Welcome To The Insanity That Is My Brain 😈

his hand reaches for the hem of your shirt — well, his shirt — fingers rubbing the fabric between them before slowly sliding underneath. the tips of his fingers brush against your bare thigh and hip as he huffs quietly through his nose.

“katsuki, I’m tired,” you mumble, already feeling the redness creeping across your cheeks when his eyes darken.

“too tired to put on underwear?” he asks, fingers grazing higher against your naked skin. you can feel the warmth of his hand even through your embarrassment.

“you always complain it’s in the way,” you shrug weakly and he groans, tilting his head back for a second like you were testing his patience on purpose.

“but you’re still tired?” he asks with a raised brow, staring at you carefully.

you smile at him innocently.

“oh yes, very,” you push his hand away gently before bending down in front of him. the shirt rides up instantly, giving him a full, clear view of your bare ass as you grab his gym bag from the floor.

you hear his sharp inhale behind you.

“take a shower then come to bed… oh, and solve that in your pants, please,” you smirk, glancing back at him as your eyes flick down to his crotch.

his gaze follows yours automatically and he sees the growing tent straining against his sweatpants. his jaw tightens immediately.

“fuck.”

You rolled your eyes at your best friend's question, opening the flimsy Barbie plaster and wrapping it carefully around his index finger. Just because it was a low quality plaster did not mean you should skimp out on the extra care in applying it.

“You’ll live,” you began clearing up the mess he had made of the First Aid kit before you had swooped in to save the day. “Although if you keep acting the way you do in the kitchen . . I don’t know how long for,” you added teasingly.

Jisung pouted at you, “I just wanted to do something nice! You always cook for me . .” he trailed off quietly and you sighed, coming back over to sit on the sofa with him.

You knew Jisung often felt bad for how little he contributed to your shared apartment, the boy admitting to you drunkenly one night that he felt like he was taking advantage of you and how he had been trying to apply for extra jobs to help out.

At the time, you didn’t really notice how much you were doing, shouldering most of the bills and the cooking yourself. Jisung did a lot of the cleaning and all of the laundry, that was for sure. And it’s not like the bills impacted you much, you had a nice paycheck that more than covered what you and your best friend needed. 

As for the cooking . . well. 

Put it this way: you being responsible for the cooking in your apartment was definitely the best option for everyones safety. Not only was Jisung a hazard to himself and others in the kitchen, you would both much rather eat food that you could stomach.

You gave Jisung a weak smile, your head falling to rest on his shoulder as you mumbled, “Next time you want to do something nice, just order some pizza, okay? Or bring some groceries back with you. I stitch up enough patients during the day, coming home to you trying to chop off your fingers is–”

“I was not trying to– okay, well it wasn’t on purpose! Minho texted me so I was looking at my phone and I forgot I was still holding the knife!”

Ah, Lee Minho. 

Your neighbour and your biggest competitor for your best friend's attention.

Minho lived in the apartment across the hall and Jisung had been obsessed with him since he held open the door for him on move in day. He had rambled about how charming and princely Minho looked and acted for weeks after that incident, much to your amusement. 

You had met Minho a few times in passing, holding the elevator for him or remarking about the weather, but you weren’t close. Jisung had an elaborate plan to romance him though, one which seemed to finally be paying off.

“Why does Minho have your number?” You realise, confused.

Jisung shuffles away from you and you think you noticed a slight blush dusting his cheeks.

Oh no.

“What did you do?” You try your best to sound stern.

Jisung winces.

“Why do you automatically assume I did something!?”

You stay silent, crossing your arms and raising a single eyebrow.

Sighing, his shoulders fall.

“I may have . . told him . . we could catsit for him this weekend . .” Jisung says slowly.

Okay.

Not the worst thing he’s ever done for a guy he has a crush on.

“Okay, is he giving you his keys or something? Please don’t tell me you’re bringing the cats here,” you closed your eyes in prayer. Jisung was well aware of your cat allergy, but you also knew that all common sense eluded him when he was talking to a pretty boy.

Jisung gave you a woeful smile.

“Look, I was barely listening! He was talking and I was just agreeing, next thing I know he’s taking my number and sending me a feeding and sleeping schedule,” he defends poorly.

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands.

“It’s fine. It’s fine, I’ll bring some antihistamines from work or something,” you think out loud.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. It’s a one time thing, I promise,” Jisung swears and you give him a weak smile.

“Shut up, you know I’m not mad. They’re just little . . furry . . things.”

Jisung gives you a look, and you both burst out laughing.

Thursday

“You sure you’re okay with that frat boy's face?” 

You give Taeyeon, your mentor and the owner of the private clinic you work at, a confident smile as you take a look at the medical records in front of you. 

Drunken accident, brought in by a friend, party gone wrong, bottle of vodka to the face, minor cuts on his cheek . . 

Yeah, you would be fine

“I can manage some cleaning, boss.”

Taeyeon smiles proudly, nodding as she makes her way over to the receptionist's desk to ask Karina something. 

You take a deep breath as you open the door to the examination room, offering your patient a friendly smile. 

He was a younger guy, with a dazzling smile and dark hair. Dressed in an oversized ‘Seoul University’ hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, he looked like any other student. The only thing that stood out was his above average attractiveness and the small nicks on his cheek.

“Did Jeno check you over?” You ask, not looking up at him again as you busy yourself with getting the correct equipment to clean his cuts.

“The big nurse? Yeah, he was a bit aggressive . .” You could hear the pout in the frat boy’s voice and held back a smile at that.

“Well–” you glance over at his records again to get his name, “Yang Jeongin– It’s Jeno’s job to get you ready for me,” you pull on your gloves. “Now, can I check you out?”

He gives you a slow nod as you carefully hold his jaw, examining the fresh trickle of blood on his cheekbone. There were only two small cuts, not deep enough for any glass to be stuck in there. Jeno had already noted there were no extractions required but you liked to be safe.

“Looks okay to me, I’ll just clean you up a bit to prevent an infection, does that sound good?” 

Jeongin tilted his head to the side.

“That’s it?”

“Well, what more did you want . . ?”

Jeongin blushed, “No– well, my friend– If– if I had known it was so minor–”

“I’m confused, you don’t want me to help you?”

You did not have time for his embarrassed rich boy act, no matter how genuine it seemed. 

Yang Jeongin was a good looking college student, probably only a few years younger than yourself, but you had already made your judgement on him. Taeyon’s clinic was for private, hushed up medical care. Which means that if Yang Jeongin was coming here for a simple bandage that he could have gotten at the corner store, then he had to be disgustingly, filthy rich.

“No, you can– you can patch me up,” he leaned back in his seat, his discomfort evident. 

You got to work, doing the simple job that you were sure you could have just left Jeno to deal with. This was a quick cleanup, but Taeyeon’s clinic specialised in its Doctors keeping their mouths shut.

For every patient there was a mandatory, legally binding NDA, on both sides.

Which was a smart business decision, you had to admit.

It meant that Taeyeon’s clientele were more . . financially stable.

Politicians, celebrities and even the odd entrepreneur found themselves attracted to the privacy of your workplace. It was a surefire way to avoid scandals and the media in general. 

A perfect example would be some rich people sending their frat boy son to get patched up after some heavy drinking that they didn’t want to stain their public image.

It was late when they brought him in.

You had discharged Yang Jeongin hours ago, seen two new patients, one recurring patient and done a shitload of paperwork. Jeno and the other nurses had left for the evening, even Karina tagging along for a lift.

You were finishing up some paperwork for Taeyeon, who was sitting beside you as she nursed her cup of tea. The lights in the clinic were on a sensor system, so they had mostly turned themselves off due to the lack of movement for the last hour or so. You and Taeyeon were sitting by the fake plants at the receptionist's desk, closing time just going by.

“You should get going, Y/N,” she mumbled, clicking away at her computer screen.

You nodded, standing up and stretching your limbs above your head.

But your reply was interrupted by loud yells and three figures entering the foyer.

“We need a Doctor!” 

Abruptly, Taeyeon stood up.

You both looked over the glass, jumping into action as you ran over to the trio.

The man in the middle was being supported on both sides by his two friends–

“Minho!?”

You stared at your neighbour, mirroring the shock on his face when he realised this was the hospital you worked at.

Before either of you could say anything, the injured man in the middle began to groan. His head was down so you couldn’t immediately tell what was wrong with him.

The other guy, the one on the injured man's right, quickly spoke up.

“He’s been hit. Badly.”

“By what?” You demanded, grabbing a chair to put him in as Taeyeon began checking his vitals.  

“A knife? A fist?” Minho offers, snickering.

You gave him a sharp look.

This was no joking matter.

Taeyeon’s shoulders fall, dropping her arms from around the bloodied man as she gestures to you. 

“Get your stuff back out, L/N. He’s fine, moderate concussion. Definitely going to need those wounds surtured,” she pointed at your office. “Was he hit anywhere else on his body?”

You wanted to protest.

The clinic was closed, you were technically off duty.

But one look at the patient made you stop.

He had one swollen eye, red and bleeding from the corner. Large red patches scattered across his jaw that you were sure were about to turn into purple bruises. Big pink lips, the bottom one also bust and bruised. Beneath the mess of dark curls on his forehead, his uninjured eye was looking directly at you, a deep brown that was so dark it was swallowing you whole. 

“I . . help him in here,” you gestured for Minho and the other stranger to help the injured man to your office.

It wasn’t too difficult getting him on the examination table; his legs seemed to be working fine.

Once he was laying down in all his glory, you asked his two friends to leave, giving Minho an accusatory glare as he stepped out of the room.

“Doc?” A croaky voice called out.

Instantly, you rushed over to the bloodied man.

“I’m here. How are you feeling?”

The man snorted, then groaned at the pain of using his facial muscles.

“Okay, stop. Don’t do anything,” you ordered. “You’re going to hurt your face even more.”

You hurriedly pulled on your gloves, getting out your equipment and making sure it was all sterile. 

“First off, I’m going to clean you up, I need you to stay awake for me. Can you do that?”

The man just mumbled something quietly.

“Come on, you can stay awake. Tell me your name?”

He mumbled something again, a little louder.

“What was that?”

“Chris,” he breathed out.

Chris.

What a perfect name for him.

“Okay Chris, my name’s Y/N. I’m gonna need you to sit up. I can’t have you falling asleep with that concussion,” you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, helping him to sit up and lean against the wall. 

Chris didn’t seem all too thrilled about this, taking a deep breath as you gingerly began to clean him up.

You worked slowly, as always. You had always been a bit of a perfectionist and these things couldn’t be rushed. A job done right is a job done once was what your First Year Medicine professor taught you.

Everytime his breathing started to even out you shook him awake with a soft push on his bare shoulder. He was wearing a baggy sleeveless wife beater, big muscular arms and shoulders on display as you kept your gaze up and worked on his face.

“Didn’t need hospital,” he mumbled, not even flinching when you wiped across the gash on his temple. The gash that you knew was not from a fist. Blunt force trauma, definitely issued by a heavy object, likely metal or solid wood. 

“No hospital?” You tried to encourage him to keep talking, to stay awake.

Chris made a hum of approval, but didn’t say anything.

“Chris? Stay awake for me Chris, please.”

You sighed, knowing it was no use at this point. It wasn’t necessarily the worst thing that he’d fallen asleep, but it wasn’t ideal. 

After cleaning him up as best as you could, you removed your gloves in order to change to a clean, non-bloodied pair. As you did so, you took a moment to observe him. It wasn’t uncommon for your patients to be sleeping (under anesthesia) in this room, and it also wasn’t uncommon for your patients to be attractive. 

You weren’t blind.

Chris may have been painted in blood and sweat when he got in, but that did nothing to hide his pretty lips as he mumbled his name, his large nose that sat crookedly in the centre of his face, evident of it having been broken at least once before. And God, you were a sucker for the fluffy curls crowning his head. 

Oddly, he no longer looked like the kind of man who should have been beat up.

When he first walked in, Chris didn’t seem out of place at all. Distressed and bloody seemed to look quite natural on his tired frame. But now . . now that he was all cleaned up, head slumped on his shoulder and soft snores leaving him, you couldn’t see him in that light at all.

He looked just as normal as anyone his age, he maybe could have been Yang Jeongin’s senior. You could picture Chris at Seoul University, maybe as a TA. Or an athlete. He was built like a swimmer.

Then again, what kind of sport needed lips as perfect as those?

God, you sounded like a crazy person.

What was this obsession with his lips?

“Is he alright?”

You tore your eyes away from Chris, frowning at the stranger in the doorway.

It was Chris’ other friend, not Lee Minho.

“There’s a sign,” you nodded your head pointedly at the door. “Do not enter.”

“Technically, we haven’t entered,” Minho joined his friend. “We just opened the door.”

At Minho’s interruption, you fell silent.

You weren’t really sure what to say to your neighbour.

Normally you’d give him a sassy response about how the nature of his work seemed dangerous. Make a comment to ask if Jisung knew about this. 

Whatever this was.

You still weren’t exactly sure what happened to Chris.

But you were at work.

Your job, that prided itself on privacy. 

Making comments like that could cost you quite a lot, no matter how warranted they were, so you bite your tongue.

“He’s okay, just needs some rest,” you don’t look at Minho and his friend as you busy yourself with taping the cut on Chris’ bottom lip. You notice an old puncture wound there, a fuzzy feeling filling you at the thought of Chris with a bottom lip piercing. 

Get it together, Y/N.

“I told you that you were overreacting! When has he ever needed a hospital before?”

“I panicked! There’s never been that much blood before!”

You tried your best to tune out Minho and his friend arguing, repeating a mantra of confidentiality in your head to curb your ever growing curiosity. 

“L/N!” You rushed out at the sound of Taeyeon’s voice. “I can take it from here, yes, I’ll sort the paperwork too. You head home, okay?”

After a sigh of relief, and a final longing look at your sleeping patient, you pull your handbag off your desk and head out.

Friday

“Please? He’s invited us both so I can’t show up alone. Just tag along and do your own thing, I know you won’t want to be a third wheel.”

Why on earth had Lee Minho invited you and your roommate out to the fair tonight?

Were you that much of a sad loser that he had taken pity on you? Inviting you to tag along their first date? Or was it truly a group outing?

“Please?” Jisung pouted. “I’ll buy dinner for a week.”

You rolled your eyes at that.

“We can’t eat takeout for a whole week, Ji.”

He scoffed.

“Well, I can. I’m built different.”

Jisung was pouting now, giving you a wide eyed stare.

Truthfully, you were planning on getting out tonight. A bar, a club, literally anywhere you had the opportunity to get laid and completely forget about Minho’s handsome, beat up friend. All night long your thoughts were plagued with Chris, the stranger– no, the patient that you should not have been thinking about. At all.

You never acted like this.

You were a strong, independent woman who was able to think rationally and clearly separate your feelings from your job. You had worked at Taeyeon’s clinic for almost two years now, and even completed some of your residency there prior to being hired full time. All kinds of attractive rich people were in and out of the hospital all day long. Because if there was one thing rich people knew how to spend their money on, it was looking good.

Something about Minho’s friend though . . his broken nose, his big lips, the way Minho had joked about him being stabbed – it all screamed different. Natural. Chris wasn’t just some rich kid with way too much money who was an embarrassment to his parents. He wasn’t a celebrity or a politician. And that made you curious. Why was he wary of going to the hospital? What the hell was he up to that it involved him getting stabbed late at night? Was it something dangerous? Why would someone so pretty need to– and why, why were you so bothered by him?

Losing yourself in alcohol and the arms of a random stranger sounded like an appealing way to try and scratch the itch that Chris had left burning under your skin.

“Please? I’ll get Lix to come too,” Jisung bargained. 

Felix Lee.

God’s apology for creating Han Jisung.

Born a day later than your best friend and undoubtedly an angel sent to you as a gift on your first day of Sophomore year. You were a year older than Jisung, Felix and Seungmin, but that didn’t stop the ragtag group of Freshmen from begging to move into your apartment the next year and for the rest of college (although if you asked Seungmin, he would refuse to admit that any begging was involved on his part). 

It worked out well financially, you were all still students so you could split the costs equally. There was enough room in the 3 bedroom apartment and fighting was mostly kept to a minimum (except for when Jisung would annoy Seungmin by being unnecessarily loud while playing video games with Felix till all hours).

But then came graduation.

Seungmin moved back home to live with his parents on the other side of town. He got a job at his fathers company and was doing pretty well for himself, but it was too far to live with you guys and drive every day.

Felix had opened up a bakery a few streets away. 

The lease he’d gotten came with an apartment above the shop which was ideal for a bakery, he would have to get to work super early and leave super late, so it just made sense that he would move out and into the place above his shop. 

You missed having them both around. 

Seungmin was the one that helped you the most in the kitchen, the only one you really trusted with that. He was reliable too, a supportive shoulder after a long day of classes or work experience. 

Felix was a calming presense. 

Before you met these guys, you weren’t a cuddly person by any means. In fact, you hated being affectionate with anyone, and you still did. 

But Felix was the first person to break you out of your lifelong, touch-starved shell. His clinginess knew no bounds and, eventually, you warmed up to the idea of sofa cuddles during movie nights, an arm around your shoulder whilst you were kicking Jisung’s ass at Mario Kart, a kiss on the forehead after a stressful day. 

And you didn’t even want to think about how much you missed being his recipe tester. Chocolate chip cookie cake? Yeah, Felix was a genius.

That left you and Jisung in the apartment.

Your job now paid a lot better than the crappy residencies and work experience that you had while you were still studying so you could cover most of the bills without an issue. 

And Jisung helped out where he could. He worked part time at Felix’s bakery, mostly manning the tills or sweeping the floors since Felix did not trust him near any ovens. Jisung also did freelance production and composition, the music student passion still burning brightly in him even after being rejected by multiple companies.

It was one of the reasons you had such a soft spot for the kid.

He truly made beautiful music, the kind of songs that made you think so deeply you’d drive yourself off a cliff if you weren’t careful. Music that made you smile and cry and laugh and everything in between. You knew that one day he would be able to show that to the world, he just needed to build his portfolio a little before his next interview. And maybe build his confidence a bit too.

“Won’t he need to get prep done for tomorrow? And what about Seung?” 

“I can message him too?” Jisung was quick to offer. “I’ll go in early and help Lix prep tomorrow, then he can have tonight off!”

You considered it.

“Won’t Minho think it’s weird that you’re bringing three other people to your date?” You teased.

Jisung whined, falling onto the sofa.

“It’s not a date, he said he’s bringing his friends too, just wanted us all to hang out.”

Hold on.

His friends?

“Did . . did he mention which friends?”

Jisung’s head snapped up from where he was dramatically pretending to cry at his not-date. 

Fuck. 

He noticed your change in tone.

“I mean . . I meant to say isn’t that a bit random? We’ve been neighbours for years and he’s never cared about being friends,” you rushed out, hoping Jisung would let it go.

Thankfully, he just shrugged.

“He said he wants to know what kind of people are going to be looking after his cats. He’s really cutely obsessed with them, ugh.” If a person could have stars in their eyes, you were sure that person would be Han Jisung talking about Lee Minho.

“And his solution is to go out to the fair with a big group of people?” You asked in disbelief.

Jisung blushed.

“No, that was– that was my idea. Then he said his friend talked about it too and wanted to come, and he said I should bring you too since it's your apartment too,” he explained.

Ah.

“So you asked him out and he turned it into a party?” You tried, and failed, to keep the amusement out of your voice.

Jisung whined again.

“Shut up!”

Friday night did not result in a night of drinking and getting laid, but rather you wearing a fuzzy, off the shoulder knit dress and Felix holding your arm as the pair of you followed an energetic Jisung to meet Minho and his friends at the fair.

Seungmin wasn’t able to make it at such short notice, something about how the streets on his side of town were closed by the police, investigating criminal activity. It hurt, but the cookie Felix had brought you managed to soothe some of your heartbreak on that front.

“You really know the way to a woman’s heart, Lix,” you sighed as you finished off the treat, throwing the wrapper into your handbag. That sugar was the only thing standing between you and your nerves about possibly seeing Chris again tonight.

Not that you had been thinking about Chris.

Not at all.

Felix snorted.

“Tell that to matcha girl,” he said wistfully.

“She still not budging?”

Felix had a regular customer in a pretty redhead who had come in every morning to ask for an iced matcha (which was not on the menu) and then relent, taking an iced tea and leaving him with a wink and a dazzling smile.

He was, for lack of a better word, smitten.

And he didn’t even know her name.

The whole situation was absolutely adorable to you, a perfect bakery meet cute. You hoped the redhead was genuinely interested in him, it would be nice to see Felix in a relationship with his long term crush.

“Today she handed me a laminated printout of the benefits of matcha, like she had it ready,” he explained. “Pulled it out of her bag and left it on the counter for me,” he giggled here. “She’s so cute.”

“Maybe if she had your number . . she could message it to you instead . .”

Felix shook his head.

“No, I don’t even know her. What if she has a boyfriend?”

You groaned at his self sabotage, having heard these fears already.

“What if she’s waiting for you to ask her out? What if–”

“Oh my God, there he is. Quick, do I look okay?” Jisung patted down his hair quickly.

You and Felix shared a look.

“You look fine, Ji.” You let go of Felix’s arm to help Jisung fix the odd curls on his head. 

“Just fine?” 

“You look great, mate. Can we go? It’s freezing,” Felix grabbed your arm again, causing you to roll your eyes as your little trio went over to join Minho and his friend.

His friend who was not Chris.

You tried to fight the way your heart sank at this realisation, giving Minho and his friend a polite smile.

Of course Chris wouldn’t be here.

He was beaten within an inch of his life last night, of course he was resting somewhere.

Minho’s friend was a little taller than you guys, with almost shoulder length brown hair, a few plaits framing his sparkly eyes. Yeah, he was pretty.

“This is Hyunjin,” Minho shoved him forward.

Hyunjin gave you all a polite nod, his eyes scanning all of you as if he were scrutinising every inch of you.

“You remember Felix, right? He moved out last year.” You broke the awkwardness by pointing to the man next to you.

Minho nodded. 

“We still talk, Y/N. He comes to the bakery,” Felix smiled. “Feeds the cats outside.”

“Are you two . . ?” Minho gestured between you and Felix and the both of you snorted. 

You shook your head, “We’re just friends. Friends who are very excited to go on that rollercoaster!” You pointed to the massive ride.

At this, Hyunjin perked up.

All the ice in his posture seemed to melt away as he finally looked at you, “Seriously? Minho’s fucking terrified of that thing. Will you guys come on it with me?”

The both of you nodded in sync.

You and Felix were definitely the adrenaline junkies of your friend group. Seungmin was open to trying new things occasionally, but Jisung was a scared little mouse in the face of heights.

“Ungrateful rat, I found people to go on rollercoasters with you. Don’t say I never do anything for you,” Minho said to Hyunjin, who just smirked and stepped between you and Felix, dragging the both of you towards the rides.

“So, Minho said you’re a doctor?”

Something about his tone made you feel . . shy.

Minho had definitely said more than you were ‘just a doctor’. You wondered if Hyunjin knew Chris and the other stranger from last night, if Minho had told him about what happened at the hospital.

Hyunjin’s gleeful reaction showed that he knew what you were thinking, making you blush even harder.

“I’m– yeah, I’m a doctor. Mostly an emergency physician.”

“That’s cool. And you? A bakery?”

You tried to calm your reddening cheeks as Felix and Hyunjin made conversation, the three of you heading towards the pirate ship, leaving Jisung and Minho to their . . date?

You learnt that Hyunjin worked in design and social media, but for what he didn’t explain. He did say that he worked with Minho though, and that was how they knew each other.

You also learnt that Hyunjin liked to tease. He was fun, a lot like Jisung. And he was the same age as your younger friends, which you found sweet. Felix seemed to like him and you couldn’t deny that he seemed like a good kid. 

After a few rides, the three of you found yourself exhausted.

“Ice cream?” Felix gave you his signature puppy dog eyes from where he had collapsed onto the bench.

You rolled your eyes, but stood up with an affectionate smile.

“You want anything?” You directed this to Hyunjin, who had stood up too.

“I’ll come with you.”

You nodded, walking over to the ice cream van.

“Can I get two mint chocolate chips and–” you pointed to Hyunjin. “–Whatever he’s having.”

“Mint chocolate? Marry me,” Hyunjin gave you a dreamy smile. “I can get my own ice cream though.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

In the last hour, Hyunjin had become a part of your ever growing collection of children, and you’d be damned if he didn’t feel comfortable with you buying him ice cream.

“Three mint chocolates please.”

Hyunjin stared at you thoughtfully.

Neither of you said anything as he took the desserts and you paid, not letting Hyunjin anywhere near the card reader.

“Chris hates mint chocolate, by the way,” he finally spoke.

You froze, choking on a bite.

“I knew it! I knew you were the doctor from yesterday!” His tone was triumphant. “Minho’s a dirty, lying–”

“Wait, he told you about me?”

“Minho? No, Changbin did.”

“Who?”

“He was with them yesterday? Short guy? Big muscles?” 

Changbin.

So that was the name of the third guy, the one who was helping Minho carry Chris in. 

“So . . so what if I was the doctor?” You tried to keep your tone cool, neutral. Saying less was essential in keeping your job. NDA’s were tricky business, liability wise.

“Minho said it wasn’t you, but it was so random that he invited you to the fair, right after Chris comes home moaning in his sleep about a doctor,” Hyunjin took a casual lick of his ice cream right as you both returned to Felix. He handed Felix his ice cream, the blonde boy giving you a grateful smile as he dug in. “That guy never goes to the doctor.”

It was all so relaxed, as if he hadn’t just made your heart stop twice in the last 30 seconds.

Chris was . . talking about you? In his sleep?

You left before he was discharged so you weren’t sure how much longer Taeyeon kept him, or what painkillers she might have given him. 

Taeyeon. 

She’s a doctor.

Maybe she was the doctor they’re talking about.

Yeah, there was no reason to think you were special.

You weren’t the only doctor that helped him last night.

“Rollercoaster again?” Hyunjin asked, polishing off his ice cream. 

Felix barked out a laugh.

“I like you, man.”

You rolled your eyes, not even fighting the smile on your face as you followed them again.

Saturday

A few weeks had passed since the day of the fair.

Jisung was spending more and more time at Minho’s. It wasn’t a crazy amount, and nothing was officially going on, but it was enough to be noticeable.

The apartment was quieter.

You dropped your bags by the front door when you got home from work, eyes skimming the note Jisung had left on the fridge.

Staying at Minho’s. Don’t wait up. 

;)

You half smiled, shaking your head.

It was weird.

Being alone in an apartment that had been so crowded for the last 6 years. The thought made your stomach twist a little, but you managed to swallow your fears.

It was fine. You had spent 20 years alone before meeting the kids, you would be fine being alone again.

Just as you were about to get yourself ready for a night of self care and Supernatural, a text message lit up your dying phone screen.

how wld u feel abt a lil party tn?

hyunjin | 21:02

Minho’s friend, Hyunjin, had asked for your and Felix’s numbers that night at the fair. 

“In case of an emergency. What if I need a doctor? Or a brownie? Life or death, you know?” 

He actually hadn’t contacted you at all since that night, so you were a little surprised to see the message. You thought that momentary friendship was over and had made peace with it.

But now . . now he was inviting you out? This late?

are there rollercoasters involved?

you | 21:04

no. just good vodka

hyunjin | 21:05

is it a big party?

you | 21:06

medium. just a bit of a celebration

hyunjin | 21:07

stop overthinking

hyunjin | 21:10

you won’t be gatecrashing

hyunjin | 21:10 

just come have some fun, minho cancelled on us to hang out with your roommate

hyunjin | 21:11

You bit your lip, considering it.

is there a dress code?

you | 21:15

Overthinking had become your worst enemy.

You wanted to ask Felix and Seungmin if they were free to join you at the party, but messaging in the group chat meant that Jisung would see it and maybe feel guilty. And messaging privately felt like you were going behind Jisung’s back, which was just as bad.

Inviting Karina to tag along was an option, but you knew she would be working tomorrow morning and didn’t want to take her sleep from her.

So yeah, constantly considering everyones feelings all the time led you to walking alone to the address Hyunjin had sent you.  

The house was big.

Like, huge.

It looked more like it should be a museum, or a palace. Some kind of public building. Old browning bricks with multiple yellowing lamps circling the outside. There was ivy growing up the side of the mansion, wrapping its way tightly to reach the roof. 

Oddly though, all the lights in the big house were off. Music and lights blared from a smaller outhouse in the garden, closer to the size of a normal family home. It looked tiny in comparison to the mansion though, almost like a shed. 

People were spilling outside of the house, drinks in hand as they crowded around every entrance.

How were you supposed to spot Hyunjin in this?

“Y/N, right?” An unfamiliar voice interrupted your thoughts around backing out and going home.

There, in front of you, stood Chris’ friend.

Changbin, Hyunjin had told you.

He seemed to be looking you up and down. Was that unprovoked judginess common in this friend group? You thought about how Hyunjin had looked at you like you were insignificant when he had first laid eyes on you. Changbin though . . there seemed to be more behind his inspection.

You didn’t have a chance to bring it up though, Changbin nodding inside.

“Come on, Jin’s been waiting for you,” he said the words like they upset him. “That kid is up to no good.”

Cautiously, you followed Changbin through the crowd of people.

God, you didn’t do this anymore.

You were far too old to be behaving like a teenager at her first kegger.

All of your nerves melted away when your eyes landed on Hyunjin, lighting a shot in some girls neck. Thoughts of safety hazards and immediate treatments filled your mind as you wondered how close he was to burning her skin.

“You’re going to seriously injure someone . . now I see why you invited me,” you joked over the noise.

Hyunjin barely spared you a glance, a wicked smirk on his face as he took a drink.

“I can’t call you just for fun? You don’t have to be the party paramedic.”

“From the way things are looking . . I’m surprised you guys don’t have a designated First Aider,” you commented.

“That–” Changbin interrupted. “–Would actually be me.”

It was your turn to look him up and down.

Changbin was, in contrast to everyone else, stone cold sober. He was much more alert than the other people in the room, an intimidating look in his eye that screamed importance. You wondered if this was actually his house. Or was it his party? All Hyunjin had said was that it was a celebration of some sort.

“Exactly!” Hyunjin exclaimed, patting both you and Changbin on the back and leading you towards the bar. “Which means you can loosen up tonight, doc.”

You smiled at the thought.

How on earth could this stranger you had only met once know that you needed a distraction tonight?

“I just might, kiddo.”

One drink turned into three. Which turned into seven. Which turned into . . you couldn’t count that many numbers. You had danced with so many people in the last few hours, all of them strangers whose names you couldn’t remember. But God, you couldn’t deny it felt good to let loose.

Until you desperately needed to pee. 

You vaguely remember Hyunjin waving you in the general vicinity of the stairs, but one look at the queue going up the staircase had you stepping back in your heels. No way would you be able to stand for that long.

Considering your options, you made sure the coast was clear before you (loudly, a lot louder than your drunken self knew you were being) clicked your heels out of the house. 

You were not above peeing in a bush at a party. 

You may have been too old to do it . . but . . you pulled your heels off, getting ready to crouch– 

“Don’t you dare.”

You jumped up with a squeal, unceremoniously dropping your heels on the stone steps.

“Who’s there? I have a knife,” the lie sounded a lot more believable in your head.

The voice in your head (at least, it seemed like it was in your head) chuckled.

“Come inside, princess.”

You finally noticed the iron gate behind you, and the intercom next to it, when the doors creaked open slowly. This must have been the gate to the big house, right? Too surprised to question it, you picked up your shoes and held the heel outwards as a weapon, stalking along the path. You tried your best not to panic when you heard the gate shut behind you, but you would be lying if you said it didn’t fill you with trepidation. 

“Were you really gonna piss in my garden, doc?”

It felt like the oxygen had been snatched out of your lungs.

Like he’d reached down your throat and pulled the air out of your chest, playing with it in front of you. 

There, leaning against the antique mahogany double doors, stood Chris. 

Chris and his, still beautiful, lips.

His arms were folded across his broad chest, a lazy smirk on his beautiful face. He looked . . better. Not fully healed, which struck you as odd. Were those fresh bruises? Fresh cuts? Despite the injuries . . he seemed at peace. Like the cat that had gotten the cream.

You gave an indignant huff.

“Stalker,” you mumbled, crossing your own arms to mimic his action.

Chris barked out a laugh, eyes trailing dangerously down your frame. For the first time tonight, you questioned your outfit choice. You were not the kind of woman who worried about what you were wearing at a party. After all these years, you knew what suited your body and you were damn comfortable with your curves and how they filled out your trusty little black dress. But the way Chris was looking at you was . . 

God, you needed to stop thinking.

“This is my house, princess. I’m not the stalker here,” he kicked off the doorframe, heading inside. He left the door open behind him. “You coming?”

Chris’ house was beautiful.

Just like him, you thought to yourself.

The entryway consisted of two large semi circle staircases that met in the middle, a crystal chandelier twice the size of you hanging down the centre. In a truly coordinated fashion, the interiors were all a dark mahogany. 

Deep down, you expected nothing less from a house that looked like it could have been a hotel, or a museum. How many people lived here? Was it just Chris in this big lonely place?

“Bathroom’s over there.”

Chris had his back to you, staring over at a little table by the stairs. You could see the coloured camera setup in front of him, which caused your cheeks to heat up. Had he caught you outside? Was he policing the party?

“Thank you,” you said quietly, clutching your shoes to your chest as you made your way into the (obnoxiously huge) bathroom. You don’t know how long you were in there, scrubbing the glitter and smell of alcohol from beneath your fingertips, but when you finally re-entered the foyer, Chris was nowhere to be found.

Would he be mad if you explored a little?

You should go back to the party. Or head home, it was getting late.

Despite his words, Chris’ tone seemed consistently relaxed. Almost as if you amused him. Such a mysterious man should have terrified you, but all you could feel as you wandered into a living room was excitement. 

Rows upon rows of books lined the walls on gilded golden shelves, all different colours and sizes. It all screamed something out of an old movie, or some British noblemans house. Was Chris some kind of heir? 

Before you could let that thought wander, you noticed a door slightly open on the opposite side of the room, yellow light peeking out. 

Should you?

Of course, curiosity won and you found yourself pushing the door open and stepping into the office.

“Should’ve known you’d be the nosy type, doc,” Chris had his back to you again, and what a pretty back it was. His shoulders were so broad, you briefly wondered if you would even be able to wrap your arms around him–

Chris turned around at your silence, a dark gleam in his brown eyes.

You crossed your arms over your chest again defensively.

Chris seemed to find this funny, making his way over to his desk and leaning against the front. He was standing right in front of you now, towering over your figure.

“Silent treatment? You wound me, doll,” he held a hand over his heart dramatically.

“It’s Y/N.”

“I remember.”

“You do? Surprised you remember anything from how badly you got your ass kicked.”

Chris’ gaze darkened.

So he didn’t like being teased.

“Careful there, princess. I know all about those rules . . what you are and aren’t allowed to say.”

“You planning on snitching me up, Christopher?”

If Chris was bothered by you calling him by his full name, he didn’t show it.

Instead, he took the chance to look you up and down again. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, sucking in a breath as his gaze travelled downwards, towards your chest. 

Something about the way he was looking at you seemed almost predatory. As if you knew you should feel scared, but didn’t. 

God, what was so interesting about the way you looked that he had to keep doing that?

“I don’t kiss and tell, pretty girl. Patient-doctor confidentiality, you know how it is,” he winked, a shit eating grin spreading across his face.

That should not have had the effect on you that it did. You could blame the alcohol. You should blame the alcohol. It definitely hadn’t all left your system. Yes, you were still tipsy. That was why you were heating up all over, your skin prickling with need.

One thing you would blame your inebriated state on though, was the way you leaned up slightly on your tip toes, your fingers reaching up to his face.

Before you could touch him, Chris caught your wrist in his hand, staring you down.

It wasn’t aggressive.

More . . questioning.

Instead of saying anything, you lifted your other hand to his cheek, brushing the new cut that you were sure wasn’t there that first night you met him. You would’ve remembered it. This man had been haunting your dreams for weeks now, you had mapped out every inch of his face in your head over and over again.

He didn’t say a word, staying as still as a statue as he held one of your hands in his, watching you inspect his countenance.

“These are new,” you whispered. “Fresh.”

Chris didn’t say anything.

“Did you come back to the hospital?”

You don’t remember seeing him, or even his name on any paperwork for that matter.

“I don’t go to hospitals,” Chris finally spoke. “That night . . I was out cold. The boys did that without me knowing.”

You remember Hyunjin saying something about how Chris never deals with doctors. You didn’t think much of it at the time, but the evidence currently in front of you was irrefutable.

“This is deeper than the others . . it needs to be disinfected properly. It wasn’t a knife, was it? Not clean enough,” you mused to yourself. 

Chris watched you with curiosity.

Why did you give a fuck if his face got infected?

Why did you sound so upset that he didn’t go to the hospital?

“If you wanted to patch me up so badly, doc, you should’ve just said so.”

You frowned at the way he brushed you off, not taking it seriously. You dropped your hand, trying to take a step back. But Chris didn’t let you, holding your wrist tightly in his strong grip, keeping you close to his chest. 

He was so close.

So close you could smell his cologne. Something musky, vanilla. It reminded you of a fancy perfume store you had visited once with Seungmin, trying to find a birthday present for his father. 

“It wasn’t a knife,” he offered, watching carefully to gauge your reaction.

You knew that already. 

You had told him that already.

Judging by the positioning . . and the separation between the cuts . . it was . . 

“A fist,” you mumbled.

Chris narrowed his eyes at you, tightening his grip.

“Who told you that?”

You just shrugged, curling your free hand into a fist, mimicking a punching gesture to show him.

“I see this stuff at work,” you explained.

Chris seemed to accept this, his attention now directed at your– apparently hilarious –attempt at making a fist.

He actually smiled as he dropped his hold on you to assess your posture.

You had to hold back the instinctual pout on your face from losing contact with him.

Oh, that must have been the alcohol.

Chris grabbed your other hand, snorting in amusement.

“You call that a fist, doc? You’re gonna break your fingers like that,” he reprimanded, pulling on the digits to unfurl your hand.

This is better than being grabbed, you thought.

You stayed quiet as he manoeuvred your fingers back into your palm, into what he must have thought was the correct positioning to throw a punch.

“There you go . . twist your upper body . . attagirl,” he said quietly, watching as you pretended to punch his bicep. 

You let out a giggle at how seriously he was taking this fake punch, making his eyes snap up to yours.

Surprisingly, he met your beaming smile with one of his own.

You had seen a few of his cocky grins, a teasing smirk, but this . . this was newer. Different. A real smile that made his eyes scrunch up with delight. Something struck you at the sight. 

God, Chris had dimples.

You really needed to snap out of this.

“So, you think you’re an expert in . .” Your voice trailed off as you finally took in the office room that you were standing in. 

A mosaic of framed pictures decorated the walls, a few of some big names that you recognised. Muhammad Ali. Mike Tyson. Manny Pacquiao. That one guy that has the same name as Rocky . . 

But there was one picture that stood out. There, in the centre of the wall behind Chris’ desk, was a black and white photograph of him in a boxing ring, wearing only a pair of shorts. There were some gloves discarded on the floor next to him, beside what you could only assume was a spray of blood. Chris’ hand was raised in triumph, his face swollen and beat up beyond almost all recognition in the bright stadium lights. 

Almost. 

You could still tell it was him. 

Chris was a fighter.

A real, actual boxer.

No wonder he looked beat up again tonight.

“Oh,” you trailed off dumbly. “You are a punching expert.”

To his credit, Chris didn’t laugh at your wording. He seemed to be studying your reaction, dark eyes staring you down as if he was trying to read into your soul. He may not have been holding you anymore, but this seemed just as intimate.

After a moment of this staring competition, Chris finally broke it, allowing you to blink. 

“How much did you have to drink, pretty girl?”

Instantly, you noticed how hot you felt. Your hands, your face, your everything, burning up before him. 

“I . .”

“Did you come alone? You got a ride back?” He sounded genuinely concerned.

“Hyunjin invited me.”

Chris raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow.

“Hyunjin. About this tall? Long hair? Little brat?” He sighed as you nodded in confirmation. “How do you know Hyunjin, sweetheart?”

You tried your best to not let him see how his stupid petnames were affecting you, but you weren’t sure your limited acting skills were really proving that useful.

“I can’t have friends?” The defensiveness leaked from your tone.

For some reason, Chris didn’t even need to say anything to subdue you. You tried to hold his stare, you did. But the way he was looking at you as if he knew you were feigning this overconfident attitude, made you backtrack.

You had never been one to back down easily.

Especially not when a man was involved.

Most men cowered in front of a successful woman, which is what you were. A qualified career woman who was able to live and manage a happy lifestyle without the help of some faux macho wannabe alpha male who couldn’t find your clit even with a map. Unfortunately, as a girl who was into big guys, you had met far too many ‘men’ like that.

Maybe it was the fact that Chris wasn’t pretending to be something he’s not.

The evidence was right in front of you. Trophies and belts littering the walls and a display cabinet. Muscles that were literally bigger than your face. Strength clearly wasn’t something he lacked. And still, he was asking how you were getting home safe.

“He was at the fair . . with Minho. My neighbour.”

Realisation dawned on Chris’ face.

You saw something else there too. For a split second, you thought you saw Chris . . get shy? As quick as you saw it though, it was gone.

“You’re the one who got him ice cream? He hasn’t shut up about you for weeks, princess,” Chris looked down to where he was now, once again, holding your hand in both of his big ones. He was playing with your fingers, entranced as you allowed him to trace your skin in whatever ways he wished.

You watched him watch you.

Chris seemed in awe of something as simple as your palm, and that made your breath hitch in your throat.

No one had ever held you this carefully. 

No lover or parent had ever shown you this much attentiveness. The closest comparison you could think of was a movie night cuddle with Felix, but even that was casual. It didn’t make you feel special the way Chris was doing right now. A boxer you had met barely once, was now cradling your fingers like they were the 8th wonder of the world. 

“I like taking care of people,” you said honestly.

There was silence for a minute. A few minutes. A few seconds. You had no idea how long it actually was, but it felt like an unending bridge before Chris finally gave your hand a last squeeze, breathing out a shaky laugh.

“You keep surprising me, doc,” he shook his head at you, looking back up to meet your questioning stare. 

Instead of answering your unspoken questions, Chris leaned over his desk to press a button on the side.

“I’ll get my driver to take you home, okay?”

You were about to protest, the strong independent woman in you wanting to tell him that you didn’t need his help, you could get an uber or whatever, but his stern eyes rendered you speechless. 

His eyes were so . . captivating. They were the deep end of a pool you had never been taught to float in. Maybe you’d always known, but something about Chris was drawing you in on a worrying level.

A slow nod from you was all the confirmation he needed.

“Stay out of trouble, Y/N.”

Thursday

The week after the party had been quiet for you.

Jisung had come home and laid on top of you like some kind of killer whale, telling you stories of his and Minho's . . situationship. You offered advice where he asked for it, but overall the situation seemed positive. You didn’t know Minho very well but you could tell he treated Jisung right, and that was what mattered to you.

You and Seungmin had been plotting to ambush Felix at work. The baker had been unable to meet up with you guys for a while now, claiming the shop was too busy so he’d hired a newbie to help him out. A newbie who, unfortunately, required a lot of training from the owner. You had only seen Felix a handful of times these past few months and you were starting to miss the boy a lot.

You also had a few texts from Hyunjin the day after the party thanking you for coming, even promising to invite you the next time they had a celebration.

A celebration.

You scoffed at the thought.

It made sense that Hyunjin had conveniently left out what the celebration was for. 

After a little investigating and some help from your friend Google, you found an Instagram page for SEO’S GYM. 

Just a few scrolls and you spotted him. 

There, in the background of some photo advertising the weight selection, sat Chris. He wasn’t the focus of the image, but he stood out to you. It was an old picture, from 5 years ago. His hair was different. Messier, blonde. And he didn’t look as big, muscles slightly less pronounced in yet another sleeveless shirt. He was mid workout, like he’d been caught between sets.

Seo’s gym, formerly known as S&B Fitness, was located in the downtown area. The same area that you knew for a fact the police had been investigating non stop, in an attempt to expose an underground crime ring.

Was an illegal fighting ring the underground crime? Or did it go deeper than surface level?

You knew Chris had to be involved in this, he had fresh bruises the night they were celebrating a win. It was odd though, that he wasn’t celebrating with the others. If he had won a boxing match, wouldn’t he be at the party in the smaller house? Not hiding away in the big house, play fighting with a doctor.

Nothing about Chris, or this whole situation in general, made sense.

“You ready to go?”

Your head snapped up at the familiar voice, a smile spreading across your cheeks as you nodded. “Give me a sec, just want to say bye to Karina,” you waved over at the receptionist, promising to see her bright and early tomorrow morning. 

“Ugh, you work too early,” Seungmin groaned at the thought of an 8am shift.

“I do it for you, you ungrateful child!” You protested. “This way, I have my evenings free for you guys.”

Seungmin shrugged as you dropped your work bag in the backseat of his flashy BMW, moving to sit in the passenger's side. “You’re not our mother, Y/N.”

Fiddling with the volume on the stereo, you huffed out a breath.

“I know, I know. Speaking of, how are your parents doing? They kick you out yet?”

Seungmin gives you a look.

“They don’t want me to get my own place ‘til I settle down. Get married,” he shudders at the thought.

You ruffled his hair at that.

“Aww, baby Seungmin talking about getting married,” you sniffed, wiping a fake tear from under your eye. “They grow up so fast.”

Seungmin doesn’t even spare you a glance as he drives towards Whiskey Business Bakery.

“Keep talking, Y/N. They’ll never find your body.”

Felix’s bakery was close to home, but it was in the opposite direction of the hospital, so you couldn’t conveniently stop by on your way to and from work. You were starting to get withdrawal symptoms from how much you missed the smells of sugar and chocolate in the mornings.

It was early evening when you and Seungmin entered the shop, the little golden bell signalling to whoever was behind the counter.

A large chef’s hat popped up first, followed by a dark head of hair and a familiar flour smeared cheek.

Hold on, you knew this kid.

The patient with the SNU hoodie.

The kid that–

“Yang Jeongin,” you pointed a finger in accusation.

Jeongin looked like a deer caught in headlights.

“You’re the . . the doctor!”

“Doctor? Doctor Who?” Felix made his favourite joke as he joined the three of you in the front of the shop.

“Hey Y/N, Seungmin. I see you’ve met my new hire,” he nodded over to the boy behind the counter as he embraced the two of you in a hug. 

“Apparently, the cougar already knows him,” Seungmin teased quietly.

Catching on quickly, you shook your head.

“No, not like that, no.”

“Uhh . . Felix? Boss? Are we turning the ovens back on?” Jeongin seemed a bit confused, which was understandable. You guys had shown up at closing time.

“No, nah, these guys are my friends. They’ll take the leftovers,” he joked. “Are you done with the organising? Come join us for a coffee.”

And that was how you found yourself sitting with two of your old friends and an unexpected new one, holding a cup of peppermint tea and sharing a chocolate croissant with Felix. 

“And then the Professor made me stay until 9pm, cleaning up the whole room,” Jeongin, the business student, finished his story with a pout.

You smiled affectionately, offering him a sympathetic nod.

Turns out, Yang Jeongin was a good kid.

You had been too quick to judge him that day at work, he even explained that it was his frat brother that had admitted him to the hospital. The other guy was a politician's son, and it couldn’t get out that he’d smashed a bottle at some scholarship student at a party. It explained why he was so awkward about getting fixed up, he was only there because your silence could be bought. He wasn’t the spoiled rich kid you thought he was.

Jeongin also told you that he had to leave the fraternity and move off campus after that day. He couldn’t hide the injuries from his older brother, and, worried for his safety, he made sure to move Jeongin away from his bad influence frat brothers.

Deep down, you understood.

If you had a little brother who was getting hurt at parties with rowdy kids, you would want him to be closer to home. Safe. Hell, if Felix, Seungmin or Jisung were in that situation, you wouldn’t have hesitated to do the exact same thing Jeongin’s older brother had done. 

“I love this movie,” you sighed, staring at the large screen on the other side of the bakery.

Felix’s whole concept for the bakery was an old movie café.

Whiskey Business referenced the Tom Cruise movie, so almost all of the films that played non stop were 80’s films. You had a large hand in that, curating a list of iconic 70’s/80’s/90’s films from before any of you were even born, and they eventually made it into Felix’s final business plan. 

A chill bakery where the special was always whiskey flavoured. Whiskey cookies, cakes, crossaints, you name it. 

Here, you could get a sweet treat and enjoy a childhood favourite film. He posted the weekly schedule on Instagram so people could come to enjoy a screening with friends and family, even holding a Friday night special where something different was premiered and added to the regular lineup.

Tonight, the ending of Die Hard 2 was playing on the big screen.

Seungmin snorted when he saw what you were looking at, shaking his head.

“One thing you need to know about Y/N . . she’s in love with John McClane,” he whispered loudly, pretending to be talking behind your back. 

You smacked his shoulder.

Jeongin giggled at the encounter, about to comment on that when his phone screen lit up with a message. He stared at the screen for a moment, before looking back at you guys.

“My brother’s coming to pick me up, do you guys mind if I wait here a little longer?” He sounded unsure, as if he didn’t want to overstep. 

Felix quickly silenced his worries, telling him that you guys were definitely planning on staying late, and that he was welcome to gossip with you guys for however long he needed.

“So, Jeongin,” you smiled when the younger boy sat up straighter. “I have a very important question.”

Jeongin, fearfully, nodded.

Seungmin was fighting a snicker, stealing a mini cinnamon swirl off Jeongin’s plate.

“Out of all the movies you’ve seen here . . which is the best?”

Instead of being relieved that your question wasn’t at all serious, Jeongin seemed to take it as a life or death debate.

“That depends on the genre . . the decade . . can I have a top 4?”

Seungmin and Felix stared at him in shock.

“Oh no,” Seungmin mumbled.

You, on the other hand, grinned. “I think I’m going to like you, Yang Jeongin.”

–

It was nearly an hour later when Jeongin stood up to leave.

You had spent so long talking to him about your favourite movies (he was just as obssessed as you) that you had barely noticed how much time had gone by. Felix had his legs curled up on your lap like a cat and Seungmin was playing a game on his phone, cutting into the conversation whenever he wanted to give his opinion.

A black car pulled up outside, making you frown at Jeongin.

“You’re going?”

“Tell your brother to come in,” Felix said, half asleep. “The more the merrier.”

Jeongin looked unsure.

“He’s not very . . friendly?” He offered.

“Neither is Seung, but we still tolerate him,” Felix retorted. 

You smacked his leg for that.

Jeongin looked like he was about to argue, but it was too late.

The bell on the front door ding’ed and Jeongin’s brother walked in.

“Innie? You here?”

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck fuck fuck–

“Yeah, over here!” Jeongin waved him over. “Come meet my boss! And his friends.”

No.

Please don’t do that.

You panicked, not knowing if you should just hide your face in your hands or melt into the floor.

Unfortunately, you spent too long agonising over your options. And now it was too late to run.

“Hey, you’re–” Chris paused, eyes meeting yours in surprise. 

“This is Felix, my boss–” Jeongin pointed at your best friend who was curled up in your lap. “–And this is Y/N and he’s Seungmin, they’re Felix’s friends. Y/N’s a doctor and Seungmin’s a manager at Kim Corp.”

“Hey man,” Felix waved tiredly. “Help yourself to some snacks.”

But Chris didn’t move, staring at you.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you finally said, your voice uncharacteristically quiet. “Jeongin’s brother.”

“Chan,” Jeongin offered. “His name’s Channie.”

Chan?

You saw Chris– Chan wince, finally breaking eye contact with you, his gaze moving down to where Felix was cuddling you.

You hadn’t felt shy about physical touch with Felix in years, the clingy boy having broken down all of your walls so that he could treat you like a human pillow. But now . . something just felt wrong.

You needed to remove yourself from this situation.

Holding up your empty mug, you gestured to Felix that you were going to go and wash it, effectively untangling his limbs from yours. 

Your shoulder brushed past Chris’ as you went behind the counter, ignoring the way sparks erupted at the minimal physical contact between the two of you.

“Do you guys want anything from back here?” You called out as you dried the mug.

A chorus of ‘No’s and a singular ‘banana milk’ from Seungmin echoed back to you. You rolled your eyes affectionately, making your way to the large fridge and bending down to the lower shelves, where you knew Felix kept treats for his friends. 

“Banana milk, banana milk–”

“You look good bent over like that, doc. Exactly how I pictured it.”

You stopped searching, standing up straight and slamming the fridge door shut.

“You’ve been . . picturing me?” You chose your words carefully.

Chris didn’t look ashamed at all, shrugging one shoulder.

“It’s a nice picture, sue me.”

“I just might, Chan,” you said his name with a venom that surprised even yourself.

He sighed.

“Okay, I deserved that one. But in my defense, I never thought we’d meet again,” Chris took a step closer to you, trapping you between the fridge and his chest. There was a hint of bitterness in his tone as he added, “And I definitely didn’t think it would be with some guy on your lap.”

So that was what this was about.

You wanted to be mean.

Say something cruel, cruel enough to make him feel the way you felt when you realised he had lied about his name. 

But had he? If he was lying, then why did Hyunjin call him Chris too?

“Lix is just a friend. That’s all that is,” you explained quietly, extremely aware of how close his chest was to yours. “Not that I have to explain myself to you, whoever you are. Chris, Chan, whatever.”

Chris thought about that.

Silently, he reached down, fingertips brushing the side of your lips. “You got a little . .” He brought the pastry flake between his own lips, a remnant of your earlier chocolate croissant.

“You finished cleaning me up?” You narrowed your eyes at him, waiting for him to move so that you could leave.

Chris seemed undeterred by your angered state. In fact, if anything, he seemed amused.

“Y’know, you’re cute when you’re mad,” he mumbled, as if he were thinking out loud.

That was it.

You shoved at his chest, trying to force him to move. 

But he didn’t move.

Chris was like a statue, a wall that you couldn’t even make flinch. 

“What are you made of?” You huffed out, giving up trying to push past him.

Chris chuckled, grabbing your arms in his big hands.

“Looks like we’re back here, princess.”

You glared at him. 

And then a thought occurred to you.

Chris was the overprotective older brother, the one Jeongin described earlier.

“Wait, if you’re Jeongin’s brother . . you took him off campus. So that he’d be safe.”

Chris nodded here, looking confused but agreeing regardless.

So, you continued. 

“But you have all that shady boxing shit going on with the police, how is he safe with you?”

And finally, Chris’ sweetness disappeared.

His hold on you tightened, something vicious crossing his eyes and, for the first time since you had met him, a hint of fear trickled down your spine.

“What,” he said slowly. “Do you know?”

“What–”

His fingers dug into your forearm, causing you to wince in pain.

“I asked you, Y/N, what you know. Who do you work for?” He repeated, face dangerously close to yours. 

Oh, why couldn’t you have just kept your big mouth shut?

Chris looked angry. He was a completely different person looking for answers. Answers that you didn’t even have, you were just provoking him to be a bitch. Hint at the thought that he might be a bad brother, endangering Jeongin.

Something about that look in his eyes took you back to a place you did not want to think about.

Your eyes closed in fear, shaking your head at him.

“I don’t– I don’t know anything! I Googled you! That’s it, I’m sorry– I’m sorry, I swear–” 

“Hyung!”

Chris dropped his hold on you, taking a large step back once a wave reality hit him. It had only been a few seconds, but he had lost himself and you.

“Y/N, I am so fucking–”

You stumbled back, catching yourself on the fridge as Jeongin rushed over.

“Y/N? Noona, are you okay?” Jeongin reached out to you, but you quickly shook your head, a fake smile plastering itself on your face.

There was no need to cause a scene. Or upset a kid.

“I’m fine, Jeongin! We were just talking,” you reassured the younger boy.

Jeongin’s frown deepened.

“Y/N, you’re crying . .”

Were you?

Chris half reached out to you, before dropping his hand, clenching it into a fist.

“Y/N . .”

“I have to– I have to go,” you mumbled, holding your raw wrists to your chest. “Need to tell Seung there’s no more banana milk . .”

“Y/N wait, I’m sorry–”

“It’s– It’s not your fault,” you didn’t meet his eyes, looking down as you spoke. “I shouldn’t have asked about your . . personal stuff. Please forgive me.”

“What? Y/N, no–”

But you had already left the room, just barely hearing Jeongin’s accusatory, “Hyung, what did you do to her?”

If Seungmin noticed anything different in your behaviour when you returned, he didn’t mention it. Jeongin and Chris disappeared before you had even made it back to the front of the shop. You and Seungmin stayed a little later, helping Felix clear up so that he could head straight to bed as soon as the pair of you waved goodbye.

Seungmin dropped you off at home, giving you a look that asked if you wanted some company, but you shook your head.

After all that had happened tonight, you really wanted to be alone.

It was easier to pretend you were okay when you were with your friends, but reality was starting to come crashing down on you. 

It was all still a bit of a blur to you, you couldn’t really explain or recall what had happened if you were asked to. What even happened? One minute you were teasing and flirting with a man you had been daydreaming about for weeks, and the next he had turned violent, paranoid.

You tried to rationalise it in your head.

Maybe you had hit a nerve. Maybe he was in trouble with the police, or someone else.

You gave Jisung, who was lounging on the sofa watching Haikyuu, a quick kiss on the forehead as you made your way to your bedroom, shutting the door before letting your emotions get the better of you.

You fell first into your pillow.

Stupid Y/N.

Thinking a stupid man could be nice–

Your mourning was interrupted by the sound of your phone ringing.

Shit. 

Were you meant to do something tonight?

You quickly wiped your tears with the back of your hand, sniffling as you scrambled for your phone.

Unknown Number.

Your brows furrowed in confusion.

“Hello . . ?”

“Y/N. Wait, don’t hang up–”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

He sighed.

“I’m calling to apologise. I’d rather do it in person, but–”

“No, no. This is fine. You um . . you don’t need to apologise. I told you, it’s fine.”

“You don’t even believe that yourself, Y/N. Why are you trying to convince me?”

You didn’t say anything.

“Y/N . . I lost control. And no amount of apologies can fix that. I scared you, I know I did. I never . . fuck, I never wanted to act like that around you. Let alone to you.”

You still didn’t speak.

“Silent treatment again? I get it. I just . . I don’t know how to make you understand how much I wish I could take back–”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why are you apologising? Did Jeongin tell you to? Do you actually feel bad? Do you . . care? You said it yourself, you didn’t think we’d ever see each other again . . why does it matter if you upset me?”

Surprisingly, he laughed.

“You really do know how to make me smile, even when I feel like the world’s biggest dick.”

You fought back a smile.

“And yeah, Jeongin did tell me to. But that’s not why I’m calling. I don’t . . I don’t actually know. It shouldn’t matter, should it? If I never see you again, why should it bother me that I upset you? But it does. It’s pissing me off so much I literally can’t think. Jeongin made me stop and took the car from me on the way home, said I was acting too crazy to drive. You . . I  . . I’ve scared lots of people in my life. Comes with the job. But I’ve never been so worried about how someone might view me after. I . . I don’t ever want you to look at me the way you looked at me tonight.”

“Wow.”

“Wow?”

“Wow . . that’s a lot.”

“I really am sorry, Y/N. I don’t want to be the reason you cry.”

“I wasn’t crying.”

“So you just sound like someone blocked your nose for fun?”

“Ha ha. Watch it, boxer man. I know a guy who taught me how to throw a punch.”

“Oh yeah? What’s he like? Good looking?”

“A bit.”

“Just a bit?”

“You want me to set you up? Not sure if you’re his type . .”

“You’re my type, princess.”

And just like that, he was back to normal.

You paused for a second, before speaking again.

“I forgive you, Chris. Really. I overreacted a bit as well, and I shouldn’t have accused you of anything. Or judged your relationship with your brother. I’m sorry too.”

“No, you didn’t overreact. You were . . scared. I wouldn’t have hurt you. You know that, right?”

You scoffed good naturedly.

“Tell that to my bruised arms, asshole.”

He sucked in a breath.

“You’re serious?”

“What? No, I’m joking. Forget about it. Are we good now?”

“As long as you’re not lying to me. And you really accept my apology.”

“You’re extremely persistent, Christopher.”

“I love it when you say that.”

“Is that your real name then?”

“Chan is my Korean name. I use it for fights, Chris is for friends. It’s best to switch between the two when you need a few identities . . for work.”

“What do you prefer?”

“I’ve never really thought about it. Both are fine.”

“Chan is cute. Jeongin called you Channie.”

He groaned.

“I’m four years older than that brat.”

“He’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, he is.”

There was a pause. Some shuffling.

“You going to sleep now, doc?”

“You brought the nicknames back super quick.”

“Well, I thought you were mad at me so I held back. Princess.”

“You need to get help, Christopher.”

“You’re right. I need a doctor.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Okay, I wholeheartedly accept your apology and am no longer scared of you. Can we sleep now?”

“So you admit you were scared!”

“Chris!”

“Alright, alright. Goodnight princess.”

“Goodnight, Channie.”

Tuesday 

Everything was a mess.

Winter at the front desk had accidentally double booked your afternoon so you had to skip lunch and apologise to a singer for being late to her vocal check ups.

After that, Taeyeon found an error in a discharge form you filled out last week, so you had to stay late checking over all the forms from that day to make sure it wasn’t a mistake you repeated.

And then, the icing on the cake, Felix messaged you to say that he wouldn’t be able to make it to dinner because Jeongin had burned himself with the industrial oven, so Felix was closing the shop by himself.

Not on your watch.

“I’m taking these,” you stole some supplies from behind Winter’s desk, your tone teasing. “Call it reparations for the appointments earlier.”

After stopping at Felix’s favourite Italian restaurant and picking up some takeout, extra for Jeongin too, you approached Whiskey Business Bakery with a renewed sense of confidence. 

So what if your entire day had sucked? From now on, everything was going to be perfect. Blissful. 

“Y/N?” Felix seemed surprised to see you, which you found odd. Was it so out of character for you to show up to a place where you’d been told there was an injured kid? No, if anything, that was perfectly on brand for you.

“Move aside,” you pushed the pizza boxes into his empty hands, barging into the shop. “Where’s the patient?”

“He’s . . he’s back there, I was just about to give him a lift home,” Felix looked tired, but happy to see you.

You gave him a reassuring smile, your tone lowering to a more serious level.

“Is it okay that I’m here? I wasn’t sure if you guys ate.”

Felix nodded quickly, “Of course! I’m glad you came, Y/N. I just didn’t want to drag you here after work–”

“Y/N noona!”

You turned to Jeongin, flashing him a bright smile.

“Yang Jeongin, just the boy I wanted to see!” You searched through your handbag, pulling out the stolen supplies from work. “Show me where you hurt yourself,” you demanded.

“Noona, you don’t have to–”

“Mate, you can’t stop her when she’s like this,” Felix had already opened a box of pizza and was getting comfortable in front of Pretty in Pink. “Just let her fix you up, eat some food and we’ll take you home.”

“In other words, accept your fate,” you pointed at the empty seat next to Felix. “I didn’t know what toppings you liked but there’s plain, pepperoni and Hawaiian.”

“Pepperoni is perfect, thank you,” Jeongin eased off his baggy cardigan to show you the burn on his forearm and let you get to work.

Friday

Chris pressed you against the wooden desk in his office, his forearms on either side of your hips. 

You dared to look up at him, playful eyes meeting his passionate ones when you reached your arms up to his broad shoulders, holding him to you. A few stray strands of hair had spilled out onto his forehead, crowning his kingly face.

Chris’ head leaned down, lips dangerously close to your own as he whispered out an order.

“Stay right there for me, pretty girl, yeah?” 

You felt his big hands finally, finally, grip your sides, holding you still, his wet lips planting desperate kisses down your jaw, your neck. Pain bloomed into your skin, Chris worshipping you with more than just his mumbled praise. His teeth dug into your neck, he was starving, sucking and biting until your hands reached up to grip his fluffy curls, pushing him further into your chest and you tugged–

And oh, he moaned. 

“Chris,” you whispered shakily.

He grunted in response, kissing back up the column of your throat.

You pulled at his hair again, revelling in the whine that he let out into your neck.

It was beautiful. Like–

You blinked awake, reality in the form of your empty bed and clean bedsheets hitting you like a double decker bus.

“Chris,” you mumbled, still in a trance.

Oh, you were well and truly fucked.

Saturday

“You’re been staring at your phone a lot today.”

You pouted, turning to Jisung, who was setting up the DVD player, unplugging the Nintendo Switch.

“I have not.”

“Uh huh. So who’s the guy?”

“Why does there have to be a guy?” You defended. “Speaking of, how’s Minho?” 

Jisung sighed. Loudly.

“Come on Y/N, you really don’t want to talk to me about it?” He sounded almost . . hurt. “I know you’re hiding something. Do you really think I’m stupid enough to not notice that you came home crying last week?”

“Well I was hoping you were stupid enough to–” You were cut off with a squeal when Jisung threw a pillow at you. You met his eyes across the room, considering the logistics of a pillow fight right now. The pair of you had a very short lived staring competition, ending in you both bursting out into fits of laughter on the sofa.

“Okay,” Jisung began when he finally caught his breath. “Now spill.”

“It’s a lot . . and complicated.”

“You know me, I love drama.”

“And now . . I don’t know. I don’t really know him as a person, y’know?”

Jisung was sitting on the edge of his seat, completely invested in your story. His legs were spread, elbows resting on either knee, holding his face in his hands. 

Panic started to rise in you as you wondered about his reaction to all of this. Would he think you’re weird for obsessing over some guy you barely knew? You knew it was very out of character for you, but something about Chris pulled you in–

“How big are his arms?”

“What?”

Whatever you had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

Then again, with Jisung, you should’ve considered the option that he would go down this route.

You laughed lightly, shaking your head.

“Big. Really big,” you admitted.

Jisung hummed.

“And it was a sincere apology?”

You nodded.

“Maybe he’s just got some crazy anger issues. Rich guys can be like that,” he shrugged. “And Minho works for him?”

“For him, with him. I’m not sure. It’s not like I’m his friend . .”

“So he hasn’t asked you out or anything?”

You looked down shyly, shaking your head.

“Well fuck him then, why’s he playing around? This seems like some literal soulmate shit. Your neighbour is his friend? His little brother works at Lix’s? How much more poetic can it get?” Jisung let out.

You wanted to laugh at that.

Soulmates? 

Yeah, Chris made you feel warm and shy, but soulmates? 

Jisung was crazy.

“Anyway, yeah. That’s everything. Just me daydreaming about some gorgeous, unattainable man,” you gave him a weak smile. 

Jisung looked surprised.

“I’ve never seen you like this, Y/N.”

He moved over to your sofa, coming to sit next to you and pull you into his side.

He was right. You had never been this vulnerable in front of your friends. You had never let yourself be so honest, so loud about your feelings. Was this what having a stupid crush did to you?

“Don’t get mad but . . this is nice,” Jisung mumbled into your hair, kissing the top of your head. “Can’t believe it took 6 years and some boxer guy for you to finally open up.”

You huffed.

“You’re happy I’m sad?”

“I’m happy you’re being real with me. Now, let’s go find someone to help you get over this douche. Sound good?”

“I don’t know . .”

Jisung gave you a look that said he wasn’t taking no for an answer, pushing you into your bedroom. “Go get ready, I’ll just go tell Minho I’m going out tonight.”

“What? No, Jisung. I’m not taking you away from your date time.”

“Date? Oh, nah, he’s got something else going on with his friends. We don’t have anything planned tonight,” he said casually. “It’s our movie night, Y/N. You really think I’d cancel on you to get some dick?”

You stayed silent, a teasing smile on your face as you pretended to think about it.

Jisung gasped in mock horror.

“I see . . that’s what you think of me . .”

Thirty minutes later you were standing in the entrance of your apartment, adding the finishing touches to your jewellery while Jisung fluffed up his hair. 

“Is this shirt too slutty?” He asked, repeatedly doing and undoing the top button to compare how it looked.

“It’s fine, Ji. You look cute.”

Jisung looked at you like he was about to protest, but a knock at the door cut off his silent argument.

“Hey– Minho?”

“Hey Y/N,” Minho gave you a polite nod. “Are you guys going out?”

“We’re going to get drunk,” Jisung showed up behind you, throwing an arm over your shoulder. “You’re going out too, right?”

Minho’s smile brightened at the sight of your roommate, making you roll your eyes affectionately. “Okay, lovebirds. No PDA in the hallway.”

“We’re not even touching,” Minho deadpanned.

“The energy is so charged . . you’re basically on top of each other.”

“Y/N!” 

Minho just laughed, shaking his head.

“I’m heading out now too, you guys want a lift? I’m not drinking tonight, save you a designated driver,” he offered in a sing-song voice.

“Oh hell yeah,” Jisung agreed. “If that’s okay with you, Y/N?”

You nodded.

“Of course, let me just grab my phone.”

“So you’re going to a party?” Minho asked.

“Club, probably,” Jisung spoke for the two of you. “Anywhere we can get fucked up really.”

Minho seemed to consider his words.

“There’s a bar where I’m heading, if you guys just want to tag along. Or, y’know, if you already had plans–”

“No, that actually sounds alright. Then we can come back with you too?”

“Wait, where is this bar?” You finally rejoined the boys, locking the front door and double, triple checking it was locked.

Jisung giggled at this as the three of you headed down to the car park.

“Just nearby. I’m going to a work thing with my friends but if you two are just looking for a night out . . could be fun,” Minho shrugged.

His friends.

A work thing.

The whole reason you and Jisung were going out tonight was to forget about Minho’s friend. Was it really a good idea to go with him to whatever party Hyunjin or Chris or whoever might be hosting? The thought of bumping into Chris when you were trying your damndest to get fucked by any stranger who could make you forget about him was terrifying.

Terrifying because whenever you’re in the same room as Chris, you lose all capacity to think rationally.

Jisung seemed to understand your dilemma, playing it off as a light hearted joke to Minho.

“You want to introduce me to your friends? How cute . .”

You tuned them out as they bickered playfully, a fondness for the two outweighing the slight stress growing in your chest.

“You okay there, Y/N?” Minho asked, unlocking his car doors.

You paused, looking over the top of the vehicle to where he stood.

“How . . which of your friends are going to be there?” You asked quietly.

Minho raised an eyebrow at you.

“I just mean–”

“I know what you meant, Y/N, trust me,” Minho’s expression twisted into something different. Understanding. “Look, the bar is in a completely separate place to where I’ll be, I'm not trying to interrupt your partying. You don’t have to see anyone you don’t want to see,” he said the last part with a seriousness that told you he knew exactly what you were worried about. 

Did they . . talk about you? Surely not. Chris didn’t seem like the type to tell his friends about some girl he was .  . God, what were you two even doing? 

“Even if Hyune has been begging to see you for weeks now,” he added, rolling his eyes.

You smiled at that. Seeing Hyunjin again didn’t actually sound like a terrible idea.

“I’ll drop you guys off somewhere else if you want, okay? You don’t have to come with me.”

Quickly, you shook your head.

“No, it’s fine,” you reassured him, getting into the car and pulling Jisung down with you.

The drive was long, which made you question Minho’s earlier statement of this bar being ‘just nearby’, but you didn’t say anything. Minho and Jisung were in the front seat, singing along to an old folk song cutely and you couldn’t help but admire how perfect they were for each other.

It wasn’t until Minho pulled up in front of ‘Seo’s Gym’ that reality hit you.

“Lee Minho,” You closed the car door behind you, trying your best to keep your voice calm. “Tell me we are not going to watch an illegal fight.”

Minho shrugged, giving you a cheeky smile.

“Okay, we are not going to watch a fight. You and Sung can go to the bar. I’m going to watch a fight.” 

You dropped your head into your hands.

Chris? Fighting? Shirtless, sweaty, bloody– 

No.

The doctor in you wouldn’t be able to sit still, itching to patch up both him and his opponent.

The woman in you would want to jump his bones.

Something about the evil look in Minho’s eyes made you think he planned this. He had to know, didn’t he? 

“A gym? I think I’m worth a better date than a gym, babe,” Jisung, oblivious to what was going on, finally got out of the car.

Minho laughed, shaking his head.

“It’s behind the gym. Secret club.”

“A secret club? Man, I didn’t know you were this cool– ow!” 

You giggled at Jisung’s squeal, Minho pinching his ear and dragging him by it.

“Don’t kill my best friend!” You called from behind them, following Minho around to, as he said, a secret entrance. Hidden behind a back door, at the bottom of some rickety metal steps, there was a door that literally blended into the bricks of the gym.

Damn. 

Privacy was a big deal to these guys.

You watched as Minho whispered a code word, password, whatever, through the door and it swung open, letting the 3 of you enter a . . club? The whole entrance led down into a pit of people dancing to music so loud it shocked you that it couldn’t be heard from outside. What kind of soundproofing magic was going on here? Neon green and pink lights danced across the pit, shaking you as if it were just like any other club.

“I’m going to head to the back, you guys have fun. Drinks are over here, place bets over there if you want,” Minho pecked Jisung’s lips quickly and waved to you, before exiting behind the bar.

“Um . .” Jisung looked around, clueless.

“What the fuck?” You finished his question for him. 

“This is insane,” Jisung approached the bartender, pulling you by the arm.

“Your boyfriends in the mafia,” you shouted dramatically, flicking his cheek. “You’re living out your preteen Wattpad fantasy,” you pretend to hold a mic to his mouth. “Tell the people how it feels.”

“You are so lucky the music’s so loud,” Jisung yelled back, going over to the bartender.

Before you guys could even order, the bartender gave Jisung a nod.

“You with Minho?”

“Uh . .”

“He said to put your stuff on his tab.”

You giggled at the raging blush on your best friend’s face, cooing and pinching his cheeks.

“This is so embarrasing,” he whined.

“What are you talking about? You’re getting princess treatment from a guy you’ve been in love with for years,” you asked while ordering shots for the both of you.

“Woah, woah. The L word?” Jisung looked at you like you’d slapped him.

“Oh shit. Trouble in paradise?”

“No! No, we’re good . . I think,” he paused for a second. “Do you think he wants me to meet his friends because it’s serious? We haven’t made anything official yet . .”

You shrugged.

“Take the win, Ji. You deserve it. Just try and bring up exclusivity and labels soon, okay?” You offered.

Jisung nodded, staring at your drinks.

“And then step two, find you a man to get over the angry boxer,” Jisung smirked.

You rolled your eyes at that.

“Oh, Jisung. You don’t know how evil your little boyfriend is, do you?”

“What? What do you mean?”

“This is the gym . . where Minho works . . where Chris fights . .”

“You mean . .”

“I mean, this is a party. For the fight. That I’m assuming is starting soon, everyones betting on Chris over there,” you snorted, pointing at the scoreboard across the room. There were too many people for Jisung to notice at first, but now that you’d pointed it out, it seemed obvious. These people were all here to watch the fight.

The scoreboard that had caught your attention listed 

‘BANG CHAN, THE KING’ VS ‘DOMINIC RICCI, THE THUNDER’.

Unfortunately for Dominic, Chan had the better odds right now.

“I thought his name was Chris?” Jisung pulled you onto the dance floor with your drinks.

You giggled, trying your best not to spill anything.

“Fake name, stage name, I don’t know. Who cares?” You mocked, taking a sip.

“So Minho brought you here . . knowing that . . wow. That’s fucked up. Is it bad I find that kind of hot?”

You scowled at him.

“I’m not going to watch that fight, I’ll stay here and drink.”

“All by yourself?” Jisung teased. “Are you going to make friends with the bartender?”

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

“Sorry, please don’t tell your big strong boxer boyfriend over me.”

PART II HERE | PART III HERE

“Chan-”

“I know you think I don’t want you to go out because I’m selfish or trying to control you, but that’s not it, baby, it’s never been that.” He says, wrapping an arm around your waist and bringing you closer to him.

“You have no idea what it’s like out there…What people would do if they knew how much you mean to me. The moment you stepped into my life, you became my weakness, and in my world, weaknesses get taken. Used and destroyed,” he told you. Stroking his hand on your lower back gently.

You knew all of this already, but you’d been together for years now, and luckily, nothing had happened. You knew he was powerful, but Chan had never let you see just how dangerous he really was. That was one side he never wanted you to see of him. He couldn’t risk scaring and losing you.

There were stories, of course. The butcher of Seoul. Before being with you, he was known to butcher those who wronged him, rip people apart for information, all sorts of horror stories he’d rather you not know.

Chan pretty much made sure that that whole side of his life was kept completely separate from you. Being one of Seoul’s head mafia don’s he did his best to keep you out of it all.

The two of you lived in a penthouse apartment right on the edge of Seoul, away from the businesses and out of harm's reach. But it also meant you were away from family and friends. Not that you had many.

The few you did have were all involved with Chan, which meant never getting any “girl time” unless it was with os me of the maids that worked for your husband. You knew it was out of security but you yearned for friends…and a normal day again. Which was why you’d been begging to go out for a shopping trip.

Chan had a birthday coming up, and you were determined to go out and get him something he wasn’t going to know about…Though that plan was going down like a lead balloon right about now.

“It’ll be a few hours…I’ll even wear a disguise if I have to.” You countered.

“I’ll text you, I’ll check in, you can have my live location on.” You suggested to him before he could say no. Niko glanced at Chan, there was something you weren’t aware of when it came to Chan knowing your location, but he just shook his head at Niko as a signal of silence.

“Four hours.” He mumbles at you. There was no fighting you. You were a dog with a bone...At least, if he let you out for a couple of hours, you would drop it for a while.

“Four hours?”

“You get four hours, 20 minutes to travel, shopping, and home…And I want live updates.” He tells you, the last part more directed at Niko than it was at you. Niko nods his head,

“I’ll grab two of the others,” Niko tells the two of you.

“Normal clothes. Blend in.” He orders, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head. Already regretting this, but he had always struggled with saying no to you.

“You’re the best. I’ll make it up to you tonight.” You giggled, your fingers running across his chest and over his tie. You straightened it, standing up on your tiptoes to kiss the tip of his nose.

“I just want you safe, baby. I…I-I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to you.” He admits, sighing as he drops his forehead to yours.

“I promise I’ll be okay. Niko is the best…Remember? You trained him yourself.”

“And Jer and Riot are his next best,” He admits, glancing over his shoulder at the three men. He trusted them with your life almost as much as himself. He knew they’d never do anything to put you in danger, and he could trust them, but it was hard to let you go.

“Please just-” You cut him off quickly,

“I won’t dawdle, I’ll go in, get what I want, and leave. I won’t take the same route, and I’ll keep my eyes out.”

“And no-”

“Changing rooms,” you finish for him with a smirk. It had always been one of the rules when you started dating. No changing rooms, it was one of the places someone could get you when you were least expecting it.

“You’re going to be late for maths club.” You smirk at him, and he lets out a growl. The wives of the leading don’s of Seoul all called the meetings a maths club, so whenever they were together they could speak openly without fears of being overheard.

“Use your false name while you’re out. I don’t want any risks.” Chan whispers, kissing you softly. His lips lingered longer than he should have since he was already running late. Begrudgingly, he lets go.

Niko had been walking by your side the whole time while Jer and Riot were walking a few steps behind, trying to appear as though you weren’t all together. The whole trip had been going fine, so far, you’d managed to find a new tie for Chan, a money clip, and chocolates, but it was hard to buy for him.

“What do you even get the man that’s got everything?” You mumble as you walk into a new boutique.

“Diamond paper clips,”

“Funny.” You mumble looking at all of the displays. There wasn’t much you could buy in a store for him. You looked through the cabinets, actually looking for diamond paper clips at this point.

“Mrs bang, it’s lovely to see you again.” The shopping assistant said, and everything felt as though it was frozen in place. You could feel the hairs on your neck starting to stick up, and the creeping feeling of paranoia overtook you.

You knew it was probably nothing. Chan had always told you to use a fake name whenever you can so no one could link you to one another. The shopping assistant had been the one to help you with many things over the years, though, and had come to know you on a deeper level.

“Y-yeah, I-”

“We have that pocket watch you were hunting for a few months ago.” Your head shot to look at her, your paranoia slipping away. You had guards who were trained, and you were safe. No one was going to make a move in a packed mall.

“Oh…Can someone engrave something for me? That would actually be perfect,” You tell her, following her closely toward the counter. Sitting there was a gold pocket watch, something you’d wanted to get Chan for Christmas but hadn’t found in time.

“Of course, it can be finished within the next hour. We can bring you some tea and food while you wait?” She suggests. You slowly glanced over at Nikolai, who subtly nodded his head at you that it was okay. You grab some paper quickly writing down the engraving you wanted on the pocket watch.

Always come home to me.

Followed by your anniversary date. The lady smiled, slipping the paper into her hand and walking you toward a private section.

As you headed back into the parking lot to go home, your paranoia continued to grow; you could feel yourself being watched. Not to mention you were sure you’d seen the same car circling the car park as you walked.

“I feel it too,” Niko tells you, putting his hand on your lower back as he tries to rush you toward the car. At least if you were inside there it was bulletproof and no one could get in if you had the keys.

“Jer and Riot?” You question, not looking around. You didn’t want to make it more obvious that all four of you were together as a group.

“Watching from their car, they’ve taken the plate down and a description. Riot’s gonna get out and follow us.” He tells you, ushering you between some more cars, that it was a different route to the car as though he was trying to be sure you were being followed.

Just like that, everything felt as though it was moving all too fast yet all too slow at the same time. The tyres of a car screeched around the corner, and it sounded like a car backfired before Niko slumped against the car in front of you.

“Niko!” You yell, watching him hit the floor, blood was seeping out from his shirt, and you shoved your hands down on top of it. Applying pressure where he’d been shot. Your hands were quickly covered in thick blood as your head whipped around for signs of a threat.

“You have to get in the car.” Niko grunts, looking up at you. He knew it was over for him; the amount he was bleeding there was no way he was going to get through this.

“No, I-I can’t leave you.” You whimper a little, but he ignores you, pushing his gun into your hand along with the keys. This was the training. Get you safe and ignore their own lives. It was what they did for Chan, and it was what they were trained to do for you.

You were the priority. Not them.

“Run. Don’t look back, just run.” He groans, shifting a little as he feels himself getting lightheaded.

“I can’t-”

“Promise me you’ll make it back to Chan. He won’t be the same if you go…So go!” He yells, shoving you as hard as he could once more before grabbing his second gun and trying to shoot his way out of this. To at least buy you a little more time.

You scrambled to your feet, crouching between cars and trying to make it back to your own, but there were men everywhere.

“She’s here somewhere. Find her.” They spit out, You creep your way between another car, yours was just out of sight. Jer and Riot could handle a couple of the shooters…You could do this. The car wasn’t far. Hell, the elevator was right next to your car, you could slide inside...if it was on the floor and no one was inside...right? There was no way something would happen to you.

“Looky here,” A voice whispers in your ear before you feel a pin prick right in your neck. Your arms turned slack, and the gun clattered to the floor. Whimpering, you did what you could to fight off the sedative, but it felt dam near impossible.

“Got her,” Someone says before everything went black.

The first thing you felt when you came to was pain.  It crawled up your arms and burst in your shoulders, a sharp, tearing ache that makes you wish you’d never opened your eyes. The air stunk of rust and something chemical, something wrong. You try to move, but your wrists won’t budge.

You whimper a little, your eyes moving up to your hands. Chains were wrapped around your wrists. Black, thick, and biting into your skin. Your feet barely touch the ground, your body hanging like an ornament someone forgot to take down.

You blink a little, fighting through the fog in your head from the drugs still in your system. Voices were echoing somewhere; you pulled at the chains, but they weren’t going to budge anywhere soon.

“You know Chan’s gonna skin us alive, right?” The first voice said, Your heart dropping as you heard them moving.

“The boss wanted her alive and unharmed.” Another voice snipped at the first.

“Yeah, well, she’s bleeding. You think that counts as unharmed!? If Chan finds us. We’re. Fucking. Dead.” Your breath caught in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut, forcing yourself to stay still and limp. Pretending to be out cold.

“That’s bullshit, everyone knows Chan’s gone soft anyway.” The second voice had said again.

“Soft?” The first guy let out a cruel and bitter laugh.

“Did you not hear what he did to the Steel Club guy? Tortured him for a week. Left him praying for death.” Your whole world tilts. Your stomach twists. That Chan? The man who made you tea when you couldn’t sleep? The man who kissed your temple before work? The guy who bought you flowers every day in the month leading up to your birthday?

You bite back a sob, the chains above you rattling a little.

“I’m telling you, we should just dump her.” The first guy says, shaking his head a little.

“No,” another says, voice closer now, meaner than the first two.

“We kill her and run.” He adds, his footsteps getting closer. Almost too close to you. Your heart began to race.

But then there was gunfire. It was loud and deafening. The whole world exploding into chaos, it felt like it was moving too slow but too fast all at once.

People were screaming and shouting, the smell of gunpowder instantly filling your nose.

“Shit! Cut her fucking down!” The mean voice screams.

The hook releases and you hit the floor hard, your shoulder taking the full impact. A scream tears its way through your throat before you can stop it. White-hot searing pain flares as you roll onto your side.

“You stupid cunt! She’s gonna get us caught-” You don’t even see the guy until he’s right there, a hand in your shirt, yanking you up, dragging you against him. A gun presses against your temple.

“Move and I’ll blow her fucking brains out!” He screams. Your vision blurs with tears,the whole room is spinning but throughout it all you can see him.

Chan.

He was standing in the doorway, dressed in black. Blood splattered across his suit. Across his face. His eyes were burning with anger like you’d never seen him in before.

“C-Chan…” your voice cracks as you call out to him. He steps closer, his steps calm and measured. It was the kind of calm that was scarier than the rage.

“I’m here, angel.” He tells you quietly.

“You’re alright, nothing’s gonna happen to you.” The guy holding you laughs, pressing the gun harder to your skin.

“You’re gonna let me walk out of here with her. I get in a car, I leave, and she’s yours again.” Chan tilts his head, eyes flicking between you and the gun.

“What makes you think you’ll get that far?” His voice was cold and distant as he stares at the man beside you. The guy tightens his grip on you, pushing the gun harder against you. Your lip caught between your lip, not wanting to show that you were scared. You could feel yourself losing control, you were terrified.

“You willing to chance me blowing her head off?” He snaps at him. Chan’s jaw flexes,

“No.” The next sound was a single muffled gunshot.

For a second didn’t know where it came from, then the man behind you goes slack. His gun clatters to the floor, and warm liquid sprays across your arm as you drop to your knees in the puddle spreading beneath him.

“C-Channie…” You whimper, but he was already kneeling beside you, his hands on you,

2I’m here I’ve got you, angel, I’ve got you.” You look up at him through the tears and blood. He’s shaking. His suit is torn. There’s blood on his cheek, his collar, his hands, and you can’t tell which of it is his or someone else’s.

“Your shoulder’s dislocated,” he says, breathless, looking at you. God, he needed to get you home, he needed to have you in his arms but he couldn’t take you when you were hurting.

“I need to fix it.”  You nod, still dazed from the fall. Chan hisses as he rips off his belt, and it between your teeth. “Bite down, baby.”

He counts to three and pushes. You scream around the leather, vision flashing white as the bone snaps back into place.

When it’s over, he pulls you against him, his heartbeat pounding against your ear. He’s whispering something, your name, maybe, or apologies that sound like prayers.

“Niko?” You ask, remembering your guard who you’d left behind. Chan freezes; the silence was answer enough for you. Your whole stomach dropped,

“Gone,” he says softly, stroking his hand over your back in a comforting way.

“Riot stayed with him. Jer tracked the ones who took you.” Your throat tightens at the thought of him dying because of you.

“That’s how you found me so fast?”

“Not exactly.” You feel him hesitate; it was the same hesitation you’d learned to recognize when he’s about to tell you something you won’t like.

“You have a tracker,” he says quietly. You blink at him. Trying to think of logical reasons…But they’d taken everything off you, there was no necklace or ring on your finger…that was the only possible place for a tracker…Right?

“They took my necklace and phone, Chan-”

“It’s under your skin.” At his words, the whole world seemed to stop for you.

“W-What?” you asked, your voice shaking as you turn to look up at him.

“I wasn’t taking any chances,” he says, voice breaking.

“Not with you.”  Your body goes cold. You pull away from him, staring at your hands, your arms, as if you could see where he did it. The air between you shifts, heavy and choking.

“Angel-”

“Don’t.” You flinch when he reaches for you. His hands are covered in blood, and for the first time in your life, the sight of him makes your stomach twist.

“I just want to go home.” You mumble and he nods his head, rushing to get up from the floor,

“Okay. We’ll go home. Bath, food, bed. Cuddle up, I’ll even watch those films you love… Whatever you want.” You don’t answer him. You can’t.

Because for the first time, you’re not sure which version of your husband came to save you…

the man you loved,

or the one the world calls The Butcher of Seoul.

You moved into the guest room, barely uttering a word to Chan as you did so. The room had been made up by the maid who had left some food on the bedside table, as well as a bath being ready for you to be in as soon as you needed.

“Your pajamas are warm too….I-I had her warm them up,” He tells you, opening the door and watching as you simply nod your head. He knew you were retreating a little and he wasn’t going to push you on it.

“And there’s a hot water bottle in bed,” He tells you but you just hum, looking over at the bathroom door and disappearing behind it. Chan stared at the door for a second, he’d do anything to turn back time and have you come back to him.

“Boss?” Chan glanced over his shoulder to see Haden waiting for him,

“Stay outside her room, I’ll...I-I’ll go and prepare things for Niko,” he sighs, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. He wanted his guard there, not to control you but because he was scared you would wake up screaming…that and he was scared you’d walk out.

“Give her time, boss,” Haden tells him, glancing at his boss, who just nods his head.

“I-I’ve never cared about someone being so scared before…I-I…i fucked up,” He groans, his head in his hands. He hadn’t thought about him being covered in blood as he rushed to get to you. His mind had just been screaming.

Mine

The whole time. He needed to get to you., he needed to make sure you were safe. Nothing mattered other than getting you home…But he’s scared you, he could see that now.

“She’ll come around.” Haden tries to reassure him.

“She saw me caked in blood…She saw me kill people.”

“She’s your wife…” Haden reassures him, but Chan shakes his head.

“I’ve never been like that around her,”

“Maybe it was bad hiding it all from her.” He adds but he just sighs and shakes his head. He needed to prove to you that while his world was bloody and dangerous, his love for you was never going to be like that. He could fix this.

He had to fix this.

The penthouse was quiet now, it had been for weeks since Chan had rescued you. It had been weeks of you sleeping in the guest room and Chan pretending not to notice the empty side of the bed…But it was hard not to when the sheets were so cold…Or when he would roll over in search of you and you were nowhere to be found. It was harder to sleep without you beside him too.

He became a ghost in his own apartment, refusing to be around you whenever you were awake. You knew he was waiting until he thought uou were sleeping to do anything. You could hear him moving in the kitchen, the faint clinking of dishes and running water. He always waited until he thought you were out cold to do anything.

You run your thumb over the scar that was on your wrist where the chain had been biting into your skin and you swallow a little, getting up and heading downstairs. You couldn’t avoid this forever…

Chan was standing over the stove, his sleeves rolled up and string something that smelt incredible. Behind him there was a small tray on the table, with the tea pot you’d seen a lot over the last couple of weeks, a new paperback book and some snacks. Next to that was a new blanket, fluffy socks and a stuffed animal. It wasn;’t much but Chan was doing everything he could for you.

He’d done this every night for the last couple of weeks. He never knocked on the door, he never waited. He left the tray outside of your door like a quiet apology toward you. The new paperback was something to keep you entertained while you were away from your room.

His hair stood up on the back of his neck when he heard your footsteps coming, he turned and stared at you. You looked tired, you had bags under your eyes and he knew it was from the nightmares you were having. Haden had let him know you were struggling, but managing on your own.

“You don’t have to keep doing that, you know.” you motion to the tray and then looking at him. Chan felt as though his heart was going to jump from his chest at the sound of your voice. It had been far too long since he heard it.

“I know…But it helps me feel as though I’m doing something right,” He says softly, stirring the tea. You swallow a little taking in the sight of his hands, his knuckles were bruised but they were fading now, and there was a scar on them too. But the one thing you noticed was his hand shaking a little, the hand that had easily pulled a trigger was now trembling because you were near him.

You sat down at the table slowly, looking at him as he sets a mug down in front of you, the tea tray long forgotten now as he sat down across from you in complete silence. He was terrified to speak.

He didn’t want to risk it and have you go back to the spare room again,

“You didn’t hurt me, Chan. You scared me.” You admit, wrapping your hands around the mug and letting it ground yourself a little. Chan lifted his head to look at you.

You’d heard him talking to Haden one night about him thinking he’d hurt you when he rescued you but he hadn’t.

“That night... the blood, the gunfire... I didn’t recognize you when you came in…Y-you were covered in blood and you just…you were different.” You whisper, not saying any of this to hurt him but for him to see your point in all of this.

“And then you told me about the tracker and it felt like I didn’t even recognize myself either.” Chan nods his head, swallowing the lump that was in his throat,

“I know. And I hate that. I never wanted you to see that part of me.

But I couldn’t- I can’t risk losing you. You’re the only thing that makes me feel like any of this means something.” He tells you, his voice cracking as he shakes his head. You look at him, studying him, the dark circles under his eyes, the weight in his voice; he looked nothing like the man who had stormed in with a gun.

“You really think a tracker was the only way to keep me safe?” You ask softly, your finger tracing the rim of the cup you were holding. Chan shifts a little and looks at you,

“No. It was just the only way I knew how…Niko begged me to tell you about it,” He admits as he shakes his head. Maybe if he had, he wouldn’t have missed you for almost three weeks.

“Everything I do is controlled, everything around me is about control…but you came along and I lost control a little.” He admits.

“You make it sound like I’m a problem.” You tease a little with a soft and nervous laugh but he smirks over at you.

“You are. The best kind I’ve ever had.” You smile a little, your hand reaching over the table and holding his softly.

“I would never make you scared of me,” He admits, glancing over at you and smiling weakly.

“You didn’t Chan…It was a mix of everything, I panicked.”

“You’ll never have to panic around me again, I promise.”

“I know.” You whisper to him, squeezing his hand softly. The two of you sat there in silence, just having a drink together for the first time in weeks.

"Where is the tracker...Just out of curiosity..." you say slowly as you glance over at him, he shifts a little, a pink creeping on over his cheeks.

"Back of your neck,"

"How-"

"You were a really heavy sleeper," He mumbles making you smirk a little

For the first time in weeks the two of you walk towards your bedroom, straight past the guest room,.

“You don’t have to-”

“I know” You cut him off, opening the door and finding the bedroom. The bed looked untouched, almost as if he’d been scared to sleep without you.

Chan couldn’t stop watching you, you climbed into the bed, curling up against the pillows but he just stays by the door, he was scared of moving.

“You gonna stand there all night?” you giggle a little and he exhualed, sounding like relief and disbelief mixed together. He crosses the room within seconds, laying down beside you but you could feel how tense he was. It was like he was afraid to even breathe beside you.

“You can move baby,”

“I know…b-But-”

“Please, just hold me…I mixxed you.” You add and he nods, shifting and moving toward you, letting you close the gap. Your head rested on his chest, listening to his heart racing as you cuddled into him.

“I love you,” He sighs, kissing the top of your head.

“I love you too…Sleep, Channie.” You beg.

He did. For the first time in weeks, he slept soundly throughout the whole night.

The first thing you noticed when you woke up was how warm you were, Chan had always been like a human heater, you loved it. For the first time in weeks you hadn’t woken up cold, you woke up in his arms and warm. You shuffle a little, the sun was coming through gaps in the blinds, Chan was still sound asleep, snoring softly.

The shadows under his eyes had faded a little, he looked better already. You smile to yourself, kissing his chest softly and snuggling into him, just enjoying the closeness of him again. You knew you had no reason to fear him…he might have been that scary guy to everyone else, but he never was with you.

Your aunt keeps lying to your face, calling them “rustic.”

Still, you persist.

Because baking felt holy.

Not in the grand, glowing, choir-of-angels way. But in the quiet kind. The kind you felt in your chest when the kitchen was warm and the batter rose just right. Like love you could give away. Like building something sweet out of nothing at all, then handing it over like a blessing.

Something small. Something good. Something that said, I made this for you. I thought of you. I stayed.

A way to feed the world without needing to be seen.

That was what baking became for you. Not a spotlight, but a comfort. Something steady. Measured. A quiet act of care you could give away without needing to explain yourself.

So maybe it wasn’t surprising that fate tied you to someone just as serious about it. Someone who didn’t treat sugar like a trend, but like a discipline. Someone who knew the structure of a choux pastry better than most people knew their own hearts.

Someone... much older. Much sharper. Much more intimidating. Like if that guy from the Baratie had grown up in a war zone made of whipped cream and politics.

Except you weren’t sure even a world-class chef would have this many opinions about donuts.

And the voice that one day started speaking in your head?

Very opinionated about donuts. And about your ability to incinerate a kitchen faster than it took to preheat the oven.

“Read the instructions.”

“I was improvising.”

“That’s not improvisation. That’s negligence.”

“You sound like my home ec teacher.”

“Your home economics teacher didn’t have to feel you almost set fire to your hair.”

It wasn’t just the judgment.

It was the precision.

The way he spoke about temperature control like it was warfare. The way he described laminated dough in the same careful tone most people reserved for private confessionals. The way he never raised his voice—but somehow, every word still landed with the force of a warning.

He was serious. Intense. Frustrating.

At first, you tried to ignore it. A voice in your head? Fine. Weird. But not unmanageable.

Except it didn’t leave.

It just got more vocal.

“You’re using salt again. And that oven is too hot. Turn it down.”

A pause.

“Are you crying? That’s not a reason to stop.”

It wasn’t a god.

It was something stranger.

A thread. A connection. Not warm, not magical. Just… steady. Quietly annoyed. Occasionally, very confused. But always there.

And once the voice recovered from the emotional devastation of your first botched sponge, it became relentless about your baking habits.

Especially donuts.

He thought about them constantly. Donut textures. Donut fillings. Donut regrets. Donuts lost to time and poor decisions.

You once woke up from a nap at school with your mouth watering and the phrase “yeast integrity” echoing in your brain.

At first, it was annoying. Actually, it was always annoying. But something was comforting in it, too.

You got used to it.

To the quiet corrections. The tense silences. The strange little sighs when you got something right.

He had strong opinions about other things as well: sugar ratios, chocolate percentages, battle technique, and emotional suppression. But for brevity’s sake, you called him the Donut Ghost.

That’s how it started.

No poetic fate. No magical romantic rush. Just a grumpy stranger with an encyclopedic knowledge of pastry and a worrying amount of repressed emotion.

-X- A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript -X- 

Aka, Therapy with Giant Murder Pastry until you accidentally Charm Him 

Age 8:

It was a Tuesday.

You were eight years old and in your grandmother’s kitchen, elbow-deep in a bowl of what you insisted was donut batter. In truth, it was mostly flour, too much oil, and a heroic amount of salt.

You’d found a recipe on the back of a cereal box. You had ignored most of it.

The day had been strange from the start. You had woken up craving something sweet. Not candy, not cake… something specific. Something warm and golden and fried. At the same time, you’d felt an odd pulse behind your ribs. A flicker of tension that didn’t belong to you. Like someone had clenched their jaw far away and hadn’t figured out why. 

You dismissed it. Probably gas.

And then came the banana. You had reached for one at breakfast and felt a violent wave of distaste that nearly knocked you sideways. You dropped it like it was cursed.

Still, none of that mattered now because you were on a mission.

The kitchen was a warzone. There was flour on the ceiling. A whisk in the toaster. Your grandmother had long since retreated to the living room, muttering something about divine punishment. But you were having the time of your life. You were determined to make donuts. You had a mixing bowl, a stack of paper towels, and more confidence than actual skill.

Your singing (off-key and deeply committed) filled the kitchen as you stirred. You had a book propped up beside you titled Beginner’s Ganache, which you weren’t using, but liked having nearby for aesthetic. You poured in another scoop of salt, mistaking it for sugar, and hummed something vaguely caramel-themed.

Then it happened.

Your brain didn’t just jolt. It lurched.

It felt like someone had whispered directly into your skull while wearing velvet gloves and wielding a sledgehammer.

And then, clear as day, you heard him.

Not in the way the storybooks promised. There was no golden thread of fate around your wrist. No butterflies. No glowing symbols. Just a sudden, low voice cutting through your thoughts like a knife through fondant.

“Stay calm,” it said. Deep. Cold. Extremely unamused. 

You froze.

Then you screamed, flinging the bowl on instinct. It hit the wall with a wet splat, sliding down in a tragic cascade of batter and dreams.

“Who are you?!” you shouted, grabbing a spatula like a holy weapon.

There was no one in the room. No radio. No TV. Just you, the mess, and that voice.

“…What is that?” the voice said again, sounding almost offended. “Is that… donut batter?”

You blinked wildly. “What—who—where—”

“That dough is too warm. You’re overworking the gluten. Are you trying to make edible frisbees?”

That was when it hit you.

You were haunted.

And your ghost was a food critic.

“Oh god, I’m haunted!” you wailed.

“Soulmate bond,” said the voice with the tone of someone being sentenced to life without sugar. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re the one in my head, pastry demon!”

A long silence followed.

Then, more judgment. “You need to chill the butter. It’s melting. That batter is going to spread like shame.”

You clutched the spatula. “Are you a real donut ghost?”

“I reject this,” the voice muttered. “Send me someone else. This is a baking emergency.”

“Rude.”

He didn’t mean for that thought to go through. He winced. Too late.

“You’re a child.”

“Still rude.”

“…Give me a moment. I’m having a breakdown.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said the only thing that made sense.

“Donut Ghost… do you know a better way to keep the cookies from spreading?”

There was a pause. A long sigh. The sound of someone surrendering to their fate.

“Use cake flour instead of all-purpose,” he said eventually. “And refrigerate the dough for twenty minutes. Do both if you’re smart, Jellybean.”

You made a face. “Don’t call me that.”

The cookies came out perfect.

You still hated the nickname.

“…Huh. But my other ones—”

“The ratio was off. You’ll get spread. Do you want pancakes instead?”

You screamed again.

Katakuri winced on the other end of the tether.

“I’m blocking that,” he muttered.

And just like that, you had a baking coach from hell.

He didn’t tell you his name. He refused. You suspected he was older. Possibly ancient. His voice had the tone of someone who had fought wars over proper glaze and was perpetually one syllable away from homicide.

You refused to tell him your favorite fruit, out of spite.

But you both agreed that most people overbake brownies. That was the start of your highly complex relationship.

“I’m going to kill Oven,” he muttered one day, distant and furious. “I’m going to wrap his head in mochi and dropkick him into the sea.”

You were just a kid with a rolling pin and a stubborn mystery pastry ghoul in your head.

“Why would you harm an appliance???”

“Oven is my brother’s name.”

He was… something else.

He had opinions. Strong ones. Sacred ones. Especially when it came to donuts.

He treated them like relics. Artifacts. Objects of devotion. He once narrated the one he was eating like it was a Shakespearean tragedy.

“Soft. Sweet. Perfect. I could kill for this texture… No. I have killed for this texture.”

He became a part of your routine. Not constant, but consistent. Commentary on texture. Structure. The structural integrity of sugar-based goods.

He had rules.

“Choux pastry should be illegal in humid climates.” “Frosting is not glue. It’s weaponized emotion.” “If someone tells you fondant is better than marzipan, you walk away. That’s a red flag.”

You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know his face. But you knew he hated soggy bottoms and thought the phrase whipped cream diplomacy was a valid form of conflict resolution.

One time, you teased him.

“If someone breathes near my donut again,” he said darkly, “I’ll bury them in the sea floor.”

You blinked. “You sound really emotionally stable and adult. Does the donut know it’s dating you?”

“It’s not—dating—what does that even mean—”

You just grinned.

Your donut ghost was very easy to rattle.

Elsewhere:

He was mid-spar with Smoothie.

Dodging bullets. Breaking ribs. Hurling mochi like jagged meteors through the sky. The air crackled with Haki. The training field was scorched and shifting underfoot.

And then it hit.

The bond slammed into his chest like a cathedral bell tolling in reverse. All the air rushed from his lungs.

“OH MY GOD OH MY GOD THE OVEN IS SPARKING—SUGAR DEMON HELP ME—”

Katakuri stopped moving.

Smoothie’s elbow connected with his jaw. He didn’t blink.

"...What?"

The voice was not loud. It was worse than loud.

It was close.

It came not from beside him, but within, like someone had sat down on the inside of his skull and was now screaming directly into his brain with the frenzied chaos of a feral raccoon wearing oven mittens.

“THIS IS IT, THIS IS HOW I DIE—WHAT THE HELL IS A CONVECTION SETTING—”

His soul spasmed.

The tether pulled tight.

“I REGRET EVERYTHING. I’M GOING TO HELL AND I NEVER EVEN LEARNED TO TEMPER CHOCOLATE—”

Then came silence. A faint crash. Some smoke. A wet sniffle.

“…I dropped the pie on the cat.”

Katakuri stared at the ground.

This was happening.

This—this bakery gremlin. This shrieking, salt-happy child who screamed at appliances and mistook powdered sugar for flour three times in a row—this was his soulmate.

“IT’S ON FIRE AGAIN, DONUT GHOST!”

He flinched.

Thousands of miles away on Whole Cake Island, Katakuri felt the words hit him like a spiritual gut punch. The bond flared in his chest like someone jamming a straw into his sternum and slurping his patience out in one long, bubbling sip.

He swore under his breath.

Charlotte Smoothie, mid-swing, paused and frowned. “You okay?”

“…No,” he said slowly. “I think someone just set their kitchen on fire.”

Again.

You, of course, were convinced you were losing your mind.

The voice had started earlier that week. Not constantly. Just little interjections. Unhelpful commentary. Biting silence. The emotional equivalent of being judged by a pastry encyclopedia with biceps.

“That’s not how you separate eggs.”

“DON’T YOU JUDGE ME, VOICE DEMON.”

“…You’re using a slotted spoon.”

“I DON’T SEE YOU DOING ANY BETTER, HALLUCINATION.”

You talked to him every day.

He tried, genuinely tried, not to talk back. But then you attempted Swiss meringue in a blender.

And that broke him.

“STOP. STOP. USE A BOWL. GODS ABOVE.”

You gasped. “Aha! I knew you were real!”

“No, you didn’t. You’re unstable.”

“That’s what my therapist says.”

“…You have a therapist?”

“No. But I talk to you instead.”

Age 9: 

You were cleaning up the aftermath of your latest culinary catastrophe. Something blackened was dripping off the counter. It might have been moving. Possibly alive. You weren’t sure. You had almost set the oven on fire.

Not with a meal. With water. Somehow.

“So if you melt the sugar first, it caramelizes—”

“You’re a hallucination. Don’t try to gaslight me into believing in science.”

“…I’m not even arguing with that.”

Katakuri, currently in the middle of punching a rogue homie in the throat, staggered as a wave of heat, panic, and a high-pitched mental scream slammed into his soul like a molasses freight train.

“WHY IS IT SMOKING. I DIDN’T PUT ANYTHING IN YET—”

He froze. Winced. One eye twitched.

“…She’s gonna die.”

That night, he tried to speak through the bond. Tried to help. Gently. Calmly.

You told him to shut up, said you were hallucinating again, and if he was the devil, he needed to start paying rent. Then you went to bed thinking it was nice having an imaginary baking coach who liked caramel and gave decent advice.

You still didn’t give him your name.

Or your location.

You had seen the commercials. You were not getting kidnapped by a giant walking donut, no matter how helpful he was with meringue.

You weren’t rude. You weren’t especially guarded. But you weren’t stupid. He didn’t seem to push too hard, either way, though he seemed somewhat competent. 

You learned how to wall off your thoughts. How to blur your mind like static when he got too personal. If he tried to focus, you flooded the bond with opera music or recited full recipes for lemon tarts until he gave up in frustration.

Once, he tried to guess your region based on how you said “cruller.”

You responded with a five-minute monologue in wildly fake accents, ranging from British to "mysterious swamp witch."

He was deeply, deeply annoyed.

You were thrilled.

It became your thing.

"I made 300 donuts today."

“Wow. That sounds like the actions of a spiritually healthy ghost.”

"...People rely on me."

“For what? Flavor profiles and controlled rage?”

And somehow, despite everything, he always came back.

Your relationship was complicated. You were a mystery he couldn’t solve. He was a menace you couldn’t quite ignore.

But you did bake together.

Through shared thoughts. Quiet technique. Philosophical debates about icing ratios. Savage critiques of poorly laminated puff pastry.

You sent him thoughts like:

“I’m trying an almond dacquoise with espresso buttercream. Thoughts?”

He sent back:

“Add salt to the meringue. Toast your almonds. Do not embarrass us.”

He still didn’t know who you were. You were very good at keeping it that way. He suspected you were hiding something, but never pressed. Not directly.

Sometimes, he would say things like, “When I find you, you’ll regret the way you talk to me.”

And you would say, “Big talk from a man who once cried over a croissant because it looked ‘too delicate to eat.’”

“…Shut up.”

While you were stressing about art class and your lunchbox’s missing juice pouch, your soulmate was actively waging wars. Actual wars. Pirate wars. Wars involving screaming. Blood. Destruction. And mochi.

So much mochi.

Mochi as a weapon. Mochi as armor. Mochi used to drown a man once.

You once got detention because you shouted, “PUT DOWN THE DONUT, YOU’RE BLEEDING,” during homeroom.

There was no social recovery from that.

You spent the next week wondering if sugar-boarding counted as a war crime.

At first, you figured he was just weird. Probably some emotionally repressed guy who lived in a basement, surrounded by half-eaten croissants and pastry trauma.

But you were a kid. You didn’t care that much. You had a baking buddy.

And for all his chronic brooding, he was great at it.

“If you don’t bloom the cocoa first, the flavor won’t deepen. Please tell me you bloomed it. Also, don’t overmix. Stop. I can feel you overmixing.”

He didn’t talk about himself much. But sometimes, little pieces slipped through.

“Brûlée likes this one. She calls it my ‘apology cake.’”

“I don’t get to sit down often.”

“Mama says I should smile less. It scares the guests.”

You didn’t push. You figured he was dramatic. Maybe his mom was strict. Maybe his family was weird.

Not your business.

You were more concerned with the fact that he knew five different ways to temper chocolate and had intensely violent opinions about donut glazes.

"Maple is fine. But if someone puts a banana in the filling again, I will destroy the next port I visit."

“…What port?”

“Doesn’t matter. Banana crimes are international.”

And that made sense.

You were nine years old, halfway through a cookie crisis, and soulbonded to a sugar warlord who used donuts like holy relics and insulted your flour technique on the regular.

You still didn’t know his name.

But you had someone in your head who whispered, “Don’t forget the salt,” and made the world a little less lonely.

Even if he was possibly unhinged. Even if he once said, with complete sincerity, “If anyone touches the last cream puff, I will shatter their kneecaps.”

You paused at that one.

“Okay,” you had said. “That’s the coolest thing you’ve ever said.”

He had not responded. But you were pretty sure he smiled.

Age 10:

You’ve fully committed to the idea that he’s your baking ghost.

Katakuri, for the record, is mortified.

"Okay," you say, whisking with reckless optimism. "If I get the sugar right this time, you owe me a cake prophecy, kitchen phantom."

“…I’m not a ghost.”

"You’re so humble. That’s why you’re my favorite hallucination."

He still refuses to tell you who he is. No details. Just sugar-based critique and the occasional emotional spiral. You’re still a kid, and he says he’s… not.

Instead, he teaches you. How to temper chocolate. How to make a sponge rise. How to tell the difference between cornstarch and powdered sugar, which is a lesson you apparently needed twice.

In return, you tell him about your chickens. About the landlord who won’t fix the chimney. About how you dream of opening a bakery, even though your cookies currently taste like chalky regret and misplaced ambition.

He listens.

And for the first time in his life, Katakuri feels normal.

He has no social skills. None. You learned quickly that anything outside baking or beating people up makes him weirdly stiff and awkward.

Once, you asked if he had any pets.

“No.”

"Do you like pets?"

“…I like silence.”

"So… no cats."

“Cats are fine. Unless they try to eat my mochi.”

"That sounds specific."

“…It was one time.”

You were never sure how much was sarcasm. But somehow, you liked him. Not romantically—you were ten. You had bigger things to worry about, like math, school drama, and how to avoid burning your second sponge cake in a single week.

He was just there. Constantly a little annoyed. Always slightly too intense. Always deeply concerned that you were “whisking like a coward.”

"Okay, Gordon Ramsay, why don’t you fold egg whites with those tiny arms?"

“…You’re annoying.”

"Thank you."

By age ten, you had emotionally accepted that your fated partner was probably a walking war crime. Definitely in desperate need of therapy. And a sugar purist with firm opinions about pastry hierarchy.

He was oddly sweet to his many, many sisters. Terrifying to everyone else. Could be bribed into a good mood with vivid descriptions of donuts.

His thoughts came in waves. Battle rants. Self-loathing spirals. Tactical dessert evaluations.

“Glazed. Good moisture retention. Ideal for combat rations.” “Plain are for cowards. I said what I said.” “Don’t touch my mochi unless you want your wrist relocated.”

Your classmates thought you were weird. Sometimes you flinched at lunch, whispering things like, “It’s just a beignet, calm down.” You once got detention for yelling, “A croquembouche is NOT a tactical dessert,” in the middle of an oral report.

You spent your childhood with this odd, sugar-obsessed presence orbiting the back of your brain like a moon made of mochi.

He wasn’t always there. But when he was, he paid attention.

And sometimes, when the silence stretched too long, he’d say something that wasn’t about food.

“Brûlée got teased. I fixed it. They laughed when I tripped. So I buried it. The shame. The weakness. They don’t know what I look like. No one does. And that’s good.”

You never pushed. You just stayed. Quietly.

Sometimes, when you were making ganache or sugar glass, you’d think questions at him.

“How long do you temper chocolate before it goes grainy? Do you really hate cupcakes, or was that just a weird Tuesday opinion? Are you okay?”

You never expected answers.

 But sometimes, he gave them.

You were a fairly typical kid with decent table manners. And he was a moody, sugar-worshipping gremlin with the emotional range of a brick and a lot of donut monologues.

“Empty pastries are a disgrace. Custard is king. Texture should fight back slightly when bitten.”

Sometimes, in between your questions about pie crust and his evaluations of enemy skulls, things slipped out.

“They asked me to eat at the big table. I said no.”

"Power move."

Or,

“Mama says I should stop being soft. That I’m not allowed softness.”

"She sounds exhausting. Want a cinnamon roll?"

He never asked for one. But you always offered anyway.

He’d say things like:

“You don’t sift your powdered sugar?” “That piping job looks like a squashed caterpillar.” “This is criminal negligence toward cake.”

You were ten. You were doing your best, which meant sassing back as a point of pride.

He didn’t talk about himself. You didn’t ask. You weren’t sure if he was an adult or just a very grumpy teenager.

You eventually landed on: “Old man. War veteran. Emotionally constipated. Possibly made of fondant.”

Occasionally, though, he cracked.

“Brûlée likes these. She says mine are fluffier than hers, but she’s lying. I saw her overwhip.”

"Brûlée? Like... caramel?"

“My sister.”

"Oh. Is she okay?"

“She’s mine to protect.”

"...So, yes?"

Eventually, the school got concerned. The outbursts. The weird phrases. The day you burst into tears during a pop quiz and muttered, “This would be easier if I had mochi armor.”

Your aunt sat you down. Gently. Carefully. She gave you The Look.

The one that said, “Oh. That age already.”

She explained.

“It’s a soulmate bond,” she said. “It’s rare. But sometimes it starts young.”

"Is it always so rude? And this obsessed with dessert?"

She winced. “Sometimes.”

Even after the talk, you kept calling him a baking ghost. It was easier. Less terrifying than the truth. You were still half-convinced a sugar demon had moved into your skull, but at least now it had a name. Sort of. 

And you understood something else. 

He wasn’t okay.

Not really.

He was angry. Always. At the world. At himself. At everything. He spiraled often. Fantasized about violence and had a list of enemies longer than your entire fourth-grade class roster.

He talked about murder like most people spoke about the weather.

At first, you thought you were overreacting. That all soulmates were intense, and this was just the bond, not actual danger.

But by ten, you had finally realized the truth.

Your other half was a mochi-themed god of war with middle child rage and a weapon collection made of pastry metaphors.

You still talked to him like a stress hallucination.

You complained about homework. Your bruised self-esteem. How you kept killing crockpots by “experimenting.”

Katakuri, Sweet Commander of the Big Mom Pirates, now spent his evenings meditating in silence, listening to you sing off-key while attempting banana bread for the fourth time.

You described flavors. He corrected your measurements in real time.

"Do you think God likes cookies?"

He replied with a long sigh and the exact oven temperature for chocolate crinkles.

“No, if there was a God, he wouldn’t let my mother redraft the wedding invitations. For a child.”

“Invites to what?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m handling it.”

You had no idea who he was. You imagined him as a fat old man who haunted your pantry.

He let you.

And, though he never said it, he started waiting for you every evening.

Age 11: “I think I’m getting better,” you whisper one night. And Katakuri, across the sea, clenches his jaw and lies: “You are.”

Things are finally (barely) improving. You’ve started baking edible things. Some of them even taste like food.

You’ve stopped calling him “Donut Ghost” and upgraded to “Donut Dad” whenever he critiques your piping technique. He hates it.

“You’re over-whipping.”

“You’re overexisting.”

He calls you “Disaster Child” under his breath at least twice a week.

Neither of you notices the bond growing deeper.

Not until the caramel.

You had wanted to try spun sugar for the first time. It seemed fun. Easy, even. Until the sugar bubbled too fast. Too hot. And you burned your hand trying to fix it.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t say a word. You just sat down on the kitchen floor, blinking fast as the pain crept up your arm and the tears built in your throat.

But across the sea, mid-spar, Katakuri stiffened.

He felt it. The sting. The heat. The way you tried to stay quiet. His fist hovered mid-air, the fight around him forgotten. And then, for the first time in years, his voice shifted. No sarcasm. No judgment.

Just soft.

“Run it under cold water. Don’t cry, please.”

You flinched like the words had touched your skin.

“I can’t afford you getting hurt. Not with eyes possibly watching.”

A beat passed.

Then your voice came out very small.

“…You’re real.”

Another pause.

Long. Weighty.

“…Yeah.”

The spoon fell from your hand.

“Are you going to kidnap me?”

“Not today.”

Now, at eleven, he was a near-constant in your mind. You’d never gotten his name, never seen his face. But you knew some things.

He was very tall. He took orders, but rarely liked them. He was constantly on guard. He was wildly serious about mochi and weirdly sensitive about donuts. He had siblings. Lots of them. Most of whom he wanted to strangle. And he had a mother who could silence even his most chaotic thoughts just by being present.

Whenever he muttered, “Mama’s in one of her moods again,” something in his voice changed. “If she ever finds out about—”

The thought cuts off. But it lingers, sharp and cold.

The usual dry sarcasm disappeared. His tone went flat, clipped, and cold, like someone throwing a sheet over a broken window. Formal. Controlled. Like everything inside him had gone quiet except the tension pulling tight behind his words.

And you, clueless but well-meaning, would gently respond with something like,

“I dropped a cake today. Whole thing. Splattered like a sad little pancake. Bet yours has never exploded like that.”

It usually worked. He would scoff, or sigh, or offer some withering critique about structure and support, and just like that, the ice would crack.

You didn’t know how far away he was. Not really.

But sometimes, you caught flickers of his world. Odd references. Strange terms. The word Totto Land. The way he spoke of “citizens,” “defense,” and “Mama’s territories” as if they were standard parts of daily life.

Once, out of nowhere, he said,

“I took down a pirate ship today. They were trying to land on our cake sea.”

You stared at the ceiling.

“Your what now?”

“The Sea of Cake. It’s exactly what it sounds like.”

There was a long pause.

“…Are you made of desserts?”

“No.”

(Another pause.)

“…Partially.”

At that point, you were almost convinced your soulmate was a baking cryptid with a superiority complex—a sugar elemental with control issues and a frosting fixation.

And maybe that was why you were so bold.

You didn’t hold back.

You teased him constantly. Mocked his fondant purism. Sent mental images of lopsided croissants and cursed cinnamon rolls.

When he tried to guess your location, you mentally blasted banana pudding recipes and half-remembered song lyrics until he gave up entirely.

“You’re impossible.”

“You’re a mystery ghost who cries over donuts. Cry harder.”

“I do not cry over donuts.”

“So that time you mentally monologued for ten minutes about custard texture, were you just... emotionally sweating?”

Silence.

“…I hate you.”

“Aw. You’re warming up to me.”

He wasn’t affectionate. Not really.

But he was constant.

A strange, sharp-edged presence that came to feel almost safe. He lingered in the quiet moments. Offered advice with the emotional availability of a brick. Mocked your technique, then silently praised your crumb structure.

You just knew that, and once in a while, he let something slip. Something soft.

“Brûlée made something for me today. I told her it was good, even though it was a mess. She was proud.”

“I told Daifuku to stay back. He didn't listen. I had to fix it.”

“I keep my scarf on. They don't like what’s under it.”

You didn’t push. You never did.

You just answered his silences with things like, “Bet your scarf has polka dots.”

“It’s striped.”

“…Dramatically.”

That was all you needed.

You didn’t know his name. You didn’t know where he lived or what he looked like. All you knew was that your mysterious soulmate was dramatic, emotionally repressed, and strangely kind in his own scary way. And really, really good at baking.

You were invested.

In his weird recipes. In the way his voice tightened when he was upset. In his quiet grief and unspoken pride. In the fact that, no matter what, he always stayed—even when he didn’t say much at all.

You didn’t need to know the rest. Not yet.

You were eleven. There were cookies to make.

Over time, you started realizing he was funny. Not in a loud way. Not like your cousins or the kids at school. He was funny in a weird, intense, deeply repressed kind of way. The kind that snuck up on you in the middle of stirring batter and made you laugh so hard you forgot the sugar.

He said terrifying things in a calm, annoyed tone. He got flustered if you praised his pastry technique. He once described a jelly donut as if it were a romantic tragedy.

And he hated bananas.

“Banana filling is vile. Bananas are a treacherous fruit. I’ve cut people off over banana muffins.”

You immediately made it your mission to slip banana facts into your thoughts just to watch him mentally recoil.

“Did you know bananas are technically berries?”

“I will end you.”

You figured everyone’s soulmate was like this.

Slightly murderous. Emotionally stunted. Secretly soft when talking about their siblings.

You didn’t question it.

You just… accepted him.

And when he went quiet for a few days—long enough that you noticed—you whispered into the bond,

“Hey. I saved you a cookie. You better not die.”

A few hours later, he finally responded.

“…Wasn’t dead. Was just... injured. You saved it?”

“Yeah. I even sifted the flour.”

“…Good. Would’ve yelled if you didn’t.”

“Love you too.”

“Shut up.”

By then, you knew something was a little strange about him.

About the way he talked. About the place he lived.

“You’re young,” he said once, after you described your latest cake disaster.

“You sound like my dentist.”

“…I could track you if I wanted to.”

“Okay, Darth Donut. Get in line.”

He tried to bait you once by describing his surroundings.

“Have you ever seen whipped cream waves?”

“That’s not a real thing.”

“It is where I’m from.”

“Is it a dream? Are you in a bakery coma?”

You laughed. And then you got back to baking.

Because you kind of liked having him around.

He was deeply committed to pastry warfare. Emotionally allergic to casual affection. Quiet in his concern and loud in his critique. A storm with sugar in his veins and pride tangled in his voice.

Once, in what you were pretty sure was an unsupervised emotional moment, he referred to donuts as “the most loyal friends I’ve ever had.”

You blinked.

“You need human interaction that isn’t fried and glazed.”

“I don’t need anyone.”

“Okay, dark prince of sadness. Let me know when you want to unpack that.”

He didn’t answer.

But he stayed.

Age 12:

By the time you turned twelve, you had begun compiling a mental list. Not of recipes, or homework, or chores.

No—this list was labeled: "Disturbing Patterns from the Donut Ghost"

Helped improve your cake game. (Suspiciously well.)

Had a terrifying mom.

Once, muttered, “I built a fortress out of mochi and no one thanked me.”

Threatened someone for breathing near a pastry: 34 times.

Spent over an hour mentally arguing with himself about whether or not he deserved happiness 17 times.

Spontaneously whispered, “I can’t let anyone see,” while you were just trying to do math.

You were beginning to piece it together. 

This was not a normal situation. You, being a fairly normal twelve-year-old, had a dog, regular dental appointments, and a vague but growing sense that your soulmate needed a weighted blanket, a hug, and roughly a decade of trauma-informed therapy.

Katakuri was silent more often now. Not gone. Just quieter. Watching. Listening. The bond pulsed with tension sometimes, like he was holding something in his fists and didn't know how to let go.

Sometimes, while you were brushing your teeth or folding laundry, you'd feel a flicker of something—rage, guilt, longing—pass through you like static. And then he’d say something like:

“Custard needs patience.”

Or,

“Never decorate angry. It ruins the piping.”

And you’d answer without hesitation, "Are you speaking from emotional experience or pastry trauma?"

“Yes.”

You didn’t know what he looked like. Or how old he was. But you had a feeling he had scars. Not the visible kind. The quiet ones that made people stand like cliffs.

Sometimes you tried to send him everyday thoughts just to balance things out.

“Do you think dogs know they’re cute? If I eat an entire cake alone, but it’s for science, is it still bad? What does joy taste like to you?”

Sometimes he ignored you.

Other times, he sent back strange, perfect things.

“Warm mochi. Mid-winter. When no one’s watching.”

And you’d go still, eyes wide, whispering: "You poetic little freak."

And somewhere far, far away, Katakuri smiled into his scarf and would never admit it.

Age 13:

By thirteen, you carried the strange, heavy knowledge that your soulmate may or may not be a pastry-fueled vigilante.

He has stabbed someone over dessert etiquette. Desperately needs a nap, a hug, and twelve sessions of cognitive behavioral therapy. Might also be your best friend. Or a war crime in progress. It was unclear. And then, one afternoon, while you were reorganizing the spice rack alphabetically for fun, his voice came through. Low. Tired. Quiet.

“They laughed at my mouth today.”

A pause. 

“I… fixed it.”

You didn’t ask what fixed meant. You knew better. Instead, you wiped cinnamon off your fingers and sat down on the floor, cross-legged.

"Do you want me to describe the ugliest cake I’ve ever made?"

No answer, but you felt him listening.

"It looked like a melted foot. Like a clown shoe gave up halfway through its life."

A long silence.

Then, finally, “…Yeah. Okay.”

So you did. You told him about the frosting disaster. The lopsided layers. The cursed marzipan toe. He didn’t laugh, but you felt the tension in the bond shift. A quiet exhale. A weight eased just a little. You haven’t met him, but you do have a tentative plan for the day you do.

You’d look him in the eye. You’d hand him a donut.

And then you’d say, "Eat this. Calm down. Then we’re getting you a licensed professional."

And somehow, you knew he’d eat the donut. And argue. And eventually go.

Age 14: 

Your life was… mostly normal. School. Debates over who-wore-it-better. Homework you definitely didn’t finish. A part-time bakery job where your boss once described your scones as “aggressively competent” and gave you a fist bump like that was a compliment.

You had a couple friends. A couple dreams. Maybe a tiny bakery of your own someday—cozy, messy, full of mismatched mugs and the smell of sugar and stress.

And through all of it, he was there. The voice. A constant presence. Sharp. Snarky. Weirdly calming. Always ready to critique your pastry crimes. Sometimes silent. Sometimes—if the stars aligned—gently impressed.

“You made that cake look like a weapon. I’m proud of you.”

“Aw. You do care.”

“…You’re still folding wrong.”

“There he is.”

You didn’t want to lose it. Not the weird rhythm you’d built. Not the snarky back-and-forth that somehow made everything feel less lonely. So you kept baking. Kept teasing. Kept showing up.

And when he said things like,“You still haven’t seen my mouth.”

You shot back with, “You’re lucky. If I don’t wax my eyebrows soon, I’m going to get reported to the state.”

And when he muttered, “I’m too far gone for softness.”

You grinned and said, “Cool. I specialize in aggressive affection. Shut up and let me tell you about this eclair I emotionally bonded with.”

It was around then that he slipped. Just a little. Cracked the armor.

“Mama’s angry again.”

You froze.

No jokes. No sass. Just a quiet, “…Do you want to talk about it?”

A beat passed.

“She’s not… like your mother, probably.”

You didn’t push. You let it sit. Let the silence stretch while you made something warm. Simple. Soft. With cinnamon and honey, and the kind of shape that felt safe.

After that, things started leaking out. Not on purpose. But they did. Half-thoughts. Quiet mutters. Emotional shrapnel.

“She made me hide my mouth. Said it scared the others. Said I shouldn’t want things. They think I’m perfect. They don’t look closely.”

You didn’t say much.

Just one thing.

“…You’re actually kind of nice.”

His reaction was immediate and so on brand.

“I’m not. Shut up. No, I’m not.”

“You are. You’re sweet. You’re just… tragically bad at everything that isn’t baking or throwing people into the ocean.”

“I could crush an island.”

“But you can’t take a compliment.”

“I don’t need validation.”

“Great. I’ll give this donut to someone cuter.”

“I—DON’T YOU DARE.”

After that? The awkward doubled.

He tried to be scary. Intimidating. A dark pastry prince of pain. But the second you called his ridiculous mochi throne idea “cute,” he mentally malfunctioned.

“What do you mean ‘it’s cute’?! It’s a battle seat. It’s imposing.”

“It’s pink.”

“It’s ferocious.”

“It has a ribbon on it.”

“I earned that ribbon.”

You teased. He growled. You kept doing it.

He kept you grounded. Kept your hands from burning. Kept you focused when your thoughts spun too fast.

And you? You kept him human.

Even if he still refused to describe his stupid scarf.

You kept talking because it worked. Because under the scary mochi warlord act was a guy who didn’t know how to deal with kindness unless it came glazed and filled with custard.

You still didn’t know his name. Or where he was. Or what he looked like.

But you knew him.

You knew the mess in his head. The way he used sugar like armor. The way he acted like people would run if they ever saw his mouth.

You weren’t planning on running.

But you also weren’t about to hand him your secrets. Not yet. First, he had to learn to take a compliment without threatening cutlery. First, he had to admit he liked hearing from you every day.

Maybe someday you’d meet him. Walk right up. Look him dead in the eye. Hand him a donut.

“Hi. I’m your soulmate. You’re emotionally constipated, and your family sounds like a full-blown nightmare, but your crème brûlée is magic. Wanna bake something together?”

And if he said yes?

You’d already have the flour.

Elsewhere: 

Big Mom bursts into his chamber with a crown made of candied teeth and a priest homie with a glittering cookbook Bible.

“YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED OR I’M EATING A COUNTRY.”

Katakuri sighs.

He turns to Brûlée.

“Prep the kitchen. I need to bake a cake.”

Age 16: 

By sixteen, you were basically a pro at ignoring red flags mostly because yours had been waving since you were eight; loud, proud, and yelling stuff about pastry ratios and death threats while flinging mochi like party confetti.

You were sixteen. He was… not. You’d figured out forever ago that he wasn’t some angsty teen soulmate. His thoughts were too sharp. Too heavy. Too “I’ve lived through five wars and perfected three chocolate glazes doing it.”

By now, you don’t think of him as your soulmate anymore. He was your “emotionally repressed, pastry-themed disaster man” who lived in your head rent-free and needed to be bullied back into emotional balance like, weekly.

Baking had become muscle memory. You worked part-time at a bakery. You could feel when dough was proofed just by breathing near it. You measured time in batches, seasons in specials, and love in how many burnt loaves your boss let you take home without judgment.

Your hands knew butter weight. Your brain knew the difference between "slightly overmixed" and "go cry in a walk-in freezer." You’d learned three ways to keep caramel from crystallizing and four people who’d throw a chair if you got it wrong.

The voice in your head had changed, too. Your soulmate, once, a terrifying baking demon was a grumpy long-distance coworker you’d never met but fully argued with daily.

Your family sort of knew. You kept it light. “Just some soulmate chatter. He hates bananas and emotionally spirals over sugar.”

 You’d freeze mid-swirl while frosting something, eyes narrowing.

“Let me guess,” your auntie would sigh. “He’s screaming about fondant again?”

“It’s not a food. It’s ‘an architectural compromise.’”

You learned a few things about him. Not because he told you (he never did) but because his patterns started showing.

He had siblings. Too many. Some he liked. Some he wanted to hurl into the ocean. One sister—Brûlée—he talked about with actual softness. 

“She made something for me. It was terrible. I ate all of it.”

You smiled so hard it physically hurt.

He mentioned Mama like she was a natural disaster. Not described. Just felt. Loud in his silences.

Whenever she came up, his thoughts got weirdly quiet and spotless. Like he was mentally mopping the floor before anyone saw the mess.

At sixteen, you still had no idea where this was headed. You didn’t know who he really was, just the version of him that showed up for you. The one who scolded your sponge technique like a war crime and accidentally gave the best compliments.

“I think you’re a good person.” 

“…I’m not.”

 “Okay. But I think you are anyway.”

“I—" he stopped. “You don’t need my name.”

You didn’t ask again. But you remembered that pause. He was still emotionally constipated. Still obsessed with mochi. Still alarmingly flustered by basic praise.

“You did well on that last sponge. Fluffy. Even.”

 “Did you just… praise me?”

“…I said it was fine. Don’t be gross.”

 “You care.”

 “I will throw you into hot fondant.”

He never talked about himself directly. But the way he spoke about his siblings, the fury in his voice when they didn’t listen, the shame laced into every “I fixed it”... yeah. You knew.

“I told them not to follow. They followed anyway. I had to clean it up. Again.”

You figured his family was rough. Strict. Complicated. Heavy. Like trying to frost a cake that kept bleeding through. What you didn’t know was that he was important. You just thought he was grumpy, intense, and had a weirdly poetic soul when he forgot to be defensive.

“She smiled at me today. Said she was proud. I didn’t know what to say.”

You told him stuff, too. About your job. School. Stress. The lemon tart you swore should’ve won first place.

“I should’ve flambéed the judges. Cowards.”

 “…Now that’s my jellybean.”

You tried to get him to open up. Just a little. Never pushed.

 “Do you bake for fun? Or is it, like… your job?”

 “I bake to stay sane.”

 “So yes?”

 “…It’s complicated.”

You liked sharing thoughts. Mostly about baking. Sometimes rage. Mostly desserts.

“Your piping is improving.”

 “Thanks, mystery man. Yours is still emotionally repressed.”

 “You’re letting too much air into that sponge.”

 “You’re letting too much guilt into your soul.”

 “If you use imitation vanilla again—”

 “You weren’t supposed to feel that. I was in a rush.”

You were connected. Through sugar. Through sarcasm. Through all the things you didn’t say but still understood.

He didn’t know how to be vulnerable. You didn’t know how to let go. So you kept talking. Kept baking. Kept holding space for the conversation that hadn’t happened yet.

Then came this:

“I don’t belong anywhere.” 

“Bullshit. You belong in a bakery. Possibly therapy. But definitely a bakery.”

He didn’t answer. But the bond warmed like a preheated oven.

You went back to kneading dough, thinking maybe he was out there: older, famous, probably a mess. And somehow, that didn’t freak you out anymore.

You had a rhythm now. Work. Classes. Laminated dough as meditation. And always him. Constant. Sharp. Steady.

He still wouldn’t tell you his name. You didn’t care. Not really.

Lately, he’d been opening up more. Carefully. Like he was learning how not to flinch.

Which is how you got this:

“Mama wants me to marry.”

You blinked, mid-whisk.

 “…Cool. What century are you from?”

 “It’s not optional.”

The silence dragged.

“She says it’ll strengthen the family. Cement things. She said it’s time.”

“Time for you to be miserable?”

“Time to stop playing with sugar and start acting like a son.”

You sat on the counter, staring at your bowl.

“What did you say?”

“I told her I’d think about it. Then I punched a mountain. Then I made donuts.”

“Healthy coping. Love that for you.”

“I don’t want her choosing.”

“Do you want to choose?”

“I don’t want anyone.”

A pause.

“…Except—”

“Never mind.”

You didn’t push. But your chest felt weird. That never mind stuck like powdered sugar in a paper cut. He never said things like that. Now he sounded scared.

You sat there, heart skipping, and whispered, “You deserve to want something. Just for you.”

The next day, he told you he was stalling. He’d made conditions. She was watching.

“I said I wouldn’t marry anyone who didn’t meet my standards. She thinks I’m being difficult. I am being difficult.”

“Good. Be a nightmare.”

“It won’t last. She’ll force it soon.”

“I could marry you,” you said before your brain caught up. “Y’know. Just to spite her.”

Silence. The kind that isn’t empty. Just heavy.

“That’s not funny. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

 “…I was kidding.”

 “Don’t joke about things you don’t understand.”

You felt your face burn. “Okay. Sorry.”

“…I didn’t mean to snap. But it’s not a joke to me.”

He didn’t talk to you for three days.

You said you didn’t care. You definitely didn’t make angry donuts.

Then, just when you were ready to scream into your stand mixer:

“I told her I wanted someone who understood sweetness. Someone who doesn’t flinch when I’m quiet. Someone who doesn’t try to fix me. She asked if that person existed. I didn’t answer.”

Your heart stuttered.

But all you said was, “Sounds like a solid fantasy.” And kept stirring.

He didn’t respond. But he stayed.

Quiet. Constant. Listening.

You didn’t know he was powerful enough that he would burn the world before letting anyone take you.

You were sixteen. Still dreaming, still growing, still calling him your imaginary therapist, still whispering dumb little things that hit him like boiling sugar.

“I’d bake with you. Even if you married someone else.”

And somewhere far away, hand clenched over his heart, Katakuri Charlotte closed his eyes and whispered, “I wouldn’t.”

Age 17:

By seventeen, your life was chaotic in the usual way.

There was flour on your jeans. Burnt sugar on your forearms. Late shifts at the family bakery. Trade school brochures stuffed into drawers you never opened. You weren’t saving the world. You were just trying not to overbake the morning buns and ruin your reputation with the regulars.

And then there was him. The baking-obsessed, emotionally stunted, occasionally terrifying presence who had been part of your life since you were nine.

Still no name. Still no face. Still refusing to give you anything useful. No hometown. No clue what he looked like. Just his thoughts, always sharp and waiting.

But after nearly a decade of late-night sugar debates and weird emotional drive-bys, you had stopped questioning it.

You made him laugh sometimes. 

To you, he was just your bondmate. Your emotional support demon. The judgmental ghost with an unhealthy relationship to caramelization. To him, you were a problem. Not because you were a mess. But because you weren’t. You were bright. You were blunt. You were relentless. And he didn’t know how to stop needing to hear your voice every day.

He tried to distance himself once. He almost asked Brûlée to open her mirrors—just once. Just to look. Just to confirm. Then immediately stopped himself. 

Privacy mattered. Boundaries mattered. He wouldn’t want you doing the same. Even the thought made him grit his teeth and mutter something about restraint and respect like he was giving a lecture to the wall.

Instead, he listened harder.

“You sound grumpy.”

“I am grumpy.”

“Want to hear about how my brother set fire to the proofing drawer again?”

“…Yes.”

He tried to stay quiet.

You didn’t notice at first. You just assumed he was busy. Maybe distracted. Maybe letting you have space.

But when the silence stretched into days, your chest began to ache.

So you whispered into the bond.

“Hey. I made mochi by hand for the first time. It was ugly. You would’ve hated it.”

Nothing.

You waited.

Didn’t push.

Two days passed.

Then—

“…Did you really make mochi?”

“Ugly mochi.”

“…You remembered the dusting starch?”

“You trained me too well, old man.”

“I’m not that old.”

“You’re a cranky voice in my head who only talks about food and violence. You’re basically a ghost grandpa with anger issues.”

There was a pause.

Then, softly, “…I missed you.”

You went still.

He never said things like that.

But all you did was smile and answer,

“Yeah. Me too.”

By now, your baking was starting to shine.

You had mastered meringue. You could temper chocolate without crying. You understood crumb structure as if it were a personality trait.

And every time you tried something new, he was there.

Commenting. Correcting. Occasionally threatening the void.

“If you overbake that tart, I swear on all that is holy—”

“Don’t eyeball the gelatin, you reckless fool.”

“Proper viennoiserie is a language. And you’re whispering in cursive.”

You would sigh and mutter, “You sound like a high-strung pastry professor with a vendetta.”

He was still cagey.

Still didn’t say much about himself. Still avoided anything too revealing.

But you had a brain, even if it was a slightly melted, secondhand one.

You saw the shape of things.

He had a big family. Too many siblings. Some he liked. Some he didn’t. He described them vaguely; too loud, mostly edible in a fight, if you struck first.. He adored Brûlée, though.

He was hiding something. That much was clear. And his mother? She was something else entirely.

He never said anything directly. But when she was angry, he went completely silent. Not cold. Not withdrawn. Silent.

One time, you caught a flicker of a thought.

“I smiled wrong. I shouldn’t have smiled at all.”

It made your stomach twist.

You didn’t know the whole story. But you knew what it felt like to shrink for someone else’s comfort.

“Want to hear about the lemon curd I exploded this morning?” you offered gently.

“…Please.”

He was easy to fluster when you praised him.

You started doing it on purpose.

“That tart crust tip was brilliant.”

“…It was average technique.”

“You’re very smart, you know.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I’d let you critique my muffins any day.”

“Stop. I am a warrior. I kill people.”

“You also use edible glitter and cried once when your soufflé deflated.”

“…That was a strategic emotion.”

You were seventeen. Still dreaming. Still messy. Still sure he was just your voice in the dark. An echo. A tether.

You still didn’t know his name. You didn’t know he was Charlotte Katakuri. You didn’t know he would go to war to keep you safe.

But you knew him.

That was the worst part.

You knew how he hated fondant. You knew how he loved quiet praise. You knew the way his thoughts curled inward when he felt small.

“They expect me to be perfect. I am not.”

“Nobody is.”

“I am not allowed to fail.”

“Then they’re wrong.”

You called him your imaginary therapist.

Joked about what your soulmate would be like if you ever met him.

“Strong, maybe. Big. Quiet. Smart, but not arrogant.”

“So not me.”

“Shut up, Sugar Goblin.”

“…Okay.”

You thought you were improving, crushing your bakery goals, and nailing your cinnamon rolls. And somehow, your flour bin stayed full and your knives stayed sharp, even when you forgot to care for them.

“You’re doing better,” the voice said one night.

“Thanks, Donut Daddy. You too.”

His heart stumbled.

That night, Katakuri stared at his reflection and realized he was in trouble.

You trusted the voice now.

You still called him nicknames. You still joked that he was imaginary. But he was yours.

Your constant. Your tether. Your baking ghost.

“What’s the best flour for cinnamon rolls?”

“Not what you’re using.”

“I hate you.”

“Use bread flour.”

“…Thanks.”

He knew too much.

He knew how your hands trembled when you focused, how you hummed when you were afraid, how your voice lit up when something came out right.

And you? You still thought he was just your weird, cranky mental roommate with a sugar obsession and a secret heart.

“What would you do if you had a bakery?”

“Name it something dumb. Like Half-Baked Hearts. Sell ugly pastries that taste good.”

“…Why ugly?”

“So people know they don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”

That was the moment he realized he would never survive this.

Not without saying something.

He began telling you things.

Small things.

Lies, sometimes. Half-truths.

He told you he was tall. That he had a lot of siblings, that he couldn’t say his real name, but once, as a kid, he loved jelly donuts more than anything.

You teased him endlessly.

“Were you a chunky baby?”

“…What?”

“I bet you were. Big cheeks. Sticky hands. Terrifying presence.”

“…You think I had a terrifying presence as a baby?”

“I know it.”

And for the first time, he laughed.

Not a huff. Not a sigh.

A real laugh.

And somewhere inside that sound, something unspoken began to bloom.

You had more than accepted it. 

The voice was never going away.

Somewhere in the world, there was a man. A stranger. A furious, honorable, sugar-obsessed force of nature with more self-loathing than common sense and an oddly formal attitude toward dough temperature.

You couldn’t change the bond. You couldn’t even mute it. But you could adapt.

You learned to distinguish between the mental chaos. The difference between rage-battle-thoughts and the soft, quiet ones that settled like steam on cold glass. You knew when he was training, or angry, or aching. You could feel guilt in him like a bruise—dull, dark, and always just beneath the surface.

Sometimes, you heard things like:

“I’ll stand between them and everything ugly. Even if they hate me for it.”“No one needs to understand. I’ll carry it alone.”“If you knew what I really looked like, you’d never look at me again.”

Those thoughts stayed with you.

They weren’t scary. They were lonely.

And it changed something.

You started wondering what would happen if you reached back. If you met him. If you offered something other than teasing and tart ratios.

If you said, “You don’t have to carry it alone. You don’t scare me. Maybe you deserve a donut that doesn’t come with guilt.”

You weren’t in love. Not yet. But you weren’t indifferent either.

Not after nearly a decade of hearing him fight—not just others, but himself. Not after growing up beside a soul so violently burdened that it made your own heart ache to feel him echoing through your bones.

You still thought he needed therapy. Possibly supervised. Possibly with tranquilizers.

But you also thought, someday, he might need someone who stayed.

Someone who didn’t flinch. Someone who didn’t leave when the silence got heavy or the thoughts got sharp.

And somewhere in your chest, you started thinking of him as yours.

Not in the storybook way. Not in a candlelit, strings-of-fate, grand-destiny sense.

But in the way you think of your favorite mug—the one with the chip that still fits perfectly in your hand. 

In the way you think of your lucky spatula. Or the friend who always says the wrong thing but shows up anyway.

Your Donut Ghost. Your imaginary warlord. Your lonely, overworked, still-learning-how-to-be-soft soulmate who probably didn’t know that you’d already decided.

If he ever asked, you would stay.

You would fold the dough. You would temper the chocolate. You would take his grief and his guilt and feed him donuts anyway.

And when the world turned sharp again, when the silence stretched too far and the weight settled on his shoulders, you’d nudge the bond and whisper,

“Want to bake something together?”

And for him to say yes.

But you, dear sugar-dusted disaster, may have meant well. You were trying. You were getting softer toward him—your Soulmate, your Donut Ghost. Maybe even a little attached.

What you didn’t know was that this wasn’t exactly your average soulmate setup. Because he wasn’t just your soulmate. Not really. Not only.

There was something else. A detail. A footnote you hadn’t found yet.

Let’s rewind.

-X- Soulglitch -X-

Rewind to Whole Cake Island, Nine Years ago:

The banquet hall glittered with sugar and spectacle.

Chandeliers swayed gently above long tables dressed in spun-caramel lace. Homies danced across the cutlery like wind-up toys. The opera in the rafters swelled in perfect pitch, a harmony of strings and syrup-sweet voices. A three-tiered eel cake sobbed quietly into its frosting as a guest carved off a sliver near its left eye.

It was a scene of practiced chaos, the kind of event that could only happen in Totto Land. Grand, overwhelming, and full of life.

At the center of it all sat Charlotte Linlin.

Unbeknownst to most, Big Mom’s Soru Soru no Mi Devil Fruit granted her many terrifying abilities. But there was one specific, deeply inconvenient sixth sense that surpassed them all in its power to disrupt.

Charlotte Linlin could feel souls.

Not in the way others could. Not like a faint impression or the prickling of skin. For her, soul resonance was a physical event. It was a pressure behind her eyes. A vibration in her teeth. It curled down her spine and pooled in her joints, filling her chest with a low, humming pulse that only she could hear.

And when two souls collided? When two threads snapped together across the vast, stitched tapestry of the world?

It rang inside her like a bell.

It began quietly. A flicker. A tremor. Like a shift in the atmosphere before a sugar storm.

She was seated in the banquet hall that day. Celebration music filled the rafters. Homies danced through the air. There was roast on her plate, some guest or dignitary she didn’t bother to name. Her fork hovered halfway to her mouth.

And then it hit her.

Her pupils constricted. Her hand froze.

The air turned thick.

A note had been struck.

Somewhere across the world, two souls had found each other. Imperfect, early, still forming—but real. And not just any pair. One of them was hers.

Linlin’s breath caught.

The vibration behind her teeth intensified until her jaw ached. Her molars buzzed like a thousand bees trapped behind her gums. Her vision blurred. The fork dropped to the table with a dull clatter.

The room kept moving.

Homies twirled past. Guests drank and laughed. Somewhere, the eel cake whimpered under a pool of whipped cream.

But Linlin sat perfectly still, eyes wide.

The hum behind her ribs shifted pitch. Became something sharp and crystalline. It clicked into place inside her like a puzzle piece snapping into a sacred lock.

The bond was real.

And then, for one glorious moment, she felt everything. The thread. The tether. The gentle, naïve spark of something ancient catching flame for the very first time.

Her mouth twitched.

She began to grin.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh… oh, ohhhh. That’s a bond.”

The teacup homie squeaked and bailed off the table. The chandeliers leaned away. Perospero froze mid-lick, frosting-coated tongue trembling.

“Mama?” Mont-d’Or asked, already pulling out the emergency protocol scroll.

Linlin dropped her fork. Her hands started to twitch. Her mouth slowly stretched into a grin so wide it looked painted on.

And then, she laughed.

Not her usual raucous cackle. No. This one was high-pitched. Joyful. Unhinged. It ricocheted off the walls like a sugar rocket. The marble cracked. The wallpaper peeled. Homies screamed and hit the floor.

“Mama’s going mad again!” someone shouted.

Linlin spun in a full circle, arms wide, as her voice echoed through the room.

“It’s real,” she cried. “It’s happening. A soul bond! A pure one! Beautiful! Eternal! I can feel it in my jaw!”

She came to a sudden stop, skirts flaring, eyes wide and glowing like twin peppermint suns.

Homies across the hall shivered. One of the chandeliers groaned and tried to dislodge itself from the ceiling.

Perospero visibly paled. “Oh no. No, no, no—”

Daifuku dropped his goblet. “Not again.”

Smoothie froze mid-sip, knuckles white around her glass.

“What do you mean again?” Compote asked slowly, already backing away from the table.

“Mama,” Mont-d’Or said carefully, adjusting his spectacles, “please clarify. Who exactly formed the soul bond?”

Linlin shrieked with joy. “MY PRECIOUS BOY!”

Zeus circled overhead like a manic balloon.

Napoleon unsheathed himself in celebration.

Several younger siblings screamed and bolted from the room.

“Mama, please,” Mont-d’Or said, his voice thin. “Let’s—let’s wait before we bring out the cake again. We still haven’t recovered from the last bond incident.”

"PREPARE THE CAKE!" Linlin roared.

The ground shook.

"I want singing cupcakes! A mochi sculpture! A whipped cream altar!" She flung her arms wide, eyes wild. Then she grabbed a chair homie, and spun it across the floor like a dance partner. "My Katakuri is getting married!"

At the far end of the banquet hall, Katakuri blinked.

Once. Slowly.

"...?"

His Observation Haki surged before he could stop it.

There it was. A soul bond. Weak, distant, but real. A thread, newly formed. It clung to his awareness like a drop of syrup on a blade. Still stretching and still growing.

His hand froze on the teacup. The porcelain cracked in his grip.

Linlin burst through the banquet doors on Zeus, her dress bunched, frosting on her chin, hurling confetti made of shredded invitation cards. She spun a chair homie over her head like a bridal bouquet and started waltzing again.

"Bring the cake! Fetch the ring! Get Zeus a flower crown! My Katakuri is getting married!"

Katakuri stood so fast his scarf nearly slipped. He turned sharply to Daifuku.

"What just happened?"

Daifuku raised both hands. "Don't look at me. I was halfway through a shrimp skewer."

"I need a name," Katakuri said, voice flat. "Now."

Smoothie passed by, unbothered, sipping a tall glass of wine.

"If you don't want this to turn into a musical, I suggest you fake amnesia."

Daifuku leaned in, whispering, "Please let it be that girl who punched Amande. The one who called you Biscuit Lips. I don't want to die, but I’d make peace with it if she were in charge."

Linlin was now spinning with Napoleon in her arms like a giddy bride.

"She must be perfect," she sighed. "I can feel her already. So sweet. So soft. So innocent. A little lamb for my Katakuri."

Katakuri yanked his scarf higher, covering half his face.

His Haki pulsed again. The tether responded.

She was young. Too young. Still growing into herself, not ready, not even close. A wisp of a presence on the other end of the bond, bright and warm and unguarded.

He could see her in flickers now—brief, broken impressions like reflections in water. Somewhere far off, flour on her cheek, trying to bake something with far too much salt, probably mistaking sugar for happy salt and setting her apron on fire. She had no idea. No sense of what she’d done. No idea who she’d connected to. No idea that Charlotte Linlin was already spinning in circles, wedding plans forming like sugar clouds in her mind.

Katakuri pressed his palm to his face.

“She’s eight,” he muttered. “She doesn’t even know how to cook.”

“She’ll learn,” Linlin replied behind him, delighted. “I always knew you'd find a delicate little thing with no clue what she's doing.”

“I don’t even know what continent she’s on.”

Linlin smiled, slow and gleaming. It wasn’t a sweet smile. It was one made of hunger and possession, of future plans stitched in icing and red ink.

“Then find her,” she said. “Before I do.”

Katakuri didn’t move.

He had faced war. He had faced death. Now he was facing something far worse. An eight-year-old with a whisk. And his mother, in full bridal planning mode.

Weeks passed.

And Katakuri was still rattled.

He didn’t show it, not in front of his siblings, not to the homies, not during meetings with territory captains or sparring matches in the courtyard. But when the moon was high and the compound was quiet, he would climb to the tallest hill of mochi on the estate and sit cross-legged beneath the stars, fists clenched, breathing slow and deep while she hummed in the back of his mind.

Off-key. Cheerful. Burning another tray of cinnamon scones.

At first, he thought the bond would fade. Maybe she’d get bored. Maybe she’d get scared. Maybe she’d stop. But she didn’t. Not once.

She told him everything.

Her dreams. Her fears. Her vendetta against soufflés. Her ongoing war with an electric hand mixer. She talked about school, about her neighbor’s dog, about how brown sugar was a scam. She told him about her life like he wasn’t a Sweet Commander of a criminal empire. Like he was just… someone. Someone who might like sweets.

He didn’t hate it. Not even a little.

Which is why, at twenty-three years old, Katakuri did something no one else in the Charlotte Family had ever dared.

He confronted his mother.

“Mama,” he said, voice steady.

She didn’t turn.

Charlotte Linlin was seated at a wide table of spun sugar and lacquered bone, a long scroll of parchment unrolled in front of her. She was humming cheerfully, brush in hand, painting heart-shaped guillotines into the corners of ornate invitation scrolls. The ink shimmered like blood. The brush glided over the surface in near-musical rhythm.

“Mmm?” she cooed. “Do you want chocolate doves or raspberry firecrackers, my sweet boy?”

“I want you to stop this wedding,” Katakuri said.

The brush stopped mid-stroke.

Linlin did not turn, but her head tilted slightly.

“The girl,” he said. “She’s a child.”

A long pause.

Then, slowly, Linlin turned to face him.

“…So?” Her voice was light, but her gaze was sharp.

“So we’re not doing this,” he said. “Not yet.”

“It’s a soulbond,” she snapped. “You’re fated. She belongs to you. Why wait? I didn’t wait when I was your age—”

“Exactly,” Katakuri said quietly. “Look how that turned out.”

The room held its breath.

Zeus dropped from the ceiling like a stunned balloon. Napoleon unsheathed himself halfway. A framed portrait of Linlin in a wedding veil slid off the wall behind her and hit the ground with a soft, accusing thud.

Linlin’s eyes narrowed.

Then she smiled.

It wasn’t kind.

“You little brat,” she purred. “You think you get a say?”

“Yes,” Katakuri replied. His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t shake. “Because if you try to force this now, you won’t get a bride. You’ll get a child too scared to say no. And a son too angry to say yes.”

That hit.

The grin slipped.

A long silence followed, full of old pressure and ancient pride. Something curled behind Linlin’s eyes—rage, yes, but something else beneath it. Something more dangerous. More familiar.

Recognition.

Because Katakuri didn’t bluff.

“You’d sabotage your own wedding?” she asked, low and calm.

“No,” he said. “I’ll vanish. And so will she. You’ll never find either of us.”

The silence turned to static.

And then the fury came.

It burned behind her pupils, hot and blinding. But under the rage, buried beneath the insult and the audacity, was pride.

A strange, twisted pride that only a mother like Linlin could feel. The kind born not from affection, but from domination. She had built him. Shaped him. She saw her own reflection in his defiance.

She snapped her fingers.

Around the room, wedding homies groaned and collapsed into puddles of unused batter and weeping fondant. A frosting cannon wheezed sadly and deflated in the corner.

“Fine,” she said, lip curling. “She gets until she’s legal. Eighteen. Not a day more.”

Her smile returned. Wide. Radiant. Feverish.

“And when that day comes,” she whispered, “I’m throwing the biggest wedding the New World has ever seen. Screaming fireworks. Singing cakes. A cathedral of sugar glass. The works.”

Katakuri inclined his head. Stiff. Cold.

“Deal.”

He turned and walked out of the room without another word.

The weight didn’t lift from his shoulders.

It only shifted.

This wasn’t over. Not even close.

It wasn’t victory that settled in his chest.

It was a countdown.

That Evening, Your Side of the Bond:

"Hey, Sugar Goblin," you say aloud, grinning as you stir the bowl with the reckless confidence of someone who measured nothing. "Guess what? I didn’t set anything on fire today. That’s progress, right?"

There is a pause.

Then his voice filters in, soft and scratchy. A little hoarse. Like he’s been yelling at someone or possibly fighting an army.

"That’s good."

You blink. That doesn’t sound like sarcasm. That sounds like someone holding their ribs.

"Are you okay? You sound like you fought a whole war."

"...I might have."

"Wow. Okay. Well, if you die, I’ll dedicate my first successful cake to your memory."

Another pause. This one stretches a little longer. You can hear a faint exhale, like someone just slumped against a wall.

"...Thanks."

You tap your spoon against the side of the bowl. "Should I write your name on it in icing?"

"I never told you my name."

"Should I guess?"

"Please don’t."

"Too late. I’m already picturing it in lemon glaze."

He makes a sound. You think it might be a sigh. Or a laugh. Or possibly the quiet despair of a man slowly realizing he’s soulbonded to a kitchen hurricane with no fear of fire hazards or frosting.

You smile. Stirring your bowl with reckless optimism, humming off-key.

Completely unaware that, half a world away, an empire built on sugar, screams, and deeply questionable fashion choices was beginning to take notice. And inching closer. And closer. With frosting cannons, edible warships, and the worst matchmaking instincts the New World has ever seen.

He could’ve found you if he really wanted to. Just one mirror. One name. One question to Brûlée. But finding you would mean someone else might find you too. And if she found you first…

 Katakuri didn’t finish that thought. He just gritted his teeth, tightened his scarf, and told himself to breathe.

You kept baking. They kept planning. And somewhere in the middle, Katakuri quietly panicked into his scarf.

Sorry, just done editing this, so this is what you get.

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