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but it’s never just that with him - he gets too carried away to leave it at ‘just a kiss’. innocent pecks turning into long, sloppy kisses the second you fully give into him, and before you know it he has you caged underneath him on your sofa, whining and groaning against your lips. he can’t keep his hands to himself either, groping and squeezing all the pretty parts of you as he works your mouth open, pressing his hips down and slotting himself between your legs, cock already hard when you feel it bump against your clothed cunt. he can’t look you in the eyes when you pull away, opting to bury his head into your neck instead, leaving wet kisses against your skin as he continues to hump your clothed pussy. 

“sungie, i thought you said you just wanted a kiss.” he’s whimpering into your neck, shutting his eyes in embarrassment as he feels his cock twitch at your mocking tone, continuing to rub himself lazily against you.

“can’t help it, just feels so good.” then he’s back on you, his kiss hungry and rough before he’s sitting back and coaxing you onto his lap instead, letting his head fall back onto the top of the couch and he just looks so fucked out from just a kiss. lets out such a pretty gasp the second you press down onto his thick cock again, greedily clawing at your hips to make you move. he finds it so hard to concentrate, really only thinking with his dick. the more heated everything becomes the more messy his kiss is, sloppy and wet and full of teeth. likes to pinch your ass sometimes to make you gasp into the kiss, letting his tongue slide in.

he loves making you just as desperate as he is, deliberately bumping your pussy with every deep grind of his hips, hands wandering underneath your shirt to grope at your tits, tilting his head to kiss you even harder, hungrier - just to hear all the pretty little sounds you let out against his lips. 

and he’s just as loud, whimpering your name and breaking away from you every once in awhile just to roll his head back and let out the sluttiest little groan, hips twitching to sandwich his covered cock between your folds the best your soaked panties allowed him to. so you don’t think anything about the way he starts whining into your mouth when your lips are back on him, hands settling against his chest and pussy grounding itself against the length of his cock - until you were basically fucking him over his clothes, muffling all his cute cries and gasps. until you feel a wet warmth soak through his trousers and onto your thighs, breaking away from his lips to find his cock soft and crotch soaked. 

“jisung, did you just cum in your pants?” he doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, glancing up at you through glassy eyes and flushed cheeks as he moves you onto your back, settling his weight on top of you once again, hooking his fingers around the band of your panties.

“i’m sorry baby, i didn’t mean to. you just make me feel so good. let me make it up to you.”

"no," she lied, her lips twitching as she bit back a giggle.

seungmin paused, fixing her with his trademark deadpan glare. "do you think i’m joking? i feel terrible, y/n. terrible." he exaggerated.

she turned her head slightly to glance at him, cheek smushed against the pillow. his fingers froze on her shoulder blades, a slight pout tugging at the corner of his lips. god, he was adorable. for someone who prided himself on being savage and composed, seungmin looked like a kicked puppy right now.

"min, you’re literally being ridiculous," she said, her voice brimming with amusement. "i told you i’m fine. i liked it."

his expression didn’t change. "i was too rough. you winced like…twice. that’s two times too many."

y/n rolled her eyes dramatically, flipping onto her back despite his protests of "stay still, i’m trying to help." she reached out to cup his cheek, her fingers warm against his skin. "first of all, i winced because i was overwhelmed, in a good way. secondly, you apologizing twenty-seven times is going to make me start keeping a tally."

seungmin blinked at her, his lips twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile before it disappeared again. "it’s not funny."

"it’s very funny," she teased, sticking out her tongue. "you’re being such a baby about this, it’s cute."

"..not cute," he retorted, his ears burning red as he avoided her gaze. his hands returned to her shoulders, his touch feather-light now, as if he feared breaking her. "you’re impossible."

"and you’re overthinking. i’m fine. actually, i’m better than fine—i had a great time. you’re just melodramatic," she quipped, letting her voice drop into mock-seriousness.

"melodramatic?" he echoed, scandalized, his hands pausing mid-massage. he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes at her. "that’s rich coming from you, miss ‘do you think my soul left my body just now?’."

y/n erupted into laughter, clutching her stomach as she replayed her own words from earlier in her head. "okay, fair, but in my defense, it did feel like that."

"right. that’s why i’m apologizing," seungmin muttered, shaking his head but unable to hide the upward curl of his lips this time.

she reached up to grab his hands, pulling him down to lay beside her. he came willingly but let out a small grunt of protest. "i’m not done—"

"you’re done," she interrupted, poking his cheek. "come here and stop worrying. it’s getting embarrassing."

"embarrassing," he repeated, tone dripping with mock disbelief. he turned onto his side to face her, propping his head up with his hand. "that’s it. i’m officially offended."

"oh no," she said dramatically, clasping her hands to her chest. "what will i do if the kim seungmin is offended? whatever shall i—"

he reached out to clamp a hand over her mouth, shaking his head. "y/n. stop. talking."

her muffled giggle turned into a full-blown laugh as she shoved his hand away, and he groaned, flopping back onto the bed. she turned to face him, their noses almost touching now. his sharp features softened in the dim light, his usually playful smirk replaced with something tender.

"seriously, though," he murmured, his voice quieter now. "i don’t want to hurt you. ever."

y/n felt her chest tighten at the sincerity in his tone. she reached up to trace the line of his jaw with her fingertips, her touch light but grounding. "i know," she whispered. "and you didn’t. i trust you, seung."

his eyes searched hers for a moment, as if looking for any sign of doubt, but all he found was the warmth and reassurance that she always gave him. he sighed, finally letting the tension seep out of his shoulders as he relaxed beside her.

"you’re so annoying," he muttered, but his lips quirked up at the corners.

"and you’re dramatic," she shot back, poking his chest.

for a moment, the room was filled with a comfortable silence. seungmin reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. he wasn’t usually one for skinship—he’d much rather tease her from across the room than cuddle—but moments like these, when the world was quiet and it was just the two of them, he let himself indulge.

"can we just agree that i was a little rough and move on?" he asked after a beat, his voice muffled as he buried his face in her hair.

y/n hummed thoughtfully. "mmm, no. i’m gonna milk this for at least another week."

"of course you are," he deadpanned, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on her back. "you’re lucky i love you."

"aw, you love me?" she teased, leaning back to look at him with a mischievous grin.

he rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it, his cheeks tinged pink. "don’t push it."

"too late." she leaned up to kiss his nose, her heart swelling at the way he scrunched it in response. "i love you too, you big softie."

seungmin groaned dramatically, but the small smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. "this is why i don’t do skinship. you get all weird and sappy."

"you don’t do skinship because you’re awkward," she shot back, grinning.

"not true," he argued, pulling her closer and holding her firmly against his chest. "i’m holding you right now, aren’t i?"

"true," she agreed, nuzzling into him. "maybe you’re not as awkward as i thought."

he let out a soft chuckle, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "don’t get used to it."

"too late," she whispered, her voice full of warmth.

and as seungmin held her close, the lingering worries from earlier finally faded away. because with her in his arms, laughing and teasing like always, he knew they were okay. better than okay. they were home.

You roll your eyes, but you’re already slipping on your shorts.

There’s no point pretending you won’t go. You went last night. And the night before that. Every time he knocks, you follow—even if it’s too late, too hot, too risky. Even if your legs ache from that hike he “accidentally” made twice as long, even if you swore earlier that you wouldn’t sweat through another damn shirt for a flower he found near the compost bins.

But this is different.

This time, he hadn’t promised mushrooms or birdsong. He hadn’t even bothered to come up with a fake nature fact like “glowworms only shine at peak moonlight” (which, by the way, is bullshit—he made that up).

No, this time he leaned against your windowsill and said: “Bring that little bikini… or don’t.”

So yeah. You’re going.

You slip out the window with barely a creak, feet hitting dirt and pine needles. He’s already reaching for your hand.

“You’re late,” he says, but he’s smiling when he says it. “I almost left without you.”

“You’d be halfway back before you realized you missed me.”

“I’d never miss you,” he says, and it’s so easy—so smooth—it should sound fake.

It doesn’t.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no heat behind it. You’re already moving toward him, already letting him tug you down the path like it’s habit. Like it’s muscle memory. Like your body knows the way to his before you do.

It’s hot tonight—thicker than usual. The trees feel closer, the air damp and heavy, pressing into your skin like a second layer. The gravel underfoot is warm from the day’s sun, and the back of your neck is damp before you’ve even cleared the trailhead.

Felix doesn’t care.

He’s in one of those muscle tanks with the sides cut low, the kind that shows off his ribs, the sweat collecting in the dip of his collarbone. He doesn’t even bother pretending this is a nature walk. His hand finds your waist after the second bend. Slides up beneath your shirt like it belongs there.

“You didn’t wear the bikini,” he murmurs against your ear.

“I wore the top.”

“Where’s the bottom?”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He grins, wide and crooked, and then he’s kissing you and you let yourself lean into it. Let him press you up against a tree, one thigh sliding between yours like he knows exactly where you’re already aching.

His hands don’t hesitate.

They’ve done this before—every night for the last week, under the cover of tree branches and tangled shadows, out of earshot from campers and clipboards and curfews. He knows exactly how to touch you. How to map your hips and pull that little gasp from your throat, how to bracket your thighs and press right there, where you’re already pulsing for him.

You squirm, just enough to feel the drag of your shorts catching on his thigh. It’s too much and not enough, and the second he hears you whimper—just a little—he groans, low and shameless, mouth dragging open across your collarbone.

You laugh, breathless, but it dies quickly when his hand sneaks beneath your waistband, just enough to brush the crease where your thigh meets your hip.

“Felix,” you warn, squirming against him. “We’re not even halfway there.”

“I know,” he pants, but his fingers don’t stop. They dip lower, glide between your legs with that same maddening slowness he always starts with—like he enjoys the buildup just as much as the finish. Maybe more.

You brace yourself against the tree behind you, forehead pressed to bark, your breath already catching.

“Bin said the lake’s prettier when the moon’s highest,” he murmurs, voice thick against your skin. “Said I should take someone I really—”

He stops short. You feel him swallow.

This time it’s you who pulls him off the path. A half-step behind a tree, your back against the bark, tugging him down by the collar of his tank like it’s instinct. He follows willingly, hands already under your shirt, tongue already in your mouth.

“I knew you missed me,” he breathes.

“Shut up.”

His hand slips lower. Over your ass. Squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

“I bet you touched yourself last night,” he whispers, teeth catching your earlobe. “After I left.”

You don’t answer.

He tilts his head. “Did you?”

Still nothing.

He grins. “Wanna show me what you did?”

“Felix—”

“Just a preview. We’ll still go to the lake. Promise.”

You let him press you harder into the tree, let him palm you through your shorts until your thighs twitch, let him slide two fingers beneath the waistband and dip down, slow, like he’s unwrapping a secret.

“Fuck,” he breathes, finding you bare. “You really didn’t wear the bottom.”

His breath hitches—sharp, reverent—and then he laughs, low and ragged like it’s been punched out of him.

“Jesus.”

You grin, even as your pulse spikes, even as your hips roll into the curve of his palm like you need it—because you do. Because it’s been like this every night since the first time he kissed you in the boathouse after lights out, hands shaking, lips searching. Like every time you see him, the ache comes back stronger. Like you’re not even trying to resist anymore.

His fingers find your clit, slow and sure, and your smug little smile shatters on a gasp.

You jerk against him, the sudden pressure lighting every nerve in your body like a live wire. And he feels it—God, he feels it. He breathes out a curse against your neck, a hot puff of air that makes you clench around nothing.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, drawing slow, lazy circles over your clit like he’s got all the time in the world. “Already so sensitive. You let me play with this every night and it still gets like this for me?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when your mouth’s fallen open, head tipped back against the tree, fingers scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt like you’re trying to find something to hold onto—anything to anchor you while he ruins you under the stars.

He leans in closer, tongue flicking the shell of your ear.

“You gonna let me make you cum right here?”

You nod, frantic.

“Yeah?”

Another nod. A whimper this time, desperate.

He huffs a laugh and presses harder, fingertips teasing at the edge of unbearable. “Not yet.”

You groan, squirming, your hips chasing him now, legs starting to shake.

“You’re such a tease,” you pant, half a sob, your nails digging into his shoulder, into the heat of his back through his thin tank. “You’re evil.”

“I’m being nice,” Felix murmurs, and you can hear the grin in his voice. He’s not even pretending otherwise. His fingers slow, barely there now, just the faintest drag over your slick skin, enough to keep your thighs quivering but not enough to give you anything. “If I wasn’t, you’d already be crying.”

Your breath catches, sharp.

And he feels it.

“Mm,” he hums, right against your throat. “You like that?”

You try to shake your head, but it’s not convincing. He presses two fingers just beside your clit, not quite touching, and your whole body jerks again.

“You do.” He grins. “God, you’re filthy.”

“So are you.”

“I’m not the one who came out here with no panties.”

“I wore the top.”

He laughs, low and wicked, and then suddenly he’s sucking at your pulse point—hard enough to leave a mark—and your legs nearly give out again. His fingers slide down and press in this time, two of them, pushing past the slick resistance like they belong there.

You gasp, high and helpless, forehead falling to his chest.

“Oh my god—”

“There she is,” he says softly, curling his fingers just right. “Been waiting for you.”

Your thighs are shaking, hips grinding down to meet every thrust, your whole body moving without conscious thought. It’s instinct now. Muscle memory. Need.

And Felix—he doesn’t let up. Keeps his mouth hot on your neck, his hand buried between your legs, fucking you with slow, purposeful strokes that have you clenching around him so tight it nearly knocks the breath out of him.

“You’re gonna cum,” he whispers. “I can feel it. You always get so tight for me right before—”

You whine, loud, maybe a little too loud, and he moves his other hand to cover your mouth fast.

“Shhh,” he breathes, voice tight. “You want someone to hear you?”

You shake your head against his palm, eyes wild, vision blurring.

“You gonna stay quiet for me, baby?” he asks, thrusting his fingers deep again. “You gonna let me make you cum just like this?”

You nod. Or try to. But then he rubs his thumb over your clit at the same time he curls inside you and—

You break.

The orgasm rips through you fast and hot and sudden, crashing over you like a wave. Your whole body seizes. You cry out into his hand, biting down on the pad of his palm as your cunt clenches around his fingers, soaking his wrist, his shirt, probably the fucking moss.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. “Look at you. So pretty when you fall apart.”

You’re trembling when he finally pulls his hand away from your mouth, from between your legs, slowly. Like he can’t quite bring himself to let go.

But he does.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Wet.

Ruined.

And you kiss him back like you want to crawl into his lungs and live there.

It takes a minute—maybe two—before either of you can breathe properly again. Before your legs feel steady enough to walk. Before you even remember where you’re supposed to be going.

He tucks your hair behind your ear and rests his forehead against yours.

“You still wanna see the lake?” he whispers.

You stare at him. Still panting. Still pulsing.

“Are you gonna do that again?”

He grins.

“Not on the trail.”

You squint. “So...?”

He steps back. Adjusts his shorts. Wipes his soaked fingers down the side of his thigh like a menace. Then he tips his head toward the glow in the trees.

He takes your hand.

Not like before—flirty and casual and cocky—but gentle. Warm. Firm.

“You’ll thank me when you see it,” he murmurs. “I told you I had something pretty to show you.”

“I thought that was it,” you mutter, still dizzy.

He grins but doesn’t answer. Just starts walking again, tugging you down the path like your bones haven’t just been replaced with static.

The rest of the trail passes in a blur of pine needles and stifled moans.

He’s relentless.

Not with his fingers now—he’s mercifully left you alone there—but with his hands on your waist, the way he keeps brushing your ass as you walk in front of him, whispering things into your ear.

He’s grinning the whole way. You don’t speak.

You can’t speak.

Not without giving yourself away to the trees, to the dark, to anyone who might be walking the camp perimeter right now.

By the time the lake opens in front of you, you’re seconds from grabbing him by the tank and dragging him down with you into the water just to cool the ache.

But then—he stops.

You nearly run into him, chest pressed to his back. He reaches behind himself to pull you forward, positioning you in front of him again.

“Look.”

And you do.

And your breath catches in your throat.

Because you thought it would be like last time—just the dock, maybe some moonlight—but this is something else entirely.

The moss is glowing. Not faintly. Not subtly. But fully, glowing blue and green and silver in patches that stretch down the entire bank, wrapping around the dock like spilled starlight. It looks like the lake itself is alive. Like the whole place is breathing.

“Felix…”

“I found it last week,” he says quietly. “Didn’t wanna show you until it was really bright.”

You turn your head to look at him. His face is soft now. Honest. Flushed from the walk, hair stuck to his forehead. His lips are parted like he wants to kiss you again but knows better.

You lean in anyway.

He lets you.

This kiss is slower. Gentle. Your hands find his face, his jaw. His curl-dampened curls. And his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in like gravity.

“Why’d you bring me here?” you whisper.

He pauses. Swallows.

“Because you’re mine,” he says, so softly you barely hear it. “And I wanted you to have something beautiful.”

Your breath catches.

And then he’s backing you up the dock, step by step, until your legs hit the edge of it.

The wood is warm behind your calves, baked by the sun and still clinging to the heat of the day. The air’s cooler here by the water, but not by much—it’s the kind of night that sweats through your skin and never lets go.

Felix steps closer. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush. Just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like the moss and the lake and the glow of it all could never compare.

His hands find your hips.

Not greedy. Not groping. Just… reverent. Like he’s taking you in, inch by inch, before he does what you both know is coming.

“You wore the top,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to where the fabric hugs your chest.

You arch a brow. “You told me to.”

“Mmh,” he hums. “Good girl.”

Your stomach flips.

Because that—his voice, low and hot and curling around the edges of praise like he knows exactly what it does to you—that was the real reason. Not the view. Not the glow.

He wanted you in this because it’s easy to take off. Because it frames you just right. Because his hands already know how to slide beneath the straps and tug until they fall, and he does, slowly, the fabric peeling away from your skin as he drops to his knees in front of you.

He slides one strap down. Then the other.

And you let him. You let him look.

Because the glow behind you is nothing compared to the look on his face now—eyes wide and dark and hungry, mouth parted, chest heaving like he just ran the trail again with you on his back.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re unreal.”

His fingers skim up your ribs, slow like he’s scared you’ll disappear, and when he cups your breasts, he sighs—like he’s home.

“You wore this top just to kill me,” he says, thumbing at your nipples through the thin fabric, watching them pebble under his touch. “You like teasing me like that?”

“You told me to wear it.” You say. “Besides, I like the way you look at me when I wear it.”

He groans, low and rough, and you smile—because you know exactly what you’re doing. You step closer, your bare chest brushing his, and slip your arms around his neck, tugging him in until your lips almost touch.

“And I like the way you act,” you murmur, “when I take it off.”

He doesn’t even answer.

Just kisses you hard—filthy, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue. His hands are everywhere now—palming, squeezing, kneading like he wants to memorize the weight of you. Like he’s been dying to do this since the moment he saw you sweating through that top by the fire pit.

And you don’t just let him.

You match him.

One hand fisting in his shirt, yanking it up and over his head, the other sliding down, past the waistband of his shorts. He gasps into your mouth when your fingers wrap around him—already hard, already twitching.

“Fuck,” he chokes. “You—mm—baby–”

He’s already melting. You feel it in the way his hips jerk forward into your hand, in the way he moans against your mouth like he’s seconds from losing all higher brain function. His forehead drops to your shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I’m supposed to be the authority figure here.”

You laugh, breathless, and stroke him again—just to hear that strangled noise he makes. “Yeah? You gonna write me up?”

“I’ll do more than write you up,” he pants. 

“Ooh,” you tease, dragging your thumb across the tip, “Counselor Lee, is this part of the core curriculum?”

He growls. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And he does.

He kisses you like he’s trying to drown you in it, like the lake below is irrelevant compared to the flood he’s dragging out of your lungs. Your hand never stops moving, slow and steady, and he can’t even fake control anymore. His hips are twitching, his voice is breaking, and when you give his balls a gentle squeeze—

“Fuckfuckfuck—okay—okay—stop,” he gasps, grabbing your wrist.

You giggle but let go, hand slipping from the heat of him. He’s still panting when he leans in, nudging your nose with his, eyes fluttering shut like he’s trying to calm himself.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he murmurs, thumbing gently over one nipple. “You look so fucking good in this light.”

The moss still glows behind you, soft and quiet, casting a cool shimmer over the dock and your skin. He touches you like he’s trying to commit the whole picture to memory—like later, when you’re gone and the summer’s over, this is what he’ll hold on to.

Then, slowly, he sinks to his knees.

“Lie back for me.”

Your breath catches.

“Felix—”

“I’ll be gentle,” he promises. “I just wanna make you feel good.”

And when you lie back—when your spine hits the warm wood, when your thighs fall open and he settles between them—he takes his time.

He doesn’t rush to fuck you.

He kisses his way down your stomach, slow and reverent. Lets his palms glide over the insides of your thighs. You squirm under the weight of his gaze, the press of his touch, the way his thumbs trace soft circles into your hips like he’s trying to soothe you before he devours you.

You expect him to go lower.

But instead, he returns to your chest—bending to press a kiss between your breasts, then lower, then again, mouth dragging over flushed skin until his lips close around one nipple.

You gasp, body arching.

He hums, like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear, then sucks harder—tongue flicking just right, fingers teasing the other, mouth hot and wet and unrelenting.

“Felix—” you whimper.

“You wore this for me,” he mutters between kisses, “Just because I asked you to?”

You can’t answer. Not when he’s mouthing at your tits like he’s obsessed—switching sides only when the first is soaked and puffy from attention, licking, sucking, panting against your skin like he’s addicted.

“You always get like this,” he says, voice thick. “So needy. Like you need me or you’ll die.”

You nod, breathless. “I do.”

He sits back on his knees just enough to line himself up, one hand steadying your thigh, the other guiding his cock to your entrance—slow, careful, teasing.

“My baby. This okay?”

You reach for him, eyes locked, heart thudding.

“Please.”

And then he’s pushing in.

Not all at once. Not fast. But deep—inch by inch—until he bottoms out with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawing its way out of him since the second he saw you tonight.

Your hands scramble for his shoulders, your thighs trembling around his hips. You’re stretched wide, completely full, and he hasn’t even moved yet—but God, it already feels like too much.

“Look at me,” he breathes, pulling back just slightly before driving in again. “Baby, please. Wanna see.”

You force your eyes open—barely, hazy from the stretch, the pressure, the heat—and find him watching you like it’s the only thing that’ll keep him grounded. His brows are pinched, jaw slack, curls clinging to his forehead from the walk and the weight of this, of you.

“Good girl,” he whispers, voice wrecked, and the sound sends something electric right through your core.

He rocks into you again—slow, deep, deliberate—and it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He groans at the feel of it, hips stuttering like your body’s already got him too close.

The way he looks at you like you’re everything—makes the rest of the world fall away.

The lake. The camp. The rules. The risk.

None of it matters.

Not when it’s him. Not when it’s this.

Not when every drag of his cock sends sparks up your spine and every whisper of your name against your skin feels like a promise.

You’re not going to survive the rest of summer.

And neither is he.

🎥 Camp SKZamp: Confessional Booth – Counselor Lee Felix [TIME STAMP: 2:37 A.M.]

[Felix is sitting in a folding chair. His hair’s a mess. His shirt is inside out. There’s a smudge on his neck that looks suspiciously like a hickey.]

Felix: Look. I know what you’re thinking. “She’s a camper, dude.” “She’s not supposed to sneak out after curfew.” “You’re literally a counselor, what are you doing?” And, like—yeah. You’re not wrong.

[He glances toward the camera, sheepish. Then grins.]

But have you seen her in that bikini top?

[Cut to static.]

Felix, now leaning forward, hands gesturing wildly: It’s not like I planned to take her to the mossy glow zone and rail her on the dock. That’s just what happened. I was gonna be romantic! I was romantic! I brought her to see magic nature shit! It was practically educational!

[Beat.]

Okay maybe not that educational.

[He scratches his head.]

Also, if the dock is… like… creaky tomorrow morning? No it’s not. Shut up.

[Cut to static.]

Felix, squinting into the lens: If the program coordinator sees this, I swear to God, this interview is off the record.

[Fade to black.]

Taglist:

Still, that didn’t keep him from fantasizing. Constantly, shamelessly, unhingedly.

He’d never known what it felt like to have warm walls wrapped around his cock. Never heard those broken whines girls in hentai would make— unless he counted the ones he accidentally let out when he edged himself too long. His hand was simply never enough, no matter how many times he convinced himself he could “recreate the pressure.”

The bottle of lotion and box of tissues on his nightstand weren’t even hidden anymore— they sat like holy relics beside his gaming PC, ready for immediate access the second he closed League and opened incognito mode.

Porn never fully satisfied his craving though, he always wanted more. Even the best JAV compilation or doujinshi fan dub couldn’t compare to the real sickness consuming his brain: you.

You, with the glossy Instagram that he scrolled through like it was the damn Louvre. You, wearing micro bikinis in pool selfies with captions like ‘hot girl summer’ while he rots in bed, sweating and crying at the curvature of your ass.

You, biting your glittery, gel pen in class, leaning across the desk to ask for help, accidentally flashing a glimpse of cleavage so dangerous it made him pause mid-equation like he got hit with a stun grenade. Stalking your Instagram, seeing you in the tiniest baby tees and mini skirts. It was the perfect gooner material.

He’d stroke himself under the covers while biting a t-shirt to keep quiet, muttering your name between gasps like he was summoning a spirit. Fantasies playing out in his head that ranged from soft and romantic— like kissing you breathless during office hours— to completely feral, like bending you over his anime pillow while you called him “pretty boy” and ruined his life.

It didn’t help that you flirted with him now.

That you asked him to tutor you.

That you sat so close during study sessions he could sense your perfume from a mile away and taste the salt from the fries you always stole off his plate.

You laughed at his jokes, called him cute, even once said he had “nice hands,” and he nearly evaporated on the spot. Had to excuse himself to the bathroom with a boner and a prayer.

Every night ended the same. Him, fisting his cock in pathetic desperation at the thought of your pussy swallowing him whole, whispering ‘please’ like a man on the verge of religious enlightenment.

And every night, after he came all over his own stomach, out of breath and guilt-ridden, he’d sigh dramatically and say,

“I’m going to die alone. I know it. I’ll be the guy with the Zero Two body pillow and the unopened condom pack from 2017 that he keeps in case of a miracle.”

He did not, under any circumstances, expect you to be that miracle.

Never in a million years did he think he’d actually have a chance, let alone be dating you. You were just too perfect. The literal girl of his dreams.

Popular. Gorgeous. Cool in the kind of way that made any and everyone want to be around you without knowing why. You had that magnetic charm about you, an easily contagious laugh, a confident stride when you walk, and that dangerous habit of licking your lip gloss mid-sentence like you were in a CW drama.

And yet, somehow, here he was, currently horizontal on his bed, shirtless, breathless, with you on top of him wearing his oversized Bleach t-shirt and not much else, grinning like you’d just won first place in a science fair and a dance battle.

“Are you glitching?” You asked, poking his cheek. “Do I need to unplug you and plug you back in?”

“I- uh- w-what? No- yes? No.” He stuttered like every word had just magically left his vocabulary, he was definitely malfunctioning.

You laughed, head dropping onto his bare chest as he laid stiff as a board, arms hovering midair like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you even now. Even after dating you for a whole month.

“A month,” he whispered, still stunned by the timeline. “That’s like… thirty days of you voluntarily being seen with me.”

“Thirty one,” you corrected, lifting your head to smirk down at him. “Don’t forget the bonus day where you kissed me in front of the vending machine and the entire basketball team clapped.”

“I thought I was going to throw up.”

“You looked like you did throw up.”

Jisung covered his face with both hands and groaned.

God, he still didn’t know how this happened. When you had asked him to tutor you in stats, he assumed you were just kidding— or high. But you weren’t. You’d actually shown up. You’d flirted, sat on his lap one time when all the seats were taken at the library, and then acted like it was no big deal while his soul left his body.

And now here you were. Straddling him. Teasing him. Literally wearing his t-shirt with the anime print on it and calling him “baby” in the kind of voice that should be illegal.

“You’re so tense, Sungie,” you murmur, lightly dragging your fingers down his chest. “I know you like it when I touch you. You make these cute little gasps like a baby bird.”

“I-I don’t sound like a baby bird,” he mumbled, absolutely sounding like a baby bird.

You leaned down, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“Chirp.”

Jisung squeaked.

You lost it, giggling into his neck while he covered his blushy face with a pillow. “Oh my god, stopp- why are you like this- why did you choose me,”

“Because you’re smart, and sweet, and you get all flustered when I call you hot. And because,” you sat up again, hips rolling ever so slightly and watching his pupils blow wide as you rocked against his clothed erect, “you say things like ‘This is just like my fanfic’ under your breath and then deny it.”

He groaned at the sudden friction, arms falling limp at his sides. “You heard that?”

“Babe, I hear everything. Like right now, I can hear how bad you want me to ride you.” You bit your lip, feeling your wetness growing at a rapid pace as you continuously grind on him.

Jisung whimpered. “Okay. I- this is really happening, right? This isn’t like, some kind of VR dream or like a… cursed hentai plotline where I wake up and you’re actually a sentient toaster?”

You blinked. “What the hell kind of anime are you watching?”

He slapped a hand over his eyes. “Nevermind, pretend I didn’t say that..”

You kissed him then. Slowly. Tenderly. Like you had all the time in the world and like you couldn’t believe your luck either. Because yeah, you were the cool girl, but Jisung was the first guy who actually listened when you talked. Who remembered your favorite boba order. Who’d stayed up until 3 am tutoring you and still walked you to your dorm with sleepy, nerdy affection twinkling in his eyes.

So yeah, you were gonna roast him forever— but you were also gonna ruin him tonight.

“Hey, baby,” you whispered, reaching down to tug his sweatpants lower.

Jisung was in the midst of catching his breath like he’d just run a marathon. “Y-yeah?”

“After I make you cum, will you tell me all about the sentient toaster anime?”

“…Maybe.”

+

“Okay,” Jisung panted, curling into your side like a baby koala clinging to its mother, “that was better than every hentai I’ve ever seen.”

You snorted into his shoulder. “High praise coming from the man who owns a $300 body pillow.”

“She was limited edition!” He quickly defends himself.

You playfully roll your eyes, kissing his flushed cheek. “So are you, Sungie. So are you.”

And yeah, Jisung still thought he was going to die a virgin once upon a time.

But now, wrapped in your arms with kiss marks littering his neck and your laughter still echoing in his ears— he was just really, really glad that he’s been proven wrong.

+

The moment you straddled Jisung and kissed him again, something shifted in the room.

And not just him having an outer-body experience for the sixth time in an hour.

You pulled back from his lips to look around, and the first thing you said was, “Okay, I have to say it- your room is the most aggressively virgin-coded space I’ve ever been in.”

“I told you not to look too closely!” He whined, burying his face into your neck as you giggled and craned to inspect the chaos surrounding you.

“Let’s see…” you started ticking things off on your imaginary list. “Anime wall scrolls? Check. Neon RGB light strips that make your room look like a gaming dungeon? Check. Is that Hatsune Miku in a glass case next to middle school spelling bee trophies?”

He groaned. “They’re collector’s items—”

“You were runner-up in 8th grade and you framed it.”

“I peaked early, okay?!”

You laughed so hard you fell forward onto his chest. “I love you.”

He froze. “Wh-what?”

You blinked. “I said I love you.”

He looked like you’d just offered him a lifetime supply of ramen and also stabbed him in the heart.

“…I love you too,” he whispered, barely getting it out before he hid under the covers.

You tugged the blanket back down just enough to see his red face. “Hey. Don’t hide. I wanna see you. Look so pretty when you blush.”

“PRETTY?!” He yelped.

You nodded in confirmation, brushing hair off his forehead. “Mmhm. Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen. Especially like this- messy hair, pink cheeks, all breathless under me…”

He made the most broken noise you’d ever heard.

His hands gripped your hips like he didn’t know what to do with them, like he was trying not to crush you or himself with how desperate he felt. His eyes were dark now, glazed and locked onto your every move as you slowly ground against the bulge in his sweats.

“This is real, right?” He meant to ask that in his head but blurted it out instead, voice slightly cracking. “This is really happening?”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Feels pretty real to me, baby.”

At this point Jisung was spiraling.

Not just emotionally. No, that happened daily.

This was a full-system shutdown.

You’d tugged your shirt off without warning and smiled down at him like it was the most casual thing in the world, and now his hands were hovering awkwardly mid-air like he wasn’t sure if he had permission to touch you or if he was being Punk’d by the gods of horny delusion.

Your skin. Your smile. Your fucking tits.

And worse— worse— as your fingers brushed through his messy brown locks and your thighs shifted over his hips, his brain suddenly screamed,

‘I can’t believe I’m about to get pussy before Jeongin.’

Jeongin, his slightly cooler, slightly taller, still-a-virgin roommate who had three rotating Discord kittens and a suspicious amount of cologne but somehow still never scored.

Jeongin, who walked around shirtless after push-up sessions and said things like “it’s not rizz, it’s charisma” unironically. Jeongin, who once said “I want my first time to be passionate and respectful” but also accidentally downloaded a virus trying to pirate a hentai dating sim.

Jisung had always assumed if one of them was gonna make it out of virginhood first, it’d be the guy with the Uzumaki clan symbol tattooed on his ribs and a social life.

But no.

It was him. Han Jisung. The guy who owned a limited-edition anime titty mousepad and squeaked like a kettle when a girl touched his arm. And now? You were grinding up against him slowly, teasingly, and he was barely clinging to reality.

“Y/n,” he whimpered, clutching your waist like you’d float away. “Can I- can I eat you out? Pleasepleaseplease.”

You blinked rapidly.

“…You wanna—?”

“So bad,” he choked. “I think about it all the time. Like in class. And when I watch those ‘how to’ videos online. Like, the diagram ones, not the porn ones, though I watched those too- but like educationally! For science!”

You stared blankly.

He was sweating.

“Okay,” you said softly, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You’re really cute when you beg, y’know that?”

He nearly ascended.

You barely had time to giggle before he flipped you gently onto your back, hair falling into his eyes as he ducked down between your thighs like a man on a mission from God. His hands trembled as he slid your shorts down, breath hitching at the sight of your soaked panties.

“Oh my god,” he breathed out. “It’s real.”

You snorted. “What were you expecting? A hologram?”

“I don’t know!” He cried. “I was starting to believe you were some kind of high-level succubus sent to punish virgins.”

You cupped his flushed face. “Wouldn’t be the worst punishment.”

And then he locks in— eyes meeting yours as he sticks his tongue out, licking a long, fat stripe across your clothed slit. Soft. Slow. As if he was trying to memorize you with his tongue, the heat of it makes you jolt. He’s not just tasting you— he’s learning you, tracing intricate patterns with his tongue like he’s trying to decode you one flick at a time. Every motion is precise yet hungry, like he’s writing a love letter in Morse code directly to your pussy. His glasses slipping adorably down the bridge of his nose, solely focused on pleasing you.

You gasped at the feel of him against you, the pressure of his mouth sent heat curling low in your belly, it was torture. Too much and not enough. You needed to feel him without the barrier of soaked lace clinging to your folds, and he must’ve read your mind, because he groaned like he was the one being denied. He kissed your pussy like he was thanking it, mouthing over your clothed core before dragging open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, leaving your skin slick with spit and bites to your inner thighs. Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, everything about him felt so warm.

His teeth grazed you— playful, hungry— and your hips twitched as he whispered something nasty under his breath, half to himself, half to your cunt. By the time he slid your panties down, your thighs were trembling, tossing the flimsy fabric aside carelessly, like he didn’t care where they landed, only that they were gone. Then he buried his face between your legs like you’d been starving him for his entire life.

His tongue slipped between your folds, hot and greedy, lapping up everything you gave him like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He flicked up and down with obscene precision, wet, messy, relentless— his nose bumping your clit as he moaned deep in his throat, like he needed this, like the taste of you could make or break him. You were soaked, legs shaking, lips parted in a silent cry, and all he did was keep eating like he was trying to crawl inside you with his tongue.

You were loving the way it feels, every bit of you being hit with electricity. Your fingers tangled in his hair the second his mouth met your pussy, gripping tight, yanking just enough to make him groan into you like he was grateful for the pain. He never slowed down. If anything, it made him hungrier, tongue flattening against your slit before flicking up again, sloppy and fast and fucking filthy.

“God- fuck, you’re so messy,” you gasped, thighs twitching around his head. “You like that? Being my dirty little mouth toy?”

He moaned. Moaned. Into your pussy.

Nodding obediently, even as you tugged harder, grinding him closer. His glasses were long gone, hair disheveled, chin dripping with spit and slick as he slurred out something unintelligible against your clit. His tongue working overtime like he was trying to spell your name in cursive with every flick.

“Holy shit,” he mumbled, words caught in his throat. “I could live here.”

You threw your head back with a laugh— and then a sharp gasp as he got bolder, messier, more desperate. His hands kept you spread, his tongue curling and licking and worshipping like this was the only chance he’d ever get. He was sure that he’d jizz his pants just from giving you head— sure it’s pathetic, maybe even tragic. But he couldn’t help it. You were just too hot, too perfect, too fucking unreal, and the taste of you on his tongue, the feel of your thighs squeezing around his head, it was better than anything his fist or filthy imagination had ever given him.

Your fingers remain tangled in his hair, holding onto him for anchorage. He looked up at you with glassy, pleading eyes, the lower half of his face glistening with your arousal and rosy cheeks. “Tell me I’m doing okay? Please? I read five articles about this. I practiced on a peach.”

You gasped. “You practiced on what?!”

“Nevermind. Just- keep calling me pretty. I swear I’ll die happy right here.”

You tugged his head back down, voice ragged and ruined.

“Then make me cum, pretty boy.”

And he did.

Like a man with something to prove.

Like a nerdy little virgin who had just found his true calling.

Your eyes closed shut at the feeling, falling apart at the seams. Every stroke of his tongue making your insides tighten. You suddenly couldn’t remember how breathing worked, all you saw were flashes of white invading your vision, cumming so hard that you almost saw stars. You cried out, high and broken, hands grasping at his head as you came hard against his mouth.

Jisung moaned through it— loud and messy— tongue never letting up, licking you through every twitch, every gasp, every last jolt of overstimulation until you were tugging at his hair for dear life and gasping for air. Only then did he pull back, lips shiny, eyes half-lidded, face absolutely drenched, and smiling like he just beat the final boss of his entire life.

Somewhere in the past twenty minutes between Jisung nuzzling your thighs like a man starved and moaning like he was the one cumming, you had apparently blacked out, transcended the mortal plane, and been reborn as a puddle of girl.

Now, you lay sprawled across his unmade bed, fully clothed from the waist up and violently ruined from the waist down, chest heaving, eyes wet and glassy, one sock half-off your foot like a casualty of war.

And Jisung?

Jisung was cuddled up beside you like the world’s horniest golden retriever, chin resting on your shoulder, looking so smug and soft it was almost offensive.

You could still feel the ghost of his tongue between your legs.

“You sure you’ve never done this before?” You croaked out, blinking up at the ceiling like it had answers.

Jisung tilted his head innocently. “What, that? Nah. I just… researched. A lot. And I… uh, practiced on a fruit.”

You turned your head slowly. “Was it the peach again?”

“…It might’ve also been a mango. For tongue agility. But I named it after you, so it was romantic!”

You tried to snort, but it came out as a wheeze. “I can’t feel my legs, Jisung.”

He beamed. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Still taking it as one.”

He leaned in and kissed your cheek, then your nose, then your forehead like he hadn’t just destroyed your entire nervous system with his mouth.

“I feel like I just unlocked a secret side quest,” he victoriously cheered. “‘Satisfy hot girlfriend until she sees God.’ Bonus XP for oral stamina. Am I your favorite now?”

You blinked at him, still fighting for air. “I don’t even know my name right now. You’ve ruined me.”

Jisung squeaked and tucked his face into your neck, practically vibrating with joy. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“You should. I saw the afterlife. It was just a video game buffering screen.”

He laughed, then rolled onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “I can’t believe this is real. You’re real. Your thighs are real. I had a girlfriend and head privileges all in the same night. I feel like I need to call my mom.”

“Please don’t.”

“Too late. She deserves to know her son peaked.”

You smacked him lightly with the nearest pillow, still grasping for air, still dazed.

And then he smiled at you— so big, so genuine, so sickeningly in love that your tired heart clenched.

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat, y’know,” he mumbled, brushing hair from your face. “Just say the word.”

You looked at him, the boy with anime figures on his shelf, lotion still on his desk, and love in his eyes, pulling him in for a kiss.

“Next time,” you whispered, “I’m returning the favor.”

Mindlessly reaching into his sweats, the second your hand wrapped around his length, you froze.

“…Jisung.”

“H-huh?”

You gave a blank expression. Looking down. Looking back up.

“This is- you’re.. how is this even—?”

“I DON’T KNOW,” he cried. “IT DOESN’T EVEN MAKE SENSE, I’M ONLY 5’7!”

You stared at him like he just told you he had a second life as a Marvel superhero.

“Oh my god, I just assumed you’d be, like—”

“Average?!” He gasped, scandalized.

“No! I just- I mean- look at you! You’re this cute little nerd with anime socks and a keyboard with cat ears.. how are you packing all this?!”

You were in utter disbelief, there’s no way your sweet, stammering little boyfriend had been walking around with a dick that big and had no idea what kind of weapon he was carrying. Just raw, untapped dick potential— XL stats on a man who still apologizes when his knees crack too loud. Poor baby had been lugging around a whole third leg, and didn’t even know the first thing to do with it ;(

He simply shook his head, fully tomato red now, flailing beneath you like he was about to spontaneously combust. He watched you like he was afraid to blink. You pumped him once, slowly, watching him shiver under your touch. His lips parted. His back arched. You hadn’t even gotten started and he already looked completely ruined.

“Can I ride you?” You asked sweetly.

He nodded so fast his head could nearly fell off. “Yes. Yes, oh my god, yes- please, I’ll do anything.”

“Anything?” You cocked your eyebrow.

“I’ll uninstall League right now if you ask me to—”

You giggled as you rolled the condom down over him, letting his hands greedily grab at your thighs. He was panting, forehead glistening with a sheen of sweat, like his brain was overheating just from the anticipation.

Then you finally lowered yourself, sinking down onto him, gradually, feeling the way you take him so easily from being soaking wet. Jisung mumbles something illegible under his breath as your cunt swallows his cock whole. It didn’t take long for you to reach the end of him since you were already so ready for him, staying in the same position to feel all of him inside you. His cock was splitting you open so nicely, it felt like you were in utter paradise.

And he made the sound.

Like his soul physically left his body, floated into the air, and gave you a salute on the way out.

“F-fuck.. you’re tight, I can’t—” he clutched your waist, eyes fluttering. “I’m gonna die. This is it. This is how I go.” He desperately bucks into you, wanting to feel more movement from you.

You move your hips to match his rhythm as you gain your balance, pressing both hands on his shoulder blades. You bounce slightly up and down on his cock, feeling your walls being filled up by every inch of him. You shifted from grinding on him real slow to picking up your pace indefinitely. Jisung threw his head back against the pillow from the pleasure, the sound of his balls hitting against your ass with the combination of it jiggling as you rode him like a bunny was enough to make him want to burst on the spot.

You leaned down and give him a chaste kiss. “Best way to go, huh?”

He nods vehemently. “Please don’t stop. Ever. I’ll cancel my Crunchyroll subscription for you. I’ll stop buying figurines. I’ll even delete my Genshin account.”

“Okay, now you’re being dramatic.”

He groaned helplessly as you continuously rode him like your life depended on it, breath hitching with every drag of your hips. He was so sensitive, so overwhelmed with it all that he couldn’t stop moaning into your mouth, mumbling broken, incoherent things like, “You feel soso good,” and “I can’t believe I get to have this,” and “Am I still breathing? No? Cool.”

You kissed down his jaw, showing no signs of stopping. You knew this was going to be one of those moments you’d both play on loop in your heads for a long, long time. “Still pretty, baby.”

He pants out. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You simply keep moaning as you kept bouncing on his cock, he was thrusting back into you, going even deeper. Your eyes reaching the back of your skull from the way he was hitting all the right spots. It wouldn’t take long before you started screaming his name and showering him with endless compliments.

“You’re so fucking pretty, Ji.” You were a broken record at this point, nothing but your whines and his grunts filling the room. You felt tense, your clit was throbbing, the pressure build up making you dizzy. Jisung couldn’t keep his eyes off you for a second, the way your tits bounced through your shirt, the way your long acrylics dug into his skin, he wasn’t even sure how he was still alive.

This was better than any of those fake scenarios that he’d absentmindedly create in his head, better than finally beating a level that he’d get stuck on for hours. He was in pure heaven, and he felt his high approaching any minute.

“I-I think ’m gonna cum,” he desperately choked out, rocking into you like a dog in heat.

Jisung was wrecked beneath you. Hands fisting into the sheets, mouth agape, his eyes rolling back every time you sank down fully and clenched around him.

“Fuck, please- please, I-I can’t,” he whimpered, voice shaky, flushed all the way to the tips of his ears. His stomach tightening with every motion, trying so hard not to lose it.

You leaned forward and cupped his face, riding him a little harder, the slap of skin soft but steady. “You said you could take it, baby,” you whispered, voice syrup-sweet. “You begged for this.”

“I know, I- just- pleaseplease can I cum?” he panted, nearly on the verge of tears. His voice was raw, wrecked, like every second you didn’t let him was a cruel punishment. “’m so close, I’m- I’ll be good, I swear, just let me.. please—”

You seal his lips with yours, just to quiet the begging, grinning against his mouth as his hands fumbled for your hips again. He moaned into the kiss, his hips twitching helplessly under yours.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you beg,” you airly chuckled, pulling back just enough to look down at him. His eyes were wild, glazed over, the pretty sounds he made were like music to your ears.

“Th-thank you,” he sobbed, the gratitude in his voice borderline ridiculous. “’m gonna- I’m- oh my god—”

And with that, he finally let go. Releasing every last drop of his seed into the condom, muscles tensing up, gripping you like you were his only tether to reality. He looked down to see your arousal creating a white, creamy ring around the base of his thick cock, almost about to cum again just from the mere sight alone. Your legs felt like jello, you were weightless, collapsing onto his sweaty, sticky chest as you try to catch your breath, brain all foggy in your post-coital daze.

You didn’t expect him to cry.

Okay— not, like, full sobbing. But a little misty-eyed? A little “what did I do to deserve this?” A sparkle in his gaze as you lay draped across his chest, both of you blissed out and glowing in the soft, RGB-lit afterglow?

Yeah.

He was trying so hard not to sniffle.

“You okay, baby?” You murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the curve of his jaw.

Jisung nodded, eyes wide and glassy. “I just… I thought my first time would be like, awkward. Or disappointing. Or I’d accidentally sneeze into someone’s mouth and get banned from touching boobs forever.”

You laughed against his skin. “Definitely didn’t happen.”

“No,” he grins, wrapping his arms tighter around you, “this was better than anything I could’ve ever imagined in my head. Better than my first SSR pull in Genshin. Better than when I tried the seasonal spicy chicken ramen and lived.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “That’s a pretty long list of victories to beat.”

“You’re the only victory that matters.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned playfully, “who is this smooth man and what has he done with my sweaty, anime-obsessed virgin boyfriend?”

He huffed, burying his face into your hair. “He’s still sweaty and obsessed with anime. He just… also happens to be madly in love with you.”

You smiled into his chest.

“Also,” he added, completely deadpan, “I think I saw the shadow realm.”

You snorted. “When?”

“When you said I was pretty and grabbed my—” His voice cracked. He covered his face with his hands. “Oh my god, I can’t say it. My ancestors are watching.”

You giggled, shifting to lay next to him and intertwining your fingers with his.

And for a while, it was just quiet. Safe. His hand slowly brushing over your side. Your heartbeat syncing with his. The faint whir of his PC fan still spinning in the corner because, of course, he never actually shut it down.

Then he jolted upright suddenly, as if he remembered something urgent.

“Wait.”

You blinked up at him, amused. “What?”

He slid off the bed, naked except for one, singular sock and scurried to his cluttered desk. You watched, dazed and curious, as he fumbled with drawers and cracked open a cabinet that definitely shouldn’t have had food in it.

Finally, he turned around triumphantly. Holding out a white, rectangular box.

“Pocky.”

You stared. “…Seriously?”

“I always imagined I’d give my girlfriend Pocky after her first time with me,” he said solemnly. “Like a weird little anime reward.”

You sat up and grinned. “You are a weird little anime reward.”

He climbed back into bed beside you and opened the box, pulling out one, white chocolate-dipped stick and offering it with both hands like it was a sacred gift.

You bit it gently from his fingers.

“Mmm. You’re such a good boy,” you purred with a playful smile, “giving me snacks after ruining me.”

He short-circuited. Almost choking on his own Pocky. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“I hope so.”

You kissed his cheek, then his nose, and then— just to mess with him— you whispered, “Still thinking about how big you are, by the way.”

Jisung made a noise so high-pitched it could only be heard by dogs. He flopped face down into the sheets, flailing helplessly while you laughed and straddled his back.

“You have to stop saying things like that,” he muffled into the pillow.

“Why?” You asked sweetly, brushing his hair back. “You’re my pretty boy. I’m just appreciating what’s mine.”

He peeked up at you, still pink, still glowing.

“…Promise you’re mine too?”

You leaned down and pressed your lips against his, soft and slow.

The marriage, which had been forced on both of y'll by your parents. Lee Know had made perfectly clear, was a strategic alliance. There was no pretense of romance, no whispers of forever exchanged between them. His words, delivered just days before the minimalist ceremony, were a familiar, cutting echo of the past, designed to sever any nascent hope.

"Look, Y/N," he’d begun, cornering you in the hushed elegance of his mother’s living room, where the idea had first been floated. His voice was flat, devoid of warmth, like a winter sky. "Let's be absolutely clear. This… this arrangement. It means nothing to me. Not in that way." His eyes, usually so expressive, were carefully shuttered. "Aera needs a mother. That's it. A stable presence. Understand?"

You’d simply nodded, your throat tight with a pain that was both fresh and agonizingly old. "I understand, Minho," you managed, the formality of his full name a deliberate barrier you hoped he'd feel. A phantom ache from years gone by, now brutally reawakened.

The small civil ceremony had been mercifully brief, a blur of officiant's words and a few polite, distant relatives. Your dress, a simple cream-colored shift, felt less like bridal attire and more like a uniform for a solemn duty. Minho, handsome in a dark suit, had looked impeccably composed, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. There was no exchange of rings—only the signing of papers, sealing a fate neither of you had truly chosen. He had offered you a pen, his fingers brushing yours, a fleeting contact that sent a shiver through you, a sensation you immediately suppressed.

"Sign here," the officiant had prompted, pointing to the line.

Minho had signed first, his hand steady. When it was your turn, your signature felt alien, a stranger’s mark. "There," you'd murmured, pushing the papers back.

Minho had barely glanced at you. "Right. So, that's done." His tone had been purely transactional, a stark reminder of his earlier declaration. You were Y/N L/N now, soon to be Y/N Lee, but the surname felt like a costume you were forced to wear, a temporary, uncomfortable guise.

It was a cruel, almost unbearable irony, considering how your paths had once been so deeply intertwined. You and Minho, inseparable, best friends through every grueling university exam, every late-night study session fueled by instant coffee and shared dreams. You’d known the contours of his laughter, the slight furrow of his brow when he was concentrating, the way his eyes would crinkle at the corners when truly amused. He’d known yours too – your nervous habit of twirling a strand of hair, your passion for forgotten novels, the quiet way you processed the world around you. Your lives had been parallel, often intersecting, a comforting constant in the turbulent waters of young adulthood.

Then she had arrived – his ex-wife, the woman who had later shattered his world by cheating on him. Back then, she had been a whirlwind of dazzling smiles and magnetic charm, and Minho had fallen hard. You had watched, a silent, aching observer, as he drifted further away, consumed by a love that, unbeknownst to him then, would ultimately betray him. And just like that, without a backward glance, he’d cut you off.

"She doesn't like how close we are, Y/N," he’d said, his eyes distant, already elsewhere, avoiding your gaze. "It's for the best. You understand, don't you?"

You had swallowed the bitter pill, pretending understanding, while your heart fractured into a thousand pieces. "Of course, Minho. Whatever makes you happy." The lie had tasted like ash. As if your friendship had never existed, as if the years of shared laughter and confidences were merely a phantom, easily erased.

Now, years later, the universe seemed to delight in its twisted sense of humor. Their mothers, ever the masterminds of well-intentioned chaos, had decided your fates, orchestrating this reluctant union. His mother, concerned for Aera's future, and your own, perhaps hoping to see you finally settled. The rationale was simple: Aera needed a mother, and you, being a 'good, stable girl' who knew Minho, were deemed the perfect, convenient solution. You had no real say, swept up in a tide of parental expectations and societal pressures.

-

A month passed within the confines of the meticulously clean, yet emotionally sterile, house. The initial silence, thick with unspoken resentment and unaddressed pasts, began, almost imperceptibly, to soften. Five-year-old Aera, a miniature shadow constantly at her father's heels, initially shy and reserved, began to cling to you with an unexpected fierceness. She was a delicate thing, all wide, curious eyes and soft brown hair, and beneath her initial reticence, you found a playful spirit longing for connection.

It surprised everyone, especially Minho, who had cycled through countless nannies, each one met with Aera's stubborn, tearful refusal to trust. The child seemed to possess an innate radar for insincerity, sending nannies fleeing with her piercing cries and unyielding resistance. But with you, it was different. Slowly, cautiously, Aera began to unfurl. She’d crawl into your lap while you read her bedtime stories, her small body a comforting weight. She’d shyly offer you her favorite crayon as you sketched together, her hand reaching out for yours, a silent invitation you always accepted. Sometimes, she would just rest her small head against your thigh as you moved through the kitchen, a quiet presence that spoke volumes. Each small gesture felt like a balm to your wounded spirit, a tiny crack appearing in the wall of your resignation.

Even Minho's three furry overlords—Soonie, Doongie, and Dori—the regal, aloof feline trio who usually regarded newcomers with disdainful flicks of their tails, now purred contentedly around you. They would rub against your legs as you walked, settle onto your lap while you watched TV, or even allow you the rare privilege of scratching behind their ears. Minho, ever the doting cat dad, would sometimes pause, a flicker of surprise in his usually impassive eyes, as he witnessed their unusual acceptance.

One evening, he watched as Dori kneaded biscuits happily on your lap. "Huh," he’d said, a rare, almost unreadable sound. "They don't usually… tolerate new people that quickly."

You’d merely offered a small, noncommittal smile, not wanting to break the fragile peace. It was a small validation for you, a quiet acknowledgement that perhaps, you weren't entirely unwelcome in this new, strange life.

A fragile, bittersweet domestic tension began to settle in, a tentative breath of peace in a house built on obligation. The routines of breakfast, school runs, quiet evenings, and shared meals began to form a rhythm, punctuated by Aera's childish chatter and the soft purring of the cats. Minho remained guarded, polite but distant, a phantom in the hallways. "Good morning," or "Did Aera finish her homework?" were the most extensive exchanges. You, in turn, learned to navigate his silences, to exist in the periphery of his life, a role you thought you were accustomed to from your university days, but now carried the weight of a 'paper ring' and a silent promise of nothing. Each day was a tightrope walk between hope and resignation, between the past you couldn't forget and a future you couldn't quite see.

--

One crisp evening, the enticing aroma of roasted garlic and something simmering on the stove—a rich, savory scent—greeted you as you returned home from errands. The fragrance was a surprising comfort, a small, domestic whisper in the otherwise vast, silent house. It was a fleeting illusion of normalcy, one you clung to with a desperate, almost pathetic hope. Minho, having taken a rare day off to spend with Aera, was meticulously plating dinner in the kitchen. His movements were precise, economical, almost robotic, as he spooned pasta onto plates and arranged small, perfectly cooked florets of broccoli beside them. He wore a simple, dark t-shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms, and for a fleeting moment, the sight felt almost normal, a fragile bubble of domesticity you desperately yearned for.

"Dinner's ready," he announced, his voice neutral, not looking up from the plates, his gaze fixed on the task. Aera, who had been quietly coloring at the kitchen island, a small, contented hum escaping her lips as she meticulously colored a unicorn, immediately bounced off her stool, her eyes wide with anticipation. "Yay! Dinner!" she chirped, tugging on his sleeve.

As the three of you sat down at the gleaming, expansive dining table, a quiet hum settled between you. The only sounds were the soft clink of cutlery against ceramic, Aera's soft murmurs to her imaginary friend tucked under the table, and the faint, residual sizzle from the kitchen as Minho finally turned off the stove. You watched Aera pick at her food, her small fork pushing around the vibrant green peas with an air of profound contemplation, as if they held the secrets of the universe, rather than just being, well, peas.

"Aera, sweetheart, just a few bites of your veggies," you coaxed gently, your voice soft, almost a whisper, reaching to help guide her spoon. Your fingers brushed her tiny hand. "They're really good, I promise. Daddy cooked them just for you." You offered her a warm, encouraging smile, trying to make it a game.

But the moment the spoon neared her mouth, a storm erupted. Her small face contorted into a defiant frown, every line of her five-year-old stubbornness etched clearly. She shrieked, swatting your hand away with surprising force, sending the spoon clattering against the plate. "No! I don't want it! I don't like green! It's yucky! I want noodles only!" A solitary pea flew across the table, a tiny green missile, narrowly missing Minho’s plate and landing with a soft plink on the polished hardwood floor.

Minho had been having an impossibly rough week. The significant deal, a sprawling, complex project he had poured months of his life, his intellect, his very essence into, had collapsed spectacularly earlier that day. Not due to his fault, but his company's egregious, sloppy error. He had spent hours trapped in scathing, unforgiving meetings, bearing the brunt of the blame, listening to veiled threats about future career prospects. It had left him with the unenviable task of damage control, a throbbing headache, and a bitter, metallic taste of failure coating his tongue. His patience, already stretched thin by the day's relentless frustrations and the suffocating weight of responsibility, snapped like a dry twig underfoot.

"Aera! Stop that right now!" His voice, usually a soothing balm when speaking to his daughter, cracked with a harshness that made you flinch violently. He slammed his fork down on the table, a sharp, metallic clang that echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence. "Eat your food! You're five, you need to eat your vegetables! We do not throw food at the table! That's disrespectful!"

The little girl froze instantly, her playful defiance replaced by wide-eyed terror. Her lip began to tremble uncontrollably, a single tear tracing a path down her flushed cheek, before she burst into heartbroken sobs, loud and piercing, echoing off the high ceilings. She looked utterly bewildered by her father's sudden, explosive fury, a silent accusation in her tear-filled eyes, reflecting the shattered innocence of the moment.

"Minho, please," you started, your voice urgent, instinctively reaching across the table, your hand hovering uncertainly between them. You wanted to pull Aera into your embrace, to shield her from his sudden, chilling rage. "She's just a child. She's upset. Let's try to calm her down, maybe make a game of it, or distract her—"

But he cut you off with a sharp, angry glance, his jaw tight, muscles bunched along his jawline. His eyes, usually a soft, warm brown, were now cold, devoid of any recognition, like chips of obsidian. "Stay the hell out of it, Y/N." His words were ice, direct and devastating, each syllable a precisely aimed dagger. "This is between me and my daughter. You’re just some outsider. You don't get to interfere with how I raise her. You don't understand."

The 'outsider' comment hung in the air, heavy and poisonous, coating everything in its bitter taste. It wasn't just a phrase; it was a bludgeon, hitting you squarely in the chest. It was a familiar, painful reminder of your precarious place in this arrangement, a stark, brutal jab at the wound he'd inflicted years ago when he’d first cast you aside. It tore open old scars, reminding you of every moment you’d felt secondary, expendable. But seeing Aera’s crushed face, her small body shaking with quiet, desperate sobs, ignited a protective fire in you, extinguishing the self-pity, pushing aside your own hurt for hers. The anger at his cruel words for you was momentarily overshadowed by the fierce, burning injustice done to her.

You pushed your chair back with a violent scrape that grated against the floor, standing abruptly, your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms. Your voice trembled with the force of suppressed emotion, but it was firm, unwavering, born of a quiet strength he hadn't seen in years. "That is not how you parent, Minho! You’re terrifying her! She's crying because you're yelling, not because she's stubborn! Yelling at her like that will just make her fear you! She’s upset, not defiant, and she needs comfort, not a lecture on discipline after you've scared her half to death!"

His eyes, blazing with a fury that mirrored your own, met yours across the table, a silent, volatile challenge. A vein pulsed visibly in his temple. "Don't you dare teach me how to handle my own daughter! Who are you to tell me how to raise her?! I lost a major deal today, Y/N, I'm stressed beyond belief! She needs to learn discipline! You have no right to interfere!" His fist clenched on the tabletop, his knuckles white against his tanned skin. "You have no idea what it's like to be responsible for everything alone! You have no idea what my life is like!"

And then you yelled back, the dam breaking under the pressure of weeks of unspoken grievances and years of buried pain, the words tumbling out, raw and uncontrolled, laced with venom you didn't know you possessed. "Discipline? Or are you just lashing out because you're having a bad day and can’t control your own temper?! Is that it, Minho?! You’re acting like a stranger to your own child! Then you shouldn't have remarried me if you haven't moved on!" Your voice rose, raw with emotion, tears stinging your own eyes, hot and sudden. "You’re bringing your past hurt, your anger, your failed relationship into this house, and it’s hurting Aera! Your parenting is harsh, Minho, and you don't realize your words are like slow poison! They sting, badly, and they leave scars! On her, and on everyone around you!" Your gaze held his, piercing through his anger to the raw pain beneath. "You have no idea how much your words can sting, how much they can poison someone and lure them to their own death by making them feel like they aren't good enough! for you or for aera or for anyone!"

Aera, meanwhile, had scrambled from her chair, her small body trembling with silent sobs that shook her shoulders. Her face was blotchy, tears streaking lines down her cheeks. She pushed her chair back further with a pathetic squeak and bolted, a tiny, heartbroken blur disappearing into the sanctuary of your room, the soft thud of your room's door closing echoing in the sudden, suffocating silence that descended upon the dining room.

The argument had bled all warmth from the room, leaving only an oppressive, heavy quiet that pressed down on you both. You stood there, chest heaving, the remnants of your outburst vibrating in the air, your body tense, ready for another verbal attack, for the inevitable counter-blow. Minho remained seated, a statue of furious control, his face a mask of stone, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Aera had been, a flicker of something unreadable – regret? shame? – in their depths. The tension was a physical entity, suffocating you both, heavy with the weight of unspoken words and shattered expectations. You couldn't bear to look at him, couldn't bear the lingering echo of his words, the raw, unadulterated hurt they inflicted.

With a final, sharp, ragged breath, you turned, the sound of your own steps unnaturally loud in the silence. You walked, almost ran, to your own bedroom, the slamming of your door echoing the turbulence in your heart, sealing you away from the man you were legally bound to, and the relentless cycle of hurt he so effortlessly inflicted. You leaned against the closed door, your back pressing against the cool wood, tears finally falling freely, hot and unstoppable. The bitter taste of regret mingled with the lingering, agonizing sting of his cruelty, a reminder that some wounds, no matter how old, could always be reopened.

The sharp, insistent ring of the doorbell jolted you awake far too early the next morning. You glanced at your phone—6:45 AM. Too early for anyone, especially after last night's emotional wreckage. Before you could even process it, you heard Aera’s excited squeal from the living room, she was up way early….she had been sleeping besides you for the longest you could remember. Oh no. Not today. It could only mean one thing: Minho’s parents had arrived unannounced.

You quickly splashed cold water on your face, trying to erase the lingering traces of tears and the dark circles under your eyes. As you walked into the living room, a practiced smile plastered on your face, Minho's mother immediately enveloped you in a warm hug. "Y/N, dear! Goodness, you look tired. Minho is still asleep, I assume? He works so hard."

You forced a light laugh, your heart pounding. "Good morning, Eomma. Appa. It's lovely to see you." You subtly glanced towards Minho's closed bedroom door. "Yes, he… he had a very late night at work. I didn't want to disturb him." You avoided eye contact, hoping your feigned cheerfulness would mask the raw fight that had exploded just hours before. Aera, surprisingly, didn't say anything either. She just clung to her grandmother's leg, her gaze briefly meeting yours, a silent pact of secrecy passing between you. Perhaps the shock of her father’s anger had sobered her, or perhaps she sensed the fragile peace you were trying to maintain.

Aera, who had curled up with you in your room last night—a first, a small, comforting victory in the chaos—was now buzzing with excitement around her grandparents. She chatted happily, completely absorbed in their presence, making no mention of her sudden transfer to your bed. You spent the morning attempting to play the perfect host, brewing coffee, preparing breakfast, and engaging in light conversation, all while a frantic energy pulsed beneath your calm exterior. Minho remained conspicuously absent. Aera, after failing to rouse him, bounced off to join her grandparents in the kitchen.

Later, as the day wound down and the evening shadows lengthened, Minho’s mother made a casual remark. "Y/N, dear, Aera will want to sleep with her father tonight, now that we're here. And you'll need your own room, of course. It's only proper." Her words were gentle, but the implication was clear: you would have to sleep in Minho’s room. Your stomach churned. The thought of sharing that space, even platonically, after what had happened, was a fresh wave of agony. You simply nodded, forcing another weak smile. "Of course, Eomma."

You tried to delay the inevitable, helping Aera prepare for bed, tucking her in as Minho’s parents settled into the guest room. Minho was still not home. He had sent a brief, impersonal text earlier: Will be late. Don't wait for me. That was all. No apology, no explanation, just a curt notification.

You lingered in Aera's room until her breathing deepened, then reluctantly made your way to Minho's room. The air felt heavy, charged with his lingering presence, even in his absence. You changed into your sleep clothes, the silence of the large room amplifying the ache in your chest. You climbed into the vast bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin, trying to find a comfortable position on the very edge, as far from his side as possible. You tried to sleep, but the words from last night still festered, raw and stinging, replaying in your mind like a broken record. "You’re just some outsider." They were a poison, slowly eroding your already fragile sense of belonging.

Restless, unable to find solace, you eventually shifted, your arm instinctively reaching for the bedside drawer, expecting your own room's familiar collection of books and a comforting balm. Your fingers brushed against cold metal, then paper. You froze, realizing your mistake. This wasn't your room. It was his. Your hand paused, then curiosity, morbid and irresistible, compelled you forward. You pulled the drawer open slowly.

Inside, beneath a few neatly stacked papers, lay a silver photo frame. Your eyes fell on it, and your breath hitched. It was a wedding photo—Minho and his ex-wife, all smiles and starry-eyed adoration, captured in a moment of pure, unadulterated happiness. He looked so young, so in love. So happy. It was a stark contrast to the distant, weary man he was now. Aera looked so much like Minho, you realized, studying the tiny face in the picture. Her hair color was undeniably her mother’s, a rich, dark brown, but the shape of her eyes, the set of her lips, it was all Minho.

Below the frame, tucked away, were stacks of papers. You carefully picked them up, your fingers trembling. They were old love poems and song lyrics, handwritten in Minho’s neat script, overflowing with devotion and longing. For her. Each word was a sharp jab, twisting deeper into your gut.

It stung, a deep, twisting pain in your chest, radiating outwards. You had kept hoping, against all logic, that Minho might eventually like you, that he would move on from the phantom of his past love, or at least that you could somehow return to the easy closeness you shared as friends. His ex-wife was the very reason Minho had distanced himself from you in university, the reason he’d thrown away your bond. You had always loved him, a secret you guarded fiercely, unwilling to jeopardize a friendship that meant the world to you. And just like that, he had slipped away, as if your bond meant nothing. You hadn't attended their wedding; you just couldn't bear it. You had believed you’d moved on, burying the feelings deep, only to be proven wrong, again and again, with every quiet moment you spent under his roof, every silent hope you nurtured. And now, seeing this proof of his enduring devotion to a ghost, you hated yourself for still liking him, for allowing this agonizing vulnerability, for clinging to the idea that you could ever fill a void meant for someone else. You felt utterly, irrevocably unwanted.

You quietly, meticulously, put everything back, arranging the papers and the photo frame exactly as you’d found them. Tears rolled silently down your cheeks, hot and unbidden, pooling on the pillow. Getting up from the vast, empty expanse of the bed, you walked towards the small couch tucked into a corner of the room. Curling into its cramped space, you wrapped your arms around yourself, with Aera sleeping peacefully in the bed a world away. You hoped Minho wouldn't even realize you were there.

You couldn't sleep. The photo, the poems, his words, Aera’s tears after minho had yelled her like she had commited a crime—it all swirled in a tormenting vortex. Just as the first hint of pre-dawn light filtered through the curtains, the door swung open, and he walked in. Minho.

He didn't notice you immediately. He quickly stripped off his coat, tossing it over a chair, and walked over to the bed, his movements quiet, precise. He bent down, his shadow falling over Aera, and gently pulled her closer, kissing her head. "I'm so sorry, baby i was wrong for yelling at you…i shouldn't have taken out my anger on you," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy apology, filled with a regret you knew was solely for her. You pretended to be asleep, your breath shallow, your heart aching with a pain so profound it was almost physical.

He slowly got up, went for a bath, the sound of the running water a muffled background noise. When he came back, dressed in fresh sleepwear, he laid down beside his daughter, pulling the duvet over them both. His eyes, now adjusted to the dim light, drifted from Aera’s sleeping form to the far corner of the room. He saw your cramped form on the couch. That's when it hit him—right, his parents were here… you were here, not in the bed, but on the couch. A flicker of surprise, then something akin to confusion, crossed his face before he settled deeper into the pillows, his gaze drifting towards his bedside table. The neatly arranged items, the way the drawer had been moved by a centimeter or so… it was clear you had seen something, something he had been wanting to trash but hadn't had the heart to.

He hadn't meant to cause you so much pain. The thought was a weak, pathetic excuse, a whisper in the furious storm brewing within him, barely audible over the roaring self-condemnation. He watched you curled on the couch, a small, desolate shape in the dim, pre-dawn light that filtered through the curtains, painting the room in shades of grey. You looked tired, utterly exhausted, and undeniably, profoundly hurt. This wasn't the superficial fatigue of a long day at the office or a sleepless night; this was the deep-seated weariness of a spirit burdened, a soul bruised by repeated blows. Your posture, hunched and defensive, spoke volumes, a stark contrast to the vibrant, open person he remembered.

He sat heavily on the edge of his bed, the duvet still warm from Aera’s small, innocent body, and his gaze drifted back to the bedside table. The photo frame, the stack of papers. They were exactly as he'd left them, a testament to his own lingering attachment to a past he desperately wanted to erase. Yet, the slight displacement he’d noticed earlier, the tiny shift of a centimeter or two, spoke volumes, a silent accusation. You had opened the drawer. You had seen it all. The wedding photo with his ex-wife, her beaming, false smile a stark contrast to the betrayal that followed. The saccharine love poems he’d poured his naive, foolish heart into for a woman who had ultimately shattered it into irreparable pieces. The relics of a past he couldn't bring himself to truly discard, not because he still loved her, but because the searing pain, the bitter rage, and the profound, crippling insecurities born from that very betrayal, still clung to him like a suffocating shroud. They were a part of him now, an ugly, festering wound that refused to heal.

He hadn't loved her in years, not in the way he'd once foolishly believed was love. That emotion had curdled into resentment and a deep-seated fear of vulnerability. But the betrayal had warped him, convinced him that he was inherently unlovable, perpetually destined to be left, replaced, or cheated on. And those festering insecurities had, time and again, found an easy target, lashing out at the reader. A wave of shame washed over him, a cold, bitter tide.

He remembered the day in university, years ago. His ex-wife, then his dazzling girlfriend, had demanded he cut ties with his 'too-close' female friend. He’d barely hesitated, blinded by infatuation and his own desperate need for validation. "Just… fuck off, Y/N," he’d snapped, his own fear of losing his new, captivating love overriding every ounce of loyalty and genuine affection he held for his best friend. He’d seen it then, the instant flash of pain in your eyes, a bright, hopeful spark extinguished as if by a sudden gust of wind, replaced by a quiet, heartbreaking emptiness that had never truly returned. He’d justified it then, told himself it was for the best, that you should move on. Now, looking at you on the couch, he knew he had been a coward.

And last night. His words had been even worse, sharper, more venomous than anything he’d ever directed at anyone, let alone you. Calling you an 'outsider,' demanding you to 'stay the hell out of it.' His own fury, fueled by his humiliating professional setback, had found an outlet in the one person who offered him solace. He had failed you as a friend, as a husband, as a human indeed. The thought settled in his gut like a lead weight. He was disgusted with himself, truly, profoundly disgusted.

The woman who stood by him, who patiently navigated his moods, who had, without a single complaint, taken on the arduous role of Aera’s mother, was someone he had consistently, cruelly, pushed away. The irony was suffocating. The fact that she still kept trying, kept all the mundane details of their shared life running smoothly, kept a calm and happy demeanor for Aera’s sake—it was a testament to your quiet resilience, a quiet strength that shamed him. It twisted his gut with a familiar, burning guilt. You were suffering, he realized with a sickening lurch, probably worse than he could ever imagine, because you were always so acutely insecure about your whole existence.

He remembered your quiet struggles in university, the way your family had subtly, constantly, undermined you, with their casual taunts and backhanded compliments. "Why can't you be more like your sister, Y/N? She always knows what she wants." Or, "You're so quiet, are you even trying? You need to speak up more, get noticed." They had been like tiny, insidious cuts, wearing away at your self-worth, systematically eroding your confidence. You had been living in a subtle hell of constant comparison and criticism, and he, in his blind rage and self-pity, had only added to it. He had taken you out of one toxic environment and, in his arrogance, put you back into the same nasty rhythm of his own rage and insecurities, constantly reminding you that you are just here as a replacement, a convenient solution, never truly desired or loved for herself. He had broken the one promise he’d silently made to himself: to protect you. Just to be broken in the worst manner and hurt you in the worst way one could have even imagined.

The image of your small, trembling body on the couch, a faint tremor still visible in your sleeping form, merged with the memory of Aera's terrified sobs from last night. His words, he realized, were like acid, slowly eating away at the very foundations of your spirit, leaving you hollowed out and fragile. He had sworn to himself, silently, during their university days, that he would never make this girl cry. He had sworn to protect that quiet, hopeful spark in your eyes, the gentle kindness that drew others to you. And now, he was the one extinguishing it, systematically, with every cruel word, every cold shoulder. He had fallen in love with the manipulation, the subtle coercion from the woman he'd once 'loved,' who had asked him to cut ties with his best friend and probably the only person who wad truly ever seen him fully. He had been so blind, so consumed by his own wounded ego after being cheated on, that he hadn't seen the true, unwavering kindness, the steadfast loyalty, that had always been right in front of him, waiting patiently.

He knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that he didn't deserve you, you deserved something he had touched and lost in a matter of seconds. He was a mess, a twisted knot of anger, self-loathing, and unresolved trauma. He had used your gentle presence, your unwavering support, your quiet affection, to somehow convince himself he was still good enough, still worthy of someone's affection, even if that affection was born of duty and circumstance. It was disgusting. He was disgusting. Every breath he took felt tainted by his own hypocrisy and cruelty.

He rose from the bed, moving slowly, carefully, his limbs heavy, so as not to disturb you or Aera. He knelt by the couch, the worn fabric pressing into his knees, his heart heavy and aching with a pain that rivaled his own. You were so small, so defenseless in your sleep, your face still etched with the residue of tears, a tear track glistening faintly on your cheek. He gently, carefully, cradled you in his arms, lifting your feather-light body as if you were made of glass. He could feel the slight shudder of your breath against his chest, the warmth of your skin. He laid you on the bed, pulling the duvet over you, watching as you instinctively snuggled into the warmth, finding comfort in the familiar scent of the linens. You looked tired, exhausted, and profoundly hurt. He reached out a trembling hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from your forehead, his fingers lingering, wanting to smooth away the pain he had caused. He remembered their university days and how his callous words had destroyed your spark. He silently vowed to make amends, to somehow, impossibly, bring that light back. He would try, even if he didn't deserve it. He owed you that much. He owed you everything.

The next morning, the air in the house was thick with an unfamiliar quiet, a strained politeness that felt heavier than any argument. Aera, surprisingly bright-eyed and cheerful, announced with a giggle that she would be spending some time with her grandparents. Minho's mother, ever efficient, confirmed the arrangement. "Just for a few weeks, dear," she said, patting your hand. "Aera loves staying with us, and it will give you both some quiet time." The irony was a bitter taste in your mouth. Quiet time. Aera, seemingly having forgotten the previous night's tension, bounced between her grandmother and father, showering them both with hugs. She hugged you too, a quick, trusting embrace that felt like a lifeline. Then, with a final wave, she was gone, her cheerful chatter fading with the closing of the front door.

And just like that, the house had gone silent. Too silent.

It wasn't merely the absence of Aera's lively presence; it was a profound, suffocating quiet that settled into every corner, amplifying the unspoken chasm between you and Minho. The walls seemed to hum with the tension of two people meticulously avoiding each other. The mornings became a carefully orchestrated dance of near misses. You would rise early, perhaps make yourself a quick toast, and then retreat to the small sunroom with a book, hoping to be out of the way. Minho, it seemed, adopted a similar strategy. You'd hear the faint sounds of him getting ready, a cabinet closing, water running, but by the time you ventured into the main living areas, he would already be gone, the lingering scent of his cologne the only proof he'd been there.

Weeks passed, stretching into an agonizing eternity of carefully maintained distance. Three weeks, to be precise. Aera still didn't want to come back, delighting in the endless attention and treats at her grandparents' house. And with each passing day of her absence, the silence between you and Minho grew heavier, thicker, more impenetrable. It became a third entity in the house, a silent, oppressive companion.

You existed like strangers. Not just under the same roof, but in the same emotional space, breathing the same air, yet worlds apart. There were no more shared meals, no accidental brushes of hands in the kitchen, no fleeting glances across the room. You found yourself retreating more and more into your own world within the house. You spent hours tending to the small, neglected garden in the backyard, pulling weeds with a fierce concentration that masked your inner turmoil. You reorganized closets, baked elaborate cakes you never ate, and started learning a new language online or even force yourself to go meet your friends you had made after minho had left you in the university. Anything to fill the aching void, anything to drown out the silence, anything to avoid the man who was legally your husband.

He, in turn, seemed to retreat into his work. You would be asleep when he came home, the faint creak of the floorboards or the distant click of a lock the only indication of his return. And by the time you woke up, he would already be gone, leaving behind only the cold emptiness of the space beside you in the bed, a stark reminder of his deliberate absence.

It annoyed you, this constant, almost theatrical avoidance, but you kept yourself busy. You told yourself it was better this way. Less chance of another confrontation, less chance of his words wounding you again. Yet, beneath the busy veneer, a profound loneliness began to take root, nurtured by the silent, aching void where a relationship should have been. You were married, yes, but you were more alone than you had ever been. The house, once filled with the muted hum of your hopes, now echoed with only the sound of your own quiet suffering, a poignant testament to the unbearable weight of silence.

The quiet, which had initially been a suffocating weight, had morphed into a strange, unsettling companion. Three weeks of this strained existence had passed, each day a blur of work, domestic tasks, and the meticulous avoidance of Minho. He would leave before you woke, return after you slept. The house was a large, elegant shell, echoing with the silence of two souls desperately trying not to collide.

Then, one evening, as you were meticulously organizing the spice rack for the third time that week, Minho walked into the kitchen. He was dressed in a crisp suit, his briefcase already by the door. "I'll be leaving for a business trip," he announced, his voice flat, devoid of any preamble or desire for discussion. "Four days. If you need anything leave a message"

You merely nodded, your back still to him as you rearranged the cinnamon sticks. "Okay," you mumbled, not trusting your voice to betray the tremor you felt. You didn't ask where, or why, or if he’d be safe. He didn't offer. And just like that, with a barely perceptible sigh, he was gone, leaving behind only the lingering scent of his expensive cologne and an even deeper silence.

The first two days of his absence were surprisingly tolerable. You found a perverse relief in the house being truly, unequivocally empty. No more silent dances in the morning, no more listening for the faint click of his key in the lock late at night. You worked on your online language lessons, gardened, read, and even found yourself humming a little as you cleaned. It was a fragile, self-made peace.

But then came the third day.

The silence began to press in, heavier than before. The vastness of the house, usually a comfort, became a cruel, echoing reminder of your solitude. You found yourself pacing, restless, unable to settle into any task. Every shadow seemed to stretch, every creak of the floorboards sounded louder. You missed him. The thought hit you with the force of a physical blow, surprising and sickening. You missed his presence, even his distant, guarded one. You craved the casual background noise of another adult in the house, the faint scent of his coffee from the kitchen, the distant sound of his voice on a call.

You wanted to kill yourself for still craving it, for being such a needy, pathetic idiot. You were a grown woman, independent, yet here you were, consumed by a longing for a man who had made it painstakingly clear he didn't want you. The knowledge that he wouldn't be home for another day, maybe more, felt like a crushing weight.

Driven by an impulse you couldn't control, you wandered into his bedroom. The room was stark, masculine, smelling faintly of him, clean and crisp. Your eyes landed on his walk-in closet, and specifically, on one of his dark grey hoodies, casually draped over a chair. It was the one you always wanted to wear, thick and soft, the fabric looking impossibly comforting.

With trembling hands, you pulled it on. It was absurdly large, the sleeves falling over your hands, the hem reaching your mid-thigh. But it smelled like him. It was warm, retaining a faint residual heat from his body, and in that moment, you desperately wanted to believe it was how his body warmth would feel like, too. It was a pathetic comfort, a desperate mimicry of an intimacy you didn't have. And probably, you thought with a bitter twist, this was how his ex-wife had gotten all the attention, love, and affection you craved like a greedy, needy idiot. The thought was a sharp pang of self-loathing.

That night, you found yourself in his bed, not the couch. The immense space felt both comforting and vast, emphasizing your loneliness. You curled into the center, the soft duvet pulled high, clutching one of his pillows tight against your chest like a lifeline. It smelled of him, of clean linen and his subtle, unique scent. You buried your face in it, and the tears, long suppressed, finally came. You cried. You sobbed your heart out into the pillow, silent, racking sobs that shook your entire body, until your throat was raw and your eyes burned. You cried yourself to sleep, exhaustion finally claiming you, the hoodie a second skin, a substitute for the warmth you desperately craved.

Minho had finished his business early. The deal, against all odds, had unexpectedly pivoted in their favor at the last minute, and he’d caught an earlier flight, arriving back late on the third night itself, eager to finally decompress in the quiet of his own home. He opened his bedroom door slowly, not wanting to disturb anyone, and stepped inside.

He froze.

There, in his bed, was a small, unfamiliar shape. Not Aera. As his eyes adjusted, he saw you, curled up in the center of his large bed, nestled deep in his duvet, your face buried in his pillow. And then he saw it—the oversized dark grey fabric. His hoodie. You were wearing his hoodie, hugging his pillow like a lifeline.

He moved closer, his steps soft, almost reverent. The streetlights cast long, pale shadows across the room, illuminating your form. As he got closer, the light caught your face. His breath hitched. Your eyes were swollen, your nose red and raw, the delicate skin around them puffy. You had been crying yourself to sleep, god knows from how long. The sight was a punch to the gut, a visceral ache that resonated deep within him.

It hurt him, seeing what he had done to you, the silent suffering you endured. The countless promises he kept breaking, the wounds he kept inflicting, and you were still here, still loving him, still clinging to whatever fragmented pieces of him you could find. He wanted to shake you, to tell you to stop this, to tell you he didn't deserve it, that he was a mess, a broken man. But then, a sickening realization dawned. He had been enjoying it. He had been enjoying the attention you had been giving him, the quiet comfort of your presence, the ease with which you handled Aera and the cats, the unspoken adoration in your gaze. He had been a selfish, manipulative bastard, using someone's love for him to grow by himself, to believe he was good enough, to patch up his own gaping wounds….again and agian and AGAIN.

And it had costed you. You had become someone he couldn't even tell was the same happy, bright person who had been his best friend in university. The spark in your eyes, once so vibrant, was now a dull flicker.

He wanted to hold you close, to beg for another chance, to plead for forgiveness. He knew, with a certainty that shamed him, that you were too forgiving, too kind, too good. You would just say yes. He knew he didn't deserve your kindness, your patience, your affection. He was a monster who had systematically broken the one person who still saw something good in him.

Slowly, gently, he lay down beside you, careful not to disturb your sleep. He didn't pull you closer, didn't dare to. He simply lay there, facing your back, his arm tentatively reaching out to rest beside you, not touching. Good lord, he was an idiot a fucker to have used you in such a twisted manner to heal himself.

--

You woke up slowly, disoriented, a soft warmth enveloping you. For a moment, you thought you were still dreaming, wrapped in the comforting illusion of his arms from your tear-soaked sleep. Then, a shocking realization jolted you into full awareness. You were in Minho’s bed, not the couch. Your head was tucked against a solid chest, and an arm was draped loosely, possessively, around your waist. His scent, still lingering from the hoodie, was now undeniably close, warm and real.

Panic seized you. Your eyes flew open, wide and disbelieving. Had he come back? Had he… had he seen you? The thought of him witnessing your vulnerability, your desperate craving for comfort, sent a fresh wave of humiliation through you. You hadn't asked him if wearing his clothes, touching his stuff, was okay. You were an intruder, caught in the act. Your breath hitched, and your body went rigid, every muscle tensing, preparing for his reaction, for the cold dismissal, the cutting words.

Minho, who hadn't slept a wink, had felt the subtle stiffening of your body against his. He knew the exact moment you woke up, the slight intake of breath, the sudden rigidity that replaced your earlier pliancy. He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, bracing himself. Then, he opened them, his gaze falling on the top of your head nestled under his chin. He felt your silent panic, the rapid thrum of your heartbeat against his chest.

He pulled you infinitesimally closer, a gentle, reassuring movement. His voice, a low, husky whisper, barely audible, broke the suffocating silence. "Hey," he murmured, his breath warm against your hair. "You're all good. Just… breathe." He didn't offer an explanation for his presence, or yours, simply the quiet comfort of his voice. He ran a hesitant hand down your arm, a light, soothing touch designed to calm.

You didn't move, still rigid, suspended between fear and a fragile, desperate hope. His arm remained around you, firm but not constraining, and you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your cheek. The world outside the duvet felt distant, irrelevant. For a fleeting moment, a dangerous, intoxicating part of you wanted to melt into his embrace, to lean into the warmth, to let the exhaustion finally claim you fully.

He was about to say something more, something perhaps apologetic, perhaps even a confession of his own turmoil, when the shrill, insistent ring of his phone shattered the fragile moment. It blared from his bedside table, a jarring intrusion into the hushed intimacy of the morning.

He sighed, a deep, exasperated sound, and reluctantly loosened his hold on you. "Duty calls," he muttered, the warmth instantly draining from his voice as he pulled away. He reached for the phone, his body turning away from you, the brief spell broken as quickly as it had formed. The sudden absence of his warmth left you feeling cold and exposed. You quickly rolled to your side, turning your back to him, pulling the duvet tighter around you like a shield, pretending to still be asleep.

The conversation was brief, clipped, all business. You heard snippets: "Yes, the Q3 report… confirmed… by noon… I understand I will be there." By the time he hung up, the moment was lost. He got out of bed, the mattress shifting slightly. You kept your eyes squeezed shut, willing him to leave, to disappear, to give you space to process what had just happened, what hadn't happened. He probably thought you were still asleep, and you desperately hoped he did. You heard him move around the room, the faint rustle of clothes, the opening and closing of drawers as he prepared for his day. He didn't speak again. Eventually, the click of the bedroom door signaled his departure.

You waited until the house was utterly silent before allowing yourself to fully breathe, tears silently tracing paths down your temples into your hair. The weight of what had just happened—the almost-moment, the broken spell, the lingering scent of him on the sheets—was almost unbearable.

Another week passed. Aera returned home, bringing with her the familiar, welcome sounds of childish laughter and bustling energy. The house, once again, hummed with a life that wasn't entirely desolate. Her presence was a comforting buffer, a shield against the suffocating quiet that still lingered between you and Minho.

But despite the return of Aera's vibrant energy, the two of you didn't talk. Not about that morning, not about the argument, not about anything that truly mattered. It was almost as if it had been entirely forgotten, a nightmare you had both silently agreed to erase from your shared consciousness. The polite, superficial exchanges resumed: "Did Aera eat her breakfast?" or "Are you picking her up from school today?" The facade was perfectly maintained for Aera's sake, a fragile peace treaty built on unspoken rules and avoided truths.

One afternoon, a faint, acrid smell drifted through the house. You followed it to the backyard, to the small, ornate fire pit that Minho sometimes used for grilling. He was standing over it, his back to you, watching something burn. As you approached, you saw the remnants of ash, and then, a corner of paper that hadn't quite caught fire. It was a faded photograph.

Your breath hitched. Your eyes widened as you recognized the faint outline: the blurred faces of Minho and his ex-wife, her long hair, his joyous, open smile. He was burning the photo. And as the flames consumed the last tangible pieces of his past, you noticed other fragments among the ashes – charred remnants of paper that looked suspiciously like old love poems. The ones you had found in his bedside drawer.

Your heart gave a strange, painful lurch. He was doing it. He was finally letting go. A part of you felt a quiet, fragile hope ignite, a timid flame in the vast emptiness of your despair. But another part, the one that had been repeatedly wounded, felt a deep sense of trepidation. What did it mean? Was this for you? Or just for himself?

He didn't acknowledge your presence, didn't turn around, didn't offer an explanation. You watched him for a long moment, the smoke curling into the sky, carrying away the ashes of regret, the remnants of a life that had wounded them both. You never questioned his actions, never asked him what he was burning, or why. You didn't want to hear something which would hurt you again, something that would dismantle the fragile, almost-peace you had managed to reconstruct. So you simply stood there, watching the smoke rise, and then quietly turned and walked back inside, leaving him alone with the ghosts he was finally trying to lay to rest. The silence between you, once again, remained unbroken.

The fragile peace, or rather, the carefully maintained truce, held for another week. Aera's cheerful presence filled the house with a comforting background hum, a much-needed buffer against the vast silence that still stretched between you and Minho. You went about your days, keeping busy, burying any stray thoughts or lingering aches beneath layers of routine.

--

One afternoon, a subtle ache began to prick behind your eyes. By evening, it had blossomed into a dull throb, and a shiver ran through you despite the comfortable indoor temperature. You felt a familiar tickle in your throat, the tell-tale signs of a cold, or worse, something more significant. You reached for the thermometer in the bathroom cabinet, a small, discreet gesture. The digital display blinked back a concerning number: 38.7∘C. A fever.

You pressed your hand to your forehead, confirming the heat radiating from your skin. Just a little cold, you told yourself, forcing a smile. I can push through this. You certainly weren't going to mention it to Minho; the less attention, the less interaction, the better. You swallowed a couple of over-the-counter pills, hoping they would dull the symptoms, and tried to act as if nothing were amiss. You went about your usual evening tasks, helping Aera with her bath, reading her a bedtime story, the words blurring slightly on the page.

Aera, however, with the keen observation skills only a child possesses, had noticed. As you were tucking her in, she had seen you briefly hold the thermometer, her small eyes widening with concern. "Mama, are you okay?" she’d whispered, her brow furrowed.

"Of course, baby," you’d lied, stroking her hair. "Just a little tired."

Later that night, long after you had put Aera to sleep and Minho had finally returned home from work, the fever began to climb. You felt a wave of dizziness, your limbs heavy, your head swimming. You had been trying to prepare a late dinner, a simple meal you barely had the energy to consider, when the room started to spin. The counter felt cool against your forehead as you leaned into it, trying to steady yourself.

Minho, having just stepped out of the shower, walked into the kitchen, drawn by the unusual quiet and the scent of… nothing cooking. He found you there, slumped against the counter, your head bowed, your body practically radiating heat. The prepared ingredients for dinner sat untouched on the counter, a silent testament to your sudden incapacitation.

His heart leaped into his throat. "Y/N?" His voice was sharp, laced with an immediate, raw fear. He rushed to your side, placing a hand on your forehead. Your skin was burning, dangerously hot. "God, Y/N, you're burning up!"

He quickly gathered you into his arms. You were surprisingly light, limp and unresponsive. You didn't stir, your eyes remaining closed, your breathing shallow and ragged. Panic, cold and sharp, seized him. He quickly carried you to his room, his strong arms cradling your feverish body as if you weighed nothing. He laid you gently on his bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to your inflamed skin.

The next few hours were a blur of frantic worry for Minho. He rummaged through the medicine cabinet for fever reducers, then raced to the kitchen for a damp cloth, pressing it to your forehead. He called a doctor, explaining your symptoms, his voice tight with concern. Your fever wasn't going down; if anything, it seemed to be climbing. You hadn't woken up once, remaining unresponsive to his worried murmurs, to the cool cloths, to the medicine he managed to coax past your lips.

He watched you, helpless, as the night wore on. The worry was a physical ache in his chest, a suffocating weight that threatened to consume him. He sat by the bedside, his hand constantly on your wrist, checking your pulse, feeling the erratic beat beneath his fingers. He pulled a chair close, leaning his head against the mattress, his arm still outstretched, his fingers resting lightly on your wrist. He felt consumed with guilt, with a crushing sense of inadequacy. He had been so cruel, so blind, so caught up in his own pain, and now you were suffering, and he felt utterly powerless. The whole night he went around with that, watching your shallow breaths, praying for the fever to break. He fell asleep there, slumped by the bed, his hand still on your wrist, a silent, desperate vigil.

You woke up slowly, disoriented, a strange, profound sense of peace washing over you. The crushing ache in your head was gone, replaced by a dull, persistent throb, and the oppressive feverish heat had finally subsided, leaving a faint chill on your skin. The world wasn't spinning anymore, and the frantic pounding in your temples had calmed to a steady rhythm. You realized you were in Minho’s bed, the familiar scent of him comforting you, the soft duvet tangled around your legs. A soft weight was pressed against your side, and a quiet, rhythmic breathing filled the space next to you.

You opened your eyes fully, blinking against the gentle morning light filtering through the window. Your gaze drifted downwards, and your breath hitched, catching in your throat. Aera was curled up on Minho's chest, her small head nestled against his shoulder, sound asleep, her little hand gripping his shirt. And Minho himself, slumped awkwardly in the chair he had pulled bedside, had fallen asleep, his head resting against the mattress at a painful angle, his arm still outstretched, his hand resting lightly on your wrist. He was holding your pulse, a silent, desperate vigil from the night, a physical tether to your fading life force.

A soft, almost imperceptible warmth, fragile as a butterfly's wing, spread through your chest. Subconsciously, instinctively, your free hand lifted, your fingers gently tracing the lines of his disheveled hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. It was a tender, unthinking gesture, a quiet offering of comfort to the man who had tormented you, yet had stayed by your side all night. Your touch was feather-light, almost a whisper, yet it was enough.

Minho stirred, groaning softly, a deep, tired sound. His eyes fluttered open, still heavy with sleep, then snapped into sharp focus as they landed on you. His gaze was raw, vulnerable, etched with exhaustion and profound relief. He sat up abruptly, his earlier weariness instantly forgotten, his hand tightening almost painfully on your wrist, checking your pulse again. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing against yours, a frantic urgency in his actions. "Y/N? God, you're awake! How are you feeling? Are you okay? Your fever—" His voice was rough, trembling with a fear that startled you.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes scanning your face, relief warring with something fierce and uncontrolled – a desperate need, an unmasked terror. "You scared me half to death, Y/N! Do you understand? To death! Why didn't you say anything? Why didn't you tell me you were sick? Why do you always… why do you always keep it to yourself until it's like this?" He repeated, his voice raw, thick with emotion, a startling vulnerability you hadn't heard in years. He put Aera down gently beside him, careful not to wake the child, and then pulled his chair closer, closer than it had been in weeks, his gaze locked on yours, searching, pleading. "You were burning up all night. I couldn't get your fever down. You didn't wake up once, Y/N. Not once."

You listened, surprised, a faint, almost disbelieving smile touching your lips. His scolding wasn't harsh or angry; it was laced with a desperate worry, a loving concern that felt foreign, unsettling, almost painful in its unexpectedness. It felt like a phantom limb, an emotion you had long since amputated from your expectations of him. "Why do you care now, Minho?" you mumbled, your voice still a little hoarse from the fever, weak but steady. You couldn't digest that he was worried for you, for your well-being, not just your utility. It felt alien, after so many years of being secondary, of feeling like a burden, a convenient solution. "Don't worry, I won't die on you. I have Aera to look after… the cats too. Someone has to make sure they're fed and get their daily cuddle quota. I'm useful." You tried to make it light, a deflection, implying your value lay only in your utility, in caring for others. It felt foreign to even believe anyone cared at all for her, for you, the person.

Those words hit him. Hard. The casual self-deprecation, the quiet resignation in your voice, the implication that your life only had value through serving others – it was a blade twisting in his gut, a direct reflection of his own cruel words that had sculpted this very mindset in you. His expression crumpled, the fragile control he'd maintained all night finally shattering. The worry that had been consuming him, coupled with the guilt that had been eating him alive, erupted into a torrent of self-loathing.

"Don't say that again, Y/N," he whispered, his voice cracking, eyes suddenly glistening with unshed tears, betraying the storm within. He took your hand, pulling it to his lips, pressing a desperate, almost bruising kiss to your knuckles, as if trying to brand you with his remorse. "Don't you ever speak of death again. Don't you ever say you don't matter. God, Y/N, I'm a dick. I'm a complete and utter bastard. I treated you like trash, like you were nothing but a convenience. I'm disgusted with myself. I'm so messed up, so fucked, a complete and utter mess." He pulled his hand away, running it through his hair, tugging at the strands, his knuckles white. "My past… it’s poisoned me. It’s made me blind. I'm so broken… and I love you, Y/N. I love you in the most twisted, messed-up way, because I’ve hurt you so much, and you still… you still look at me like this. I don't deserve you. You should just go away, leave me. Don't accept me or forgive me. I don't deserve it."

He was unraveling, the carefully constructed facade of indifference crumbling before your eyes, revealing the raw, broken man beneath. He was caught in a whole self-hate web himself, you realized, his own insecurities, his past betrayals, his deep-seated fear of being abandoned again, had convinced him that no one could ever truly want him, that he was unworthy of love that he was probably someone who would never be wanted or be desired for the man he is and that maybe he needed to be better and better and just better. He needed to save himself from that dark prison, but he was shattering right now, right in front of you, bleeding out all his pain.

Your heart ached, a different kind of pain, a profound, sympathetic pang for his profound brokenness. He wasn't the monster you’d painted him to be in your anger, not entirely; he was a man consumed by his own demons, suffocating under the weight of his unhealed wounds. You reached out, your hands cupping his face, feeling the warmth of his skin, the tremor beneath your fingertips. Your thumbs gently stroked his cheeks, wiping away the single tear that had escaped his closed eyes.

"Breathe, Minho," you murmured, your voice soft, steady, a stark contrast to his despair, a soothing balm against his raw edges. "Breathe deep. I am not going anywhere." You held his gaze, willing him to believe you, to see the sincerity, the unwavering truth in your eyes, to understand that your presence was a choice, not an obligation. "Not now. Not ever. We'll figure this out. Together."

A small, teary smile graced your lips. "You were hurting, and you lashed out. I understand. It doesn't make it right, but I understand."

He searched your eyes, disbelief battling with a desperate hope. "You… you forgive me?"

"I forgive you, Minho," you whispered, your heart aching with a mixture of relief and a new, fragile kind of joy. "But you have to forgive yourself too. And we have to talk. Really talk, this time."

He nodded, a silent, profound promise in his eyes. Slowly, tentatively, he leaned in. His gaze dropped to your lips, seeking permission. You gave it, a slight nod of your head. He closed the small distance between you, his lips touching yours gently, tentatively at first, a soft exploration. It was a slow, healing kiss, a whisper of understanding and forgiveness, not fiery passion, but a quiet, profound connection. He pulled you closer, his free hand moving to cup the back of your head, deepening the kiss, a gentle affirmation, as if tugging you fully into his orbit, finally bridging the chasm that had separated you for so long. You tugged softly on his hair, responding with every ounce of the love you’d kept hidden for so long.

Just as the kiss deepened, a small, sleepy voice broke the spell. "Ewwww, Daddy! Leave Mama!"

You both sprang apart, startled, eyes wide with mortification. Aera stood in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes, her face a comical mask of disgust at your unexpected display of affection. The sudden, raw intimacy was instantly replaced by a wave of embarrassment. Minho’s cheeks flushed a deep red, and you couldn’t help but giggle, the sound bubbling up from deep within you, light and free.

Minho quickly scooped Aera up, pulling her into a tight hug, his eyes still sparkling with a newfound lightness. He walked over to you, gently kissing your forehead. "I love you, baby," he murmured, his gaze warm and direct, full of a promise that went far beyond mere convenience.

You smiled, reaching out to stroke Aera's hair, your heart overflowing. "…I too love you, dummy… both of you."

Aera, now thoroughly distracted by being held, beamed up at you, her face alight. "Love you too, Mama!!" she declared in a cute, loud tone, her little arms wrapping around your neck.

Minho chuckled, a genuine, unrestrained sound that echoed happily in the room, a sound you hadn't heard from him in years. You joined in, your own laughter light and unburdened. The last remnants of the scar between you dissolved, replaced by a warmth that felt like a new beginning. Their new beginning began—together, this time, with an open heart, and with love.

Your brain wasn’t focused on a single thing exactly. Rather, grasping at everything all at once. Your head was swimming in an uncomfortable, clastrophobic static. Your thoughts raced around each other without settling, or getting caught in knots that were impossible to untangle and ignore.

It was debilitating. Of course, you wanted to sleep. Hell, you were exhausted; you got fewer hours of rest this week alone than an average person should get in a day. You’ve been trying all night to doze off, doing some meditation and breathing exercises. None of it worked. Your anxiety had the upper hand. 

You sigh roughly into your pillow, choking back the overflow of frustrated, exhausted tears. Without creaking the bed to wake the man beside you, you lean over to the nightstand. Your fingers encase around the porcelain cup of tea sitting there, still lingering with a little warmth.

Ten minutes ago, you stole the chanomile tea-bag from Copia’s giftbox set and made yourself a cup, returning to the bedroom and sliding into the sheets without a peep. 

The luke-warm liquid smoothing down your throat does relax your head for a small moment. You keep your nose in the cup to soothe your nerves further, then set it aside once again on the nightstand.

Fine for a small moment, then you re-adjust your pillow, lie on your back, and close your eyes. The cycle inevitably resets.

You grumble into the palms of your hands, tugging down your eyelids, tears threatening to spill on your lashes.

You dare turn to glance to the bedside clock. You feel sick when you see the digits are nearing three o’clock in the morning. 

“Oh my god,” You groan, unable to muffle the garbled noise of despair that follows.

That happens to be what stirs him.

Your eyes snap in horror to the moving body next to you, yours gone rigid in hopes he doesn’t notice you’re awake. You pretend to be asleep, peeking through your lashes as your Papa stirs out of sleep and lifts his head from his pillow.

He blearily squints through the dark, assessing your side of the bed with a tilt of his head.

“Amore?” Copia rasps in a whisper. His voice is scratchy with sleep yet— you always seemed to think this —sweet like honey.

You don’t reply, too occupied in a silent prayer that he eventually decides you’re asleep and turns back over. You hated burdening him with your own thoughts and disturbing his sleep.

He was a busy and important person within the Clergy, he needed his rest more than you did certainly. It felt out of the question to wake him up to pour your problems onto him, especially in the middle of the night. 

But Copia knows you all too well. And, he can recognize the smell of a fresh cup of your favourite tea any hour of the day.

Your prayer goes unanswered. Copia makes a quiet groan as he stretches behind him to switch on the lamp. There is nowhere to hide when the room fills with soft, orange light. You hear him tap the metal rim a few times until it goes on the lowest setting. Until it appears only a single candle is illuminating the bedroom.

He rolls back over in a puff, elbowing the sheets off and running a hand through his touselled head of hair. He sighs, more stuffier due to just waking up, and locks narrowed eyes with you. 

You stare back at him, guilt printed all over your face. You’re lying stiff as a board with your arms folded awkwardly over your chest. Very much not asleep and instead indeed very wide awake.

Copia frowns. 

“Amore,” He begins, worry painting his tone, yet full to the brim with warmth, “What is going on in that head of yours, hm?”

You whimper, your own lips twisting into a frown deeper than his. Your cheeks go red from embarrassment and guilt and all you want is to hide under the sheets until he forgets this happened.

You don’t say anything and he grumbles, not satisfied. He ends up scooting a bit closer. “Please talk to me, dolcezza. I do not like seeing you like this.”

You shake your head, trying to block out the warm feeling from merely hearing his voice gives you. How the sleepy sight of him, all disheveled with his rosy cheeks, calms you down. How it actually manages to distract you from them. Reminds you how much he easily helps you in times like this. How much you love him His presence actually manages to slip through the cracks of your disorganized thoughts and mend them. All of it isn’t important, you just want him to rest.

“It’s nothing,” You say too quickly, “Go back to sleep, Copia.”

The disbelieving noise he makes in response immediately tells you that that isn’t convincing enough. “Hmm.”

You almost cry in relief when his hand smooths over your belly, so warm and familiar and comforting. You want to wear it as a blanket and curl forever in it’s warmth until your thoughts are forced away.

When you don’t withdrawal from his touch, he yawns and mumbles warmly, “Not without you, yeah?”

You make a pointless warble of protest when his strong arm weasels around your waist. Once he has a firm wrap around your hip bone, he pulls.

You don’t push him away, compliant to be tugged into his embrace. You end up on top of him. A single deep breath has you melting. He smells of his aftershave and incense.

Firmly secured with both his arms wrapped around your back, his legs part to accommodate your own body between them. Your cheek rests on the scruff of his chest and your tummy on top of his. Your ear is slotted tight enough to his chest you feel the beat of his heart. You realize he’s not letting you go now. 

You decide to give in then, any effort of getting him to go to sleep without you is impossible now. You relax into the warmth his body gives off, exhaling longingly and letting your muscles release their tension.

“You wake me when you can’t sleep, you know this.” Copia hums and you feel his voice rumble in his chest in your ear. It’s almost tranquilizing.

“I’m sorry,” You murmur against his skin, eyes already drooping, “I hate bothering you.”

“You do not bother me,” Copia assures with a hint of firmness in his voice, “You will never bother me. I care about you and I love you so much, amore. Do not ever think you are a burden to me.” The firmness trails to sweetness and into kisses into your hair and you make a happy noise into his skin.

You might forget it sometimes, but you are so wholly and dearly loved by his man.

“Hm? You get this now, yes?” Copia asks in a playful tone, his deep voice half muffled by your hair.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Your Papa will take care of all those silly thoughts now. He will tell them to fuck off.”

You can’t help but laugh, a fuzzy feeling of unconditional love for this man spinning in your belly. Perhaps there is some hope now of getting sleep tonight.

You unconsciously snuggle closer to him, getting comfortable and resting your arm around him. 

The rhythm of his heart and breathing slows everything down. The thoughts once racing in your head come to a halt and are overshadowed by the man beneath you.

The warmth he offers, the sounds of his heart and lungs, it’s a cocoon that shields you from any angry, irrational thought in your head. You are so safe with him.

Copia smiles to himself, “Ah, it worked. That is good.”

His voice startles you and you hadn’t realize you were drifting off. You open your eyes briefly, blinking up at him. “Hm?”

“Shh. Go to sleep, honey. I will keep my eye on you. Don’t worry.”

The gentle patterns he draws on your back with his fingers relaxes you once again, and carries you back to sleep. For once in a long while, you find some peace, cozied with your Papa and safe from the raging waters of your mind.

He will make sure it stays like that.

you’re straddling him, thighs bracketing his, fingers curled in the hair at the nape of his neck, keeping him close. his hands rest on your waist, trembling just slightly, thumbs rubbing circles into your skin like he’s trying to ground himself.

he’s burning. every inch of him, inside and out, is consumed by a heat so unbearable it has him trembling beneath you, breathless and desperate, hips chasing yours with an urgency that’s bordering on pathetic. he knows it, too—knows how fucking needy he looks, how embarrassing it is that he’s already soaked through his sweats, how wrecked he sounds when his moans break, high and breathless.

but he can’t stop. he doesn’t want to.

you’ve barely even touched him, and he’s already falling apart. his cock is rock-hard, leaking so much that his sweats cling to him, soaked through in a mess of precum that’s only getting worse each time you drag your hips against him. the friction is unreal—too much and not enough all at once. the thin cotton of your panties is soaked, sticking to your cunt, making it easier to slide against him, slick and filthy and teasing.

he should be embarrassed. and he is—his cheeks are burning, his ears pink, his fingers gripping your hips so tight they might leave bruises. but the shame only makes it better. makes his cock twitch, makes his stomach clench, makes him whimper when you press down just right.

“f-fuck,” he stammers, voice wrecked, high-pitched and desperate. his thighs tense beneath you, shaking as he bucks up again, more frantic this time, grinding into you like he’s completely lost control. like he doesn’t care how messy he’s getting, how pathetic he must sound.

he’s so used to doing this alone—rutting into his hand, fucking into the mattress, biting his lip to keep from moaning too loud. but now, you’re on top of him, letting him do it for real, letting him soak through his clothes, letting him press his aching, throbbing cock against your cunt and use you like his fucking pillow.

the thought makes his head spin.

“i—” his voice catches, his fingers flexing on your waist, hips jerking up again. he’s trying to hold back, but he’s too far gone, too close, too sensitive. every time your pussy drags against him, it gets worse. every tiny movement sends another shockwave of pleasure through him, has another choked moan falling from his lips.

you press down harder, and his whole body jolts.

“shit—oh my god, i’m gonna—”

his head tips back against the pillow, mouth falling open as a broken sob rips from his throat. his hips stutter, his entire body shuddering as he cums hard, spilling into his sweats, soaking them even more, ruining himself completely. his cock throbs against you, twitching with every pulse of his release, sticky and hot and messy.

but even as he cums, even as his body trembles through it, he doesn’t stop moving. his hips keep rolling up into you, needy, shameless, fucking desperate for more, whining as the oversensitivity kicks in but still grinding against you like he can’t help himself.

he knows he should be mortified—knows he just came in his pants like the fucking virgin he is, knows how ruined and wrecked he looks. but the way you’re looking at him, the way your nails are digging into his skin, the way your own cunt is throbbing against him—

he’s gasping, body trembling beneath you, his chest rising and falling in rapid, uneven breaths. his whole body feels too hot, too sensitive, every nerve ending fried from orgasm, and yet—

he still wants more.

still needs more.

his cock twitches, still hard, still leaking despite the mess he’s already made, and you feel it—feel the way he shudders when you press your palm against the soaked fabric of his sweats, the way his hips jolt like he can’t help but chase the touch even though he’s so overstimulated it’s making his head spin.

“f-fuck,” he stammers, voice cracking, wrecked and breathless. his fingers dig into your thighs, gripping like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, like he needs you there, pressing down on him, making him feel everything.

you slide off him slowly, and he whines, blinking up at you in a daze—completely ruined, lips parted, cheeks flushed, body still trembling from the intensity of it all. his cock is throbbing beneath his ruined sweats, the sticky fabric clinging to him in a way that has him whimpering, overstimulated and desperate all at once.

and then, your fingers slip under the waistband of his sweats.

his breath hitches.

“w-wait—” his voice is small, uncertain, but he doesn’t stop you. he can’t. he lifts his hips instinctively, letting you peel the soaked fabric down, and the moment his cock is free—flushed, dripping, twitching—his entire body jolts.

the air feels too cold against his slick skin, too sharp, too much—but the second your fingers wrap around him, his brain short-circuits completely.

“ah—oh my god—” his head falls back against the pillow, his hips jerking up into your touch like he has no control over his own body anymore. his cock is so sensitive it hurts, but he still moans at the feeling of your fingers gliding along his length, slick with the mess he’s already made.

he’s never felt anything like this before. not like this. not with someone else. not with himself.

and then—then you shift, moving lower, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock, and his entire body locks up.

“b-baby—” his voice is strained, tight with a mix of anticipation and disbelief, because surely—surely you wouldn’t—

but then your tongue flicks over the tip, catching the sticky precum beading there, and his mind blanks.

a sob rips from his throat, high and broken, his thighs trembling as his hips buck up before he can stop himself. he’s never felt anything this hot, this wet, this fucking good, and it’s hitting him all at once, too much, too overwhelming, too fucking perfect.

“f-fuck,” he stammers, voice barely above a whimper, high and breathless. he’s never been this sensitive before, never felt this raw, this desperate—his cock still pulsing, twitching under the light drag of your tongue, overstimulated but still aching for more.

and you—god, you’re relentless.

you press your tongue flat against the swollen tip, licking up another slow, teasing stripe that has his back arching clean off the mattress. his hands leave the sheets, darting up like he means to stop you, but they hover just above your head, shaking, unsure. he can’t bring himself to push you away. doesn’t want to.

“too much,” he whines, but he doesn’t mean it, not really. his hips tell another story, rutting up into the heat of your mouth, his cock throbbing against your tongue, betraying just how badly he needs this. just how much he craves it, even through the haze of overstimulation.

you hum, lips curving against him, and the vibration shoots straight through him like lightning, leaving him gasping, wrecked and wide-eyed, staring down at you in stunned disbelief.

and then you sink down just a little further, take him just a little deeper, let your tongue flick just right—

and he’s gone.

and as he comes down, still shaking, still dazed, he watches as you slowly slide your panties down your legs.

his breath catches.