room was bright and warm, a stark contrast to the biting cold of the rooftop. You were sitting at your desk, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and highlighters. Your hair was up in a messy bun that looked like it was held together by sheer willpower and a single pencil. You were wearing fuzzy, light blue pajamas—the kind with little clouds on them—and thick wool socks.

Heeseung felt that familiar tug in his chest. You looked so normal. So safe.

But you weren't alone.

The door to your room was open, and he could see Yunjin and Megan in the common area, their shadows dancing against the wall. Suddenly, the two of them burst into your room, music blaring from a phone. They were laughing, doing some synchronized TikTok dance that involved a lot of arm-waving and rhythmic jumping.

You groaned, burying your face in your hands as they circled your desk, trying to get you to join in. Even from behind the glass, Heeseung could tell you were fighting a smile. You swatted at them with a highlighter, pointing toward your open textbook, but they just laughed harder.

Heeseung watched for a long time. He felt like a voyeur, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. This was the part of your life he never got to see—the messy, loud, roommate-filled reality of being a student. In the lecture hall, everything was academic and structured. At the mixers, it was crowded and overwhelming.

But here, in the glow of your desk lamp, you were just... you.

Finally, after one last dramatic pose that nearly knocked over your lamp, Yunjin and Megan retreated. He heard the muffled sound of your door closing as they headed out to the kitchen or down the hall.

The room went quiet. You let out a long sigh, rubbing your eyes before leaning back into your chair.

Heeseung waited a beat. Then, he reached out and gave the glass three soft, rhythmic taps.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

You jumped, nearly falling out of your swivel chair. You spun around, eyes wide, staring at the dark window. For a second, you looked terrified, but then you saw the faint outline of the mask and the flash of red and blue.

Your face transformed instantly. The exhaustion seemed to vanish, replaced by a bright, genuine light that Heeseung could feel even through the glass. You scrambled toward the window, fumbling with the latch before sliding the frame up.

"You!" you breathed, the cool night air rushing into the room. "What on earth are you doing here? I didn't think I'd ever see you again."

"And leave my favorite phone-dropper behind?" Heeseung asked, his voice tilting into that smooth, playful edge he only had when the mask was on. "Not a chance."

He hopped onto the windowsill, crouching there with his knees tucked to his chest. He looked around the room, making sure the coast was clear. "Are your roommates gone? They seemed pretty busy with... whatever that was."

You flushed, leaning against the window frame. "You saw that? God, they’re obsessed with that dance. I’m trying to pass my classes, and they’re trying to go viral."

"It wasn't bad," he teased, his head tilting to the side. "Though I think you could’ve handled the footwork better."

"I wasn't even doing it!" you laughed, throwing a stray eraser at him. He caught it out of the air without even looking, tossing it back onto your desk. "What are you doing here anyway? Isn't there, like, a bank being robbed somewhere?"

"It’s a slow day," he shrugged. It wasn't every day that the city was this quiet, and maybe he should've been at home, using this time to rest up—but it seemed like he could never say no to the idea of you. "Besides, I figured I’d check in. See if you’ve managed to keep your phone in your pocket for more than forty-eight hours."

"I have, thank you very much," you said, crossing your arms.

His lenses scanned you up and down, settling on the fluffy blue fabric of your outfit. "Nice pajamas, by the way. Are those... clouds? Is there a matching hat, or is that reserved for special occasions?"

You looked down at yourself, suddenly self-conscious, and smoothed out the fuzzy fabric. "They're comfortable! It’s cold in this building, and I have a lot of studying to do. Don't judge my fashion choices, Mr. Spandex."

"Hey, this isn't spandex," he countered, leaning closer into the room. "It's a highly sophisticated tri-weave polymer. Very high-tech. Very serious. Not at all like fuzzy clouds."

"It looks like you're wearing a unitard," you teased, echoing Jay's words from two weeks ago.

Heeseung flinched internally. "A unitard? Ouch. That’s a low blow. I’ll have you know this suit is aerodynamic. It helps with the swinging. Fuzzy clouds, on the other hand, probably create a lot of drag."

"Well, I'm not planning on swinging anywhere tonight, so I think I'm safe," you said. You looked at him, your expression softening. You reached out, your hand hovering near the edge of the windowsill. "You look tired. I mean, I can't see your eyes, but your shoulders... you look like you haven't slept in a week."

Heeseung felt a jolt of panic. Was it that obvious? Was his Heeseung side leaking through the mask?

"Occupational hazard," he said, trying to regain his footing. "The city doesn't sleep, so I don't really get to either. It’s fine. I’ve had plenty of... uh, coffee."

"You sound like a friend of mine," you said, a small, sad smile touching your lips. "He’s an engineer. He works himself to the bone. He actually fell asleep on me during a basketball game last week. I think I've mentioned him before," you hummed.

Heeseung felt the air leave his lungs. He stayed perfectly still, his heart thumping against his ribs. "Uh, yeah. I think you have. Sounds like a real thrill-seeker, this friend of yours."

"He's not," you said softly. "He’s quiet. A bit awkward. He called you 'mid,' actually."

Heeseung let out a dry, forced laugh. "Mid? Wow. Remind me to web his locker shut tomorrow."

"Don't you dare," you said, but you were smiling. "He’s actually really sweet. I think he’s just... lonely. Or maybe he’s just carrying something he won't tell anyone about. I felt really bad for him. He woke up so panicked, like he was expecting a fight."

"Maybe he was just embarrassed," Heeseung suggested, his voice dropping an octave. "Maybe he didn't want the girl he likes to see him at his weakest."

You paused, your eyes searching the white lenses of his mask. "The girl he likes?"

Heeseung realized he’d said too much. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight on the ledge. "I mean... lucky guess. A guy doesn't just fall asleep on someone unless he’s comfortable with them, right?"

"I guess so," you said, though you sounded a bit distracted. You looked back at your desk. "Anyway, I should probably get back to these equations. If I fail this midterm, my parents are going to kill me, and not even a superhero can save me from that."

"Right. Uni work. Nasty stuff," he said. He stayed for a few more minutes, teasing you about the way you chewed on your pencil when you were thinking, and listening to you complain about your professor. It was the easiest conversation he’d had all week. There was no stuttering, no tripping over his feet, no embarrassing himself.

He was smooth. He was the hero. He was the guy you were leaning toward with interest in your eyes.

"I should go," he said finally, standing up on the ledge. "The clouds are calling you, and I have a city to... not rob."

"Wait," you said, reaching out and catching the fabric of his sleeve.

He froze.

"Will you come back?" you asked. "I mean... I know you’re busy. But it’s nice having someone to talk to who doesn't try to make me do TikTok dances."

Heeseung looked down at your hand on his arm. He felt a wave of affection so strong it made his head dizzy. "Yeah. I'll be around. Just keep your window unlocked."

"It's a deal," you said.

He shot a web at the building across the street and leaped into the night. He did a celebratory flip in mid-air, the adrenaline of the conversation buzzing through his veins. He felt invincible. He felt like he was on top of the world.

But as he landed on a nearby rooftop and looked back at your glowing window, the feeling started to change.

He pulled the mask off, the cold wind hitting his sweaty forehead. He leaned against a cooling vent, his chest heaving.

The high was fading, and in its place was a sharp, bitter sting.

He thought about the way your eyes lit up when you saw the mask. He thought about the way you laughed at his jokes and the way you flirted back with Spider-Man.

And then he thought about Heeseung.

Heeseung, the guy who had sat next to you for months and barely managed a "hello." Heeseung, the guy who had finally, by some miracle, ended up with his head on your shoulder—only to ruin the moment by launching himself into the air like a startled cat.

You liked the guy in the mask. You liked the confidence, the wit, and the mystery. You liked the version of him that was a lie.

The version of him that was real—the tired, awkward engineer with the scratched jaw and the inability to talk to his crush like a normal person—was just a boring friend. You felt bad for Heeseung. You felt protective of him. But you looked at Spider-Man like he was something special.

Heeseung looked at the mask in his hand. It was just a piece of fabric, but it was a wall he had built himself. A wall that kept him safe, but also kept him out.

He imagined telling you the truth. He imagined landing on your windowsill and pulling the mask off. He saw the look of shock on your face—and then, he imagined the disappointment. The realization that the charming hero was just the guy who drooled in his sleep.

"She doesn't like you, Heeseung," he whispered to the night air. "She likes the suit."

He felt a sudden, irrational flash of jealousy toward his own alter-ego. He wanted to rip the suit to shreds. He wanted to be the guy who made you laugh without needing a voice changer or a hidden identity.

But he wasn't that guy. He was just a boy who was too afraid to be himself, competing with a shadow that he could never beat.

He put the mask back on, but the magic was gone. The suit felt heavy. That stupid fucking polymer weave felt like lead.

He turned away from your window and started the swing back to his dorm. He would see you tomorrow in class. He might sit next to you, and if he did, he would probably stutter when you asked him for a pen. You would look at him with that kind, pitying smile, and then you would probably go back to thinking about the hero who had visited your window.

It was a cycle he didn't know how to break.

As he reached his own room and crawled through the tiny gap in the window, he didn't feel like a hero. He felt like a fraud.

He changed into his own pajamas—plain gray ones, nothing as cute as fuzzy clouds—and climbed into bed. His phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was a message from the group chat.

Heeseung turned the phone off and stared at the ceiling.

You had called him 'Sunshine.' Well, you called Heeseung that. But that one word wasn't the same as anything else you'd said to Spider-Man. He was the guy who had your heart, but he was also the guy who could never have it.

He closed his eyes, hoping for a dream where the mask didn't exist. But even in his sleep, he could hear the sound of his own heart beating for a girl who would never see him the way he saw her.

night lights blur into a singular entity as you speed through streets, intersections, and shortcuts. the body of your hair whipped up by the wind—you know you should be wearing a helmet, you know it full well, but you rushed out of the door tonight and simply forgot. your fingers grip onto the handles of your motorcycle even tighter as your bike accelerates even more. the stinging as wind enters your eyes is becoming nearly impossible to ignore, but you persist, knowing there's only a little bit left to go.

extending your fingers to the brake, you slowly begin to come to a halt in front of a bright white sign, flashing: open 24 hours! sat on the curb below the sign was haechan. he doesn't even wince at your abrupt appearance, no flinching at how close you stopped next to him. "took you long enough," he utters without looking up from his phone.

"that took me 7 minutes—10 at worst," you shoot back.

he gives an overtly exaggerated sigh before mumbling, "whatever," but made sure it was loud enough so you can hear. shoving his phone in his pocket, he springs to his feet, "ramen?"

after pushing your bike into the somewhat hidden employees' parking slots and resting it against the wall, you follow haechan into the convenience store.

soon enough, the two of you come out with instant ramen bowls that are hot to the touch. haechan sits back down on his spot on the curb, being careful not to spill any of the hot water onto himself and you do the same.

"so," haechan says in a tone that almost mimics an announcement. "how are you feeling?"

while in the midst of setting your bowl down next to you, a breath escapes you, nearing on the edge of a scoff. "great. thanks for asking," you put your chopsticks over the top of the foil lid of the bowl.

"really?" though you're not looking directly at him, you can picture haechan's eyebrows shooting up as he says that.

you lift your head to make direct contact with haechan's gaze. "why would i lie?"

haechan doesn't shy away from your stare, in fact, he seems to study your expression for any sign of disjointedness. after a beat or two, he resumes, "people can get nervous, you know," he breaks away from looking at you to pick up his bowl of ramen, "like most of the population does. you don't have to hide it," one of his shoulders rises as if to imitate a shrug.

using the palm of your hand, you push on his arm slightly swaying him away from you. "asshole," you mutter, evoking a muffled chuckle from haechan.

you go to take the chopsticks off of the lid and uncover the bowl; steam rises, hitting your face.

"i'm kidding," haechan chews, and then swallows impassively. "i know you have nothing to be nervous about."

"hopefully, not."

"did i suddenly shake you up or something? you sounded confident enough a minute ago."

you use your chopsticks to give your ramen a stir before bringing it up to your mouth and carefully blowing on it. "no," you say before stuffing a mouthful of noodles into your cheeks. "but who knows what will happen? like, last year, those freak accidents?"

haechan seems to give what you said a careful thought. "i think we all know they weren't just 'accidents,'" he pauses at his last word. "people always take the closing race so seriously--"

"yeah, and you know why," you jump in, one side of your mouth still full.

haechan rolls his eyes. "yeah, yeah, prize money—all that. but, they act like it's worth sabotaging other people for it."

you sit with his words for a minute. they ring a certain truth to it, but to some extent, you can also understand the motive behind the so-called "sabotage" that haechan was talking about. you were sure that you would never stoop so low—but again, you've never been put into a position where you had to cross that line.

the two of you continue wolfing down your midnight snack in prolonged silence.

"renjun asked about you the other day."

and with that simple sentence, it catches you off guard. you try your best to stifle a cough by sipping on some of the ramen broth—salty to the point that it reminds you why you shouldn't have done that. "what did he say?" despite sparing no effort to sound unaffected at the sound of his name, a waver in your voice can be heard if you paid close enough attention.

haechan finishes the remaining broth in his bowl before giving you an answer. "you know, the same old." an answer that's barely an answer.

you're unsure whether you should prod to find out more, or if you should just leave the topic here. you know what you would find out if you asked, anyway, so even though your lips opened up to respond, nothing came out of you.

"he's worried about you."

the word strikes a familiar chord within you. worry. as expected, it's nothing you didn't already know; he's always been worried.

"i'm not telling you this to try and change your mind about anything; i know you well enough to know you won't," haechan continues, "but maybe just talk to him."

"and say what?" instead of sounding defensive, your tone instead comes across as helpless, and haechan simply shrugs. "we're never going to see eye to eye on this. he wants me to stop racing. if i do now, what was it all for? if i don't win now, then everything i've done, i've done for nothing."

haechan inhales a deep breath. he lifts up his hand and lands two pats on your knee. "then, tell him that," he adjusts his body so he can get up on his feet, "the both of you are stubborn, and i don't want to play middleman anymore."

haechan stands towering over you still sat on the curb, his shadow casted over the entirety of your body. he extends a hand toward you, a sheepish grin overtaking his face and you know what he's about to ask you: "be a gentleman and give me a ride home?"

you take his hand, pulling yourself up from the ground. making sure the annoyance is visible on your face, you cock your head in the direction of your bike, "sure, i guess."

...

after dropping haechan off at his apartment, you return to yours. the rest of the night seems to pass like a blur. and before you know it, you're in front of your apartment door, trying to forcibly push it open. the door's lock has been jammed for at least a couple of months. telling your landlord would do absolutely nothing and a strong budge is good enough to get it open. so you're in front of your apartment door, putting your all into getting this damn thing to move, and it does after a few attempts.

you drag yourself inside, and once again, having to put your weight into making sure the front door is locked. in all honesty, you would up and leave here any second if you could, but you're barely making the rent on time here, so forget any wishful thinking of finding another place to stay here in the city.

plopping down on your slightly decrepit beanbag, your mind starts jumping back to the closing race. the last race of the year, where the prize is always the most considerable. this year, there's a hundred grand on the line.

maybe, wishful thinking isn't so bad, after all.

you push harder and harder onto the pedal until your toes curl. in your sight, there is nothing but the finish line. in this instance, the finish line being where haechan stood with a stopwatch in his hand. your back tyres leave skid mark after skid mark on the concrete of the desolate parking lot. you speed past where haechan stood, so fast to the point where he didn't even register in your peripheral. and you come to a stop, turning so that your vehicle is now horizontal in relation to the track. kicking open the driver's door, you step out, almost with a kick in your step. there's certainty in your head that this had to be your best time.

"how was that?" you shouted over to haechan, who was now stalking over to where you had stopped.

he waited until he had reached within an arm's distance from you to speak, "not bad—1:27.03"

you exhale a deep breath, puffing out your cheeks. "1:27's better than 1:29," you had bested your own personal record. haechan holds his hand up and you meet his gesture with your own. he gives your hand a firm shake up in the air, "good job," a slight, but sincere smile appearing on his lips.

a sudden vroom catches both of your attentions from a distance. you turn your head to the entrance of the parking lot. a black blob, somewhat resembling the shape of a motorcycle, swiftly darts from one side of your vision to the other from behind the wire fence that surrounds the lot. "who's that?" you mutter.

you've never seen anyone here before. you thought that this lot was just a deserted junkyard that happened to be of good use to you, and no other racer bothered to drive out here, and to what? to practice? they simply roamed and tyrannised the streets for that.

then again, the same shadowy figure blitz past the entrance gate, but this time in the opposite direction. "they're leaving?" haechan voices, watching the figure as attentively as you.

that's weird, you thought, who just drives into a dead end and then turns around to leave immediately?

"huh," haechan pokes his tongue into his cheek.

as if you've been reminded of something, you hastily drag your phone out of your back pocket to check the time. "shit," you mutter under your breath, "i need to get to my shift." you turn on your heels, taking strides toward your car. leaning over the driver's seat, you dig around in the bag sat in the passenger for your keys. your fingertips quickly rifle through your belongings until you feel something cold and metal. swinging your keys into the palm of your hands, you walk back over to haechan. "she's yours," the pitch of your voice going up near the end of your statement, making it sound more like a question.

"i won't hurt your baby, don't worry," haechan responds to the clear concern in your voice with a teasing smile in his eyes.

you take purposeful steps toward the entrance of the parking lot, your bike parked right next to it. sliding your helmet off of the handle, you flip it over atop your head, each action carried out with an awareness of time. without hesitation, you secure on your helmet, swing one leg over your bike, and switch on your engine. a blare erupts from behind you—haechan is already lined up for the entrance with you being his only obstacle. fighting back the urge to flash up a gesture at him, you reluctantly begin to drive off to your shift.

...

"hey," you greet your coworker, almost out of breath, as you stagger into the convenience store right on time for your shift.

"i thought you weren't gonna show up, again," she comments, clearly impatient. eagerly, she makes her way out in front of the cashier counter.

you mumble a quick apology, and she doesn't respond further. she goes into the employees' lounge to collect her stuff; two minutes later, she's back and she's clocking out without a word.

seeing as there's no one in the store right now, you enter your pin to the employees' only room. there's a small circular desk in the middle of the cramped room with two teal sofa chairs next to it. you set down your bag, your jacket, and your helmet before getting out again.

as you straighten your shirt, you start thinking about the next several boring hours you're obligated to spend in this stuffy shop as you make your way behind the counter. immediately, as if it's muscle memory, your head tilts upwards to the right side of the store where the tv is positioned. on screen, they seem to be showing some celebrity reality show that you've seen once or twice but haven't kept up with. you watch absentmindedly, counting down the hours you have left before you can go home. 8 hours. 8 hours until it's 11pm. 8 hours until you’re done. whatever made you pick the evening shift over the morning shift, anyway? now that you think about it, 7-3 seems a lot more desirable than 3-11.

as you're lost in your regretting your work decisions, the door bell chimes, snapping you back into consciousness.

a manly figure steps through, dressed in ash grey jeans paired with a brown leather jacket, visibly worn. the figure's face is covered by a jet black helmet, one similar to yours. the figure stops in front of the glass doors, gloved hands reaching up to cast off the helmet. once it's off, the man tucks his helmet into the crook of his left elbow and attempts to adjust his hair in a rather shaggy manner with his other hand.

your eyes dart outside through the glass panes; a black motorcycle.

as the man browses through the aisles lackadaisically, you try to pay him no mind, returning your gaze back to the mediocre reality tv.

he takes several minutes, walking up and down, then down and up again through the display racks, only picking something up once. then, he approaches the counter, helmet still in his arms. he sets down a bottle of water in front of you, "can i have a pack of those?" he gestures behind you, pointing to the cigarette stand. you pick out the brand he's pointing at and scan it through on the register, then repeating the same with his bottle of water.

"that'll be 8.99."

the man sets his helmet down on the edge of the counter, careful not to knock any of the gum packets on display off. his arm reaches behind him and pulls out a worn leather wallet. as he's digging through to find his card, or cash, you don't know for sure, your eyes dart back outside. "that your bike outside?"

he seems to be caught off-guard by your small talk. the man's head snaps to look at you, eyes wide, eyebrows raised, and his lips slightly ajar. "uh- yeah," he returns his attention onto his wallet. now, his fingers look to be struggling to pull a card out.

you nod your head, almost like in approval. "what model is it?" truth be told, you knew what model it was, you even knew the make. but something about the man standing before you made you want to keep talking to him, regardless of if it was small talk.

"tuono 660," basically confirming what you thought you knew, "aprilia."

he hands you his card and you take it in your hands, m. lee embossed along the bottom. you hover over the card reader until a beep sounds out. you return his card wearing a small smile on your expression, "would you like your receipt?" instinctually returning to your customer service tone.

"no... thanks," he replies, followed by a tight-lipped smile. he shoves his wallet back inside his pocket and grabs ahold of both his water and cigarettes in one hand.

"thank you," your much practiced tone and expression still dripping on each word.

the man catches your eyes for a split second, before he turns his head, then his whole body to exit the store.

a sudden eruption of laughter comes from the tv but it fades into the background of your mind. the man is now outside on the curb, pocketing his pack of cigs into his jeans before climbing onto his bike.

"haechan!" you exclaim as you push the door closed behind you. it's surprise visits like this that makes haechan sometimes regret giving you a key to his apartment. "helloo?" you call out again.

you make your way over to the kitchen island when you hear a door click. footsteps begin to shuffle on the wooden floorboards.

"yn," a curt voice speaks out.

the voice sends a sudden jolt through your body. you lift your head to see a pair of brown eyes fixated on you. "renjun," you greet him but the enthusiasm you had a second ago is now nowhere to be heard.

in your head, you debate whether you should ask how he's doing, you know, normal friendly stuff people do. would it be weird? surely not. but before you can reach a consensus in your mind, renjun cuts your thoughts off.

"haechan's in the bathroom."

your lips mimic an 'oh.' perhaps this is the one time that you regret haechan giving you his key. you purse your lips together, an "um," tumbling out of you. and now you're back to debating whether or not you should ask him about his day. seconds tick by, made evident by the clock hung up in the centre of their living room. seconds that feels like hours.

haechan bursts out from the bathroom, curses slipping past his lips. thank god, was the only thought you can form. you don't know how much more of the awkward silence you can take from renjun.

"yn! oh my god," haechan demands your attention from the other man standing right across from the pair of you.

"what?" you blurt out, unsure whether haechan's franticness is genuine, or if he heard the scene that went down before and decided to be a saving grace.

"listen!" his thumbs scroll on his phone at a rate that you're sure he can't be comprehending anything.

after waiting a few seconds for him to follow up on his eagerness and having been met with nothing, you prod a bit, "go on, then. i'm listening."

his thumbs suddenly stop, eyes scanning the lines of text rapidly on his screen. "they're saying some new kid won the league race last night." his words almost slur into one another at the pace which he is speaking with.

"...so?"

haechan must've seen the genuine confusion that's struck your face; he seems stuck in a trance-like state for a moment as he tries to register your hint of nonchalance.

"you don't get it!" he clicks his tongue and his eyes go back to his phone. "he won, by like- a lot. his time was only 3 seconds away from yours."

and that's when you begin to understand the sort of panic seeped into haechan's demeanor. in all honesty, he's acting more panicked than you are, or should be.

"what- who's telling you this?"

"people we know- it doesn't matter! what matters is they're saying he might beat you at closing this year."

you lean over to catch a glimpse of what haechan is intently looking at. your head turns to the back of the hallway leading to renjun's room, and he's not there anymore; his door shut as well. you would've said something about renjun to haechan but the both of you are rather preoccupied right now.

"there's no way," you whisper under your breath, more so to relieve your own disbelief than anything. "who is this guy?"

haechan scrolls up in the groupchat thread that he's in, until he lands on a picture sent by someone who you don't recognise. "i don't know," he clicks on the picture, zooming in. it obviously was taken with the subject being unaware of it. "they're saying his name- well, at least his racing name, is drift."

"a little on the nose, don't you think?" you mutter as your eyes study the picture haechan is showing you. the man pictured is in the distance, in the middle of taking his helmet off. dressed in an outfit you've seen before. that same brown leather jacket and the grey jeans that looks black due to the poor resolution. "i've seen him before," you admit to haechan.

his head turns to you as fast as humanly possible, "you have?"

you give him a nonchalant nod of the head, the corners of your mouth dropping down like in understanding.

"why do you not seem even a bit concerned?" haechan questions.

"should i be?" you distance yourself from haechan as you approach their fridge. maybe you should be, but humility has never been a strong virtue of yours.

haechan watches your every action carefully, even as you reach inside of his fridge to grab a cold soda into your hands. "i'm telling you, yn, this guy is good."

the league races sound exactly like the opposite of what they are. they're the smaller street races that take place right before the closing race for people to blow some steam off; kind of... take the pressure off the closing for some. point is, they're unimportant. to you, at least. which is why for as long as you've been racing, you've never attended one, to save some gas for the closing, that's what you've convinced yourself.

your fingernails dig below the tab of the can and a release pops. 'i guess i'll have to see for myself," you swig back a mouthful of sweet, bubbly soda. "when's the next league race?"

boring, boring, boring.

that's how every one of your shifts go. but you don't have a choice. well, you do. either you work, or get evicted, and it's pretty clear to you which one you prefer. the only strand of motivation you're holding onto at this point, is the fact that after you win closing, you can maybe start looking for a better job somewhere else. maybe even move out of that shitty apartment. but that's after the closing, and haechan would like to remind you that that's even if you win.

and as if scripted, the topic of debate between you and your best friend for the past few days steps through the glass doors to the convenience store. you don't know how you recognised him that quickly, you don't know why you recognised him, but you know it's him. once again. m. lee, huh. drift. you still haven't grown fond of his stage name.

today, he's wearing grey, baggy sweatpants, with the same leather jacket you've seen him in on all occasions you've seen him. he's browsing through the aisles again, with a cap obstructing your view of his face. you watch him more carefully this time than before. looking outside, no bike this time.

he walks over to the row of refrigerators situated on the left side of the store and pulls out a can of beer. his actions seemed to be performed with a certain kind of preciseness, meticulousness.

he saunters over to you, stood behind your counter.

you watch as he places the can in front of you, head down, once again, looking for his wallet. it's like you have deja vu. instead of scanning the can through, your fixation on watching his every action overrides your muscle memory.

"so, are you new 'round here?"

he looks at you through his brows, the same deer in headlights expression he wore the first time you've seen him. however, his lips quickly break into a small curve. "you're really fond of small talk, aren't you?"

you don't know what to make of his tone—half teasing, half amused, but his gaze is cold and hard, despite the smile lifting on the corners of his mouth.

"just being friendly," you break eye contact with him, a slight gratefulness twinges within you for your duties as a cashier as you go to scan his can of beer through to the system.

"well, in that case, yes. i am new around here."

you go to meet his gaze again, now with a small, satisfied grin on your own face. as subtle as you can, you scan his outfit, or what you can see of it with the counter in the way. the hems of his leather jacket washed out in colour; a lighter brown as compared to the darker shade on the sleeves. a light discolouration throughout that you can't deem whether as intentional or not. a sudden urge overtakes you.

"do you race?"

his off-guard expression is now back again, "sorry?"

"i saw your bike last time," you try to say casually, "it's modified, isn't it?"

he purses his lips tightly together, eyebrows lifted as if you caught him in a lie. then, his expression softens. "yeah, it is. you know quite a bit about bikes, i assume?"

"just a bit."

a smirk now dragging on his lips, "i'm delighted that you think i'm good enough to race." something about the way he enunciated his sentence made you pause for a split second. "so, how much?" his finger gestures toward the beer on the counter, drops of condensation beginning to pool at the base of it.

it should be here, you think to yourself as you begin to approach a rather quiet part of the city. haechan said it was going to be here. he would've went with you, like he'd said, if renjun—his roommate—wasn't conveniently out of town tonight.

you take a turn onto the main road, and sure enough, there's a crowd of people standing on the pavements on all sides of the intersection a little bit further down. indistinct murmuring begins to fill your ears. the sound of bottles hitting the concrete ground, laughter, music, all of it. as you get closer and closer, a heavy smell of smoke also enters your airways.

you approach the crowd a bit more, but keep your distance—about 6 feet away from the perimeter of the group of people. suddenly, several heads turn in your direction. the scene is unsettling, you've never seen it from this perspective. it's as if they're all being remotely controlled as more and more heads turn. they're not looking at you though but—

without warning, a car speeds past you.

speed is an understatement; it was in your peripheral vision for less than a second before it zooms off down the rest of the main street. right as the car passes you, cheers erupt from the conglomerate of people, all of them following the car's trajectory. a loud voice booms, seemingly out of nowhere.

"and there we have it! newcomer drift takes another one!"

there's a moment of stillness before another car zooms by, one that you recognise. the voice continues without missing a beat, "and revy comes in at second!"

the crowd of people all start to move up the street towards the two cars that have now slowly come to a halt up at the next intersection, their movements reminiscent of a stampede of sorts. giving into curiosity, you follow the crowd but with the same distance you kept as before.

cheer and fanfare can probably be heard from several blocks away. excited screaming strikes your eardrums, and before you can even hope that it quiets down at least a little bit, even more screaming fills the atmosphere. you tilt your head to get a better view at what everyone is cheering at. and sure enough, a familiar silhouette steps out. the man raises a palm as if to wave at the crowd of people who all cheered instantaneously louder for him the second he did so. he walks toward the crowd, and the voice booms once again all over this part of the street. you see a boy, presumably a teenager, approach the man with a mic in one hand and a speaker in the other. the boy drops his microphone as he goes to whisper something in the man's ear. of course, you can't hear anything, but you're also a bit too far to even attempt to read his lips. it's hard to say you're not intrigued by all this commotion. and for what? for the man who you've now decided frequents the convenience store you work at? you need to find out more, we'll call it researching your competition.

you cut your way through the crowd. cars are still zooming past that first intersection, which is now behind you, but no one seems to pay them any mind.

you're behind the first row of people within the crowd and you're just about to come out on the other side when a familiar face peers out from the side, startling you just a tiny bit.

"surprised you turned up," her voice is silky smooth. a too perfect beam tugging on her lips.

"minjeong," you try your best to mirror her smile right back at her. you have no energy for trivial smack talk tonight.

"i always thought you were too good for the leagues... what changed?" her charm is undeniable. the expression on her face still as polite as ever, but you know better than to assume what you can see.

"nothing, just wanted a change of scenery."

before minjeong replies, someone else steps in to join your conversation. "come on, we have to go," they don't seem to be addressing you. you do them the favour of letting yourself fade into the background as your eyes search again for man you've been focused on prior. at that second, the two of you stare directly at each other. you force yourself to look away but you can't, it's like there's a magnetic field surrounding just the two of you. he turns his head away first, refocusing his attention to the teenage boy who is still stood next to him.

"we'll see you around, yn," minjeong waves goodbye to you but instead of rotating her wrist, she flutters her fingers lightly. her words spoke with such careful calculation, and yet her voice as sweet as honey. you eke out a small, courteous smile; no point in calling her out on her bullshit tonight.

as you're watching minjeong and her friend walk off into an alley, someone else is headed towards you. you don't notice until you turn your head and-

"so, we're stalking now?" he stands a little bit taller than you, a glimmer in his eyes as he's staring down at you. this man is an enigma. how could he come off as shy one second back at your work, and here, he's completely charismatic. must be in his element.

the people around you seems to take notice of the pair of you, or maybe just him, but you've grown used to scenes like this; it's not like you've never been to a race before where there's an attractive racer that everyone seems to go weak in the knees for.

"you flatter yourself," you can't hold back the urge to bat your lashes—just once—at him.

"if i didn't know better, i would think so," he drags his words out one by one. his response causes you to wrinkle your brows, not sure what to say to that, which earned a light chuckle out of him. "you think i don't know who you are?" a playfulness ringing in his tone. is he teasing you right now? had he known this whole time?

"how did you-?"

a chorus of voices flare up in the middle of the crowd. you turn on your heels to see people running off in every direction. suddenly, the same teenage boy from before is propped up on others, shouting out, "someone called the cops!"

immediately, you turn back around. you can feel a firm grasp on your wrist pulling you in the direction of the alley that minjeong and her friend walked into earlier. for a second, you're stood still where you are, the panic of everyone else around you freezes you to the spot. then, you hear a "come on!" from the man holding your wrist, and before you know it, you let yourself get hauled away in midst of the chaos into leather jacket man's car.

wordlessly, he starts his engine and speeds off into... you don't know where, yet, but far enough away from where the gathering was. once the two of you are at enough distance away from the race, he starts decelerating, but shows no indication that you will be stopping any time soon. you look over to the driver's seat, his gaze is fixated on the road ahead and you're not sure whether you should make conversation.

you sit in silence for about 5 minutes as you watch out of the window. you can tell that you're getting further and further away from the centre of the city, and in fact, you're nearing the beach that runs along the coast.

it wasn't long until you turn into the parking lot, and finally, come to a stop. he unclicks his seatbelt, provoking you to do the same. he flips the handle on his door and gets out, still without a word. you watch as he zips up his jacket, stuffs his hands into his pockets, and crouch slightly to look at you through his windows. he tilts his head in the direction of the beach which you took as a signal to get out of the car as well.

as soon as you step out onto the tarmac parking lot, a cool evening breeze sweeps right past you. with the wind caught up in your hair, you clasp your hands together to gain some warmth. leather jacket man is already headed for the shoreline, a lax pattern in his steps, making it easy for you to catch up to him.

"congratulations," you break the silence once you're at the side of him. he looks at you, and you continue walking down the beach. "for winning leagues tonight," you follow up.

he stops walking. when you peer back at him, you're met with the same playful expression that was on his face back at the race. "thanks," a glint reflected in his teeth. "sorry about... dragging you back there," he bends at his waist, and then sits down on the soft sand shimmering under the moonlight.

you take a step towards him, and then decide to join him on the ground. your fingers sink into the sand as you're setting yourself down. waves lap over and over at the shoreline, the body of the ocean twinkling under the void of stars up above.

"so you knew, huh?" you grab a handful of sand and delicately let it fall off your fingers.

he extends his legs and leans back on his hands that rested behind his torso. "how could i have not?" an air of confidence interweaved within his voice. you turn your head towards him, and he looks to be biting back a cocky smirk, "gotta know your enemies, right?"

you're not sure which part of his sentence you should address. "know?" what does he know about you? and it didn't register within you that he saw you as an enemy, as a threat before.

"alright, then, since you know so much about me, it's my turn to ask you something." you dust off the sand on your hands and reposition yourself so that your body faces him—your legs criss-crossed with each other.

"shoot."

"what's your name?"

he gives you a suspicious look; a slight tug at his lips and furrowed brows. he pushes himself off one hand to lean in closer towards you, "well, did you not hear the announcer? i think he said my name pretty loud and clear when i passed that finish line."

you roll your eyes, seriously considering the idea of shoving sand down his throat so he could stop with his mockery. "do you know mine?"

without missing a beat, he replies, "yn."

"so what's yours?"

he looks straight at you, a face full of careful consideration, before he gives in. "mark," a smile plastered on his face that you can't describe as other than 'dorky.'

you repeat his name under your breath, attention now back to the sand between the two of you.

a brief minute passes by as you two listen to the ocean's waves rippling quietly.

"i'm guessing it was you that day at the junkyard?" mark asks.

and so the puzzle completes itself in your mind, "you say that like i'm invading in on your space." a sudden gust of wind blows past you, sending a chill down your spine.

"it was my uncle's," mark hangs his head back, directing his gaze at the stars. "i'd recently just moved back so i didn't know it'd be empty. or that you'd be there." you watch mark watch the stars.

"what happened to it being your uncle's?"

mark's adam's apple dips as he gulps down a swallow. "he'd passed, not too long ago."

"oh..." you return to fidgeting with the sand under your fingertips, "i'm sorry for your loss."

"it happens," mark exhales a deep breath. you feel there's a change in conversation coming with the way he's readjusting his shirt, pulling down on its hem poking out from underneath his jacket. "anyway. you down to help me practice tomorrow?"

your eyebrows shoot up, not just at the sudden change in topic, but at his request, "help? you practice?" it's almost laughable.

"i mean, yeah," he shrugs, "the enemy of your enemy is a friend, right? we have plenty of shared enemies."

as promised, you show up the next day up at the parking lot that you're pretty sure you would've went to anyway regardless of if mark asked you to or not. after all, closing's in a week and you need to get whatever amount of practice in that you can.

sure enough, mark is already there. you park your car right at the entrance gate and you step out to see him controlling his vehicle expertly. at every turn, he steers sideways with a precision that's unrivalled to anything you've ever seen in person. his front wheels pointed in the opposite direction of his turn as the back tyres glide on the cement as if it was ice—a screech can heard as a result.

he begins to pick up his pace again and drive in your direction, his focus seemingly entirely on the front of your car. he wouldn't. it's not that you trust him, but he wouldn't put himself in a danger like that, would he?

and before he reaches the point where it'd be too late for him to swerve, he carries out another one of his perfectly controlled, drifted turns, stopping with his driver's side window facing right at you. you stand unflinching and notice that his window is rolled all the way down.

"flashy," you voice, "going for style points, are we?"

he juts his head out of his window. cheekily, he suggests, "you down for a race?"

not being one to back down, you agree. mark points to a spot in the middle of the parking lot and you get back into your car to follow him. you pull up right next to where mark is, rolling down your passenger's window so you can communicate with him. "how does a lap sound?"

"sounds good to me," mark smirks back at you.

you turn your head to face the vastness of the empty lot in front of you. mark counts down out loud from 3. you press down on the gas pedal, revving your engine. 2. your hand reaches for the gear stick. and 1. both of you shoot off into the distance, and unexpectedly, you're neck in neck with him. you push on harder on the pedal, gaining you a little bit of ground, which mark makes up for without hesitation.

the remainder of this little mock race carries on like this. you earn the lead for 2 seconds, then mark takes it back. then you're in the lead again, and... not anymore. as you're close to finishing your lap, you can tell you're just the tiniest bit behind mark. so, in a last ditch effort, you step on your pedal to the fullest, as hard as you can, allowing you to surpass him the most you have so far, and just as you're about to pass the finishing point again, you can see mark catching up to you. and like that, both of you have crossed into the second lap. it's impossible to tell which one of you took the lead at the end with just the naked eye.

mark's car comes to a slow.

you'd be lying to yourself if you said there wasn't even the slightest hint of frustration within you. no one has ever been that close to you before. sure, when you were just starting out. but not now. not when you've earned yourself the title of being known as the best in this city. needless to say, you're pissed. but not at mark.

you throw your head back onto the headrest, sighing a deep sigh.

mark makes his way around to your side of the vehicle. he rests one hand on the roof of your car and the other on his hip. "was that just a practice for you, or...?" a light pant in his voice.

"don't get cocky now." you gesture for him to back up. flinging open your door, you step out, pulling on the muscles of your traps as you stretch your neck.

he takes a single step closer to you. now he's standing a little too close for comfort, close enough that you can smell the woody notes of his cologne. "that take a lot out of you?"

"you got lucky, that's all." his gaze on you is unwavering, only moving away from your eyes to study the other parts of your face.

"i did, didn't i?" you catch his eyes flicker between yours and your lips.

an unsettling feeling sparks in the pit of your stomach. slowly, mark brings his hand up to your face. with his index finger, he traces from the back of your jawline to your chin. at the slight of his touch, you can feel a shiver running down you.

you can feel his warmth emanating off of him. bit by bit, he closes the gaping distance between the two of you. mark places his thumb on the other side of your jaw, gently guiding your face towards his.

but, something in you tells you to stop. stop whatever he's doing, stop yourself from giving into whatever he's doing.

you place a hand on his chest, met with the cold, harsh leather of his jacket. you drop your head, so that you're not facing him directly.

"i think..." at your words, mark releases the gentle hold he had on you and shuffles a step or two away from you. he clears his throat.

"i'm..." mark shuts his eyelids for a moment, "i'm sorry," his hands seem to begin to gesture something before he puts them in his pockets.

"no, no," you feel a slight shake of your head. a sudden train of thoughts rush through your mind. "i think i should go."

mark seems to mutter a small "yeah," as he backs away from your car.

...

"haechan, open your damn door right now," you call out as you're knocking so hard on haechan's bedroom door that it's sure to give out after another minute.

"i'm coming! i'm coming," you hear his voice from the other side. "god, you don't have to come breaking down my apartment every time; phones exist for a reason, y'know?" the handle twists and his door swings open.

your heart is practically pounding out of your chest. you had so much to tell him that you don't even know where to start. haechan stare at you blankly, "so, speak."

"mark! mark fucking lee-"

"sorry- is this someone that i'm supposed to know?"

you're pacing up and down the hallway of haechan's apartment, "yes! you do know him, it's that guy! that drift guy from the leagues."

"you're on first name basis with him?" he questions with a grin on his face that you know too well.

"it's not like that!" you take a pause in pacing, "i don't know, maybe it's like that- i just- ugh!"

haechan exhales and steps out of his doorway. he closes his door behind him, and begins to shuffle you towards the kitchen. "slow down, take a seat," he points at the kitchen stool, "you want a drink?"

"what- no, just listen!"

"i am, i am," haechan proclaims as he goes to grab a glass bottle of beer in the middle of the island as he sits on the stool facing you. "go on, then."

you tell him that you met mark—drift—back at the league race that he was supposed to go to with you the other night. then, about how mark took to you the beachside for whatever reason afterwards. then, today, you were racing him and he was about to kiss you? now that you're regurgitating all this information, you couldn't even wrap your head around it.

"but he was good, haechan, you were right."

"you should say that more often," haechan takes a sip of his beer.

"bro, if he beats me at closing..." your shoulders deflate at the thought. you hadn't even considered this possibility of losing until mark showed up out of nowhere.

haechan forcefully sets his bottle down on the hard counter. "you're tweaking. like, actually," a chuckle comes out with his words. what he's saying doesn't seem to be resonating with you, so he tries to go another approach, "look, listen, i know i was worried before but, i know your skillset, yn. there's no way some guy can just come in and beat you."

you try to convince yourself into believing what haechan is telling you, but rationally, you know that today's race proved to be way too close. "no, but, that kiss as well- that almost kiss. what am i supposed to make of that?"

haechan leans his elbows onto his knees. "isn't it obvious? he's distracting his competition," he goes to wrap his fingers around the base of the bottle, "and look at you; it's working, isn't it?"

you sigh. you hated how logical haechan's reasoning for it was. surely, that was it, it's stupid to think it was anything more, right?

"so, what do i do?"

haechan takes you in for a second. a devious smirk begins to appear on his face. you know that whatever he's about to say, you won't like it.

"you show him..." he points the neck of the beer bottle at you, "...that two can play that game."

you sit in silence staring at haechan for a moment—he looks like he expected to be applauded for such a genius idea. "okay... and how the hell do i do that?"

"revy's party, tomorrow night. we're going."

you step through into a dimly lit kitchen, it's floor sticky with who knows what. it's been less than 24 hours since haechan suggested the two of you attend a party thrown by another one of your racing rivals. less than 24 hours since you've gone back on your word, claiming to yourself that you will never attend a party like this. and the reasoning is right in front of your eyes: a cramped room filled with people you don't know, music so loud that it penetrates inside of your skull making your brain physically vibrate, and not to mention the lack of actual food? there's no way you can survive on cheap liquor and cheese puffs all night. and thinking about tomorrow makes it all the worse.

and that's why when haechan first proposed this idea to you, you were dead set on denying it. "no," you'd said, "absolutely not." his genius idea turned out to be voluntarily putting yourself in uncomfortable social situations? added with the fact that it's the night before closing?

"what other option do you have?" haechan had asked.

and you supposed he was right. you had no other choice. you had tonight, and only tonight, to really play your cards right.

so, that's why you're here, in the kitchen of someone's house—whose, you didn't know. haechan steps through with you right at your side. you're scanning through the heaps of people, some drinking, some making out, some straight up dry humping on each other. truly a stereotypical scene that looks as though it came straight out of a coming of age movie.

and you spot him. just like haechan had said, he's here.

mark stands all the way across the kitchen, preoccupied talking to a girl. you haven't seen her before, and you certainly haven't seen the pair of them together before. cups in both of their hands, they seem to be chatting, enjoying each other's company, and you turn the plan you had come up with together with haechan over in your head.

finding yourself stuck in a rut—luckily one that's shallow enough—you tap haechan on his arm, then gesture toward the beverage table. the both of you approach it but neither giving in to the giant bowl of red punch in the centre of it. the kitchen floor was sticky, the air is sticky, you don't want to think about the implications of what could be in this bowl. you reach out to grab a can of beer, and haechan follows. "i spotted him," you tell haechan, not necessarily speaking carefully because if you did, he wouldn't hear you over the booming of the house music that's being played.

"yeah?" he takes a swig of his room-temperature beer. "you know what to do then?" he lifts a brow at you, and when you respond with an expression that told him 'yes' no matter how hesitantly, he snapped you a quick wink, and did a 180 heading for another cramped room in the house.

for the next several minutes, you're stood by the bar, back facing the rest of the party downing gulps after gulps of canned beer. you don't feel it doing much aside from warming you up a little bit. you're about to reach for a second one, when a figure steps into your peripheral.

you try to discreetly figure out who the person is standing next to you, but the moment you caught a glimpse of his face, you knew.

mark wanted to break the ice by saying something witty, but... was that appropriate after your last encounter?

"you're a... big fan of the beer, i'm guessing?" he remarks as he's observing your hands; one holding an empty can, and the other reaching out for a new can.

"it's not as bad as i thought," you respond curtly.

as you're pulling back the tab on the new can, you think to yourself. if you want to make this plan work, you've got to kill the awkward tension. and so, your mind jumps to the only topic you can think of.

"who's that girl you were talking to?"

mark seems to be surprised; were you asking him? after a brief moment of silence, a recognition slips out of him, "oh," he shrugs, "she was just saying how she always wanted to race and, stuff like that." he seemed to have caught himself rambling, and stopped before he went on any further.

"sounds like she was hitting on you," you shoot a quick look in his direction as you take a small chug from your can.

he gently shakes his head, eyes fixed on the bottle clasped between his hands, "no, she was just being friendly."

"mh," you're watching mark now. "so, not another one of your conquests?"

mark truly looks puzzled, if he's not, then he's doing great acting like he is with that expression on his face. you can practically read his internal monologue at this very second: what are you talking about?

"i'm not... picking up on what you're saying, exactly."

you have to turn this around somehow. but how? in your mind, this is already botched. go home, you ruined it.

"i just..." you set down your can on the table in front of you. one thing that obnoxiously loud house music is good for is filling in the spaces of silence as you think about what to say next to him. "i guess, i'm just thinking about the other day."

at this moment, you piqued mark's interest. he looks at you with a glint in his eyes. "about that," he turns his body to face you, "look, i'm so sorry- i didn't mean to misread the situation and-"

"you didn't."

mark's lips are still left slightly parted, frozen from his last words. confusion strikes him again.

"i'm sorry- you didn't," for whatever reason, you can't look into his eyes, but you continue anyway, "just in that moment, it was so..."

the bass had been booming since the moment you stepped foot into this house but right at that second, it blared even louder—you didn't even know that that was possible. you can physically feel your heart in your chest jumping each time it thundered.

mark wears an agitated expression from this sudden change in atmosphere, and now, you practically had to yell out to even hear another person standing a foot away from you.

he gestured toward the window outside, mouthed something along the lines of, "wanna head out?" and you followed. mark grabs ahold of your hand, leading you through the horde of sweaty, sticky people until he finally pulls you outside. though, you're not completely free from the roaring bass, you can at least rest your ear drums for a bit.

mark exhales, air puffing up his cheeks. "you were saying?" he turns his gaze towards you, and it strikes you as the perfect time now.

your features twist in a manner of disarray—"i think i have a headache from that whole... situation." you press the inner wrist of your right hand up against your temple.

mark takes one step closer towards you, "are you alright?" he tilts his head to get a better look of your expression.

"yeah, i think i just need to get somewhere quiet," you wave the concern in his voice away.

"do you want me to take you home?"

for a second, you would've agreed, but then you thought back, and you don't think your apartment's in any state to be seen right now.

you give a brief shake of your head, wrist still pinned to your temple. "no, not right now," you say, hoping that he wouldn't ask for an elaboration.

"um, i can take you to my place if you don't mind?"

not wanting to give away too much of your act, you agree hesitantly. "is that alright with you?"

"yeah, of course," and he leads you to his car.

he'd insisted on you waiting out where you were so that you didn't have to walk all the way to his car, but he also didn't feel right about making you wait on your own, so he guided you to where he'd parked, each of his steps designed to match your pace.

...

the ride to his place was quiet, but not uncomfortable. it was a quick drive, but even so every now and then he would look over to make sure you're not too out of it.

he unlocked the door to his apartment, and it was beautiful to say the least; much more kempt than yours. it was mainly one big room with the bathroom tucked away somewhere in the corner. floor to ceiling windows lined the walls facing the entrance door and his bed laid in the centre of the room, facing the windows with a view of the cityscape.

you drag your feet inside, trying to hide at least some bit of your awe.

mark's voice snaps you out of it a little, "do you want some water? anything?"

"i don't mean to have you take care of me," you look back at mark, a tiny spark of guilt igniting within you.

"it's just water, yn," he chuckles as he goes to grab a glass off of his drying rack and pours you some water. "if you want you can rest a bit in my bed."

you're not sure what it is, but it's like you're seeing another version of mark; another side to him. his generosity takes you by surprise and as you take the glass from his hands, wanting to extinguish that guilt, drinking from it only makes the flame grow stronger.

you're stood by the counter, him being only a few steps away from you. the kitchen lights are off, the entirely of his apartment dimly lit with ambience lighting being the only sources of light.

you watch mark's face. the parts of it that are in light, and the other parts that are in shadow. his lips are illuminated by the light along with the right side of his face. maybe the alcohol has gotten to you, or maybe it's your raw, unfiltered desire, but you reach out with the back of your fingers and gently caress the sunken plane under his cheekbone. he seems to melt at even a trace of your touch. he takes ahold of your hand with his, and brings it down.

you take half a step closer towards him, eyes lingering on his.

"what are you doing?" he whispers breathily, eyelids fluttering.

you lean in the slightest bit closer, eyes focused on mark's lips and that was all the invitation mark needed to press his lips onto yours.

he's slow, and gentle. he takes your lips into his with a softness you hadn't expected. one hand goes to cup your face and the other wraps around your waist, pulling you closer into him. he savours every second that your lips are on his, and every time they part, he would go in deeper so as to not forget the taste of your lips on his tongue.

he kisses you with a deep, deep hunger. his hands, too. they roam every inch of your back, pulling you into him as close as you possibly can be until your chests are pressed against each other. you go to wrap your arms tightly around his neck, fingers tangled in his hair, and it's still not enough. you need to breathe him in as if he is the very oxygen that your life depended on.

he pulls away with a smack from your lips. panting heavily, he begins to breathe out, "do you-?"

"yes." whatever he would've said, you knew you wouldn't have denied him.

"are you sure you want this?" he asks again, still breathing heavily with his chest rising and falling against yours.

you give a quick nod of your head, "just kiss me again."

and so he does. mark devours your lips with a newfound lustfulness; pressing onto your lips a little bit harder than before, even biting down on your bottom lip, eliciting a curse out of you.

his hands slide all the way down to your thighs, and he grips tightly onto them as he lifts you up to around his hips. you wrap your legs around him, without breaking away from your kiss. you can feel the two of you moving, but your eyes remain shut.

mark once again pulls back from you, eyes looking right through you with a need to devour. he drops you onto his bed but his hands stays on you. one of them runs up... and then down the underside of your thigh. you're leering at him, desperate for him to touch you more, explore you more, and he can tell.

he kneels down, hands still gripping onto your thighs, and he pulls you closer to the edge of the bed. he pushes your legs open, making space for himself in between your thighs. "take this off for me, baby," he utters quickly, impatiently, as he taps on your upper thigh, veiled by the thin fabric of your skirt.

you respond not with words, but with the speed of which the skirt is stripped off of you—eager to please, eager to be pleased.

his fingertips settle into a crook on either sides of your upper thigh as he's pulling you closer to him. you can feel his breath sticking to your skin. every second that he's not touching you, you're aching. the tip of his tongue glides over your panties and you shudder at his movements. you're growing more and more impatient with his obvious teasing as the desire within you becomes harder and harder to fulfil. "fuck, mark," you curse him for purposefully not removing the barrier standing in between you and pleasure. you hear him chuckle, and a word from you is enough to get him to oblige, for now. he pushes the fabric of your panties to the side, baring your slit on full display for him.

"god," he breathes out, and you can feel his breath fan out on your pussy. and in a second, his tongue is licking circle after circle over your clit, exploring between your every fold. he's losing himself in eating you out. he can't help but groan against every buck of your hip, and every time, it sends vibrations that seep into your skin. "you taste so fucking good," he mumbles out. in between the insatiable movements of his tongue against your cunt, he would plant soft kisses onto your folds—the contrast of it all driving you absolutely crazy.

a mixture of his drool and you is running down his chin, but that's nowhere near enough to stop him. the thought of having you dripping down him turns him on even more. your hands are grabbing at fistfuls of mark's hair. with a single swirl of his tongue, you suddenly jerk too hard and he moans against the fiery sensation pulling on his scalp. you try to fight against the urge to push him deeper into you, both of your arms and legs shaking at this point.

as you begin to feel a clench in your stomach, mark uses his hand to separate your legs that are threatening to close together, "keep your legs open for me, baby." you try and try, but you can't help the pressure that's building between your thighs. you bite down on your lip, trying not to let mark hear any of the embarrassing moans and cries you would want nothing but to let out. and just as you're so close to your orgasm, mark takes his tongue off of you.

he stands up again, using the back of his hand to wipe his chin.

"what the fuck-?" you bite out. a bit dazed, but you know enough that that wasn't the release you wanted.

mark coos at you with feigned sympathy, "aw, poor baby." he plants one palm onto the mattress as he leans in, hovering over you. "don't you want to taste yourself on my lips?"

you pull yourself out of your haze, latching your lips onto his. his thumb drags along your jawline. mark hums against your kiss, "you turn me on so goddamn much." he climbs over you, his entire body hovering over yours, and your hands grip at his waist before flipping him under you. he looks surprised, a delighted smirk drips on his mouth. "you had that in you the whole time?"

you reply brusquely, "lose the shirt already," not up for any more teasing tonight.

"bossy," he utters, but complies without hesitation.

you place your hands directly on top of the waistline of his jeans, positioning yourself so that you're sat directly on top of the bulge in his pants. a tiny moan escapes you. mark watches you with a satisfaction glistening in his eyes, "can you feel how hard i am for you?"

you would grind down on his bulge until you gave yourself the release that he owed you if it weren't for the roughness of his jeans. frustrated, you moved yourself further down his lap and impatiently worked the zipper on his pants, pulling them down until his hard cock sprung up hot and red. you ignore the watering in your mouth at the sight of his dick, too eager to feel it inside you.

you wrap your fingers around his cock along the base of it, giving it a tiny squeeze before you slide your hand up his shaft. mark watches with a furrow in his brow and grumblings stuck in his throat. he doesn't want to take his eyes off of you for even one second. you give his cock a few more strokes, so, so painfully slow, though. then, using just your middle and ring finger, you run it up on the side of his dick, reaching the tip, and you drag small little circles over on top of it—spreading his precum all over. mark breathes out a repeated string of curse words as you begin to apply more pressure to his head.

holding back a sly smirk, you take your hand away from mark. you get up on your knees, still straddling him, and you extend your hand out in front of mark's face. "spit on it."

he follows your words without even having the chance to think about challenging you. he is so, so eager to please you. you bring your hand with his spit up to your own chest and you do the same. you smear the two of you all over his cock, applying more pressure with each stroke now than before. his hands goes to grip tightly on your hips, fingertips already digging into your flesh.

you position yourself so that you're hovering directly over mark's big, hard cock, twitching under you. reaching under you, you can feel the tip of his erection resting against your cunt. you drag your hips in a back and forth motion, sliding his head up and down your slit. mark throws his head back, groaning and whining, "fuck, baby- please." you have to admit, the sight of him absolutely unravelling under you is the sexiest fucking thing you've ever seen. "please, please, please," he blurts out a few more pleads..

"what do you want me to do, huh?"

"please, just ride me," he mumbles, words just tumbling out of his mouth at this point. and who are you to deny such a polite request?

you sink down on mark's cock, with each inch you can feel your core beginning to shake. the two of you moaned and groaned with a shared pleasure. a gasp whacks itself out of you as you fully sit down on his cock, taking every inch of him.

mark bites down on his lip, pleasure overriding him, "look at that." he throws his head back, sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth, "you're taking all of me." his hand palming over your ass in a way that you can tell he wants to just pick you up and bounce you on his cock.

you start moving your hips gently, still letting yourself adjust to his size. with every whimper that you let out, mark goes absolutely crazy—he wanted to hear you, he wanted that so badly.

and deciding that he needed more, his hands goes to lift your hips up from him and he pins you back down underneath him. his erection now rested atop your thigh, dragging over your skin as he goes to whisper in your ear, "you tell me if it's too much, okay?" you nod, eyes lingering on each other.

he looks downwards, aligning himself with your entrance. he doesn't waste any more time and-

"fuck!"

you cry out, with the first thrust of his hips into you. mark stops and watches your expression for a second before he rams his hips into you again.

he picks up the pace, hips smacking into yours at a steady rhythm. the sloppiness of the two of you filled the room with the melodies of your moans.

"shit, baby," disjointed thoughts fell out of his mouth one after another, moans peppered throughout. as he thrusted himself in and out of you, all he could do was whisper next to your ear how good you felt.

as he kept on thrusting into you, it wasn't long before you can feel that pressure building up again. "fuck, i'm so close," you pant out breathily to mark.

"yeah?"

he pounds into you even harder and harder, making you want to scream out his name but you fight against it.

"don't hold back, baby," he grunted, "i want you to get fucking loud for me."

however embarrassing the noises you made were, you didn't care anymore. you just wanted to feel good with mark's cock dragging in and out of you and you wanted him to know how fucking good it felt. you moan out, alternating between 'fuck,' his name, and pure cries of ecstasy. you slither your hand down in between you two, rubbing violent circles on your clit just so you can reach that orgasm you so badly wanted faster.

you can feel your core tightening around mark. you try to tell him but your mind is gone, only leaving behind unintelligible moans.

"you gonna cum for me?" mark teased, his hips still ramming into you at the same pace, "come on, then. cum on my cock, baby."

even at the slight of his request, you begin to fall apart. your muscles tensing up, fingertips digging into his back and your head thrown back as you reach your orgasm. you scream out in pleasure.

"that's it, baby- good girl," mark's hips are still thrusting into yours, though at a slower pace, fucking you through your orgasm. "god," he looks down to see you clenching around him so tightly that it propels him into his own orgasm. "oh, fuck- i'm gonna cum-"

and just as he does, he pulls himself out of you as he shoots his load all over your stomach. still coming down from the high of your own orgasm, you feel an aching void now in between your legs. mark grunts and collapses his head into the crook of your neck, trying to steady his breath as he milks all the cum out of him onto you.

the air is sticky between you two, heavy breathing filling the silence. mark flops onto his bed next to you, one hand covering his forehead.

"are you okay?" he looks over at you.

"yeah," you breathe out, catching your breath.

"good," he mutters as he reaches out to cup your face in his hand. "come here," he pulls the two of you closer on the bed. then, he returns to kissing you ever so gently, his fingers on the back of your neck and his thumb resting in front of your ear. "let's get you cleaned up."

...

you're sitting on mark's bed in a fresh new t-shirt that he gave you, drinking from the glass of water that he also gave you. mark is in the bathroom, cleaning himself off.

now that the heat of the moment's gone, you're not too sure what just happened. what does this all mean? because believe it or not, your original plan with haechan did not include jumping mark's bones.

mark walks out of the bathroom, sweatpants on with a thin white tee. he throws a towel over his shoulder, his hair wet from his shower. you watch as he walks over to his kitchen to grab another glass of water for himself.

he approaches the bed—you—and truly, you did not know if you should address some of your concerns with him. so, what are we? or is this a one time thing? you should've known that this would make you spiral.

he sits down right next to you after setting down his glass on his bedside table. "are you sure you're okay?"

to be met with a consideration like that shocked you a little, when you yourself didn't even think to ask him that. "yeah, why wouldn't i be?" you try to dismiss his worry and concern.

"you just looked a little shaken up- that's all." he watches you for a moment longer before turning his head. you look over at the clock on top of his bedside table: 11:17pm. it's still not too late, you can go home if you wanted, to run away from the consequences of your own actions, but what then? you're still going to see mark tomorrow at the closing race, and leaving now would just make everything the more awkward.

as if he read your mind, mark voices out, "stay the night," he's not looking at you as he says this, "stay with me," but now he is. his hand reaches over and clasps over the back of your hand, giving it a tiny squeeze.

you were about to protest, "don't you know what tomorrow is?" but of course he knew. so instead, you mumble out a fragile, "okay."

he crawls into bed, lifting up his covers, and he pats on the space next to him. taking that as a signal, you set the glass in your hands on your side of the bedside table, and slide in underneath the covers next to him. you pull the sheets up over your shoulders, head laying half on the pillow, half on mark's chest. mark wears a silver necklace with a cross pendant hanging from it. as he's laying down, that pendant droops down the top of his chest sliding along its chain, sitting right in front of your eyes.

you rest your hand over mark's heart, feeling every thump underneath your palm. mark breathes out loud, then he plants a kiss on your head. your fingertips fidget with his pendant.

"can i ask you something?"

mark looks down at you playing with his necklace, "sure."

"why did you start-?" you take the pendant in between your thumb and your pointer finger and you flip it over so the right side is facing you. "...racing?"

you thought you'd knew what was not the answer: money. living in a place like this—no doubt it wasn't cheap.

mark hums. he shifts his body so that he's now laying on the back of his head on top of his hand. "i like it," he drawls.

you tilt your head up to look at him, without a word, saying that's it?

he continues, "my uncle used to do it." he has one arm wrapped around you and you begin to feel a gentle tapping on your shoulder from his fingers. "it's something i can do to remember him by."

before he even lets you contemplate what to say to that that's not "i'm so sorry for your loss," again, he reflects the question back onto you.

"what about you?" he tucks his chin inwards, looking at you lying on his chest. "tell me about your big goals and ambitions," you can tell he's trying to lighten the mood with the way his voice carried an airiness to it.

"mmh, i like it as well," you say, "and it'd be nice to not have to rely on working at that convenience store." you catch yourself in an unexpected moment of unbridled honesty.

you didn't mind it so much—mark. you didn't mind telling him more about yourself; something about being in his arms made you feel like the world was small, and only the two of you are in it.

"for what it's worth, you're my favourite cashier," mark smiled a skittish smile.

"how many cashiers do you know?"

"two."

"i guess i'll take that."

NEW YEAR'S EVE, 10AM

you wake up the next morning with an ache in your neck. you raise your head from mark's chest from the night prior. he's asleep.

as quietly as you can, you slide your body out of mark's bed. as soon as you're up on your feet, the scent of mark's cologne hits you—his shirt.

immediately, you get to scavenging for your clothes that got strewn all over the apartment last night in a frenzy. haechan had given you something the night before, and you hid it in the pocket of your skirt—where is it?

you spot your skirt on the floor. you kneel on the floor, hands patting down every panel of the fabric, fingers dipping into every crevice. and then you feel it. something soft, but not like the softness of the skirt. you pull out a carefully folded square of tissue paper. you grip the tissue tightly in your hands, crumpling the square.

you pull your clothes up from the floor and quickly change back into them, shedding out of mark's t-shirt that you toss onto his bed.

tissue still in your hand, your head snaps toward mark—lying there, still asleep. then, your attention turns to the glass next to him. it was half full last night, now it's filled up again. he must've refilled it in the middle of the night.

you look back in your hand. then, at his glass. you close your fingers tightly, folding the tissue paper into itself, and you can feel two distinct pellet shapes pressing into your palm through the paper.

there's no way you can even contemplate this, right?

you recall your conversation with haechan just the previous night, before all of this happened:

"you want me to-?"

"no. whatever you're gonna say- no. well..."

"this is insane," you remembered exclaiming in the living room of haechan's apartment.

"2's barely enough to knock him out, much less kill him," haechan started to sound unhinged trying to rationalise this idea to you. "he'd just be too out of it, he won't show up to closing tomorrow, and boom. you're winning, guaranteed."

your mouth is agape, mind completely blank. there's no way you're willing to drug someone for a race. you may not be the most humble, yes, but being immoral?

haechan seems to have given up trying to convince you, "look, just take it with you. whether you use it or not, it's up to you."

and now you're staring at your closed palm, shocked that you're even hesitating to up and leave right now, when you're given the chance.

they're just sleeping pills. you can hear your thoughts merge with haechan's rationale.

no, no, no, no, no. you have to leave.

you have to leave right now, before doing something you're going to regret.

you contemplated throwing the pills away still wrapped up in the tissue here, at mark's place. but if he finds them, what is he going to think? so, you shove it back inside of the pocket of your skirt, rush to grab whatever you'd taken here with you last night, and hurried off.

...

luckily enough, mark didn't live too far away from where haechan lived, and as you make your way out of the lobby, you can recognise where you are in the city.

you walk the few blocks it takes to get to haechan's place.

bright and early, you knock on his door for once—you didn't bring his key with you last night.

you wait outside for a minute or two, before deciding to knock again. this time, calling out for his name as well.

then, an alert pings through on your phone. a text. from haechan

'you're scaring my hookup.'

before you can type out a response, haechan appears in front of you as his apartment door swings open.

"so, where's the hookup?" you step in, making sure your voice is loud and clear—you know haechan too well.

"she climbed out the window, she was so scared," haechan yawns. his hair messy and his glasses slanted on his nose bridge. "so, what happened?"

you draw out the crumpled piece of tissue from your pocket and hold it up like you're putting it on display for him.

"i knew you weren't going to do it—i'm talking about your outfit. you clearly didn't go home last night... what happened?"

oh, you thought, shit. maybe you should've changed first before coming here. now you have to come up with a logical cover-up, or tell haechan the truth of what happened—you don't know what's worse.

"i guess... i was the hookup who climbed out the window or something, i don't know," you mutter under your breath, trying to shrug it off nonchalantly but you can see haechan's jaw drop.

"oh, my god, yn," a sense of pride booming through in his tone, "look at you turning over a new leaf. sleeping with the competition?" he gives a slight shake of his body that makes you immediately regret your decision to tell him.

"no, it had nothing to do with that," you shake your head, "i don't know."

haechan looks at you with a certain look, one that has his eyebrows raised and one that tells you 'i don't believe you.' "whatever you say~" he mocks. "you're ready for closing tonight, though, right?"

"yeah, i think i am."

NEW YEAR'S EVE, 11PM

you haven't spoken to mark today, yet. you've never exchanged phone numbers, or any social medias now that you think of it.

you spent the day tirelessly getting yourself ready, both physically and mentally, for the big closing race tonight. tonight's the night. tonight is what you've been looking forward to all year. the culmination with 100k on the line. practically double your annual pay all in one night. you don't want to sound shallow, but you don't want to disregard that this could have a genuine impact on your life.

you're familiarising yourself with the streets tucked away in another quiet part of the city. as you're walking through intersections and making turns at the corners, you hear a sudden blast of feedback.

"hello, testing."

the voice is not too loud but strong enough. you decide that you need to put your mind to rest, and walking, roaming these streets weren't going to do that. you make your way back to where the majority of people are; at the finishing line. crowds of onlookers haven't manifested yet, but soon these streets will be full of people, chanting and cheering either at your loss or your triumph.

although you have a few years of experience under your belt, it was this year that rapidly shot you into notability. last year, you also attended a closing race—your first closing race—but your performance wasn't the most remarkable. you had less to lose then. but since then, you've gained more and more recognition, more credibility. it'd be crushing if you had a repeat of what happened last year.

time seems like a blur. before you know it, there's 10 minutes left until the race. tradition was that it begins right as the clock strucks midnight, cars speeding off into the new year. and now you're standing off to the side, watching 11:50 statically on your lock screen.

a group of people heading for one direction catches your attention. the other racers. they're all already getting into their cars, you suppose you should, too.

there's a certain melancholy within you. there shouldn't be, right? tonight's the big night. but you can't fight this feeling away.

you crouch into your car. your previous performances earning you a spot right in front of the starting line; a huge advantage.

you shake off your wrists, cracking one side of your neck, then the other. your fingers grip onto your steering wheel tightly. to your right, you spot minjeong already looking at you, a sweet smile on her face. you turn your focus back onto yourself.

you know what to expect. the 'announcer'—not official, but whatever—will give you a 10 second warning. then, along with the crowd, they'll all count down to the new year from 3, and from there, it's all you.

you still haven't seen mark around, yet, you have no idea what spot he would be in. as you're attempting to get a deep breath into you, the 10 second warning comes... then...

"and everyone! 3!"

"2!"

"1!"

you had your foot already on the gas before '1' was chanted, so once you heard the signal, you shift your gear and you race off onto the meandering street. cheers erupt behind you, but you're already too far gone to hear the choruses of "happy new years!" clearly.

the velocity at which you're racing at forces and pins you against your seat. the grip on your steering wheel tightens. before you knew it, the adrenaline kicks in. minjeong isn't next to you, and you don't have time to check behind you.

you tell yourself you don't care. you don't care where your opponents are at, as long as you're first.

and so, you put yourself in the forefront of your mind. the beginning's gone pretty smoothly so far.

just as you're about to fly past a speed bump, you hear a long beep from behind you. as your tyres land, jolting you in your seat, you flash a quick glance at your rearview mirror. you can barely make out the person's face, but you recognised the car as mark's. shit. and what was he thinking—honking at you—is this a joke to him?

he's following closely behind you, you don't know exactly how close but the audience does. he tails directly behind you as you zoom past the horizontal road running through the starting intersection. for a second, you can hear the collective shouts and hollering as you speed past the crowd. the announcer makes some comment on—you're assuming—how close mark is to you, but you can't hear.

you're nearing the incline, the part of the course that spirals up, then leads back down again reconnecting into the main streets. you press onto your pedal harder to maintain your speed even as you're driving up at an angle. mark is catching up, the front of his car now aligned with where the edge of your door is. you twist your steering wheel, turning way sharper than necessary, but that's the only way you can think of to gain some more ground on mark.

you're going back down now, and the finish line isn't far. one more turn, and it's a straight line to the end. the revving of mark's engine is still within earshot.

approaching the turn, you push your steering wheel down to the left, your body swinging in the opposite direction. you can see the horde of people at the end of the street, now just a blended blob to you, about 100m away.

you glance back at your rearview, and just at that moment, mark looks to have overdone his turn. he quickly recovers from it, but you've gained at least 2 seconds from that, and even a split second matters.

you had it.

the adrenaline now courses all throughout your body, and it's like you get deja vu from that make-pretend race you had with just mark. you step on your gas as hard as you can, like you did before... and you blitz past the finish line. mark, too, right behind you.

you slowly release the pressure on your pedal and you can hear the fanfare in the not-so-far distance. finally, you feel like you can take a breath.

you pull off into the parking lot reserved for the candidates, the whole time with mark following you. there's no spectators around this area. you come to a halt, your body forced forwards before leaning back into your seat again.

you hop out of your vehicle, a jittery feeling arising within you. you'd just won, but you're not sure if that's the sole reason for your giddiness.

mark pops his door open and practically jumps out at you, launching himself towards you with his arms open. "you did it!" mark exclaims. you jump onto him and he catches you, arms tight around your waist.

"oh, my god," you pant, still in disbelief.

"you did it, yn," mark repeats. his smile beaming so brightly.

you look down at him, eyes glimmering, and you can't hold yourself back from kissing him. you take his lips into yours and you wish in that moment that you can stay like that for eternity.

"mark, i-" you're at a loss for words, truly. he puts you down onto the ground again. you exhale.

"you did it, baby," he leans down to peck your cheek softly.

you don't know how to feel. there's a wild range of emotions within you that you can't comprehend all at once.

"go on, they're all waiting for their winner out there. go and celebrate," there's a sweetness in the melody of his voice.

you grab onto mark's hand.

The question is barely above a whisper. Mark looks at you and for the first time since you met him he doesn’t dodge it, “No.” The word is simple. Honest and it changes everything. Your breath catches. “Then why are you packing?” you ask, softer now. He lets out a quiet breath, “because I didn’t know if I was allowed to stay.” Without thinking, you close the distance completely. Your arms wrap around him. It’s not graceful. Not planned but it’s real. Mark freezes. Completely. For half a second. Maybe less. Then, slowly, carefully—he hunches down to your level to hold you back. One hand settling at your waist, the other against your back. Keeping you flush against him as you rest your head on his chest. The hug is not tight, not possessive. Just…there. Grounding.

“I don’t hate being here,” he murmurs, voice low against your hair. Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. “I know,” you whisper. Even though, five minutes ago— You didn’t. He exhales softly and you feel it. Warm.

Real.

“I just didn’t want to assume,” he adds. You pull back slightly, just enough to look at him. “Stay,” you say, softer now. “Not because of the five days. Not because you think you have to.”

A pause.

Your voice drops,“but because you want to.” Something in his expression shifts. Deepens. “Okay,” he says quietly but it feels… big.

Neither of you move right away.

The suitcases still sit open on the floor. Half-packed. Forgotten and somewhere between the misunderstanding and the truth— Something else has settled in its place. Not just comfort or familiarity, something heavier. Warmer. More dangerous because now it’s not about five days anymore. It’s about choosing to stay and neither of you are ready to admit what that really means…but you both feel it. After that, things don’t become easier. They become quieter, more loaded. When night comes again the following week, it doesn’t come empty, it doesn’t feel like the first night anymore. You notice it the moment you step out of your car. The house looks the same but it doesn’t feel the same. There’s light in the windows. Warm. Waiting. Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your shoulder bag as you step closer, your heels clicking softly against the pavement.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. That this is normal. That he’s just… inside but something in your chest feels… different. You push the door open and step into the house, heels clicking softly against the floor, your body tired in that familiar, satisfying way after a long day and before you can even call out, the door opens wider to reveal Mark. He’s standing there like he’s been waiting and beside him sits Biscuit like he’s been listening for you as well. You just stand there because he’s— different now. Not in a big, obvious way but enough. He looks… comfortable, relaxed in a way he wasn't the previous week with the sleeves of his shirt pushed up, hair falling naturally almost into his eyes, posture easy like he’s started to fit into the space instead of just occupying it.His eyes land on you and everything else— stops because you see it. The shift. The way his gaze catches, the way it lingers. You hadn’t thought much about what you were wearing when you left that morning. Now, you do. The dress hugs where it should. The heels add just enough height. Your hair sits perfectly in a way that feels effortless but isn’t. “Hi, Angel.” He says almost breathlessly and it comes out quieter than he probably intended.Your steps slow because something about the way he’s looking at you—it lingers. You became too aware of it slowly. The way his eyes take you in. Not in a way that feels uncomfortable but in a way that feels—seen. Too seen, almost like you are the only thing he can't help focus on.

“Hi,” you echo.

You step in slowly, closing the door behind you, your gaze drifting past him and then you see it. The table. Set. Candles. Food. Tonight’s dinner doesn’t feel like dinner, it feels like something neither of you agreed to call it what it actually was. The candles aren’t too bright. The house holds warmth in a way that feels intentional now—like it’s aware of the two of you sitting side by side instead of across from each other.

You notice everything.

The way he adjusted the cutlery—slightly uneven, like he wasn’t sure what the right way was but wanted it to look like he tried. The way the napkins are folded—not professionally, but carefully. The way the takeout containers sit next to the trash by your back kitchen door is replaced by plated food like it didn’t arrive in paper bags thirty or so minutes ago. You hoped he wasn't waiting for you long. Your brows lift slightly teasing, “You didn’t cook this.” “I learned my lesson,” he says quickly. You laugh under your breath, stepping closer, your fingers brushing the edge of the table, “but you set it up like this?” He shrugs, suddenly a little unsure,“…Is that weird?” You look at the chairs set side by side. Close and your chest tightens slightly. “No,” you say softly. “It’s not weird.” It’s something else, something you don’t name. He pulls out one of the set chairs offering it to you. You sit and sits beside you closer than necessary. Closer than expected and as the candlelight flickers between you, you feel it. That shift. Not loud. Not overwhelming but there. Growing. Time doesn’t rush after that. It unfolds. Slowly. You glance at him. He’s pretending to be focused on his food but he isn’t. His posture gives him away—slightly too aware, slightly too still. You take a bite first just to break it. “Okay,” you say after a moment, thoughtful. “This is actually good.” He exhales, not dramatically but enough for you to notice that this dinner is important to him.

“Good,” he mutters. “I was worried you’d say it tastes like the eggs.” You smile into your glass of wine, lifting it slightly, “I would’ve been honest.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

You both laugh at that and there’s a quiet rhythm to the conversation. It doesn’t rush, it doesn’t try to fill every space. It moves the way the rain does—steady, patient. At some point, your knee brushes his under the table. You both still, just for a second. Then continue like nothing happened but something did. It lingers. You don’t realize how much time has passed until your phone buzzes faintly on the table. You glance at it. A message. Another. You ignore it at first, reaching for your red again instead.

“…You’re busy,” he says, not as a question. You tilt your head slightly, “Sometimes.” He nods, like he expected that. Silence stretches again. Not empty, just… waiting.You tap your fingers lightly against the glass, thinking and then, “You know,” you say casually, almost like it just crossed your mind, “this is the part people don’t see.”

He looks at you, "…This?”

You gesture vaguely between the two of you. The table. The quiet. “The in-between,” you explain. “Everyone thinks it’s just filming, posting, smiling. But it’s mostly this. Planning. Thinking. Editing. Redoing things that already took hours.” He listens, really listens. Not interrupting, not rushing you along. You glance at him, then away again. “I don’t like being on camera,” you add, softer now. “Not really.” He frowns slightly, “but you still do it.” “Parts of it,” you correct. “Hands. Voice. Angles. Enough to tell the story without…” You trail off, shrugging lightly. “…being in it.” He leans back slightly, studying you in a way that feels different now. “ So you wouldn't be on camera at all?” he says. You blink at him. It’s not a question and it’s not said lightly. It’s… observed. Your lips part slightly, “yeah, maybe…it depends.” He nods once, like that makes sense to him. Like it fits and for some reason, that matters more than it should. Later, when the plates are empty and the candles have burned lower, you don’t move immediately. Neither does he. Biscuit has claimed the space near your feet, curled into himself like this is his version of approval. “You didn’t have to do all this,” you say after a while. Your voice is softer now. Not teasing, not light. Just honest. He looks down at his hands for a second. Then at you. “I wanted to,” he says simply and there’s no performance in it. No exaggeration. Just the truth. It sits between you, heavy in a quiet way. You nod, not because you have something to say but because you understand it and somewhere in between the question begins to form

Not spoken. Not yet. Too afraid to but very present all the same. In him. In you, something that neither of you is ready to ask…but neither of you can ignore anymore.

The first thing you noticed wasn’t the groceries. It was the way he walked in like he belonged. Keys set down in the same spot. Shoes nudged off near the door without hesitation. A soft exhale leaves him as he steps fully into the space like he’d been holding his breath outside. Then, “Angel, awake from your nap?”

“Hey.”

You looked up from the couch, laptop balanced on your knees.

“Yeah, I decided to work on something finally."

Your voice comes out softer than you intend. He places the bags he was carrying on the counter, already moving like he knew where things went and that—that made you pause. “You went shopping?” you ask, sitting up slightly. “Yeah.” Mark glanced over his shoulder, “ we were running out of things.”

We

We as in us. We, as in we are a unit. As if…

We are dating…?

“That doesn’t mean—”

“You were out of the granola you like to plate your favorite banana yoghurt bowl,” he added simply. You blinked.

Since when did he know how I like my fruit bowl?

You stood slowly, walking into the kitchen, watching as he unpacked everything. Bananas, apples, strawberries and then— granola. Your favorite. The kind that was extra nutty and packed with raisins for sweetness.The exact brand, the exact variety you reached for everyday. Your fingers hovered over it. “You remembered?” you asked, quieter now. Mark froze for just a second. Then shrugged, casual—but not really, “You can't exactly function in the afternoon without it.”

You swallowed and you swallowed hard because you were starting to realise how much trouble you would be in when he decides to go back to wherever the hell he came from. He didn’t think it was a big deal. Except—it was because he hadn’t even been trying to remember.

He just… did.

Somewhere along the way, your preferences matter. More than they should. “You didn’t have to,” you said softly, ignoring the fluttering waking happening in the depths of your chest. Mark glanced at you then—really looked at you.

“I know.”

And that was the problem.

Morning settles into late morning without you noticing. It always does when you’re working. The house shifts around you quietly—the kind of quiet that isn’t empty, but lived-in. The windows are still slightly open from earlier, letting in the cool, rain-washed air. The scent of damp earth lingers faintly, mixing with the clean sweetness of the fruit Mark had cut earlier. You’re already halfway into your workflow. Laptop open, camera set. Tripod adjusted just slightly off-center because you hate perfect symmetry—it feels too staged, too forced. Your sleeves are pushed up to your elbows, one of your oversized shirts slipping slightly off one shoulder without you noticing. Your hair is tied loosely, strands falling where they want because you stopped caring about fixing them after the third take.

“…and then you let it simmer—not too long, just until it thickens slightly…”

Your voice is calm. Measured. Familiar. You don’t look at the camera, you never do. Your hands move instead—confident, precise, comfortable in a way that makes it clear this is your space. Your rhythm. Behind you, Mark leans lightly against the doorway. He’s been there longer than you realize. He hadn’t meant to stop, he was just passing by but then he heard your voice and now, he can’t move because this version of you is…different. Not louder, not bigger. Just…fully in yourself. He notices everything. The way your fingers move without hesitation, the way you tilt your head slightly when you’re thinking, like you’re listening to something only you can hear, the way your voice softens at certain points—not for an audience, but because it feels right. He doesn’t understand what you’re making but he understands you. Or at least, he feels like he’s starting to.

He shifts slightly, his shoulder brushing the doorframe. The sound is small but you notice. You glance back and for a second you freeze because you hadn’t realized he was there. He looks… comfortable. Grey sweatpants. A loose black t-shirt—one of his, not a baggy one of yours this time. His hair falls naturally over his forehead, slightly damp at the ends from his shower after a quick workout. There’s something unfair about it, the way he stands there like he belongs. “You’ve been there long?” you ask, your voice softer now, the filming tone slipping away naturally. He straightens slightly, “not really.” A lie but not one you call out. You turn back to your setup, reaching forward to stop the recording, your fingers brushing lightly against the camera. The click is soft and the silence that follows is softer. You exhale, stretching your shoulders slightly, rolling tension out of your neck. Behind you, “I didn’t know you talk like that when you work.”You pause, “like what?” “Calm,” he says. “Different.” You turn halfway, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms loosely folded, “different how?” He shrugs, pushing himself off the doorframe, stepping a little closer—but not too close. “Like you’re not trying,” he says. “You just… are.” that lands. You don’t show it immediately but it does. “That’s kind of the point,” you reply after a moment, quieter now. He nods, like that makes sense, like it fits into whatever he’s already building in his mind about you and then, there's a knock on your front door. Sharp. Familiar. You don’t even think about it.“The door's open!” you call out, already turning back to adjust your setup again, checking the angle, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Footsteps. Fast. Unapologetic. “Finally,” your best friend’s voice carries in before you even see him, dramatic as always. “Do you know how long I’ve been—”

He stops. Mid-step and mid-sentence. Mid-everything. The silence that follows is immediate and strange. You don’t look up right away because Eli is always dramatic like that. You’re used to his pauses—they usually mean he’s about to say something ridiculous and stupid but this one stretches too long. “What?” you ask, still focused on your screen. No response. You glance up and that’s when you see it. He’s not looking at you. He’s staring past you at Mark. Completely still, like his brain is buffering.

“No,” he says slowly. You blink, “no what?” He doesn’t answer, he only takes a step forward. Then another, like he’s being pulled. “…No way,” he breathes, quieter now, like he doesn’t trust the sound of his own voice. You follow his gaze to Mark. Who has gone very still. There’s a shift in him. Subtle but there. His shoulders straighten just slightly. His expression closes off—not completely, but enough that you can feel the difference without understanding it. “What is happening?” you ask, slower now, your eyes moving between the two of them. Your best friend finally looks at you and the look on his face. It’s not confusion. It’s disbelief. “Wait,” he says, pointing between you and Mark. “Wait—wait, wait.” You frown slightly, “you’re not making sense.” “When you told me—” he starts, pacing once, running a hand through his hair like he’s trying to physically rearrange his thoughts, “—when you told me you had a stranger in your house…” You nod slowly, “…yes.” “I thought you meant, like, a stranger!!!” he says. You blink, “he is a stranger!!” “No,” he says, pointing again, more aggressively this time. “That is not just a stranger.”

You glance at Mark again. He exhales quietly.”Hi,” he says, almost apologetically because he already knows where this conversation is about to go. Your best friend lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scream, “you said his name was Mark,” he continues, turning back to you, voice rising slightly. “You said ‘Mark’ like it was just—just Mark—not THE MARK!?!?”

Your brows knit together, “The what Mark?” He freezes then says your name in disbelief and looks at you, really looks at you as if you've just managed to grow another head, “you can't be serious!!” You stare back. “Am I not serious enough?” He turns slowly, ignoring your existence completely and back to Mark. Back to you. Then, “you know those groups Igogo and I are always talking about?” he asks carefully.

You nod, “yeah…”

“The one I keep sending you songs from. Videos. The ones you never watch properly.” You shrug slightly, “I listen sometimes.” “You don’t look,” he corrects.

“…I don’t need to. Ears are meant to listen.”

He inhales sharply with closed eyes before he points at Mark again. “That’s him. At least one of the men behind some of the songs.” Silence. Real silence this time, the kind that stretches, settles and waits. You look at Mark, really look at him. Not the way you’ve been looking at him, not the way you look at someone you’re getting to know but like you’re trying to place something. Something familiar that never mattered enough before.

“…Oh.”

It comes out softer than expected. Not dramatic, not shocked. Just… realization. Your best friend stares at you like you’ve just committed a crime. “That’s it?” he demands. “That’s all you have?” You glance at him then back at Mark, “should I scream?” “Yes!” he says immediately. “No,” Mark says at the same time. You pause. Then, a small smile pulls at your lips. “You’re famous, Mr Celebrity?” It’s not a question, it’s not admiration. It’s just… a statement. Mark nods slightly, “…something like that.”

You tilt your head. Studying him, no wonder he can take some time off in this economy and strangely, nothing changes. Not the way he laughed this morning, not the way he stood in your kitchen and definitely not the way he looked at you last night.

Your best friend, however, is losing his mind. “I need to call her,” he mutters, already pulling out his phone. “I need to call Igogo right now—she’s not going to believe this.”You sigh softly, rubbing your temple, “don’t start.” “It’s too late,” he says, already dialing. “It’s already started, I love you but she'll give me the enthusiasm I need right now. You are a kpop buzzkill” Mark watches the entire thing unfold and for the first time since the reveal—he laughs. Soft. Real because somehow, this chaos feels… normal and that feels more dangerous than anything else.

Igogo arrives in less than fifteen minutes. Hair slightly disheveled, breath uneven, eyes wide like she’s just sprinted through half the city. “I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!!!” she exclaims the second the door opens. “I CAN'T BELIEVE MARK LEE IS IN YOUR—” and then she sees him again. In full. Not through a screen Eli had shown her when he called and she told him to shut up because the chances of that happening were almost as extinct as you showing your face on your channel. Not distorted. Real. Standing in your kitchen like he belongs there and she just— freezes. “Hi,” Mark says softly and the sound that comes out of her after is not human.

Lunch happens after the chaos settles, after introductions that are half coherent, half laughter, half Eli and Igo hitting each other's arm before they hit Mark hard on his and make him sign an autograph on paper before claiming two of your thrifted picture frames for themselves. After Eli has already started retelling the story like it’s breaking news, after she circled Mark twice like she’s verifying his existence now, you’re seated together. All four of you.The table is fuller than usual. There’s the dish you filmed earlier—rich, layered, something slow-cooked with spices that cling to the air even now. A soft stew, thickened just enough, served beside fluffy rice that still carries heat. There are leftovers too—small plates you'd had for dinner the previous night. Roasted vegetables tossed lightly in oil and herbs. A chilled fresh pasta you’d forgotten about until midmorning as you were thinking what to prepare for you, Eli and Mark before the company got bigger. Sliced fruit arranged lazily on a side plate. Eli was supposed to help you film…he clearly could not be bothered with that anymore. Mark sits beside you. Not angled away. With his knee brushing yours under the table. His arm resting along the back of your chair again—like earlier, like it’s becoming something he does without thinking. You don’t move away and you don’t acknowledge it either but Igogo sees it, Eli sees it and the silent conversation that passes between them is loud enough to feel.

“So,” Igogo starts, slowly, dragging the word like she’s savoring it, “when you said ‘Mark’…” You close your eyes briefly, “don’t.”

“…you meant him.”

“I didn’t know I meant him.” Eli snorts, “that’s worse.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh beside you. “In my defense,” you add, picking at your food, “he didn’t exactly introduce himself with a résumé.”

“I said my name,” he says.

“You said your name like it was normal.”

“It is normal!!”

Igogo leans forward, “not that name.” You nudge her lightly with your foot under the table and she grins. Unapologetic. Conversation flows. Easy, layered with teasing, curiosity, small moments that slip between laughter.They ask him questions. Some direct, some disguised as jokes. He answers. Carefully at first, then less carefully because something about this space, about you— makes it easier to loosen the edges of himself. “…so you just left?” Eli asks at some point, chewing slowly, eyes fixed on him and there it is. That shift. Subtle but real. Mark’s fingers pause against his glass, “I’m on a break.”

Igogo tilts her head. “That sounds temporary."

“It is.”

“Do you want it to be?”

Silence. It doesn’t stretch awkwardly, it settles. Heavy. Mark exhales quietly, “I don’t know.”And that— that lands because it’s honest. Too honest. You glance at him, really glance and for a moment— you see it. Not the version people know, not the composed, polished version but the one you know, the one sitting beside you now and having lunch with two of his fans. The uncertain one. The one tired in a way that isn’t physical, looking for something he hasn’t named yet. Lunch lingers. No one rushes, no one checks the time. It just…exists until plates are empty and the conversation slows naturally. “I’ll wash up.” Mark says it easily, already standing, gathering plates before you can protest.

“You don’t have to—”

“I know.”

He meets your eyes briefly. Soft and certain. “I want to,” and something about the way he says it— makes your chest tighten.The kitchen fills with the sound of running water. Low, steady and familiar. You don’t stay not because you don’t want to but because Elii is already grabbing the wine bottle and Igogo is already trailing behind him like she’s been waiting for this moment all afternoon. “Come on,” she says, dragging you gently by the wrist. “We need to talk.” You've learnt not to resist. The living room feels quieter. Warmer and softer. You sink into the couch, the glass of wine pressed into your hand before you even realize it. Eli sprawls across the armchair like he owns it. Igogo curls beside you, knees tucked under her, eyes already locked on the kitchen.

On him.

“He’s washing dishes.”

“Yes.”

“Like this is his house.”

You sigh, “he’s helping.” Eli snorts, “he’s settling.” Igogo hums in agreement, “very quickly.” You shoot them both a look, “can we not?” “No,” they say in unison. A moment passes, then, Igogo leans closer more mischievous now, lowering her voice for the drama of it all, “so.” You already hate the tone, “what?” She tilts her head toward the kitchen, “he hasn’t stopped looking at you. Have you guys had sex already?” Your grip tightens slightly around the glass, “ seriously? That’s what—” “and you haven’t stopped pretending you don’t notice, “ Eli raises his glass to his lips taking a cheeky sip before lifting it up in the air.

“To mutual delusion.”

You glare, “I’m not delusional.” “No,” Igogo agrees lightly. “You’re just letting a very attractive, very famous man live in your house and acting like that means nothing.” “It doesn’t mean nothing,” you snap quietly. They both pause because— that wasn’t what you meant to say. In the kitchen—Mark rinses a plate slowly but his focus isn’t on the dishes. It drifts to the sound of your voice. Soft. Lower now and private. He can’t hear the words but he can feel the shift and something in his chest pulls because he wants to be there. Not here, not separated by a room. He dries his hands slower than necessary trying not to think about why.

Back in the living room, Igogo nudges your shoulder lightly,“…if you two end up together—”

“We’re not—”

“—I need tickets.”

You stare at her, “…you’re unbelievable.” “I’m practical,” she corrects. Eli nods, “very, ticket prices are outrageous these days.” You laugh despite yourself shaking your head but your gaze drifts back to the kitchen where he stands. Quiet and focused. Like he fits too easily and somewhere, quietly, without asking permission— something shifts inside you. Not loud, not dramatic but enough because now, it’s not just curiosity anymore and across the room, Mark feels it too.

He just doesn’t have the words for it yet, only the weight, only the pull, the quiet, growing realization that leaving is going to be harder than he thought not because of where he came from but because of where he is now and you being in it.

One afternoon, you are working in your office space when he finds you. Curled into your chair, glasses slipping slightly down your nose, your attention fixed on your screen. Your world again. Structured and focused. Safe. You don’t hear him come in. You only notice when something appears beside you.

A bowl. You glance. Fruit.

Cut neater than before. It's always fruit. You look up. He’s standing there—one hand resting lightly against the back of your chair, the other still holding the edge of the desk.

“…You’ve improved,” you murmur.

“I’ve been practicing,” he replies quietly. There’s something softer about him now, something lighter. Like the building tension hasn’t disappeared—but it’s been… redirected. You reach for a piece without thinking.

“…Thanks.”

He doesn’t move, not right away. Instead, his gaze drifts to your screen, “What are you working on?” You tilt the monitor slightly toward him,“my next video,” you say. “Planning, editing… fixing things I’ll probably change again tomorrow. It’s complicated.”

A pause.

Then, unexpectedly, “I get that,” he says slowly. You look at him more carefully now. He continues, quieter, “Music used to feel simple for me. Now it doesn’t.” That is the first time he admits it out loud. Not the decision but the fracture. He leans in slightly. Closer, close enough that you feel it before you register it. His arm shifts, brushing lightly against your back. Not intentional but not entirely accidental either. Your breath stutters. He notices because of course he does but he doesn’t pull away. Not immediately. Instead, his gaze lingers on the screen. Then drifts slowly to you. Your glasses. The way your lips part slightly when you’re concentrating, the faint crease between your brows and something in his chest tightens. “You should rest later,” he says quietly. You blink, “What?” “You’ve been at this for a while,” he adds, softer now. You swallow.

“Okay I will.”

But neither of you moves. The air changes..Thickens and your awareness sharpens. Every small movement amplified. His hand shifts slightly against the chair, your shoulder brushes his arm and then before either of you can think it through…he leans in. Just slightly to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. Your temple. It's barely there but enough to make everything stop.

You freeze.

He freezes.

The world narrows into that single point of contact that no longer exists and suddenly it’s too much...he pulls back immediately, “I—” .You don’t respond. You can’t because your heart is racing too fast. Your thoughts are too loud and your body is too aware. He steps back and runs a hand through his hair, “I didn’t mean—” but he did and you both know it. Silence crashes in.

Heavy.

Awkward and charged. Then, he turns and leaves. Too quickly. Like if he stays, something else will happen, something bigger. Something you both won't be able to walk back from. You sit there. Frozen. The fruit untouched beside you, your screen forgotten and your thoughts spiraling because—

What does that mean?

Days later when you both mutually, reluctantly decided to ignore what had happened in your office that night, the room was quiet except for the soft clicking of the keyboards on your laptop. Mark sat next to you on your kitchen island, headphones on, one foot tapping lightly against the floor in a rhythm only he could hear. The lamp between you cast a warm glow—soft enough to blur the edges of everything. Including him.

You glanced up.

Just for a second. He was focused on his worksheet in front of him. Completely and for a moment, you forgot what you were doing. On his end, he felt it. That look. Still, he didn’t turn, didn’t break. Minutes passed or maybe hours, neither of you kept track. At some point, you both reached for something at the same time.

Your hand.

His.

Brushing. Lingering. You didn’t look at each other but neither of you pulled away quickly either. And that silence? It said more than anything else could have.

Another night comes slowly. Deliberately and neither of you knows how to act but it’s you who breaks it.

“Pizza?”

Your voice carries from the kitchen. Casual. Like nothing happened but like everything happened. He appears a moment later smiling softly at you with a nod, “Yeah.”

You lead him to the small makeshift terrence you had on your roof. One you insisted your brothers helped you make one past summer when the house was still new. Now, the rooftop is colder than expected. The city stretches around you—lights scattered like something alive, distant but present. You sit close on the small two seater couch you had. Not touching, but close with the pizza box sat squarely on his lap. The silence is different now. Not awkward, not entirely. Just… full.

“…Do you ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly.

You glance at him, “Leaving what?”

“Everything,” he says.

His voice is quieter now, more honest. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” You don’t interrupt. You let him speak because something about this feels important. “I don’t know if I fit where I am anymore,” he continues. “Or if I ever did.” The confession sitting between you is heavy. Real. The truth behind his almost distant smiles and the permanent do not disturb on his phone. You exhale softly, “maybe you’re not supposed to stay there forever.” He looks at you. Like that possibility terrifies him. “What if I regret it?” You shrug lightly, “then at least it was still your choice.” You both stay silent again until he speaks up again after a sip of his coke, “I think I might leave.”

You don’t ask what, you already know. His group. His contract. The life he has been performing inside. The life people only seemed to care about. His jaw tightens slightly.

“I don’t know how they’ll take it.”

A pause.

Then, softer, "I'm terrified to find out who I am outside of it.” That is the first time he sounds afraid in a way that is not controlled. Your hand reaches up to pull some of his hair out of his eyes, he turns to look at you, “You don’t have to know all of it right now.” Mark looks at you and there is something dangerous in how much he is looking at you. Not possession. Recognition. His hand finds yours without ceremony and you let it stay. You both grow silent again in understanding but this one feels closer, warmer and then—rain. Sudden.

Sharp.

You both laugh instinctively, scrambling to stand, grabbing the box, the drinks before seeking shelter back inside. Breathless, drenched and laughing. The rain doesn’t stop when you reach the stairwell. It follows you in—soft at first, then louder, drumming against the rooftop door you just pushed open, as if it refuses to let the moment end.

You’re laughing.

Not gracefully. Not softly. You’re laughing in broken pieces, breathless, shoulders shaking, fingers still curled around the cardboard pizza box that is now slightly ruined from the rain and Mark—he’s behind you, one hand hovering near your back like he doesn’t trust the wet steps, like he doesn’t trust himself not to reach for you. His other hand is still holding onto both your drinks. “Careful—” he says, but he’s laughing too, the words barely forming, dissolving into quiet disbelief. “You’re the one who said rooftop,” you shoot back, glancing over your shoulder. Your sweater is soaked through. It clings and it’s heavier now, dragging at your shoulders, the hem brushing against your thighs where your shorts barely exist beneath it. Your socks are damp, soft against the cold tile, and your hair is dripping down your neck in slow, quiet rivulets. Mark notices everything.

He shouldn’t but he does.

Every step down the stairs feels slower than it should be. Like time is stretching. Like something is building and neither of you is naming it. By the time you reach the hallway, the laughter has softened. Not gone. Just… quieter. Warmer. The house greets you with stillness and Biscuit is sitting right by the hallway entrance like a silent judge, tail flicking lazily, watching the two of you drip rainwater all over the floor like you’ve lost all sense of dignity. “Oh my God,” you breathe, pointing weakly, “he’s judging us.” Mark huffs a laugh under his breath. “He should. We look insane.”

“You look worse.”

“That’s offensive.”

“It’s honest.” That earns a real laugh from him—low, easy, the kind that makes your chest tighten without permission and then it fades naturally because now you’re both standing there.

Close. Too close.

“I—uh…” you start, suddenly aware of everything. The wet fabric against your skin, the way your hair sticks to your neck and most importantly, the way he’s looking at you. “I should get towels,” you say quickly, stepping past him but he moves at the same time.

You almost collide.

For a second—just a second—you’re chest to chest, breath to breath, the space between you disappearing so fast it feels like a mistake. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“Yeah. Me too.”

Neither of you move. Mark recovers first. He clears his throat, dragging a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back—water droplets flicking onto the floor, “I’ll grab them,” he says. You nod, grateful for the distance but it doesn’t last because when he comes back, he doesn’t hand you the towel. He steps closer.

Again.

“Hold still,” he says, softer this time and you do. You don’t even question it. He lifts the towel to your head, hesitates—just briefly—before pressing it gently against your hair. His touch is careful, almost… reverent, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he’s too rough.You laugh under your breath. “You don’t have to be that gentle. I’m not glass.” “I know,” he says quietly but still, he doesn’t change the way he touches you.

This is dangerous.

He thinks in between his movements with both his hands on either side of your face, looking down at your frame as you find the floor more intriguing in exaggerated wonder.

You are dangerous.

The way you’re standing in front of him, soaked, smiling softly, trusting him without even realizing it. He drags the towel down slowly, drying the strands near your temple, your cheek and his fingers brush your skin. Accidentally but not enough to ignore. You feel it. The shift, it's small but it’s there.Your laughter fades completely now, your breath catches—just slightly—as his hand pauses against one side of your face and suddenly you’re hyper-aware of everything.

The quiet. The rain. Him.

“You’re freezing,” he says but his voice is different now. Lower. Closer. You swallow, “So are you.” And that’s when you notice it, really notice it. His shirt. Clinging and soaked through, the fabric outlining everything it shouldn’t be outlining so clearly.Your gaze flickers, just for a second but he catches it.

Of course he does.

“Oh—right,” he mutters, almost to himself and then, he pulls the shirt over his head. It’s not dramatic.It’s not slow for effect but to you it feels like everything slows anyway.The way the fabric lifts, the way his shoulders move, the way the air changes. You forget how to breathe for a second.“Better,” he says, running the towel through his own hair now with his eyes still on you. Not casually and definitely not lightly. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to figure something out. Something important. You shouldn’t step closer but you do anyway. “Let me,” you say softly, reaching for the towel in his hands. He lets you take it but he doesn’t step back. Your fingers brush his bare shoulder as you start drying his hair, mimicking what he did for you. Except you’re not as careful.You’re nervous.Your hands aren’t steady and when the towel slips slightly, your fingers graze the back of his neck, he inhales sharply.

You freeze.

“I’m sorry—”

“No,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Your eyes meet and this time, neither of you looks away. Something unspoken passes between you. Heavy. Undeniable. This is the moment. The one you’ve been circling for days. Almost touches, almost glances, almost something more and now there’s no space left for almost. “Mark…” you whisper, you don’t even know what you’re going to say. You don’t get the chance because he closes the distance. The first kiss isn’t rushed, it's not overwhelming. It’s…careful. Tentative. Like he’s asking a question and you answer immediately. Your palms rest carefully on his chest, grounding yourself as the kiss deepens—not fast, not messy, but certain. His hand finds your waist. Warm and steady, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might step back. You don’t. The world narrows. To this, to him.To the way your breath mixes, your movements slowly syncing without thought and then, something shifts. The kiss breaks for a second. Just enough for air, just enough for realization.“We shouldn’t—” you start but your voice is weak, reminding him how cruel the world he lives in is to whatever is starting between you. Unconvincing.“Fuck,” he curses yet he doesn’t move away, telling you that he couldn't give two shits about it when you kissed him back “I know.”

Silence. One heartbeat. Two. Then, he kisses you again. This time, it's not careful, it’s deeper. Hungrier. Like something in him finally gave in. You stumble back a step, then another and he follows. Not forcing, just not letting go either. Your back meets the hallway wall. Softly but the impact sends a spark through you anyway. His other hand slides up, fingers brushing your jaw, tilting your face just enough and his lips move from yours, to your cheek. Your jaw, slowly down to your neck.You gasp. Quiet. Sharp. Mark is gone. He’s so gone he couldn't even be bothered with saving himself at this point. Completely. He knows this is the line. He knows this changes everything but the way you react, the way your hands grip him tighter instead of pushing him away. He can’t stop. Doesn’t want to and he’ll be damned if he has to, still, he can't help asking.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against your skin. He doesn’t sound like he wants you to.

Please don't.

You don’t. Your fingers weakly slide into his wet hair instead and that’s all the answer he needs.The tension that’s been building, days of it. Weeks, maybe. Every almost moment, every held breath, every glance that lingered too long.

It finally breaks.

He pulls you off the wall. Not roughly but with intention and suddenly you’re moving backwards. Towards the room that's undeniably yours.Your laughter comes back for a second. Breathless. Disbelieving. “This is—this is insane,” you whisper. “I know,” he says but he’s smiling against your lips. The door hits softly behind you. You don’t even remember walking that far along and when it closes, the space becomes smaller, quieter, all him, everything intensifies again. He pauses. Just for a second. Forehead resting against yours weakly, breathing you in like he needs it.“Is this okay?” he asks and this time, he means it. You nod because you don’t trust your voice to not betray your desperation and then, he pulls you back in. Slower this time. Deeper, like he’s savoring it now. Not rushing, not questioning. Just… feeling and the world completely disappears.

The brush of Mark's lips was soft…too soft, like he could break if you pulled away. Softly, they travelled down your throat as he took a step forward, pushing you back to where your bed was. Then, you wanted more…needed it actually, because what was once slow built itself up into something you both couldn't hold back from much longer. The crash of your lips again becomes feral and desperate…too desperate from the tiptoeing you both have been doing around each other since the first day he stepped into the world you've managed to make your own. The world he's long since wanted to belong to from the moment you blinked up at him and asked if he was serious about staying with a stranger all because he was lonely. All because he actually could open up about being lonely, something he forgot how to open up about because his glossy and flashy world expects him to be okay with everything handed to him.His hands travels low to edge of your soaking sweater, fingers travelling under, touching skin before cupping the curve of your ass through your ever tempting boyshorts. Yours clawed on his shoulders, travelling down to feel him up fully.Your hands slowly run over his chest then trace up to his muscles and biceps before settling back on his shoulders, tugging him down as you braid your fingers on the hairs at the back of his head. Mark pulls away pulling your sweater up and over your shoulders. Then his lips are back on you again, softly placing a kiss on your forehead, your cheek. Then the other before kissing you longingly and traveling down south to your neck again, your shoulder while his hands worked on your bra unclasping it before snapping it off like an expert auditioning for a magic mic number.

Mark took both your breasts warm in his hands, toying with them softly as he kissed down your cleavage leaving wet traces behind as he kneeled down in front of you before taking one into his mouth with hooded eyes that hadn't looked away from you since his cruel ministrations started, the hardened bud warm despite the cold in the room and the cold from the rain outside. The taste of your skin was enough to grow his hunger. You hummed in approval before sighing in pleasure as your fingers held the side of his head. Mark nips on the skin under the other breast he's left neglected, both his hands pull on your shorts, drawing them off your smooth legs and removing one wet sock after the other, still kissing low on your stomach. He then slowly stands up nipping his way up, on your sternum, your shoulder, your neck laving his tongue on the sting he leaves behind before kissing you on the lips again.

“You're so fucking gorgeous Angel.” He whispers on your lips as he held on your jaw. He pushes you back on the bed, climbing over you, “my gorgeous gorgeous baby.” Soft whimpers leave your lips as you arch your back into him. Your fingers dig into his back making the flesh there turn red, drawing him closer to you as he settles between your thighs. “I want you.” You whine lifting your hips to grind on his still in sweatpants. He moves to your neglected breast, flicking on your nipple with his toungue so deliciously that it has you moaning desperately for him. “No rush.” Mark smirks before latching his mouth around it and sucking hard before heading south and kissing his way over your stomach before surprising you by spreading your thighs open with his hands, groaning low when his eyes feast upon your glistening pussy with a wet lick of his lips his hunger for you clear as day when he looks at you.

“Fuck.”

Mark doesn't wait for you to protest, he dives straight in, burying his face between your legs and sliding his tongue up and down your slit. He moans into you, the vibrations make you shudder and even before you can recover, he's pulling back again to play with your clit with his thumb, his other hand opening your legs further apart before lightly slapping on your arse and grabbing a handful. He sucks on your clit again, flicking his tongue over it repeatedly as one of his fingers slowly eases into you building pressure deep inside your stomach. You don't even think you've breathed properly since all of this started and it's slightly getting to you because you are practically breaking and screaming. Your hands pull at his hair as you roll your hips against his tongue while he slowly adds in another finger, fucking you slowly as you come undone before him.

Mark pulls away from you completely and he hurriedly tugs on his sweatpants, baring himself completely naked before you. He kneels on the bed again, “Do we have protection?” You nod pushing yourself up to your bedside table pulling the bottom drawer to grab one. You hand it to him and watch as he swipes your wetness from his bottom lips while opening the condom up. Mark's eyes never leave yours as he wraps himself up. His dick long, veiny and thick that just looking at it threatens to have you soaking the bed. Then, he drags your backside into his lap grabbing his cock, slapping it against your pussy, rubbing the broad tip on your clit torturously. Your thighs twitch in his hold as he presses into you ever so slightly before pulling back.

“Ready?”

You nod moaning his name before your voice cuts short when he slides his cock into you so slowly until he is fully seated. Your spine arches wordlessly as you bite down on your bottom lip hard and he starts thrusting slowly, holding your legs to his chest so that they are straight up in the air and apart. Slowly, his thrusts begin to build up, his hips begin to move so fast. The pleasure is maddening. His cock presses every nerve, stroking every sweet spot with every delivered hard thrust. The pressure in your stomach is steadily building into higher heights than the last, faster than you anticipated. One of his hands rests squarely on your stomach, tracing his movements slowly before pressing down so deliciously that it has him pushed out of you abruptly. Mark's other hand comes down hard on your arse before holding himself to your entrance again and sliding right in. The bliss feeling makes you clench around him. His hips stutter as he rubs on your clit with his thumb in tight precise circles. You know you both won't last with how worked up you've both been to make your first time last long and he's not really helping your case with his head down, watching his cock slide in and out of you, shining with your juices as beads of cum gather in the condom. His hand slaps on your arse again and he groans at the feeling of you clenching even tighter than before around him before plunging in balls deep. He draws back slowly and slams back in again and again. Your brain is fuzzy and you can barely hold on already losing all your senses. Mark leans over you to kiss you sweetly while still fucking into you, sending you over the edge making you clench around him so hard he groans while spilling into the condom. He sucks keenly on your bottom lip as you contract down and milk him dry for all he is worth.

He calls out your name softly, still kissing you deeply as he gives long slow thrusts to keep your aftershocks going, “I like you a lot Angel.” He sighs deeply as he releases your legs from beneath him while slowly pulling out letting you wrap them around his waist while he covers you up with the soft sheet. He brushes your hair out of your face while cupping the back of your head and presses his mouth hard to yours before pulling back to look at you. “I like you too, Mr Celebrity.” You tell him and he smiles ecstatic. You smile back happy and calm, euphoric in the aftermath of the bubble he has created around you. Mark pulls back from the bed already stepping into your bathroom and you get curious as to what he's doing because you can hear water running. Then he steps back into the bedroom, pulling the sheets away from you and carrying you towards the bathroom again. The man sits you on the toilet and you look at anything but him, “We have to pee.”

Oh my goodness!?! There's that ‘we’ again?!

“Can you turn around?”

“Baby,” Mark is about to protest but the redness on your face stops him. So he simply sighs and turns around. You thank him for it and pee, when you tell him you are done, the man takes you into his arms again before carrying you into the soapy bathtub.

“A good ten minute soak, a kiss to your forehead and a good night's sleep.”

“You're doing too much.”

Mark simply shakes his head while kneeling besides you outside the tub, “this is the bare minimum Angel.” All you do is laugh. Mark places a kiss on your forehead again, “I'll come back for you,” before walking back outside for some fresh shorts to sleep in. Your heart is swelling like you like him a little bit more than you intended to even though that seems impossible. The way he makes you feel is beyond your comprehension and you can't help hoping that he feels the same because his actions towards you would be cruel if he didn't want anything serious after tonight.

The next morning does not arrive all at once. It seeps in. Soft, gray light filtering through the curtains, the kind that doesn’t wake the world but brushes against it gently, like it’s asking permission first. Mark is awake before it fully settles. He doesn’t move at first, doesn’t know exactly when he woke up—only that at some point in the quiet, his eyes open, and he doesn’t move. For a moment—just a moment—he forgets everything else. He turns his head slightly and you are there.Your presence is everywhere. In the quiet, in the warmth. In the unfamiliar, overwhelming awareness that he can still smell the faint scent of your body wash on the pillow. Curled into him, half on his chest, half tangled in the sheets like you belong there. Like you’ve always belonged there.

Your breathing is slow, deep, even.

One of your hands rests loosely against his ribs, your fingers occasionally twitching in your sleep, like you’re dreaming something soft. For a long moment, he doesn’t breathe properly because this—this right here—is the kind of peace he didn’t know he was allowed to have.

His gaze traces your face slowly.

Your lashes resting against your cheeks. The faint crease between your brows that only appears when you’re deeply asleep. The way your lips part slightly, relaxed in a way he’s never seen on you when you’re awake. No guardedness. No quick wit. No careful distance. Just…you. Something in his chest tightens. Not painfully but enough to make him swallow because there’s something painfully tender about it.

Something that makes his chest ache.

Carefully—so carefully he almost doesn’t move at all—he lifts his hand and brushes a stray strand of hair away from your face. His fingers linger longer than they should. They always do with you. You stir slightly, shifting closer instead of away, your cheek pressing more firmly against him. Mark’s breath catches.

“You’re mine,” he whispers under his breath, like he’s reassuring himself more than anything. He lets his fingers trail down, just once, along your temple—soft, reverent. “How are you this pretty?” Then, before he can think too much about it, he leans down and presses a quiet kiss to your forehead. It’s instinctive, gentle. Almost shy and it lingers. For a second too long. When he pulls back, his expression shifts— something deeper settling in his eyes. Something heavier because this isn’t just comfort anymore and he knows it.

It is dangerous

You are dangerous.

He thinks and not in the way people usually mean it. Not reckless. Not impulsive.

No.

This is dangerous because it feels right. His gaze lingers longer than it should. Long enough to memorize. Carefully, he shifts under you, easing himself out from your hold without waking you. It’s a slow process—adjusting the sheets, lifting your arm, guiding you gently onto the pillow. You mumble something incoherent, brows furrowing for a second and he freezes but you don’t wake. Instead, you curl into the space he leaves behind, instinctively seeking warmth.

His chest tightens.

“So fucking pretty Angel,” he exhales quietly. Then he reaches for the blanket, pulling it up over your shoulders, tucking it around you like it matters more than anything else in the world because right now, it does. He lingers there, just watching you for a second longer. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you.

Soft, unaware and his.

His phone vibrates. The sound cuts through everything. Sharp and unwelcome. Mark’s jaw tightens immediately. He doesn’t need to look. He already knows. Still, he reaches for it. Careful and slow. Trying not to wake you. The screen lights up. A name.

One he’s ignored for days.

His manager. There’s a pause. A long one. His thumb hovers over the screen and for a second, he almost lets it ring out again. Like he has every other time because it’s easier that way. Easier to stay here, easier to pretend the outside world isn’t waiting for him, demanding things from him or expecting answers he’s been avoiding giving. His mind flickers, Unwanted. Uninvited. Missed calls. Texts stacking up.

Call me back.

We need to talk.

Mark!! Where the hell are you?

He remembers silencing them. Turning his phone face down, choosing you, choosing quiet dinners, choosing the shared glances. The slow, careful way something had been building between you. Choosing…this. His gaze slowly shifts back to you. Still asleep, still close and still unaware of the way his world is starting to pull at him again. His chest tightens. He exhales, soft. Resigned. The phone vibrates again before it rings a second time. A sharp, intrusive sound against the quiet. Mark’s head snaps back down toward it instantly. He doesn’t need to see the name but he does anyway and his jaw threatens to break. He’s ignored the calls for days. Weeks. Letting them ring out while he sat in your living room, while he laughed with you in the kitchen, while he stood on the rooftop just yesterday under the rain like nothing else existed. It's more insistent this time. Mark exhales slowly and glances back at you. Still asleep, still peaceful. Still completely unaware of the storm waiting just outside this room.

“…I can’t ignore this one,” he murmurs to himself under his breath.

Not today.

Carefully, he looks back at you with soft smitten eyes and doesn’t miss the way your hand instinctively reaches for warmth that’s no longer there. He pauses. Just for a second. He doesn’t put on a shirt. He doesn’t even think about it. He just steps out in black boxer shorts, bare chest still warm from where you were pressed against him moments ago, his hair still messy, sleep clinging to him in the way he moves—slower, heavier.

Real.

He steps out into the hallway, closing the door gently behind him. Only then—the call connects almost immediately, “Yeah.” His voice is low. Rough with sleep but steady. His voice is sharp. Controlled. Frustrated. There’s no greeting on the other end. Just tension. Immediate. “Where have you been?”

Mark closes his eyes briefly. Straight to it. Of course.

Mark exhales quietly, leaning against the wall, one hand running through his hair, “I’ve been busy.” There’s a pause. A dangerous one, “busy ignoring your responsibilities?” Mark’s gaze drifts. Not really seeing the hallway but seeing something else entirely. You. Laughing over burnt eggs, standing barefoot in the kitchen. Looking at him like he wasn’t just what everyone else saw him as. His jaw tightens slightly. A few days ago, he would’ve apologized immediately, he would’ve softened. Backtracked. Made himself smaller to make this easier but something about this morning, about you still asleep in your bed changes the way he answers.

“I needed time.”

The silence on the other end stretches, “that’s not how this works, Lee.” His jaw tightens slightly, “I know how it works.”

“Then act like it.”

There it is. That tone. Familiar. Pressing. Expecting. Mark straightens slightly. Not defensive, not aggressive but…firmer.

“I said I’d come back,” he replies. It’s quiet again. There’s a shift on the other end. “You don’t get to just disappear, Mark. We have schedules. We have commitments. The comeback—”

“I know.”

He cuts in, but not harshly.Just steady. Measured.

“I know.”

Silence. Then, “then explain to me why you’ve been unreachable.” Mark exhales slowly, looking down at his hands. For a second, his voice almost falters. Almost. Then it steadies again, “because I didn’t want to make a decision I’d regret.”

That lands. He hears it in the pause.

“Decision?”

Mark tilts his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. His chest feels tight but clear. “I’ll be in time for the comeback,” he says finally. “Don’t worry.” Another pause. This one is heavier. “That’s not enough.” Mark closes his eyes briefly, “it’s what I can give you right now.” The words hang between them. Not careless, not impulsive. Deliberate. “You’re risking a lot,” his manager says. Mark lets out a quiet breath. A humorless one. “I know.”

“And for what?”

The question lands. Sharp. Mark doesn’t answer immediately because the answer isn't simple anymore. His gaze shifts toward the closed bedroom door, “I have some decisions to make,” he says instead.

“That’s not reassuring.”

“It’s honest.”

Silence. Then, “you’re not thinking clearly.” That—that almost makes him laugh, but he doesn’t. “I’ve never thought more clearly,” Mark replies, quieter now. Steadier and he means it because for the first time, he’s not just thinking about expectations. Or schedules, or what he’s supposed to be. He’s thinking about what he wants and somehow even though he had been contemplating it for a while, you’re now at the center of that. On the other end, his manager exhales sharply, “we’ll talk when you’re back.” Mark nods, even though it can’t be seen.

“Yeah.”

The call ends and the silence that follows feels…louder than the conversation did. Mark lowers the phone slowly. His hand lingering there. The door creaks open behind him. Soft. Barely there but he hears it and when he turns, he expects you there but you aren't and it makes him release a breath he didn't even realise he was holding.

The house had learned the shape of him. That was the first thought that crossed your mind as you stood barefoot at the kitchen doorway, watching him. You were always watching him. Late afternoon light spilled through the windows in long, golden sheets, settling across the counters, the floor, him. Dust motes floated lazily in the air, catching on the soft fabric of the oversized grey hoodie he wore—yours, you realized absently. Sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Hair slightly messy, like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. He was standing at the counter, cutting fruit on your small fruit chopping board with your favorite watermelon bowl in front of him already prepped with your yoghurt and granola.

Carefully.

Too carefully. Like if he focused hard enough on slicing strawberries into perfect halves, he wouldn’t have to think about anything else. You leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across your chest, and just… watched. He had been like this all day. Soft. Attentive.

Careful.

Breakfast had appeared without you asking—toast slightly uneven, bacon cooked better than the disaster from that first morning because in order to achieve the crunchy bacon they needed to slightly be burnt so he was safe from your scrutiny, but still clearly his effort. He’d hovered while you ate, pretending to wipe the already clean counter. He’d carried your camera bag without being asked when you filmed. He’d folded laundry, your laundry and his, with this quiet concentration that made your chest tighten and every time your fingers brushed, every time your eyes met, he smiled but it didn’t quite reach the place you had memorized. Not anymore. You shouldn’t have listened in. That thought had replayed in your head all day, like a song stuck in a loop. The phone call. His voice, low and firm in the hallway that morning.

“I said I’d come back.”

“…because I didn’t want to make a decision I’d regret.”

And then softer, softer in a way that made your chest ache, “I have some decisions to make.”

You hadn’t heard everything. Just enough, enough to let doubt bloom, enough to make you feel like this had an expiration date and now he was being so kind. Gentle. Like someone preparing to leave without making a mess. Your throat tightened.You pushed yourself off the doorframe, “Are you… opening a fruit shop?” Your voice came out lighter than you felt. Mark glanced up and for a second—just a second—his face softened fully, “There you are.” There it was, that look. The one that made everything inside you go quiet. He smiled, small, almost shy. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.” Your stomach dropped because you had been. “Just a little busy,” you said, stepping into the kitchen. It sounded wrong even to your own ears and he noticed. Of course he did.

He always noticed.

Something was off.He’d felt it the moment you woke up, in the way you didn’t wake up. The way you stayed turned away from him in bed, the way your breathing had been just a little too even. Like you were pretending and now, now you stood across from him like there was a line drawn between you.

Invisible.

But there. His grip tightened slightly on the knife before he forced himself to relax.

Dude, don’t overthink it. Don’t mess this up.

You were quieter today. More distant and the thought hit him—sharp, sudden—

Did I push too far?

Last night. The way you had looked at him, the way you had said his name, the way he had kissed you like he had been starving because he actually was and then some.

God.

His chest tightened. Maybe, maybe it had meant more to him than it did to you.

Maybe…

He set the knife down, “I, uh…” He cleared his throat, wiping his hands on a towel that didn’t need wiping. “About last night—” Your head snapped up. Too fast. Too sharp. Something in your expression flickered—panic? hurt?—and suddenly he becomes very aware that he was stepping into something fragile. Still, he pushed forward because the silence between you felt worse. “It’s okay,” he said, voice careful. “If it didn’t mean—if you don’t want what happened last night to mean anything. I get it. We didn’t…talk about it, and I don’t want you to feel like—”

Oh.

Oh.

The words hit you like cold water. Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

So that’s what this was?

You let out a small, breathless laugh but there was nothing amused about it, “Wow.” Mark freezes. You stepped back slightly, arms wrapping around yourself now. “That’s—” you swallowed, shaking your head. “That’s actually insane.” His brows furrowed. “What?” “You’re leaving,” you said, the words spilling out faster now, emotion cracking through your voice, “and the first thing you think to say is that it meant nothing?” His eyes widened. “What—no, that’s not—” “You think I didn’t hear you?” you cut in, sharper now. Silence. Heavy and immediate. Mark’s expression shifted, realisation hitting him all at once.

Slowly.

“You…heard?” he asked, quieter. Your laugh came out hollow. “Hard not to.” You looked at him then. Really looked and God, that hurt more because he still looked at you like you mattered and that just made no sense. “You’re going back,” you said, voice trembling now despite your effort to steady it. “You’re making plans. You’re deciding your future. And I’m just—what? A stopover? Something that happened while you were figuring things out?”

“That’s not—”

“And now you’re trying to make it easier by pretending it didn’t matter?” Your chest tightened, “Do you know how insulting that is?” He stared at you. For a second. Two, and then three— Nothing made sense. “You think I’m leaving you?” he asked, almost incredulous. “Yes!” you shot back. “Why would you think that?” You laughed again, but this time it broke, “because you said you’re going back!”

“I said I’m going back for work!”

“And what happens after that?"

“I—” he stopped because he didn’t have a clean answer and the hesitation— It hit you like confirmation. Your face fell, “Exactly.” Something inside his chest finally snaps, “Hey—no.” He steps forward quickly. “That’s not what that means.” “Then what does it mean, Mark?” you asked, voice softer now—but somehow that made it worse. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re already preparing to leave.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out my life!” he said, the words coming out sharper than he intended. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once. “I’ve spent years doing what everyone expects of me and for the first time I’m—” he exhaled, frustrated, vulnerable— “I’m trying to decide something for myself.” Your eyes softened slightly but the hurt didn’t disappear, “And where do I fit into that?” you asked quietly. He stops and looks at you, really looks. The answer comes easily. Too easily.

“You’re the only thing that feels certain.”

Silence.

Soft and fragile. Your breath hitched. His shoulders dropped slightly, like the fight had left him all at once, “I wasn’t saying last night didn’t matter,” he said, quieter now. “I was saying…I didn’t want to assume it meant something to you and make things harder.” Your lips parted slightly, “That’s what you meant?”

“Yes.”

You blinked. Once. Twice.

“Oh.” A beat passes.Then, softer, “Oh.”

You felt stupid. Not in a harsh way. Just… small because everything suddenly made sense. The way he’d been careful, the way he’d been watching you, the way he’d been trying. You let out a shaky breath, looking down at your hands. “I thought…” you trailed off, then shook your head, “I thought you were trying to make it easier to leave.” Mark steps closer. Slowly. Like approaching something delicate, “I don’t want to make anything easier if it means losing you.” Your heart stuttered. You looked up at him and this time, there was no confusion. No hesitation. Just the truth.

Say it.

You’ve been circling it for days. Weeks.

Say it.

“I love you,” he said. Simple but it landed heavy. “I don’t—” he exhaled softly, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t even know when it happened. But it did and now I can’t imagine…not having this.”

You swallowed hard.

“I love you too,” you whispered and that was it. The last thread snapped. He closed the distance first. Not rushed, not hesitant. Just certain. His hand comes up to your cheek, warm, grounding. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie and when your lips met, it wasn’t like last night.That had been fire. This was—

Home.

Slow. Deep. Intentional. Like both of you were trying to say everything you hadn’t managed to put into words. You exhaled softly against him. He pulled you closer. Your bodies fit together like something that had already learned how.The kiss deepened, then softened, lingered.Foreheads resting together. Breath mingling.His arms wrapped around you.Fully.Firmly.Like he meant it. You melted into him, your face tucked into his chest.For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, quietly, “I’m not leaving you,” he murmured into your hair. Your fingers tightened slightly against him.“Not now,” he continued.

A pause.

Then softer, “Not ever, if I can help it.” Your chest ached but this time, it wasn’t from fear. You pulled back just enough to look at him, “Even when you go back?” He nodded. “I’ll come back too.” A small, shaky smile broke across your face, “You better.” He smiled back, “I will.” Soft and certain, “and if not, I can always fly you out to me.”

And just like that, the tension didn’t disappear. It settled. Turned into something steadier. Something deeper, something that could survive distance because now, it had a name.

The next morning doesn’t feel heavy. It feels…settled. Not perfect, not resolved in some dramatic, life-changing way. Just more gentle. You wake up before him this time and for a moment, you don’t move.

Because he’s there.

On his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, hair falling messily over his eyes like he lost a fight with sleep and didn’t care enough to fix it. One arm is stretched toward your side of the bed, fingers just barely brushing your wrist like even in sleep, he refuses to let you drift too far. Your chest tightens.Not painfully, just… full. You shift slightly, careful not to wake him, but his fingers react anyway—curling faintly, like your movement pulled him closer even in his dreams.

A small smile tugs at your lips, "clingy,” you murmur under your breath. His response is immediate. A quiet groan, “I heard that.” Your eyes widen slightly, “You were asleep.” “Was,” he mumbles, voice rough, barely awake. “Then you started talking.” You huff softly, “Well, you shouldn’t eavesdrop on people when you’re unconscious.” That earns a low, sleepy laugh from him, “that's what she said.” You scoff in disbelief, hitting his arm playfully at the jab from your previous day's overthinking. He shifts, turning onto his side now, facing you properly. It feels different, being looked at like that first thing in the morning. Unfiltered. Unhurried.He studies your face for a second. Then, without saying anything, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek. It lingers. Too long to be casual yet too natural to question. “…morning,” he murmurs against your skin. Your breath catches slightly, “…morning.”

The day starts slowly. No rush, no urgency pulling either of you away. You drift out of bed together, half-laughing, half-arguing over everything that makes sense but doesn't like its routine. Like you always do but this time, it doesn’t feel like you’re adjusting to each other. It feels like you already have. Biscuit winds between your legs as you open the fridge, “Traitor,” Mark mutters, watching the cat ignore him completely.

“He knows who feeds him.”

“I fed him yesterday.” “You dropped half the food on the floor.” “That was strategic.” The man argues back like a prodigal child. You turn to look at him, “…how?” He shrugs, completely serious, “Bonding experience.”

You stare at him.Then laugh and something about that laugh, the way it comes easier now, fuller, makes his expression soften without him realizing. Cooking becomes…chaotic. Not because either of you can’t cook but because neither of you is really focused on it. You bump into each other constantly, reach for the same thing at the same time and pause too long when your hands brush. At one point, he stands behind you to grab something from the cabinet above—and doesn’t move away immediately after. You feel him there.Close. Warm. Your breath stutters slightly, “…Mark.”

“Hm?”

“You’re not grabbing anything anymore.”

A pause.

Then, “I forgot what I needed.” You turn your head slightly. Just enough to meet his eyes. He’s closer than you expected. Your gaze flickers to his lips, then back up and for a second, it almost happens again. That same pull, that same quiet gravity but this time, you both smile instead. Small. Knowing and stepping away before it consumes the moment. The rest of the day unfolds in pieces that feel almost…unreal in how normal they are.

You film.

He sits nearby, watching, occasionally offering suggestions that are surprisingly good. You tease him about it, “Since when are you a creative director?” He shrugs,“I have range.” “You have opinions Mr Celebrity.”

“Same thing.”

You roll your eyes, but you keep his suggestion anyway. Later when you both end up on the couch. Not doing anything important, not talking about anything serious. Just, existing in the same space with your legs draped over his lap, his hand absentmindedly tracing slow patterns against your skin. Neither of you acknowledges it but neither of you stops it either. At some point, your head ends up resting against his shoulder, at some point, his chin rests lightly on top of your head and at some point, you both realize how quiet the world feels when you’re like this. “This is nice,” you murmur. He hums softly in agreement, “Yeah.”

A pause.

Then quieter, “Feels… easy.” Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt, “…yeah.”

Easy and somehow, that feels bigger than anything else. When night rolls in, it feels softer. Quieter. Like the house itself is exhaling.You’re both in comfortable clothes now. You are in one of your oversized sweaters, sleeves swallowing your hands, the tiny shorts you love to wear swallowed whole by it. Mark is in a loose t-shirt and sweatpants, hair still slightly damp from a shower. There’s music playing low

A guitar rests next to him on the couch.

You notice it immediately, “…you’re going to play?” He glances up. A little hesitant, “maybe.” Your heart does something strange at that. You shift slightly on the couch, turning toward him more fully, “I didn’t know you brought it with you.” He shrugs, “I didn’t. This is rented. I didn't think I was going to want to play anytime soon. A pause, then quieter, “cause I didn't for a while.”

There’s something there, something heavier but he doesn’t sit in it long. Instead, he adjusts the guitar, fingers brushing the strings lightly. The sound is soft. Tentative. Like he’s testing the space. You pull your legs away expectantly. Mark takes the guitar into his lap. Then, he starts playing. It’s not loud. Not showy. Just…gentle. A melody that feels unfinished, like it’s still finding itself but it’s beautiful. In a quiet, aching way. You don’t interrupt. You don’t move, you just watch him and for the first time, you see it clearly. Not just Mark. Not just the version of him that’s been living in your house but the part of him that’s still searching. Still figuring things out, still deciding who he wants to be. Your chest tightens, “that’s new,” you say softly when he stops. He nods, “Yeah.” “ It sounds really good.”

He hesitates. Then, “thank you.” Honest. Uncertain. You shift closer without thinking. Your shoulder brushes his.“You should keep it,” you say quietly. “It sounds like you.” He glances at you, “you think so?” You nod, “Yeah.” A small pause settles. Then, softer, “Not the version people expect.” That lands. He looks down at the guitar for a second. Then back at you. Something in his expression shifts. Warms.

“Stay?” he asks quietly.

You blink,“I am staying.” He shakes his head slightly, “I mean—like this.” You understand.

“…okay.”

You don’t move away and neither does he. He starts playing again. This time more sure. More grounded and you lean into him slightly, your head resting against his shoulder again, your presence steady, quiet, supportive. Outside, the world keeps moving but inside, time stretches. Slows and becomes something soft and almost fragile. His playing steadies, your breathing matches it and somewhere between the notes and the quiet, something deeper settles between you. Not rushed. Not loud. Just—real. When the song fades, neither of you moves immediately. “Thank you,” he murmurs. You tilt your head slightly, “For what?” He hesitates. Then, “for making this feel like mine again.” Your chest tightens, you don’t answer with words, you just lean further into him, pecking his lips lightly before taking his hand in yours, holding his tight. Like you’re not trying to keep him just letting him know he doesn’t have to leave. Not yet not tonight. Not from this and this time…

He holds on too.

The night settles into the house slowly, like it doesn’t want to disturb what’s already there. The rooms had settled into one of those quiet, lived-in silences that didn’t feel empty. It felt full. Full of the low, steady hum of the desktop, the faint crackle of the record spinning lazily as it played one of the records Mark brought home days ago, tucked under his arm like something precious. It plays from the corner of your office, warm and slightly imperfect, the kind of sound that makes everything feel softer around the edges and the soft rhythm of ASMR keys being pressed—hesitant at first, then more certain, like someone relearning a language they once spoke fluently. Your office light is dim—just the desk lamp on, casting a golden pool across the desk, across him where he sat at your desk like he had always belonged there.

You pause at the doorway.

He hasn’t noticed you yet.

Your chair is pulled in close, his posture slightly hunched, one elbow resting on the table while his other hand scrolls slowly across the screen. The monitor’s glow reflects faintly on his glasses, and for a second, you just watch the way his eyes move—focused, intent, quieter than you’ve ever seen them. With the hood up, sleeves pushed just enough to reveal his wrists, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose every few minutes before he nudged them back up without thinking. There was something almost disarming about it—how easily he had folded himself into your space. Your chair, your desk, your work… your life. Like he’s settled into your world so naturally it almost scares you, like if you blink, he might disappear and take that feeling with him. Your fingers tighten slightly around the mug in your hands. He said he booked the ticket. That thought still sits somewhere in your chest, heavy but… not unbearable. Not anymore because now there’s this. This quiet, this closeness, this choice to stay—until he can’t. Still, there was a tension under him, you could tell from the stiffness on his shoulders. Not loud, not obvious but there.

Your gaze flickers to the screen. Lines of text. Emails. Too many.

He hadn’t opened them in days—weeks, maybe. Not properly anyway, not like this. Now they sat open on your screen, one after the other. His name threaded through subject lines. Urgent. Follow-up. Final notice. Check-in. His jaw tightened slightly as he read one, fingers hovering over the keyboard longer than necessary.

He exhaled slowly. Typed. Paused. Deleted.

Typed again.

You didn’t announce yourself when you reached the doorway. You just watched him. The soft glow of the monitor painted his face in pale blues and quiet shadows, catching on the curve of his cheekbone, the faint crease between his brows. He looked different like this. Not like the version of him the world knew. Not polished, not performing. Just… Mark.

Your Mark.

The thought landed softly, but it stayed and for a second, you didn’t move—just stood there with your mug warming your hands, letting the moment settle into you like something you’d want to remember later. Then your foot shifted against the wooden floor and he felt it, he always did. His head turned slightly, eyes lifting over his shoulder—and the moment he saw you, something in his face changed.

Softened.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice quieter than the room. Your lips curved before you could stop them. “Hey.” You stepped in slowly, the oversized sweater slipping just a little off one shoulder as you moved. Bare legs, no socks—he noticed that immediately, even before his eyes consciously tracked it. He always noticed. “Cold?” he asked automatically, gaze dropping for half a second before returning to your face. You shook your head, walking toward him. “I have coffee. That counts.” He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath, but his eyes lingered anyway—like he didn’t quite believe you and then you were close. Close enough to feel the warmth of him, close enough to notice the faint scent of his body wash mixed with something warmer, something that had become distinctly him over the past weeks. You didn’t ask, you just climbed onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. One leg swinging over, then the other, settling carefully so you faced him fully—knees on either side of his hips, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders for balance. He freezes for half a second, breath catching—barely noticeable, but you feel it, not because it was new. It was but, it still did something to him every time. His hands come up instinctively, landing on your hips to steady you, fingers warm even through the thin fabric of your shorts.

“Hi,” you said again, softer now, closer.

His hands instinctively came up—not gripping, not pulling, just settling at your waist like they had learned exactly where to belong. Hi,” he echoed. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The record crackled softly, the cursor blinked on the screen behind you and Mark became painfully aware of everything at once—your warmth, your weight, the way your sweater bunched slightly under his fingers, the way your hair fell forward just enough that it brushed against his cheek when you leaned in closer. “Working?” you asked, even though it was obvious. He let out a quiet breath, glancing briefly past you at the screen. “Trying to.” Your eyes followed his for a second before returning to him. “That bad?” He huffed softly, a small smile tugging at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes this time.“It’s just… a lot,” he admitted and because you were here, because it was you, he didn’t stop there. “They’ve been waiting for me to respond,” he continued, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “I just… didn’t want to open anything. Because once I do, it would mean I have to actually decide.”

There’s something in the way he says it—not dread, not quite fear, but something heavier. Something that carries weight.

You don’t respond right away.

Instead, your fingers traced absent patterns along the fabric of his hoodie trying to sooth him, ground him soft and steady, “decide what?” He looked at you then, really looked and for a moment, all the noise—the emails, the expectations, the pressure—fell somewhere far behind you.

“Everything,” he said simply.

There was no dramatics in it. Just the truth. Your chest tightened slightly, but you didn’t let it show—not in a way that would weigh him down. Instead, you leaned in just a little more, your forehead brushing his lightly. “Okay,” you whispered. “Then don't decide everything.”

His breath caught—just for a second because you said it like it was simple. Like he could, like he was allowed to. His hands tightened slightly at your waist before relaxing again, thumbs brushing gently over the fabric of your sweater. “I think I already know,” he admitted after a moment. “I’m just… scared of what happens after I say it out loud.” You smiled softly, “Then don’t say it out loud yet.” He blinked at you, “What?” “Keep figuring it out,” you said, voice calm, steady. “You don’t have to rush it just because they want you to.”

There it was again. That quiet way you had of making things feel…possible. Mark let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, his shoulders dropping slightly and then his eyes flickered downward again. Your legs. Still bare, "Seriously," he muttered suddenly, reaching blindly to the side. “How are you not freezing?” You blink. “I’m not.” “You’re not even wearing socks,” he argued back incredulously. “I don’t like socks.” “That’s not true and you know it baby.”

“It’s my house.”

He stares at you like that’s not a valid argument and you laugh softly as he grabs the throw blanket from the nearby beanbag, shaking it out before draping it over your shoulders and around your legs with gentle, careful movements. “There,” he said, adjusting it unnecessarily. “Better.” You tilted your head, watching him, “you’re very domestic.” That makes him snort, “I burnt eggs, like, three weeks ago.”

“Growth,” you said lightly.

He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile there now—real this time and then, without thinking, he leaned forward. Just a little, just enough. Your lips met his in something soft, unhurried. Not the kind of kiss that demanded, the kind that stayed. Warm, familiar and Certain. It lingered for a few seconds before he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours again, his nose brushing lightly against yours as he exhaled.

“Girlfriend privileges include temperature regulation now?” he murmured. You smiled, eyes still closed. “Boyfriend duties,” you corrected softly. That word settled between you, not new but still… delicate, still something that made his chest tighten in the best, most terrifying way.

His girlfriend.

The vinyl crackles softly in the background. The room feels smaller, warmer. You lean in just slightly, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “Go on,” you whisper. “Work.” He huffs quietly. “You’re not helping.”

“You like it.”

“I do,” He can't help grinning as his hands settle again—one firm at your waist, the other returning to the keyboard. He starts typing, slower now, like his focus is split between the screen and the fact that you’re sitting on him like this. You tilt your head, watching the screen from over his shoulder, “What are they saying?” “Everything,” he mutters. “Asking where I am. Why I’m not responding. Schedules. Contracts. Deadlines.”

“Sounds fun.”

“It’s not.”

You’re quiet for a moment. Then, “Are you scared?” The question is soft but it lands. He stills slightly. His fingers hover over the keyboard, “…Yeah.”

Honest.

You shift a little, your hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair, “of what?” He exhales slowly, “of making the wrong choice.” Your thumb brushes gently against his skin, “there isn’t one.” “There is,” he says quietly. “There’s always one.” You pull back just enough to look at him, “you’ve spent so long doing what everyone else wanted,” you say. “Maybe the right choice now is just… doing what you want.” His eyes soften, “and what if that costs me everything?” You hold his gaze, “It won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” you admit softly. “But I know you’ll regret it if you don’t try.” Silence. The kind that settles deep. He studies your face like he’s trying to memorize something. Then, his hand leaves the keyboard again and slides up your arm reaching for the back of your neck. Fingers brushing lightly against your skin and light hairs behind. “You make it sound easy.” “It’s not,” you whisper. “But it could be worth it.” He swallowed slightly with his hands shifting just enough to pull you closer—closer than before, like he needed to remind himself you were real. “I’m gonna have to go back,” he said quietly after a moment. You didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just nodded at him, “I know.” His grip tightened “I don’t want to,” he added, almost under his breath.This time, you pull back—just enough to look at him properly, “I know,” you repeated gently and you did. That was the thing. You understood him in ways that made it harder, not easier. Your hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from his face before your fingers lingered there. “You’re not choosing between things,” you said softly. “You’re just…adding something new.” His eyes searching yours, “and what if I mess it up?” he asked. You smiled—small, but certain, “Then we fix it.”

We.

The word landed heavier than anything else. Mark exhales slowly, something in him settling—not completely, not permanently, but enough. Enough to keep going, enough to try. He leans in again, and for a moment, the emails don’t matter, the world outside doesn’t exist. There’s just this.

You.

Him.

The quiet. It's slow, like he doesn't know how not to give you time to pull away. You don’t. Your lips meet. Soft and unrushed. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for anything—just stays. Your hand tightens slightly in his hoodie and his grip on your waist firms. Just a little, enough to pull you close, to pull you flush against him. Like he’s grounding himself in you. When he pulls back, it’s not far. His forehead rests lightly against yours. Then he pulls back slightly, tucking you closer against him. You shifted slightly, settling more comfortably now—your head resting against his shoulder, your arms loosely around him as the blanket cocooned you both. His chin rests lightly against your hair and then, quietly, he turns back to the screen. His hands moved again—typing, pausing, thinking—but this time, there was less hesitation. Less fear because you were still there. Warm. Close.

Real.

And even as his thoughts wandered—back to contracts, to music, to the uncertain shape of everything waiting for him—one thing stayed clear. He didn’t know how everything would turn out. He didn’t know what choosing himself would cost but he knew this, he wasn’t walking away from you. Not now, not after this. His fingers pause over the keyboard for a moment. Then he types again and behind him, you breathed softly against his shoulder, your presence steady in a way that made everything else feel… manageable. His thumb brushes absently against your side. Like a reminder that you’re still there, that he’s not doing this alone. The vinyl spins. The night deepens and in the quiet rhythm of keys and breath and closeness —You both hold onto the same fragile, steady thought.

We’ll figure it out.

The airport noise didn’t hit him all at once.It felt louder than he remembered or maybe it was just that everything inside him had gone quieter. It layered itself in—first the low hum of voices, then the sharper edge of camera shutters, then the unmistakable swell of recognition as people began to notice him stepping out of the car. Mark adjusted the hood of his jacket a little lower over his head as he stepped out of the car, the familiar choreography of it all settling over him like muscle memory—security, staff, movement, timing. He paused for half a second with the door still open behind him. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, long enough for him to feel it.

That shift.

From being yours—quiet, unobserved, soft around the edges, to being this again.

Public. Watched. Interpreted.

His fingers tightened briefly around his phone before he slipped it into his pocket, rolling his shoulders back as he stepped fully into the light.

And just like that, he wore it.

The small smile. The wave. The careful way his gaze lifted just enough to acknowledge without lingering too long. He knew how to do this, he had always known but now, there was a part of him that stood slightly apart from it, watching himself move through it like it was choreography he no longer fully belonged to. Somewhere between the flashes, his phone vibrated faintly in his pocket. He didn’t check but he felt it and the corner of his mouth softened, just slightly as his mind drifted. To your voice, to the way you had laughed into his shoulder. To the way your fingers used to absentmindedly trace patterns against his hoodie as you watched the many reality shows you loved to hate so much.He swallowed, stepping through the doors.

Back to this.

The schedule swallowed him whole. It always did. Fittings blurred into rehearsals, rehearsals into recordings, recordings into meetings. Rooms changed, outfits changed. The studio smelled faintly of hairspray and fabric steamers. Racks of clothes lined the walls—structured jackets, layered textures, pieces chosen with intention, curated to create something larger than any one person wearing them. Mark stood in front of the mirror, stylists moving around him with practiced ease—adjusting a collar, smoothing fabric along his shoulders, stepping back, stepping in again.

“Turn a little,” someone said.

He did. Automatically. The reflection staring back at him looked right. Sharp, controlled and composed but his eyes lingered on himself just a second longer than usual. Not because he didn’t recognize the person but because he was starting to realize that wasn’t all of him anymore. “Mark, ready for the first set!” He blinked, stepping away from the mirror. “Yeah,” he answered.

Then lighting changed,but the rhythm stayed the same. Fast. Efficient. Demanding. The photoshoot set was bright—white backdrops, stark lighting, cameras already positioned. He stepped into frame, posture shifting instinctively, expression settling into something precise. Click. Flash.

“Chin up slightly—yeah, hold that.”

Click.

“Good. Now soften your eyes a bit.”

Soften. He thought of you, not intentionally. Just, naturally. The way your eyes looked when you laughed. The way your voice softened when you called him Mr. Celebrity like it meant something more than just teasing him.Something in his expression changed. “—yes, that,” the photographer said quickly.

“Hold that.”

Click.

Mark blinked slightly, refocusing but it lingered. That softness, that warmth. He couldn’t turn it off as easily as he used to. Still, he moved through it all with the same quiet precision he always had.

Only now, there were cracks.

Small ones.

Barely visible. But there. In the way his eyes drifted toward his phone when he thought no one was looking. In the way his laugh came a little softer, a little slower, like it was echoing from somewhere else.

_____

The nights were the hardest. The dorm room felt quiet and impersonal, lights dimmed low while the city buzzed endlessly outside. Mark sat on the edge of the bed, guitar resting against his thigh, fingers moving absentmindedly over the strings. The melody was soft. Unfinished. It had been like that for days now—pieces of something forming, dissolving, reforming again. He thought of you when he played. Not intentionally, just…naturally. The way you used to sit and listen, your head tilted slightly, eyes focused on him like the sound mattered more because it came from him. He swallowed, fingers pausing. His phone buzzed. This time, he didn’t wait. He answered immediately. Your face filled the screen—slightly pixelated, hair messy, wrapped in one of your oversized sweaters.

“Hi,” you said softly and just like that, everything eased. “Hey baby” he breathed. For a moment, neither of you said anything. Just…looked. Smiled, existed in the same space, even if it was through a screen. “You look tired,” you murmured. He huffed a quiet laugh. “You look like you just woke up.”

“I did.”

“Of course you did.” He rolls his eyes groaning cheekily, “I’d give up anything for our midday naps.”

The naps were the best, after lunch, after clean-up, especially if it was days where you didn't have to edit till late at night. On the day bed you had on your balcony. Cuddling snugly, legs tangled up and hands wandering where the sun didn't normally shine under a big light throw blanket to protect you both from the wind before Biscuit interrupted your deep slumber with his constant meowing needing something to eat. He secretly believed the cat just grew jealous when he didn't see you for too long.

You smiled, shifting slightly, pulling a blanket tighter around yourself. “Did you eat?” He glanced at the half-empty takeout container beside him, “yeah…but I miss your food most Angel.” You laugh at that before answering softly, ”I miss watching you eat my food. You should still eat.” “I’m eating,” he corrected quickly. “Currently. See?” He lifted the container into view like proof. You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Okay. I believe you.” Silence settled again—but this time it was softer. Comfortable. “I miss you,” he said suddenly. It slipped out the same way everything important with you always did. Unplanned, unfiltered. Your expression softened immediately. “I know,” you whispered. “I miss you most, my idol.” His grip on the phone tightened slightly. “I don’t like this part,” he admitted.

“The distance?"

“Yeah.”

You nodded slowly, “but we knew it was coming.” “I know,” he sighed. “I just… didn’t think it would feel like this.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated, “…like I left something important behind.” Your breath caught slightly—but you smiled anyway. “You didn’t leave it,” you said gently. “It’s still yours. I’m only yours.” Something in his chest ached. In the best way, in the worst way and all at once. “I’ll come back,” he murmured, more to himself than anything.

“I know you will.”

And you did. You always said things like that with so much certainty it made him believe them too.Even when he wasn’t sure how everything would unfold. For a moment, he wasn’t in Korea. He wasn’t in a hotel room, he wasn’t a performer, or an idol, or someone standing on the edge of a life-altering decision.

He was just—Yours.

“Did you talk to Taeyong?” you asked gently, startling him back to reality. He pauses not because the name seems so foreign coming from your glossy lips, it is but he pauses because you remembered him telling you about wanting to talk to him first before fully committing to what he wanted. That conversation was so rushed then and still, you remembered. Then he nodded, even though you couldn’t see it fully, “ yeah.”

“And?”

He laid down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I think I’m really going to do it.” Silence. Not empty, just… full. “Okay,” you said softly. No fear, no doubt. Just. Okay. His chest tightened. “You’re not scared?” he asked quietly. “I am,” you admitted. “But not about you.” That made him pause, “then what?” “The world you’re stepping into,” you said. “And how it might try to pull you away from yourself.”His grip on the phone tightened, “I won’t let it.” “I know,” you whispered and somehow, that was enough For now, for this moment, for the version of him that was still standing in between two lives, trying to figure out how to carry both.

Later that night, alone again, Mark sat by the window, city lights stretching endlessly beyond the glass. His phone rested in his hand, your voice still lingering in his head from earlier and beneath everything—the noise, the schedules, the expectations, his decision sat quietly. Steady. Unmoved. He hadn’t said it out loud yet. Not to them, not to the team he led that had become brothers ever since they fought for him back into the group when the system was meant to function differently. Not properly but it was there. Waiting, like everything else.He exhaled slowly, leaning his head back against the wall. He didn’t know how it would go, didn't know what it would change but he knew this. He was choosing something for himself. For once and somehow, that choice still led back to you.

Always.

It scared him but for the first time in a long while, even before he met you, it felt right and for now…

That was enough.

_______

It was late when he met Taeyong. Not planned through managers or schedules. Just a message.

Hyung, are you free?

And somehow, Taeyong always was.The café was quiet, tucked away enough that they could sit without being watched too closely. The kind of place that didn’t demand attention—just offered space. Mark arrived first. Sat and waited. His fingers tapped lightly against the table before he forced them still, exhaling slowly. When Taeyong walked in, it was with that same calm presence he always carried—like he understood more than he said, like he saw more than he let on. “Hey,” Taeyong greeted, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Hey, hyung.”

They ordered drinks. For a moment, it was just comfortable silence. Neither of them spoke. They didn’t need to. Taeyong had always been like that—someone who didn’t rush silence, who let it stretch until it became comfortable instead of heavy.

“You look tired,” Taeyong said finally, studying him. Mark huffed softly. “That obvious?”

“A little.”

He nodded, glancing down at his hands.

“I think too much,” he admitted. Taeyong smiled faintly. “That’s not new.” Mark huffed a quiet breath. “Yeah.” A pause. “And distracted.” Mark’s eyes flickered up. Taeyong held his gaze, not accusatory, not pressing. Just there. Mark looked down at his hands, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of the table.

“I went away,” he said finally.

“I know.”

“It was…different.” Taeyong nodded slightly, waiting. Mark swallowed, “I think I needed it more than I realized.”

Another pause.

Mark let out a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly. “I made a decision,” he said, voice lowering slightly.

Taeyong didn’t interrupt, just listened. Mark swallowed, “I don’t think I can… keep doing this the same way anymore.” There it was. Not fully said but close enough. Taeyong leaned back slightly, eyes steady on him, “what does that mean to you?” Mark hesitated because saying it out loud would make it real, would make it irreversible. “…I don’t think I’m going to renew,” he said finally. The words settled between them. Heavy but not surprising. Taeyong didn’t react immediately. He just nodded. Like he had already known. “Are you sure?” he asked gently. Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time even before I left,” he admitted. “I just didn’t have a reason to actually do it.”

“And now?”

Mark’s lips curved slightly, almost involuntarily. Now, there was you. He didn’t say your name but it was there. In the way his expression softened, in the way his voice steadied. “I think I want to try something that feels like mine,” he said. Taeyong watched him carefully and then, quietly. “Then you should.” Mark blinked,”that’s it?” Taeyong shrugged lightly. “You already decided. You just wanted someone to tell you it’s okay.” Mark let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for weeks. “Is it?” he asked, softer now. Taeyong’s gaze didn’t waver. “It’s your life,” he said simply. “Not the company’s. Not the fans’. Not even ours.”

The words landed deeper than anything else.

“And you’re not leaving us,” Taeyong added. “You’re just choosing yourself differently.” Mark’s throat tightened. He nodded slowly. “I was thinking maybe after the comeback,” he murmured. “When contract talks come up again. It can be announced officially when Dream and I head out for tour.” Taeyong tilted his head slightly, “how soon do you think you’ll do it? To tell the guys?” “Soon enough that it still feels like my decision.” Mark stared at the table for a moment, “Heachan might try to talk me out of it,” he said quietly. Taeyong laughed and nodded, “that’s all that matters.”

That, that hit deeper than anything else.Mark’s throat tightened slightly, his gaze dropping again, “it doesn’t feel that simple.” “It never is,” Taeyong replied softly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

Silence settled again. Warm and steady. For the first time since he had made the decision, it didn’t feel like something he was carrying alone.

Now, the silence doesn’t break all at once. It loosens. Gradually. Like the house itself exhales the moment you step fully inside, the door closing softly behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should. The cold from outside lingers in the entryway, clinging to your coat, to the ends of your hair, to the space between you and him—but it doesn’t last. Not when his presence is this close. Not when your hands are still on him like you haven’t quite convinced yourself he’s real.

Mark still hasn’t spoken.

But he moves.

It’s small at first—his hands coming up, slow, hesitant, like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to touch you back. His fingers hover near your wrists before settling there, warm against your skin, grounding in a way that makes your breath hitch without permission. You don’t step away, neither does he and for a moment, the world narrows down to just that—your hands on him, his on you, the quiet between breaths that says more than words ever could.

Then—

“Minhyung-ah?”

The voice comes from deeper in the house, gentle but curious, carrying the warmth of familiarity that doesn’t belong to you yet—but doesn’t feel unwelcome either. Everything shifts. You blink, the moment softening but not disappearing, and Mark exhales like he’s remembering where he is, who he is supposed to be here. His hands tighten around your wrists for just a second—just enough to say stay—before he finally, finally speaks.

“…I’m here.”

His voice is quieter than usual. Rougher when he looks at you. Really looks at you this time, like he’s catching up to what just happened—your presence, your hands, the way you crossed continents just to stand in front of him like this. Something in his expression softens, almost dangerously so. “Come in,” he murmurs, softer now, and this time his hand doesn’t leave yours when he turns.The house feels different once you’re inside it properly. Warmer. Lived-in.The kind of warmth that doesn’t come from temperature but from years—family dinners, laughter tucked into walls, quiet mornings that smell like coffee and something sweet baking in the oven. You notice everything because you don’t know where to look. The framed photos along the hallway. The soft hum of a heater somewhere. The faint clinking of dishes from the kitchen. And then, you see them.

His parents.

His mother turns first, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression shifting from mild curiosity to something softer the moment her eyes land on Mark—and then, immediately, on you.

There’s a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just…assessing. Gentle.

“Oh,” she says, a small smile forming, “you must be the one he can’t stop reverting back to when I cook something wrongly,” like she already understands more than either of you have said out loud. “You didn't tell me she was so pretty, honey.”

Mark exhales sharply beside you.

“Mom—”

But it’s too late because his father is already stepping forward, a quiet warmth in his presence that mirrors Mark’s in a way that makes something in your chest tighten unexpectedly. “You came a long way,” he says simply, his voice calm, welcoming without being overwhelming. “You should sit. You both should.”

And just like that, the moment shifts again.From the doorway to something steadier, something real. The dining table is already set. Not formally, not in a way that feels staged—but thoughtfully. Plates arranged neatly, a soft cloth laid across the center, small bowls of cut fruit, slices of cake that look homemade. There’s steam rising from mugs—coffee, hot chocolate—the scent wrapping around you like an embrace you didn’t know you needed. Mark settles beside you after pulling out a chair for you. Your knee brushes his under the table and neither of you move away. His hand finds yours under the table before you even realize it’s happening. Firm. Grounding.

And this time—he doesn’t hesitate.

At first, the conversation is light. His mother asks about your flight, your work, even roping you into making lasagna for dinner that night despite you claiming to be booking a hotel as you didn't want to disturb them only for his father to threaten to disown his own son if you slept outside. His father asks about how long you’re staying, insisting that you stay as long as you want to. You answer, politely, softly—but your awareness never leaves Mark because he’s quiet. Too quiet. Not distant—no, not that. Present but like something inside him is gathering itself, slowly, carefully, waiting for the right moment to surface. You feel it in the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles. Absentminded, repetitive and nervous. And then, It happens.

“I told them.”

It’s simple. Too simple for what it means.The room stills—not dramatically, not abruptly—but in a way that feels intentional. His parents don’t interrupt. Don’t rush him. They wait because they know this matters.Mark exhales, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly, like he needs that contact to anchor himself, "my managers. The company. The members…” His voice steadies as he speaks, but there’s something underneath it—something raw, something exposed. “I told them I’m not renewing.”

The words land softly but they carry weight. Years. A decade of something built, something lived in, something that shaped him into who he is—and who he’s trying to become beyond it. “I’ll finish the tour,” he continues, quieter now, more certain. “I’ll stay until everything we planned is done. But after that…”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t have to because it’s already there, sitting in the space between all of you. The decision, the ending and the beginning of something else. You don’t realize your grip has tightened until he squeezes back. A quiet reassurance or maybe a question. You turn your head slightly, just enough to look at him—and when you do, you see it. The fear. Tucked carefully behind the confidence he’s trying to hold onto and something in your chest aches because you understand it, because you feel it too but more than that, you believe in him. Your thumb brushes over his hand, slow, deliberate, and when you speak, your voice is soft—but steady.

“It’s going to be okay.”

Not rushed. Not forced.Just… true. You don’t say it because it’s easy. You say it because you’ve seen him. All of him. The uncertainty, the passion, the way he lights up when he talks about music that feels like his. When you watch him make music he actually likes and you trust that version of him more than anything he’s leaving behind.

His mother is the first to respond, “you’ve always known when something feels right for you,” she says gently, her gaze steady on him. “Even when it’s difficult.” His father nods once, slower, thoughtful, “you’re not losing anything,” he adds. “You’re choosing something else.”

Simple but it lands and you feel it in the way Mark’s shoulders loosen, just slightly. In the way he exhales—not like he’s been holding his breath, but like he’s finally allowed to. For a moment, no one speaks. Not because there’s nothing to say but because everything that needed to be said…has been.The warmth of the room settles around you again. The quiet returns—but it’s different now.

Full.

Complete.

Mark turns his head, just slightly to look at you and this time, there’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. Just…something soft. Something certain, something that looks a lot like hope. His fingers lace through yours fully now on the table, not hidden, not tentative—just there, open, real and when he squeezes your hand this time, it feels different. Like a promise, not just that he’s not leaving you but that he’s finally choosing himself and for the first time…

He believes he’ll be okay.

TAGLIST.

You pull your jacket tighter around yourself as you walk down your street, the night air brushing cool against your skin. It’s quiet—too quiet, but not enough to make you afraid.

Just… aware.

There’s that feeling again.

Like someone’s there.

Not close enough to hear. Not close enough to see. But there.

Your steps slow for a second, eyes flicking behind you. Empty sidewalk. Parked cars. A streetlight buzzing softly.

You shake your head.

“Get it together,” you mumble to yourself.

And yet…

The feeling doesn’t go away.

From above, Mark doesn’t move.

Perched on the edge of the building across the street, he watches you walk—careful, steady, memorizing every small detail like he’s afraid the world might take this away too.

The way you tuck your hands into your sleeves.

The slight furrow in your brows when you think someone’s watching.

You always used to do that.

His chest tightens behind the mask.

“Yeah,” he whispers softly, voice barely audible under the fabric. “I’m here.”

You can’t hear him.

You’ll never hear him say your name the way he used to.

Not unless—

No.

He shuts the thought down immediately.

That choice is already made. There’s no undoing it. Not without risking everything all over again.

So he stays where he is.

Watching.

Waiting.

Protecting.

Always protecting.

You reach your door, fumbling slightly with your keys. For a brief second, you pause—glancing over your shoulder again. Your eyes scan the empty street, lingering just a little longer this time.

Mark freezes.

Something in his chest sparks—hope, sharp and sudden.

Do you feel it?

Do you remember?

But then you shake your head again, unlocking the door and slipping inside.

The light clicks on.

The curtains close.

And just like that—

You’re gone.

Mark waits a few more seconds. Just in case.

He always does.

Only when he’s sure you’re safe does he move, shooting a web and swinging away into the night. The city rushes past him in blurs of gold and shadow, wind cutting through him, grounding him.

This is what he has now.

Not laughter. Not shared secrets. Not your hand in his.

Just distance.

And duty.

Back in his apartment, the silence feels heavier than before.

He lands softly by the window, peeling off the mask. His hair is damp with sweat, his face drawn, eyes tired in a way sleep hasn’t been able to fix.

He glances at the desk.

At the pile of failed letters.

At your name, scribbled over and over in the margins of crumpled pages.

Mark walks over slowly, sitting down again. He picks up a fresh sheet of paper, smoothing it out carefully like it matters—like this one might be different.

The pen hovers.

For a long time, he just… breathes.

Then...

Hi.

His hand trembles slightly.

You don’t know me but you used to.

A pause.

Longer this time.

His jaw tightens.

My name is Mark Lee.

The words sit there.

Lonely.

Incomplete.

His throat burns.

Because the next sentence should be easy.

It should be something like:

I love you.

But you don’t know him.

And love, coming from a stranger… isn’t love at all.

It’s just confusion. Maybe even fear.

So instead, he writes

I just wanted to make sure you’re safe.

His breath catches.

That, at least, is still true.

That will always be true.

No matter what the world remembers.

No matter what you remember.

Mark leans back slightly, staring at the page like it might somehow fill itself in if he waits long enough.

It doesn’t.

It never does.

Outside, the city keeps moving.

Inside, he sits there,

caught between a past that’s gone

and a love that refuses to leave.

The bell above the café door jingles softly as Mark pushes it open.

Warmth hits him first—the smell of coffee, steamed milk, something sweet in the oven. It’s familiar in a way that aches, like a memory just out of reach.

And then he sees you.

You’re behind the counter, sleeves pushed up slightly, hair falling just the way it always used to when you got busy. There’s a light in your eyes as you laugh—easy, effortless.

But it’s not because of him.

Mark stops mid-step.

There’s a guy leaning against the counter, grinning at you like he’s already decided he likes everything he sees. He says something—Mark can’t hear it from here—but you laugh again, softer this time, a little shy.

Something sharp twists in Mark’s chest.

It’s not fair.

The thought comes fast, ugly, selfish—but he can’t stop it.

That’s my place.

Not in a possessive way. Not like you belong to him.

But that moment—the way you smile, the way your eyes crinkle just slightly—that was something he used to earn. Something he used to protect. Something he used to know.

Now he’s just… standing there.

A stranger.

Invisible in a world he saved.

Mark swallows hard, forcing his feet to move, stepping aside so he’s not blocking the door. He lingers near the wall, pretending to check something on his phone, but his eyes keep drifting back to you.

The guy finally leaves, tossing you one last smile before pushing the door open and disappearing into the street.

Mark exhales.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding his breath.

This… this isn’t something he can keep doing.

Watching from rooftops. Standing in corners. Writing letters he’ll never give you.

Living a life where he exists around you—but never with you.

He loves being Spider-Man.

He really does.

Saving people. Doing the right thing. Carrying something bigger than himself—it matters.

But he matters too.

Or at least… he used to.

Mark straightens slightly, something shifting in his chest. Not the sharp ache this time—but something steadier.

A decision.

I can’t have what we had, he thinks.

But maybe… I can have something.

Even if it’s small.

Even if it’s just 'hi.'

He doesn’t remember leaving the café.

Only the rush of wind against his face as he swings through the city, faster than usual, like he’s chasing something before he loses his nerve.

Back in his apartment, he lands a little harder than intended.

The room looks the same. Feels the same.

But he doesn’t sit down this time.

Doesn’t reach for a pen.

Instead, he moves.

Quick. Purposeful.

The mask comes off, tossed aside. He runs a hand through his hair, stepping into the small bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror.

For a second… he almost doesn’t recognize the person looking back.

“Okay,” he mutters quietly. “Okay.”

His voice sounds strange without the filter of the suit. Too raw. Too real.

He fixes his hair—again, and again, until it sits just right. Changes his shirt twice before landing on the black one.

The one you loved.

You used to say it made him look soft.

He hesitates for half a second—then reaches for the cologne. Just a little. Not too much.

His hands are shaking.

“Relax,” he whispers, letting out a breath that doesn’t quite steady him.

This shouldn’t be harder than fighting villains.

But it is.

Because this time there’s no mask to hide behind.

The bell jingles again.

You glance up automatically, mid-sentence, your eyes landing on him.

Mark smiles.

Or at least—he tries to.

It’s a little stiff at first, a little unsure. But it’s there.

“Hey,” he says, voice softer than he expected. “Uh—can I get a coffee?”

You blink at him for a second, not in recognition, just… normal curiosity. The kind you’d give any new customer.

“Yeah, of course,” you say, returning the smile easily. “What kind?”

He steps closer to the counter, heart pounding so loudly he’s convinced you can hear it.

“Just—uh—regular? I mean, not regular, I—whatever you’d recommend.”

Smooth.

Very smooth.

You let out a small laugh, and it hits him harder than anything else today.

God, he missed that sound.

“Okay,” you tease lightly. “And what milk do you want?”

Milk.

Right.

Mark blinks.

“I—uh—” His brain completely blanks. “Normal?”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “Normal?”

“Like—milk milk,” he corrects quickly, wincing at himself. “Regular milk.”

“Got it,” you say, smiling as you turn to make it.

He exhales, shoulders dropping slightly.

Still alive. Good.

You hand him the cup a minute later, fingers brushing his for the briefest second.

It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

“Here you go,” you say.

“Thanks,” he replies, quieter now.

For a split second, you look at him, really look.

And something in him aches with hope.

Please.

Just—something.

But then—

You smile politely and turn away, already calling over your shoulder, “Hyuck, do we have more lids in the back?”

And just like that—

The moment passes.

Mark nods to himself slightly, like he expected that. Like it doesn’t hurt.

He moves to a table near the window, sitting down slowly, wrapping his hands around the warm cup.

From here, he can hear you.

You and Donghyuck talking. Laughing. Bickering over something small and stupid.

Normal.

So painfully normal.

He pulls out his phone, unlocking it just to have something to look at but his eyes aren’t on the screen.

They’re on you.

On the way you lean against the counter.

On the way you laugh without holding back.

On the way you exist in a world where he doesn’t.

And yet for the first time in a long time...

He’s not watching from a distance.

He’s here.

Close enough to hear your voice without wind rushing past his ears.

Close enough to feel… something other than empty.

Mark takes a slow sip of his coffee, letting the warmth settle into him.

It’s not what he had.

Not even close.

But it’s something.

And for now—

Something is enough to keep him from breaking.

Weeks pass in small, careful pieces.

Mark becomes part of your routine the same way the morning rush does—predictable, constant, almost comforting.

The bell jingles.

He walks in.

Black shirt sometimes, sometimes a hoodie, hair a little messy like he didn’t try too hard—but you’ve noticed he does try. Just not in an obvious way.

“Hey,” he says, soft smile, every single time.

“Hey,” you reply, already reaching for his usual.

You don’t even ask anymore.

“Regular milk, right?” you tease one morning.

He lets out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Milk milk.”

It becomes a thing between you.

Small. Easy.

Safe.

From behind the counter, you watch him sometimes.

Not obviously.

Just… when you’re waiting for the espresso to pull, or when Donghyuck disappears into the back.

Mark always sits by the window.

Sometimes he scrolls on his phone. Sometimes he writes—pages and pages, head bent slightly, brows furrowed in concentration like the words matter more than anything else in the room.

And when he leaves he always smiles.

Always waves.

Like it’s important.

Like you’re important.

You don’t know why that sticks with you.

But it does.

Mark on the other hand notices everything.

The way you hum under your breath when it’s slow.

The way you sigh when the line stretches to the door.

The necklace around your neck.

His necklace.

He sees it the first time and nearly forgets how to breathe.

You still wear it.

Every day.

The small chain catches the light when you move, the pendant resting right where he remembers it.

His fingers twitch slightly around his cup.

Do you even know where it’s from?

Do you remember who gave it to you?

He wants to ask.

God, he wants to ask.

But what would he say?

Hey, that necklace? I gave it to you when you said you’d never take it off.

He swallows it down.

Like everything else.

One afternoon, after he leaves, Donghyuck leans against the counter, watching the door swing shut behind him.

He hums thoughtfully.

“You know,” he says, casual but not really, “I think he has a crush on you.”

You glance up, immediately shaking your head. “No, he doesn’t.”

“He so does.”

“He’s just nice,” you insist, grabbing a cloth and wiping down the counter. “Some people are just… nice.”

Donghyuck snorts. “Yeah, and some people come in every single day, order the same thing, stare at you like you hung the moon, and then leave smiling like an idiot.”

You try not to react.

You really do.

“He does not stare at me.”

Donghyuck raises an eyebrow.

You roll your eyes, turning away before he can see the slight smile tugging at your lips.

Because—

Okay.

Maybe Mark is…

cute.

In a quiet way.

The kind that sneaks up on you.

But you don’t say that out loud.

Instead, you shrug lightly. “He’s just a regular.”

“Mm-hmm,” Donghyuck hums, clearly unconvinced.

The next day, something feels… off.

You notice it the second Mark walks in.

He still smiles.

Still says, “Hey.”

But it’s softer. Slower.

There are faint shadows under his eyes, his movements just a little more tired than usual.

You notice.

Of course you notice.

But you don’t say anything.

You just make his drink.

Slide it across the counter.

“Here.”

“Thanks,” he says, fingers brushing yours again.

You linger for half a second.

Just a second.

Then you pull away.

It happens quickly.

Too quickly.

Mark reaches into his bag, fumbling slightly, probably for his pen—and his elbow nudges the cup.

You both see it at the same time.

The tilt.

The fall.

The inevitable spill—

Except—

It doesn’t hit the ground.

Mark catches it mid-air.

Fast.

Too fast.

A few drops still splash out, darkening the floor, but the cup stays intact in his hand.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then he’s moving, hurried, almost panicked.

“Sorry—sorry, I’ve got it,” he says quickly, setting the cup down and grabbing napkins.

“It’s fine,” you say immediately, stepping around the counter. “It’s my job, don’t worry—”

But he’s already taking the paper towels from your hands, crouching down, wiping the spill himself.

“I’ll clean it,” he insists, voice tight.

You pause.

Watching him.

Something about the way he moves—the speed, the precision, the instinct—

It feels…

familiar.

A strange sensation settles over you.

Like a memory just out of reach.

“Hey,” you say slowly.

He freezes slightly, still crouched.

“You have good reflexes,” you continue, tilting your head. “Have we met before?”

Mark’s heart stutters.

He looks up at you.

For a second—just a second—there’s something in his eyes.

Hope.

Fear.

Everything at once.

“I mean,” you add quickly, laughing a little, “I know you’ve been coming in for weeks. But like—before that? Outside the coffee shop? Maybe we had a class together or something?”

The air feels too still.

Mark stands, tossing the used paper towels into the trash.

“Maybe,” he says, keeping his voice light. Casual. “I meet a lot of people.”

It’s a terrible answer.

He knows it is.

You narrow your eyes slightly, but there’s no real suspicion—just curiosity.

“Hm,” you hum. “Maybe.”

You nod toward the sink. “Go wash your hands.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says automatically.

The words slip out so easily it almost scares him.

You blink.

Another flicker of that strange feeling.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

While he’s gone, you glance at the table.

At the paper he left behind.

You don’t mean to read it.

You really don’t.

But the words are right there.

Hi, my name is Mark Lee.

Your breath catches slightly.

You repeat it in your head.

Mark Lee.

Something about it…

You frown faintly.

It feels familiar.

Not in a clear, obvious way.

But like a name you’ve heard before.

Like a song you almost remember.

Mark comes back, drying his hands.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

You look up at him.

Study his face for just a second longer than usual.

Then you smile.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Just… your name.”

He stiffens.

“My name?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, tapping the paper. “It sounds familiar.”

The world seems to hold its breath.

Mark doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

“Does it?” he asks quietly.

You nod, though there’s uncertainty in it. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m imagining it.”

Maybe you are.

Or maybe—

Somewhere deep inside you—

Something is trying to come back.

And for the first time since everything was erased—

Mark lets himself feel it.

Hope.

For the past couple of months, something hasn’t felt… right.

Not wrong in a loud, obvious way. Nothing you could point to and say, there, that’s the problem. It’s quieter than that. Subtle. Like a song playing just a little off-key in the background of your life.

You notice it in small things.

A bracelet sitting on your dresser—delicate, pretty, yours—but you don’t remember where it came from.

A book tucked into your shelf you don’t remember putting there.

Mom says she didn’t buy it. Dad shrugs, says maybe it was a gift. From who?

You don’t know.

And that’s the thing.

There are… gaps.

Not huge ones. Not enough to scare you, not enough to send you spiraling. Just little pockets of missing pieces, like someone took scissors to your memories and cut out random moments for no reason at all.

Your last birthday.

You remember the cake. Your family. Donghyuck complaining about something stupid like always.