You smile when he finally notices. The tips of his ears turn pink, and he flinches, shy beneath your gaze.

"What's your name?"

When Mingi finally works up the courage to ask, he laces his fingers together, eyes lifting just long enough to study your face before they dart back down again.

You answer back softly with your name, every movement calm and effortless. Plucking an olive from your martini, you slip the toothpick between your lips and pull it free with practiced ease.

“I’m Song—”

“Mingi,” you finish for him, flashing a toothy grin.

His brows lift. “Oh... do you know me?”

Your dark eyes linger on him, impossible to read. A slow smile curls at your lips. “Something like that.”

You lean forward just enough for the movement to feel intentional. He whips his head to the side, throat bobbing when he stared at the way your tits pushed together for a second too long. You arch a brow before continuing.

“But I’ll know you even better if you come home with me tonight.”

He chokes on his Sprite, sputtering as the soda sprays across the table.

The guy beside him jerks upright with a curse, eyes bulging as he stares at Mingi.

"Dude—what the fuck?"

Mingi looks seconds away from dying of embarrassment. "...I am so fucking sorry."

The guy just shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he heads for the bathroom.

"Sorry," you say lightly. "Too forward? You can say no."

Mingi's head snaps up. "Oh, God. Please take me home with you."

The words tumble out before he can stop them.

His eyes go wide. A slow, crimson blush spreads across his face as he realizes he'd been a little... too eager. "I mean—" He squeezes his eyes shut. "Fuck."

You sit in silent victory for a couple of seconds before raising your credit card.

"Check, please?" Handing it over smoothly, you add "And I'm paying for his too."

When you make your way to the taxi with Mingi trailing behind you, you're grateful there's no moon tonight. If he'd gotten a better look at your face, he would've seen the unnerving smile etched across it. There was only one thing you had in mind:

Song Mingi, I'm nailing you to the fucking bed.

𝜗ৎ

High school was a cliché down to the T.

Boys poked and prodded at you with all the contradictions of adolescence. You were either too ugly to acknowledge or someone they wanted to sleep with in secret.

And Song Mingi stood at the forefront of it all.

He never bothered to remember your name. Instead, he'd go out of his way to laugh at you in the middle of class, just to hear everyone else join in. Crumpled balls of notebook paper bounced off the back of your head. Snickers followed you through the hallways. He'd always call you a little freak.

It wasn't just Mingi. Almost every boy in school seemed to have it out for you. You never really understood why—all you knew was that it was rarely kind.

On the better days, though, Mingi would scratch the back of his head in frustration before quietly leaving a carton of juice on your desk when you were too scared to eat in the lunchroom. One time, he shoved a guy for cornering you in the hallway.

Those moments almost felt like apologies.

Awkward and gangly, just like him. But even then, it never stopped.

When you were younger, you tried to understand him. You really did. During your self-help phase, every audiobook insisted people were more than the worst things they'd ever done. That forgiveness made you the better person.

You wanted to believe that. But you were way too fucking pissed.

From there, your life became the kind of rags-to-riches story people loved to tell. You went to college but still carried that adolescent rage with you. Every man you slept with became an emotional punching bag—a place to dump every humiliation, insult, and wound high school had left behind.

By the time you graduated, you were unrecognizable.

Confident—a little shameless, even. Years later, you stopped hiding behind your hair. For you, revenge wasn't getting even. It was becoming prettier and successful enough to look down on everyone who'd ever tried to make you feel small—from an empire you'd built with your own two hands.

And then, one day, you met the right kind of man. The kind who begged for your spit and paid you for it.

It was good money. Still is.

And quite frankly—you can't wait to show Mingi what the years have done to you.

𝜗ৎ

"You know—it's funny," you say, gaze drifting up to the ceiling with a soft sigh. The tasseled paddle taps against your palm in a lazy rhythm, like a metronome while you think.

Mingi's a mess beneath you. Spit drips in wet lines down his bobbing throat, pooling in the hollow of his twitching chest. His soft pants try to escape around the gag, strangled and useless.

He'd taken to it more readily than you expected. When you waltzed into your condo earlier that evening, you gave him the rundown fast and sharp—I don't bottom, I call the shots, here's the safeword—and tossed him the harness to see if he'd flinch.

He didn't. Just ran his thumb over the leather and asked if you had something in his size.

The harness you cinched around him earlier does exactly what it's meant to—squeezes his chest together, keeps him taut and presented. His eyes have rolled back, tears gathering at the edges of his long lashes. Strands of soft platinum blond hair cling to the sweat on his cheek, plastered there like silk against glass.

You press the button. The cock ring underneath his underwear kicks up a notch and Mingi lurches forward, hips jerking, only to be snapped back by the ropes. The restraints bite into his skin and he groans, the sound vibrating against the ball gag.

You smile.

It's enough to cut through the haze—Mingi forces his eyes open, struggling to focus on your face. You lean forward, hands braced on your knees, dropping to his eye level.

"You used to call me a little freak," you say, almost conversational. "All the time in high school."

The words hit him like cold water. It's frighteningly sobering. Mingi jolts, genuine surprise cutting through the pleasure-drunk fog.

"But look what we have here?" You tilt your head, letting the paddle trace a slow line down his sternum. "Song Mingi, the biggest jackass of my entire high school career... turns out to be the dirtiest fucking freak of them all."

His eyes roll back: hips thrusting forward on pure instinct, rutting into empty air, back arching in a sharp curve as another groan tears from his throat.

Your eyes widen, jaw dropping—and then you're laughing, bright and delighted.

"Ha! Did you just—" You lean closer, delighted. "Did you just have a dry orgasm?"

It's cute. Everything about him is so unbearably cute.

Then, all at once, a sick little epiphany settles over you.

Maybe this is what all those overpriced self-help journals had been trying to tell you all along.

Finding someone to be so pathetic can feel like forgiveness.

And now, he looks so pathetic, you adore the way he looks when he's ashamed.

You reach forward, fingers finding the buckle of the ball gag. It comes loose with a soft click, and you pull it free—a thin line of saliva trails after it, glistening in the light before you toss it aside. It hits the floor with a wet thud somewhere behind you.

You're still straddling him, knees bracketing his hips. You brace your hands on his chest, feeling the rise and fall beneath your palms, the heat of his skin through the harness.

"So," you say, quiet now. The edge in your voice has softened to something almost gentle. "Tell me, Mingi. You want to stop?"

You've had your fun. If he safeworded right now, walked out— you'd let him. No strings.

He stares up at you, eyes wide and glassy, tears finally spilling over to track down his temples. His breath hitches.

"N-no." His voice is wrecked, raw from the gag. "Please. Let me stay."

The smile that curves your mouth is genuine this time. "What a good boy."

You lean down, pressing your lips to the sharp line of his jaw, then higher—his cheek, the corner of his eye. You pepper kisses across his eyelids, tasting salt.

"Still wanna stay and fuck the girl you bullied?"

He sniffles, and the sound is almost laughable coming from someone his size—big, broad-shouldered, built like he could break you in half. But he looks so angelic and soft right now.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I liked you."

You go dreadfully still. "The fuck do you mean you liked me?"

Mingi swallows hard, trying to compose himself. He doesn't look at the way your thighs are pressed against his hips, the damp patch on his abdomen where you've been grinding against him.

"I didn't know how to..." He exhales shakily. "I didn't know how to deal with it. Liked—liking when people treated me a certain way."

He pauses, gathering the words like they're heavy stones.

"You probably don't remember this. But the first time we actually met wasn't homeroom."

"Sophomore homeroom, first day." you say automatically.

He shakes his head slowly. "No. Last day of freshman year. You were—some guys were messing with you in the hall. You ran into me after, literally ran into me, and you were furious. Called me a piece of shit." He hesitates, throat working. "Spit on me, too."

Your brow furrows. You don't—

"And I got hard," he confesses, voice barely audible. "Right there. Couldn't... after that, I couldn't get off to anything else. Couldn't stop thinking about it. About someone—about you—degrading me like that."

He finally meets your eyes, desperate and bare.

"So I started treating you the way I wanted you to treat me. I was shitty to you because I wanted you to be shitty back. I wanted—" He breaks off, jaw tight.

You stare at him.

"That's..." You sit back, processing. Your hands are still on his chest, but they're lighter now, almost hovering. "That's fucked up, Mingi. That's genuinely atrocious."

You shift your weight, thighs pressing harder against his hips. Your hand finds his jaw, thumb brushing the mark your slap would leave. "Safeword check. Remember what I told you?"

"Kitty." The word comes out rough, immediate. He's still locked in, pupils blown wide.

"What's your red? Your no goes."

"I don't..." He swallows. "Don't like being choked. Or spanked."

"Slapping?"

His breath catches. "Green."

Your hand moves before your brain catches up—palm cracking across his cheek, snapping his head to the side. The sound is sharp, obscene.

"You liked me?" Your voice drops, dangerous and low. You grip his chin, forcing him to look at you. "You couldn't even fucking recognize me, sick fuck."

"If you really mean it," you say, "then show me."

Your thumbs hook into your underwear, sliding them down your thighs. You step out, kicking them aside, then move over him—knees settling on either side of his head, lowering yourself until you hover just above his mouth. Close enough that he can smell you. Feel your heat.

"Then fucking eat."

Mingi doesn't hesitate. He surges up, mouth finding you with a desperation that makes your breath catch—thick lips closing around your clit, suction immediate and hungry. He drags his tongue upward in one long, flat stroke, pressing firm so he can taste all of you, everywhere, the broad muscle working relentlessly against you.

You're soaked. A thin line of wetness escapes, trickling down to his jaw, pooling in the hollow of his cheek before he swipes it away with another pass of his tongue.

He flicks the tip of his tongue rapidly against your clit. The sensation zips up your spine like current as you roll your hips, pressing down harder, grinding against the bridge of his nose until you feel the bone.

The view from above wrecks you.

Mingi's pupils are blown wide, eyes rolled back to crescents of white, lashes fluttering. The rope has bitten deep into his big arms, the skin there flushing an angry, bitter red. His platinum hair spreads across the wet sheets in tangled strands, darkening where sweat and spit have soaked through.

You have to force yourself to breathe.

Below, his hips piston upward in empty thrusts, rutting against nothing. The thin black jock you gave him strains tight, a dark, spreading patch blooming at the front where he's leaked through the fabric, desperate and untouched.

Finally, you take a closer look. Pausing your grinding almost curiously—thoroughly impressed.

"You act like such a fucking pussy," you breathe, rolling your hips down harder. "But you're hung like you could actually break me. Might snap me in half before I get the chance to break you in."

You sink lower, settling your full weight over his mouth and nose. His breath hot against your thigh.

Mingi doesn't panic at the weight of you. He doubles down, mouth working frantically beneath you, lapping and sucking like a man on a mission.

You feel him still beneath you—muscles tensing, heels digging into the mattress with a groan. Mingi tries to lap at you, almost languidly.

You reach down, fingers sliding under the jock's band, and tug him free. He's hot in your palm, throbbing, and you roll the ring off in one quick motion.

and when he cums, he cums hard.

His head snaps back, a ragged sound tearing from his throat, and he comes in thick ropes that stripe his heaving chest, his trembling stomach—one landing high enough to catch the edge of his parted lips, his flushed cheek.

You don't give him time to recover before your mouth is on him, cleaning off the excess still dribbling down the ridge of his cock.

"Sit up." You instruct.

You shift off him and move to his wrists, unbinding the ropes with practiced efficiency. Mingi flexes his fingers, opening and closing his hands to chase the blood back into them.

"Is this all you wanted?" You arch a brow, voice dropping soft. "Some attention?"

You smooth a strand of hair from his forehead, tuck it behind his ear. Your palm curves along his jaw, thumb dragging across his lower lip—pressing, testing. "Open."

He parts his lips slowly, tongue easing out in offering before flattening, stretching down toward his chin. Submissive. Empty—waiting.

"All those years acting out..." You trace his mouth with your eyes. "And this is what you were after."

Your index and middle fingers slide onto his tongue, pressing down against the wet heat of it. He's salivating already, slick gathering against your skin, salt mixing with salt.

His eyes well up—glossy, desperate—and you swear you've never seen anything this pretty. Not when his brows curve down in that perfect blend of pleasure and ache as your fingers prod the back of his throat. Not when his moans vibrate against your palm, when everything is wet: your hand, his lashes, his jaw, rivulets of spit trailing down to pool in the hollows of his collarbones.

"Or is this what you wanted?" You push deeper, feeling him gag softly around your knuckles. "My hand down your throat?"

He sits before you, hands braced on your hips, staring up with something almost puppy-like in its devotion. He nods—shameless, earnest.

"All I ever wanted." His voice is husky, worn thin with exhaustion and lingering need.

"All that effort," you laugh, "just to be used like a little toy."

You grip his cock—still slick and firm before giving him a few rough strokes. Then you lift your hips and sink down onto him in one motion, sheathing him completely.

His eyes roll back.

You pause. Five full seconds of mercy, feeling him throb inside you, watching his mouth fall open. Then you begin to move—slow, intentionally brutal of your hips against his. Your fist reaches to tighten in his hair.

Mingi stutters out a sound, half moan, half embarrassed cry that catches in his throat. "S-shit!"

It burns—his girth stretching you wide, delicious and punishing, throbbing like it has its own pulse. Your ass smacks against his thighs with every downward stroke, the skin there flushing red from impact. His whole body shakes beneath you, oversensitive and overwhelmed.

You lean down, tongue tracing the column of his throat, then hover above his mouth.

Your spit falls between you.

Mingi's lips part. His tongue catches it, heavy-lidded and delirious. He swallows slow, forcing his eyes to stay open—locked on yours, asking without words: See? Aren't I good for you?

You spit again—except this time, it falls directly between your tits. Mingi licks up your sternum, eyes still locked on yours.

Your hips roll, rise, and fall with fatal precision. Your tits bounce with the force of it.

He's fucking huge. Taking him feels like being pushed to your absolute limits—every throb and twitch forces you to accommodate him inch by inch, your body yielding to the sheer weight of him. It's a feat in itself just to fit all of him.

But then something shifts.

Mingi tilts his head back, eyes closed, offering himself up in a silent plea for the kiss he's too scared to ask for.

You answer by catching his bottom lip between your teeth, biting just hard enough to leave indentations before releasing. He sighs into your mouth as you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close until your chests flush together. You flinch at the sudden contact—the leather of his harness, still warm from his skin, brushes against your nipples.

His tongue sweeps against yours, jaw loosening to take you deeper.

“Fuck," he breathes, hands sliding to your hips to pull you down against him. It’s urgent—hot in ways you can’t say you expected riding Mingi after years of hating him would be.

"If you cum in me, I'll kill you."

"Mhm. Fuck—" He hisses against your mouth, breath ragged as he drives you down on him. "Yes ma'am."

His palms spread over your ass, gripping tight and rocking you in a rhythm that has you gliding up and down effortlessly.

He looks over your shoulder and spreads you wider, staring down at where your bodies meet. When he pulls out to watch you gape open, you can't even summon the energy to be annoyed—you just shove him back down and ride him. Hard.

His hands grip your waist, admiring the way you bounce on his cock, the soft give of your body. He looks at himself, at the white mess coating his shaft. "So fucking creamy."

You grab his face, pinching his cheeks until his mouth puckers, then slap him—sharp—and shove two fingers past his lips, gripping the wet heat of his inner cheek as you slam down on him.

"Shit—you feel so good," he whines, long blonde hair falling into his eyes. "Wait, I'm cumming—"

His face goes panicked, puppy-desperate. You smile softly. “Mhm. You can cum on my tummy."

You fall back, working your clit to finish yourself off, fighting the urge to pull him deeper and cave to your (covert) need to have him cum inside do you.

His large body shadows yours as he buries his face in your neck with a cry, once you rub the tip of his cock with the palm of your hand.

"Clean it," you manage, barely audible.

Mingi drags his tongue across your hipbone, down the soft curve of your stomach, licking himself off you with something like tired worship. He finds your hand, sucking at your palm, sliding wet kisses between your fingers.

He lies flat then, face buried in your thigh, and spreads you open to taste what's still dripping from you.

Wordlessly, you pull him into your arms and cradle him against your chest.

You brush his hair back from his forehead, cupping his face as your thumb gently wipes the sweat from his temple.

“…I really did like you back then,” he mumbles, his face still buried between your breasts.

You let out a quiet hum. “Oh? Did you now?”

He groans into your chest. “God… fuck high school. Truly.”

His arms tighten around your waist.

More than anything, he hopes high school Mingi hasn’t completely ruined things for the version of him that finally might get the girl.

fin.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: sub mingi in the year of our lord. a quick writeeee + bonus photos of what mingi looks like in dirty little freak :3

The tires of the SUV had been spinning uselessly in the deep snow for about twenty minutes before the engine let out one final, desperate, and exhausted grunt—completely dying and leaving you, your manager, your brooding bodyguard, and your driver stranded at the edge of a long forgotten logging road.

This entire trip had been your childhood friend-turned-manager's brilliant idea; a remote cabin rented specifically for your upcoming movie shoot under the insistence that isolating you a whole week early would perfectly immerse you in the script’s atmospheric mindset. 

At the time, Wooyoung had treated it like the greatest breakthrough of his career.

Knowing Wooyoung, it clearly wasn’t.

So when the car had come to a halt, a mixture of sighs and groans filling the tense air, it had become glaringly obvious that your dear manager had forgotten to check the weather forecast for today. 

A low groan in your throat had turned Wooyoung around from where he was sitting in the passenger seat, giving you a weak, apologetic smile while insisting that you should look on the bright side of this predicament. The bright side—or the silver lining, as he had called it—being that the cabin was only a mere 15-minute walk from where they had stopped. 

Wooyoung had even insisted that trudging through the blinding, wet terrain would put you right into the headspace of your character. The first five minutes he had stood by that statement, rambling on about how he had given you an advantage in the bad luck you were having.

He went quiet the second you had to practically fight through the freezing wind during the remaining ten minutes, and you couldn’t help but internally curse at your friend. ‘Silver lining my ass,’ you thought.

Turns out, stepping inside the cabin hadn’t been of much help either.

The air was painfully cold and brittle, a bit better than the winds outside, but the lack of heat was still there. Every breath filled your lungs like shattered glass, harsh and unpleasant, and by the looks of the other three, they felt the same.

You pulled your arms tight against your chest, shivering violently as you watched your breath flower into a thick white mist, mixing with the other men’s as Wooyoung stepped forward, grabbing a small clipboard containing a note that sat idly on top of a dusty wooden table.

Wooyoung sighed as he read the note. ”Great." He rolled his eyes in annoyance, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. "The main generator is completely shot." 

The heavy wooden table groaned slightly as he tossed the clipboard back onto the dusty surface. "We're stuck here until the blizzard clears. At least until tomorrow morning," he continued, the raw exhaustion of the storm openly bleeding through his voice as he looked away from the three of you, like he was embarrassed for being the cause of this.

The room fell silent except for the faint sounds of the storm shaking the structure of the cabin, turning even louder, almost like it was provoking the four of you—waiting for either of you to break.

But San, your driver, stepped up directly besides Wooyoung, knuckles lightly brushing against the shorter man's tense shoulder in a subtle, practiced movement like it was meant to ground him.

"We have dry wood for the fireplace, and the roof is solid," San said softly, his voice cutting through the chill as he offered Wooyoung a small, comforting smile, making his eyes crinkle and those familiar dimples appear on his cheeks. "We'll be fine, Woo."

A silent look passed between the two men, a quiet, almost intimate understanding that didn’t require spoken words. It made a genuine smile tug at your frozen lips, like a necessary pocket of warmth contrasting the freezing chaos of the cabin as it wrapped around a familiar ache spreading across your chest.

It was a warmth you so desperately craved but was so far out of reach. A heavy stab of shame suddenly tightened your chest, recollecting the nights you had spent with Wooyoung without the limitations of him being your manager. How achingly much he had needed that comfort too. It cut you deep to remember how hard you had worked him over the last few years, inadvertently denying him the very tenderness he needed and deserved.

So when San had been hired as your driver, it hadn’t been difficult to notice the lingering stares or the unnecessary, yet careful and deliberate, touches exchanged between them. You had seen the way Wooyoung’s posture, rigid from the sheer exhaustion after a grueling day of press junkets and relentless award shows, entirely dissolve the moment San stepped within arm’s reach.

Back during your first major career breakthrough, when the paparazzi were at their absolute worst and the media felt suffocating, watching them had filled you with an almost bittersweet fondness. Though they never spoke about the relationship they so desperately tried to hide, their quiet bond had always managed to keep you grounded. A silent anchor that allowed you to dare dream of one day sharing that same fierce, protective closeness with someone of your own.

But—like every fragile comfort on this trip—the brief moment of warmth and hope quickly evaporated the second a heavy, familiar shadow fell over your shoulders.

Seonghwa stepped fully into the main room, marching towards the heavy wooden door protecting you from the outside winds to lock it with a deliberate click of the deadbolt. He finally turned around on his heels, facing the three of you huddled together from the cold. He pulled off his thick tactical gloves, the dark leather creaking loudly in the quiet hum of the cabin as his dark, unyielding eyes immediately locked onto yours.

Not Wooyoung.

Not San.

His entire universe instantly narrowed down the second his gaze found yours, routinely scanning your face for any signs of distress, measuring the distance between your body and the door with his usual terrifying calculated precision. You couldn’t help but freeze under the intense gaze, instantly trapped by the same suffocating tension that has stretched between you for two long years. A heavy, unspoken weight that always made the air feel a bit too thick to swallow, seeping through the cold air.

You weren’t unfamiliar with that look. Seonghwa had always looked at you like that. Like he wanted to scold you for being too careless. Like he wanted to lock you away where the rest of the world wouldn’t dare to touch you, to hurt you—where the sheer, suffocating intensity of his gaze never stopped the terrifying, irrational thought that all he saw, and all he ever cared to see, was you.

“The perimeter is secure,” Seonghwa murmured, his voice a low, firm tone that vibrated right through the old floorboards before settling deep in your chest. “But the temperature is dropping. Fast”

A choked breath escaped you when he finally diverted his gaze from yours. “Maybe someone so careless shouldn’t have been in charge of our stay,” Seonghwa continued, his cold and expressionless facade never faltering—save for the silent daggers he threw at Wooyoung through his eyes. 

Wooyoung scoffed, glaring right back. “There is a fireplace, Mr. I-Love-Complaining," Wooyoung snapped, gesturing aggressively toward the large fireplace across the room. "We just have to keep warm,” he sighed. “And I don't think the owners can get here anyway, given the state of things out there." 

Outside, the snow was beating furiously against the structure, the faint, haunting howls of the wind echoing down the chimney.

“Fuck, it’s cold," you shivered through chattering teeth, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself, shoulders hunching instinctively as another violent shudder rattled your frame.

San frowned with immediate, protective concern. "Here," he said softly, his hand already moving to the zipper of his own heavy winter jacket. "Take mine. I have a thick thermal underneath anyway, I'll be fine—" 

"No."

The word cut through the room like a blade hitting ice. Sharp. Flat.

Seonghwa stepped forward before San could even pull his arms out of his sleeves, his taller frame effectively blocking the dim, flickering light of the lantern on top of the table. It cast a long, intimidating shadow right over your body as he physically inserted himself into the space between you and San, a dominant, territorial movement that instantly made the air in the room turn stagnant and suffocatingly heavy. Your breath hitched.

“She wears mine,” Seonghwa asserted, his fingers already unbuttoning his coat with efficient, practiced movements.

Your brows knitted together in a slight furrow, a sharp flash of irritation shooting through your spine. “I think San’s jacket will work just fine, too.”

Seonghwa clenched his jaw. “Just do as I say.”

“San has been my driver longer than you’ve been my bodyguard, Seonghwa,” you scoffed. “I don’t need your permission to take his jacket—”

“It isn’t about permission,” he snapped before stepping closer. The radiating heat of his body hit your face like a physical wall in the freezing room, holding out his massive, dark coat while his eyes kept locked onto yours with an uncomfortable and exposing intensity. “It’s about safety. Protocol.”

"Protocol?" You let out a sharp, mocking breath, chest heaving under your layers. "He’s my friend. You're being ridiculous. You've been doing this for two years—treating every single person who breathes near me like an enemy aching to strike. It's exhausting."

Seonghwa didn’t blink. His jaw tightened, clenching as he stared down at you, gaze pinning you to the floorboards. He lowered his head slightly, his voice dropping into a fierce, private murmur meant strictly for your ears.

"Sometimes the people closest to you can hurt you the most. And my job is to eliminate all risks.” He shoved the coat against your chest. “Wear the coat."

There was a lingering weight behind his words. Like an unspoken history or a deep-seated paranoia that you couldn’t quite decipher, leaving a ringing silence in its wake where a now uncomfortable, awkward friction settled over the room.

You could see Wooyoung shift his weight from one foot to the other through the corner of your eyes, his own eyes darting between you and your bodyguard with a mixture of confusion and growing annoyance. San stood quietly beside him, slowly zipping his own jacket back up in defeat, his expression carefully guarded.

You knew this was a losing battle—it always was—and even though you loathed how much your body was craving warmth ever since the car had decided to give up, you aggressively snatched the coat from his hands. But from the aggressiveness of it, your fingers accidentally brushed against Seonghwa’s bare wrist where his dress shirt had ridden up from taking off his coat. The sudden warmth sent an electric jolt straight up your arm, breath hitching in your throat as the two of you stilled. 

Not wanting to address the funny feeling pooling low in your stomach, you threw the heavy material over your shoulders, instantly engulfing you. It smelled entirely, intoxicatingly of him. A heavy blend of the raging storm outside—crisp pine and a grounding musk mixed with a hint of vanilla and coffee—making your head spin with every shuddering inhale.

Wooyoung cleared his throat loudly, the sound forced and awkward. "Right." His eyes lingered on the two of you before continuing, "We need a concrete plan to stay warm. The temperature is going to keep dropping, and I'd prefer we don't freeze to death before the first day of shooting."

“There should be spare blankets,” Seonghwa replied, his voice returning to that same detached, professional cadence as he turned towards Wooyoung.

Yet, his head remained subtly angled in your direction, his eyes never truly releasing you. "It is an Airbnb in the middle of winter, after all. The owners wouldn't leave a property completely unequipped for a freeze."

The manager sighed. "Great. I'll check the upstairs closets with San." He ran a hand through his hair before gesturing for the driver to follow him toward the creaking wooden staircase. "Let's pray there's something better than dusty sheets up there. Come on, Sannie.”

Wooyoung’s gaze lingered softly on you for a moment before his lips smoothed into a straight line, offering you a comforting nod. It was the same unspoken gesture he always gave you in the midst of chaos. A silent promise to let you know he was only ever a heartbeat away.

As their heavy footsteps faded up the stairs, the sound of their quiet murmuring was swallowed by the cabin and the storm raging outside, leaving the main room in a tense, ringing silence.

You stayed glued to your spot by the fireplace, fingers buried deep in the oversized pockets of Seonghwa's coat. A soft hum escaped your lips as you pulled the high, stiff collar tighter around your neck—partially to block out the biting draft, but mostly to hide the deep shade of red that had so suddenly flushed your cheeks. 

Seonghwa stood perfectly still across the room, eyes lingering momentarily on you before going back to whatever it was he was doing. It didn’t keep his focus for long, though. His attention kept flicking back to you, his gaze tracing the subtle yet rapid rise and fall of your chest through the dim, amber glow of the lantern. A lump formed deep in your throat, warmth spreading across every part of your body the coat surrounded.

His expression was one you had seen a thousand times over the last two years. A dark, unreadable mask that you had never quite been able to figure out. It was a look that usually kept you on your toes. It made you defensive. Guarded. And a bit annoyed, if you were completely honest. 

But tonight, with the evidence of the day's regrettable events lingering in the air like a thick fog, that familiar weight felt tenfold more intense. Like there was a dangerous, volatile sharpness to the way he was watching you. 

You felt your breath hitch, noises of the storm slowly fading out as the thud of your hammering heart was the only thing you could hear the second his eyes slowly dropped to your lips. Something in his eyes shifted, his tongue darting out to lick the seam of his bottom lip before his gaze locked back onto your own. 

He held an expression thick with words left unsaid, so heavy and demanding it knocked the air straight out of your lungs. You felt exposed. Naked. Like he could see right through you. 

You tried to brush it off, unconvincingly claiming it to be a mere security assessment and definitely not what felt like an interrogation. But you couldn't help the heart beating violently against your ribs, desperately trying to understand why...

Why a man who claimed to just be doing his job was looking at you like you were the only thing left in the world. Like a cherished treasure. 

The thudding footsteps of Wooyoung and San returning from upstairs broke the suffocating silence, each carrying a meager stack of stiff, faded wool blankets. A slow, heavy exhale left your lips at the sight of your friend, your previous rigid and clenched posture melting away. 

“This is the best we could find,” Wooyoung grumbled, dropping a couple of the rough blankets onto the sofa placed in front of the unlit fireplace. He frowned, like he had expected you to at least prepare a fire while the two of them were upstairs. 

A rattle caught his attention, the frown melting into a sigh as he headed straight for the far corner of the room, where a draft was visibly rattling the frosted windowpane. “The glass is a bit loose here. We should block the gap before starting the fire.”

San was already moving with him, pulling a roll of heavy-duty duct tape from his backpack. Ignoring the confusion as to why he kept a roll of duct tape in his backpack, you took it as your cue to move, desperate to shake off the paralyzing awareness of Seonghwa's eyes. 

“I'll prepare the fire, then. Until you're done,” you offered, your voice sounding slightly tighter than usual as you stepped towards a small pile of split logs near the fireplace. 

You bent down, but before your fingers could even wrap around the rough bark, a large, dark shadow eclipsed you. 

Seonghwa was already there, sweeping in so silently it caught the breath deep in your throat. His large hand clamped onto the piece of wood you were reaching for, knuckles brushing firmly against yours. 

A familiar heat coiled in your abdomen before you pulled your hand back from the accidental scrape of his skin against yours, as if you had been burned, your pulse spiking. 

“I got it,” Seonghwa murmured. Tone flat and professional, contrasting the flare of his eyes from the sharp intensity as he looked down at you. He used his body to subtly nudge you away from the hearth. “The wood is splintered. You'll cut your hands. Stand back.”

You huffed at that. “I am perfectly capable of carrying a log,” you snapped under your breath, a prickly wave of irritation rising to mask the sudden, erratic fluttering in your chest. 

You stepped around him, determined to prove a point, and reached for a smaller piece of kindling. Again, he moved. His chest subtly blocking your path, his shoulder passing so close to yours that the fabric of his shirt brushed against your clothed arm. 

He reached past you, his larger arm completely separating you from the woodpile. “You'll get hurt. I'll handle it. Your job is to stay warm.”

You let out a sharp, frustrated breath, retreating a few steps. It was infuriating. 

For two years it had been like this. Two years of this constant, suffocating hovering. This maddening insistence on treating you like something precious. Something fragile. You told yourself you hated it. You told yourself his overprotectiveness was a nuisance, a textbook display of a stubborn bodyguard taking his contract way too seriously. 

But as you stood there, wrapped in the heavy warmth of his coat, a traitorous and confusing ache settled deep in your stomach. You didn't want to admit how much his total, unwavering focus made your heart hum. 

You dragged your attention across the room, desperate to find any leverage to anchor yourself from the flutter in your chest as your gaze settled on the two men working on the window. Wooyoung was shivering, his shoulders hunched as he held a piece of cardboard against the draft while San tore off a strip of tape to secure it. 

Blissfully unaware of the lingering eyes, San took Wooyoung's reddened hands into his own, lifting them to his lips. He breathed a low, steady stream of warm air over Wooyoung's knuckles, his eyes fixed on the smaller man with an unhurried, profound tenderness. 

Wooyoung's entire posture melted. A soft, private smile spread across his face as he leaned his forehead briefly against San's shoulder, puffs of white mist escaping his lips from what you could only assume were giggles. 

A bittersweet ache twisted in your chest as you watched them. A sudden, hollow yearning that caught you completely off guard. It was a beautiful, quiet kind of intimacy. A safe harbor where two people simply trusted each other. 

You found yourself staring, completely captivated by the effortless softness of it, wondering—just for a fleeting second—what it would feel like to have someone look at you with that kind of raw devotion. 

You glanced away, blinking rapidly like it could hide emotions bubbling behind your eyes. You swallowed past a dry throat before you stopped dead in your tracks. Seonghwa. 

He hadn't been looking at the woodpile. 

He had been watching you. 

He had caught the exact moment your chest hitched. Caught the lingering, envious look you cast at the two men by the window, his dark eyes tracking the heavy rise and fall of your chest. 

The silence between you stretched, charged with an unsaid understanding. He knew exactly what you were looking at, and the rigid set of his jaw told you he was burning with a dark, unreadable frustration of his own. 

Desperate to break the suffocating spell, you turned on your heel, looking for any excuse to escape his vicinity. 

“I'll look for a better lantern,” you announced, your voice trembling slightly. 

You spotted a tall, heavy wooden shelving unit tucked into the shadows at the back of the cabin. On the very top shelf, three thick, vintage brass lanterns sat coated in dust, alongside a folded tartan blanket. 

You strode over to it, ignoring the way Seonghwa's boots immediately shifted on the creaking floorboards behind you. 

The shelf was tall, towering over your head, and the old wood let out a brittle, ominous creak as you stepped up on your tiptoes. You stretched your arms up, tongue darting out in concentration as your fingers just barely brushed the cold brass of one of the lanterns. 

“Don't,” Seonghwa's voice barked from across the room, sharp and sudden. “It's unstable.”

Your brows furrowed. “I can reach it,” you persisted, fueled by a reckless need to defy him. To prove that you didn't need his protection or that stupid protocol. You leaned more of your weight forward, straining your fingers just an inch further. 

You miscalculated. 

The moment your hand gripped the heavy brass, the rotten wooden supports of the shelf violently splintered. A sickening crack echoed through the cabin as the massive, heavy unit gave way under the shifting weight, the top shelf tilting forward. The heavy brass lanterns and a cascade of solid wooden beams came hurtling straight down towards your face. 

Your breath hitched. You couldn't scream. Couldn't move. All you could do was stare up at the falling mass in pure, paralyzed terror. 

A massive force hit you from the side. A solid, unstoppable wall of heat and muscle slammed into your torso as Seonghwa had lunged across the space with terrifying speed. 

His large arms instantly wrapped around your waist, crushing you against his chest as he threw his entire body over yours, twisting midair to shield you. 

The impact was brutal. You were slammed hard into the wooden floorboards, your breath violently knocked out of your lungs in a sharp gasp. But you couldn't feel the hard wood. Or the pain. 

You could only feel him. 

Seonghwa took the entire force of the crash, his large frame acting as a human shield against the wooden shelf and brass lanterns coming crashing down, splintering violently against his shoulders and down on the floor around you. 

A deafening silence followed the crash, save for the howling wind outside and the frantic shouting of Wooyoung and San scrambling across the room. But you couldn't hear them. 

Your mind flooded with thoughts as you were pinned flat against the floor, completely trapped beneath the crushing, heavy weight of Seonghwa's chest. 

He didn't let go. 

His grip was bruising, his large hands clutching at your waist and burying into the fabric of the coat with a white-knuckled, frantic desperation—like he was still trying to pull you deeper into his safety. 

You looked up, your vision spinning, and found his face a mere inch from yours. He was trembling, his chest heaving frantically against yours as he gasped for air, breath hot and ragged against your face. The usual stone-cold facade had shattered into dust, eyes completely blown out with terror. 

“Are you hurt?” he choked out, his voice a wrecked, breathless whisper, completely stripped of its usual composure. 

“I-I'm fine,” you stammered, voice barely audible. 

He let out a shuddering, broken exhale as his forehead dropped down to press briefly against your shoulder, right against the collar of his own coat. His jaw brushed innocently against the sensitive skin of your ear, sending a fierce and almost dizzying shiver straight down your spine. 

He was breathing you in like a drowning man, his heart hammering so violently against your chest that you couldn't tell where his pulse ended and yours began. 

As you laid there, pinned by his heat, the pieces you had fiercely been ignoring for two long years suddenly began to misalign and click into a terrifying new shape. This wasn't just a bodyguard doing his job. A man doesn't look this broken, this terrified, this utterly undone by a routine safety hazard. 

And as your fingers instinctively tightened against the fabric of his shirt, a suffocating realization began to bleed between the lines of your panic. 

You didn't hate his hovering. You never did. You've been yearning for this exact, crushing weight, completely starved for the overwhelming intensity of his touch. 

For one more antagonizing fraction of a second, Seonghwa remained entirely frozen on top of you before a sudden, sharp clarity seemed to hit—as if he had just realized exactly how much he let slip. How entirely unhinged his panic must have looked to the room. 

Almost instantly, the vulnerability vanished, masked by a sudden, terrifying flash of fury. 

He pulled away like your skin had burned him, his jaw locked into a rigid, defensive line as he pushed himself up off the floor. The usual facade slammed back down, twisted into something far harsher, an unreasonable biting anger meant to bury what he had just exposed. 

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snapped, his voice dropping into a harsh, venomous hiss as he glared down at you from his full height. “I told you it was unstable. Are you completely incapable of following a simple order? Your recklessness could have gotten you crushed!”

You blinked up at him from the floor, completely stunned by the whiplash of his sudden fury, your heart still hammering against your ribs. “I‐I was just trying to get the lanterns—”

“I don't care what you were trying to do,” he cut you off. His tone was icy. Unreasonable. Defensive. “You don't touch anything in a structurally compromised environment. You stay where I can see you, and you let me do my job. Is that concept too difficult for you to grasp?”

“Hey! Back off, dude!” Wooyoung's voice broke through as he kicked a splintered wood aside, stepping forcefully between you and Seonghwa to help you get on your feet, his eyes wide with defensive anger. “Chill the fuck out. She just wanted to help.”

San stepped up right behind Wooyoung, his hand resting firmly on your manager's arm to keep him from escalating. His eyes remained fixed on Seonghwa with a quiet, observant intensity. “She's fine, Seonghwa. We're all fine. The shelf was old, it was just an accident.”

Seonghwa's eyes stayed rigidly fixed on the floorboards next to you, his expression cold and unreadable. Yet, despite the familiar wall he was trying so hard to build back up, there was something so glaringly obvious unraveling the man. 

The subtle, uncontrollable tremor in his fingers. The rigid, unnatural stiffness of his shoulders. The way he refused to look you in the eye—it all betrayed him. The mask was cracked, and no matter how much he barked about safety or protocol, you could see the desperate, chaotic energy humming right underneath his skin. 

Without another word, Seonghwa turned on his heel and marched towards the dark kitchen, his heavy boots echoing like a rhythmic countdown in the quiet room. 

— ☆

As the storm raged on outside, the cabin shifted back into its usual silent awkwardness. The hours bled together in a slow, suffocating crawl, with each of you retreating to your own corners to do your respective tasks. San had managed to scavenge a pair of small, battery-driven lanterns from one of the upstairs closets, placing them on the mantle and surfaces scattered across the main room. 

The space was much better lit now, casting a steady, white glow over the room that felt almost too exposing, illuminating every tense line of the cabin. 

Wooyoung and San had quietly finished securing the draft window, their whispered conversations acting as a low hum against the howling wind. You remained curled on the sofa, still engulfed in the dizzying smell of Seonghwa's coat. 

You tried to read the script pages in your lap, but the words blurred into meaningless shapes. Every time you closed your eyes, you felt the crushing weight of Seonghwa's chest against yours. The desperate pressure of his fingers through your clothes and the terrifying, furious wall he had rebuilt the second he realized his control had unwillingly slipped. 

Across the room, Seonghwa stood like a statue near the kitchen threshold, his arms crossed, silently tracking the perimeter—tracking you—leaving a trail of heavy silence hanging between you that grew more suffocating with every passing hour. 

Before the midnight silence completely took over, there was a brief, fragile pocket of normalcy. 

The old kitchen stove was a traditional gas model, requiring no electricity to function. And Wooyoung—desperate to soothe his frayed nerves after the shelf incident—managed to heat up a pot of milk, turning it into a rich, steaming hot chocolate that the three of you drank while huddled on the couch and on the floorboards directly in front of the fireplace. 

With the heavy storm howling outside, you finally had a moment to truly take in the layout of the cabin without the immediate panic of the crash clouding your mind. The space was fairly big, built from heavy, exposed pine logs that had blackened with age. A steep, creaking wooden staircase cut straight up the center of the main room, leading up to a narrow loft landing where two small bedrooms sat side by side.

Across the room, entirely excluded from your small circle of warmth, Seonghwa sat in a rigid wooden chair near the dark kitchen entryway, next to the stairs. He hadn't touched the mug. He hadn't moved an inch to rest. His large frame completely still as he did his duty.

Wooyoung set his empty mug down, yawning heavily as he glanced from you to the dark figure in the corner.

"San and I will take the two bedrooms on the top floor," Wooyoung said, his voice dripping with a lazy, sarcastic edge as he deliberately poked fun at your bodyguard’s rigid posture. "That way, our resident shadow can stay down here and be in perfect reach if a rogue snowflake tries to attack the front door. You should probably head up to bed soon, too."

You snorted at the comment and offered a tired, faint smile, swirling the last of the dark liquid in your mug. "I need some time to collect my thoughts. Besides, it would be incredibly rude of me not to finish your delicious hot chocolate."

Wooyoung huffed a laugh, fond but exhausted, before standing up. He and San made their way up the creaking stairs, their shadows stretching long against the timber walls under the stark white glow of the battery-driven lanterns. You stayed glued on the couch, listening to the heavy wood groan under their weight.

There were two separate bedrooms up there. Yet, in the quiet structure of the house, you only heard a single wooden door click open, followed by the faint, muffled sound of quiet giggles before the latch snapped shut.

A genuine, soft smile tugged at your lips. It was so painfully obvious. A sweet secret that made your chest ache with a sudden, hollow envy.

"They are incredibly obvious," a low, gravelly baritone cut through the silence, making you jump. "It almost makes me sick."

You turned your head sharply. Seonghwa had stepped out of the shadows and was crossing the small hallway leading to the two rooms, hovering just a few feet next to the fireplace in front of you.  

There was a rare, faint chuckle catching in the back of his throat—a rough, unpracticed sound that completely caught you off guard. He was actually making fun of them, a tiny, human glimpse of amusement cracking through his armor.

The sudden vulnerability frustrated you, the lingering adrenaline from the afternoon twisting into a sharp, defensive knot in your throat. 

You turned your entire body to face him, your eyes narrowing. "Just because you are entirely incapable of feeling human emotions or expressing them does not mean their affection is disgusting, Seonghwa."

Seonghwa froze.

The small, rare trace of amusement instantly vanished from his face, his dark eyes widening slightly as he stared down at you, completely appalled and caught off guard by the sudden bitterness of your snap. 

The silence between you stretched, the air turning thick enough to swallow.

"Incapable?" he repeated, the word leaving his lips like a low, dangerous warning. He stepped forward, jaw tightening so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. "You think I don't feel anything?"

"Yes," you challenged, carefully putting down the mug before crossing your arms and getting up to take a deliberate step towards him. "Because you don't. You just stand there like a statue, watching me, judging me, and then you shut down. If you actually have a single human emotion inside you, say it. Because I am tired of guessing."

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, and for the first time in two years, his unyielding gaze faltered. He looked away from you, staring at the dark wooden floorboards, his hands clenching into tight fists at his sides. 

You could see the exact moment the internal battle took hold of him—his shoulders were rigid, his chest heaving under the tight dress shirt as he took a long, ragged breath. He wanted to snap back. Wanted to retreat into the shadows, but he was trapped.

"I can't," he choked out, strangled rasp you barely recognized.

"What do you mean you can't?" you demanded, taking another step closer, daringly shrinking the space between you. "It's a simple question, Seonghwa. Why do you treat me like this?"

"Because it isn't fair!" he suddenly snapped, his head whipping back up. His eyes were blown out, swimming with a desperation that made your breath catch. 

He took a half-step backward, trying to create distance between your bodies, but the wall pinned you both in the narrow circle of light. 

"It isn’t fair to you, and it damn sure isn't fair to me.” He took a deep breath. “If I say it—if I let myself even think it—everything falls apart. Do you understand me? Our lives, my job, everything we’ve built for two years. It ruins all of it."

You blinked, completely stunned, mind scrambling to make sense of the gnawing panic in his voice. "What are you talking about? What ruins it?"

"Don't push me," he whispered, a dark, desperate edge bleeding into his tone as his fingers trembled against his thighs. "Please. Just—go. Go to bed."

"No," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the chaotic hammering of your heart. You refused to back down now.

You closed the remaining distance, stepping directly into his personal space until your chest was practically brushing his. 

You looked up into his striking face, eyes boring into his. "I'm not going anywhere until you explain what the fuck you mean, Seonghwa. Look at me. Why are you so terrified of me?"

"I'm not terrified of you," he breathed, his breath hot and ragged against you. The sheer proximity was intoxicating. 

He looked completely undone, his rigid professional armor cracking and splintering right before your eyes under the pressure of your stubbornness. "I'm terrified of what I’ll do if I stop fighting."

"Then stop fighting," you whispered.

A harsh, broken sound—halfway between a scoff and a groan—caught in the back of his throat. He closed his eyes tightly for a single second, his head shaking as if he were trying to clear madness out of his brain.

"My entire life, I’ve been trained to lock it away," he whispered, his voice dropping into a raw, wrecked confession, the words practically dragged out of him against his will. "I was told that I felt too much. That my emotions made me a liability, a danger. I spent years forcing myself to become cold, to become a machine so I wouldn't ruin everything. I thought I was good at it."

He opened his eyes, and the sheer intensity in his dark gaze left you utterly breathless. He didn't move away this time. He leaned down slightly, his face a mere inch from yours, his unyielding focus pinning you to the floor.

"But with you, I can't," he admitted, a faint curse slipping past his lips as the final walls of his restraint violently crumbled. "No matter how many protocols I follow, no matter how hard I try to focus on the goddamn perimeter, you are always there. Just existing. Pulling me out of the dark and giving me a taste of what it actually feels like to feel again. It’s driving me completely crazy. I look at you, and I forget everything I need to be."

He reached out, his large, trembling hand hovering just shy of your jaw—like he was desperate to cup your cheek but paralyzed by the final, terrifying realization of what he was doing.

"I am your bodyguard, for fuck's sake," he gasped. "I am supposed to protect you. I am not supposed to look at you and want to take advantage of the fact that you are entirely mine to guard. I am not supposed to look at your lips and want to devour you until there's nothing left."

You looked up into the dark depths of his eyes, and the final piece of the puzzle violently locked into place inside your chest. It wasn’t just him. It had never been just him.

"Then stop looking at me like a contract," your voice cut through the quiet hum of the room, your hear a thudding pulse against your ribs. You lifted your chin, refusing to let him retreat into the shadows of his mind. "Stop hiding behind the protocol, Seonghwa. Look at me. Just ...look at me."

"I am looking at you," he choked out, a ragged exhale brushing over your lips, tasting faintly of winter and desperation. "That’s the goddamn problem. It’s all I ever do."

The confession hung in the air, thick and uncertain, like a match held over a trail of gasoline. His eyes dropped down to your mouth, tracking the slight parting of your lips with a raw hunger that made your knees turn to liquid.

"Seonghwa," you whispered his name, a soft, deliberate plea that shattered the last of his iron restraint. You didn't wait for him to cross the line. 

You dragged him over it.

You reached up, your small hand closing firmly over his bare, burning wrist, pulling his hand that last agonizing distance until his palm finally met your cheek.

A jagged spike of heat shot straight up your arm, and a needy groan was violently ripped from the back of Seonghwa's throat at the sensation of your skin against his. His fingers instantly flexed, his grip firm yet careful as his large hand framed your soft skin, his thumb pressing hard into your cheekbone.

And then he lurched forward. Soft lips crashed onto yours, hungry, frantic, and completely starved. His lips were hot and demanding, bruising yours as he devoured the heat of your mouth with a breathless urgency

You let out a muffled, dizzy gasp against his mouth, your hands instantly clawing upward to grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to bury yourself in his solid weight. He answered the movement by wrapping his other arm around your waist, lifting you nearly off your feet as he turned the two of you around, slamming your back against the very wall you had him cornered against.

The impact was sharp, and a gasp tore from your lips. Seonghwa’s tongue traced along the seam of your bottom lip, a faint moan escaping as you gave him access. He explored every crevice, every corner of your mouth, like he was memorizing it, tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, slippery rhythm that left you both gasping, your head spinning into absolute chaos.

The wet warmth of his mouth and the intoxicating scent of his musk completely flooded your senses until you couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t remember anything but the burning desire of his unwavering attention.

He groaned again, a deep, vibrating sound that rumbled straight from his chest into yours, his large hand sliding down to grip the back of your neck, fingers burying deep into your hair to tilt your head back, exposing the vulnerable line of your throat to his absolute mercy. 

He broke the kiss for a fraction of a second as a trail of spit connected at your lips, both of you panting, completely consumed by each other's taste. 

"You're going to ruin me," he whispered against your skin, his voice broken in defeat. "You know that, don't you? I'm completely ruined."

"Good," you breathed out, your fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him back down to your lips. "Ruin me too."

He found your mouth again, and the kiss instantly grew hungrier. Needier. Hotter. The sheer friction of his lips against yours made your brain short-circuit, and all your skin was screaming for was the intolerable barrier of your clothes.

You needed him bare. You needed to feel the solid, burning expanse of his skin against yours. 

Your hands left his hair, your fingers scrambling frantically for the buttons of his shirt, your movements uncoordinated and desperate. You managed to undo the first two, knuckles brushing the scalding, smooth skin of his collarbone.

Suddenly, his large, warm hands snapped around your wrists, pulling them away from his chest and instead pinning them against the wall on either side of your head. 

He looked at you, panting, a look of fear clouding his features. Even now, he was fighting his own suffocating lust, terrified that tomorrow morning you'd wake up and look at him with regret.

"Are you completely sure?" he asked. His eyes frantically searched yours with a vulnerable intensity. "Look at me. Tell me to stop right now and I will step away. I swear to god I will walk out that door if this isn't what you want. We don't have to do this—don't do something you'll regret tomorrow. I can't take that from you. Please."

You stared up at him, your vision swimming with frustration and a yearning so deep it felt like a physical ache in your gut. You looked at his tightened jaw and the dark, desperate pools of his eyes, and you decided you were entirely done with his hesitation.

"I need you, Seonghwa," you stated, your voice cutting through his panic, steady and laced with a fierce, demanding heat. You twisted your wrists in his grip, refusing to back down an inch. "So if you don't shut up and fuck me within the next five minutes, I will personally throw you outside into the blizzard."

Seonghwa froze. For a fraction of a second, he just stared at you, completely taken aback, his lips parted in utter disbelief at the sheer audacity of your threat. 

Then, the rigid tension in his shoulders suddenly cracked. A low, rough chuckle broke from his chest—a sound so rich, surprised, and deeply fond it made your heart leap. The hesitation in his eyes quickly faltered, replaced instantly by a heavy wave of pure, unbridled lust.

"Five minutes?" he murmured, his voice dropping into a dangerous, gravelly purr that sent a shiver straight to your core. His grip on your wrists tightened, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of your pulse points as he leaned down, his mouth brushing against the shell of your ear. "You're getting impatient."

He released your wrists only to scoop his arms under your thighs, lifting you completely off the floorboards in one powerful, effortless motion. You let out a soft gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his thin waist as your hands flew to his shoulders for balance.

He carried you past the central staircase, stepping into the dark hallway where your two separate bedrooms sat. The ambient heat from the stones radiated through the shadows, warming the narrow corridor as he guided you straight into his room. 

When he lowered you onto the bed, the mattress groaned softly beneath your combined weight, and for a dizzying second, you expected him to climb over you, to pin you down with that same dominant, territorial force he had used out in the main room. 

Your heart beat loudly against your ribs in fierce anticipation, every nerve in your body screaming for the heavy, crushing weight of him. But the moment the heavy coat slid off your shoulders, pooling onto the sheets beneath you, the dynamic shifted entirely.

Seonghwa didn't lean over you. Instead, he slowly sank directly to his knees between your legs, stepping down from his invisible throne to look up at you from below. The faint, bleeding light from the doorway caught the sharp angles of his face, casting his blown-out, glassy eyes in the subtle glow. 

He was panting, his wide shoulders rising beneath his dress shirt, his large hands resting flat against the bed, trembling oh-so slightly. The big, dangerous bodyguard who had spent two years commanding your movements, guarding your perimeters, and treating the world like a threat had completely unraveled at your feet.

He looked up at you with an expression of pure reverence—a look so entirely stripped of pride and so broken by his own hunger that it laid his entire soul bare. He looked like a man who had finally crawled out of a desert and reached a holy shrine, completely touch-starved, desperate to be used, and entirely subservient to your pleasure.

"Please," he whispered, the syllable a broken, needy whimper that caught in his throat. He didn't move to touch you yet, his hands staying glued to the mattress as he begged with his eyes. "Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me how to touch you. I'm yours. I'm completely yours."

You pulled him up. 

There was no more room for distance, no more patience for the space between his knees and the mattress. Your fingers wrapped tightly around the collar of his half-unbuttoned shirt, and with a fierce, breathless tug, you pulled him up over you.

He didn’t resist, lunging forward with a desperate, guttural gasp as his lips crashed into yours. 

The kiss was a messy, bruising collision of teeth and tongues, both of you fighting for air, fighting to get closer, clawing at each other's shoulders as if trying to tear through skin. Seonghwa made a high, strained, whimpering moan in the back of his throat, a helpless, whiny noise that betrayed just how undone his restraint finally was.

He broke the kiss, his hot breath shattering against your wet lips as his hands moved down to the hem of your shirt. He could barely grip the fabric from the shakiness of his own fingers, a frustrating tremor that made him let out a weak, desperate groan.

"Let me," he gasped out, completely wrecked. "Please—fuck—l-let me see you. I need to see you."

You nodded, and with a slow, reverent care that completely contrasted the chaotic hunger in his eyes, he began to slide the heavy layers of clothing off your body. 

As the fabric parted, exposing your bare skin to the dim shadows of the room, Seonghwa completely stilled. He hovered over you, his palms resting on either side of your head, and he just stared.

His eyes traced the curve of your collarbone, the slope of your waist, and the gentle rise and fall of your chest with an unhinged need. His gaze was heavy and consuming, treating the sight of your bare skin like a holy relic he had spent a lifetime searching for. 

"You're gorgeous," he whispered, a ragged, breathless sob catching in his throat as a single tear welled in his eye. "God, you're so beautiful."

He sank down, completely losing his posture, his face burying straight into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, broken whine, inhaling so deeply against your skin that his chest expanded painfully against yours. 

He was completely lost in your scent, the clean, intoxicating warmth of your skin mixed with the faint trace of the winter storm. He nuzzled frantically into your pulse point as his mouth left a trail of wet, desperate kisses down your throat.

"Every single day," he whimpered against your skin, his hands finally sliding down to cup your bare waist, his large palms scalding against your flesh. His fingers flexed, digging into your hips with a bruising, desperate pressure. "Two years of standing behind you, smelling your hair, watching you smile at everyone else while I had to stand back. It took every single fiber of my goddamn being not to drag you into a dark room and crawl to your feet. I was dying. I’ve been dying for two years."

Another whimper escaped the man, his head moving lower, lips tracing the center of your chest, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin. He pressed his face against your stomach and let out a choked, needy sound, completely surrendered his control to you, letting you feel the terrifying velocity of his heartbeat. 

You tightened your fingers in his dark hair, the silky strands catching between your knuckles, and you pulled his face up from your stomach. Seonghwa followed the movement instantly, his neck tilting back with a gasp, his eyes glassy, unfocused, and dark with a heavy wave of lust. 

"Look at me," you breathed out, your voice laced with a fierce, commanding heat that made a visible tremor ripple through his shoulders. 

You pulled his head up just enough to guide him, shifting your weight as you spread your knees, exposing the deepest, most vulnerable parts of your body to the dim shadows of the mattress. "Need you, baby. Right here."

Seonghwa groaned at the thought; a wrecked whine tore from the back of his throat, a helpless sound of pure need and submission.

He slid down the bed instantly, hands fumbling with the hem of your pants before removing everything in a smooth motion, hands now clamping onto your inner thighs with a bruising, desperate pressure that anchored you flat against the sheets. 

His face dipped between your thighs in a content hum while his long, slender fingers separated your folds. A deep sigh escaped the man as his tongue finally tasted you. It was wide and heavy as it flattened against your clit—long, deep, devouring licks that instantly made your hips jerk off the mattress with a sharp, dizzy gasp, turning your brain into complete mush. 

"Ah—Seonghwa, please," you cried out, your fingers burying into the bedsheets, toes curling as a familiar heat built in your lower belly.

A deep, vibrating groan rumbled straight out of him as he continued sucking at your clit, his lips creating a tight, suffocating vacuum that stole the breath right from your lungs, his tongue darting out in sharp, rapid flicks that had you a complete mess beneath him. 

You could hear the slick, desperate sounds of his mouth, the heavy slurring of his tongue. The wet, messy slaps of his lips against your skin and the constant, needy whimpers vibrating in his chest.

You looked down through the dark, your vision swimming, and your heart nearly stopped at the sight. Seonghwa was still fully clothed from the waist down, and his cock was visibly raging against the tight fabric of his slacks—creating a massive, hard ridge that stretched the material to its absolute limit. 

As he worked between your thighs, his lower body was instinctively, frantically humping into the mattress, hips rolling in a desperate, friction-seeking rhythm that sent deep, heavy vibrations pulsing right through the bed and into your own body.

"God, Seonghwa," you panted, your hands reaching down to tightly grip his hair again, keeping him pinned against your clit. "You—you're getting off just from eating me out? Fuck—look at your pants, so fucking desperate."

The words hit him like a physical wave as he let out a low moan, hips rolling harder against the mattress. 

"Such a good boy," you purred, fingers gently tugging at his hair. "Look at you, doing so good for me. Eating me out so well."

Another broken whimper escaped the man, his entire body shaking, tongue moving with an even more desperate and sloppy urgency from the praise.

He was begging with every lap of his tongue, his nose burying deeper into your wetness, completely lost in your taste, your scent, and your rules. He was whimpering into your skin, high on your pleasure, devouring you as if your climax were the only thing keeping his heart beating in the dark.

The heat in your lower belly coiled tighter, a dizzying pressure that left you trembling from head to toe. You were right on the edge, your core pulsing around his wet tongue, but the unbearable friction of his clothed body rubbing against the mattress became too much to handle. 

You needed him inside you.

"Seonghwa," you gasped, a commanding note cutting through your own haze as you tightened your grip on his dark hair once more, pulling his face away from your pussy.

He let out a pathetic whine at the sudden loss of contact, his lips glistening and wet with your arousal as he looked up at you through long eyelashes. His eyes were completely blown out, unfocused, and dripping with a raw, needy desperation.

"Take them off," you panted, your eyes dropping to the leaking ridge straining against his uniform slacks. 

You gave a slight tug to his hair, your voice dropping into that low, authoritative purr. "Get rid of your clothes. Right now, Seonghwa."

Seonghwa whimpered as he scrambled backwards instantly, a desperate, clumsy rush to obey your every word. His fingers slipped repeatedly against the heavy buckle of his belt as he let out a frustrated, whiny groan, a curse slipping past his lips while he frantically yanked at the leather, finally unbuckling it with a loud, metallic clatter that echoed in the dark room.

He didn't even care about being neat, practically tearing at the heavy fabric of his slacks, his breath coming in short hitches as he kicked them off his long legs, sending them flying onto the floorboards.

He turned back to you, kneeling at the edge of the mattress. His cock raged proudly against his stomach, long and thick as it flushed red with beads of precum pooling in his slit.

He hovered over you, hands coming to rest flat against your thighs to steady himself from his own trembling desire. "Please," he rasped, his voice a broken whisper. 

His glassy eyes pleaded with yours, stripped entirely of his usual facade. "P-please let me fill you. Tell me I can have you. I-I'm clean, I swear to god. I haven’t been with anyone. I haven't touched a soul since the day I became your shadow. There's nobody else. Only you."

The raw honesty in his confession made your heart flutter. "I'm clean too, Seonghwa," you reassured him softly, your fingers tracing the hard line of his wrist as you pulled him closer. "And I'm on the pill. You don't have to worry about anything tonight. I'm safe."

A sudden wave of relief washed over his expression, a shuddering breath escaping his parted lips as your words removed the very last barrier holding him back.

Before he could lean down, you shifted your weight, your voice dropping back into that low, teasing command that made his shoulders instantly tense. "Guide your cock against me first, Seonghwa. Slide it along my folds. Spread it."

A sharp whine broke from the back of his throat. Scrambling to follow your exact words, his trembling fingers reached down between your bodies, gripping the thick, raging length of his dick.

With an agonizing slowness, he pressed the broad head of his cock against your entrance, following your command to the letter as he dragged the slick tip of his cock up and down along your glistening folds, smoothly painting your pussy with the mixed wetness of his own arousal and saliva as well as your overflowing arousal.

The movement was absolute torture for both of you. Seonghwa let out a wrecked groan with every slow stroke, his hips subtly twitching as his body practically screamed for the tight heat of your core. Tears of desperation and need welled in his long lashes, his face entirely flushed.

"Please," he begged, his voice whiny and desperate as his eyelids threatened to flutter shut. "Please—nnngh—I can't... it's too much. Let me push inside—I’ll be so good for you. I’ll do whatever you want, I’ll take such good care of you, just please—fuck—please."

Your clit throbbed from the desperation of his words. "Do it," you breathed out, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Take me, Seonghwa."

Seonghwa lunged forward, crashing his mouth down onto yours in a devouring kiss with a loud moan—hands clamping onto your hips with a bruising, desperate grip as he finally drove his hips forward, filling you to the brim with his cock. 

Two long years of suffocating tension and suppressed glances violently crashed together the moment your bodies fused. The sheer, overwhelming sensation of his cock stretching you open, filling you up knocked a high, strangled cry from your throat—a sound that was instantly swallowed by his hungry mouth.

Seonghwa groaned directly into your lips, a deep, primitive, vibrating sound that rumbled straight from his chest into yours as his body completely froze inside you. He stayed buried deep, his muscles trembling violently under the tight intensity of your walls gripping him.

His forehead rested heavily against the crook of your shoulder as he stayed buried inside you, his body shaking with the monumental strain of holding himself back. You could feel every desperate twitch of his cock, the way it pulsed needingly inside you from the tight heat of your pussy. 

"Slow," you choked out, your hands sliding up his broad, sweaty back, your palms skidding against the slick expanse of his skin as you tried to anchor him. "Move slowly, Seonghwa. Let me adjust."

A choked, strangled groan escaped the deepest part of his chest, but he obeyed instantly. He pulled back with a torturously slow, deliberate drag, the slick friction making you whimper as your walls clung to his length. He drove back in with an unhurried, heavy depth. 

You could feel the faint, desperate flutter in his thighs—the violent, involuntary trembling of a man actively suppressing the urge to absolutely pound into you. But the instinct to claim, to take what was his, was buried in an instant. The desperation to please, to be good, completely overtook his senses. 

The quiet hum of the room shattered the second Seonghwa moved, incoherent, desperate ramblings muttered frantically against your neck, his voice completely wrecked as he found a slow rhythm. 

"Nnngh—you feel so good," he babbled, his breath hot and damp against your skin. "So tight—god—you're so warm. I can't ...I can't think..."

Though his pace remained slow, his hips twitched hard with every thrust, cock reaching so deep it left you gasping. He hitched, a sharp breath from his throat as his large hands tightened on your hips.

"C-can I go faster?" he begged, desperately whining as he looked down at you with tear-soaked eyes. "P-please... fuck, please let me. I need this so bad. I'm losing it."

You looked up at his flushed face, a dark, thrilling surge of power coiling in your chest despite the heavy, sweet ache building in your own hips.

"Not yet, princess," you whispered, a low, teasing authority dripping from your tongue. You looked at the desperation twisting his beautiful features and let out a breathless, mocking exhale. "You're going to suffer the exact way I did for two long years."

Seonghwa cried out at the words, a loud, broken sob slipping past his lips from the denial but also from how fucking good you felt. The sound of his ragged breathing filled the small room, competing only with the fierce howling of the blizzard beating against the cabin walls outside.

You reached up, hand gripping forcefully around his jaw. Your fingers dug into his skin, tilting his head down and forcing his eyes to lock directly onto yours.

"Look at me," you commanded sternly.

He obeyed instantly. Completely pliant, his jaw rested heavily in your hand, his gaze wide and unfiltered. The sheer need to be good, to be trapped entirely by your rules, waiting on your every breath so beautifully spread across his face. 

You pulled his face down the last remaining inch, crashing your mouth against his in a hungry, wet kiss. Seonghwa was soft against your lips, following your lead with a desperate, slippery rhythm that mirrored his surrender.

You pressed your lips firmly against his, your hearts synced with a beat that vibrated right through your chests, and you finally decided to unleash the beast at your feet.

"Fuck me, baby," you whispered against his mouth, your voice a dark, demanding promise. "Fuck me like you mean it."

The final thread of his self-control violently snapped. A loud groan erupted from the man, finally replacing the cautious rhythm with hard and brutally fast thrusts.

He drove into you with a dizzying speed, his hips slamming against yours with a wet, heavy slap that echoed loudly in the dark room. The sounds became chaotic and loud—the wet, squelching friction of his slick shaft sliding in and out of your overflowing wetness, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his pelvis bruising against yours, and the wrecked groans tearing from his throat with every single thrust.

He was pounding into you like a man possessed, his cock bottoming out with every single thrust, filling you up in a way you never thought your body could physically handle. You moaned against his mouth, your back arching off the mattress as your vision threatened to turn white. 

Your fingers clawed desperately into the thick muscles of his shoulders, drawing faint red lines across his skin as he consumed you, driving you both higher and higher into a blinding, suffocating heat that completely obliterated the winter freezing outside.

The friction between your bodies reached a feverish pitch. The room felt entirely too small, too hot, the air heavy and thick with the scent of sex, wood, and the salt of your mingled sweat. Seonghwa’s movements had completely lost all semblance of calculated precision; he was running on pure instinct, his chest heaving as he repeatedly buried his thick length deep inside you.

"Ah—Seonghwa, Seonghwa, wait—" Your voice broke, a breathless, desperate cry, as the electric coil in your lower belly wound tighter and tighter, turning into a sharp, intolerable ache.

He stuttered against you in a sharp, ragged hitch as his whole body went rigid. He looked down at you, his eyes wide and glassy. 

"I'm close—god, I'm so close," he babbled incoherently, his voice a broken sound as his hips trembled violently against yours. "I can't hold it, I'm going to—"

"You can't come," you cut him off in a commanding tone. Your fingers dug into the muscles of his shoulders, holding his weight in place. "You don't get to come until I do, Seonghwa."

His head shook back and forth, dark strands of wet hair clinging to his flushed forehead as he choked out a ruined sob. "P-please... it hurts, it feels too good, I'm right there—"

"Then hurry up," you panted, your eyes burning into his.

He scrambled to obey, his body shifting slightly as his right hand slid down between your fused bodies. You gasped when his thumb found your clit, circling it with a desperate wet friction that made your hips stutter from the touch.

His other hand flew up to tightly grip the swell of your breast, his large palm molding over your soft skin with a possessive intensity. He leaned down, his mouth hot as he took your nipple between his lips, tongue swirling and flattening against the sensitive peak in a tight, heavy rhythm while his teeth desperately grazed the edge. 

Every deep pull of his mouth sent a jolt of pleasure straight down to your core, perfectly synchronized with the rapid, wet friction of his thumb circling your clit and the heavy, stuttering depth of his cock thrusting you open.

You completely lost your mind. Your head thrashed against the pillows, your vision splintering into blinding streaks of white heat as the intense, throbbing pressure in your lower belly expanded. 

"Seonghwa—Seonghwa, now, I'm—"

Your hips gave one final, shuddering spasm against his hand as your climax violently hit, locking your muscles tight while your walls pulsed aggressively around his length in hot, crushing waves. 

Seonghwa broke out in a quiet sob, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth were grinding, tears of restraint spilling down his flushed cheeks as he waited for your spoken cue.

You looked at the man, fingers tangling weakly in his sweat-soaked hair. "Cum, baby," you purred. "You deserve it. So good for me."

A low groan erupted from him as his body violently slammed forward, chasing the same peak you had achieved mere seconds before. 

His climax hit him hard, driving his hips forward in one last, deep thrust, pinning you flat against the mattress as his thick length pulsed inside your squeezing hole. You could feel the pool of his release painted deep inside you, a thick, pulsing heat that felt like an electric current radiating straight through your pelvis.

He shot into you over and over, his muscles locking into painful, rigid lines along his back and shoulders as he fucked every single drop of cum out of his spent cock, his breath leaving him in short, pathetic whimpers. 

Slowly, the frantic beating of his heart began to steady, his sweaty chest collapsing fully against yours as the room fell into a deep, suffocating quiet. Seonghwa didn't pull out. He stayed buried deep within your warmth, his face nuzzled straight into the crook of your neck as his trembling arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you to his skin like a man who had finally found his home in the middle of the dark.

The adrenaline slowly drained from the room, leaving behind a thick, humid silence that felt completely detached from the raging blizzard outside. You laid there beneath his solid weight, your mind a hazy, comfortable blur of exhaustion and pure bliss.

Seonghwa’s face remained buried in your neck, his breath coming in slow, shuddering puffs against your damp skin. You slid your hands up his sweaty shoulders, fingers gently running through the dark, damp strands of his hair, massaging his scalp in slow, soothing circles.

"You did so well, Seonghwa," you murmured, your voice dropping into a soft, comforting whisper against his ear. "Look how sweet you are. You took such good care of me, baby. I felt so safe, so incredibly good."

An involuntary whine escaped the back of his throat—a helpless, tiny sound that broke your heart with how sweet it was. He buried his face deeper into your skin, completely pliant, soaking in the soothing rhythm of your voice like a child being comforted after a long storm.

The cooling air of the room finally began to bite at your bare skin, and you gently tried to shift your weight to clean up. "I'll be right back, okay? I need to grab a towel from the bathroom."

The moment you tried to pull away, a sharp wave of panic rippled through his dazed state. Seonghwa let out a louder, more frantic whine, and his large hand blindly scrambled across the sheets until his fingers locked around your wrist. His grip wasn't bruising or forceful like before; it was heavy, trembling, and deeply desperate, silently begging you not to break the physical connection. He shook his head weakly against your shoulder, his eyes unfocused as he clung to your wrist like a lifeline.

"Shh, it's okay, I'm not leaving you," you soothed him, using your free hand to gently stroke his flushed cheek, kissing his forehead. "You're okay, princess. I'm just getting a towel to clean us up. I promise I’ll be right back to hold you."

He let out one more fragile, thready sigh, his fingers slowly, reluctantly loosening their grip on your wrist as he sank back into the heavy haze of the mattress.

Gathering the top sheet of the bed, you wrapped it securely around your body, dragging the heavy fabric over your shoulders. Holding the sheet tight against your chest, you slid your bare feet onto the freezing floorboards, your knees bucking slightly from the lingering tremors of your climax.

The narrow hallway was somewhat dark, only illuminated by the faint gleam of the lanterns. You navigated the shadows with a hand against the timber wall, stepping toward the small bathroom near the main room.

You reached for the doorknob, but before your fingers could even wrap around it, the door suddenly shot open.

You gasped, pulling the sheet tightly to your chin as you stumbled backward.

Standing in the doorway of the bathroom was San. He froze instantly, completely caught off guard. He was bare-chested, a white cotton sheet wrapped around his waist, and a fluffy white towel clutched tightly in his large hand. His hair was a wild, messy halo, his lips swollen, and his chest still heavily flushed with a telltale heat.

For what felt like an eternity, the two of you just stared at each other in shock. The silence in the hallway stretched, loud and incredibly awkward.

Then, your eyes dropped to the towel in his hand, and the muffled memory of the quiet giggles and the single upstairs bedroom door clicking shut from earlier flashed through your mind. 

The realization hit you as an amused huff escaped your lips, and San's shoulders instantly dropped as a wide, boyish grin broke across his face.

You shared a quiet, deeply knowing nod—an unspoken pact of absolute solidarity between two people caught red-handed in the exact same state of breathless ruin.

"Towel's on the rack," San whispered, a quiet, amused chuckle catching in his throat as he stepped past you, carefully keeping his sheet secure. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, San," you breathed out, a soft laugh shaking your shoulders.

You watched his shadow vanish up the creaking wooden staircase, his heavy footsteps careful as he returned to Wooyoung upstairs. Smiling to yourself, you stepped into the small bathroom, quickly grabbing a clean, damp towel to wipe away the sticky, sweet evidence of your night along with the semen slowly trailing down your thighs. 

The room was freezing when you returned, but the second you dropped the sheet and slid back onto the mattress, you were instantly engulfed in a wall of comforting heat. Seonghwa tossed and mindlessly wrapped his arm around you, pulling you flat against his damp chest. He sighed in content the moment he felt your warmth return. 

He tucked the heavy wool blankets securely around your shoulders, burying his nose back into your hair as his leg hooked tightly over yours, anchoring you completely beneath him. 

You couldn't help but giggle. “Seonghwa, I need to clean you.”

But his grip remained firm, pinning you against the safety of his embrace. You huffed in defeat but decided it wasn't worth the hassle. 

i feel like we're at a really sensitive age where perception and self image are one of the most important aspects of a person— the weird coming of age where you're not really a kid but far from a mature adult. im often laughed and giggled at when I try to be mature, or am looked at with surprise when I demonstrate that I'm growing up and can stomach complex thoughts, “woah, that's very mature of you to say. you're smarter than we thought, huh?”

but I hold myself back when I'm around kids, “when I'm older like you, i'll—” who do I have by my side then?

we forget that no one has it figured out. im not someone unapproachable because I'm refined, I'm imperfect just like any kid. I'm still figuring out what I want, what it means to make a choice and what is truly the essence of why I'm a rebellious person.

kpop idols are no different. they just have a whole team carrying their story for them, and they wouldn't be where they are— if they didn't have adults helping shape their image to others. the same adults who have likely told them “you're smarter than we thought, huh?” and yet still see them as a kid. because that's who they are— eldest 20. only a baby in the face of the real world.

it makes my stomach turn when I imagine myself in their place. I don't suddenly look cool because I have a million eyes on me telling me I am, and I don't just feel beautiful because the pictures say I do. the makeup means nothing to me if I can't feel it. kpop idols are only just kids— just bound to a system that doesn't compromise on their beauty. they're gorgeous, they're young, they're desirable, yes. but they don't have it figured out.

I know if a panel of adults watched my every move, scanned for a potential flaw that could damage the "image" that's built for me and always corrected my imperfections, I wouldn't feel cool. I wouldn't feel beautiful. i wouldn't be what the public is being guided to see me as. I'd arguably feel worse about myself, unnaturally sensitive to criticism yet crave it to appear what I truly want to be seen as. cool. beautiful. pretty. talented.

what good is any trait of myself I can manufacture; if it means I can sell it for a perception of myself and yet still feel nothing like it?

I often lie awake at night, wondering what it would be like to genuinely meet someone who is a victim to the system that only uplifts them if they are already catching a wave of popularity? what if I poured my soul into my craft but the public, yet, still doesn't care to spare me a glance? and then my company rejects me, pays less attention to me while they overwork my peers to the bone who seem to be the public's preference?

what good is growing up around people who are telling you to be something? what if I want to be cool but because I want to be cool. not because it's trendy to be that way. what if I want to have love and connection, but I'm a puppet to the very people that are my audience?

i don't want to choose a version of me that can just be. I'm not effortless like that. I am who I am because I fought for what kind of person I feel true to be. I'm not refined, not perfect— I have scars on my face and my hair don't always fall perfect.

I'm more than the people I look up to. I'm more than the people I admire, I'm who I am because I absorbed what I loved about others. I demonstrate what it means to be me.

cortis is someone I've felt connected to since I recognized james' features back in september. since I saw martin breathe through what music meant to him. i have their posters on my wall because I want to show what part of them genuinely connected to be who I am.

but I can't be them. that's not me. I'll never be cool like martin I'll never be the same kind of resilient james was. I'll never be that. but I could be something similar. I could be inspired, I could build what it means to be me with that influence in my life.

but being able to carry that nuance with me in my life is challenging. i still feel like a teenager even if I'm 20. I'll still feel like a child when I'm fighting with my mom and I'll still feel like the same young student I was when I first started studying independently.

i can't replicate something I never was, I can only be inspired. it's hard to be the same age as the people I look up to because I'm forced to compare. but I feel as I grow up the easier it gets to just feel inspiration. the choice of wanting to choose myself everytime hijacks any sort of envy I've likely felt towards people my age, it helps me feel like I can grow at my own pace.

I hope everyone who reads this understands the vulnerability I speak from. I'm not the people I admire, even if I sometimes wish I was in a moment of overwhelming emotion. it makes me strong to feel confident in myself even if I'm nothing like the ones that inspire me.

i criticize the entertainment industry because of the adults. I feel for the others my age in the audience and on stage; both simultaneously. because I know what it's like to see someone your age and feel bitter. to feel overwhelmed with envy and to always stare in the mirror comparing yourself. but I've also been on the other end of the stick, where I've felt that I was BEING envied and felt it was unfair.

it can never feel earned because of the nature of envy itself— and it felt frustrating. because no matter how long it took to get here, it was my own effort. I've seen how people act when they're jealous and it's bitter. I don't wish for people to see me in a lens of envy, of awe or of something that strips away the effort it took to get here. I know if I was an idol, I'd feel uncomfortable with that kind of gaze.

as I admire idols, I catch myself before I can let the comparison consume me. I hope that everyone can walk away from the trap that is comparison and always admire the idols for who they are— just kids in a system trying to be themselves. they're just artists trying to find what art means to them. they're not special or someone to idolize. they're people who's choices are as fragile as yours and mine. they have regrets, they have fears, they have morally grey things about them that they hide. they may not be who you think they are. to me, admiring someone is accepting all this yet still understanding why their work matters to you.

I hope people can see idols with the same grace they carry for themselves. the urge to defend yourself when you're being wronged, it's not something foreign to us. then why do we struggle to see idols as human? as people capable of the same emotions were often experiencing?

there's a lot of nuance with such a topic that a lot of people overlook but I hope we can understand that we should ultimately be ourselves. idols compare themselves, they love, they experience and they lose. they aren't puppets to please the public, this is their way of trying to create art in a system that doesn't reward what an artist truly needs— time and autonomy. the ability to choose.

I'm going to quote something that impacted me from an analysis video on the videogame silent hill f— “these creatures (who) cannot possibly understand what a freedom it is to agonize over a choice at your own pace.”

it's impossible to be perfect because it's human nature to compare, teenhood brings so much that we often can't process it quick enough. but choosing ourselves every time it gets ugly is what brings us to accept ourselves, whether we are inspired by people our age or not.

but I'm at peace when I'm myself. I hope others can find that sense of peace too. the more I learn about people I admire, the more I learn about what it's like to choose myself.

I hope we just exist in less comparison and more acceptance. of ourselves and others.