naya

⌗ 📁 longfics archive - def planning on writing more fics w/ chapters!

"Quiet Until You" ( Choi San ) - DISCOUNTINUED

"Velvet Violence" (Song mingi & Choi San) - in progress

⌗ 📁 oneshots archive

★ genre : smut

"Focus" (Jeong Yunho) status: completed summary: studying w/ ur bf turns into something else.. ⤷ read here

"Three Minutes" (Park Seonghwa) status: completed summary: u cant stop staring at the hot lifeguard.. & he notices ⤷ read here

"Off Limits" (Choi San) status: completed summary: ur brothers bsf cant hold back anymore ⤷ part 1 part 2

"Keep Talking" (Choi San) status: completed summary: ur otp w/ ur bf when u hear some weird noises ... ⤷ read here

"Owned" (Jeong Yunho) status: completed summary: ur falling for ur bodyguard but he doesnt make it easy... ⤷ part 1 part 2

You pull back, narrow your eyes, tilt your head all suspicious:

“Wait… when I’m not here… do you, like… get yourself off?”

San freezes mid–back rub.

“…Huh?”

“Answer. The question.” Your eyes squint even harder.

He sighs, looks away, rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Baby, why would you ask me something like—”

“Cause I wanna know!”

He stares at you… then gives up.

“I watch our tapes.”

“Huh?”

“Our sex tapes.”

“San—”

“And I look at your Instagram pictures.”

“San.”

“And sometimes I screenshot your bikini photos before you delete them.”

“San???”

“And sometimes I use the ones where you’re adjusting your top because you always look flustered and—”

“Stop—”

He keeps going, dead serious, like he’s reading a grocery list:

“And that one video where you’re laughing and your boobs bounce a little? Yeah. That one goes crazy. Top-tier.”

“What????”

“And those mirror selfies where your hair is messy. And the ones where you’re not even trying. Those are the worst.” He shifts under you, already getting hard just thinking about it.

You smack his chest.

“You’re SICK.”

He shrugs.

“I’m in love.”

You slap him harder.

“You’re DEPRAVED.”

Another shrug.

“You’re SEXY.”

You bury your face in your hands, dying.

He gently pulls them away, lowering his voice:

“You asked, baby. You really think I jerk off to random women? No. Everything I do, I do to you.”

He leans in, kissing your cheek, jaw, neck.

“And if you want… I can show you exactly how I do it.”

You slide off his lap just a little, sitting between his knees, eyes wide and way too curious for his sanity.

“…Show me, then.”

San blinks once. Twice. His Adam’s apple jumps.

“…Yeah?” he asks, voice already dropping into that low, dangerous tone.

You nod.

He drags a hand down his face like he knows he’s about to ruin you with this demonstration alone.

“Okay,” he mutters, leaning back into the couch, legs spreading a little, “but don’t— don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

You bite your lip.

He sees it. He groans.

Then he slips a hand under the waistband of his sweats, pulls himself out, already half-hard from the conversation alone. His breaths get shaky, on purpose, because he knows you’re watching.

“Normally…” he starts, eyes flicking to yours, “…I start slow. Just— thinking about you walking around the house, tiny little outfit, pretending you’re not teasing me.”

His thumb glides over the tip spreading the precum, — and he sighs, deep, breathy, borderline whimpering.

You swallow so hard he hears it.

“And then,” he continues, pumping slowly, “I think about how you look when you ride me… all loud and needy…”

You shift on your knees.

He definitely notices.

His lashes flutter, and he lets out a soft, broken “mmh—fuck…”

You scoot closer.

He moans again, high, pretty, shameless, because he’s absolutely doing this on purpose now.

“You like watching me, baby?” he breathes out, jaw clenching, hips lifting into his own hand. “Yeah… you do…”

You nod, dazed.

He groans, throwing his head back for a second, biting his lip dramatically, exaggerating it because he knows it gets you.

Then he looks at you through heavy lids.

“You always make me this hard,” he whispers, voice cracking just a little. “Even when you’re not here.”

Your thighs press together.

He smirks, then lets out another deliberate whimper, soft and choked, like he knows it shoots straight into your bloodstream.

“Come here,” he murmurs, hand stroking himself faster. “If you’re gonna watch… watch up close.”

You crawl into his lap.

He pulls your hand to his stomach— so warm, tense, shaking, and keeps moaning softly, messy and pretty, just for you.

He’s doing all of this on purpose.

You lean in so close he can feel your breath on his throat, eyes glued to every movement of his hand, every twitch of his stomach, every shaky inhale he lets slip.

And San loses his mind over it.

“Jesus…” he whispers, voice cracking when he looks down and sees your face—eyes blown wide, lips parted, studying him like he’s something you want to taste. “You’re really watching me like this…?”

You nod slowly. His chest stutters.

He bites his lip so hard a muscle in his jaw jumps.

“That’s— fuck— this is the hottest thing you’ve ever done,” he mutters, voice warm and breathless. He spreads his legs wider, giving you a better view, pumping his hand a little harder… slower… letting you see everything. “You’re looking at me like you wanna eat me alive.”

“San,” you breathe. His eyes darken instantly.

“Oh my god…” he laughs under his breath, ruined already, “you’re obsessed with me.”

Your face heats.

He cups your chin with his free hand, forcing you to hold eye contact while the other keeps stroking, wet and filthy and slow enough to make your stomach twist.

“You like how I do it?” he whispers. You nod. His smile is evil.

“You like seeing what I do when you’re not home?” Another nod.

His grip tightens. His thighs flex under you.

“Y’know what I think about?” he murmurs, leaning closer until your noses almost touch. “You. On your knees. Mouth open. Eyes like that. Waiting for me.”

Your breath catches.

He groans. 

“Keep watching,” he says, voice low and trembly. “Don’t look away. Not once.”

You don’t.

Your eyes track the movement of his hand, the veins on his forearm, the way his stomach tightens every time he pumps upward. He notices. He feels your stare. It makes him moan again—soft, involuntary, almost shy.

You whisper, barely audible:

“…You look so hot.”

He chokes on a breath. His hips jerk.

And his voice drops even lower, wrecked and proud and starving:

“Say that again.”

You whisper it again, slower. “So fucking hot.”

You slide closer—slow, curious, innocent in that way that makes his whole body seize up—and tilt your head.

“Can I help…?”

His hand falters on himself, eyes snapping to yours like you just offered him the cure to every problem he’s ever had.

“…yeah,” he whispers, voice already breaking, “yeah—baby, c’mere.”

Your smaller hand slips under his, replaces his stroke. The second your skin touches him he whimpers—a real one, sharp and desperate, right against your neck.

“Oh—fuck—” His head drops to your shoulder. He’s trembling.

He grabs your wrist gently, guiding your rhythm, but you’re already doing it exactly how he likes—soft at the base, tight at the top, twisting up just a little—

“Baby,” he gasps, breath hitting your collarbone, “you’re—fuck—you’re so good at this—”

His hips buck into your palm. His hand is gripping your thigh, hard enough to bruise.

You look up at him through your lashes and his knees actually shake.

“That’s it,” you whisper, teasing, “you like when I do it?”

He moans. A pretty, broken, breathy sound right into your ear.

“I love—when you—help me—god—fuuuck” He’s collapsing, chest heaving, face flushed, thighs tense beneath you. The wet slick sound of your hand working him faster fills the room and he completely loses the last bit of control he had.

“Y/N—baby—oh my god I’m gonna cum—”

You tighten your grip, stroke him exactly how he likes—

His whole body jerks—

He lets out the most ruined groan you’ve ever heard—

And he finishes right into your hand, warm and messy and so much more than you expected.

He collapses into you, panting into your shoulder, completely melted.

Your sticky hand is still resting on him when he finally breathes again.

“…you’re gonna kill me,” he whispers, voice wrecked, trembling all over. “You’re actually gonna kill me.”

You hold your hand up— dripping.Absolutely covered in him. A warm, glossy mess. Your eyes go wide on purpose.

“…San.”

He looks up from your shoulder, dazed, hair a mess, breaths still shaking.

And you wiggle your fingers.

“Look at this! You're. SO. Desperate.”

His whole face flushes scarlet.

“Baby—” he groans, grabbing your wrist to hide the evidence, “don’t… don’t say it like that…”

But you lean back, smirking like the menace you are.

“You made a huge mess. This is—San, this is ridiculous. You couldn’t even hold it for a second??”

He hides his face in your neck, mortified, whining like a grown man being scolded.

“You can’t tease me after what you just did to me,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin, “I warned you—I told you I was close—you kept going—baby, you know what you were doing—”

“No,” you say, faking innocence, showing your sticky palm again, “you’re nasty. Nasty. Look at this.”

He pulls your wrist down, panicked.

“Stop showing it to me!” His voice cracks. “I know what I did!”

You laugh so hard he swats your thigh lightly, embarrassed, still breathless.

Then he looks up at you—eyes heavy, lips parted, totally ruined—and mutters:

“…clean your hand before you start teasing me again or I swear I’ll make an even bigger mess.”

OH.

You grab a warm towel and clean him up gently, slow little wipes that make him flinch because he’s still sensitive.

You purposely kiss the tip softly just to watch him jolt.

“Y/N—!” You kiss it again..

He slaps a hand over his face. “Stop… you’re gonna kill me…”

You hop off the bed, still glowing, still smug, and go to the mirror. You clean yourself up too—wiping your mouth, fixing your hair—

But then curiosity hits.

You look at your fingers. You look at him in the reflection. You drag your tongue over them.

Slow. Purposeful.

San’s jaw drops.

“…that tastes kinda good. Somebody changed their diet. Good boy.”

His ears turn red.

“Why would you DO that?!”

You shrug in the mirror, wiping your lips.

“I was curious.”

“That’s not— you can’t just— you—” He’s literally malfunctioning.

Then, quieter, almost proud:

“…but yeah, I did start eating more fruit.”

You grin.

“Mm. I noticed.”

He hides under a pillow. Absolutely finished.

Masterlist

“And the audacity! Like she’s really gonna sit there acting like I’m the problem? I should’ve dragged her across the table, Yunho, I swear—”

He’s sitting back on the edge of the dresser, cigarette hanging from his lips, just… watching. His eyes drag slow, lazy, over every inch of you — top to bottom, then back up again — and you catch the way his jaw flexes.

You spin back toward him, throwing your hands up. “Like what did she think was gonna happen?! You know me! You know how I am! She—”

“Fuck, baby.”

The words slip out so low, almost a growl under his breath. You freeze, brows knitting. “What?”

He smirks now, finally flicking his eyes up to yours. His hand drops casually to his crotch, palming himself through his slacks. “What’s that?”

Your head tilts, confused. “What’s what?”

And in two strides, he’s behind you — his hand cracking across your bare ass. The sting is immediate, sharp enough that your knees buckle and you fall forward onto the bed with a yelp.

“Yunho!”

He just laughs — deep, unbothered—as you scramble up, cheeks burning.

You storm over to the mirror, about to yell again, when you see it: a handprint blooming across your skin.

Your jaw drops. “Oh my god.”

He’s already behind you again, his body crowding yours, his hands hot and greedy as they slide up your stomach, over your ribs, cupping your breasts through the lace. His mouth finds your neck, sucking bruises into your skin as he drags your hair over one shoulder.

“Look at you,” he murmurs against your ear, eyes locked on yours in the mirror. “God, you’re so fuckin’ pretty when you’re mad. My little firecracker… always ready to throw hands. Reminds me of that night in high school — when you made that girl eat dirt for talking shit? Yeah, this is exactly the same.”

You let out a breathless laugh, still trying to hold onto your rant, but his grip tightens — his arm sliding up, wrapping around your throat. 

Not choking, just holding you, his bicep thick and hard against your cheek as his free hand roams your body.

“You don’t even know,” he whispers, kissing along your jaw, “how fucking hot it is — watching you tear into them like that. Everybody else scared, but me? I’m just thinkin’ about how bad I wanna bend you over this damn dresser.”

His words mix with his touch, heat pouring off him, and all you can do is meet your own wide-eyed reflection in the mirror — his hand big around your throat, his smirk pressed against your skin, his body all over yours..

“Look,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look at what’s mine.”

His other hand drags down over your stomach, thumb grazing the soft dip of your belly before sliding lower, slipping between your thighs over the thin cotton. You gasp, trying to squirm, but his grip around your throat just steadies you.

“Don’t run from it, baby. Don’t you dare look away.” His voice drops, all gravel and heat. “You see that? That body… the bruises, the handprint, all of it — belongs to me.”

You’re trembling, knees weak, as he kisses down your neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting. His palm cups you firmly, dragging slow circles that have your mouth falling open.

“God,” he groans against your skin, “you should’ve seen yourself tonight. All fire, all claws, tearing that bitch apart… my perfect girl. Nobody knows how bad it turns me on when you lose it like that. Nobody but me.”

You whimper, his words unraveling you as much as his hands. He chuckles, low and cocky, and presses his hips into you so you can feel just how hard he is.

“See what you do to me?” he says, guiding your hand down to feel him. “All it takes is you, standing there, yelling at me in your little bra and panties, and I’m fucking done for.”

You bite your lip, eyes flicking to his in the mirror — and the raw, greedy hunger staring back at you makes your breath catch.

He kisses your shoulder, slow, reverent now, before murmuring against your skin:

“I’m in love with every fucking piece of you. The sweet, the mean, the crazy, the messy… all of it. You’re mine, baby. Always.”

His hand slides higher, palming your breast, squeezing with a roughness that makes you moan. He smirks at your reflection.

“You love this, don’t you? Love when I put you in your place. Love knowing you can scream and fight anyone else, but for me? You melt.”

His free hand drags lower, slipping under your panties, fingers immediately finding your wetness. His groan rumbles in your ear, deep and dark.

“Eyes on me.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “Don’t you dare look away, baby. You’re gonna watch me break you down piece by piece.”

You gasp when two of his fingers slide into you, slow, curling just right. He smirks at your reflection, watching your face twist.

“Look at you,” he taunts. “All tough until I’ve got you spread open on my fingers. My mean little girl, whimpering in front of a mirror. Pathetic, baby… and so goddamn beautiful.”

His pace quickens, the wet sounds increasing as his thumb circles your clit. Your knees threaten to give, but his arm tightens around your throat, keeping you upright.

“Don’t fall,” he growls. “You stand there and take it. You take what I give you, and you thank me for it.”

Your moans grow louder, choked, and he dips his head to bite at your shoulder, marking you up as his hand works faster.

“Say it,” Yunho snarls into your ear. “Say who owns this pussy.”

“You — oh my god—y-you, Yunho—”

“That’s right.” He grins, feral, pulling his fingers out just to smear your slick messily against your inner thigh. “Mine. Every drop. Every bruise. Every sound coming out of your pretty little mouth — it’s all mine.”

He shoves you forward against the mirror, your palms flat against the glass. Your reflection is flushed, ruined, hair falling everywhere. Yunho presses up behind you, grinding into you hard.

“Look at yourself,” he orders, yanking your hair back so your eyes can’t stray. “Look at what I do to you. Look how fucked-out you already are, and I haven’t even given you my cock yet.”

He slaps your ass, right over the fading handprint, and you cry out. His grin widens.

He slides your panties down and kicks them aside, lining himself up, his tip pressing against your entrance. His reflection catches your eyes again, and his smirk sends shivers through you.

“Keep watching, baby. Don’t blink. I want you to see exactly how I make you come apart.”

Then he thrusts in, hard, and your gasp fogs the mirror. His grip never leaves your hair.

“You’re gonna scream my name into this fucking glass ‘til the whole house hears you,” Yunho growls, pounding into you, his words filth and devotion wrapped into one. “Let ‘em all know who you belong to.”

Your moan bounces back at you from the glass as he slams into you again and again, relentless. The mirror fogs with your breath, smears with your desperate hands clawing for something to hold onto.

“Don’t you dare close your eyes,” Yunho snaps, eyes blazing, lips curling with cruel amusement. “Look at yourself. Look at how messy you are. My dirty little whore.”

He fists your hair, jerking your head back so you can’t escape the sight of yourself — your face wet with tears, your mouth dropping open on broken cries.

“God, you’re so pathetic like this,” he groans, hips snapping with sharp, punishing thrusts. “Actin’ like you can fight anyone, but here you are — crying on my cock like it’s too much. Can’t handle me, can you?”

You whimper something incoherent, and his laugh is low, cruel. He pulls out almost all the way, only to slam back in hard enough that your whole body jolts forward against the mirror.

“Say it,” Yunho demands, voice dark. His hand tightens at your throat, just shy of cutting off breath, his lips grazing your ear. “Say you can’t take it. Say you’re mine to ruin.”

“I—I’m yours—mmmf-fuck—yours! Yunho, please—”

“That’s right,” he snarls.

He drags the fingers of his free hand down your stomach, slow, almost tender, until he reaches your clit again. He circles it brutally, the sensation tipping you toward the edge too fast.

Your thighs shake violently, your cries breaking into sobs, but his thrusts only grow rougher, his grip tight around you.

“Look,” he hisses, slamming into you so deep you see stars. He forces your gaze back to your reflection, his hand tightening at your throat. “Look at how fucking wrecked you are. Look at the tears, the drool, the marks I left on you. That’s mine. All of it.”

You try to shut your eyes against the overwhelming pleasure, but his growl is sharp and punishing.

“Don’t you fucking look away. Watch yourself cum for me. Watch how disgusting you look falling apart on my cock.”

His fingers rub faster, and your body snaps, a sobbing scream ripping out of you as your orgasm crashes through, hard and violent. Your reflection trembles, ruined, every part of you unraveling under his hold.

Yunho doesn’t slow. His laugh is breathless, dark, satisfied.

“Good girl. Scream for me. Let everyone hear it. Let them know exactly who owns you.”

He fucks you through it mercilessly, holding you up when your knees collapse, tears streaming down your cheeks. His mouth grazes your jaw, voice low and cruel in your ear:

“Pathetic little mess. Crying in front of a mirror while I break you. God, I fucking love you like this.”

His cock’s twitching inside your overstimulated body, his palm flat on your stomach, pressing you into the mirror.

“Don’t even think about running from me,” he snarls when your legs buckle. His reflection grins down at your ruined state, merciless. “We’re not done. Not even close.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. And you will,” he cuts in, voice sharp as his thrusts start again, deep, deliberate, devastating. He pins your wrists to the mirror above your head when you try to push him away. “Don’t fight me. You wanted this. Now take it.”

The glass rattles with every slam of his hips, and you sob, trying to twist, trying to crawl away from the overwhelming friction. His grip on your throat and wrists keeps you in place, trapped.

“Look at you,” he growls, teeth sinking into your jaw sucking a bruise there while his reflection smirks at your breakdown. “Trying to run from my cock like you don’t fucking crave it. Like your pussy isn’t sucking me in every time I try to pull out.”

You cry out, shaking your head, tears streaming, body fighting between pleasure and desperation. “It’s too much, Y-Yunho, please—”

He laughs, dark and cruel, his hips never faltering. “Too much? Baby, we’re just getting started.”

He drags one hand down from your throat to your clit again, rubbing mercilessly while pounding into you. Your scream shatters against the mirror.

“Stop—, I can’t—” you wail, trying to push his hand away, your nails scratching at his wrist.

“Yes, you fucking can,” he growls, voice dropping into a filthy snarl. “You’re going to watch yourself cum again. And again. Until this mirror knows every fucking sound you make.”

You thrash, trying to twist away, but he cages you in tighter, his chest to your back, his arm locking around your waist like steel. He buries himself deep, hitting that spot over and over until your legs give out completely.

“Don’t fight me,” Yunho pants, almost manic now, his own composure fraying. His eyes meet yours in the reflection — wild, hungry, dangerous. “I said fucking look at yourself.”

His thrusts grow harder, rougher, his free hand shoving your jaw forward so you can’t look anywhere but at the reflection of your wrecked, crying face.

“See that?” he grits out, his own voice breaking with pleasure. “That’s mine. That’s my slut, my good fucking girl, falling apart when she swore she couldn’t take more.”

Your body betrays you, convulsing, another violent orgasm ripping through you, even as you sob and claw at him, begging weakly for it to stop.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it, cry for me,” he groans, his thrusts losing rhythm, hips grinding desperately into you now. “God, I can feel you milking me — gonna come so deep in this pussy, fill you ‘til you can’t walk.”

Your reflection is wrecked—tears, drool, bruises, handprints — Yunho’s mark on every inch of you. And when you finally sag forward, unable to hold yourself up anymore, he still doesn’t let go, his body crushing you into the mirror as his thrusts grow frantic.

“Take it,” he snarls, his own voice cracking into a moan. “Yeah, fucking take me.”

And then he breaks — burying himself deep and holding you there as he spills inside, groaning against your neck, still holding your tear-streaked face against the glass so you watch the way he finishes inside you, the way he leaves you destroyed, ruined, his.

For a long, long moment, the only sound is your uneven crying and his heartbeat pounding against your back. You try to slide down, legs trembling like jelly, but his hands catch you before you can move an inch.

“Shhh,” he murmurs now, his voice ragged but softer. His lips find your temple, your wet cheeks, kissing the tears as his hand gently cups your face and presses it back to the glass. “Don’t look away from her. Look at my pretty girl. Look at how good she took me.”

You sniffle, a watery laugh breaking through as he noses along your jaw. “You’re insane.”

“And you love it,” he hums, dragging his thumb across your ruined lips, smearing spit and tears all over them. “Cried so pretty for me. Cried so fucking sweet. God, I’m — fuck — I’m never letting you go.”

You giggle through the tears, half-broken, half-blissed out, and he kisses you — messy, tender, still too much. Every time you try to turn your face away, he’s chasing your mouth again, kissing, praising, growling little soft filthy words like my angel, my slut, my everything.

He scoops you up and hauls you to the bathroom.

The shower hisses on. Steam fogs up the room. And there’s Yunho, peeling your sticky body against his, washing you down with careful, grounding touches… until you, wicked little thing, glance down and deliberately run your nails across his balls.

His whole body jerks. That slow, dangerous look cuts down at you through the steam. “Oh, you’re brave today, huh?”

You grin up at him, eyes still watery but playful now, and trace your finger up the underside of his cock. Right to the tip. Just a little tickle.

“Y/N.” His voice is a warning growl.

You do it again.

And that’s when he bites your shoulder. Hard enough to make you squeal.

“Yunho!” you yelp, smacking his chest, but he’s laughing now, shaking his head, muttering, “Fucking menace.”

By the time the water runs cold, you’re both clean, skin bitten and marked, and when you get dressed again, your body’s still buzzing, and you feel .. loved.

—

Your entire body freezes.

You yank your hand out like you’ve been electrocuted, fumbling to lock your phone screen, but it’s too late. Lila’s standing there in the doorway, bag half off her shoulder, staring.

There’s a pause. An unbearable pause.

Her eyebrows lift. “Were you—” 

You nearly throw your phone across the room in panic. “I—NO—I wasn’t—I was just—”

“Oh my god,” she wheezes. “We’ve known each other, what, a week? And I walk in on you literally —” she makes a crude little gesture with her hand, grinning, “— flicking the bean??!”

Your face is on fire. “Shut up! I wasn’t—”

“Bitch, it’s, like, three in the afternoon! Couldn’t even wait for nighttime?”

You groan, burying your face in the pillow. “Please stop talking.”

She flops onto her bed, watching you like it’s prime entertainment. “What was it, huh? Porn? Ooooh, was it like the weird kinky kind?”

Your face burns hotter. “No!”

“Then what?” she teases, leaning over. “Don’t tell me it was, like, some Wattpad shit. Did I just walk in on you fingerbanging yourself to a fic?”

You throw the blanket over your whole body. “Oh my god, I hate you.”

She cackles. “You don’t hate me, you’re just horny!”

“STOP.” Your voice is muffled into the blanket, which only makes her laugh harder.

Lila howls. “This is amazing. You’ve officially set a record for Most Embarrassing Roommate Moment.”

There’s no escape. Your pulse is hammering, the phone is still lying there, and she’s staring at you like a cat with a cornered mouse.

You sit up, clutching the blanket to your chest. “Okay, fine. It wasn’t porn. It wasn’t a fanfic. It was… someone...”

She freezes. Then her grin grows wicked. “Ohhh my god. You’re this down bad for somebody?? Who?!”

You chew your lip, shaking your head. “I’m not telling you.”

“Bitch, you have to tell me!” She’s practically bouncing. “I’m your roommate, it’s the law. Who is it? Some actor? Some influencer? Please don’t tell me it’s, like, a TikTok DJ or something.”

Your stomach twists. You can’t lie forever. “It’s… someone we both know.”

Her jaw drops. “Shut the fuck up.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, blurting it out before you can lose your nerve. “It was San, okay?!”

The silence lasts half a beat — before Lila absolutely screams.

“CHOI SAN?!” she chokes out between wheezes. “Oh my god, you were rubbing one out to the campus menace?!”

You yank the blanket over your head. She’s still laughing, tears in her eyes. “No wonder you looked like you saw a ghost when I walked in — you were literally about to cum to a fucking picture of him!”

“Shut up!” you groan, muffled under the blanket.

“Girl,” she gasps, clutching her stomach, “you do not want to associate yourself with him. Like, yes, he’s hot — painfully hot — but he’s also a walking red flag. He smells like cigarettes and bad decisions.”

You peek your head out, cheeks blazing. “I don’t want to date him! I just…” Your voice drops to a pathetic little whisper. “…wanna know how big his dick is.”

Lila stares at you — then shrieks even louder, falling back onto her bed, kicking her legs. “I cannot with you right now! You’re down astronomically bad. Like, it’s terminal.”

You cover your face, groaning. “I hate you.”

She sits up, smirk wicked. “Nah, you hate yourself. I just caught you in the act.”

The silence after your embarrassing confession stretches long enough for you to want the earth to swallow you whole. You pick at the blanket, refusing to look at her, and she finally clears her throat.

“Uh…” Lila leans back against her desk chair, suddenly very interested in the ceiling. “Sooo, like.. I know its only been a couple of days but I’ve been thinking about… like… upgrading our dorm? Y’know, getting one of those suites with a mini kitchen and, like, actual bedrooms? Kinda like an apartment setup?”

Your head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “You’re only bringing this up now because you caught me—”

She throws her hands up. “Not because you were masturbating, Jesus Christ. I just—when Jaehyun comes over, I don’t want it to be, like… uncomfortable for you. Y’know?”

“Speaking of,” she adds, cautious now, “how do you… know him?”

You keep your tone clipped, simple. “He’s… basically a distant cousin. Haven’t talked to him since my parents died.”

Her mouth forms a little “oh.” She nods, quiet.

You blink. “Yeah… I haven’t seen him since —” you swallow, throat tightening, “— since the funeral.”

The room goes quiet again, heavier this time. Lila’s smirk fades, her voice dropping. “Oh. Shit. I’m… I’m so sorry.”

You force a smile, eager to dodge the weight settling between you. “It’s fine. Really. Anyway — where the hell am I gonna find the money for a dorm upgrade?”

She leans forward, instantly latching onto the change of subject. “Don’t even worry about it. I’ll cover everything. We can literally do it today — just go downstairs and talk to the housing office. You know, the desk people or whatever they’re called. It’s easy.”

You clear your throat, stand, and mumble, “Yeah. Um.. I’m… gonna wash my hands.”

She snorts. “Yeah, maybe do that.”

You flip her off on your way to the bathroom, wash your hands, splash water on your face until the heat in your cheeks cools, and when you come back, you yank your hoodie over your head like armor.

“Let’s go.”

Lila grabs her keys, still giggling under her breath, and the two of you step into the elevator.

The doors close, and you exhale slow, steady, ready to face the poor housing staff who definitely aren’t ready for whatever chaos you’re about to unleash.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

The housing office smells like burnt coffee and printer toner. Behind the desk sits a middle-aged woman with glasses sliding down her nose, typing like her keyboard personally offended her.

Lila clears her throat. “Hi! So… we want to, like, upgrade our dorm?”

The woman doesn’t look up. “Upgrade how?”

You and Lila glance at each other. She elbows you, so you blurt, “Like… the apartment-style ones? With the kitchen and the two bedrooms?”

Now she looks up, unimpressed. “You girls know that’s an extra fee, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lila’s smile is blinding. “I’ll cover it.”

Her eyes flick to you, then back to Lila. “And both roommates have to agree.”

You nod quickly. “We agree. Totally.”

There’s an awkward pause. The woman squints at you over her glasses. “You sure you two can handle keeping a kitchen clean?”

Lila leans in with a grin. “We’ll handle it better than half the frat boys in this building, I promise.”

The woman actually snorts. She types a few more things, then says, “Okay. A space will be available this weekend. You’ll get keys Friday after classes. Don’t trash it.”

You and Lila freeze for a beat — then both squeal at the same time, smacking each other’s arms like you just won the lottery.

“Thank youuuu,” Lila gushes, dragging you out before you can embarrass yourself further.

The second the door shuts behind you, you both burst into laughter, mimicking the woman’s monotone voice. “‘Don’t trash it,’” Lila says in her best deadpan, and you nearly double over.

But then — you see him.

San.

He’s striding down the hall toward you like he owns the whole damn building, phone in hand, leather jacket slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t even glance at you — just brushes past close enough that the air shifts, his cologne curling in your nose. Clean smoke and spice.

Your knees almost buckle.

But it’s the ink that stops you.

The detail, the movement — it’s art, carved into skin. You feel it in your fingertips, this weird ache to trace every shape, learn every line.

Lila shoots you a look. The one that says don’t you dare.

You wait until he’s gone before whispering, “He is so...”

Her jaw drops. “Girl. No. Absolutely not.”

You bite your lip. “But—”

“No buts!” She throws her hands up. “He’s gonna break your heart. Him and his girlfriend? Please. They won’t last long. I’m telling you.”

You frown. “But they seem happy.”

She shakes her head, pitying. “They always seem happy. But you never know what’s going on behind closed doors. They’ve cheating on eachother the entire summer. They’ve been on-and-off forever. Honestly? They’re more like fuck buddies than anything else.”

Your stomach twists. The words land heavy. Still… that scent lingers, his jawline—

“I still can't believe you just got here and you’ve already got a crush on literally the worst person in this entire place!”

You groan, covering your face with your hoodie sleeve.

She smirks, nudging you with her elbow. “And not just a crush — you were, like, rubbing one out to him earlier—”

Your whole body seizes. “Shut up!” You slap her arm hard enough that she yelps, laughing harder. “Why would you even bring that up again?!”

“Because it’s hilarious!” She wheezes, stumbling into you.

You groan again, burying your face in your hands. Genuinely the most embarrassing moment of your life. “Stop. Please”

But then she softens a little, bumping her shoulder into yours. “Hey. Who am I to judge? I rub one off to Jaehyun.”

You scoff. “Don’t start.”

“All the time.” She doesn’t even hesitate, grinning. “Bro, he’s hot. Your cousin’s hot.”

Your jaw drops. “Okay — no. Do not talk about my cousin like that.”

She throws her hands up, giggling. “Sorry, sorry.”

Silence hangs for a beat as you both walk, the laughter ebbing into something softer. Then curiosity gets the better of you. “How long have you guys been dating, anyway?”

She chews her lip, thinking. “Couple months now.” Her smile turns a little dreamy. “It’s… a decent amount of time. He’s sweet. I think we really like each other.”

Something tugs in your chest. “Huh.”

She glances at you. “Why don’t you guys talk anymore?”

Your throat tightens, but you force the words out. “After my parents died… I just… I barely talked to any of my family. It’s just trauma, I guess.”

Her smile falters. “Hey.” She nudges your arm gently. “I get that. But you should really talk to him. Him and his mom — they’re pretty concerned. They wanna know how you’re doing.”

Your chest warms, bittersweet. You manage a small smile. “Yeah… I’ll talk to them soon.”

“Good.” She grins again, reaching over to sling an arm around your shoulders. “That’s progress. See? Look at us. Upgrading dorms, fixing family ties. Total glow-up.”

You laugh, leaning into her. “Shut up.”

She shrugs, looping her arm through yours again as you both start walking toward the elevators. Her voice bubbles back to its usual warmth. “Anyway, once we move in, I’m calling dibs on the bedroom with the bigger window. I deserve sunlight.”

“Fine,” you murmur automatically, but your thoughts are still miles away. The tattoo. The shape of it. The way your pulse had reacted before your mind even caught up.

You almost don’t realize you’re speaking until the words leave your mouth, quiet and sharp as glass. “Lila,” you start, voice small. “Are you sure about this upgrade thing? I mean… the money and all that—”

She waves a hand. “Totally fine. Don’t worry about it. I got it handled.”

“But it feels unfair,” you murmur. “You’re paying for everything.”

She slows, glancing at you. “You can pitch in later, yeah? Once you find something. There’s tons of jobs on campus. The café, the bookstore, the library front desk. Even the rec center hires students.”

You hum, half-listening, eyes drifting toward the distant art building.

“I don’t know,” you say finally. “I kinda wanna be a tattoo artist.”

She stops walking altogether. “A tattoo artist?”

You nod, a little defensive. “Yeah. I like to draw. Always have. It just… makes sense.”

Lila stares for another beat, then bursts out laughing — not mean, just shocked. “You? You look like you’d be scared of a needle.”

You cross your arms. “I’m serious.”

That makes her pause. She tilts her head, then her expression softens. “Okay, okay. That’s actually kinda cool. There’s a tattoo parlor off-campus — Ink Haven, I think? My friend got her first tat there. You should check it out.”

You tuck the name away in your head like a secret. “Maybe I will.”

“Do it,” she says, bumping your shoulder. “You’d kill it. Just… don’t start tattooing messy hearts on people’s forearms or something.”

You laugh. “No promises.”

The conversation drifts as you both step into the elevator, metal doors sliding shut with a soft hiss. 

Your reflection flickers back at you — calm, normal — but your mind’s still buzzing.

Ink Haven. The tattoos. San’s arm. And somewhere under it all — that tiny, impossible pull that refuses to fade.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

You end up outside Ink Haven three days later.

The place looks nothing like what you pictured — black brick walls, neon red sign buzzing faintly, glass door covered in stickers. From the outside it hums with bass and laughter, like the kind of place that’s alive even at midnight.

You hover on the sidewalk for a full minute before finally pushing the door open.

The smell hits first — antiseptic and ink and faint cigarette smoke. Machines buzz somewhere in the back. A girl with a shaved head and glitter liner looks up from the counter, half a lollipop hanging out of her mouth.

“Appointment?”

“Uh—” You shake your head. “I was hoping to apply? For, like, a trainee or assistant position?”

She arches a brow. “Alexei!” she yells, not looking away from her phone.

A man appears from the back — tall, broad-shouldered, tattooed from his throat to his fingers, but with a kind face that doesn’t quite match the rest of him. His accent is faint, his smile easy.

“You’re the one about the apprentice thing?”

You nod, heart hammering. “Yeah. I, um… I like to draw. I’ve been sketching tattoo stuff for years, and—”

He grins. “Alright, slow down. I’m Alexei.” He sticks out a hand, and you shake it. His palm is rough, but his grip is warm. “Show me your stuff.”

You pull out your sketchbook, flipping through the pages. It’s mostly pen drawings, delicate and clean, some half-finished designs. He hums thoughtfully as he looks.

“These are good. Too pretty for sketches.”

You blink. “That’s… good, right?”

He laughs, clapping your shoulder. “Yeah, kid. Good. Let’s see what you can do.”

The next few hours blur. You watch him set up a station, learn how to wrap grips, fill ink caps, clean the machines. He lets you trace lines on practice skins. Your hands don’t shake once.

By the end of the night, he nods. “You’ve got steady hands. That’s rare.”

You grin, cheeks sore from smiling. “Thank you.”

“Alright,” he says, tossing you a spare apron. “Welcome to Ink Haven.”

—

Two weeks pass in a rush of classes and late-night shifts.

You start to love it — the hum of machines, the weird customers, the smell of coffee and sanitizer mixing in the air. One guy asks for a portrait of his dog on his ass. Another insists on a Bible verse in Comic Sans. It’s chaotic, hilarious, and kind of perfect.

You work after classes, sometimes past midnight, always buzzing with adrenaline. You don’t make much, but Alexei keeps slipping you twenties and saying, “For snacks. Artists need snacks.”

Everything feels like it’s clicking into place — until the doorbell rings one Friday night.

You glance up from your station — and freeze.

They walk in. It looks like they stepped out of another world.

Tall, loud, tattoos and jewelry. Jaehyun’s in the middle, grinning that lazy grin. Yunho beside him. And then San — quiet, unreadable, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded.

“Yo!” Alexei booms, grinning. “The troublemakers return!”

You blink. He knows them?

Jaehyun claps his hand. “Alexei, my man!”

They all pile in, easy and comfortable, like regulars. The room suddenly feels smaller — or maybe you just feel small. Alexei looks shorter next to them, which is insane because he’s huge.

And then Jaehyun spots you.

“Hey,” he says, grin stretching wider. “Y/N?”

Your head snaps up. “Jaehyun?”

He laughs, sauntering over. “Didn’t expect to see you here. You work here?”

You nod, suddenly aware of your apron, your gloves, the ink stains on your fingers. “Yeah. Just started a couple weeks ago.”

He whistles low. “Damn. That’s kinda cool.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway.

They all start talking, scattering across the shop. You lose track of who’s asking for what until Alexei’s voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N — you’re taking San.”

You blink. “What?”

San looks up from his phone, lazy and disinterested. “Where’s Sophia?”

Alexei snorts. “Fired. After what you two pulled in that room last year.”

San’s mouth twitches. “Fair.” He glances at you, gaze sharp, curious. 

“She’s not doing my tattoo, is she?”

Alexei’s tone is light. “Yeah, she is. Y/N, this is San. San, Y/N. She’s got amazing hands.”

San huffs out a quiet laugh — low, smug. He mutters something under his breath, almost too quiet to hear.

You think he says, I bet she does.

Your stomach flips. Maybe you misheard. You hope you misheard.

Alexei hands you the stencil, leaning close to whisper in your ear, “Don’t let him talk shit. He likes to test people.”

You nod, pulse racing. “Got it.”

You turn back to San. “Alright. Let’s get started.”

He pushes off the counter and follows you down the hall to one of the private rooms.

He shrugs off his jacket, then his shirt, so casual you almost choke.

“Oh,” you manage.

He smirks. “What?”

“Nothing. Sorry.” You grab your gloves, turning away fast.

He sits on the padded tattoo chair — the high, adjustable one that looks half like a dentist setup, half like a throne — leaning back like he’s done this a hundred times.

“Where do you want it?” you ask, keeping your voice even.

“Collarbone.” He says it like it’s nothing, like it isn’t about to make your heart explode.

You clean the area carefully, trying not to stare. His skin is warm, firm under the wipe. And up close, that tattoo — the one that hooked you the first day — is even more beautiful. Sharp lines, soft shadows, so intricate it almost looks alive.

“This one’s insane,” you murmur before you can stop yourself. “Who did it?”

He glances down, shrugs. “Some guy in Seoul. You like it?”

“Yeah. It’s — beautiful.”

He hums, noncommittal.

You finish cleaning, press the stencil to his skin, peel it back. It fits perfectly.

From the speaker in the corner, a song starts — 

“Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby by Cigarettes After Sex.” The lazy tempo, soft vocals.

San exhales a quiet laugh. “Of course this is what you play.”

You smile faintly. “It’s calming.”

He lights a cigarette, the end glowing in the low light. “Mhm.”

You prep the needle, the buzz filling the air. “This tattoo’s gonna look amazing,” you say, just to fill the silence.

He takes a drag, exhales smoke through his nose. “I know.”

You don’t respond. Just press your lips together and keep working.

He nods toward the speaker. “Stop playing this depressing shit. Put on some Drake or something.”

You sigh but grab your phone, switching the song.

“Passionfruit” starts — soft, steady beat.

You refocus, needle buzzing, eyes tracing every careful line of the stencil.

San starts humming, then — to your surprise — singing, low and off-key.

“Listennnnn… seein’ you got ritualistic … ”

You snort before you can help it.

He looks up immediately. “You laughing at me?”

“No,” you say quickly, biting your lip.

He huffs, going right back to it — louder this time.

“Passionate from miles away, passive with the things you say—”

You’re trying so hard not to laugh, your hand shaking slightly.

He exhales smoke again, eyes half-lidded. “Fuck, I miss her.”

You say nothing.

You don’t ask who. You don’t want to know.

You just keep working, the buzz of the needle drowning out the ache in your chest, and the faint curl of smoke between you both feels like a secret you’re not supposed to breathe in.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

You’re almost done. Just shading left, a few last careful strokes.

“Don’t move,” you murmur, leaning in close enough to smell the faint smoke and colonge still clinging to his skin.

He hums lowly, glancing down at the piece. “Add something here.” He points to the bottom edge of the design.

You pause. “What?”

“I dunno. A line. A flame. Something.”

You blink. “That’s not really—”

“Just do it.”

You exhale, nodding. “Okay.”

He keeps making little comments while you work — too thick, too light, maybe extend it, maybe not. It’s actually starting to piss you off.

Alexei pokes his head in halfway through, clearly hearing the back-and-forth. “How we doin’, kids?”

San just smirks. “She’s bossy.”

Alexei grins. “Good. Someone’s gotta keep you in line.” He steps closer, eyes skimming over your work. “Damn. That’s fire.”

You hold back a smile, pretending to stay focused.

When you glance up again, San’s watching you. Really watching.

“Don’t we go to the same uni?” he asks suddenly.

You hum. “Mhm.”

“You’re new, right?”

“Mhm.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Huh. You seriously don’t seem like the type.”

You finally look up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He leans back, still smirking. “You look like the kind of girl who sits in the front row. Wears sweaters. Takes notes in pen, not pencil. Not the kind who tattoos drunk frat boys at midnight.”

That makes you laugh, despite yourself. “Maybe I’m versatile.”

He grins wider. “Maybe.”

You get back to work, ignoring the way his gaze lingers on you even as the machine buzzes between you.

Finally — finally — you wipe the last trace of ink away.

“There.” You lean back. “Done.”

He glances down at the mirror, studying it.

You wait for a reaction. Anything.

He shrugs. “It’s mid.”

Your stomach drops. You sigh, trying not to show it. “Whatever.”

He stands, stretching, pulling his shirt back on. “Later.”

And then he’s gone — just like that.

You roll your eyes the second the door shuts. “Mid,” you mutter. “Asshole.”

Still… it stings a little.

You clean up your station, then head to the front to settle the payment.

He’s already there, card out, talking low with Alexei. You reach for the receipt — and freeze when you see the $200 tip.

It’s huge.

“Wait—”

He glances at you, expression unreadable.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He exhales smoke, not looking at you. “Don’t thank me.”

Then he’s gone again, disappearing toward the parking lot where the rest of his friends are spilling out, laughing and loud.

Yunho’s grinning ear to ear, showing off his new tattoo to anyone who’ll look. Jaehyun’s tugging his sleeve down, hiding his.

“Let me see,” you say, leaning closer.

He hesitates, then grins and lifts his sleeve.

It’s an initial – L with a heart around it. Small, but meaningful.

Your heart melts a little. “No way. That’s adorable.”

“Don’t tell her yet,” he says quickly. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”

You press your hands together, trying not to squeal. “Okay, okay. But that’s actually so cute. You two must be serious, huh?”

He shrugs, smile soft. “Yeah. Guess we are.”

You grin. “Good for you.”

There’s a pause — then he scratches the back of his neck. “Hey, um. You wanna come to dinner sometime? With me and my mom? Just us.”

You blink, “Yeah. Sure.”

“I’ll text you.”

“‘Kay.”

You glance past him instinctively — San’s standing near the door, lighter flicking open and closed, eyes trained on you.

The second you meet his gaze, he looks away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

You look down quickly, pretending to fix your apron. Your chest feels weirdly tight.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

The night air outside’s cold enough to bite.

San slides into the backseat beside Jaehyun, lighter still in hand. Yunho’s in the passenger seat, grinning like an idiot at his reflection.

“Who is she to you?” San asks, voice casual, like he’s not really asking.

Jaehyun glances at him. “Who?”

“The girl in there.”

Jaehyun smirks. “Why do you care?”

San flicks the lighter open again. 

Click. Click. “Just curious.”

Yunho twists around in his seat, grin widening. “You got a crush, huh? I saw the way you were looking at her. What, she blow you off or something?”

San rolls his eyes, taking a drag from his cigarette. The smoke curls out the window. “She pretty.”

Jaehyun snorts. “I thought you were still stuck on Sera.”

San smirks faintly. “Nah. I’ve moved on.” He exhales slow. “Found my new target.”

Jaehyun’s smirk fades just enough for something sharper to slip through. “Careful with that one, man. She’s my cousin. Been through a lot. Doesn’t need someone like you screwing with her head.”

San raises a brow, not rising to it. “Someone like me?”

Jaehyun shrugs, smile creeping back. “Player. Heartbreaker. The usual résumé.” He leans back, drumming his fingers against his knee. “So do me a favor — find your fun somewhere else.”

San just hums, turning his gaze toward the window again..

Through the glass, he can still see inside Ink Haven.

You’re at the counter, laughing at something Alexei said, hair glowing under the fluorescent lights. That small, shy smile tugging at your lips.

San taps his cigarette against the door, watching the ash fall.

“Can’t make any promises,” he murmurs.

Jaehyun’s jaw ticks, but San doesn’t look away from the window. He already knows it — you’re going to drive him insane.

----

masterlist chapter 3

White lights. Blinding. A beeping machine. Your arm — bandaged. Your throat — dry. Your chest — aching.

You sit up. The IV tugs at your skin. You don’t care. You rip it out, alarms screaming. “Ma’am! Ma’am, please! Lie back down—!” “Stop! Someone call security!”

But you’re already shoving past them, feet hitting the cold tile hard.

Your phone’s on the tray — you snatch it. You’re barefoot, hospital gown flapping open in the back, hair stuck to your face with sweat. None of it matters.

The hallway blurs. Then the doors. Then the cold slap of night air.

You run.

The streets are unfamiliar — rows of shadowed houses and dim streetlights, everything looking the same. You don’t know which way to turn. You just pick one. 

Left. Then right. Then another left.

Your pulse is in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own gasps. 

Every time you slow, panic claws at you — so you keep moving, weaving between parked cars, cutting across an empty lot.

A neon sign blinks ahead, too bright in the dark. Not a police station—just a diner. You keep going.

It takes a stranger yelling “Hey! — Where are you going?” for you to blurt — “Police station! Where — where is it?”

They point, confused. You’re already sprinting in that direction.

Your chest burns. Your legs feel like rubber. But you don’t stop until you see the glass doors and the badge logo.

You shove them open so hard they slam against the wall.

Every head in the room turns toward you.

Wide eyes. Raised eyebrows. Murmurs.

You’re shaking, adrenaline crashing all at once. The woman at the desk raises a brow. “Can I… help you?”

You think. Who would probably give it to you straight?

“Song Mingi,” you say, voice hoarse.

She stares at you. Then turns and makes a call. A few minutes later—

You’re in a small, gray-walled room. The door opens.

And there he is.

Mingi. Cuffed, still bloody, but calm as ever. He sits down across from you, leans back in the chair, lights a cigarette like this is a damn movie.

You stare at him. He stares back.

Then: “You good?”

Your eyes well up. “No. Are you?”

He shrugs. “Been a while since I’ve been here. Place hasn’t changed.”

Your arm stings. You glance down — you’re still in your damn hospital gown. “You’re not .. scared or anything?”

Mingi exhales slow, smoke curling from his mouth. “Nah. I’ll be out soon.”

“…What do you mean?”

“Demarco’s got it handled.” He says it like it’s obvious. Like of course.

You blink. “But—what about—”

“Shouldn’t you be talking to San right now?”

That gets your attention. He glances sideways.

“He’s probably spiraling. Think he broke the sink in the holding cell.”

You stand up immediately. He just smirks.

“Tell him to stop crying like a little bitch,” Mingi says, not unkindly.

You pause in the doorway, turning back to him. “Mingi —” He raises a brow.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For… for protecting me.”

His smirk softens into something else — something almost warm. “Anytime, angel.”

You push out of the room and ask the nearest officer —

“I need to see Choi San, please. Right now.”

And this time, there’s no hesitation. They walk you to him.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The room is cold. The kind of cold that wraps around your bare arms and makes you remember the blood, the closet..

But then —

He’s there.

Behind the glass, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees like he’s been waiting for you since the second they dragged him in. His eyes snap up the moment you walk in. And everything softens.

“Baby,” he says under his breath. He stands up immediately, the chain between his wrists clinking. “You’re okay? You’re here?” He’s already moving toward you like he might break through the glass. You meet him at the partition.

You’re not okay. You haven’t been okay since he left you in that closet. But when his hands meet the bulletproof glass, your palms press back against his like a reflex.

“I thought you were dead,” you whisper, voice trembling.

He lets out a shaky laugh and presses his forehead to the glass. “Not yet. Not ‘til I’m a hundred. You’re stuck with me for a while.”

“Open the door, uncuff me.” he snaps over his shoulder. “Let me hold her.” The officer sighs but moves like this is routine.

A few seconds later, he’s in front of you. He pulls you into his chest. Hard. Tight. He groans when he finally has you, like his whole body’s been aching for this moment.

You bury your face in his shoulder, fingers curling in his shirt. He smells like blood and sweat and cheap soap. But he’s here.

And he kisses your head, your temple, the corner of your mouth, your neck — like he’s making sure every inch of you is real.

“…You look crazy as hell,” he murmurs into your hair. “Fuck are you even wearing?”

You snort weakly, still shaking. “Just got out of the hospital.”

“I can tell. You look like a damn ghost.” But his hands never stop touching you. His arms don’t let go. “I missed you,” he breathes, voice tight. “Jesus, I missed you.”

You pull back, look at him. His cheekbones bruised. His knuckles are bruised. But he’s still the man you’d run to. Always.

“Will you be here for a while?” you ask quietly.

He shakes his head. “No. I’ll be out soon.”

You blink. “That’s what Mingi said.”

San just shrugs, pulling you in again. You lean up on your tiptoes and whisper in his ear: “Why is nobody doing anything? That cop out there… he didn’t even care. None of them do.”

You feel him smile faintly against your jaw.

“ 'Cause,” he mutters. “We don’t live in the same world as the rest of ‘em.”

“What do you mean?”

“Demarco’s already making calls. The officers here either know him, owe him, or fear him. The ones that don’t? They don’t ask questions anymore. Not when we’re involved.”

You swallow, dizzy. “So this is really gonna go away?”

“I promise.” He cups your face, kisses you — soft this time. “I’d burn this whole city down if it meant keeping you safe.”

You stare at him. He brushes his thumb under your eye.

“You trust me?”

You nod.

“You love me?”

“I ran out the hospital for you,” you whisper.

He smiles.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pulling you back into his chest. “You’re definitely my girl.”

"What do I do about the hospital.. thing?" Your voice is thin. Raw. Like it’s still hiding in the back of your throat.

He exhales slowly, forehead against yours.

“They took your name?” he asks.

You nod.

“They got your blood?”

You nod again. “And my clothes. They — they cut them off. I didn’t even realize until I got up to run.”

He presses a kiss to your temple, and for a second he just holds you there. Still. Like he’s thinking.

And then — he pulls back. Just enough to look you in the eye.

“Okay. Listen to me,” he says, low and serious. “You’re gonna leave. Go to the hotel on Monroe. The one we used after that one party — remember it?”

You nod slowly.

“Check in under Estelle DeVine. There’s an envelope in the drawer already. Inside: ID, insurance, credit cards. It’s not yours. It is yours now.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re Estelle. You’ve always been Estelle. You got in a car accident on the way to visit your aunt. That’s what you tell the nurses when you go to the other hospital to get your discharge form.”

Your stomach twists. “You want me to pretend to be someone else?”

San’s gaze is calm. Focused. Steady. Not cold — never cold — but serious.

“They’re gonna be tracking everything from that hospital, baby. From the minute they brought you in, you became part of a story we need to erase. That name’s burned. It’s gotta go.” He reaches out, tucks your hair behind your ear. “I’m not asking you to lie. I’m asking you to stay free.”

You sit down slowly in the chair, your pulse racing. This is insane. This is actual crime scene shit.

“…You really think this’ll work?”

He smirks. “It has worked. You think this is my first time fixing a mess like this?”

“That’s not comforting.”

“It should be.”

You stare at him.

He looks down at you, gently resting his hands your cheeks. “You’re scared. I know. But you’re not alone. You have me. You have Mingi. You have Yunho. And we’ve done worse for people who didn’t matter half as much as you do.”

You whisper, “What if they catch me?”

“They won’t.”

“San—”

“They won’t. Because by the time they think to look for you, there won’t be a trace left.” He kisses your hands. “Now listen. Go to the hotel. Shower. Sleep. If you have any pain, you wait. You don’t go back to any ER in your name. You call the private line and we’ll send someone in house.”

“In house?”

“Doctor. Clean. Loyal. We keep a few on retainer.”

Your breath catches.

“…I’m scared.”

He cups your face again and looks right into you.

“Then be scared,” he says, “but don’t be stupid. Run scared. Hide scared. Survive scared.” A kiss. Another. “I’ll come to you soon, okay? Just stay ahead of it. I need you out of the system now.”

You nod slowly. Your heart’s in your throat. But he’s right. He’s always right about this kind of thing. And you don’t have room to mess up — not now. Not with the blood still drying under your fingernails.

“Oh, there's a safe inside of the room. Everything you need is in there. The code is 1024.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

He presses one last kiss to your lips and murmurs: “Go be Estelle, baby. And when I get out, I’ll come find you.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You follow his instructions like a recipe.

Monroe Street. You find the motel — except you now realize it’s not really a motel.

The outside is quiet, unassuming. A flat, matte building tucked between a liquor store and a vacant lot. But the minute you step inside, it’s like stepping into another world.

The lobby is cool and dim, washed in gold light. Marble floors. Red chairs. A chandelier, of all things, glittering above your head. It’s too clean. Too expensive-looking. Too quiet. You don’t remember it being like this.

You approach the front desk with your heart thudding in your ears. Still in hospital scrubs. Still bleeding a little through the gauze on your arm. You expect alarm. Questions. A raised voice. Something.

But instead, the woman behind the counter just looks you up and down.

“Checking in?”

You swallow. “Yeah. Estelle DeVine. One room. Should be under my name.”

She types. No raised eyebrows. No hesitation. You see something flicker behind her eyes — recognition? Sympathy? But she says nothing.

“Room 606. Elevator’s behind you. No key required.” Her voice is calm. Robotic. But knowing.

Like she’s seen worse. Like you’re not the first girl who’s come in looking like they just outran a murder.

You nod slowly. “Thank you.”

She gives a nod back. “Have a safe night.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The room is beautiful.

It shouldn’t be. But it is.

Clean white sheets. Dimly lit lamps. A small kitchen with actual marble counters. 

Thick blackout curtains already drawn. And everything smells like cedar and citrus, like someone prepared this place today.

You’re still shaking when you walk toward the desk drawer.

Just like he said.

You open it — and there it is.

An ID: Estelle DeVine. Age 25. A few credit cards with the same name. A plastic folder with insurance paperwork. Printed, signed. Already ready. Your whole new life, just sitting there like it’s been waiting.

You open the closet. There’s a safe inside. You press the code he told you.

1024.

It clicks.

You open the door.

Stacks. Of. Cash.

So much it makes your stomach turn. Neatly rubber-banded bricks, like something out of a movie. And next to it?

A sleek matte black handgun. Loaded. Safety on.

You stare at it for a second. Then reach in, and pick it up. It’s lighter than you thought. Heavier in a different way.

You take the gun. Close the safe.

You check the other drawer — clothes. Sweatpants. Black hoodie. Socks. Shoes. They fit. They’re clean. You shower in silence. Scrub the dried blood off your skin, careful of your wound. You barely recognize your reflection. But you’re cleaner now. Dressed now. Alive.

You call a taxi.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The second hospital.

You walk up to the desk, hold your ID out steady, and say the line just like he told you:

“Hi, I was in a car accident earlier today on my way to visit my aunt. I need to transfer my discharge papers — under Estelle DeVine.”

It works.

It actually works.

You keep your story straight. You smile. They believe you.

No questions. No suspicion. You leave with a neatly stapled packet and a calm nod from the nurse.

Back in the hotel.

The second your door shuts behind you, your knees buckle. You don’t even turn the lights on.

You crawl into bed — gun in hand — and lay back with it resting across your chest.

You don’t feel safe. Not really. But you feel… invisible. 

And you did it. Just like he said.

You survived. For now.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You wake up to someone booping your nose.

Like — gently. Twice.

“Boop,” he says, and then again, more playful — “Boop.”

You jolt awake like you’ve been shot.

Your hand flies under the pillow and pulls the gun out before you’ve even registered the motion. You're pointing it — dead center between his wide eyes.

He freezes. Hands up.

But instead of screaming or ducking, he just laughs. This high-pitched, scandalized gasp of a giggle.

“Ohmygod,” he blurts out, fanning himself. “Housekeeping. Calm down, gunslinger!”

Your heart is in your throat.

“Who the fuck — how the fuck did you get in here?!”

He blinks at you like you’re being dramatic. “Uhhh… master key, sweetie? I knocked. Twice. You didn’t answer.”

You stare at him. He’s wearing tight black scrubs. Glossy, long hair slicked back into a bun. Diamond studs in both ears. A bejeweled badge that says WOOYOUNG.

You don’t lower the gun.

He frowns. “Okay, rude. You can put the firearm down now, Lara Croft. Damn.”

Then his eyes flick down to your arm.

“Oh… babe.” His tone softens. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?” you croak.

You look.

Oh.

The bandages from the hospital—ripped open, soaked red. You hadn’t even noticed.

Suddenly, you feel it. The throb. The sting. The weight of your own body settling in again.

Wooyoung takes one bold step forward and gently pries the gun out of your hand like he’s done it before. He sets it on the nightstand like it’s just a butter knife.

“Let me help you,” he says. “Get up.”

You hesitate.

He tsks. “You wanna get infected? Girl, no.”

You let him drag you out of bed. He doesn’t even look winded as he pulls you into the elevator and presses a button beneath the lobby level. B3. A place you didn’t even know existed.

The doors open… and your jaw drops.

It’s not a basement. It’s a facility.

Long sterile halls. Rows of medical equipment. Locked doors. One wall lined with crates marked THERMAL. Another wall covered in metal lockers. There’s an actual surgical suite behind glass.

“Wow,” you breathe.

He glances over his shoulder, already smirking. “Right? First time at the murder spa?”

You stifle a laugh, caught between panic and awe.

He guides you into a quiet room and points to the padded table. “Sit.”

You obey.

He hums while he works, humming something vaguely Beyoncé as he peels back the bloody bandages, cleans your arm with professional ease, and wraps it tight with fresh gauze.

He smells… really good. Like perfume and peppermint and clean laundry. His touch is surprisingly gentle.

“You’re pretty,” he says after a minute, almost absently. “You don’t look like you belong in all this.”

You blink. “What do you mean, ‘all this’?”

He meets your eyes with a tilted smirk. “This world. The blood, the hiding, the loaded gun under your pillow.”

You exhale through your nose. Quiet. “I didn’t. I mean… I don’t. I just…”

He watches you, waiting.

You sigh. “It’s complicated.”

“Mm.” He secures the last wrap. “Lemme guess. Choi San.”

You look up.

He grins, biting his lip. “Yeah. Thought so. He’s hot. And terrifying. That man blinks like a threat.”

You laugh, unexpectedly. “.. Yeah.”

“You know Mingi?”

You nod.

“Crazy as hell,” he says, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Has never said a single word to me except ‘move’ and ‘thanks.’ I’m obsessed with him.”

You snort. 

“And Yunho?”

You nod again.

“Yunho once paid me a thousand dollars to distract a girl he was trying to ghost. Like actually just stood there and said, ‘Make her disappear.’ Like what am I, Houdini? I did it, though.”

You lose it at that.

He smiles, satisfied. “You’re cute when you laugh. You want something to eat?”

You blink. “Yeah… I’m starving.”

He stands and jerks his chin toward the door. “Come on, sugarplum. Let’s raid the cafeteria.”

You follow him. And as you walk out of the room, you pass it. A wall of weapons.

Mounted, gleaming, cataloged like art. Knives. Rifles. Brass knuckles. A velvet tray of burner phones and foreign passports.

You freeze. Wooyoung notices.

He leans in with a wink. “You’re starting to figure it out now, huh?”

You swallow hard.

“…You’re not just housekeeping.”

He grins. “Oh, babe. Nobody here just is anything.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

The breakfast room looks like a middle school cafeteria if the middle school served mercenaries instead of twelve-year-olds.

Long metal tables. Gray floors. No windows. A big open kitchen behind a glass partition. And inside? A squad of women in hairnets and orthopedic shoes, slinging pancakes and bacon with the same dead-eyed authority as school lunch ladies. One of them is actually watching Judge Judy on a wall-mounted TV.

Wooyoung throws his arms open like he’s arriving at brunch in Paris.

“My queens,” he calls out. “I brought company.”

The lunch ladies barely glance at you.

One scoops scrambled eggs onto a plate and slides it toward him.

You follow Wooyoung to the end of the counter, where he gestures to the plates like he owns the place. “Pick your poison. Personally, I trust Pam’s eggs more than Barb’s. Just saying.”

You grab a plate. Your stomach growls.

Wooyoung watches you pile on toast and fruit and eggs, then leads you to a corner table, far from everyone else.

He digs in. “So. San.”

You blink at him.

He wiggles his eyebrows. “You’re with him, right?”

“…Yeah,” you admit. “Dating.”

He whistles low, like you just told him you were sleeping with the Grim Reaper. “Damn. That must be rough.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

“How do you know?” you ask, narrowing your eyes.

He taps his temple. “My intuition. I can smell the emotional repression.”

You snort, choking on your orange juice.

He grins. “Kidding. Kinda.”

You shake your head, laughing. “He’s… complicated.”

“Oh, I know.” Wooyoung leans forward. “I’ve seen him in here. He walked through like he was allergic to joy.”

You smile into your food. “He’s not always like that.”

“No?”

“He’s… I don’t know. He’s cold sometimes. Mean, even. But he takes care of me. I mean — he really takes care of me.”

Wooyoung hums, chewing. “That’s rare, you know. In this world.”

You glance at him. His tone changed — subtle, but there.

He nods toward your bandaged arm. “Why are you here alone?”

The question lands heavy.

You set your fork down. “We got separated. Something went wrong. I… ended up in the hospital. Had to run.”

He doesn’t even flinch.

Just nods. “That explains the whole bleeding, pointing-a-gun-at-me thing.”

“Sorry about that,” you murmur.

He waves it off. “Sweetheart, I’ve had guns in my face from men twice your size and half your glam. I’m good.”

A pause. He looks at you again, curiously.

“You know how to fight?”

“Um…” you hesitate. “Kinda? I used to fight with my siblings when I was younger. But that was more like… pulling hair and slamming doors.”

He chuckles. “That counts.”

You give him a skeptical look.

“No, really,” he says, still smiling, but softer now. “Back then, everything felt like the end of the world. Remember that? Crying over who got the bigger slice of cake. Storming off because someone told your crush you liked them.”

You laugh. “Yeah.”

“I miss that,” he says. Quiet. “Being young. Having stupid problems. No blood. No guns. Just… noise.”

You stare at him.

“…What about you?” you ask, voice gentler. “How’d you end up in this world?”

His smile falters. For a second, he looks away.

Then he leans back in his chair and exhales through his nose, eyes fixed on some far-off point beyond the cafeteria walls.

“Demarco found me when I was seventeen,” he says. “Living with a guy twice my age who used to break bottles and say it was my fault.”

Your chest tightens.

Wooyoung swallows. “I was desperate. Angry. Stupid. Demarco said he could give me power. A place. Said he’d protect me. But it wasn’t protection. It was ownership. You do one job for him, and that job becomes your entire identity. You can’t leave, because you don’t know who you are without it. And he knows that.”

You don’t say anything. Your breath is slow and shaky.

Wooyoung shrugs. “Same way he got San, I guess.”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head, genuinely confused by your reaction. “Demarco’s his father. You didn’t know that?”

You stare at him, words caught in your throat.

“…No. I didn’t.”

“Oh.” Wooyoung pops a piece of bacon in his mouth, like he just told you the weather. “Well. Now you do.”

You sit there, trying to process the way your chest feels like it’s been knocked sideways.

Wooyoung gives you a small, almost-smile.

“Now I patch people up and clean the blood off the floor. Housekeeping, remember?”

You whisper, “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “Don’t be. It made me stronger. It made me funny.”

He tries to wink, but you can see the tiredness behind it.

You nod. “Still. I’m sorry.”

He looks at you for a long second.

Then quietly, “You’re not like the others.”

You frown. “How?”

“You’re scared. But you don’t hide it. That’s rare. Most people here try to act invincible. You don’t.”

You glance down at your plate. Wooyoung nudges your leg with his foot.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says. “I can tell.”

You look up at him.

“…You a mind reader again?”

He winks. “Nope. Just have really good taste in survivors.”

He finishes the last of his toast, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and pushes back his chair with a sigh.

“Alright,” Wooyoung says, standing. “You’ve seen the eggs. Time to see the guts.”

You blink. “The guts?”

He smirks. “C’mon, princess. You think this place is just beds and bacon?”

You follow him out of the breakfast hall, down a corridor with cheap carpeting and a vending machine that hums like it’s possessed. 

But as soon as he swipes a keycard at a rusted metal door labeled Janitor, everything changes.

Click. Heavy latch. The door creaks open—

And behind it? A whole different world.

It’s colder back here. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The air smells faintly metallic—blood and bleach. You hesitate on the threshold.

Wooyoung glances over his shoulder. “Welcome to the underbelly.”

You walk through a long underground hallway—concrete floors, steel doors every ten feet. Some of them are locked. Some of them aren’t. One’s ajar and you catch a glimpse of an operating table. Another’s filled with screens and wires. A surveillance room.

There’s a man in one room reassembling a sniper rifle like he’s buttering toast. In another, a woman’s practicing knife flips while smoking a cigarette and watching an old rom-com on a portable DVD player.

Everywhere you look: trained killers, fixers, ghosts. All of them moving with quiet, clinical purpose.

“How the hell is this under a motel?” you whisper.

Wooyoung snorts. “You ever seen John Wick?”

“Yeah?”

He flashes you a grin. “Exactly.”

He leads you into a massive room near the end of the hall — a training space the size of a school gym. Mats, punching bags, wooden dummies. An entire rack of blunted knives. A whiteboard on the far wall with scrawled words in red marker: "NO LIVE ROUNDS.""CLEAN YOUR OWN BLOOD."

Wooyoung gestures around with jazz hands. “Our humble dojo. Looks like a sweat lodge, smells like a war crime.”

You laugh, overwhelmed.

There’s a girl no older than fifteen drop-kicking a dummy in the corner like it owes her money.

“She’s been here since she was eleven,” Wooyoung says quietly. “Family sold her to Demarco. He trains them young.”

Your stomach twists.

He notices your face. “It’s not all bad,” he adds. “Some of them… they make it out. Start new lives. I helped one of the girls fake her death last year. She works at a bakery now. I send her memes.”

You exhale, still taking it all in.

– Next up: the infirmary.

White walls, medical cabinets, a dozen cots. There's a woman with a bullet wound being stitched up by someone in scrubs and crocs. Another guy is half-conscious on a gurney, murmuring something in Russian. Nobody’s panicking. This is just another Monday.

Wooyoung grabs a clipboard and signs something. Then hands you a visitor tag from a little bin labeled Probably not dead.

You deadpan. “Very reassuring.”

Wooyoung snorts.

–

Then he takes you up a staircase behind a reinforced door, out of the basement and into an upper-level hallway — luxurious in a weird, dated way. Think casino-hotel crossover. Thick rugs. Gold trim. Heavy curtains drawn tight.

“This floor’s for VIPs,” Wooyoung says. “People like Choi San. Or the ones funding this mess. Or the ones they can’t kill without consequences.”

You don’t ask who those people are. You don’t want to know.

–

Finally, he brings you to a rooftop exit. The door creaks as he pushes it open — and the sunlight hits like a slap.

You blink hard.

The rooftop overlooks the highway, but it’s been rigged with a false facade — like a fake motel sign and a cheap pool. You realize then: the entire outside is just for show. Everything important is buried deep.

Wooyoung walks to the edge of the roof, squints at the horizon. “People drive past this place every day and don’t look twice.”

You step up beside him, heart still racing.

“It’s a lot,” you admit. “I didn’t think it was this deep.”

“Most people don’t.” He glances sideways. “But seriously. You’re not most people.”

You look at him.

He smiles — something real and faint and worn around the edges.

“Glad you came?” he asks.

You hesitate. Then you nod.

“Kinda,” you say softly. “I think I needed to see this.”

You linger on the rooftop a moment longer, wind tugging at your hair, before the curiosity finally slips out.

“So… how does all of this actually work?” you ask. “Like… the whole operation. You make it sound like there are rules.”

Wooyoung grins like you just asked him his favorite question. “Oh, there are rules, sweetheart. More rules than your high school dress code. You want the crash course?”

You nod.

He turns toward the rooftop door. “Then follow me. Professor Wooyoung’s about to blow your mind.”

You trail after him back inside. Down one carpeted hall. Then another. He stops in front of an unmarked door, unlocks it with a quick twist of a key, and steps inside.

It’s a small, windowless room with a single table, two mismatched chairs, and a whiteboard that’s stained gray in the middle from years of hasty erasing. On the table, a lone coffee mug reads World’s Okayest Liar.

Wooyoung grabs a dry-erase marker and pops the cap with his teeth. “Alright, let’s start at the beginning. How’d you get in here?”

You lean against the doorframe. “San told me to use a fake name. Estelle DeVine.”

He freezes mid-step and slowly turns toward you. “…He told you to use that name?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Wooyoung lets out a short laugh, like he can’t believe you just dropped a nuclear bomb in casual conversation. “Girl. Follow closely, because I’m about to give you the kind of education people pay for in blood.”

You blink. “Okay?”

He starts writing in big block letters: ESTELLE DEVINE

Then he circles the E’s at the start and end. 

Estelle DevinE

“Rule one of getting in here: nobody uses their real name at check-in. They use a cipher name. The cipher tells us three things — one, you’re in the network. Two, who sent you. Three, whether you’re a friend, a threat, or a paycheck.”

You squint. “How can a name do all that?”

“Well. The last name? Code for urgency and clearance. ‘DeVine’ is old slang in the network—comes from a safehouse in New Orleans back in the 70s. It basically means ‘deliver to VIP floor, no questions asked.’”

“…So you’re telling me I could’ve just walked in here and—”

“—and you did, princess,” he cuts in, grinning. “You walked in with one of the highest clearances you can get without carrying a body bag. Desk girl downstairs probably wanted to salute.”

You shake your head slowly. “Okay, but… what if a normal person just walks in and says, ‘Estelle DeVine, I’m booked for today’?”

“That,” Wooyoung says, tapping the marker against the board, “is when the second system kicks in.”

He draws a tiny box in the corner labeled Desk. “Front desk is trained to play dumb. They smile. They nod. They ‘check’ the booking system. If you’re legit, your cipher pings in the database. If you’re not?”

He snaps his fingers. “Security tags you before you even finish your sentence. You’re either sent away politely or… taken downstairs for a little clarification session.”

You cross your arms. “…And ‘clarification session’ means—”

“Depends,” he says with a shrug. “Sometimes it’s just, ‘Hey, wrong place, buddy.’ Other times…” He lets the silence hang, then smirks. “…Let’s just say it involves fewer teeth than you walked in with.”

You swallow.

You watch him cap the marker, still processing. “So San knew all this, and just… told me the magic password?”

“Oh, honey.” Wooyoung chuckles. “San didn’t just give you the password. He basically handed you a royal seal and told the guards to let you touch the crown jewels.”

Your stomach does a weird flip. “…Why?”

“That’s the million-dollar question.” He leans back against the table, crossing his arms. “But if I had to guess? It means you’re not just some girl to him. You’re someone he’s willing to vouch for with his name.”

You look down at your hands. “…I didn’t realize it meant that much.”

Wooyoung tilts his head, watching you for a beat. Then he smiles faintly. “Well. Now you do.”

He shrugs with a half-smile. “Trust is the currency around here. You either have it, or you don’t. And San — well, he’s not one to trust easily.”

You look away for a moment, heart pounding with the weight of it all. “I guess that makes me more involved than I thought.”

Wooyoung watches you, eyes sharp but somehow kind. “Yeah. You’re in deeper than you realize. But that doesn’t mean you’re alone.”

You nod, feeling both overwhelmed and a little steadied by his words.

“Welcome to the family business.”

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You’re still a little dazed from everything Wooyoung just showed you — the surveillance, the training rooms, the way the world folds in on itself beneath the surface of this place. 

He leads you back inside through the stairwell, down a narrow hall lined with faded posters and dusty wall sconces.

Your head’s spinning.

And then — he stops short.

“Well,” Wooyoung mutters, voice dry with amusement. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

You frown. “What—?”

You glance up — And your heart stops.

There, standing at the front desk like it’s nothing, like it’s just some regular Monday errand and not the most surreal, overwhelming moment of your week—

Mingi. Yunho. And San.

San turns the second he sees you. “Baby.”

You don’t think. You run.

Straight across the lobby, right into his arms. He catches you, arms wrapping around you tight, so tight it knocks the breath out of your lungs—but you don’t care. He’s here. He’s here. His hands are all over your back, your waist, your neck, kissing you like it’s been years.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he mutters between kisses. “You okay? Are you okay? Look at me, baby, you good?”

You nod against his lips, tears pricking your eyes.

“I’m good. I’m—better now.”

He kisses you again, slower, deeper. His hand cradles the back of your head like he doesn’t ever want to let go.

Behind him, Mingi clears his throat.

You pull back — laughing through your emotion — and wrap your arms around Mingi next. He hugs you tight, one arm across your shoulders, the other resting smugly at your waist. Like a subtle claim. You feel San’s eyes narrow behind you. Mingi just smirks.

“You look alive,” Mingi says low in your ear.

“You don’t.”

“I saved you,” he teases.

You roll your eyes and pull away, wiping your cheeks, breathless.

Then you turn to Yunho, who holds up a hand. “High five?”

You smack his hand with a tired laugh.

Yunho grins. “Still alive. Still got all your fingers. We’ll call it a win.”

You barely have time to respond before San’s pulling you back into him again, arm curling around your waist, kissing your temple, your jaw, your lips. Like he’s making up for lost time.

Then, with a slow, heavy pause, he lifts his chin. “Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung leans casually against the wall. “Choi San.”

The air tightens. Not aggressive — but aware. Like two predators circling politely.

There’s a pause. Then San dips his head slightly. “Thanks.”

Wooyoung shrugs. “She’s resourceful. I mostly just kept her alive.”

San doesn’t respond to that. Just looks at you. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go to the room.”

You nod, and he laces his fingers with yours like he’s afraid to let go.

Behind you, Mingi, Yunho, and Wooyoung are already bickering — some mix of dry sarcasm and veiled threats. San doesn’t even flinch. He just leads you away, hand tight in yours, jaw clenched like he’s still running on adrenaline.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

When you get to the room, he unlocks the door and steps in first, surveying the space with narrowed eyes.

Then he freezes.

“Why the fuck is there a gun on the nightstand?”

You snort. “For protection.”

He slowly turns toward you. “Against what, exactly? Ghosts? Breakfast ladies?”

You shrug and throw yourself onto the bed. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He stares for another beat—then drops the duffel bag at the door and crawls over you. Kisses you again, rougher this time. Like now that you’re alone, he can finally fall apart a little.

“I was losing my mind,” he breathes against your mouth. “Swear to God, I thought—”

You hush him with your hands in his hair, pulling him down to kiss you again.

Then he pulls back. Sits up between your thighs.

“Get up.”

You blink. “Why?”

“Just — get up.”

You do, confused.

He kneels down, grabs the bottom of the mattress — and lifts.

And your mouth drops open.

Beneath the bed? A hatch.

And beneath that?

Rows and rows of money. Weapons. ID cards. A burner phone. A bag full of unmarked keys. A map you don’t recognize.

“What the fuck—” you breathe.

San smirks, lifting an eyebrow. “Still think the gun was overkill?”

You just stare, wide-eyed, as he lets the bed fall back down with a thud.

“Babe,” he says casually, crawling back toward you again. “You’ve officially been upgraded,” he kisses your neck. “To the real side of this world.” Another kiss. “No take-backs.”

Then—he’s on you.

Pushes you down onto the bed with one smooth press of his palm to your chest. 

His knee slips between your thighs, spreading you easily, eyes burning into yours as he leans down, mouth finding your neck with practiced ease.

“You’re hot when you’re paranoid,” he mutters, biting just under your jaw. “Guns on the nightstand and shit. What else you hiding, baby?”

Your breath hitches. “Wanna find out?”

That’s all it takes. He groans softly, mouth dragging to yours, fingers already slipping beneath your clothes like he hasn’t touched you in months. 

You lift your hips, letting him tug down what he needs to, breath coming fast as he lines himself up between your thighs.

And then— “You knock.”

A muffled voice just outside the room. You both freeze. Eyes wide. Mouths still touching.

“I’m not knocking,” another voice hisses. Yunho. “You knock.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re the one who forgot the burner, Mingi!”

A beat.

“What if they’re fucking?”

A choked snort.

“Oh my God, what if they are—”

“Then we knock louder,” Yunho deadpans.

You slap a hand over your mouth, trying not to laugh.

San rolls his eyes, still buried between your legs, not even pretending to move. “Ignore them.”

“You can’t ignore them.”

“They’ll go away.”

“They’re not going away!”

Another knock.

“HEY,” Yunho shouts, smug. “WRAP IT UP IN THERE. WE GOT MURDER TO DISCUSS.”

You groan into your hands.

San drops his forehead to your chest. “I hate them so much.”

You push at his shoulder, breathless, still flustered. “I’ll get the door.”

“No,” he says, kissing your bare stomach. “Let them wait.”

You swat at him. “San!”

He grumbles and rolls off you dramatically, flopping back on the bed with an exaggerated sigh like he’s been personally victimized.

You scramble up, throwing on the nearest shirt—his, obviously—and shouting sweetly, “Coming!!”

You open it like nothing happened, hair a little messy, cheeks warm. Yunho’s grinning. Mingi looks smug. Wooyoung raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t say a word,” you warn.

Yunho holds his hands up. “Wasn’t gonna. But. Like - okay..”

San’s already lounging back on the bed, shirtless, smirking as he props himself up on one elbow.

They file in casually — like they didn’t just interrupt you mid-sex—and start dropping gear on the desk, pulling out maps, folders, USB drives. You blink at the chaos of it all.

Wooyoung flips open a map and points to a red-marked area. “We traced the crew who raided the cabin to this sector — Northern corridor. Syndicate offshoot. Real sloppy.”

Yunho tosses a granola bar at Mingi. “They left a trail like rats. Honestly, embarrassing.”

Mingi catches it and peels it open. “Told you they weren’t trained. You should’ve seen the one I knocked out — kid couldn’t even hold a gun right.”

You just linger near the edge of the room, arms crossed, trying to follow along. Your stomach knots — this is real. This is dangerous. You’re not just a girlfriend caught in the crossfire anymore — you’re part of this now.

San sees it immediately.

He crooks his fingers, calm and quiet. “Come here.”

You hesitate.

“C’mere,” he says again, softer this time. “Sit with me.”

You go.

He pulls you into his lap, arms sliding around your waist like it’s second nature, grounding you right there in the middle of war maps and tactical arguments. You lean back against him, letting his warmth press into your spine.

Yunho looks over. “She’s the new boss now, huh?”

San smirks, chin on your shoulder. “Was always the boss. You just didn’t know.”

Wooyoung snorts. “She did pull a gun on me. I’d say she’s got the attitude for it.”

You shoot him a glare.

“Focus,” San cuts in smoothly, tightening his arms around you. “Back to the syndicate.”

Wooyoung nods, pointing again. “This base? It’s sloppy. But it’s close. We’re thinking tonight. Fast and quiet.”

Yunho cracks his neck. “I’ll handle recon. Mingi can play bait.”

Mingi: “Excuse me?”

Yunho: “You’ve got the face for it.”

Mingi: “I will kill you.”

You can’t help it — you giggle a little, even tucked against San’s chest. He grins down at you, presses a kiss to your temple.

Yunho’s pacing the room now with a marker, drawing absolute nonsense on the map. “Okay, but hear me out. What if we don’t go through the north side—what if we blow the back wall out and just—storm it.”

Mingi groans. “You say that like we have a rocket launcher in our pockets.”

“You don’t?”

Wooyoung mutters, “Please stop talking.”

Your fingers are absentmindedly playing with the collar of San’s shirt while the war room devolves into absolute chaos. San, for his part, is silent. Calm. Chewing on the cap of a pen while his other hand strokes slow lines across your thigh.

Yunho slaps a palm on the map dramatically. “Look. Back wall, two-man breach, flashbang—bam, bam, bam—get in, get out.”

“You sound like a twelve-year-old playing Call of Duty,” Mingi grumbles.

Yunho narrows his eyes. “Say that again, bitch.”

“You sound like—”

“HEY.”

San’s voice slices clean through the noise, firm but lazy. “Less bickering. More planning.”

Mingi shrugs. Yunho mimics him like a child. Wooyoung rubs his temple like he regrets every life choice that brought him here.

Then theres a knock.

But before anyone can move, the door swings open.

And she walks in.

Tall. Effortless. Stunning. Hair tied back, loose pieces falling around her face, and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. Her heels click against the floor like a slow countdown, and her presence alone makes the whole room pause.

You watch everyone shift.

Mingi? Unbothered. Offers a single nod. San? Leans back, uninterested. Yunho?

Yunho forgets how to breathe.

He straightens immediately, posture suddenly immaculate, jaw clenched, eyes locked. And you know—oh, you know. He’s got it bad.

She gives him a lazy little smirk before turning to the room. “Hope I’m not late.”

Then her eyes land on you.

She pauses. Blinks. Tilts her head.

“Oh—I don’t believe we’ve met.” Her smile is warm. “I’m Selene.”

You blink. “I’m—uh—”

“She’s with me,” San says, resting his chin on your shoulder again. “You can be nice to her or you can find your way back out.”

Selene raises her hands playfully. “Don’t worry. I’m always nice.” Then she winks at you. “Especially to girls who can tolerate this one.”

Yunho chuckles way too loud. “Right?”

You shoot him a look. Behave.

Selene moves effortlessly around the table and drops down into the seat next to Yunho, crossing one leg over the other, the slit in her pants revealing the most gorgeous ink along her thigh—clean lines, ornate, wrapping up into her hip.

Yunho notices. He notices hard.

“New tattoo?” he says, voice low, flirtatious.

Selene hums. “Old. You’ve just never earned a close enough look.”

Yunho’s smile falters. His brain short-circuits. You almost die watching it happen.

San leans in to whisper in your ear. “Wanna place bets on how long it takes him to embarrass himself?”

You whisper back, “Thirty seconds.”

And you’re right—because not even a minute later, Yunho tries to lean closer and knocks a pen cup off the table, sending pens everywhere.

Selene just raises an eyebrow. “Smooth.”

Yunho grins. “I’m full of surprises.”

“Mm,” she says, amused. “You’re full of .. something.”

Wooyoung coughs. “Anyway. The base.”

You all settle back into planning. Selene contributes sharp insight, suggesting two exit points and noting guard rotation patterns. She’s smart. Efficient. Way too pretty. Her and Yunho don’t stop flirting, though—it’s subtle, woven in between mission talk like some stupid, hot tension-fueled banter that makes the whole thing feel like a spy movie.

Eventually, the plan’s locked in. Times confirmed. Weapons listed.

Yunho and Selene leave together, laughing as they argue over who gets to drive.

Mingi leaves with a muttered “God help us.” Wooyoung trails behind with a grim look and a muttered, “Be ready by midnight.”

And then it’s just you and San again.

He sighs, stretching out on the bed like the day hasn’t been full of guns and tension and interrupted sex.

“You wanna watch something?” he asks, casual, already reaching for the remote.

You crawl up beside him, nudging into his side. “Yeah. Something dumb.”

He flips through until he lands on some late-night action movie. It’s dramatic. Over-the-top. Exactly what you needed.

You swear you’re paying attention.

But you’re not.

He kisses you halfway through. And not the soft, distracted kind—a real kiss, hand sliding up your back, lips warm and slow and addictive. You kiss back with a quiet whimper and he pulls you closer, the movie forgotten entirely.

You make it halfway.

You do not last.

You mumble, “I’m not falling asleep first.”

And then you do.

Curled into his side, your cheek on his chest, legs tangled together.

San glances down, amused, brushing a thumb across your cheek.

“You liar,” he mutters.

Then he presses a kiss to your forehead, tugs the blanket over you both, and lets you sleep.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You wake to the sound of movement—rustling, the soft clink of metal, a zipper being tugged, footsteps creaking across the floor.

You blink, bleary, groggy, mouth dry as hell. The room is dim except for the flickering light from the TV, which is still playing the same movie from earlier—some guy screaming about honor or whatever. But San’s not beside you anymore.

He’s standing across the room, already dressed.

Black tactical shirt. Dark pants, belt loaded with gear. Gloves hanging from his pocket, boots laced tight. His gun’s holstered at his hip, and he’s fixing something into the lining of his vest—steady, precise, focused.

He looks like he belongs in a warzone.

“Where are you going?” you rasp.

He glances over, eyes sharp and cool—and God, it’s a different version of him. Colder. Calmer. Dangerous in a way that makes your pulse skip.

“Mission,” he says simply. “It’s midnight.”

You push yourself up, heart stuttering. “Wait—I wanna come too.”

He pauses.

Turns fully to look at you.

“…You sure?”

You nod fast, already tossing the blanket off and scrambling to your feet. “I’m not just gonna wait here like some — some houseplant, San.”

He huffs a breath that’s almost a laugh. “You’re not a houseplant. You’re just cute when you’re cranky.”

“Shut up. I’m coming.”

“Alright,” he says, grabbing a spare piece from the duffel. “Then suit up, rookie.”

—

You throw on whatever you can in a blur — black leggings, boots, borrowed gear. San helps you strap into a vest, clips a knife to your thigh, tightens your belt with firm tugs that make your breath catch. His touch is focused but quick, like he’s done this a hundred times.

“Good?” he asks.

You nod.

“Okay.” He tilts your chin up and kisses you hard. “Let’s go.”

—

The garage is buzzing.

Fluorescent lights flicker overhead. Two black SUVs idle in the middle of the space, doors flung open, trunk popped. Everyone’s armed, moving with chaotic purpose — loading weapons, arguing over comms, tossing gear between seats.

Wooyoung’s already barking orders. “—no, that frequency is jammed, switch to Channel 6—”

Mingi is standing by the driver’s side of the first SUV with a map in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other.

Selene is checking her gun like it’s her child.

Yunho?

Yunho is leaning against the hood of the second SUV with a smug little smirk, clearly trying to impress Selene. “So what you’re saying is, if things go sideways, I get to carry you out fireman-style?”

Selene doesn’t even look up. “Only if I’m already unconscious.”

You and San walk in, and for a moment, everyone just looks over.

Yunho grins. “Look who finally woke up.”

“She’s coming,” San says, not even waiting for objections.

Selene gives you a smile. “Hell yeah, girl power.”

Wooyoung groans. “Fine. Whatever. We’re late.”

Everyone starts piling into the cars — Yunho and Selene in one, you, San, Mingi, and Wooyoung in the other. You barely get your seatbelt on before the engine roars and Mingi slams on the gas.

And the chaos begins.

—

Ten minutes into the ride

Yunho is on the radio doing terrible accents: “Alpha team, this is Big Daddy. Over.” Wooyoung nearly throws the radio out the window.

Selene is applying lip balm with sniper gloves on like she’s in a commercial.

San is trying to double-check the layout and you keep elbowing him on accident because the car keeps jerking.

Mingi misses a turn, violently reverses, and yells out the window at a possum.

Someone in the back seat opens a protein bar and accidentally sets off a pepper spray canister.

San coughs for five straight minutes.

Yunho on the radio again: “Big Daddy to Spicy Burrito, do you copy?” “I will strangle you with my bare hands,” Wooyoung says.

By the time you arrive near the target location—an abandoned warehouse by the docks—it’s a miracle you’re all still alive.

Mingi parks. Everyone hops out.

Yunho spins his pistol once and winks at Selene. She rolls her eyes and slaps a bulletproof plate into his vest for him.

San adjusts your strap and leans in close. “Stay near me. No hero shit.”

You nod, heart pounding with adrenaline.

This is really happening.

You’re in. You’re ready. You’re part of it now.

You glance around at the squad—this unhinged, wildly attractive, absolutely unprofessional crew—and realize…

You’ve never felt more alive.

· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · ·

You fan out along the side of the warehouse—five shadows in the dark, breathing in sync, weapons low, eyes sharp. 

The air smells like salt and rust and danger. Mingi gives the signal with two fingers and a nod, and just like that—

You’re in.

Well. Almost in.

Because Yunho immediately slips trying to scale the fence and lands flat on his ass.

“Fuck—”

“You good?”

“I meant to do that.”

San yanks you over the fence with one arm like you weigh nothing. You cling to him midair. “You meant to fall on your face?” you whisper.

Yunho flips you off.

You nearly burst out laughing until Mingi growls, “Shut the fuck up, you’re gonna wake up the goddamn rats.”

“Rats don’t sleep,” Wooyoung mutters, prying open the side door with a crowbar. “They wait.”

You all freeze as the metal creaks. The door opens. 

The moment you step inside, it’s dead silent. All jokes evaporate. No more teasing. Everyone’s posture straightens. The air turns cold.

Selene takes point. Yunho watches the rear. Mingi motions for you to stay close to the wall. You do, heart hammering in your throat, fingers tight around the grip of your borrowed weapon. No one speaks.

You move — and the floor betrays you: a thin strip of slick oil. 

Your foot slides. For half a second the world tilts and your knee tears out from under you.

A hand slams on your forearm and drags you backward. Mingi, chest flushed, shoulder pressed into yours to stop the fall, catches you like he’s been waiting for the exact moment. 

Up close he smells like motor oil and sweat and something sweet. 

His fingers splay across your wrist, warm and real.

“Careful,” he breathes, voice low. 

You can see the way San registers that look between you and Mingi like a gust of cold air.

But you brush it off, follow San’s lead, weaving between steel pillars and crates. You’re sweating already. The silence is so thick it’s like a sixth body.

Footsteps.

Voices.

Mingi holds up his gun. You all stop immediately.

From somewhere down the hall: “You hear that?”

Selene’s already ducked behind a container. San pulls you with him behind a rusted cart and whispers in your ear, “Ready to go feral?”

“Always.”

You peek out.

Two guards. Unarmed. Sloppy.

Yunho’s grin sharpens. “Let me.”

He’s gone before you can blink — slips behind one, grabs his throat, strangles him. 

The guy goes down like a sack of potatoes. The other tries to shout, but Selene’s already knocked him out cold with the butt of her rifle.

No blood. Just silence.

Wooyoung whistles low. “Damn.”

“Package is in the back vault,” Mingi says. “Two floors up. Yunho — take her left. Selene, you’re with me. Wooyoung — eyes on comms.”

You and San take the right stairwell. He keeps a hand on your arm the whole time, eyes darting to every shadow. He doesn't even blink.

—

Upstairs is easier. You take down one guard together — he swings at you, and San slams his head into the wall so hard it sounds like plywood snapping. He doesn’t even look twice.

“I’m never fighting you again,” you whisper.

He just grunts. “Wasn’t much of a fight.”

When you reach the vault, Mingi is already cracking the lock. Yunho’s humming like an asshole.

Then — It opens.

A crate of documents. Blackmail. USBs. Printed files. Exactly what they came for.

Selene flips through the files. “Everything’s here.”

Yunho claps. “In and out. Like — well. Let’s not finish that sentence.”

“Please shut up.”

San’s arm slips around your waist, tugging you close. You peek up at him — his jaw’s set, his eyes still scanning the shadows.

You whisper, “We did it?”

He nods once. “We did.”

“Shit—” 

Someone trips a silent alarm.

Yunho yells, “OH, COME ON—”

Mingi is cursing in three languages.

San grabs your hand and runs — you’re flying down metal stairs, Selene shooting out a camera, Wooyoung barking something in the comm.

You hear the reinforcements coming.

San practically throws you over the fence this time. Yunho’s already got the car started.

“GO, GO, GO—”

You all pile in, panting, sweating, laughing.

“We’re alive!”

“Whose foot is in my—get off me!” Mingi yells.

“I think I might puke.”

—

You’re sprawled across the backseat, half on San’s lap, your vest unbuckled and hair a disaster. You’re exhausted. Wired. Deliriously happy.

You blink up at him. “My head hurts.”

“You’re dehydrated,” he says, wiping a smudge of dirt from your cheek with his thumb.

You pout. “I wanna sleep but I’m hungry and my thighs hurt.”

“You’ll live, baby.”

“Carry me inside when we get back.”

He smirks. “That’s not a question, is it?”

“Nope,” you say, curling into him, face in his neck. “I’m your baby.”

“Damn right you are.”

He pulls your legs over his lap and kisses your forehead. You fall asleep just like that—half-limp, proud of yourself, heart racing still.

–

The second Yunho throws the car in park at the motel, the chaos is immediate.

Selene’s halfway out the door before the engine’s off. Yunho launches after her, breathless and grinning like an idiot.

“WAIT—wait wait wait wait, did you kiss me?!”

Selene whirls on him. “You kissed me!”

“You didn’t move away!” Yunho fires back.

“I was caught off guard!”

“So you wanted to move away but didn’t?” he demands, eyes wide.

Mingi stomps past them, dragging the crate with a death glare. “If you two don’t shut the fuck up, I’m gonna put a bullet in my ear.”

Wooyoung’s just laughing, keys in one hand, a cold bottle of water in the other. “Let them have their moment, damn.”

You’re barely standing. Your legs feel like gelatin. Every part of you aches, and your ears are still ringing from the adrenaline crash — but none of it matters because San loops an arm under your knees, lifts you straight off the ground like a feather, and starts walking toward the rooms.

You let your head fall to his chest, nose tucked into his neck. “You said you’d carry me…”

He hums low. “And I meant it.”

The hallway light flickers overhead. Yunho’s still yelling. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN’T HATE IT—”

“Go inside, Yunho!” Selene shouts back.

Slam. Door shuts.

San kicks open your door with his foot, steps inside, and gently sets you on the edge of the bed. Then he kneels, slowly undoing every strap and buckle, peeling off each layer of your tactical gear with practiced hands.

It’s oddly intimate. His touch is gentle. Quiet. Like he’s memorizing every inch of you.

You watch him silently as he pulls your top off, replaces it with a soft oversized t-shirt. Then he slips off your boots, your socks, and your pants — leaving you in your shirt and underwear.

You murmur, “What if someone sees—”

He kisses your thigh without looking up. “No one’s looking at what’s mine.”

Then he stands and shrugs off his own shirt, the muscles in his arms rippling with the movement. He steps out of his pants too, leaving him in just his boxers — dark, fitted, low on his hips.

You crawl up the bed on your elbows. He follows, slow and quiet, and lays beside you. Pulls the blanket over both of you. Pulls you in.

You end up on your sides, face to face. You reach for his chain, fingers idly fiddling with it.

“Are we…” you whisper, voice soft, “safe like this?”

San’s hand moves to your waist, then to your back. “Yeah. Right now? You’re safe.”

You stare at him.

Really look at him.

God, he’s… he’s beautiful. Not just handsome. Not just hot. But something deeper. Softer. He’s golden in the low motel light, hair messy, lashes long, mouth so gentle now that the blood and gunfire are behind you.

You brush his hair back from his face.

He’s looking at you too.

You can’t hold his gaze. It’s too much. Too intimate.

So you pretend, “You’ve got something in your hair.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Kinda do.”

“Uh-huh.” He leans in and kisses you. Soft. Thoughtful. Lingering.

You melt into it, pressing closer. One of his hands cups the back of your neck. The other keeps you steady, his thumb dragging along your spine.

When you finally part, you whisper, “Where are we gonna go now?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “We’re looking for another safe house. Somewhere quieter.”

You sigh and bury your face into his chest. “Can we buy new clothes first?”

San chuckles against your hair. “Yeah, baby. We’ll get you new everything.”

“Even socks?”

“The fluffiest damn socks you’ve ever seen.”

You hum sleepily, fingers still tangled in his chain. His hand rubs soothing circles on your back, and before long, your breaths slow.

You fall asleep like that — tucked into his chest, lips curved in the tiniest smile, safe in a shitty motel bed with the most dangerous man you know.

And somehow… it feels like home.

That was eight years ago.

The papers called it a “drunk-driving accident” — black ice, shattered glass, and tragedy on a quiet road outside the city. But you remember the gunshots before the crash. The way your father shouted your name telling you to get down. The way the bullet grazed your side before everything went black.

You’ve seen the files your uncle keeps locked away. You’ve heard the name that no one’s supposed to say out loud. But you’re still alive because you learned not to ask questions. Your scar still burns when it rains.

Now your uncle’s Range Rover hums through Ashbourne’s front gates like it owns the place — because, technically, it does.

“You nervous, kid?” he asks, grinning like he doesn’t run half the eastern seaboard. His sunglasses flash in the morning light. “College. Normal people. Midterms instead of shootouts.”

You look out the window. The gates are taller than you expected, black iron curling around the name like thorns. Students cross the lawns in clusters, laughing, dragging suitcases, looking ordinary.

“Not really,” you say. “Just ready.”

“Just remember,” he says, turning the wheel lazily, “if anyone messes with you—”

“—‘tell them who my uncle is.’ Yeah, I know.”

He laughs, the sound rough and fond. The kind that almost hides how dangerous he is.

The car slows to a stop. Ashbourne smells like wet stone and something older than you — the kind of place that’s seen more secrets than it should. The air hums with voices and movement, the sound of a world you’re supposed to blend into.

Everyone seems to already know where they’re going. You clutch your bag a little tighter.

Inside, it feels different than it did at the gates — the air heavy with floor wax and old stone, a kind of sharp-clean scent. 

The halls echo with too many footsteps, voices bouncing off ceilings that rise higher than they need to. Marble tiles stretch under your shoes, veined like they’ve been walked across for centuries, and the overhead lamps buzz faintly, halos of yellow catching in the metal fixtures.

Clusters of students spill out of offices and lounges, some laughing too loud, others already glued to their phones. A girl in boots drags a suitcase that rattles against the floor; a boy hugs his mom so tight you look away, like you’ve intruded.

Flyers curl on bulletin boards — auditions, mixers, warnings about fire alarms — paper layered so thick it looks uneven.

Each turn feels older, heavier, like the building’s been waiting for you longer than you’ve been alive. 

By the time you reach the dorm wing, it’s warmer. Laughter spilling from open doors, the faint hum of music from somebody’s speaker. Someone’s balancing a stack of pillows higher than their head; another sits cross-legged in a doorway, painting her nails with the calm of someone who’s already settled.

The walls here are softer, lined with cork boards and tacky RA posters reminding you to lock your door and “make good choices.”

When you push your door open, there’s already someone inside: a girl with soft curls and a lavender throw blanket draped neatly over her bed. 

She looks up instantly, her face splitting into a smile. It almost feels rehearsed from how—

“Oh my god! — you must be my roommate.” She bounces to her feet, hands out. “I’m Lila!”

You shake her hand, relieved. “Y/N. Hi.”

“You’re so tiny!” she blurts, eyes sparkling.

“Huh?’’ you blink. 

“Anyways, okay! This is goooood. You seem .. normal! I was terrified I’d get stuck with a nightmare roommate, like the kind who vapes in bed or brings a fucking hamster without telling you.”

You laugh, setting your bag down. “No hidden hamsters or .. vapes ...promise.”

“Thank god.” She waves a hand, already sitting cross-legged on her bed. “Okay, I know you’re new so — tour, or gossip first?

You raise a brow. “There’s gossip already?”

Her grin widens. “Babe, this school runs on gossip. It’s how people survive. Like, okay — number one, cafeteria food is poison. Everyone swears it. The fries are fine, but those cookies? Don’t do it. Number two, the drama kids? Think they’re celebrities. Like, red-carpet energy for walking into Psych 101. Number three, lacrosse boys — constantly shirtless, loud. You’ll hear them before you see them. And number four…” She tilts her head, lips twitching like she’s deciding whether to say more.

You wait for it, expect something big, since shes talking so much, but she just shakes her head. “Nah. You’ll find out.”

Your stomach knots with curiosity, but you don’t push. 

Instead, you set your bag down and start unpacking slowly, folding clothes into drawers you’re not sure you’ll ever keep tidy.

Lila hums softly to herself as she rearranges her desk, her lavender blanket glowing soft in the lamplight.

You keep sneaking glances at her, wondering if you got lucky.

Maybe you really did. Maybe this year won’t swallow you whole.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

The first day of classes arrives too quickly. You’re early, but the lecture hall is already packed. Every row seems full — voices, notebooks slamming shut, chairs scraping. 

You scan the room desperately until you spot it: one empty seat. 

Of course it’s in the very middle.

Your bag strap digs into your shoulder as you climb the stairs. That’s when you notice them sitting in the back row.

Four or five of them, sprawled like they own the place, desks cluttered with lighters and coffee cups. The air smells faintly of cologne and smoke, sharp enough to make your throat tight. 

Their conversation cuts off the second you pass.

One of them pops a lollipop out of his mouth with a wet click. He lowers his feet from the desk, leaning forward, eyes fixed on you like you’re already caught.

You keep walking, pulse hammering, pretending not to notice, sliding into the only free seat beside a girl with glossy black hair. 

She’s stunning in that untouchable way — long lashes, nails tapping against her notebook. But her face is carved flat, cold, like nothing here impresses her.

You hesitate, then whisper, “You’re really pretty.”

Her head snaps toward you. For a second she just blinks, startled, and then she lights up, the coldness cracking open. 

“Thanks!” she says, almost too brightly.

The boys behind you start snickering. Low, smug laughter. One of them mutters something you can’t catch, but the tone is enough.

“Look at the way she’s clutching her bag,” one of them mutters, low but deliberate. “Like someone’s gonna steal her crayons or some shit.”

Heat creeps up your neck. You keep your head down.

The girl rolls her eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical. She twists in her seat. “Don’t mind them. Assholes.”

A rough voice fires back instantly.

“I fucking heard that.”

When you glance over your shoulder — you stop breathing.

He’s beautiful in a way that feels dangerous. Jaw sharp, lashes thick, mouth caught between a smirk and a threat.

Tattoos wind down his forearm in black ink — wings, maybe, or blades hidden in vines. Your heart stutters because you know those shapes. You’ve seen something like them before — etched into old family ledgers, half-burned letters your father told you never to read.

You blink hard, looking away before he notices.

Then the door at the front bangs open.

A short man with a coffee-stained tie strides in, dropping a stack of papers onto the desk. The chatter dies instantly.

“Good morning!” he says, voice cutting. “I’m Professor Hartwell! This is Philosophy 101: Foundations of Thought. If you don’t know what that means, you’re in the wrong room.”

The class laughs weakly.

Hartwell adjusts his glasses, scanning the hall. “I see some familiar faces. Juniors. Seniors. And… a few fresh ones.” His eyes sweep briefly over you, pausing just long enough to make your stomach twist.

He claps his hands together. “Let me be very clear. This course isn’t easy. If you think it’s a free ride because you did well in high school, you’ll fail. Participation counts. Reading counts. Attendance counts. Questions?”

A hand goes up in the back. Not him — one of his friends.

“Yeah,” the guy says, lazy. “How much is, uh… cheating frowned upon?”

The class snickers nervously. Professor Hartwell doesn’t even blink. “Frown doesn’t even cover it, Yunho. Try ‘expelled.’ Next question.”

You hear the boys mutter something, muffled laughter. You don’t dare look.

You lower your gaze, opening your notebook just to keep your hands busy. The date goes down in uneven strokes. Then, before you realize it, your pen drifts — tracing the lines you saw on his arm. Wings. Blades. Vines.

You can’t stop yourself. It’s too sharp.

Too beautiful to not capture.

You’re still shading the lines when—

“—You.”

The voice slices through the silence, sharp. You jolt, pen slipping across the page. Fuck.

Your drawing's ruined.

“You. In the middle row.”

Your stomach drops. You look up. His finger is pointed directly at you.

“Yes, you. Since the doodles seem to be more important than the lecture…” Hartwell taps his marker against the board. "Thought experiment. Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. Define the shadows.”

Your mind goes blank. Laughter bubbles from somewhere behind you — low and ugly.

Every head seems to turn your way. 

The mocking voices in the back row hum like static — freshman, clueless, already fucking up.

You swallow hard. “I—”

Nothing comes out.

Hartwell’s stare sharpens, unimpressed. “Well? Enlighten us.”

You suck in a breath. And somehow, the words tumble out:

“They’re illusions. False reality. What people think they see, but isn’t real.”

A pause.

The room stills, even the laughter cuts off mid-breath.

Hartwell’s eyes narrow — then his mouth twitches into a smile, almost approving. He sets the chalk down. “Correct. Nicely done, freshman.”

Your face burns hotter, but this time it’s pride crackling beneath the embarrassment.

The girl beside you leans in, whispering, “Damn. You must be really fucking smart.” Her eyes sparkle, lips quirking like she wasn’t expecting you to have it in you.

You glance down at your notebook. The half-finished sketch of inked wings and thorns sits under your hand, ruined by the sudden jolt.

“Uh… thanks,” you murmur.

Behind you — there's silence. You don’t dare turn, but you can still feel it: their stare, sharp and assessing now, not mocking.

You snap back to drawing his tattoos, but not before the girl beside you glances at the page.

She blinks, then whispers, low enough that it feels dangerous:

“…Are you drawing Choi San’s tattoos?”

Your head whips toward her. “What—”

She tilts her chin toward the back row without looking directly. “That’s his arm. Everyone knows it.”

Your pulse skips. “I wasn’t— I mean—”

You exhale, cheeks burning, then admit quietly, “I just… like .. draw sometimes. Things I think are beautiful.”

Her brows shoot up, equal parts amused and intrigued. “You think that is beautiful?”

You glance down at the sketch again — the thorns, the wings, the way it twisted across his skin like it belonged there. Your throat feels tight.

“…Yeah. I do.”

The girl studies you for a beat too long, then huffs under her breath, half a laugh.

“You’re definitely fucking weird.”

But her smile says something else.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

The second Hartwell closes his book, you’re already on your feet.

“Dismissed,” he says, but you don’t wait for the rest. You shove your notebook into your bag, push through the door, the cool hallway air slapping your face.

“Hey — wait up!”

You turn. It’s the girl from beside you, jogging to catch up. She doesn’t look cold now — her eyes are bright, mouth quirking into a grin.

“Damn,” she says, out of breath. “You .. you’re really fast.”

You blink, still tense. 

She sticks her hand out. “Rhea.”

You hesitate, then take it. “Y/N.”

“Y/N.” She repeats it like she’s tasting the sound. Then she laughs. “Freshman face, deer-in-headlights vibe… and then you go and make Hartwell actually smile? Not what I was expecting.”

You blink at her, still a little dazed. “…Was that a compliment?”

“Eh.” She smirks. “Don’t get used to it. I’m just saying — you might be the weird kind of trouble, and honestly? I respect that.”

You’re about to answer when heavy footsteps echo closer.

A huge shoulder pushes into you, deliberate enough to slam you hard into the wall.

“Oops,” he says flatly, before strolling off with Yunho and the others trailing behind.

This ‘Choi San’ dude.

Your fists clench. It takes everything not to launch after him. But you think of keeping your head down, of not being the girl who explodes on her first day.

You smooth your shirt, swallow the heat, and keep walking — because you promised yourself you’d be normal here.

His sleeve shifts just enough for the ink to catch the light again. Dark lines twisting — wings, thorns, sharp edges. You freeze.

The shapes burn behind your eyes.

Familiar. Too familiar. Your pulse stutters.

Behind you, Rhea laughs under her breath. “He’s such a dick.”

You glare at her. She straightens immediately, biting her lip. “…Right. Sorry.”

For a second, it’s quiet again — just footsteps and the hum of conversation down the hall. Then her voice drops, softer, like she doesn’t really want to be overheard.

“Just… don’t let them get to you, okay? San and his friends — they’re kind of… a thing around here.”

You glance at her. “A thing?”

She shrugs, pretending it’s nothing. “You know. The type who think rules don’t apply to them. Everyone sort of… stays out of their way.”

You hum, noncommittal.

Her words linger long after the hallway starts to empty.

But so does the phantom weight of San’s shoulder slamming into yours — god, your shoulder genuinely starts to strain.

“Holy shit,” you groan, wobbling slightly. “How much does he — does he weigh? Like, is he secretly made of bricks?”

Rhea snorts, looping her arm through yours before you can protest. “I think you’re exaggerating,” she teases, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Or maybe you just have weak human shoulders. Either way, you look like you’re gonna combust. You need a safe space.”

“I’m fine,” you lie.

“Liar. C’mon.”

She drags you across the courtyard, through another dorm wing. Her door is propped open with a fuzzy slipper.

When you step inside, it’s like another world.

Warm fairy lights string across the ceiling. A fluffy rug sprawls under the bed, which is covered in pastel pillows. There’s a little cactus on the windowsill, vinyl records stacked in a milk crate, and polaroids taped in crooked rows on the wall. It’s… cute. So cute you can’t help blurting, “Wow.”

Rhea beams, tossing herself onto the bed. “I know, right? My masterpiece. Everyone else is like… grey sheets and ramen boxes. Not me. I thrive in aesthetics.”

You sit gingerly on the rug. “It’s nice.”

“Thanks!” She kicks her legs, then props herself on her elbows, staring at you. “Sooo…”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

Her grin turns wicked. “Do you have like.. a crush on San?”

You choke. “What? No! I just got here?!”

“Mmhm.”

“Fuck no.” You wave your hands, scrambling. “I’m not even into like.. older guys, okay? Like — at all.”

That’s a lie. A bold-faced, blistering lie.

Rhea doesn’t look convinced. “Okay, okay. Sure.” She smirks. “But come on. He’s so hot though.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Oh my god.”

“I mean —” She rolls onto her back, staring up at the string lights like she’s stargazing. “The jawline. The way he walks like he owns the room. The tattoos. You were literally drawing them. Admit it.” She lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I get it. I totally get it.”

You peek through your fingers at her. “You’re actually romanticizing him right now? After he kept making fun of me with his crew? And bumped into me?! On PURPOSE?!

“Yes.” She nods solemnly. “Because humiliation is temporary, but hot is forever.”

You fall back onto the rug, groaning into the fibers. “Kill me.”

Rhea laughs so hard she nearly falls off the bed, clutching her stomach. “You’re fun. I like you.”

And despite yourself, you can’t help but smile. Even with San’s smug face still burned behind your eyelids, this feels like the first real friend you’ve made here.

“You know what?” you say, narrowing your eyes. “You clearly know them. All of them. Spill.”

Her grin is instant. “Ah, the infamous back row boys. Where do I even start?”

You gesture impatiently. “Anywhere.”

“Fine.” She sits up, tucking her legs under herself, eyes sparkling. “There’s Mingi, who basically only eats. Like, in every lecture. Chips, pizza, once even soup. Loud, slurpy soup. Hartwell nearly lost his mind.”

You snort. “.. Soup?”

“Yep. And he just looked Hartwell dead in the eyes while slurping. Insanity.”

You’re laughing before you can stop yourself. “Okay, who else?”

“Then there’s Wooyoung. He’s… scary. Not like San-scary, more like ‘quiet until he explodes’ scary. Don’t piss him off. He once broke a vending machine with his bare hands.”

“Why?”

“It ate his dollar.”

Your mouth falls open. “Oh my god.”

"But to be honest, Wooyoung? He’s actually… sweet? In a weird way. He has this dumb laugh that makes everyone else laugh. But don’t let him fool you — he’ll still throw a punch if someone looks at him wrong.”

You tilt your head. “San?”

Rhea groans, collapsing dramatically onto her pillow. “Ugh, Choi San. The biggest whore on campus. No, like, literally. I don’t think there’s a girl he hasn’t…” She waves a hand. “You know.”

“Really?”

“Really. One time, my roommate — my old roommate — hooked up with him, and she swore he left in the middle of the night to go sleep with someone else. Same night.”

“Jesus.”

“And he doesn’t hide it. He’s shameless. He’ll flirt with two girls standing right next to each other. And they’ll both fall for it!” She grabs her pillow, yelling into it, then flops back down. “He’s a menace. Like a frat boy on steroids.”

You frown, biting your lip. “That’s… awful. I feel bad for them.”

“Don’t.” Rhea shrugs. “They know what they’re signing up for. San doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t even pretend to. He just… is who he is.”

Her voice softens, though, when she adds: “But, like… he has this thing. This way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the world when he looks at you. It’s messed up.”

Your chest tightens.

“So, how do you know them?” you ask.

Rhea picks at a thread on her blanket. “We grew up around here. Same neighborhoods, same circles. I knew them before Ashbourne. Before they… became whatever they are now.”

Her tone shifts, quieter. You catch it but let her keep talking.

“What about.. Yunho?” you press.

She sighs, her shoulders dropping. “Yunho and I actually liked each other. Like… real liked. For a while, it was good. He’s not like them — not really. He doesn’t want to be. But when he’s around them, it’s like he can’t help himself. Like he forgets who he is.”

You nod slowly. “So what happened?”

Rhea’s mouth twists. “He fucked me… and left. That’s it. No big fight, no explanation. Just done.” Her voice cracks a little, but she swallows it down fast. “I was stupid for thinking I’d be the exception.”

Your chest aches. You shift onto the bed beside her, resting a hand on her arm. “That’s not stupid. You trusted him. That’s not your fault.”

She blinks at you, then forces a small smile. “You’re too nice. You’ll get eaten alive here.”

“Not if I avoid them.”

“Mm.” Rhea looks at you knowingly. “Good luck with that.”

She kicks her legs idly against the edge of her bed, looking at you with a curious tilt of her head. “Okay, enough about the boys. Tell me about you.”

You laugh nervously, tugging at a loose thread on her blanket. “Me? There’s not much to say.”

“Please.” She throws a pillow at you, grinning. “You think I dragged you all the way to my cute little sanctuary just to rant about them? No, babe. Spill. What’s your deal?”

You hesitate, staring at your hands. “Well, I—”

The words catch in your throat. 

You hesitate, staring at your hands.

I lost my parents. I—

But you stop yourself. Your jaw tightens, the confession slipping into silence before it can escape.

Rhea blinks, waiting. “You…?”

You clear your throat and plaster on a smile. “I… am from a tiny, boring town. Like, middle of nowhere. If you blink, you’d miss it.”

Her brows knit for a second — she definitely noticed the way you cut yourself off—but she doesn’t press. Instead, she nods slowly. “Okay, small-town girl. That actually makes sense.”

“Why?”

“Because you give off smart, polished vibes.” She smirks, tapping her chin. “Like you read books for fun or something.”

“I do read books for fun.”

“Exactly.” She points at you like she’s caught you red-handed. “Total nerd. That’s why you’re in Hartwell’s class. Only insane people sign up for him.”

You roll your eyes, laughing despite yourself. “Guess that makes us both insane.”

“True. But you…” she trails off, looking at you more thoughtfully now. “You must be really smart, huh?”

You shrug, uncomfortable under the sudden softness in her tone. “Not really. I just… work hard.”

“Same thing.” Rhea grins, like she’s decided something about you already. “And you can draw? God, you’re such a contrast to them. Like, night and day.”

You raise a brow. “That’s a compliment, right?”

“Duh.” She tosses her pillow back onto the bed. “Anyway, you’re stuck with me now. Deal with it.” 

She holds out a bowl of candy like it’s a peace offering. “You want some?”

You grab one and flop back onto her rug. “You’re enabling my sugar addiction.”

“Obviously. That’s what friends are for.” She pops two into her mouth, then sits up suddenly. “Okay, rapid fire. Favorite color?”

You blink. “Uh — blue?”

“Good choice. Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee.”

She gasps dramatically. “My twin flame.”

You both dissolve into laughter, giggling like you’ve been doing this forever. She touching a section of your hair absentmindedly, tugging gently while telling you about how she once dyed Yunho’s eyebrows pink when he fell asleep at San’s house.

You can barely breathe from laughing. “That’s evil.”

“He deserved it. And he looked hot, don’t even lie.”

You shake your head, grinning. “You’re insane.”

It’s ridiculous how fast this feels normal. You’ve only known her a couple hours, but it feels like years — like one of those friendships that just click.

Eventually, you glance at the time on her pink alarm clock. “Shit. I should probably get back to my dorm, start my homework.”

“Boooooo.” She flops back dramatically, star-fishing on her comforter.

You pause, halfway to standing, and then a thought hits you. “Wait — do you know Lila? She’s my roommate.”

The change is instant. Rhea’s face shutters like someone flipped a switch. Her lips press into a thin line. “Oh. Her.”

Your stomach dips. “Uh… yeah?”

“She’s —” Rhea sits up slowly, fiddling with a pillow seam. “Let’s just say she’s not as sweet as she looks. She… did some crazy shit. She’s messy as fuck. Don’t trust her too much.”

You bite your lip, caught between curiosity and discomfort. You don’t really know any of them well enough to take sides. “…Right.”

Rhea softens when she sees your expression. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump that on you. Just — be careful, okay?”

“Okay.” You sling your bag over your shoulder. “Thanks, Rhea. For… everything.”

She smiles faintly, already fluffing her pillows. “Anytime.”

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

You take the elevator up to your floor, the hum of it oddly grounding after all that chaos. 

When you unlock your dorm, Lila is perched on her desk chair, hanging string lights with little clips shaped like stars. A soft playlist hums from her laptop.

She spins when you enter, bright-eyed. “Hey! How was your first day?”

You blink, momentarily thrown. She really does seem… sweet. Normal.

“It was… eventful.” You drop onto your bed, kicking off your shoes. “Actually —” You launch into the whole messy story: the class, the group of boy, meeting Rhea.

Lila laughs in all the right places, tucks her hair behind her ear when you talk about Rhea dragging you off. “Wow. Sounds like you’ve already had the full Ashbourne experience.”

“Don’t tell me there’s more.”

“Oh, there’s always more.” She spins around to look toward you, grinning. 

You grin faintly, though a little voice in your head can’t forget Rhea’s sharp tone: don’t trust her too much.

Still… looking at Lila stringing up her twinkly lights, humming along to the song, it’s hard to believe she could be anything but kind.

“Hartwell is notorious for piling on the work. Midterms here are brutal.”

You throw an arm over your eyes. “Kill me now.”

She laughs. “Don’t worry. The schedule makes up for it. Most people only have one or three classes a day. Sometimes none. That’s why people call it a ‘fake hard school.’”

You peek at her. “Fake hard?”

“Yeah. Like, the work is soul-crushing, but you also have Fridays off sometimes.”

You snort. “Okay, I can live with that.”

For a while, you just chat — about professors, the best coffee spot near campus, how to avoid the laundry machines that eat socks. It feels easy. Comfortable.

Then Lila perks up suddenly. “Hey. Wanna walk around? I’ll show you the good stuff.”

“Sure.” You grab a hoodie, tugging it over your head, and follow her out.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

The campus is alive in a beautiful way — orange sky bleeding into purple, students wandering with iced coffees, couples tucked on benches. Lila points things out as you walk. 

“That’s the library — open 24/7, but avoid finals week unless you like the smell of tears. Over there’s the dining hall. Don’t eat the cookies.”

You laugh, stuffing your hands into your hoodie pocket.

Eventually, curiosity nags at you. “So… Rhea.”

Lila slows, then lets out a sigh. “Yeah. Rhea.”

You glance at her carefully. “She mentioned… something. About a fallout?”

“She would.” Lila tucks her hair back, looking more serious now. “Look, we were friends. For a while. But things got messy.”

“Messy how?”

“It had to do with… one of the guys.” She shrugs, her voice steady but quiet. “Lines got crossed, trust got broken. And instead of talking it out, she iced me. Pretends I don’t exist now.”

You chew your lip. It’s so different from Rhea’s venom. Lila doesn’t seem angry — just… resigned. Mature, even.

Before you can respond, though, your stomach drops.

Across the quad, you see them again. The boys. Sprawled across a bench like they own it. Cigarettes glowing, laughter loud. San leans back with a girl perched across his lap, her nails digging into his shoulder.

Lila is still talking — something about Hartwell’s weird statue traditions — but your focus has zeroed in on him.

“Can we go the other way?” you cut in, a little too sharply.

She blinks at you. “Huh? Why?”

“They're just— weird, I don’t—”

“Hey!”

The voice slices through the air, smug and sharp. San.

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave, smoke curling around his mouth. The girl on him frowns and smacks his chest. He just smirks wider.

Your pulse spikes. Without another word, you turn on your heel and stalk the opposite direction. 

She keeps chattering, scurrying after you, still oblivious, as you round the science building. “Oh, here’s the greenhouse. Super pretty in spring —”

And then a tall figure cuts across the path.

“Lila!”

She lights up instantly, jogging forward. The guy catches her mid-run, lifting her clean off the ground like she weighs nothing. She laughs, muffled against his chest.

You slow, awkward, hovering on the edge of the sidewalk.

He’s tall — broad shoulders wrapped in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow. There’s a heavy watch glinting on his wrist, and just above it, ink peeks from under the fabric — black lines curling into the faint outline of a serpent coiling around a dagger.

Not the kind of tattoo you get for fun.

When Lila finally turns, she’s grinning. “Oh! Y/N, this is my boyfriend.” She tucks her hair behind her ear, cheeks flushed. “Babe, this is my new roommate.”

The guy offers his hand, polite but commanding. “.. Jaehyun.”

Your stomach twists. The name hits something — distant, familiar.

And when you look closer, his face does too. You’ve definitely seen him before.

But where?

“Wait. Y/N?”

You freeze.

“Oh shit. It is you.” His face softens, guilt creeping into his eyes. “You go here now? I— I heard about your parents, I’m so sorry. What they said happened, it—”

The rest blurs out.

The air leaves your lungs in one harsh rush. All you can see is the flash of headlights, all you can smell is burnt metal.

“I — sorry,” you choke out, already backing away.

“Y/N, wait —” Lila’s voice is distant, muffled, drowned by the ringing in your ears.

But you’re already moving, fast. The ringing in your ears builds until it’s all you can hear, your chest pulling tight with every breath. You can’t stop. You can’t breathe.

But the school is too big, every building identical, every hallway stretching forever. “Fuck,” you whisper, clutching at your hoodie. “Where am I — what side —”

And then — bam.

You slam into a solid chest. The impact jolts you back, your shoulder stinging.

“Watch where you’re fucking going.”

That voice.

Low. Rough. Lazy in that dangerous way that makes your pulse spike.

You look up — and meet San’s eyes.

Your stomach drops, but your feet keep moving, following without thinking, like he’s the only compass you’ve got.

You have no plan, no direction, and the lobby is a blur. Maybe he’s going somewhere safe. Maybe the elevator.

The girl notices. Her gaze snaps to you, annoyed. “Uh, do you mind?” she says, voice dripping with attitude. “You’re literally following us.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Just shallow gasps.

Your head swims. You try to speak, but the words don’t come. Just air, thin and stuttering.

You shadow them into the dorm lobby, ignoring the girl’s hissed complaints, stumbling into the elevator as the doors close. The air feels too thick, walls closing in.

She tilts her head, smirking. “Oh my god — are you, like — obsessed with him or something?”

San doesn’t even glance at her. Just exhales smoke, bored. The scent of nicotine and something darker curls between you as the elevator doors slide shut.

“How the fuck are you out of breath?” he mutters, eyes flicking lazily to you. “You didn’t even walk that far.”

The girl scoffs, muttering, “She probably has a crush on you.”

You barely hear her.

The elevator dings. Finally.

You stumble out, nearly tripping over your own feet, fumbling with your keycard. Inside your dorm, you rip open drawers, digging, tossing notebooks, sweaters, everything onto the floor.

“Come on, come on, come on…”

No pills. They’re gone.

Your hands tremble so hard you nearly drop your inhaler when you finally find it, pressed between two textbooks. You shove it to your lips, gasping, desperate.

One, two, three breaths. The medicine burns down your throat. Slowly, the vise around your chest begins to loosen.

But your hands don’t stop shaking.

You sink onto your bed, body folding in on itself. The world is too quiet now. And the quiet brings it back. 

The real memory.

Not the “drunk driver” story they told the press. Not the accident the cops “investigated.”

The truth.

The gunfire.

You were in the backseat, laughing about something stupid — a song your dad butchered the lyrics to. Then there was a flash of light in the side mirror. A black car pulling up fast, windows down.

Your mom’s laughter died mid-breath.

The first shot shattered the rear glass. Then another.

Your dad’s arm flung across your chest, instinct. Tires screamed. The world tilted — metal groaned — and the car rolled, the sound of grinding steel swallowing every other noise.

Smoke. Blood. Your mom’s perfume heavy in the air.

You remember the warmth of the gun when you touched it — still hot from the man who’d used it. The one they said was “too drunk to remember.”

Lies.

Your uncle made sure of that. Paid them off. Covered it up. Called it a “tragedy.”

But you remember everything.

You touch your side, tracing the scar hidden beneath your shirt. The place the bullet grazed you — deep enough to remind you that you were supposed to die too.

The ache tightens your throat.

You survived. But some nights, it doesn’t feel like you did.

The door clicks open.

“Y/N?”

The guilt claws at you, sharper than any physical pain. Why them? Why not you–

“Y/N?” Lila’s says again. “Hey, are you…?” She trails off when she sees you, crumpled in the blankets.

You scrub at your face, forcing composure. “I’m fine.”

She hovers at the edge of the bed. “I — I just wanted to say… earlier, with Jaehyun. I didn’t know. About your parents.”

The air between you tightens.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers, eyes wide, hands twisting in her sleeves.

You shake your head quickly, cutting her off. 

“It’s fine. Really. I don’t—” Your throat threatens to close again. You swallow it down. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Lila hesitates, then nods softly. “Okay. I won’t push.”

The silence after is fragile, like glass balanced on the edge of a table.

You roll onto your side, facing the wall. “Thanks.”

She lingers a moment longer, then turns back to her desk, the quiet hum of her music filling the cracks. But no music, no voices, no lights can fill the space your parents left.

You close your eyes, letting the ache stay. Because there’s no outrunning it. Not really.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

The next morning, you wake up with a pit in your stomach but refuse to let it win. You go full work mode — shower, hoodie, notebook, coffee in hand. If you just do, maybe you won’t think.

Classes blur one after another. To your relief, the group of boys is nowhere to be found. 

Instead, Rhea is in every single class you walk into, grinning when she sees you, patting the empty seat next to her like you’ve been friends for years already.

By the time she pulls you into the library, the weight in your chest has eased a little. You claim a corner table by the tall windows, spreading out your notes. Rhea chews her pen cap and mutters, “Hartwell is trying to murder us all, I swear.”

You giggle, flipping through your textbook. “Don’t say that, I might believe you.”

She nudges your ankle under the table, and the two of you slip easily into studying together, trading notes and complaints. It’s quiet. Safe.

Until a shadow falls across your desk.

“Wow. Look at the nerds.”

You don’t even have to look up. His voice is unmistakable.

Rhea groans. “Oh my god, go away, San.”

He’s leaning against the table like he owns it, hands shoved in his pockets, smirk curling his mouth. “What, I can’t come say hi to my favorite girl?”

You freeze — until you realize he’s looking right past you, at Rhea.

She throws her pen at him. “You’re insufferable.”

He dodges easily, laughing. “C’mon, you missed me.”

Then his eyes flick to you— — and away

Your stomach twists. 

Footsteps.

The girl you saw in the elevator last night, his girlfriend, you assume, slides up to him with effortless confidence.

His grin widens. She kisses his cheek lightly, murmuring, “Hey, babe.”

Your chest tightens. They look… kind of perfect together. Like a photograph you’re not supposed to notice.

He slips an arm around her waist as they walk over to the seats near the window, laughter trailing behind them.

“Wow,” you mutter under your breath. “Older, cooler girls already have dibs on the hot guys.”

Rhea sighs, turning back to you. “Mhm. And that’s exactly why you don’t—”

“Don’t what?”

She meets your eyes, serious now. “Don’t fall for him. Don’t even think about it. He’ll chew you up and spit you out before you even realize what happened.”

Your throat tightens. You glance over again, just once, just long enough to catch San hitting his vape despite the giant  'No Smoking' sign, grin sharp in the glow.

He tips his head back and laughs at something the girl says, careless and untouchable.

And you hate yourself for it, but — something in you wants to know what’s behind that laugh. What’s underneath all the bravado.

Why does he look like someone who used to care?

You snap your eyes back to your notes before Rhea can catch you staring. “Yeah. You’re right,” you mumble. “I’d never.”

“Good.” She softens again, nudging your notebook toward you. “Focus. You’re too smart to waste your time.”

You grip your pen tighter, forcing yourself to focus, scribbling down lines of notes you won’t even remember later. 

But San’s laugh drifts across the library again, and no matter how hard you try to block it out — your hand trembles just a little on the page.

⋆༺𓆩❀𓆪༻⋆

The dorm is quiet when you get back, the door clicking shut behind you.

Lila’s bed is empty, sheets still messy from the morning, her shoes gone from under the desk. Relief hums through you — no questions, no company, just .. silence.

You dump your bag on the floor, peel off your hoodie, and sink into your bed with your phone. Just a minute to scroll, you tell yourself. 

Just a little distraction before the guilt of unfinished work creeps back in.

Instagram opens to the familiar feed, but your thumb drifts almost instinctively to the search bar. Rhea. Her profile is the first that pops up, bright and polished. 

Her smile beams in every post — sun-soaked selfies, coffee dates, nights out. She looks effortless, confident in the way you’ve never been.

You tap through, almost hypnotized, until you find yourself in her followers list. Scrolling. Scanning. And there — San.

You hesitate for half a second, then click.

His profile is exactly what you should’ve expected. Dark, grainy photos of parties. Cigarettes and liquor bottles. His hand flipping off the camera in some half-lit parking lot. 

And of course — her. His girlfriend. Her @ pinned right in his bio. Her face appears in his highlights, tucked against his side, grinning like she belongs there.

Your stomach twists. You should back out, lock your phone, do literally anything else.

Instead, your thumb slides down.

The deeper you go, the worse it gets. San with his arm slung around her waist, San shirtless in some mirror selfie, San smirking like he knows exactly what you’re thinking right now.

His jaw sharp under the glow of streetlights, his mouth parted just enough, smoke curling past his lips.

Late-night parties, messy laughter, shirtless clips in someone’s kitchen. Him with his arm thrown around his friends, head tilted back in a slow grin that feels dangerous.

Your thighs press together before you even notice.

And then — it happens too quickly. You’re sliding lower in bed, one hand clutching your phone while the other drifts down, tracing over your waistband. 

Just to take the edge off, you tell yourself. 

Just — because you can’t stop thinking about him. His jawline, his tattoos, the quick glance he gave you earlier. Like he’d somewhat stripped you down in his head.

You breathe out slow. Tilt the phone closer. Zoom in on one of the photos where his shirt is half-open, necklace glinting against his skin.

Your fingers slip under your waistband.

It’s pathetic. Embarrassing. You don’t even care.

Your breath hitches as you circle your clit, soft at first, just enough pressure to make you gasp. He’s still smirking at you from the screen, cocky, infuriating, like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

The heat builds faster than you expect. Your body arches into your own touch, your bitten-back moans muffled into your blanket. 

“Fuck,” you whisper into the silence, thighs trembling as your hips roll.

You scroll again landing on a video — him laughing into the camera, smoke curling from his lips, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip.

And his hands, always on someone, grabbing, pulling, owning. 

Your body shudders at the thought of them on you. You bite down hard on your lip, muffling the whimper that almost escapes. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Your hips buck.

"So close—!"

And that’s when the door creaks.

----

masterlist chapter 2

It’s not just in your head — you can feel it in the small things. The way your feet drag just a little slower when you walk into work. The way your makeup bag has sat untouched for five days now. 

The way food has started tasting like nothing. 

You’ve been moving through life like it’s underwater, and everything takes more effort than you have left to give. You don’t even know why it hit you this hard this time. 

It’s not like you haven’t been dumped before. But maybe it’s the way it happened. Or the timing. Or maybe it’s just the accumulation of everything — a slow avalanche of little losses.

And today... you didn’t even want to show up. But you did. You always do.

The café is warm, bright, filled with the usual buzz of music and half-hearted small talk. 

You’re in your uniform, hair tied back, apron looped loosely around your waist, and everything feels too tight. The lights are too bright. The sound of espresso machines is too loud. 

The people are too much.

And then there’s Mingi.

He’s always been around. Tall. Warm smile. Soft eyes. Just kind of… present.

You’ve worked alongside him a hundred times, but it’s never been more than casual hellos and polite jokes. 

You know he’s dated a couple of girls here and there — not that you paid that much attention. He’s sweet. Too sweet, maybe. And somehow, they never seemed to last.

But he’s not your problem. Never was. You never even thought about being his. Until now.

“Hey,” he says when he sees your name on the shift schedule beside his. He grins. “Looks like it’s you and me today.”

You manage a faint smile. “Yeah. Lucky you.”

He laughs softly, doesn’t push it. “You doing okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah, just tired.”

It’s a lie. You can tell he knows it.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Halfway through your shift, you’re wiping down the counter when a customer — a woman, late 30s maybe, dressed like she wants everyone to know she shops somewhere expensive — squints at you.

“Shit, you look tired,” she says, frowning.

“Sorry?” you say, trying to stay polite.

“You sick? You really shouldn’t be handling food if you’re sick.”

You blink. “I’m not sick.”

“Well, you look sick,” she says, like that somehow makes it better. “Maybe put on a little makeup next time, honey. I wouldn’t want to be served by someone who looks like they’ve been crying all morning.”

You feel it like a slap. No warning. Just raw and direct.

“Anyways,” she sighs, “I’ll have a matcha latte. Oat milk. Extra hot. And one of those almond croissants, if they’re fresh.”

You punch in the order with trembling fingers. Nod. 

She doesn’t thank you. Just taps away on her phone as you turn to prep her drink, your breath catching in your throat, the back of your eyes burning. Again. You don’t even realize how fast it all comes rushing back.

The way your reflection haunted you this morning. The guilt. The sickness in your stomach — both real and imagined.

You hand her the drink when it’s done. She doesn’t make eye contact. Just takes it and leaves, her heels clicking against the tile like punctuation marks. You stare at her for a second too long, then mumble something about taking your break, slipping into the back room before anyone can stop you. 

You don't wait for Mingi to offer help or ask questions. You don’t even look at him. You can’t.

The second the door swings closed behind you, you collapse down against the wall, knees to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield, and you just— break.

No one’s there to see. Just your own silence, except it isn’t silence, not really. It’s breathing that won’t regulate. 

It’s the sound of your tears hitting your sleeves. It’s your chest heaving in stuttered sobs as everything in you just... caves in.

You don’t know how long you’re there. Could be two minutes. Could be ten. But then the door clicks open, and you flinch.

“Hey, you okay? Man, it’s crazy out there,” Mingi says lightly, before the door even fully shuts — like he’s trying to make a joke out of it.

And then he sees you.

“Oh,” he says, voice dipping instantly into something softer. “Oh—shit.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t even look at him.

There’s silence. Then the sound of a paper towel dispenser. He crouches beside you, slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a bird.

“Here,” he murmurs, offering a handful of napkins.

You take them with trembling hands. Still don’t speak.

He doesn’t ask anything. Doesn’t press you to explain. He just lowers himself down beside you, legs stretched out, back against the wall, and sits in silence.

You cry. Quietly now, softer, the edges of it worn down just a little. The weight of someone else in the room, not judging, not demanding, not fixing — just being — somehow makes it easier to breathe.

Eventually, your tears slow. Your chest stops shaking. You wipe your face, take one deep, uneven breath, and force yourself to speak.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

You glance at him, finally, and his eyes are already on you — not pitying. Just kind. Steady.

You push yourself up to stand, wobbling slightly, and he rises with you.

“Thank you,” you say, voice quiet. “Even though you didn’t really… I mean. Not that you didn’t do anything, but—just being there made it feel less—” 

You stop yourself, eyes flicking away.  “I’ve felt really alone this week. That meant a lot.”

There’s a pause.

Then he smiles. A little crooked. A little sad.

“You’re nervous,” he says, and there’s something fond in his tone that makes your chest ache.

“I know,” you murmur, laughing wetly. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “You’re welcome. And… I know we haven’t really talked like this before. But if you need someone, I’m here.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek.

And when you walk back out — blinking under the lights again — the world doesn’t feel fixed. But it feels a little less heavy. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re not entirely alone after all.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The next morning, you wake up with the same dull ache behind your eyes and a heaviness that feels stitched into your limbs. You stare at your phone screen — the brightness too harsh — and blink at the time.

You’re late.

There’s no time for breakfast. Not that it matters. The thought of food still turns your stomach. You barely manage to throw your uniform on, brush your teeth, pull your hair into something halfway presentable. Still no makeup. You don’t even have the energy to pretend you’re okay.

By the time you arrive at work, everything feels like it's tilting sideways. 

The fluorescent lights stab at your temples, the noise drills into your skull, and your stomach feels like a hollow drum echoing with nothing.

You're not okay. But you smile anyway. It doesn’t take long before Mingi spots it.

You’re restocking the pastry case, trying not to sway on your feet, when you hear his voice behind you — soft, but curious.

“Hey. You good?”

You turn halfway, forcing a quick nod. “Yeah. Just a little tired.”

He tilts his head, unconvinced. “You look… kind of pale.”

“I always look pale.”

He doesn’t laugh like you hoped he would. “No like.. you look like you’re about to pass out.”

You grip the edge of the counter a little tighter. “I swear, I’m good.”

Mingi doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you for a moment. 

His brows knit together like he’s debating something—

“Okay, no. You’re not good.” He steps forward, gently takes your arm. His hand is warm. Firm but careful. “Come to the back. Let’s get you something to refuel.”

You hesitate, caught off-guard by how quickly he decided for you. He’s not usually like this. Not pushy. But there’s something about the concern in his voice that makes it impossible to argue.

So you follow.

Your arms are crossed, your body language tight. He doesn’t seem fazed. The back room is quiet again, the low hum of the fridge and the muffled buzz of voices outside the only sounds.

Mingi moves to one of the storage shelves, rummages for something, then turns to the mini-fridge. He pulls out a bottle of water and unscrews it, dumping in a small scoop of something from a ziplock bag.

You watch, curious despite yourself.

“Electrolyte mix,” he says, shaking the bottle with practiced ease. 

“It’s got potassium, sodium, magnesium — all the good stuff. Helps with fatigue, dizziness, all that fun stuff.”

You raise a brow. “Why do you keep that on you?”

“You ever tried working eight hours on just espresso shots and trauma? This stuff’s a lifesaver.”

He holds it out to you. You hesitate.

“I know the flavor’s not great,” he adds quickly, like he can read your mind. “Tastes like strawberry-flavored chalk. But it helps.”

You take it. Fingers brushing. The bottle is cold in your hands, condensation slick against your skin.

You sip.

He wasn’t lying. It’s not great. But it’s not bad either. You swallow, nod once, and take another sip.

Mingi grins. “Told you.”

He leans back against the counter beside you, arms folded, still watching you — not with intensity, but with this soft kind of attentiveness. 

Like he’s checking to make sure you’re actually still breathing.

“So,” he says, casual, like you didn’t just almost collapse in front of him, “Do you ever, like, eat? Or are you surviving on stubbornness and spite?”

You almost choke on the drink, a small laugh escaping your throat before you can stop it. You glance at him, and he’s smiling — wide, boyish, unbothered.

You shrug. “Guess I haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

His smile falters just a little. “Yeah. I figured.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you drink again.

He fills the silence, like he always does. 

Talking, easy and constant, about nothing in particular — how the new manager miscounted the till again, how the espresso machine makes a weird groaning noise when it’s pissed off, how one of the customers tipped him in foreign coins last week and he’s now the proud owner of what might be an Icelandic króna.

You give him short replies — a few nods, a small smile here and there — but mostly you just listen. Because he talks. And he’s bright. For the first time in over a week, you forget how empty you’ve been feeling.

It’s not that the sadness disappears. It’s still there, quiet and distant, like a storm sitting far out at sea. But here, in this little room with harsh lights and half-melted protein powder, it doesn’t feel like it’s crushing you.

You finish the drink.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. A little.”

He smiles, and you think maybe he’s relieved.

“You know,” he says after a beat, more serious now, “you don’t have to wait until you’re falling over to ask for help.”

You stare at the bottle in your hands. “I didn’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not.”

He says it so easily. No hesitation. You look at him, and he’s already looking at you — with that same softness he had yesterday when he sat beside you on the floor. 

That same quiet understanding. Like he knows you’re unraveling and isn’t scared of it.

“I don’t really know how to talk about things,” you admit, voice small.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Then don’t. Just... let someone sit with you when it gets heavy. That’s enough.”

There’s a pause. Then you nod.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“You keep saying that like I’m doing you a favor,” he says. “But I want to be here.”

You look down, cheeks warm. “Now come on,” he adds, nudging your shoulder gently. “Let’s finish this shift so we can complain about it later.”

You smile — a real one this time — and follow him back out. And somehow, everything doesn’t feel quite as fragile anymore.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

It’s been a few weeks since you broke down in the back room with Mingi. Things have shifted since then.

Nothing huge — just small things. Subtle. Like how you actually smile when you walk in now. 

Like how Mingi always finds a way to ask you how you’re doing, even if it’s through sarcasm and jokes. Like how, when things slow down between rushes, you two lean against the counter together and talk.  About music. About bad tattoos.

You still don’t talk about the week — the one where everything fell apart. But he doesn’t bring it up either. It’s like you made a silent agreement: the past can stay in the background. What matters is now.

You’ve started eating again. Not a lot, not consistently, but enough that your body isn’t screaming for help. Enough that your mind feels a little clearer. And that, somehow, is enough for now.

Today feels okay. You’re halfway through a lull in the shift. 

Mingi’s finishing a story about how he once accidentally gave a man two shots of dishwater instead of espresso (you still don’t know if he’s lying or not), and you’re laughing, light, real — until the bell over the door rings.

And everything in you goes still.

You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. The voice — his voice — slides in like ice against skin.

“Holy shit,” he says, loud enough for you and Mingi both to hear, “I forgot how much I missed this place.”

Your stomach turns. You glance up, just barely. And there he is.

Your ex.

Smiling like nothing happened. Like he didn’t gut you and walk away without blinking. Like he didn’t leave you questioning your own worth for weeks.

He walks up to the counter, eyes locking on yours like it’s a challenge. And he smirks.

“You still work here, huh?” he says, pretending to look around. “Figures. You always liked pretending you were better than this place, but I guess you came crawling back too.”

You don’t say anything. Your heart’s hammering too loud in your ears.

He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the counter. “Not gonna say anything?”

You press your lips together. He clicks his tongue. “Still doing that silent treatment thing, huh? You were better at that when you were sneaking around.”

You blink. Hard. A few customers are still lingering nearby. 

Mingi is watching from the side, slowly going still. His expression darkens. You exhale quietly. “What do you want to order?”

He raises his eyebrows like he’s impressed. “Alright. Business mode. I respect it.” He gives you his usual order, like nothing’s wrong. You make it quickly, efficiently. Your hands are shaking.

When you set the cup down, he takes it — then hesitates.

“You’re really not gonna say anything to me?”

You don’t look at him. But you feel the eyes on you. Mingi’s, specifically. His gaze is sharp now, focused.

Your ex follows that glance, and turns.

“What’s up with this guy?” he says, gesturing toward Mingi. “He supposed to help you? He your little therapist or something?”

Mingi doesn’t say anything. But he takes a single step closer. Subtle. And that’s it.

You step around the counter, grab your ex by the arm — firmly, but without a scene — and mutter, “Come outside.” He doesn’t hesitate. He never did. Not when he was being given attention.

The air outside hits your skin cold. The sidewalk is mostly empty. The sky is grey. You turn on him before he can say another word.

“You can’t just come to my job and do this.”

He laughs. Like you said something hilarious. “Do what?” he shrugs. “Order a drink? Talk to someone I used to know? I didn’t realize I was violating your healing journey.”

You glare. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh, so now you’ve got words,” he says, smile hardening. “Where were all those when I found out you were making out with some dude at that party? Huh?”

Your voice catches. “I was drunk,” you snap. “I told you! I explained! I said sorry so many times!”

“Yeah, and that’s supposed to fix it?” he asks, eyes narrowing. “You really convinced yourself you’re the one who got hurt, didn’t you?”

You step back, hands clenched. “I was in a bad place. We both were. We hadn’t spoken in days, and I— I made a mistake.”

“You always make mistakes,” he says coldly. “And somehow I always end up being the one who pays for them.”

Your throat burns.

“Why are you still doing this?” you whisper. “Why are you still trying to tear me down after you left?”

He shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to see if you’d changed.”

You scoff. “You don’t want me to change. You want me to stay the same so you can keep blaming me for everything.”

He doesn’t respond. You barely have time to flinch before his hand is on you — not hard at first, but wrong. Fingers tight around your wrist.

“Let go,” you snap, trying to pull away.

He doesn’t.

“Seriously—let go.”

You try again, but this time he grabs you harder, other hand coming up fast, catching you just below the chin — rough, not quite choking, but holding.

“You still talk so fucking much,” he mutters, voice low and dangerous. “But you don’t listen, do you?”

You try to twist out of his grip — but suddenly his mouth crashes into yours. It isn’t gentle. It isn’t wanted. It’s possessive, like he thinks he still owns you. You shove at his chest, panic kicking in, but he doesn’t let go until he wants to.

And when he does, he steps back just slightly, breathing heavy, eyes flat. Then he laughs — like he’s disgusted with himself.

“You know what?” he spits. “I don’t even know why I kissed you. Probably just muscle memory at this point.”

You’re still reeling, lips burning, voice stuck in your throat.

“I spent that night wondering where the fuck you were, if you were safe, if you were okay,” he continues, tone venomous. “But you were too busy giving your lips to some random asshole at a party. Guess I should’ve been kissing someone else, too, right? Just to keep up, yeah?”

You try to speak — to say anything — but your throat is tight, your whole body frozen in shock. His eyes flick down at you, then up again — sharp, judgmental.

“God, it's almost like I can taste him on you,” he mutters, voice dripping with cruelty. “You’re not even worth the fucking effort.”

Then he steps back. Smooths his shirt. Straightens like he’s the one who’s been wronged. “I’ll see you, Y/N,” he says, tone casual — like you didn’t just get shoved and kissed and shredded all at once.

Then he walks away. And you just stand there — cold, stunned, humiliated. You don’t cry.

Not yet.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

When you step back in, the bell above the café door chimes softly. Mingi’s head snaps up immediately. He’s still by the counter, mid-way through restocking cups — but the moment he sees your face, everything in him stills.

Your skin’s pale. Your lips are blotchy. And something in your eyes is just… off. He clocks it all in a second.

“Y/N?” His voice is quiet, cautious. “What happened?”

You shake your head too fast. “Nothing.”

It comes out tight. Too tight. You clear your throat, force your fingers through your hair, tucking it behind your ear like that’ll make you look less shaken.

“Just… just some guy from high school. An old friend.”

Mingi doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares. Slowly, his jaw flexes.

“Friend?” he repeats, low. “The one that made you look like you just saw a ghost?”

You try to smile — you do. But it slips, too fast. Doesn’t touch your eyes. “Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “Something like that.”

Mingi doesn’t push. But the way his eyes search your face — like he’s reading a page only half-torn — tells you he doesn’t believe a single word.

Still, he just nods, quiet. His voice, when it comes, is calm but edged. “Okay. Well. If that ‘friend’ ever shows up again…” — he glances toward the coffee machine, then back at you — “…I’ve got a full pot and excellent aim.”

That pulls a laugh out of you. Soft. Shaky. Not quite enough to push the nausea down. But enough to keep you on your feet.

You mouth a quiet “Thank you.” And Mingi just nods once, like he’s promising more than coffee.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

It’s been a few days since he came in. You haven’t been the same since. It’s subtle, at first. A little quieter in the morning. A little more distracted on the floor. 

You mess up an order you’ve made a hundred times. You catch yourself zoning out when Mingi talks. He notices, of course. He always notices. But he doesn’t say anything — not yet.

He just keeps doing what he always does: showing up for you. Bringing you a smoothie he swears has “life-restoring properties” (it tastes like banana-flavored regret). 

Sliding you his half of a muffin when he notices you haven’t touched yours. Making you laugh even when you don’t want to. It should help.

But it doesn’t. Not really. Not when your mind keeps echoing that one thing: “You really convinced yourself you’re the one who got hurt, didn’t you?”

The more Mingi smiles at you, the more it hurts. Because you can’t understand it — how someone like him still looks at someone like you and sees something worth saving.

You start retreating again.

Skipping meals. Avoiding eye contact. Pretending everything’s fine even when your hands are trembling so bad you nearly drop a tray.

Eventually, Mingi corners you — gently, but deliberately.

You’re out back behind the café, where the dumpsters reek of old coffee grounds and soggy cardboard. 

You told the others you needed a breather. The cool air bites at your skin, but you don’t move. You just crouch down against the wall, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to breathe through the noise in your head.

The door creaks open. You hear his footsteps before you see him.

“Hey,” Mingi says softly. “You okay?”

You close your eyes. Of course it’s him. You don’t answer.

He takes a few steps closer, crouches beside you but doesn’t touch. Doesn’t crowd. He’s always so gentle.

“Talk to me,” he says. “Please.” You open your eyes slowly, stare at the concrete.

“Why are you still trying?”

He blinks. Tilts his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” You laugh, bitter, sharp. “Why are you always here? Smiling. Acting like I’m not just dragging you down every time I fall apart.”

His brows draw together. “You’re not dragging me down.”

You shake your head. “Yes, I am! I have been. Since the day you found me crying in the back like some pathetic wreck.”

“You’re not pathetic—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Your voice cuts sharper than you mean it to. But now that it’s out, you can’t stop. “God, you’re always so nice,” you spit. “So... so happy all the time, like nothing touches you. Like you’ve never broken anything. Or anyone.”

His expression shifts — barely. But you see it. That flicker of something behind his eyes. You’ve never seen him not smile. It feels like everything in you is splintering.

“I don’t get it,” you say, voice cracking. “Why do you care so much? Why do you keep showing up when I clearly don’t deserve it?”

There’s silence. He studies you, long and quiet. Then, carefully:

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s true,” you say.

You stare at him. His voice isn’t angry. Just... hurt. Confused.

And that’s what makes it worse. Because part of you does want him to help. But another part — the one that's screaming inside you — is scared. Scared of being seen like this. Scared of him realizing you’re not worth the effort.

He shakes his head. “You’re pushing me away because you’re scared.”

So you say it. The one thing you know will make him stop. “Yes,” you say, flat. Hollow. “I am. So leave me the fuck alone.”

Mingi stares at you.

No reaction for a long second. Just stillness. His lips part like he’s going to say something — and then he doesn’t. He just nods, once.

And walks away. The door shuts behind him with a soft click. And suddenly, all the cold you were trying to hide from is inside you.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The few days that follow after that, You don’t show up to work.

Not at open. Not at noon. Not for the afternoon shift change.

Mingi doesn’t text you. He doesn’t call. But he checks the break room three times like you might suddenly appear behind the storage crates. 

Every hour that passes, he feels it more — the absence. The silence where your voice usually lives. The way no one hums off-key behind the counter. 

He tells himself you’re okay. He tells himself you just needed rest. That maybe you lost track of time. That maybe your phone died, or you forgot to set an alarm.

But none of it feels right. So by the time closing nears, his jaw is tense. His patience worn down to threads.

He tries not to let it show. But it’s there — in the way he scrubs the espresso machine with too much force. In the way he keeps glancing toward the door every time the bell doesn’t ring—

CRASH.

The door slams open like it’s been kicked in by a storm.

“I’m here!”

Your voice, slurred and frantic, rips through the near-empty café like a crack of thunder. You stumble through the doorway, wide-eyed, hair messy, makeup smudged, apron tangled around your arm like you tried to tie it in the alleyway.

“Don’t—don’t fire me,” you stammer, voice cracking. “I’m here. I’m at work. I showed up.”

Mingi’s already moving from behind the counter, wide-eyed. “Y/N?”

You blink slowly, sway on your feet, and then nearly trip over one of the chairs you didn’t notice was pushed out. Your hand slams down on a table to steady yourself.

Your eyes find his, but they won’t hold. They flit away, jittery, ashamed. That’s when he sees it. The subtle sway in your stance. The gloss in your eyes that isn’t just tears.

Your words start to blur together. You say something about being sorry. About trying. About not sleeping. About making it in time.

“But I’m good,” you mutter, trying to shove your head through the apron’s neck hole, but it’s backwards. “I’m here to work, okay? I’m working. This job that kills me every fucking day.”

“Okay,” Mingi says carefully, eyes scanning your face. “You’re drunk.”

“Nooo,” you drawl sarcastically, then laugh too loud. “I’m sooo sober right now. I'm, like, the queen of responsibility.”

He steps closer. “Y/N, sit down before you hurt yourself.”

“I’m fine, Mingi!” you say, spinning — and then nearly tipping into a table. He catches your elbow.

“Whoa. Okay, no, not fine.” His voice softens. “Come on. Back room. Now.”

You try to protest, but he’s already guiding you toward the back. His hand on your arm is the only thing keeping you from faceplanting into the espresso machine.

He sets you on a stool by the mop sink, then disappears for a second. You blink and try to focus on the blur of the wall in front of you. Your head is heavy. Everything spins in waves.

He returns with a cup of water. Kneels down in front of you.

“Here,” he says. “Drink this. Please.”

You look at him — really look at him. He’s frowning. His forehead is tight. His voice is gentle, but there’s something worried buried in it.

“Why are you even here?” you mumble. “You’re always here. Why are you always here?”

“I work here,” he says carefully, “and you’re the one who barged in like a tornado five minutes before closing.”

You lean forward, squinting at him. “You’re so… pretty.”

He blinks. “Okay. That’s new.” You nod solemnly, like you’ve made a critical discovery. 

“Too pretty. For someone who makes smoothies and takes shit from customers all day.”

Mingi gives a half-laugh, unsure. “And you’re wasted.” He presses the cup into your hands again. “Drink this.”

You take a tiny sip. Water never tasted more like regret. He sighs and pulls over a crate, sitting across from you.

“I was wondering why you didn’t come in today,” he says softly. “Were you… okay? Before this?”

And that’s when it starts. The spiral.

You shake your head once — then again, faster, like you can’t get it off of you. The tears are already burning behind your eyes before you realize they’re even there.

“I’m not okay,” you whisper.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you.

“I’m not okay, and I haven’t been okay for a long time,” you go on, voice wobbling. “And I thought I could hold it together, I thought I could pretend, but I keep… breaking. And I keep making you watch it.”

Mingi’s mouth opens like he wants to interrupt — but he doesn’t.

“I don’t even know why I came here tonight,” you breathe. “I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Your hands shake around the cup. The tears are spilling now. Drunk, hot, and endless. “I didn’t want to kiss him,” you blurt. “I didn’t want to. I didn’t even mean to.”

Mingi blinks. “Huh?—what?”

“If—” Your voice cracks. “If you were my boyfriend… would you leave me because I got drunk and .. and someone forced me to kiss them?”

He goes still.

“What…?”

“I didn’t want to,” you sob. “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t even know what was happening. We weren’t even in a good place, and I tried to tell him that but he didn’t listen, and then they told my boyfriend like I wanted it, and then my boyfriend—he—he hurt me. And then he broke up with me.”

Mingi doesn’t breathe.

You laugh bitterly through the tears. “And now I’m here. Crying into a mop sink like an idiot. What the fuck.”

“Y/N,” Mingi says, stunned. “I… I don’t even know what to say.”

“I know,” you murmur. “I don’t even know why I told you. You were just supposed to give me a water and tell me to go home.”

You blink at him, suddenly childlike.

“I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. And I just fucking drank to cope. I just wanted to shut it up. Shut it all up.”

And then your head tilts against his shoulder. The sobs start again — full-body, messy, weeks-worth of grief crashing out of you in waves. You cry like you’re breaking in half.

And Mingi… he doesn’t flinch. He wraps his arms around you, tight, grounding, warm. You don’t remember the last time someone held you like this.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Your fingers clutch at his shirt like you’re drowning.

You cry and cry until you can’t anymore. Then you pull back just slightly. Your breath is ragged. Your eyes are swollen. He meets your gaze gently. His hand rests on your shoulder.

“Can you please drink some more of this water?” he asks again, voice low, steady. “Please.”

You nod. You drink. And it doesn’t fix everything.

But it’s the first thing you do for yourself that doesn’t hurt.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You wake up warm. That’s the first thing you register — warmth. Softness under your cheek. Something heavy draped over your body.

The second thing is the smell. Clean. Faint cedarwood, laundry detergent, and coffee grounds.

You blink slowly. Your head is pounding. Your mouth is dry. But the soft material under your fingertips is unfamiliar — plush, woven fabric. Not your bed. Not your sheets.

You lift your head. Big mistake. The room tilts. A wave of nausea rolls through your stomach, and you wince, closing your eyes again.

Then… it clicks. This isn’t your apartment.

The couch beneath you is L-shaped, dark gray. There’s a succulent on the coffee table. A record player in the corner. Shoes neatly lined by the door.

Your heart kicks into your ribs.

And then you hear it: the low clatter of something in the kitchen. A pan against a burner. A spoon scraping the inside of a mug. You sit up fast — too fast — and the blanket falls off your shoulders.

You’re wearing a hoodie. Not your hoodie. It swallows you whole. Soft. Worn. It smells like that same cedar-laundry-coffee mix. It smells like—

“Morning.”

You snap your head up toward the voice.

Mingi stands in the doorway, a mug in one hand. He’s wearing joggers and a faded shirt, hair a mess, like he’s been up for hours but hasn’t looked in a mirror yet.

You freeze. He freezes, too — then holds the mug out toward you like it’s some kind of offering.

“Ginger tea,” he says gently. “You looked like you might die if I gave you coffee.”

You just stare at him. Mouth dry. Brain spinning.

“...I’m so.. sorry,” you croak.

Mingi blinks. “For…?”

“What happened?” you whisper. “Last night — I—why the fuck am I on your couch? Did I—how did I even get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

You shake your head, eyes wide. He walks over slowly and sets the tea on the table beside you. “You came into work wasted out of your mind,” he says quietly. “Tried to clock in like you were about to pull a full shift. Then you told me… a lot of things.”

Your heart plummets. “No,” you breathe. “No, no, no—please tell me I didn’t say anything crazy..”

Mingi sits on the armrest beside you. Not touching. Just there.

“Well,” he says. “You said .. a lot. And then you cried. And then I brought you here because you couldn’t go home like that.”

You pull the hoodie tighter around you. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says immediately.

You look at him — really look at him — and you’re bracing yourself for the part where he pulls away. Where he tells you that was too much, that you crossed a line, that you scared him off.

But he’s just watching you. His eyes are gentle, but unreadable. You exhale shakily, hiding half your face in the collar of his hoodie.

“I didn’t mean to dump all that on you,” you mumble. “I didn’t even mean to come to work. I was just… walking. And then I ended up there. And you were there. And everything was just too loud and I needed it to stop.”

“I figured,” he says softly. You look away.

The silence stretches, and it burns. “I shouldn’t have said all that,” you whisper.

“Why?”

You blink at him. He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees. “Why shouldn’t you have said it?”

“Because it’s—ugly. Because it makes me sound weak. And pathetic. And like I haven’t moved on. And I don’t want you to see me like that.”

“I already saw you like that,” he says. “And I’m still here.”

You flinch.

“I’m not here to fix you, Y/N,” he adds quietly. “But I’m not gonna pretend I didn’t hear what you said. That shit matters. It’s not small. And it’s not something you deserved to go through alone.”

You stare at him. The weight of what he’s saying presses into your chest. And he gives a small, almost shy smile.

“Also, you called me pretty. Like, aggressively. So I’m kinda gonna hang onto that one.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Please let the ground open up and kill me.”

He chuckles. “No can do.”

A beat passes.

Then, gently: “Are you hungry?” You hesitate.

Every instinct in you is screaming no. Say no. Don’t eat. You don’t deserve to feel okay yet. But you remember what you said last night. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. And I fucking drank to cope. You remember the look on Mingi’s face. Not pity — care.

You peek up at him through your lashes.

“...Maybe. A little.”

His smile softens. “I made eggs and toast,” he says. “I’ll reheat it.”

You nod slowly.

“Okay.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You sit at the tiny square table tucked into the corner of Mingi’s kitchen. It’s small — just two chairs and a window that lets the late morning sun in, casting warm rectangles across the hardwood.

Your hands are wrapped around the fresh cup of tea. 

The hoodie you’re wearing slips down over your knuckles, swallowing your hands. You feel impossibly small inside it. Across from you, Mingi is standing at the stove, scraping eggs onto a plate. 

He toasts two new slices of bread, then grabs a banana and cuts it in half before placing everything down in front of you.

It’s too much. You know it’s not — but it feels like it. You don’t deserve a plate that full. You don’t deserve anything after—

“Hey,” he says, nudging the plate closer. “Eat. Please.”

You nod. You pick up the toast first, mostly to give your hands something to do. It’s warm. Crunchy. Simple.

The silence is heavy, but not cruel. It’s not like the kind of silence your ex used to wield — quiets that felt like threats. This is just… unsure. Still settling.

“I’m really sorry,” you murmur again, eyes fixed on your tea.

Mingi doesn’t say anything.

You swallow. “I shouldn’t’ve come to work like that. That was—so embarrassing. And irresponsible. I could’ve gotten you in trouble if any one else was there. I just—I don’t know what I was doing.”

Still, no response. You glance up at him, expecting annoyance, maybe even a tired I told you not to apologize.

But Mingi’s just buttering his toast. You fidget.

“I’m sorry about what I said too,” you add. “Seriously. Dumping all that on you? You didn’t ask for that. You were just trying to help, and I—you didn’t sign up for any of that.”

He finally looks up. His eyes are steady. Not soft, not harsh — just... quiet.

“Are you gonna eat your eggs?” he asks calmly.

You blink. “What?”

“Your eggs. They’re probably getting cold.”

You hesitate — then take a bite, mostly to comply. You chew in silence. The food is decent. Seasoned, even. Mingi didn’t half-ass it.

A few more seconds tick by. Then he speaks again.

“I had a friend once,” he says casually, like he’s talking about the weather. “Back in high school. Real close. Like, we did everything together. Band, classes, gaming. Almost every day after school.”

You glance up slowly.

“One night, he got wasted,” Mingi continues, staring out the window. “Sent me this long, messed-up text about how he felt alone all the time, how he didn’t think anyone actually saw him. Said if I didn’t respond, he was gonna do something stupid.”

You stop chewing. Mingi shrugs once. “I saw the text hours later. My phone had died. He was already gone.” There’s no change in his voice. But his knuckles go white around his mug.

“He wasn’t kidding.”

You’re stunned. You search his face, and you realize there’s an edge under all that warmth he carries — something sharp and buried, something heavy he keeps quiet.

“I didn’t talk about that with anyone for years,” he says. “Didn’t even cry. Just kind of… kept showing up. For school. For work. For everything. Like it didn’t happen. But it did.”

Your heart cracks in a new way.

“I couldn’t fix him,” Mingi says quietly. “Didn’t get the chance. But you’re here. And you didn’t scare me off, Y/N.”

You swallow hard.

“You probably think I’m happy all the time,” he adds with a small smile. “That I don’t go through shit. But I do. I just got good at putting light in the room, because I know what it feels like when there’s none.”

Then, quietly:

“I don’t want another friend that I can’t save.”

Your throat is tight. It takes you a few seconds to respond.

“Mingi…”

He cuts you off gently. “So, please don’t apologize again. Just this once, let me be the strong one for you.”

You blink fast, eyes wet.

“Okay,” you whisper.

A long pause.

Then, softly — “Thank you.”

He nods once. “That one I’ll take.”

You both eat in silence after that. It’s not awkward anymore. It’s quiet in the right kind of way — the kind where things settle, where breathing gets easier, where food goes down without your stomach turning against you.

You finish most of your plate. When Mingi stands up to grab the mugs, you look at him and say, quietly:

“I’m really glad I came here. Even if I didn’t mean to.”

He turns back toward you. His voice is soft.

“Me too.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The dishes clink softly as Mingi rinses them in the sink. The water runs steady. Warm light filters in through the window — it’s late afternoon now, golden and still.

You’re curled up on the couch again. Same spot as this morning. His hoodie still swallows your frame, sleeves tucked over your hands. You’re half-watching him, half-dozing, head resting against the cushion.

You hadn’t meant to stay this long. Or eat this much. Or talk this openly. But somehow, the longer you’re here… the safer you feel.

Not fixed. Not perfect. Just… less alone.

Your eyes start to close again. The sun is hitting your face just enough to warm your skin. The quiet of the apartment hums around you — the fridge buzzing, the occasional car passing outside.

You let out a slow breath.

And somewhere between the hum and the warmth, the heaviness of everything finally catches up with you.

The exhaustion in your bones. The emotional toll of the last few weeks. The release of telling someone what really happened.

It all folds in on you like a wave. And you drift.

Not fully asleep. Not fully awake. That in-between space where your body’s still, your breath soft, your mind finally taking a break.

You don’t hear him turn the sink off. You don’t see him glance over. But Mingi notices.

He walks back into the room, towel in his hands, and stops a few feet from the couch. You’re curled on your side now, legs pulled up slightly, one hand resting near your cheek.

Your lips are parted slightly with your breath. Your lashes are dark against your skin. There’s a faint crease between your brows — like your mind hasn’t quite let you go, even in rest.

He stares for a moment. Not in a weird way. Not like he’s sizing you up. Just… quiet.

Watching the way you’ve finally let go, even if it’s just for now. Watching the difference between the girl who walked into work drunk last night, trembling and wild-eyed — and the one breathing softly on his couch now, wrapped in his hoodie, finally still.

Mingi grabs the throw blanket from the back of the couch. It’s soft and faded — navy blue, worn at the corners.

He kneels beside you, careful not to wake you, and drapes it over your body. Gently. Slowly. Like he’s done this before.

The hoodie’s hood slips a little, revealing the curve of your shoulder. He tucks it back into place.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t linger too long.

He just stays crouched for a few more seconds — eyes on your face, watching you breathe — and then slowly stands again. Walks into the kitchen. Pulls out his phone. Sits down at the table.

And lets you sleep. No questions. No pressure.

Just him — close by. In the quiet. In case you wake up and need someone again.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

You blink awake slowly, the world returning in a haze of muted colors and soft textures.

Couch cushions. A blanket pulled over you. The faint scent of Mingi’s hoodie still clinging to the fabric near your neck — something warm and clean, like citrus and pine and laundry detergent.

Your eyes open fully and you sit up too fast.

Shit.

Not because you’re in danger or something’s wrong — but because this isn’t your house. You’re on his couch. Again. And it’s starting to feel way too natural.

You rub your eyes with the backs of your sleeves and groan a little. Your hair’s a mess. Your mouth is dry. You definitely drooled on the inside of the hoodie sleeve at some point.

You mumble to yourself: “This is not my house. This is not my house. Why am I getting so comfortable—”

“Hey,” a voice says gently from across the room. “You’re up.”

You glance over.

Mingi’s leaning on the doorway, shoulder propped against the frame, holding a half-eaten granola bar like he’s been waiting for you. He looks like he’s just showered — hair damp, face clean, a plain gray tee and joggers on.

His voice softens even more. “You okay?”

You stretch out your legs and nod, blinking hard. “Yeah… yeah. Just… wow. That was a really good nap.”

He lifts an eyebrow, amused. “Yeah?”

You nod again, almost sheepish. “I don’t remember the last time I slept like that. I mean, peacefully. Like I wasn’t gonna wake up panicking or anything.”

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just gives a small smile and takes a bite of the granola bar. Then, under his breath — soft and a little cocky:

“Maybe you should sleep here all the time.”

You pause. “Huh?”

He looks up like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. “Huh? What? I didn’t say anything. You’re hearing things.”

You squint at him, half grinning. “Right.”

He clears his throat, like he’s trying to reset the atmosphere but can’t quite hide the pink tint brushing the tips of his ears.

“So,” he starts, casually. Too casually. “We have work tomorrow. Early. And you still look kinda wrecked—no offense—so I was thinking, like… you wanna…”

You tilt your head. “Wanna?”

He scratches the back of his neck. “You wanna just, like… sleep over?”

You stare at him. “Sleep over?”

“I mean—not like that,” he says quickly, waving his hands. “I mean just sleep. On the couch or—like, wherever you’re comfortable. I just… I don’t know. You looked comfortable here. And you were safe. And I don’t know if you’re eating at home or if it’s even quiet there, and I was just thinking, maybe it’d be easier for you if you just stayed.”

You blink a few times. Processing.

Then you smirk. “Okay but—what am I gonna wear?”

Mingi pauses. Then smiles like he’s already got a plan.

“I mean… we could go to your place, pick some stuff up. Or, like—I dunno, we could hit the store, grab some sweats or something. You want SpongeBob pajama pants? I got you.”

You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your head back against the couch. “You really don’t have to do all this for me, Mingi.”

He frowns, stepping forward. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.”

You go quiet.

His voice softens again. “Look… I know you’ve been through a lot lately. And maybe it feels like you’re too much. Or like you’re making things harder. But you’re not. I’m here because I want to be. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity. Just—because I care. Okay?”

You look down at your hands. You feel it — that sting behind your eyes again. That vulnerable ache that’s been there for weeks, like an exposed nerve.

“Mingi…”

He steps a little closer. “Just say yes. Come on. One night. We’ll get snacks. I’ll give you the good blanket. I’ll even let you pick the Netflix movie without complaining.”

You shake your head slowly, biting back a smile. “You don’t complain anyway.”

“Exactly. I’m a catch.”

You finally nod. Quiet. But real.

“…Okay.”

He lights up. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” you say again. “Just one night.”

“Just one,” he repeats, already walking toward the door to grab his keys like it’s settled. “But full disclosure—I make killer popcorn. You might never wanna leave.”

You laugh softly, pulling the blanket off and stretching your arms.

There’s still so much to sort through. So much you haven’t said. But this? This feels like a start. A soft place to land. And for the first time in a long time … You say yes.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Your apartment is quiet. Dim. The curtains are still drawn from earlier in the week — light bleeding through, but not enough to fill the room.

You let Mingi in with a muttered, “Sorry it’s a mess,” even though it’s not. Not really.

It just feels that way because you feel that way. Like everything around you has been sitting in silence, waiting for you to come home and feel something.

He walks in without hesitation, looking around. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t judge. Just takes it in with that soft, unreadable look he gets when he’s trying to understand without making you explain.

You go to your room and start pulling a few things from drawers: an old hoodie, some pajama pants, a small pouch of skincare stuff you rarely use anymore. You toss them into a tote bag, moving quickly, trying not to think too much.

But then your hand freezes. There it is.

A photo tucked into the corner of your mirror — half-buried under a curling sticky note, almost forgotten. You hadn’t touched it in weeks. Maybe months.

You pull it free. It’s you, smiling — real and big — pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with your ex. A party, maybe. You can’t even remember when. You look so happy you barely recognize yourself.

Mingi walks past your doorway just then, carrying your phone charger you’d forgotten in the kitchen. He slows.

Notices the photo in your hand. You glance up, startled, and try to shove it back in the drawer, too fast. Too late. But he saw. He pauses, gaze lingering on the frame, then on your face.

“…Is that him?”

You nod slowly, setting the photo down face-first.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “That was a long time ago.”

Mingi doesn’t respond right away. His eyes stay on yours. Not accusing. Not jealous. Just… soft. Searching.

He steps a little closer. “You looked different.”

You furrow your brow. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder, voice quiet. “I don’t know. Just… different. Brighter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile like that.”

You blink. It’s not cruel. He’s not trying to dig at you. But it still makes something in your chest ache. You open your mouth to say something — a deflection, maybe — but then you see it.

The look in his eyes. It’s changed.

He’s looking at you differently now. Not with pity. Not even just concern. But like he wants to know who you were before all this broke you down. Like he’s wondering who you could still be.

The moment hangs between you like held breath. So you laugh. A little too quickly.

Brush it off. Grab your bag and sling it over your shoulder like you didn’t just feel that shift in the air.

“Well,” you say, forcing a smirk. “Good luck seeing that version of me again.”

Mingi doesn’t smile back right away.

Then — quietly — “I wouldn’t mind meeting her.”

Your heart trips. You don’t answer. You just head for the door and mumble, “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

Back at his place, the air feels lighter again.

You kick your shoes off at the door and drop your bag near the couch. He flicks on a lamp in the corner, casting the room in soft gold.

It’s clean but lived-in — blankets already out, pillows fluffed. He prepares a pack of microwave popcorn on the counter and two soda cans on the coffee table like he actually planned this.

You raise an eyebrow.

“Wow,” you murmur. “You weren’t kidding about the snacks.”

“I take my movie nights very seriously,” Mingi says with a grin, holding up a bag of sour gummies like a trophy. “I even got the sad girl candy.”

You snort, flopping onto the couch. “God, you’re annoying.”

“And yet, here you are,” he teases, tossing the gummies at you.

You catch them. Barely.

You unzip your bag and pull out your hoodie — the old one you never wear anymore — and excuse yourself to the bathroom to change. When you come back out, he’s setting up a blanket fort situation with a kind of ridiculous amount of care.

He glances up, sees you, and his smile softens. Not in a flirtatious way. Not playful.

Just… warm.

Like the version of you he saw in the photo isn’t gone after all. Maybe just buried. You sit down beside him and pull the blanket up over your legs. He offers you the remote without a word.

And even though nothing’s been said outright — about the picture, about the past, about how he’s looking at you now — something in the air feels heavier. More real. And you don’t run from it this time.

You just stay.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The movie plays, but you’re barely watching.

You’re curled into the corner of Mingi’s couch, blanket over your legs, knees tucked up — and he’s right there beside you. Not touching. Not really. But close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the quiet presence of someone who doesn’t make you flinch.

You reach for the popcorn at the same time — your fingers brush. You both pause. He glances at you. You glance at him. Just a second too long.

Then you both pull away, and he says something — some soft joke to break the silence — but you don’t catch it. Your ears are still ringing with the contact. The casual graze that felt like a fuse being lit.

You try to focus on the screen. You try.

But the weight of him next to you is louder than anything coming from the TV. His thigh presses against yours now — not entirely by accident, but not quite deliberate either. It stays there. Warm. Solid.

You don’t move.

You can feel every shift in his breathing. The way he leans back a little, then forward again, like he’s trying to decide something.

You don’t look at him. But you feel him look at you.

And then—quiet, tentative—he speaks.

“…I was gonna say something earlier.”

His voice is barely there, like he’s afraid it’ll break the air. You glance over slowly, heartbeat picking up.

“About what?” you ask, keeping your voice light, like you don’t already know.

He hesitates. Eyes flick from your face to your lips and back.

His voice drops.

“About the way I—”

But then he stops. Swallows. Looks away. 

Silence. Your breath catches. You wait. But he doesn’t finish.

Instead, he leans forward, grabs the popcorn again, and pops a piece in his mouth like he didn’t just almost confess something that you felt in your bones.

You turn back to the screen. Pretend to focus. Pretend you didn’t hear the way his voice cracked halfway through that sentence.

But your heart is racing. You try to act oblivious, like nothing’s different, like you didn’t feel that moment nearly swallow you whole.

But your knees are still touching. And he doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The movie ends. Neither of you move to start another. The credits roll, and the soft hum of the TV fills the silence.

You’re lying on the floor now, side by side now in the little blanket pile Mingi made — some makeshift nest of pillows and worn comforters that smells like laundry soap and him.

You’re half on your side, one arm curled under your cheek, your knees still barely brushing his under the blanket. You thought the quiet might make things less tense.

It’s worse.

He sighs softly beside you. You hear the rustle of his hand running through his hair, the subtle creak of the floor beneath him as he shifts to face you more fully.

You keep your eyes on the ceiling. But you feel it.

His eyes on you.

“…You good?” he says eventually, voice hushed like the moment might shatter if he speaks too loud.

You nod, slow. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hums low in his throat. “You can just go to sleep. I mean—if you want.”

You nod again. Then silence.

You hear him move — an elbow sliding beneath his head. He’s laying like you now, turned toward you, just watching.

You finally turn your head to meet his gaze. And there it is again. That look. Soft. Heavy. Something tugging behind his eyes.

You hold his stare for a long time. He’s the one who speaks first.

“…You know you scared the shit out of me, right?”

Your breath stutters a little. “What?”

“Last night,” he says, voice low. “When you showed up drunk. Slurring your words. Barely able to stand.” He pauses. “I didn’t know what the hell had happened to you. I thought maybe—fuck, I don’t know. I was just scared.”

You look away. Your throat feels tight.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then:

“Stop saying that.”

You glance at him again. He’s still looking at you like he’s trying to memorize something.

Then, softly, almost too quiet:

“I just… I wish you would’ve called me or told me. Before it got that bad.”

You blink. “I didn’t think I could,” you murmur.

“Why not?”

You shrug, fingers curling in the edge of the blanket. “You didn’t owe me anything. I wasn’t your responsibility.”

Mingi sits up a little, resting on his elbow. He’s closer now. You can see the way his brow furrows, the way his lips press into a line before he speaks again.

“You’re not a responsibility,” he says. “You’re a person I care about.”

The words are quiet. But they land hard.

Your eyes flick to his, searching for something — a crack, a doubt, a laugh. There isn’t one. You feel your heart pick up.

And then he exhales, like he’s been holding something in for too long.

“What I wanted to say a few minutes ago is .. uh .. I think about you all the time,” he says suddenly.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t try to laugh it off this time.

“I think about you when you’re not at work. I notice when you haven’t eaten. I notice when your smile’s fake. I notice everything. And I didn’t mean to, at first. I didn’t even realize how much I was paying attention to you until I couldn’t stop.”

Your chest is so tight you forget to breathe.

“…Mingi.”

He shakes his head, voice softer now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. I just—I needed you to know.”

You want to say something. Anything. But your thoughts are foggy, like your body hasn’t caught up to your heart yet.

He’s looking at you. Really looking.

His eyes flicker down — to your lips — then back up. He blinks like he’s trying to think better of it, but something’s unraveling behind his expression.

Something wild and tender and real. He exhales — barely.

“I just—” he murmurs, voice so low it sounds like it’s afraid to exist.

Then he leans in. No hesitation. No question this time.

His mouth brushes yours softly — like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he moves too fast. But when you don’t pull away, he deepens it. 

His hand lifts to your jaw, gentle, grounding, thumb resting at the curve of your cheek. He kisses you like he means it — slow, steady, devastatingly careful. Like you’re something holy.

And you kiss him back. Your hand curls in the fabric of his shirt. You press in closer, hungry and aching and too full of things you haven’t said. But then—

It happens. Your stomach turns. Your heart flips.

A hot wave of nausea rushes over you like cold water. Suddenly, all you feel is—

Disgust. Not at him. At yourself.

It slams into you so fast you barely breathe before you’re pulling away, blinking like you’ve woken up underwater.

“I—” your voice cracks, eyes darting. “I need to use the bathroom.”

You don’t wait for him to answer. You shove the blanket off, push to your feet too fast, stumbling slightly as you walk away barefoot.

You don’t see his expression when you leave. You don’t look back. You close the door behind you and collapse against the sink. The bathroom is quiet.

Too quiet. The mirror stares back at you — too harsh, too honest — and you can see it.

The softness in your cheeks. The way your body looks when it’s not empty. You can still taste the food. Still feel it.

You hate how good it felt to be held. To be touched. To want something. Too much.

You sink to the tile. Cold and hard beneath your knees. You press a hand to your stomach like it’s wrong for existing. Then — without thinking — you kneel over the toilet.

Fingers down your throat. Quick, clean and quiet.

You do it like you’ve done it before. Because you have.

And when it’s done — when you flush, rinse, wipe your face — the emptiness feels like a relief you don’t deserve. You open the bathroom door.

Expecting to sneak back onto couch, maybe pretend none of this happened. But he’s there. Mingi.

Standing right there in the hallway. His back straight, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He doesn’t speak at first.

Just looks at you. His face unreadable. But his eyes — His eyes are all betrayal and heartbreak and worry.

“Did you just make yourself throw up?”

His voice is quiet. Too controlled. Like he’s afraid of how loud his hurt might sound. You freeze. Blood drains from your face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about—” you try to brush past him, but he stops you with a hand on your arm. Not rough. Just… firm.

“Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t lie to me. Please.”

You stand there. Caught. The air between you is cold again — but not because he’s angry. He looks like he’s watching someone he cares about bleed. And not knowing how to stop it. You drop your gaze.

“It’s not a big deal,” you whisper.

His brows pull together. “Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not.” Your voice gets sharper — defensive. “You don’t get it. I just… sometimes I feel better after, okay? That’s all. I’m not like—doing it every day. It was one time—"

“And how many more 'ONE TIMES' before you break?” he shouts suddenly.

You flinch. The silence that follows is deafening.

He breathes hard, running a hand through his hair. He turns away, like he can’t even look at you.

“I’m sorry—”

“No!” he yells, sudden and sharp. “No! You don’t get to say sorry and make it disappear! I watched you crumble last night. I held you while you broke apart. And then this morning, I—I cooked for you, I sat with you, I watched you—I didn’t say a word because I didn’t want to pressure you—"

“Mingi—”

“—and the second I let myself think maybe you’re okay, maybe you're letting me in—"

His voice cracks again.

“—you go and punish yourself. You go and hurt yourself.”

“Why are you always trying to save me?” you snap. “Why are you even still here? What is this, huh? Some fucked up pity thing? You think you can fix me or something?”

“I’m here because I care!” he yells, voice echoing through the apartment. “I’m right fucking here, trying to help you. Trying to stay, even when you make it so damn hard. But I can’t fight you and the parts of you that want to self-destruct. I can't fight you and your past and your ex and your silence and your shame and your guilt all at once!”

“Stop,” you gasp, voice trembling. “Please—Mingi, stop yelling—”

He freezes, mid-breath, his mouth still parted like he has another sentence ready to throw, but the look on your face guts him. Your hands are shaking, clutching at yourself like you can hold all the pieces together.

“I—I can’t—” The words crack, high and thin. Your knees threaten to give, and suddenly you feel smaller than you’ve felt in years, like a child being scolded, cornered, helpless. “Please—don’t—”

You cover your face.

“I’m trying,” you whisper. “I swear I’m trying.”

“Fuck.” His voice breaks on the word. “I didn’t mean to—I shouldn’t have—”

Before you can shrink back further, he closes the space between you and pulls you into his arms. His hold is desperate, trembling, like he’s terrified you’ll slip right through his fingers if he lets go.

You close your eyes. You don’t know how to carry this. You don’t know how to let someone stay.

But when you open them again—he’s still there.

Not moving. Not pushing.

Just holding you like the world could shatter and he’d still be right here in the ruins with you.

His chin rests against your temple, his breath unsteady. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again, softer now, like a vow. “I’ll never yell at you like that again. I swear it. I just—I can’t lose you to yourself. I can’t.”

And all you can do is grip his shirt tighter, like maybe, just maybe, you believe him.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The morning light filters in through Mingi’s windows — hazy gold through slanted blinds, soft and warm against your cheek where you’ve curled up on the couch under the blanket you barely remember pulling over you.

You wake slowly. Not with a jolt. Not with dread clawing at your throat like usual.

Just … Quiet.

You feel tired, but not the hopeless kind. There’s soreness in your throat from crying. Your stomach feels hollow. But your heart — your heart is beating steadier than it has in weeks.

You blink up at the ceiling. The soft sound of something sizzling draws your attention.

The kitchen.

You sit up slowly, the fabric of your hoodie slipping against your skin. It still swallows you whole, draped over your knees, sleeves hiding your hands. You rub at your eyes, peek over the couch.

Mingi’s at the stove. Barefoot. Hair a mess. Hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Moving quietly, pouring scrambled eggs into a pan like it’s muscle memory.

He glances over when he hears you shift.

“Morning,” he says, voice still thick with sleep. A soft smile. “You were out cold.”

You stretch slightly, wincing at the stiffness in your shoulders. “Yeah… sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He pokes at the eggs. “We’re not working today, anyway.”

That makes you blink. “Huh?”

He shakes his head, still focused on the pan. “I called us both in sick.” He glances over, more cautious this time. “Figured you probably didn’t wanna deal with customers after… everything.”

You pause. Heart stuttering. “…You did that for me?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his voice softens. “Did it for us. I needed a day too.”

You look at him a long moment. Then say, quieter:

“Thank you.”

He nods once. Then, casually, like he’s trying not to make it a thing:

“You want something to eat?”

You hesitate. But there’s no tension in his voice. No pressure in his eyes. Just… a quiet offer.

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

You walk over slowly, settle into your usual stool at the counter. Your legs fold under you, sleeves still too long, fingers hidden.

He plates the food and slides it in front of you. Eggs. Toast. Sliced strawberries.

Simple. Gentle. You pick up your fork. You don’t feel him watching you this time. At least — not like that. He’s trying so hard not to hover. 

You can see it in the way he busies himself, turning to rinse a pan that doesn’t really need rinsing. Opening a cupboard and closing it again. Pretending to scroll on his phone.

You chew a bite of toast. Then say, around a mouthful:

“You’re being weird.”

He lets out a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe I was glancing. Just wanted to make sure you were good.”

You look down at the plate. Poke a strawberry.

“I’m not gonna make myself throw up,” you say, simply.

He freezes.

You glance up. “You don’t have to tiptoe.”

He turns fully now, leaning on the opposite side of the counter. Voice low. “I know. I just… don’t wanna smother you either.”

You meet his eyes. And for the first time, there’s no guilt between you. Just truth.

“I’m trying,” you say.

He nods once. “That’s all I care about.”

You eat a little more. A strawberry. Half the eggs. Enough. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t count. You catch him sneaking a piece of toast off your plate instead.

You swat at him with your fork. “Hey!”

He grins, mouth full. “It’s my house.”

You almost smile. Almost. The grin lingers on his face for a moment, then fades. He sets the toast down, clears his throat. His eyes find yours again, steady but heavy.

“…I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

You blink. “For stealing my food?”

He huffs a laugh, but shakes his head. “For last night. For yelling. For… scaring you.” His voice falters, raw. “I can’t stop thinking about it. The look on your face. I never want to be the reason you feel that way again.”

You set your fork down slowly, sleeves still swallowing your hands. “Mingi…”

But he’s already shaking his head, like he’s determined to say it all. “I know words don’t fix it. But I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. Even when I mess up. Especially when I mess up.”

You swallow hard, something unsteady shifting in your chest.

And for the first time, it feels like maybe you could believe him.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The sky’s overcast but soft — silver clouds diffusing the light, making everything feel quieter, slower. Like the world’s trying not to startle you.

You and Mingi walk down the block, shoulders brushing every few steps.

You keep your arms crossed, sleeves tugged over your hands. His hands are shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie.

His other hoodie — the one he pulled over your head this morning without a word before stepping outside— hangs loose on your frame. Too big. Too soft. It makes you feel smaller and safer all at once.

“You always this quiet in the morning?” he asks.

You glance over. “I’m always this quiet after falling apart in someone’s hallway.”

He huffs a soft breath. “That wasn’t falling apart. That was being honest.”

You hum. Noncommittal.

“Besides,” he adds, bumping his shoulder against yours, “I think your version of falling apart is still kinda cute.”

You snort. “That’s not a compliment.”

He tilts his head, smirking. “It’s kinda a compliment.”

You roll your eyes — but it’s easier now, lighter. After a few moments of silence, you say it, like it just occurred to you:

“Your hoodie’s really comfy.”

He blinks. Glances down at you. “Yeah? Looks better on you.”

You pause. You feel the pause.

And before you can say anything, you catch him doing that thing he always does — the flirty line he plays off like it was nothing, like his heart didn’t just slip out of his mouth by accident.

But this time — You stop walking.

“Say it again.”

He turns, confused. “What?”

You’re standing in the middle of the sidewalk now, facing him. The clouds casting a soft, silvery glow around you both.

“You heard me,” you say. “Say it again.”

He swallows. Eyes dart between yours. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

He shifts his weight. Runs a hand through his hair. And for the first time, you realize Mingi looks… nervous.

When he finally meets your gaze again, he says — quiet, careful:

“I said it looks better on you.”

Your breath catches.

You step closer. Hands still buried in the hoodie sleeves. Your eyes on his mouth now, then back to his eyes.

Then you lean in. And kiss him. Soft and warm.

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all morning, mouth moving against yours slow and certain. His hands find your waist — hesitant, then firmer when you don’t pull away.

You kiss until the sidewalk disappears, until the quiet stretches into something sacred. You pull back first. He lingers. Eyes still closed. Lips parted.

Then, after a beat—

“I’ve been wondering,” he murmurs, eyes opening. “If you…”

He hesitates. And you feel it — that flicker of doubt behind his eyes. Like he’s afraid he misread everything.

“If I what?” you whisper.

His voice is quiet. “If you like me.”

Your chest tightens. You stare at him. That soft, open face. The boy who watched you break and didn’t run. Who called in sick. 

Who made breakfast. Who walked beside you in silence without asking for more than you could give.

And still — that ache rises.

That fear that you’re too much. Too ruined. That you’ll never be able to give him what he deserves.

“…I do,” you whisper.

His shoulders drop just slightly, like he’s been holding that question too long. You continue, barely audible:

“I just… don’t always know how to let someone like.. me.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Not pitying. Not pushy.

Just present.

“That’s okay,” he says finally. “You don’t have to know. I’ll be here anyway.”

You blink fast. Look away, lips pressed tight. He squeezes your hand.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Let’s keep walking.”

And this time — you don’t hesitate. You walk with him. Fingers tangled in his. Steps slow. Breath even.

And for the first time in what feels like forever — You don’t feel like running.

You feel like maybe… Staying.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

That night, 

The TV plays low in the background, forgotten halfway through the episode.

You’re curled up on one side of the couch, legs tucked under you, Mingi beside you — close but not touching, like even in the comfort, there’s a reverence. Like he’s still afraid to take too much.

He leans over and places a small bowl of popcorn on the coffee table, next to two bottles of ginger ale and a sleeve of Oreos, already halfway gone.

“Dinner of champions,” he mutters, grinning.

You let out a soft breath of a laugh. “It’s perfect.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then sits back. Arms draped lazily over the couch, fingers drumming lightly against the cushion. The silence stretches, but it isn’t awkward. Not at first.

Until it settles. And something inside you starts to twist.

You stare down at your hands. They’re resting in your lap, thumbs fidgeting. The blanket he draped over both of you earlier is half-fallen off your shoulder. You don’t fix it.

“Mingi?”

He turns his head. “Yeah?”

You hesitate. Your throat is tight again. Your heart too loud in your chest.

“I don’t…” You breathe. “I don’t know if I really like you.”

His body shifts. He turns to face you more fully, blinking once, twice.

“What?”

Your voice is soft. Barely audible. “Wait – I mean, I don’t know. I just… I always do this. I ruin things. When it starts getting better, when someone’s actually good to me, I freak out. And I just — I don’t know what I’m saying. I do like you, I just…”

You trail off, the words turning to static in your mouth. He’s still. Silent for a moment.

Then he says, slowly, carefully: “…But I asked.” 

“You told me you liked me.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I know I did. I meant it. I just… I don’t know. It’s like my brain won’t let me feel something good without trying to crush it.”

His brow furrows. Eyes searching yours like he’s trying to find you inside the chaos. You look away, shame crawling up your spine.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble.

Silence.

“Are you… still not over him?”

You blink. “Who?”

“Your ex.”

You inhale sharply, like he’s cracked something open with those words. Your lips part. Close. Then—

“I want to move on,” you say. “I want to. I just…”

You swallow. Look at him. Really look at him.

“I want to move on with you. But I’m scared.”

His voice lowers. “Scared of what?”

Your heart clenches. “I don’t—”

He leans forward now, brows drawing together.

“Are you scared of me?” His voice is soft, but there’s a new tension there. A confusion edged with concern. “Of us? Why would you be scared?”

You shake your head. “No — it’s not you.”

“Then what?”

You suck in a breath.

“I’m scared of me, Mingi.”

He stares.

You press your palms together like you’re trying to hold yourself still. Like if you let go, the pieces might scatter.

“I don’t want to ruin this. I don’t want to mess you up. You’re already— you’re so good. And I’m just…” Your voice cracks. “I’m still carrying all this shit. I don’t know how to not let it spill into the good stuff.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not right away.

He just leans back. Runs a hand through his hair. Breathes out slow. Then he shifts closer. Resting his elbows on his knees. Facing you fully.

“Okay,” he says. “Listen to me.”

You look up.

“I don’t expect you to be healed,” he says. “I don’t want you to pretend you’re fine just to make me feel more comfortable. You don’t need to shrink yourself to keep me around.”

Your throat tightens. He keeps going.

“I know you’re still figuring it out. That’s not a flaw. That’s being human. And yeah — you’re messy sometimes. You push and pull. You say things you don’t mean when you’re scared.”

You wince.

“But you always come back. You show up again. And that? That matters more than anything.”

He leans forward slightly, eyes warm. Steady.

“I want the real you. Not the version you think I’ll like better. Not the edited, polished, keep-it-together-you. I want this you. Scared. Raw. Trying anyway.”

You’re quiet. Staring at him. Searching his face for any flicker of doubt.

You don’t find it. And suddenly your hands are on his cheeks — both of them, cupping his face like you’re anchoring yourself there. Your thumbs brush the stubble along his jaw.

Your voice trembles:

“I just… I don’t understand.”

His eyes soften. “What don’t you understand?”

“Why are you doing this?” Your breath shakes. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Tears slip down your cheeks.

“You’re so pretty,” you say, brokenly. “You’re still so fucking pretty.”

He exhales, a little stunned by the intensity, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he reaches for one of your hands and presses a kiss into your knuckles. Soft. Intentional.

“I’ve never felt like this with anyone before,” he says, voice barely above a whisper.

You stare at him. And suddenly you can’t breathe.

Your eyes trace the curve of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the part of his lips. You want him. You want this. So much it aches.

You crash forward. Your lips slam into his.

A soft gasp escapes him as you climb into his lap, straddling him, the blanket falling away. Your hands knot in his hair, mouth desperate, deepening the kiss with tongue and teeth and heat.

He kisses you back like he’s been waiting months for this — like you’re air and he’s starving.

His hands hover, unsure where to land, fluttering from your hips to your thighs to your back, breath catching as he groans softly against your mouth.

You grind down slightly and his hands finally grip, holding you there, his body giving in to yours completely.

But then — He breaks the kiss. Gasping, chest heaving, lips swollen.

“I—” He swallows. “I don’t want us to go too fast.”

You blink, still breathless.

“I just… I need to know,” he says, looking you dead in the eye, “Are you okay with this?”

Silence. You freeze for a second.

That flicker of fear again. Then — You nod. Slow. Steady.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m okay. I promise.”

His chest rises and falls beneath you, eyes searching yours for the truth. He finds it. Your mouth is on his again — hungry, urgent — but there’s nothing casual about it anymore.

It’s not the kind of kiss that leads to distraction. It’s the kind that leads to unraveling.

He groans low in his throat when your fingers tangle tighter in his hair, and suddenly his hands aren’t hesitant anymore — they’re everywhere. 

Palming at your waist, sliding up beneath the borrowed hoodie you’re still wearing, fingertips hot against bare skin.

You shift in his lap, straddling him more firmly, your hips grinding down just enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispers into your mouth. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smile, a little breathless. “You’re handling it fine.” He exhales a short laugh, but it’s wrecked — like he’s already undone, already trying to keep himself together while you’re melting against him.

Then his hands slip up your back — slow but firm — and he pulls the hoodie up and over your head in one motion. Tosses it aside.

His eyes drop. He freezes. You’re bare underneath. No shirt. No bra. And for a beat, he just stares.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice gone low and reverent.

You go to cover yourself instinctively — it hits fast, that insecurity, that urge to hide — but his hands catch your wrists, gently, holding you still.

“Don’t,” he says quietly. “Please don’t hide from me.”

You look at him. His eyes are wide. Dilated. His mouth parted just slightly like he’s trying to commit every inch of you to memory.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “It’s — kind of unfair.”

You blink, heart hammering.

“Say that again.”

He leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the edge of your neck. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, voice raspy against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”

You sigh — broken and soft — and tilt your head back, giving him more. He takes it, lips trailing down your throat, teeth dragging lightly as he goes.

And then his hands find your hips again. Grip. Lift. He stands — stands — with you in his arms like it’s nothing. You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist.

“Mingi—!”

He cuts you off with another kiss, deeper this time, almost messy, like he’s losing the last of his restraint.

He carries you to the bedroom, one hand splayed against your lower back, the other curling under your thigh like he needs to be touching you everywhere at once.

He lays you down like you’re breakable — but he climbs over you like he’s starving.

The weight of him settles between your thighs, and suddenly you feel everything: the warmth, the hardness pressing into you through both your clothes, the trembling need that’s been building for weeks.

You hook your fingers in the hem of his shirt and tug.

“Off.”

He obliges immediately — lifts it over his head, tosses it aside. And when your hands roam over his chest, down his stomach, you feel him shiver.

“Mingi…”

His mouth finds your collarbone. Then your chest. He kisses you slow there, open-mouthed and hot, tongue tracing the edge of your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth, and you gasp — hands flying to his shoulders, your back arching.

He groans like that sound undid him.

“God, the things I want to do to you,” he murmurs. “You have no idea.”

He kisses down your stomach, slow and purposeful, until he reaches the waistband of your shorts. Hooks his fingers in them. Looks up.

“Can I?”

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

He pulls them down — slow, watching you as he does it — and tosses them to the floor. Then kisses the inside of your thigh like it’s sacred.

You whimper.

“Mingi—”

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

And then he’s lowering his mouth between your legs — tentative for half a second, just testing — until he gets that first shaky moan out of you and something in him clicks.

And God, he’s good at this.

He licks slow, deliberate, like he’s learning what you like in real time. Like he wants to hear every reaction.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you there, opening you wider for him, and then he flattens his tongue — sucks — and your hips buck.

“Fuck—”

“Yeah?” he breathes, glancing up. His mouth is glistening, his lips swollen, his hair messy from where you’ve been pulling at it.

“You like that?”

You nod desperately. “Yes, yes, don’t stop.”

He doesn’t.

He devours you — hungry, focused, like the only thing he wants is to make you fall apart in his mouth. Your hands knot in his hair, pulling tight, and when your thighs start to tremble, he groans into you, the vibration making your vision blur.

And just when you’re about to cum — on the edge of it, right there — he pulls back.

You whimper. “Why—”

He’s already kissing his way back up your body, whispering, “Wanna feel you cum on my cock instead.”

You whine, and he catches your mouth with his again, slow and deep and so fucking sweet it makes your chest ache.

“Condom?” you murmur.

“Yeah,” he exhales, eyes fluttering open to look at you. “Top drawer.”

He reaches for the drawer, opens it, and when he finds it, he tears the wrapper with shaking hands.

He strips off his boxers — and you both pause for a beat, your breath catching at the sight of him.

Because yeah. He’s big.

He doesn’t make a show of it. He’s not smug.

But when he rolls the condom on and looks down at you again — flushed, panting, legs open for him — he knows he’s wanted.

He lines himself up, and his voice is raw:

“Tell me if anything’s too much.”

You nod. “I will. I promise.”

He pushes in slowly, watching your face the whole time — every twitch, every gasp — until he’s fully inside you, bottomed out, his mouth hanging open like he’s never felt anything like this before.

You’re both quiet for a second — just breathing.

Then he moves.

Long, slow thrusts at first, deep and deliberate. His eyes flicker between your face and the way your bodies meet, like he can’t decide what’s more beautiful.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, your legs around his waist, holding him close as he fucks into you — harder now, rougher, but still with that same quiet reverence.

You moan his name. Over and over. And every time, he fucks you deeper. Like he’s trying to give you everything he has.

His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate, swallowing your gasps.

“You feel so good,” he groans. “So fucking good.”

Your nails drag down his back. “Don’t stop, Mingi— I’m close— please—”

“Cum for me,” he breathes, his pace relentless. “Let go, baby. I got you.”

You do.

It crashes into you, white-hot and blinding, your whole body shaking as you cry out his name — and he follows soon after, stuttering inside you, hips jerking as he buries himself deep and groans into your neck.

The room goes still.

You’re both panting. Slick with sweat. Clinging to each other. And after a long, trembling silence, he lifts his head. Your eyes meet. There’s no teasing. No smirking. Just that same softness. That same quiet awe.

“You okay?” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

You nod. Your voice cracks.

“I’ve never felt that with anyone before.”

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose.

“Me neither.”

And then he pulls you close again. Holding you like you’re something precious. Like you’re real. Like you’re his.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

The room is quiet now.

Just the slow hum of the night outside the window, the softened rhythm of both your breathing, and Mingi’s hand — warm and steady — still resting against your waist.

You’re lying on your side, facing away from him, your body loose but your chest tight in that familiar, sinking way.

He moves behind you gently, not to crowd, just enough to wrap an arm around your middle. He presses the softest kiss to the curve of your shoulder.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with sleep and something softer. “You okay?”

You nod once. He doesn’t believe you.

You can feel it in the way he lingers — that silence that stretches, waiting for truth.

So you force a breath out, one that shakes a little on the way up.

“…Yeah.”

You expect that to be the end of it. For him to let it go.

But Mingi surprises you. Again.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Wait here.”

You blink. Before you can process, he’s already shifting, easing up from the bed, slipping on his boxers, disappearing for a second into the hallway.

You hear the faucet. Water running. A cabinet opening and closing.

You sit up slowly, the blanket pulled around your chest. You don’t know why you suddenly feel like crying.

He comes back in with a damp, warm towel and a bottle of water.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shh,” he cuts in, quiet and firm, kneeling in front of you.

He starts cleaning you up with slow, careful hands — gentle, like he’s afraid he might hurt you. He’s quiet while he does it, not making it awkward or clinical. Just… kind. Respectful. Like it matters to him that you’re okay even after all the heat of the moment’s faded.

Like you matter. And you don’t know what to do with that.

When he finishes, he hands you the water and presses a soft kiss to your knee.  Then he climbs back into bed and pulls you close without even asking — tucking you under his arm, one hand stroking your hair.

You’re quiet for a long moment. Too quiet. He notices. You feel his thumb trace the back of your hand where it rests against his chest.

“Talk to me,” he says softly. “Please.”

You try to force the lump down in your throat.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that.”

You close your eyes. It’s stupid, the way your heart hurts. Stupid how nice he’s being. So you whisper it, raw and quiet:

“I don’t deserve this.”

Mingi stills.

You wait for him to pull away. To say something reasonable. To agree, even.

But instead, he tightens his hold on you — arms wrapped fully around your body now, like he’s anchoring you in place.

“Please don’t say that,” he breathes. “Please stop saying that.”

You squeeze your eyes shut harder. “I’m serious. You’re— You’re so good to me and I don’t know how to let myself believe it’s real. I keep thinking I’m gonna mess it all up. That I’ll ruin this. Ruin you.”

His voice breaks a little when he responds.

“Y/N… I’m not going anywhere. You don’t ruin things just by existing. You’ve been surviving with no one to catch you for so long, I think maybe… you forgot what it feels like to be safe.”

He keeps talking, quieter now, like a secret just for you.

“You don’t have to earn kindness. Or care. Or love.”

You feel your chest splinter. He presses his lips to your temple.

“You deserve softness,” he whispers. “You always have.”

You don’t say anything — you can’t — but your tears slip hot and quiet into the hollow of his throat where you’ve buried your face. He doesn’t point it out. Doesn’t make it a moment.

He just holds you tighter. Your breathing slows.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself fall asleep feeling safe.

.·:¨༺༻¨:·.

That morning, you wake up slowly. Not like the usual startled, tight-chested jolt that’s been your norm lately, but… warm. Heavy in a good way. Like your bones remembered how to rest for once.

The morning light peeks in soft through Mingi’s curtains. The room smells like him — laundry and cedar and something faintly citrus, maybe his shampoo. Your body aches in a way that makes your cheeks warm remembering the night before, and—

Right. You’re naked. Completely.

You blink, glancing down. The sheets are tangled around your legs, but your chest is bare, one of Mingi’s arms looped loosely around your waist. He’s still asleep — you think — soft breaths ghosting over your shoulder, his face tucked somewhere near the crook of your neck.

Your heart gives a little squeeze.

You shift carefully, trying not to wake him, planning to slip out of bed and steal one of his hoodies so you can at least walk without flashing someone. You’re halfway out of his grip, feet barely touching the floor—

And suddenly that arm tightens, fast and firm around your waist, yanking you back against him.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles groggily.

You feel his nose nuzzle softly under your ear, his hand flattening against your stomach. His body is warm and solid behind you, and the pull to stay is dangerously strong.

You settle back, just for a moment, tucking your hand over his forearm.

“You’re clingy when you’re half asleep,” you murmur.

“Mmhm,” he hums. “Only with you.”

Your chest warms at that. You turn your head slightly to peek at the clock on the nightstand.

Your eyes widen. “Shit.”

“What?” he asks, still sounding a little drunk on sleep.

You sit up fully now. “It’s already past seven. We have, like, thirty minutes to get up and get ready for work.”

That wakes him up.

“What?” he bolts upright, hair sticking up in ten different directions. “Holy shit. What time is it?”

You grab your phone. “7:12. We have to leave in thirty minutes if we want to make it on time.”

“We’re so fucked,” he says, already tossing the covers off. “We’re so fucked. We’re gonna get fired. You’re naked, I barely have anything on, we have thirty minutes—”

You’ve never seen him this panicked. He looks like he’s calculating battle plans in his head, muttering to himself as he pulls on a pair of boxers and stumbles toward his dresser.

“Okay, okay,” he says, pointing at you like he’s assigning a mission. “Get ready in here, I’ll use the bathroom down the hall.”

You pause for a second, then say nothing. You’ve been using the hall bathroom since you started crashing at his place — all your stuff’s in there — but in this moment of chaos, it doesn’t feel worth it to point that out.

You nod. “Okay.”

He disappears down the hallway, and you hop up and head into the bathroom. You turn on the sink, start rinsing your face, running fingers through your hair — only to freeze when you realize:

All your stuff — skincare, toothbrush, makeup — is still in the other bathroom.

“Dammit,” you whisper to yourself, wiping your face with the towel.

You wrap one of Mingi’s hoodies around you quickly and dart down the hall. The bathroom door is cracked open just enough that you can hear the shower shut off, steam still wafting into the hallway.

You knock lightly and push the door open.

“Sorry— sorry,” you blurt out, eyes squeezing shut like it’ll undo the moment. “I just need my stuff, I—”

Mingi’s standing by the sink, towel low on his hips, hair wet and dripping onto his shoulders. He blinks at you, startled but not upset.

“It’s okay, baby—”

He freezes. You freeze.

He clears his throat. “—I mean, Y/N. Just… just get ready in here. It’s fine.”

Your cheeks heat immediately. But you pretend not to hear it.

“Thanks,” you mumble, moving past him to grab your things.

The bathroom’s small. Your shoulders brush as you reach for your toothbrush, and when you turn to grab your moisturizer, your eyes flicker — very briefly — down his torso.

He catches it. His mouth twitches, like he wants to smirk but knows better.

You work in comfortable silence for a few minutes. You brush your teeth. He runs a comb through his hair. The domesticity of it all hits you in a weird, sudden wave. How natural it feels.

When you finish putting on the tiniest bit of concealer, you glance up at him.

“How do I look?”

He turns to look at you fully, then gives you that sleepy, slightly dazzled grin.

“You look great.”

You smile back. “You look good too.”

“Thanks,” he murmurs, grabbing his shirt from the counter. “Okay—” he glances at the clock again, “How much time do we have left?”

You check your phone.

“Ten minutes.”

“Ten?!”

You both scramble for the hallway.

“We’re so late—”

“Not yet, we’re not!”

He’s grabbing his keys off the hook, shoving his feet into his sneakers.

You laugh, still half out of breath as you tug your shoes on and grab your bag.

“Why do I feel like we just speedran an entire relationship in the span of like, ten hours?” you mutter.

He grins at you, flushed, hair still slightly damp.

“Because we did.”

You both burst out the door, nearly tripping over yourselves as you head to his car.

The windows are fogged up from the humidity. He starts the engine with a sigh, runs a hand through his hair, then glances at you as you click your seatbelt in.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly, just before pulling out of the driveway.

You look at him. At the curve of his jaw. The soft worry in his eyes. The little accidental “baby” still echoing in your chest.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.” He smiles. It’s a little crooked. A little too fond.

“Alright,” he says, shifting into drive. “Time to see if we can keep our jobs.”

You both laugh — tired, messy, still aching in places from the night before — but something feels lighter between you now.

Like maybe you’re not just running late. Maybe you’re running forward.