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y/n:

hey, it's san, you already know that. okay, you know i'm bad at this, so i'm sorry in advance. there might be a right way to write this and i don't think i know it, but for you i'll try. please don't judge the handwriting too much. or the wording, or how short or long it is. i rewrote the first part four times and it still feels bad. anyway, i'm sorry, here's the letter. i guess i should start from the beginning, no? is that stupid? i don't know. [scribbled] the first time i saw you was in that class we both didn’t want to be in. i don’t even remember what the professor was saying, but i remember you. you were leaning over the desk, hand on your cheek, resting your head. i remember thinking you looked easy to be around. i don’t know why, but it did. this is embarrassing but i think i knew i wanted to marry you way earlier than i probably should have. i didn’t say it, obviously, that would've been creepy. i just knew you looked so so pretty and now that i know you, you became so beautiful. not that you weren't beautiful before being with me, you always were, i'm just saying from my perspective just how mesmerized you had me from the start, you know? you are just so smart, so creative, so diligent. [scribbled] it's like when you balance numbers and they finally add up the way they’re supposed to, that's what it kind of felt like, but in the romantic way. i'm sorry i'm not good at expressing my feelings and all that, you know that better than anyone else. but i want you to know that choosing you has never felt like a decision i had to force myself into. i want this more than anything, with you. we have this apartment now. it’s small and the walls are kind of thin and the kitchen light flickers sometimes, but it’s ours. i keep thinking about how this is the place where everything will start. mornings, dinners, normal days, hard days, all of it. and i like knowing you’ll be here at the end of the day. i like knowing i get to come home to you. i promise i’ll take care of you. i promise i’ll work hard. [scribbled] i know i don’t always say what i’m thinking, but i feel things even when i don’t show them right. does that make sense? well, [scribbled] i’m really proud to be your husband. that still feels strange to write, but in a good way. i hope we grow old together. i hope we don’t stop choosing each other, even when life gets busy or complicated. i hope you always know that you’re my favorite person in the world, even if i forget to say it out loud sometimes. i’ll always try to try, even if i’m bad.

i love you.

san

tucked beneath the neatly folded cashmere sweaters, exactly where you left it. lace covered box, meant for letters he had promised to fill with, yet a year and a half later, only the first one stood alone. you weren't angry, not even sad. it actually made you chuckle a little. just a quiet grief for what had been started to root deep inside, for the vibrant colors that had softened into pastels, for the soft reverence in his eyes that had slowly faded into habit. you often found yourself staring at the box, a wry smile touching your lips.

the paper, once crisp, now yielded to countless revisits. you knew every word by heart, the rhythm of his awkward sincerity etched into your memory. you traced the faded ink. his handwriting, usually neat in ledgers, was a little clumsy here. each letter formed with an almost painful deliberation. it was short, a simple promise. a quiet declaration of his intent to build a life with you, to be your home. no extreme pronouncements of undying passion, but a solid foundation of devotion. san had never been one for grand gestures, at least not in words. his love manifested in the certainty of his presence, the steady rhythm of his life intertwined with yours. in fact, you had asked for the letter in the first place, at that diner right before receiving the keys to the apartment.

"a letter?" he'd shifted on his seat, a blush creeping up his neck. "i'm not... good with words, y/n."

you shook your head with an endeared smile. "you don't have to be shakespeare sannie, just you."

he seemed in thought for a moment, trying to resist looking at your puppy eyes asking pretty please before straightening his back, accepting the challenge. and he did. pen clutched tight, brows furrowed in concentration. you’d watched him, your heart swelling with a love so potent it felt like a physical ache. then when he finished, he slid it across the booth table, eyes avoiding yours with his shy offering.

now, the paper, soft as old linen, whispered between your fingertips. you didn't rush. each sentence, each carefully chosen word, you read them slowly, precious memory reexperiencie. tasting the hope, the fresh promise of that day when he later bought you the box, saying he'd get better at it and you'd have it spilling out with his loving written words. you ran your fingers over the intricate patterns of the lace, delicate threads contrasting the hollow space.

you folded the letter along it's original creases, the paper folding easily, and placed it back before checking your thight bun in the mirror, perfect posture, every single hair placed where it was meant to be. he still looked at you, of course, but the spark, the raw wonder, had dimmed. it wasn't his fault. life had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of infatuation, leaving behind the smooth, enduring stone of work life.

silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant city chorus. you tell yourself he just forgot. got busy, or thought one was enough. you're good at explaining things away. but when did trying turn into remembering? when did the promise of a future become the past?

the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the air, a comforting scent that tonight told a solitary performance. table was set, candles unlit, everything waiting for a moment that kept getting delayed. the antique clock sat on the mantelpiece. seven thirty, again. you waited for the familiar click of keys in the lock, the sound that usually signaled the end of day and the beginning of us.

when he comes in your head lifts before you even realize. smoothing your dress automatically, fingers brushing over fabric that was never wrinkled in the first place. a small smile already forming, reserved for him. san already halfway out of his shoes, shoulders slumped, a dark suit jacket draped over his arm. he didn’t glance at the table set for two, but knows everything looks exactly as it always does.

"hey," his voice tired, worn down. like business of the city still clung to him.

"hi," you answer, softer.

he leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. familiar, practiced.

"sorry i’m late," he adds, already loosening his tie as you walked towards the dining table. "we had to redo part of the quarterly report because... how do i put this- there was a discrepancy in one of the ledgers, and it threw off the whole reconciliation process. so we had to go back and..."

pulling out his chair. the heavy oak scraped across the polished floor. he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "had to redo a section. whole damn thing.” he ran a hand through his hair, already tousled from the day. “hours. just… hours.”

you watched him, spooning roasted vegetables onto his plate. you pushed his plate closer, then sat across from him. "must be frustrating," you offered, a soft murmur.

he picked up his fork, turning the chicken over. "frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. the whole team, scrambling. for a single misplaced figure." he took a bite, chewed slowly. "it’s done now. mostly."

he keeps talking about work, deadlines, numbers, something about a client. you listen, always do. you don't understand every word, but you understand him in the way he talks when he’s tired. the slight edge in his voice, the way he explains things like he’s still in the middle of solving them. it’s easier for him to talk about numbers than about how his day actually felt.

nods at the right moments. hums of acknowledgement. small "and then?" once in a while, just to keep him going.

"…where did those come from?" he signals behind you at the counter. a faint lift of an eyebrow. a hint of a smile, almost.

you glance back, even though you know exactly what he’s looking at. the vase sits neatly by the sink, filled with fresh flowers. soft colors, carefully arranged.

"oh," you say, turning back to him, a warmth creeping up your neck. "mrs. jones gave them to me. i brought her some brownies earlier."

he paused, fork halfway to his mouth and exhales a small breath through his nose in genuine bewilderment.

"y/n," he says, setting his fork down for a second, "you need to stop baking so much."

you blink at him. "why?"

"i don't know, it's just..." he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. "it's every day. there's always something new. brownies, cookies, that cake from yesterday. the whole building must be swimming in your desserts." he didn’t sound angry, just... resigned.

"i like baking," your voice still gentle, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth

"i know, i know," he says quickly. "i'm just saying… it's a lot, isn't it?"

a small pause settles and you shrug, barely lifting your shoulders. "it keeps me busy."

he reached across the table, covering your hand with his. his palm was warm, calloused. "tell you what. how about i book you a day at that salon you like? the one on fifth street. hair. nails. the works. i can tell my sister to join you."

"what? am i starting to look like a hag?" you managed a weak laugh.

his grip tightened slightly. his eyes, usually so guarded, held yours with an intensity that surprised you. "you know that’s not what i meant." his voice was firm, no trace of humor.

the small joke withered and you nodded, slowly. "okay." you swallowed. "okay, that sounds... nice."

the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face. he picked up his fork again, the brief moment of connection already fading.

later, the apartment settled into it's nightly quiet. you lay in bed, the soft glow of your reading lamp illuminating the pages of a novel you couldn't quite focus on. normal people by sally rooney, but the words blurred. beside you, san lay on his back, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands. the blue light painted his face in stark contrasts. his thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled. numbers, probably. reports. another discrepancy.

you watched the subtle movements of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. he was so focused, so far away. still, you reached out, tentative touch to his forearm. his skin was warm beneath your fingers.

he didn’t stir, didn’t look up. his thumb kept scrolling.

you moved your hand, gently, up his arm, over his shoulder, until your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, then threaded into his hair. soft, dark strands. you leaned closer, your breath stirring the air near his ear.

a soft sound escaped him and it almost seemed like he was leaning into it. a yawn. deep, stretching. he lowered the phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. his eyes, heavy lidded, met yours. fleeting moment, again.

"long day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he gave you a quick short peck on your cheek then turned onto his side, facing away from you, the duvet pulled higher. "good night."

lamp clicked off. darkness enveloped the room, thick and immediate. you lay there, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, soon turning into soft snores. beside him but alone in the quiet. the book lay open, unread. words still blurred.

୨୧

acetone and something floral, both sharp and comforting. hum of dryers and low chatter fills the space, blending into a steady background noise that makes everything feel easy. normal.

you sat in the middle chair, hands resting neatly on the small cushion in front of you, fingers relaxed but still. a sigh escaping your lips before you could stop it. the manicurist, a young woman with a bright, knowing smile, took your hand, her touch cool and precise. she filed your nails into neat, elegant ovals. you picked a soft, clean color without much thought. something simple, safe, that goes with everything.

across from you, two of your friends leaned into each other, their overlapping voices a stream of gossip. too loud and uncaring. the others chime in, voices overlapping. one of them threw her head back, a peal of laughter echoing, the other one nodded, eyes wide with feigned shock. they talked about a mutual acquaintance’s recent engagement, the scandalous details of a breakup, the endless parade of societal expectations.

"he actually said that?"

"no, stop-"

"i'm serious, i swear-"

to your left, rhythmic snip of scissors. noeul, san's older sister listened quietly, sat under a cloud of foil, her head tilted back as a stylist worked through her dark hair. but her attention drifts back to you more often than not. she owned a warm, reassuring glint. offering a small, conspiratorial smile whenever you caught her gaze in the mirror, silent acknowledgment of the shared escape.

a few chairs down, a woman with kind eyes spoke in hushed tones to her stylist. "she just graduated middle school with the highest scores," her voice, thick with a mother’s proudness, drifted over.

the stylist hums a singing note. "you must be so proud."

"oh, more than that" the woman exhales. "she's even already thinking about what she wants to study after high school."

she spoke of her daughter, a girl she’d poured her heart into.

your fingers still for a second on the cushion. the stylist murmurs something gentle back, and the conversation folds into the background. but it lingers.

your gaze drifted from the woman’s satisfied face to the neat row of polish bottles, then to your own hands, at the careful brush of polish gliding over your nails. you imagined those hands, smaller, softer, reaching for yours. a child. a son, perhaps, with san’s dimples and your own tendency to blush when surprised. or a daughter, with san’s quiet strength and your expressive eyes. the thought bloomed in your mind like a fragile hothouse flower.

you try to picture it. years stacked quietly on top of each other. a child in your apartment. toys where there are now empty surfaces. noise where there is now silence. san, coming home from work. would he pick them up? would he be too tired? would he talk to them the way he talks to you now, half there, half somewhere else? or would it be different? the thought catches you off guard. unfamiliar.

because you've never talked about it. not seriously. not beyond passing comments, vague things people say because they’re supposed to. someday. eventually. no timelines, no plans, no want or don’t want laid out clearly between you.

you don't even know if he wants kids. and for a second, that realization feels heavier than it should. there’s a whole future on a limbo sitting out of reach. not because it’s impossible, but because it’s never been named.

"y/n? you’re miles away!" the brightness of your friend's voice cut through your reverie.

the other leans forward slightly, "how’s married life treating you?"

you don't look up right away, only tilting your hand slightly when the nail tech asks you to. a practiced tug at the corner of your lips masked the tremor beneath.

"it's good, really good." you offered, voice light and airy.

"ugh," someone groans playfully. "of course it is. you guys were always like... perfect for each other."

you let out a soft laugh. "thank you, emma."

"it is," the friend grins. "seriously though, what have you guys been up to lately? anything fun?"

there’s a pause. you glance up for just a second, like you're checking your memory for something recent, something worth telling. "not really," tone still light. "just... normal stuff."

"that's adorable," another friend says, laced with genuine admiration. "no drama or chaos. must be so peaceful to marry an office guy."

"yeah," you nod, smile a little wider. "exactly."

the conversation shifts easily after that, flowing like a meandering river to other topics, someone starts talking about a coworker, someone else about a trip they want to take, and you listen, add comments here and there, smile when you're supposed to. their voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. you watched them, their easy camaraderie, the way they finished each other’s sentences, and a familiar pang of loneliness pierced through the carefully erected wall around your heart.

noeul’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the din. she leaned closer, her perceptive eyes, meeting yours.

"how’s he been?” she asks.

you turn slightly. "san?"

a small nod. "yeah."

your smile didn’t falter. it felt glued on now, a permanent fixture. "he’s good," you say. "just busy with work, you know how he is." the words came out a little too quickly, a little too smooth. you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the manicurist applying the top coat, making sure each nail was perfectly glossy.

noeul scoffs and tilts her head. "i do." a faint, wry smile touched her lips. "you know, i’ve known my brother a long time. longer than you, even." she paused, letting her words hang in the air. "i know how he gets. when things pile up and he forgets the rest of the world exists."

for a second, the façade threatened to crack. the truth, the bitter, stinging sensation, rose in your throat. you wanted to confess, to unburden yourself, to say, he’s not here, noeul. even when he’s here, he’s not here. i’m so lonely. i feel like i’m drowning in this calm. but the words remained trapped. fearful of conflict, ingrained habit of presenting things softly. you forced a small, reassuring nod. "yeah, it's nothing." the lie tasted like ash.

she watches you for a second longer, like she’s weighing something, then hums lightly and looks away, letting the moment dissolve back into the room. as the conversation drifts away again, your gaze lowers, unfocused.

the manicurist finished, buffing your nails to a high shine. she applied a cuticle oil, the scent of almond and rose a delicate perfume. your hands, now impeccably groomed, felt foreign.

"all done, dear." she announced, her smile bright.

you lift your hands slightly, turning them under the light. they’re perfect. smooth, even, untouched.

"thank you," you say, smiling.

for a moment, you imagine asking him. should be simple. do you ever think about kids? it doesn’t feel like a big question. it's not.

and yet, you can’t picture the moment clearly. when you'd ask, how he’d answer, whether it would feel natural or out of place, like introducing a topic that doesn’t belong in the quiet shape of their life. so you let the thought go.

you reach for your phone absentmindedly. no new messages. thumb hovers over the screen for a second, like you might type something, then you lock it instead and set it back down.

"do you guys want to grab something after this?" a girls asks. "coffee?"

"perfect! i’m craving that new lavender latte."

"oh, i can't," you say quickly, forcing another regretful smile. "i really should head home. dinner, you know." you gestured vaguely, as if the very concept of an empty fridge was an urgent, looming threat.

"alright, wifey," someone teases.

you simply smile again in a thin line as you stand, smoothing down your dress out of instinct and reach for your bag. giving everyone a small goodbye hug. as you pass behind noeul, there’s a brief brush of hands, intentional to pause you.

"hey, if it’s ever not nothing," she says quietly, a hint of concern still lacing her words. "you can tell me."

you hold her gaze for a second. then you smile. soft, reassuring, effortless. "i know." and you mean it, you just don't use it.

blur of city sounds and hurried footste. you stepped out, the cool afternoon air a sharp contrast to the salon’s warmth. rose scented oil on your nails, faint blush of pink, it felt like a disguise. you walked, footsteps echoing on the pavement, toward the quiet of the apartment, toward the silent kitchen, toward the dinner you had to make. the thought of it, a weight in your stomach, settled in with the dull ache of loneliness. the calm awaited.

୨୧

the last of the suds swirled down the drain, taking with them the faint scent of tonight’s braised short ribs. you wiped down the counter, movements precise, methodical. the clinking of ceramic plates against the drying rack was the only sound in the kitchen. you dried your hands on a towel, folding it neatly over the edge of the sink when you're finished. dishes done, kitchen clean again.

san's in the living room, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face. he's not typing much. just staring, scrolling, thinking. you paused at the archway, shoulder pressing lightly against the cool plaster. the conversation from the salon, a snippet of motherhood, rang in your mind. it had all been a gentle nudge, a question mark in the back of your thoughts all afternoon. you hadn't realized how much space the idea of a child, of your child, could occupy until that moment.

the future, once a vibrant tapestry you and san wove together with eager hands, now a blank canvas. you’d painted the college days in bright, bold strokes, the wedding vows in shimmering gold. but the years beyond, the ones stretching into a quiet domesticity, remained unsketched. you found yourself wondering if san even saw that canvas anymore, if he still held a brush.

you watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he began typing, the subtle ripple beneath his shirt. his dark hair, a little longer than you usually liked, fell across his forehead. he didn’t look up, his focus absolute, a tunnel vision you’d come to recognize.

"still have a lot to do?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, a whisper against the keyboard’s clatter.

his fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed their pace. "almost," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. "just finishing up these projections for the morning."

a breath, deep and slow, air cool in your lungs. you watch him for a second. the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his attention narrows into whatever’s on the screen. focused. distant. the question, the real question, the one that had been brewing since you left the salon, fell heavy on your tongue. it wasn't just about kids. it was about us. about the unspoken, the unasked, the growing chasm of silence. you wanted to ask if he ever thought about them, about a future that wasn’t neatly tied to quarterly reports and spreadsheets. you wanted to ask if he still saw you, really saw you, beyond the perfectly made bed and the carefully planned dinners. maybe, just maybe, this question could be the key, a small crack. it could lead to an actual conversation, a real one, not just about work or groceries or the weather. your heart beat a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"hey," you start.

he hummed, signaling acknowledgement without breaking concentration. his head tilted slightly, silent invitation to continue.

do you ever think about kids?

words once so clear in your mind, so simple in your head, at least, suddenly tangled. they became a knot in your throat, a lump of unspoken fears and resentments. the image of him, so engrossed, so far away, solidified the doubt. what if he says no? what if he doesn’t want them? what if he thinks it’s a silly question? the fear of that disappointment in his eyes, was a known, suffocating weight. you’d spent years perfecting the art of soft landings, of avoiding any ripple in the calm surface of your shared life. to shatter that now, to introduce a potential disagreement, felt like a betrayal of your own carefully constructed peace. the question of children, of your future, of his love, dissolved into a vague, unformed anxiety.

"do you…" you began, then faltered, sentence dying on your lips. "do you want some tea?"

he looked up then, slanted brown eyes meeting yours, a faint smile touching his lips. the blue light softened the edges of his face, highlighting the dimples that appeared only when he was genuinely pleased. "yeah," he nodded. "sounds nice."

and just like that, the moment passed. the opportunity vanished. you offered a small, tight smile in return, then turned and walked back into the quiet kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. behind you, the quiet settles back into place. the question dissolves somewhere between the sink and the stove, blending into the rhythm of water filling, mugs being set out, something warm being made and offered instead of something uncertain being asked. by the time the kettle starts to hum, you can’t even tell if it would’ve been the right moment or if there would ever be one.

୨୧

the supermarket was colder than you'd expected when the automatic doors whispered open, spitting out artificial chill. paused just past the entrance, adjusting your grip on the heavy cart as the air settled unwelcome against your skin. for a moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet hum of refrigerators and distant chatter fill the space around you. a shiver traced it's way down your spine, cold reminder that you had to move, and so you pushed the metal basket forward as it's wheels squeaked faintly.

there was no reason to rush. you followed the aisles in a pattern you didn’t have to think about anymore. chicken first, hand reaching for the familiar white tray. then the vegetable section. flour, again. sugar, constant drain on the pantry, always seemed to run out faster than it should. everything found it's place in the cart without hesitation, each item chosen with the same steady certainty. each line on your shopping list crossed off with a decisive stroke of the pen. at some point, you realized you had already walked down the same aisle twice.

nothing missing, nothing forgotten. the necessities secured, a small indulgence felt earned. you slowed, then stopped altogether at the snack aisle. eyes drifted over the shelves, lingering on things you didn’t need. brightly colored packaging, a mental tally forming: which ones you wouldn't you buy, which ones would san wrinkle his nose at? the familiar ritual offered a brief, quiet comfort. you imagined his polite imperceptible nod of approval when you presented his favourite chocolate covered crispy biscuits, or the slight, teasing lift of his brow if you dared bring home something too exotic.

"y/n?" the voice came from behind, uncertain but enough to make you turn, the cart creaking in protest. you couldn’t place him until the crooked smile appeared and recognition settled in.

seonghwa.

he stood a few feet away, a half basket hooked over his arm. the boy you remembered, all sharp angles and adolescent angst, had softened around the edges, but the core was undeniably him. the piercings that once studded his ears and lip were gone, leaving only ghost like indentations. but new ink snaked up his forearms, dark tendrils against his skin, a testament to a life lived beyond high school hallways. his wolf cut, a shaggy, artfully dishevelled frame around his face, was longer, wilder than you remembered. his round eyes, still piercing, held a glint of surprise, then something else, something assessing.

"oh...hi," you said, a small, surprised smile breaking through. "wait, hi."

"wow, it's really you." he smiled back, a little wider, like he’d been more sure of it than you were. "i almost didn't recognize you. you... look good, exactly the same," he added, almost as an afterthought.

you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "that’s not true."

"it is," he said lightly. "just... older. in a good way."

you smiled again, more out of politeness this time, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as if to give your hands something to do.

"what are you doing around here?" he asked. "do you live nearby?"

"yeah," you nodded. "not too far. i just came to... groceries."

"right," he said, glancing at his own cart. "same."

there was a brief pause, the kind that should have felt awkward, but didn’t quite. not yet.

"so... are you still in touch with... what was her name? sarah? no- samantha?”

you smiled faintly. "no."

"right, yeah," he said quickly, waving it off with a small laugh. "i always mix those up."

you didn’t correct him. his gaze shifted then, catching on your left hand, lingering for a fraction on the thin band around your ring ringer. you followed his eyes, as if you hadn’t noticed it until that moment.

you offered a practiced smile, a smooth, well rehearsed performance. "oh, yeah. met him in college." the words came out light, airy, almost dismissive of the years of shared history, of the dreams whispered in dorm rooms, the silent promises.

"college, huh? that's nice," he said, and it sounded genuine.

"it is," you replied, too quickly. "his name is san, he's an accountant." the description felt flat, inadequate, a pale shadow of the man you loved.

"an accountant. fancy." he chuckled. "so, what have you been up to? still arguing about about freud versus jung for fun?"

"no, not really." you corrected gently. "i mean, i got a psychology degree but i'm… i'm a stay at home wife now." the phrase almost felt embarrassing on your tongue.

his eyebrow shot up. "huh... i always pictured you, like, running a therapy practice, saving the world from going insane."

you shrugged. "well, it’s nice, though. i get to... manage the house. bake. plan meals. save him from going insane, you know?" the words hollow, even to your own ears.

"i bet san’s a lucky man. always coming home to fresh cookies." he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

small, tight knot formed in your stomach. you baked when you were anxious, yes. but san rarely came home early enough for the cookies to still be warm. and most of them, you gave away to the neighbours, offerings of surplus comfort. "something like that," you murmured, deflecting. "what about you? still making music?"

his face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated passion sparking in his eyes. the words lingered between you for a second before dissolving into something lighter. you talked after that. nothing important, nothing that would be remembered in detail later. work, vaguely. life, in broad strokes. the kind of conversation that filled space easily without asking too much of either of them. he asked questions and waited for the answers. reacted in the right places. kept things moving without letting them settle too long in any one place. you found yourself talking more than you expected to.

"a few of us get together sometimes," he said, almost casually. "nothing big. just... hanging out. you should come, we’re going to a friend's house next week. old times' sake."

you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because you did. your mind immediately conjured a mental checklist: the laundry basket overflowing in the utility room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun on the living room floor, the intricate dinner you had planned for san, a quiet attempt to reignite a spark that felt increasingly dim. the thought of all those small, domestic duties, waiting patiently for your attention, made a familiar pang of guilt twist in your gut.

"i don’t know," you said lightly, automatic refusal on your lips. "i might be busy."

"with what?" he asked curiously.

you searched for something immediate, something obvious.

"just… stuff," you said instead, smoothing it over with a small smile.

he nodded, accepting it without question.

"well," he added, "if you’re not, you’re welcome. it’d be nice to catch up properly. it’s good to break free sometimes and let loose, you know?"

a small yearning stirred within you. the idea of an afternoon free from chores, from the quiet hum of your own thoughts, from the subtle ache of loneliness, held an unexpected appeal. "okay," you said, the word simple.

"yeah?" his eyes amused.

"yeah."

you exchanged numbers. nothing ceremonious about it, a small addition, barely noticeable in the moment. "well, it was good running into you, y/n. don’t be a stranger." he offered a quick, easy smile, then turned, his basket still hooked over his arm, and disappeared down the aisle towards the dairy section.

that night, you work through the knots in your hair in front of the vanity mirror. each stroke of the brush pulls a small discomfort. the rush of water from the tap in the en suite bathroom ceases. the door creaks open and san emerged, a towel draped low around his waist. water still clings to the dark hairs on his chest, glistening under the low light. he moves with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment before he crosses to his side of the bed, carrying the clean scent of his soap. he doesn’t look at you, not directly, as he peels the towel away, letting it drop to the floor. your gaze, however, finds the smooth expanse of his back, the hard lines of his muscles shifting as he reaches for the pajama drawer. you note the way his bicep flexes, the familiar curve of his neck, the slight slump of his shoulders that wasn’t there when you first met him.

you continue brushing, rhythmic scrape of bristles against scalp filling the silence. your heart a persistent bird, flutters.

"i ran into someone today," you say, your voice almost lost in the rustle of san pulling on a shirt.

a low hum sound from inside the fabric, he pulls the shirt down, smoothing it over his chest. he turns then, his eyes, dark and heavy lidded, finally finding yours in the mirror. a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before settling into a tired affection.

"at the market?" he asks as he pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed.

you nod, watching his reflection as he settles onto the mattress, propping himself up against the headboard. "an old friend. from high school." you pause, the brush still in your hand, it's bristles splayed. "apparently some of them still hang out, and i was invited."

the bed dips as he adjusts the pillows. "that’s good. you should go." his voice is calm, even. he picks up his phone from the nightstand, it's screen glowing blue for a moment before he sets it back down.

you turn fully then, the brush forgotten on the vanity. your bare feet touch the cool wood floor. "really? you don’t mind?" you walk to your side of the bed.

he looks up, his brows furrowed slightly. "why would i mind? it’s good for you to see people. you’re always here." his gaze sweeps around the room, then back to you. "you should get out more."

the words, meant to be reassuring, land with a surprising weight. always here. a small, sharp ache begins in your chest. you climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. the sheets, cool against your skin, feel vast tonight.

"i mean," you start, choosing your words carefully, "i haven’t seen them in years. since graduation, probably." you watch his face, searching for something, a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern.

he just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "people change. that’s okay. it’ll be nice to reconnect." he reaches over, his hand finding yours under the duvet. his fingers, warm and strong, intertwine with yours, a familiar comfort. "you’ve been cooped up. it’s good to have plans."

his thumb strokes the back of your hand, it’s a connection, yes, but one that feels practiced, automatic. you want to tell him more, to say, it was seonghwa, the boy with the emo hair, the one who used to draw skulls in his notebook during history class, but the words catch in your throat. the moment feels too delicate, too easily broken.

"i guess so," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. you squeeze his hand, a silent plea for more, for him to ask, who was it? what did you talk about?

soft exhalation that sounds like relief escapes him. he leans over, his head dipping. his lips, warm and soft, brush your forehead, then your temple, then your mouth. it’s a brief, chaste kiss, a familiar closing to the day. his lips taste faintly of mint. he pulls back, settling deeper into his pillow.

"good night, y/n," he says, his voice already thick with sleep.

eyes closing and breathing deepening almost immediately. the rhythm of his breath fills the room, steady and even. his hand, still holding yours, loosens it's grip. fingers, heavy with sleep, slide away.

darkness pressed in as you layed there, the silence amplifying the quiet hum of the city outside. your eyes trace the familiar contours of his face in the dim light. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rest against his cheekbones. faint smile, ghost of a dream, plays on his lips. he looks peaceful, untroubled.

he hadn’t asked. he hadn’t asked anything beyond the most superficial. he hadn't asked who. he hadn't asked if you wanted to go. he just assumed.

you turn onto your side, facing away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around you. the warmth of the blankets does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep within you. still, you tried to push the thought away. it’s not fair. san is tired. he works hard. he provides. this is what you agreed to. this is the life you built. you chose this, to be here. for him. but the loneliness curls around your heart. the perfection of the bed you made this morning, the carefully planned dinner, the unspoken anxieties baked into the pastries you gave away, all of it feels like a silent scream swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of your days.

tears won’t come even if the knot in you throat screams for a cry. instead, your mind drifts to the closet, to the neat rows of clothes, the perfectly folded sweaters. tomorrow, you think, you’ll reorganize the winter section. it needs it. you need it. a small, manageable task to fill the endless hours.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n from the store. i think i'm free that day if the invite still stands

seonghwa park: hey!

seonghwa park: yeah of course 😉

seonghwa park: glad ur coming, heres the address

seonghwa park: [location]

୨୧

the building wasn't what you expected. grimy canvas of faded brick and peeling paint that slightly unnerved you. you pulled your phone from your pocket a third time, checked the address, then glanced up at the entrance like it might correct itself if you stayed waiting long enough.

no, this was it.

bass vibrated through the pavement, pulse beneath your feet. for a second, you consider leaving, then you adjust your grip on the small container in your hands and step inside. the hallway swallowed you whole, narrow canyon that smell suspiciously of gasoline. when you reach the graffiti painted door, it was already slightly open. you knocked anyway.

there's a small shuffle inside before seonghwa emerges, his grin a flash of white teeth.

"y/n! thought you weren't gonna make it." he stepped aside, his arm sweeping an invitation.

you offered a small, polite smile, stepping into the room. the air hit you first, thick with a cloying sweetness you couldn't recognize and the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. the apartment was a controlled chaos. art adorned every available surface, canvases leaning against walls, sketches tacked to corkboards, a half finished sculpture draped in cloth in a corner. the room swam with bodies. girls, their midriffs bare, navel piercings glinting under the strung fairy lights. men, their arms drawn with ink, sprawled on beanbags or perched on the worn, leather couches. they moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, as if the space molded itself around their presence. your modest linen shirt, a soft ecru, felt suddenly like a costume, an ill fitting disguise.

"hey everyone, this is y/n, from high school." seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze, a casual announcement.

a few heads turned, a couple of languid nods, but most remained immersed in their conversations, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. your gaze swept across the room, searching for a familiar face, a flicker of recognition. nothing.

"it’s... nice to meet you all," you murmured, voice a little too soft, a little too formal for the raucous atmosphere. you clutched the clear container in your hands, the weight of it suddenly grounding.

a girl with a constellation of tiny tattoos climbing her neck, her hair a violent shade of fuchsia, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at your hands. "what’s that?"

you felt a blush creep up your neck. "oh. cookies. i made them." you held the container out, a silent offering.

a woman with striking, dark eyes and a generous smile detached herself from a group near the window. she wore spiked hair and her eyebrows seemed to be gone, but her presence offered a quiet anchor. "cookies! how cute. anna, by the way." she extended a hand, her grip firm and warm.

"y/n." you returned her shake, a surge of relief washing over you.

"i didn't know this was a bake sale," a gravelly voice grumbled from a corner, followed by a snort.

anna turned, her dark eyes narrowing playfully at the fat guy with a mohawk. "shut up, mark. you never bring anything." she gave his arm a quick, sharp shove. despite his joke, he came up as well.

a fresh wave of embarrassment hit you, cheeks burning as you began to stammer, "i just thought, you know, as a... a thank you for inviting me..."

anna waved your apology away. "no, it’s great! we love snacks. what kind?" she peered into the container, her eyes sparkling.

"chocolate chip. with sea salt." you offered, a small smile tentatively forming.

the lid popped open with a soft click. the aroma of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted through the air, momentarily cutting through the other scents. it was like a siren song. suddenly, a small crowd materialized around you, drawn by the scent. hands reached in, fingers deftly plucking cookies from their neat rows.

"someone brought cookies?"

"wait, i want cookies."

"no way, cookies?"

"save me one. i said save me one!"

the conversation dwindled, replaced by the soft sounds of chewing and contented murmurs. a lanky guy took the last cookie, giving you a between apologetic and grateful look and you laugh it off. within minutes, the container lay empty, a few crumbs clinging to it's clear sides. you felt a genuine smile spread across your face. the tension in your shoulders eased. "i’m glad you liked them."

for a moment everything was filled with overlapping conversations and easy movement, people drifting in and out without much structure. you sat at the couch with anna and mark. being spoken to, responded to, included without having to work for it. she asks you what else you like to bake. he asks where you live. the questions aren’t deep, but they come one after another and you answer, laugh and nod. the silence you've been carrying around doesn’t follow you in, it stays somewhere outside the door you walked through.

after a while, when the rhythm starts to feel harder to follow and topics shift quickly, you find your way back to seonghwa in the kitchen. he’s near the counter, talking to someone, but he glances over when you approach, like he’s been keeping track of where you are.

"hey," he says, turning slightly towards yo.

"hi," you answer before a small pause, then casually, "are any other people from our school coming?"

he doesn't hesitate. "nah," he says, shaking his head. "couldn't come."

"oh," you felt a pang of disappointment, small knot tightening in your stomach. you’d envisioned friendly faces, shared anecdotes, a comfortable bridge to this unfamiliar landscape. "okay."

"why?" he adds. "were you expecting someone?"

"no,no. i just thought maybe-" before trailing off, you shake your head lightly. "it's fine."

he watches you for a second, then nods once, like that’s enough.

"you’re good," he says. "don’t overthink it. come on, let’s get you a drink." seonghwa grinned, his hand briefly brushing your lower back as he steered you towards a cooler overflowing with ice and bottles.

you chose a sparkling water, the chill of the can a welcome sensation against your palm. you gravitated towards anna, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with mark about a band you’d never heard of. you hovered at the edge of their circle, listening, slowly piecing together fragments of their world. they spoke of gigs, of art installations, of obscure films, their words painting a vibrant, chaotic picture of lives lived on the fringes of convention.

as the evening continued it's slow, winding course, the hours passed by without warning, suddenly, it was later than you thought. through the subtle buzz in your veins and lightness you hadn't realized you were missing, the image of san already in bed, alone, stirred something in you. your small bag and empty container already in your hands.

"you can come in anytime, even if seonghwa isn't here." anna said before hugging you goodbye.

as you made your way towards the door, seonghwa intercepted you. "leaving already? come on, just one more drink." his voice was persuasive.

"i really should go. it’s getting late." you offered a polite, but firm smile.

he stepped closer, his hand briefly touching your arm. "you know, you’re really something, y/n. a real breath of fresh air." his eyes held yours, flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"thank you, seonghwa. for inviting me." you pulled your arm away subtly.

"anytime. seriously. we should hang out again, just us two." his voice dropped, a low murmur intended only for your ears.

you felt a shiver, a faint unease prickling at your skin. "maybe," you said, voice noncommittal, then slipped out the door, back into the cool night air.

the street was quieter now, the bass from the building still a faint thrum in the distance. you walked and thought of the laughter, the music, the easy camaraderie, and a strange sense of longing settled in your chest. it was a world so different from your own, a world where boundaries seemed to blur, where emotions were worn on sleeves, where life felt raw and immediate.

stale cigarette smoke clung to your clothes, a new perfume you hadn't anticipated, but somehow, it felt less offensive than the lingering scent of dish soap from your day to day. your sensible sedan, parked a block away, seemed almost out of place among the battered vans and motorcycles. once you got in safely, you pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a single text from san from an hour ago: 'home. have a good time, night.' short, efficient, just like him. you stared at it and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to him, to tell him about the fuchsia hair, the tattooed arms, their reactions to your cookies, the melancholic music, anna’s kind eyes. but you tucked your phone back into your purse, the small, bright screen now dark.

you unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the silent space. the air inside was still, heavy with the scent of your carefully chosen strawberry cake diffuser. a half eaten bowl sat on the kitchen counter, remnants of the chicken stir fry you had prepared earlier, the pan still on the stove, a few grains of rice clinging to it's surface. a small sigh of relief escaped your lips. he had eaten. the simple act, a confirmation of your effort, brought a satisfaction to you. you moved through the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic and metal as you rinsed the bowl, scrubbed the pan. it was a mindless task, your hands working on autopilot, while your mind drifted back to the vibrant chaos of anna's house.

the bedroom was a hushed darkness. san lay sprawled on his side of the bed, a rumbling snore escaping his lips, his face buried in the pillow. the sheet, pulled up to his waist, outlined the broad expanse of his back, the familiar curve of his spine. a sight you knew intimately, a tableau repeated almost every night. he worked hard, you reminded yourself, always.

you untangled your hair from the neat french twist, the pins scattering like tiny metallic insects onto the polished wood of your dresser. soft fingers massaged your scalp, releasing the tension that had gathered there throughout the day. you stripped off your clothes replacing them with silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. teeth brushed and bathroom light off, the bed dipped slightly as you eased yourself in, careful not to disturb san. he remained a dark, unmoving mass beside you, his breathing deep and even.

sleep, usually a welcome embrace, felt elusive tonight. your mind buzzed, a kaleidoscope of new faces, loud music, and unfiltered laughter. the freedom of it all, the raw, unpolished authenticity, contrasted sharply with the quiet, ordered life you had carefully constructed.

shifting restless, silk rustling against the sheets. the image of the girl's fuchsia hair, defiant and vibrant, flashed in your mind. her confident stride, her easy smile. what did she worry about? did she ever feel this profound, aching quietness? you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of san's back. the moonlight, filtering through the gap in the curtains, painted a silver line along his broad shoulder, the muscle defined even in repose. he was strong, reliable, your rock. yet lately, the rock was a mountain you couldn't climb.

a pang of something sharp, something akin to longing, twisted in your gut. you wanted to feel. you wanted to be seen. not just as the wife who kept the house, who cooked the meals, but as you, again. the you who had laughed tonight, unburdened. the one you knew san had fallen in love with.

your hand, almost without conscious thought, slipped beneath the silk of your pajama shorts. the fabric parted, your fingers, tentative at first, found the soft mound of your grown pubic hair, then the slick, warm folds beneath. a small gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the quiet room. your core, already sensitive, pulsed beneath your touch. you stroked, slowly, deliberately, soft pressure building.

subtly, your hips began to tilt, involuntary movement, pressing into your palm. your fingers worked with a quiet urgency, tracing the delicate ridges, circling the peak of your clitoris. a moistness spread, warm, slick rush that dampened the silk shorts beneath your hand. the sensation intensified, a delicious ache blooming deep inside you, spreading through your belly. your breathing hitched, growing shallow, ragged.

wake up, i'm here.

you closed your eyes, a torrent of images flashing behind your eyelids. san, the warmth of his touch, a vague, undefined hunger. you pressed harder, your thumb finding a rhythm, a steady, insistent pressure. a low moan, barely audible, escaped your throat, a sound of pure pleasure. your whole body tensed, arching slightly into your hand. the climax a sudden, exquisite release, wave of heat that cascaded through your limbs, leaving you trembling, breathless.

୨୧

the shrill ring of the alarm ripped you from a dreamless sleep. your eyes fluttered open, the room still shrouded in pre dawn gloom. a glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through you. 6:45 am. san left at 7:30. you had overslept.

you scrambled out of bed, the silk shorts clinging briefly before you shed them. the floor was cool beneath your bare feet.

"san, wake up," you whispered, nudging his shoulder. he grunted and slowly, reluctantly, stirred.

you moved with practiced efficiency, a whirlwind of motion in the quiet kitchen. the scent of brewing coffee began to fill the air, mingling with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. toast popped, butter melted, and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping fruit filled the space. san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed, his black hair still damp, clinging to his forehead. he looked tired, his eyes still holding the remnants of sleep, but his movements were precise, methodical.

"morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam curling around his face.

"morning," you replied, already assembling his lunch. a neat stack of sandwiches, a small container of cut fruit, a handful of almonds. you wrapped it all meticulously, fitting it into his lunch bag.

"did you sleep okay?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. he leaned against the counter, watching you.

"yeah, eventually," you said, trying to keep your voice light. you packed a small thermos of tea. "i went to that thing last night, you know, the hangout thing?"

he nodded before picking up a slice of toast, spreading jam onto it. "how was it?"

"it was...different," you began, a small smile playing on your lips. you wanted to tell him everything, about the fuchsia hair, the tattoos, the unexpected warmth. "it was in this old building, kind of grungy, but everyone was so nice. there was this girl, sally, she had the most incredible hair, like, bright pink and her face was like a strainer, filled with piercings, it was so cool. and then i met anna, she had these dark intimidating eyes but she was actually really sweet. she’s a photographer for bands."

he turned to you with a slight frown. "y/n?"

"yeah?" you cleaned your hands with a kitchen towel.

"you're not... getting into anything dangerous, are you?"

you tilted your head, looking at him confused. "what? no, no. they were really nice people, they had this energy, like they just didn't care what anyone thought. it was kind of... inspiring."

"hmm..." he took a bite with a raised brow. "be careful y/n, you know how those types can be."

the warmth you’d felt, a flicker of shared experience, began to cool. "i am. but listen, there was also music, not like the music we usually listen to, more like a band sound," you continued, a little more emphatically, trying to inject some of the excitement you had felt into your words. "there was this guy, he had these huge arms filled with tattoos and he had a mohawk, i'd never seen one of those in real life."

he looked away again, finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "just don’t get into anything foolish." he reached for his briefcase and lunchbox, already moving towards the door.

your shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, there was so much you still wanted to tell him. but there was also no time, you knew. there never was. he was already halfway out the door, his hand on the knob.

"i'll make your favorite soup for dinner tonight," you offered, a last ditch effort to connect, to anchor him for just a moment longer.

he paused, turning his head slightly. a small, tired smile touched his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "thanks, that sounds great, i'll try not to be too late. love you."

"love you," you mumbled as the door shut and he was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the now silent apartment. you stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and eggs.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n, i had a really good time yesterday.

seonghwa park: hey, me too

seonghwa park: everyone loved u btw, they were all talking about how sweet you were when you left

y/n choi: really? that's so nice to hear

seonghwa park: ur coming next week, right?

y/n choi: again?

seonghwa park: yeah

seonghwa park: we hang out every weekend

seonghwa park: always at annas

seonghwa park: come ooon, ull have t come

seonghwa park: ur a part of the group now

the words, simple and direct, landed like a soft blanket on your exposed nerves. a part of the group now. the phrase resonated, a balm to the quiet ache san’s rushed departure had left behind. it wasn’t profound, not a declaration of affection, but it was an invitation, a recognition. it felt like a small hand reaching out in the growing expanse of your solitude.

y/n choi: i’d like that, thanks seonghwa.

the next week crawled by, each day a slow, methodical march of chores and quiet anticipation. the perfect bed, the planned dinners, the reorganizing of the linen closet. each task a meticulous attempt to fill the hours, to ward off the encroaching loneliness. but seonghwa’s words, hummed beneath the surface.

a part of the group now.

as saturday evening approached, nervous flutter stirred in your stomach. you pulled out a simple, soft cotton t-shirt, one you usually wore for lounging. then, a pair of well worn dark jeans. your fingers went to your hair, letting it fall, then found a simple black velvet hairband, pushing back the front strands.

the grungy building loomed, a concrete behemoth adorned with a tapestry of peeling posters and vibrant graffiti. the door stood ajar again, inviting light spilling onto the cracked pavement. but politeness, ingrained deep within you, compelled your knuckles to tap softly against it.

the door swung open further, revealing anna. her spiked hair, dark halo around her face, seemed to defy gravity. thicker eyeliner from the last time, you noticed. a cigarette dangled from her lips, thin wisp of smoke curling lazily into the air.

"well, look who it is," anna’s voice, raspy like gravel, held a surprising warmth. a slow smile spread across her face, revealing a glint of metal in her upper teeth. "you bring cookies this time, wifey?"

you laughed, unforced sound that surprised even yourself. "i didn’t, i’m afraid." faint blush touched your cheeks.

anna leaned against the doorframe, taking a drag from her cigarette. "shame. your hair looks good though, so i'll let you in." she winked, a playful glint in her dark eyes.

you stepped inside murmuring a small "thanks." she led you into the living room as seonghwa, who was meticulously cleaning something that looked like a round bottom flask, rose from the couch.

"hey, you. where's my hug?" he grinned, a flash of genuine pleasure in his expression. he offered a thight hug, quick squeeze that felt surprisingly comforting. "glad you came back."

"come on, i’ll show you my current obsession." anna, having stubbed out her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, clapped you on the shoulder and led you to a corner of the living room, where a makeshift studio was set up. a flash unit sat on a tripod, and a black backdrop hung from a makeshift frame.

she showed you her new lighting techniques, her raspy voice softening as she spoke about her craft, explaining each of the series of prints tacked to the wall. the subjects, all punk, stared out with an intensity that pulled you in. low groan emanated from the other side of the room. mark, with his pants that perpetually threatened to slide off his ample frame, was getting another tattoo. the machine buzzing like an angry bee.

you watched, a strange mix of fascination and unease stirring within you. the raw intimacy of the moment, the deliberate pain, the permanent mark being etched into skin. it was so far removed from your carefully ordered world. visceral, unapologetic. you thought of san, of his disciplined body, his aversion to anything that might disrupt his carefully constructed order. a tattoo, to him, would be an act of reckless abandon, an unnecessary defacement.

anna exchanged a few words with the tattoo artist and you followed seonghwa and sally into the kitchen.

"tacos?" you asked, a sudden urge to ground yourself in something familiar, something productive.

"attempting to," seonghwa repeated, a wry smile playing on his lips. sally, armed with a knife, was making a valiant but clumsy effort to chop an onion. tears streamed down her heavily made up face.

"this is harder than it looks," she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing eyeliner.

"i don’t even know if this is cooked enough. it still looks… pink."

you stepped forward with quiet confidence. this, you knew. this was your domain. "let me help," you offered, already reaching for the cutting board. you gently took the knife, demonstrating a quick, efficient chop that produced even dice.

you moved with an easy grace, hands finding their rhythm. chicken seasoned, a blend of spices from the overflowing spice rack that seemed to surprise even seonghwa. you showed sally how to properly dice tomatoes and shred lettuce, your voice soft but instructive. the kitchen, which had been a scene of mild culinary disaster, slowly began to transform into an efficient workspace.

"wow," sally beamed, her fuchsia hair bouncing. "seriously, my mom just nukes everything."

it was a simple thing, a small act of connection, of contribution. but you felt useful, appreciated. the feeling was a pleasant counterpoint to the quiet solitude of your own kitchen at home, where your culinary efforts often met with san’s polite, but often silent, approval.

the group gathered at the living room again, something being passed from hand to hand. you saw it before you recognized it, it wasn't tobacco.

the joint made it's rounds, anna took a long drag, her eyes closing in apparent contentment. seonghwa inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke that dissolved into the dim light. sally giggled, her eyes a little brighter, her movements a little looser.

then, mark’s hand, big with his new tattoo, extended towards you, holding the burning joint. the tip glowed orange, small pulsating ember. a hush fell over the group, subtle, expectant. no one said anything, but their gazes, soft and encouraging, rested on you.

your breath hitched. your mind, usually so clear, swam with conflicting thoughts. weed. the word echoed in your head, sharp and disapproving. san’s voice, clear as day, cut through the hazy atmosphere.

disgusting. it’s not a gateway. it destroys lives.

his lectures, delivered with a quiet intensity, about the dangers of drugs, of anything that clouded judgment, that compromised control. he hated it. he hated all of it. smoking, drinking to excess, any form of escape that wasn’t productive, wasn’t measured.

your gaze flickered to mark’s hand, then to seonghwa, who offered a small, reassuring nod. a strange defiance, a tiny spark of rebellion, ignited within you. san, with his rigid rules and his unspoken expectations, felt miles away, a distant, fading echo. here, in this room, with these people, there was an unspoken permission, an acceptance of difference.

you thought of the quiet mornings, the unasked questions, the emotional chasm that had grown between you and san. you thought of the lingering loneliness, the slow, insidious fading of sparks. you thought of his hurried goodbye, his preoccupation, his casual dismissal of your small joys.

a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips. it wasn’t about wanting to get high. it was a quiet protest. a moment of reclaiming a sliver of yourself that felt lost, submerged under layers of wifely duty and unspoken disappointment. it was a fleeting, irrational thought, but it felt powerful in it's simplicity.

trembling fingers, usually so steady, reached for the joint. your eyes met seonghwa’s, then anna’s. they offered soft, almost imperceptible smiles.

the joint touched your lips. the paper felt rough against your skin. the smell, pungent and earthy, filled your nostrils. you hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent battle raging within. then, you inhaled.

the smoke, harsh and acrid, scraped your throat. you coughed between involuntary gasps. tears sprang to your eyes. the group chuckled softly. your lungs burned, heat spread through your chest, then a dizzying lightness in your head. it wasn’t pleasant, not yet. but as the initial shock subsided, a curious sensation began to bloom. a loosening. a letting go.

the world around you, already vibrant, seemed to soften at the edges. the music, a low thrumming before, now seemed to pulse with a deeper rhythm. the faces around you, previously distinct, now blurred into a warm, accepting tableau.

you exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath. the smoke drifted upwards in a cloud, carrying with it a rebellious whisper.

the taco shell crumbled in your fingers, a warm, messy embrace of seasoned chicken and melted cheese. a laugh, sharp and high, tore from your throat. it wasn’t your laugh, not really, but it escaped anyway.

"y/n, these are..." sally kissed the tips of her fingertips at once. a piece of tomato, vibrant red, clung to her chin. you watched it, mesmerized, as it wobbled precariously. like a tiny significant event.

"no, for real. this is the best shit i've ever eaten," someone grunted as they took another bite, cheeks bulging. the sound of their chewing a symphonic rhythm, wet crunch that filled the room.

you smiled, you think, a wide, unbidden thing that stretched your face. your cheeks felt warm and tingly. the praise, usually a balm, now felt like a spotlight, too bright, too focused. you didn't need to respond. the air itself seemed to hum with approval.

seonghwa leaned in, his hair brushing your shoulder. the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils. it was a new smell, suddenly potent, a story in itself.

"you have to come over more often," he murmured. his words were slow, stretched out, like taffy. "we’d starve without you."

you nodded, or thought you did. the room swirled, a gentle eddy of color and sound. the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across anna’s living room became individual, shimmering points, each one a tiny sun.

anna, perched on the armrest of a worn armchair, watched you, her eyes unblinking. she held a half eaten taco, but she wasn’t eating. she was just watching. a flicker of concern crossed her face, or maybe it was just the way the light caught her smudged makeup.

you turned your head, the motion slow, deliberate, like moving through thick syrup. seonghwa’s face was inches from yours. his eyes liquid and half lidded. a tiny mole, small and innocent on his ear. you had never noticed it before.

"you know," he began, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for you, "i actually lied to you."

the words themselves were like individual pearls, strung together on an invisible thread that made your breath hitch.

"about what?" you managed a reedy whisper. it sounded like someone else speaking.

he chuckled like it was obvious. "about keeping in touch with people from high school. i don't. not really. i just... wanted you to have a reason to come."

the confession ignited a fresh burst of laughter. bubbled up from deep inside, unrestrained, joyful. it felt like a new sensation, a freedom you hadn't known existed. the idea of him lying, out of all things, struck you as profoundly hilarious.

he smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as his hand, warm and calloused, covered yours on the couch cushion. his thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle on your skin. it wasn't unpleasant. it was just... there. a sensation.

"y/n, i know you’re unhappy."

unhappiness? that was a concept. right now, there was only the incredibly soft fabric of the couch, the taste of spices on your tongue, the intricate pattern on anna’s rug.

"you deserve so much more," he continued, voice thick and low, "than whatever you’re settling for."

you blinked. his face, so close, seemed to waver, like a reflection in water.

"i want you so bad," a whisper you didn't caught on the movements of his lips, his grip tightening on your hand. "i want to make you happy."

you don't know why he kept making sounds with his mouth. the words drifted past, like smoke. meaningless vibrations in the air. your mind, untethered, floated above them, observing.

then, the world tilted. a wave of warmth, heavy and comforting, washed over you. the trip slowed, the colors blending into a soft, indistinct haze. the universe faded into a gentle lullaby.

୨୧

rough wool blanket against your cheek, smelling faintly of incense and something vaguely sweet, covering you. your eyes fluttered open. the room was bathed in a dim, pre dawn light, a pale grey filtering through the blinds. you blinked, trying to orient yourself. the couch. anna’s couch.

a low snore rumbled from the floor. you peered over the armrest. mark, a lumpy silhouette, was sprawled on a pile of blankets, his mohawk flattened. sally was curled up near him, a splash of fuchsia against the muted tones. anna was nowhere in sight. seonghwa? you scanned the room. no.

dull throb resonated behind your eyes. your mouth felt like sandpaper. you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping to your lap. the memories of the night were a jumbled mess, like a deck of san's numbers scattered on the floor. flashes of laughter, the taste of tacos, the feeling of warmth. but specific words, specific moments, they were gone, swallowed by the haze.

you fumbled for your purse, slung precariously over the back of the couch. chocolate. a small, dark bar, your emergency comfort. you tore off a piece, the rich, bitter sweetness a welcome shock to your tongue.

you pulled out your phone. three forty seven a.m.

your heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. san. you could almost hear the silence of your apartment, the empty space beside him in bed. a wave of guilt, cold and sharp, washed over you, chasing away the last vestiges of the warm fog.

as careful as you could be, you rose quietly to not disturb the sleeping figures. your movements quiet, deliberate.

the drive home was a blur of streetlights and silent roads. each turn of the wheel felt like a small act of atonement. the city was asleep, a vast, dark canvas. then you finally pulled into your parking spot, the apartment building quiet and imposing.

apartment dark, save for the faint glow from the digital clock on the microwave. you slipped off your shoes, the sink. a plate, crusted with dried sauce, sat precariously on the edge, a half empty mug beside it. san. he had eaten, gone to bed. done.

straight to the bathroom, you stepped under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over your skin. it wasn’t just the smell, but the night itself. the laughter, the forgotten words, the unsettling intimacy. you scrubbed, hard, as if you could scour away the memory, leaving your skin, and your mind, clean and blank once more. you wanted to emerge, refreshed, as if the night had never happened. as if you hadn’t tasted that strange, momentary freedom.

୨୧

the sound pulled at your teeth. tremor in the soles of your new sneakers, premonition of the chaos within. this weekend, anna's apartment building pulsed with an unholy rhythm. this wasn't the hazy, languid hum of last week. this was a beast unleashed.

seonghwa’s band, the ruptured veins or something like that, thrashed in the living room. how they’d squeezed a drum kit, a full amp stack, and three guitarists into the already cramped space remained a mystery. mark, sweat plastering his mohawk to his skull, pounded the drums with a primal ferocity that threatened to crack the plaster. sally contorted over her bass, each pluck a sharp jab to your eardrums. seonghwa, all flailing limbs and guttural shouts was at the center. the sound wasn’t music. it was a wall of noise, an excuse of distorted guitars and ear splitting percussion that clawed at your sanity.

bodies, too many bodies, swayed and thrashed in the dim light, a sea of black leather and ripped denim. you felt like an alien even if you tried dressing in your darkest clothes. a hand, sticky and warm, brushed your arm, offering a glass. you instinctively recoiled, the smell of cheap beer and something cloyingly sweet, making your stomach churn.

seonghwa’s eyes flashed you a grin across the room, a feral baring of teeth, and gave a thumbs up. you forced a weak smile back, the corners of your mouth feeling stiff and unnatural. the volume intensified, a new wave of sound washing over you, drowning out thought, drowning out everything.

a bong, you learned, it's glass bulb milky with smoke, appeared before your face. a girl with tangled dreadlocks and eyes that swam in their sockets pushed it closer.

"hit it, y/n!" she slurred a shout, her voice a gravelly whisper against the roar.

you shook your head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "no, thanks!"

she shrugged, apathetic, and passed it to the next person. another, a lean guy with a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck, who had earlier complained about the brownies you brought not being the "fun ones."

the words felt like pebbles in your throat. you had enough, you needed quiet, needed to escape the relentless assault on your ears. you navigated the throng, each step a battle against jostling elbows and oblivious revelers. you reached the bathroom and pushed open the door for the now muffled sound to lower, then you saw her.

sprawled on the cracked linoleum, half hidden by a discarded shower curtain, lay a woman. her head rested at an awkward angle against the toilet bowl, a thin stream of saliva tracing a path down her chin. she looked older than the others, perhaps in her early thirties, though the lines etched on her face spoke of a life lived hard, not necessarily long. two distinct scars stood out against her skin. her face, even in repose, held a weary resignation, map of battles fought and lost. she wasn't breathing right. shallow, ragged gasps punctuated the silence, each one a struggle.

panic seized you. you knelt beside her, your fingers fumbling for her pulse, finding a weak, thready beat at her neck.

"hey," you whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. "hey, are you okay?"

no response. her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. this wasn't a drunken nap. this was something else, something far more sinister.

your hand instinctively went for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. 911. ambulance. you needed to call an ambulance. your fingers, trembling, navigated the screen.

"i wouldn't do that if i were you."

a hand, heavy and surprisingly strong, clamped around your wrist. your breath hitched. you looked up, startled. a man stood over you. he was burly, with a shaved head and a face like hammered iron. his eyes, dark and flat, bore into yours.

"unless you wanna be trouble," his voice cut through the residual band noise. it wasn't a suggestion. it was a command, heavy with unspoken threat.

your heart hammered against your ribs. you tried to pull your wrist free, but his grip was unyielding, almost bruising. "she needs help," you managed barely a squeak. "she’s not breathing right."

mirthless chuckle rumbled in his chest. "she’s fine. just had a little too much fun." his gaze flickered to your phone. "you call anyone, you’ll regret it."

the warning hung thick and menacing. you met his stare, a shiver running down your spine. the flat emptiness in his eyes, the casual cruelty in his tone, left no room for doubt. he meant it.

slowly, reluctantly, you let your hand drop, your phone clattering softly against the tiles. his grip loosened, then released. you scrambled backward, away from him, away from the unconscious woman, from the suffocating threat. he watched you, unsettling smirk playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the woman, nudging her with his foot.

you burst out of the bathroom, the music now a mocking roar. you needed anna. anna would know what to do. anna would understand. you pushed through the bodies, eyes scanning the faces, a frantic desperation clawing at your throat. "anna!" you shouted, the word swallowed by the sheer volume. "anna!"

no one heard you. no one even seemed to notice your distress. they just continued to push each other, lost in their own discordant revelry. you spotted a doorway, half hidden behind a towering speaker, and instinctively veered towards it, hoping to find a quieter space, a less crowded corner where anna might be.

it led to a short, narrow hallway, mercifully less populated. at the end, another door, slightly ajar, spilled a soft, yellow light onto the floor. you pushed it open, a desperate plea for help forming on your lips.

the room contrasted to the chaos outside. a single, bare bulb cast a warm glow over a small, unmade bed. and there, on the floor, surrounded by a haphazard collection of worn stuffed animals and bright plastic blocks, sat anna, but she wasn't alone. a small figure, no older than five, sat nestled against her side, a book with brightly colored illustrations open in it's lap. the child, a boy with a shock of dark hair and wide, innocent eyes, looked up as you entered.

"mommy, who’s that?" his voice, clear and sweet, pierced the lingering noise in your ears like a needle.

mommy.

the word echoed, reverberated, then shattered something fragile inside you. anna’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. a flicker of something, guilt? embarrassment? crossed her face before she quickly composed herself.

"y/n," she said, her voice lowered as she gently pushed the boy behind her. "everything alright?"

everything alright? the irony tasted heavy. now, a child. her child, in this suffocating place. the realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. this wasn’t just a party. this wasn't just a group of friends messing around. this was a life. a harsh, brutal, unforgiving life that you had no part in. the music, which had been an unpleasant background noise, now felt like a blaring siren, screaming the truth. you didn't belong here. not even close. this wasn't edgy. this wasn't rebellious. this was dangerous. this was real.

you shook your head, unable to speak, your throat tight with unshed tears. the image of the passed out woman, the man’s cold eyes, the innocent child, all swirled in a sickening vortex.

"i..." you started, then stopped, the words catching. you didn’t need to explain. anna, with her sudden shift in demeanor, her protective stance over the child, understood.

you turned, a silent retreat, your feet moving on their own accord. you didn't say goodbye. you didn't look back. the door clicked shut behind you, a soft thud against the relentless thrum of the bass.

you navigated the hallway, then the living room, a ghost moving through the throng. no one noticed your departure. the band still roared, seonghwa still shrieked into the mic as he kicked the audience in the face in a blur of motion. you pushed past the last lingering bodies near the door, the cool night air hitting your face like a lifeline.

the street was alive with a different kind of noise. the band’s sound, though fainter, still pulsed through the asphalt, relentless reminder of what you were leaving behind. a group of figures huddled under a flickering street lamp, their movements jerky, unnatural. as you approached, their eyes, glazed and vacant, fixed on you.

"hey, pretty thing, all alone?" one slurred, his voice hoarse, lewd grin spreading across his face.

"where you going in such a hurry?" another whistled, a long, drawn out sound that made your skin crawl.

you kept walking, pace quickening, eyes fixed straight ahead. don’t look. don’t engage. don’t acknowledge. your heart hammered a frantic drum against your ribs. you felt exposed, vulnerable, felt the harsh reality of the street.

your car door shut like a beacon of safety at the end of the block. you fumbled for your keys, fingers clumsy with fear, gripping the steering wheel with knuckles white the whole drive back home, breath coming in ragged gasps. not daring to glance in the rearview mirror once. you drove faster than necessary.

this was not your world. this was not where you belonged. you would never come back. you promised yourself that, a vow whispered into the empty, echoing space of your car, a promise etched in the raw, aching fear still thrumming beneath your skin.

the click of the lock echoed. inside, the air heavy with scent of instant noodles and something sweet, like canned peaches. a white plastic container sat on the kitchen counter, half-eaten, a pair of chopsticks resting beside it. san had takeout. a cold knot tightened in your stomach. you forgot to make him dinner earlier. another layer to the evening’s sour taste.

san, shirtless, was just shrugging out of his work trousers when you entered the room, his back to you. he paused, one leg still in the pant leg, turning his head at the sound of your entrance. his brown eyes, warm and steady, widened slightly.

"you’re back early," he said, the words a quiet murmur in the hushed room. a flicker of surprise crossed his face. he finished pulling off his pants, tossing them onto the laundry hamper with an easy flick of his wrist.

you managed a weak nod, the muscles in your face protesting the effort, too tired to feign a smile. your gaze slid past him, landing on the bathroom door. escape. you moved towards it.

"y/n." his voice stopped you mid stride. you looked over your shoulder, hand hovering over the cool brass doorknob.

"what’s that smell?"

you didn't turn around, the lie already forming on your tongue, bitter pill. "i... i fell into a puddle earlier."

a beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. you watched him, standing there, his brow furrowed, processing your words. you waited for the follow up, the gentle probing, the concern that used to laced his questions. but it didn’t come.

"oh," he said, the single syllable flat, devoid of inflection. he picked up his shirt from the bed, pulling it over his head, then pulled back the covers.

you finally turned, gaze fixed on his retreating back, already settling in. your eyes traced the strong line of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. he was there, and he wasn't. is that all you’re going to ask? the words hovered on your tongue, sharp and desperate. you wanted him to push, to see through your flimsy lie, to demand more. you wanted him to care enough to unravel the carefully constructed facade. almost, you wanted him to know. to know about the music, the drugs, the woman, the fear, the suffocating loneliness that had driven you there in the first place.

"is that all you’re going to ask?" you heard yourself say.

he paused, his hand reaching for the bedside lamp. "is there something else i should know?'

your heart hammered against your ribs. this was it. the open door. the invitation. a single word, a sigh, a broken sentence, and the truth would spill out. you needed to test the boundaries, to see how far he would go, how deep he would dig.

"no," you said, the lie tasting like ash. your gaze held his, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of suspicion, anything that would tell you he wasn’t buying it.

he held your gaze for a moment longer, then his lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "okay then." he reached for the lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. he shifted, settling deeper into the pillows.

a choked sound, a low groan of frustration, escaped your lips. he hadn’t pushed. he hadn’t questioned. he hadn’t cared enough to look beyond the surface. you turned abruptly, stalking towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a satisfying thud. the sound echoed, a punctuation mark on your silent fury.

san lay in the sudden darkness, his eyes wide open. the faint aroma of something acrid you brought and he couldn't quite place, still lingered in the air. a puddle, he thought. she fell in a puddle. it sounded plausible enough. you were clumsy sometimes, always lost in your own thoughts. he trusted you. he trusted you completely. a small smile touched his lips. it was good you were out, seeing old friends. you needed that. a small part of him felt a pang of guilt for not being able to provide more excitement, more spontaneity in your life. but he was working for your future, for your stability, to provide for you. he believed that was love, that was care. he rolled onto his side, pulling the duvet up to his chin. he heard the shower running, the sound a soft, comforting hum. he closed his eyes, his mind already drifting to tomorrow's spreadsheets, the complex equations that made perfect sense in a world that often didn't. everything was fine. you were having fun. it was okay if you forgot dinner sometimes. you could always order takeout. he was happy. he assumed you were too.

the next morning, the apartment hummed with the usual rhythm of your routine. you woke before him, the first rays of dawn painting the bedroom walls a soft grey. you made the bed, pulling the sheets taut, plumping the pillows with practiced ease. the scent of freshly brewed coffee soon filled the air, followed by the sizzle of eggs in the pan.

san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed in his crisp white shirt and specifically tailored pants. he kissed your cheek, a soft brush of lips, and then sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.

it became a monotonous cycle of routine.

you'd have your small talk, watch him eat, his movements precise, efficient, and then he was out the door. then, you'd wander into the bedroom, the perfectly made bed an ironic symbol of your life. you'd pick up your phone, cold blinding glass, and scrolled through social media. endless stream of meaningless shorts of nothing. you'd sink yourself in bed and let the hours melt. youtube videos, a reality show you cared about for two hours, articles about celebrity gossip. anything to fill the void, to drown out the insistent whisper of your own thoughts.

you woke him, prepared his meals, vaguely cleaned what was obvious. but the moments in between stretched, vast and empty. you spent them in bed, phone in hand, the world outside shrinking to the confines of your screen. at night, you wouldn't sleep. every shadow twisted into a threat, every creak of the floorboards a reminder of unspoken dangers. san had simply mentioned you seemed a little tired. you’d blame it on a bad dream, a headache. anything but the truth. the vibrant, productive life you once shared with san, the shared dreams, the late night conversations, they felt like a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, isolated existence.

one evening, san’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, the familiar jingle of his keys preceding his entrance. he walked into the kitchen, his briefcase thudding softly onto the counter. he paused, his eyes scanning the immaculate space. the stovetop was clean, the counters clear. no scent of cooking, no simmering pots.

"i ordered pizza," you said, voice flat, emerging from the living room where you sat on the sofa, scrolling through your phone. the thought of cooking, of meticulously chopping vegetables and stirring pots, felt like an insurmountable task. the effort, the pretense of normalcy, was too much. you simply couldn’t.

"okay," his voice quiet. you couldn't decipher his tone, surprise? confusion? whatever.

for once, he didn't immediately take his laptop. he watched you, his expression unreadable. he picked up a slice, silence punctuated only by the soft chewing sounds.

"i spoke to noeul today," he said, cutting through the quiet.

you froze, a slice of pizza halfway to your mouth. "oh?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice came out a little too sharp.

"she was wondering why you stood her up for lunch," he continued, took another bite of pizza, his eyes still fixed on you.

"i... i wasn't feeling well," you swallowed, the pizza suddenly tasting like cardboard.

he paused, chewing slowing. his dark eyes, usually so placid, held a new depth, a subtle intensity. he studied your face, his gaze searching, probing.

"is everything okay, y/n?" he asked, the question soft, gentle, yet it hit you with the force of a blow. this was the first time in weeks, months even, that he had truly looked at you, truly asked.

you felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you. relief that he was finally seeing, finally asking. fear that he would see too much. anger that it had taken him this long. a desperate, clinging hope that he might actually understand.

you opened your mouth, but what could you say? no, san. everything is not okay. i’m lonely. melancholic. i’m lost. i’ve been hanging out with people who smoke weed and threaten me. i lied to you. i don’t know who i am anymore. the truth felt too vast, too overwhelming, too ugly to articulate.

you closed your mouth, nodding slowly. "yes," you whispered, the lie a refuge. "everything’s fine."

he didn’t push further. he simply nodded, a slow thoughtful movement. he finished his pizza in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking towards you. he didn't know what to do. he thought he was doing everything right, providing stability, working hard. but he felt that something wasn't actually right. he could feel it. and for the first time, the thought that his stability might not be enough began to gnaw at him.

୨୧

"well, well, well," you couldn't see seonghwa's face through the phone but you just knew a smile stretched across his face, all teeth and charm. "look who finally decided to give signs of life."

you took a breath, "i’m sorry about that. i felt a little... overwhelmed."

"overwhelmed?" he chuckled a sound that grated. "we had a blast, though. sally was asking where you went."

a forced light laugh came out of you. "i'm sorry, it's just... don't take this the wrong way but, i don't think it's my scene."

the seconds of silence made you more nervous than you liked to admit. "oh? why’s that? did anna scare you off? she’s all bark, no bite, you know."

"it’s not anna." you walked to the window, staring out at the streets. "it’s just not... it’s not for me." you chose your words carefully.

"not for you, huh... too much for the perfect little housewife?"

you didn't know what to say, or even if you should reply. this is not the way you had wanted to come off.

"come on, y/n. " his tone shifted again, becoming almost playful, seductive. "you can’t just ditch us. we were just getting to know you. and you, me, we had a connection, didn’t we?"

you closed your eyes and sighed. "i appreciate the invitation, seonghwa. but i really don’t think it’s a good idea."

"wait, wait, wait." his voice was quick, slightly desperate. "don’t hang up. this saturday. it’ll be different. i promise."

"different how?"

"no loud music. no... overwhelming crowds." he mimicked your earlier word with annoyance. "it’ll be at my place. daylight. we’ll just chill. listen to some records. maybe sally will bring her new bass. anna her camera, snap some pictures. it’ll be... a real hangout. no pressure. just us."

a day hangout. at his place. no crowds. the thought of seeing anna, of making sure she was okay, flickered. and sally. you’d genuinely liked sally. you chewed on your lip, disappearing without a trace, even from people who were clearly not good for you, felt... rude. you were not rude. you prided yourself on your manners, on leaving things tidily. this would be your last clean exit. a proper goodbye.

"it'll be calm? no substances?" you asked with a small voice.

"yeah. we'll just chill."

you sighed, a long, slow release of air. "fine. but if it gets crazy, i’m leaving."

"deal!" his voice triumphant. "i’ll text you the address. saturday. two o’clock. don’t be late, y/n."

you hung up on him, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on you. a mistake? probably. but you had to make things right. you had to say goodbye. properly.

the next few days were a flurry of quiet preparations. you found a well loved cookbook at a second hand store, it's pages dog eared and stained with flour. sally had seemed genuinely interested in your chicken tacos, you remember her bouncing as she peered over your shoulder. a small childish bunny stuffed animal, soft and grey, caught your eye in a boutique window. anna’s son. he deserved a little softness in a world that seemed so hard. you wrapped the gifts carefully, a futile attempt to infuse them with the warmth you wished you could offer.

saturday afternoon, the sun bright in the sky. you drove, the directions seonghwa had texted leading you through unfamiliar streets, past industrial parks and forgotten warehouses. the address finally brought you to a hidden nook, tucked away behind a row of dilapidated auto shops. a trailer park. a small, unexpected community of metal boxes, each with it's own patch of scraggly grass and faded plastic lawn ornaments. you hadn’t known such a place existed in the heart of the city.

seonghwa’s trailer, a faded blue, stood at the end of a gravel path. your stomach twisted. you clutched the gifts tighter, the paper rustling. you knocked, a soft tap that felt too polite for the setting. the door creaked open, revealing him. his hair looking a little disheveled, as if he’d just woken up. a faint smell of something herbal, not entirely unpleasant, wafted from inside.

"oh, you actually came." he grinned as he rubbed the weariness out of his face.

"i said i would." you offered a small smile, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness that settled between you. "i brought some things." you held up the wrapped gifts.

"oh, for me?" he reached for them, but you pulled back slightly.

"no. for sally and anna’s son."

his hand dropped, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "right. well, come on in. you’re the first one here."

the trailer was small, surprisingly neat but dim. a worn couch, covered in a faded floral sheet, dominated the living area. a small television flickered silently in the corner, displaying a nature documentary. a guitar leaned against the wall. it felt... lived in.

"make yourself at home," he gestured vaguely at the couch. "the others should be here any minute. mark’s always late. sally said she had to pick up some new strings. anna… well, anna’s anna." he laughed, a short, nervous sound.

you sat on the edge of the couch, placing the gifts carefully beside you. the cushions sagged beneath you, smell of old fabric rised to meet you. the silence, punctuated only by the chirping of unseen birds on the television, was deafening. you felt a sudden urge to fill it, to chatter, to ask about his band, about anything. but you couldn't.

"want something to drink?" he asked, already moving towards a small, cluttered kitchenette.

"just water, please." you watched him, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone so wiry. he pulled out two glasses, poured a clear liquid from a plastic bottle into one, and then, to another one that was already sitting on the counter. he didn’t seem to notice your gaze.

a tiny, insistent voice in the back of your mind, screamed. you took the glass, your fingers brushing his, skin rough. you brought the glass to your lips, pretending to take a sip, letting the rim touch your mouth, but not letting any liquid pass.

"so," he said, settling beside you on the couch, much closer than you would have preferred. "how’s... housewifing?"

you stiffened. "it’s good. i like it."

"yeah? seems a little... boring for someone like you." he leaned back, his arm brushing yours. the contact made your skin prickle.

"it’s not boring,”°"you said, maybe a little too quickly. "i like taking care of things. taking care of san."

"san." he said the name slowly, like tasting it. "busy guy, huh?"

"he works hard," you defended automatically. "he provides for us."

"yeah, i bet." he turned his body fully towards you, knee touching yours. his gaze dropping to your hands, clasped tightly in your lap. "but does he... pleasure you?"

you looked at him in shock, offended. your cheeks flushed crimson, a wave of heat rushing through you. shock, outrage, and a deep, mortifying embarrassment tangled together. you stared at him, mouth agape, unable to form a single word. the flickering television, the stale air, his proximity, it all coalesced into a suffocating pressure. "what did you just say?"

he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. his eyes held yours, unwavering. "i mean, you’re bright, y/n. you’re smart. you’ve got this... spark. yet you spend your days fucking, polishing silverware and waiting for some suit to come home. does he ever even make you feel good?"

your heart hammered against your ribs. "i like polishing silverware. i like making a home."

"do you?" he reached out, his fingers tracing a pattern on your arm, just above your elbow. "or do you just tell yourself that because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?"

you flinched, pulling your arm away. "i don’t appreciate that, seonghwa."

"just being honest. that’s what friends do, right?" he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

the small, dusty clock on the wall pointed at four, you glanced at it, then at the door, wishing that your eyes could pierce a hole and reveal other people, anyone. yet no one else had arrived. the pit in your stomach deepened. "maybe i should call sally. or anna."

"nah, don’t bother." he waved a dismissive hand. "they probably won't even come. you know how it is." he paused, a predatory glint appeared in his round eyes. "guess it’ll be just us."

the words rang heavy and suffocating. it clicked. a cold, sickening realization washed over you. there was never "others." you had been tricked. the gifts, the polite goodbyes, all of it a naive delusion.

"oh." you stood up abruptly, the movement jarring. "i... i think i should go. maybe i should come back when the others arrive." your mind raced, scrambling for an excuse, anything to get out. you tried to infuse your voice with a calm you didn’t feel, to make it sound like a reasonable suggestion, not a desperate plea.

"don’t be stupid, y/n. you just got here." he stood and pulled you towards him. the close proximity of his body, the insufferable smell of weed making you almost gag. "you’re lonely, aren’t you? i see it in your eyes. the way you just exist and he doesn't even notice."

"i don’t know what you mean." your voice trembled.

"why? you don’t want to admit it?" he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear. his insidious words pricked at the spots. the truth of them, despite the venomous delivery, stung. but the way he was using them, twisting them, made your skin crawl.

you tried to push past him, a surge of adrenaline making you bold. “let me go.”

he grabbed your arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist. "no." he pulled you back, hard, sending you stumbling onto the couch. the gifts clattered to the floor. he pinned you there, his face inches from yours. "i know you don’t love him. you're goddamn pathetic with him and everyone sees it."

you felt a surge of adrenaline, a pumping desperate need to escape. “you don’t know anything about me. or san.” you pulled harder, twisting your body, trying to create distance.

he didn’t let go. instead, his other hand came up, resting on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin. "i know you don't love him. i know you’re unhappy." the accusation, so utterly false, ignited a furious spark within you. "why else would you keep coming back here?"

"you’re wrong!" sharp and venomous, your voice cut through the fear. "you’re completely wrong. i love san. i love him more than anything. and i would never, ever be unfaithful to him. especially not with... with someone like you!" the last words, raw and unfiltered, spilled from your lips. the thought of betraying san, of allowing this man to even suggest such a thing, filled you with a righteous anger.

a vein throbbed in his temple. for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. his face contorted, a mask of rage. primal scream ripped through your mind, though no sound escaped your lips. a sudden, visceral revulsion surged through you, a raw, untamed force you hadn’t known you possessed. you didn’t think, you reacted. with a guttural cry that was more gasp than sound, you twisted your body, yanking your arm free from his grasp with a strength born of pure terror. you stumbled back, tripping over your own feet, but you caught yourself, your eyes wide, fixed on him.

"hey, y/n, calm down. let's talk-" his face a mask of something ugly. he took a step towards you, his hand still outstretched.

"don’t you touch me!" you shrieked, the words finally tearing free holding a fierce conviction.

with a desperate lunge, you pushed past him and found the doorknob, fingers clumsy with terror and heart pounding against your ribs. please, please be unlocked. the knob turned protesting a squeal. a small miracle. you yanked it open, the weak sunlight blinding you for a moment.

you didn’t look back. you ran. the gravel crunched under your shoes, the faded blue trailer shrinking behind you. you didn’t stop until you reached your car, fumbling with the keys, your hands shaking so violently you could barely push the button. you threw yourself inside, locking the doors, lungs burning. the engine roared to life, and you sped away, leaving the trailer park, the sickly rose bush, and the terrifying encounter in a cloud of dust. the gifts lay forgotten on the floor of the trailer, naive hope, now shattered.

୨୧

"i ran into someone today."

"at the market?"

"an old friend. from high school. apparently some of them still hang out and, i was invited."

"that's good, you should go."

"really? you don't mind?"

"why would i mind? it's good for you to see people, you're always here. you should get out more."

"i mean... i haven't seen them in years. since graduation, probably."

"people change, that's okay. it'll be nice to reconnect. you've been cooped up, it's good to have plans."

"i guess so."

knees drawn to your chest, the phone thrown to the cushion next to you. you had to call him, you really had to, and he did leave. cheeks damp, tiny ragged sobs caught in your throat, you barely registered when the door swung open. he stood at the doorway, crisp button down now slightly rumpled, his tie loosened. his eyes scanned the room, then landed on you. he didn't say anything, just kicked the door shut with his heel and moved towards you deliberately.

"san," you choked out a fragile whisper, "i'm so sorry. i'm so, so sorry i made you come home."

he didn't answer with words, simply sunk onto the couch beside you, the springs protesting faintly. his strong arms wrapped around your shaking shoulders, pulling you into his chest. the clean, subtle cedar scent of his cologne filled your senses, chasing away the lingering stench of smoke and fear. you buried your face in his shirt and let the dam break.

hot and stinging tears streamed down your face, soaking into his shirt. each sob tore through you, tearing sounds you hadn't realized you were holding back. his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. he didn't try to stop the tears, didn't offer empty platitudes. he just held you, a silent comforting presence.

"it’s okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "it's okay, y/n. i'm here."

fingers fisted in his shirt, the fabric stretching taut. the world outside the circle of his arms ceased to exist. there was only the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breathing. time stretched and blurred. you cried until your throat ached, until your eyes felt swollen and raw, until the tremors in your body slowly began to subside.

when the sobs dwindled to quiet sniffles, you pulled back slightly, your head still resting against his shoulder, your gaze fixed on the intricate weave of his shirt. a deep, shuddering breath hitched in your chest.

"i… i need to tell you something," you whispered.

he squeezed your shoulder gently. "take your time."

the silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. you needed to say it, all of it. the truth, ugly and raw, demanded to be set free.

"i haven’t been... i haven’t been doing well, san," you began, your voice still hoarse. "not really. i mean, i love being home. i love our apartment, i love cooking for you, taking care of everything. i really do. but" you carefully searched for the right words, the words that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. "it got... lonely. really lonely."

at his arm tightening around your waist, you glanced up at his face. his brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet concern, but no judgment.

"i know you work hard," you continued, rushing the words out before you could lose your nerve. "i know you do it for us, for our future, and i appreciate it, san, i really do. sometimes, i just... i just want to talk. to someone. about anything. about my day, about a stupid show i watched, about a new recipe i found. just... to talk. and you're not there."

he didn’t interrupt, just listened, his gaze steady on your face.

"and then… i met seonghwa again."

the name plastered, foreign and sharp. san’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

"seonghwa?" he repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "who is... i thought you said you were meeting anna? your old classmate?"

your heart sank at his innocence, at how you had let him assume with unclear conversations.

"no, anna is... seonghwa’s friend,” you explained, the words tumbling out. "she’s part of his group. he was my classmate in high school. not a close one, but... yeah. he’s the one i ran into at the supermarket."

san’s placid eyes held a hint of something unreadable. he still didn’t speak, just waited.

"i didn’t mean for any of it to happen," you confessed, your voice cracking again. "i just... i just wanted to be included. to feel like i was part of something. they seemed so... free. and easy. and i was so lonely." you paused, drawing a shaky breath, preparing for the hardest part. "at first it seemed harmless. they were just... different than me, something new. but then it escalated. the parties. the noise. the... the smoke.” you hesitated, then forced yourself to say it. "i... i smoked weed, san. once. i know, i know it was stupid. i’m so sorry."

tears welled up again and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for his reaction. but he still didn’t say anything, just held you closer, so you continued and everything spilled. the memories flooding back, sharp and vivid. from the hazy afternoons to the girl, her unnatural stillness and anna's so, so young son yet already involved into such a chaotic world. your voice broke with the image behind eyelids. then today, at seonghwa's. reliving the terror, the helplessness, made you shiver with a torrent of fear and disgust and self reproach.

you dissolved into fresh sobs, the weight of the confession crushing you. you waited for anger, for disappointment, for the distance to grow between you even more. but instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.

"y/n," he said, his voice deeper than usual, a quiet intensity in his tone. "look at me."

you reluctantly lifted your head, tear streaked face meeting his gaze. his eyes were now clouded with a raw pain that mirrored your own.

"you have nothing to be sorry for," he stated, his voice firm, unwavering. "not for feeling lonely. not for wanting connection. and not for trying to find it." he paused, his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away a tear. "i’m the one who should be sorry. i let you feel that way. i let you feel so alone that you had to look for it somewhere else. i was so caught up in work, in making sure we had everything we needed, that i forgot to give you what you actually needed. me."

fresh tears pricking your eyes, you shook your head. "no, san. that’s not fair. you work so hard. you provide everything. i should have just told you. i should have talked to you. i just... i didn’t want to cause conflict. i didn’t want to seem ungrateful."

"conflict is part of a relationship, y/n," he countered softly. "it’s how we grow. and you are never ungrateful. i know you. i just... i wasn’t listening. i wasn’t seeing. i was so focused on building a future, i forgot to live in the present. with you." his gaze was intense, full of regret. "i saw you, every morning, making the bed perfectly. i saw the dinners you planned. i saw the baked goods you made, and gave away. i thought... i thought you were happy. i thought that was just you, being you. i didn’t realize it was... a symptom. i thought stability meant happiness. i thought if i provided for everything, you wouldn’t have to worry. i thought that was how i showed you i loved you. but i forgot to show you i loved you with my time. with my presence. with my words."

"but i should have said something," you insisted, your voice still thick with guilt. "i let it fester. i bottled it up. i smoked weed behind your back. that’s not okay, san. that’s not okay."

"and it’s not okay that i left you feeling so emotionally neglected that you felt like you had to," he countered, his voice gentle but firm. "we both made mistakes, y/n. mine was in being absent. yours was in not speaking up. but none of that changes how much i still love you."

he pulled you back into his embrace, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear. a comforting, familiar rhythm.

"i love you, y/n," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "more than anything. and i am so, so sorry that you went through all of that. that you were scared. that you were hurt. that you felt alone. i promise you, you will never feel that way again. not with me."

you clung to him, tears still flowing, but these were different. these were tears of relief, of release, of a profound love finally understood. you felt the tension that had been coiled in your chest for months slowly unwind, dissolving into the warmth of his embrace.

"i love you too, san," you sobbed, the words muffled against his shirt. "i love you so much."

held for a long time, the only sounds the quiet sniffles, the soft rustle of clothes, the steady rhythm of two hearts beating in unison. the city outside grew darker, the streetlights casting long, pale shadows through the window. but inside, in the circle of his arms, a fragile light had begun to glow. it wasn’t a solution, not yet. but it was a new beginning.

୨୧

morning rays painted stripes across the duvet. you stirred, the warmth beside you a comforting anchor. san’s arm, heavy and solid, rested across your waist. his breath, slow and even, feathered against your neck. you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. the memory of yesterday, the raw vulnerability, the shared tears, a fragile precious thing.

quiet sigh escaping your lips, you stretched with a yawn. the bed felt different today, lighter, like a burden had lifted. you eased yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. the choreography of making coffee began. the gentle hum of the machine, the rich aroma blooming in the air. you poured two mugs, placing san’s on his bedside table before returning to your side of the bed, he still slept.

you traced the line of his jaw with your finger, the slight stubble rough beneath your touch. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rested against his skin. a small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.

"morning," his voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, startled you. his eyes slowly opened, finding yours.

"morning, sannie," you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple.

he stretched, his big arms flexing, the muscles taut beneath his skin. he reached for you, pulling you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. "i’m not going to work today."

you blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. "what?"

"i said, i’m not going to work today," he repeated, his thumb stroking the skin of your arm. "or tomorrow. i took the weekend off."

a small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you. "you did not. you never take the weekend off. you have that big report due monday."

he shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his gaze steady. "i called lee at like 3 am. he’s covering. the report can wait. we can’t."

your heart gave a small, hopeful flutter. the words, simple and direct, resonated deep within you. you reached up, cupping his cheek. his skin felt warm against your palm.

"really?" you asked thin with emotion.

he nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "really."

the weight that had pressed down on your chest for so long began to ease, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t felt in months. you leaned into him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin, a mix of sleep and his subtle leftover cologne.

"what are we going to do?" you murmured, the question laced with a hesitant joy.

he held you tighter. "whatever you want. show me your world, y/n."

a lump formed in your throat. you pulled back, a small, genuine smile blooming on your face. "okay," you breathed. "okay."

the morning unfolded slowly for once, no rush to get ready, no frantic dash for him to find a parking spot. you made a more elaborate breakfast than usual, eggs scrambled with herbs, crisp bacon, and slices of avocado. he watched you, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his phone conspicuously absent. he simply watched, gaze attentive, as you moved with a quiet efficiency.

he ate with a quiet appreciation, savoring each bite. the silence between you was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but comfortable, filled with the soft clink of forks against plates, the distant chirping of birds.

after breakfast, you led him to the bedroom and demonstrated your bed making routine, movements precise and practiced. he watched, his head tilted, an expression mixed with amusement and curiosity.

the hours melted into a gentle rhythm. you showed him your small rituals. the way you organized the pantry, grouping spices by frequency of use. the careful sorting of laundry, whites, colors, delicates. the methodical scrubbing of the bathroom, each surface gleaming. he followed you, your silent observer, occasionally offering a helping hand.

you found yourself talking more than you had in months, explaining the logic behind your choices, the small satisfactions you found in these mundane tasks. he listened, truly listened, his eyes never leaving your face. it was no longer how are you? but why do you do this that way?

lunch was a rather simple affair, sandwiches and fruit, eaten at the kitchen counter. you found yourself telling him about a new recipe you wanted to try, a complicated japanese stew you’d been researching. he listened, asking questions about the ingredients, the cooking process. it felt like a real conversation, not just a series of perfunctory exchanges.

as dusk began to settle, casting a soft, blue hue through the apartment, you found yourselves in the living room. you moved the large, plush couch, pushing it closer to the wide window that overlooked the street below. the city lights began to twinkle a distant murmur from the streets.

you sat side by side, the comfortable silence settling around you once more. he reached out, his hand slowly finding your arm. his fingers traced a gentle path from your wrist to your elbow, a soft reassuring touch. you leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear.

the silence stretched, not empty, but full of unspoken emotions, of rediscovered intimacy. you watched the cars pass below, their headlights cutting through the growing darkness.

after a long while, he stirred. his hand tightened on your arm, then he slowly, gently, pulled you onto his lap. your legs tangled with his, your body molding against his hard frame. he shifted, adjusting you until you were nestled perfectly, your back against his chest. his lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss, then moving to the delicate skin of your neck. a shiver ran through you, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. he kissed the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and a soft giggle bubbled up from your chest.

"you okay? is this okay?" he murmured.

you nodded, your head resting against his shoulder. "more than okay."

he pulled back slightly, turning you so you faced him, his hands resting on your hips. his brown eyes held a tenderness that made your breath catch.

"y/n," he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "do you... do you ever think about kids?"

୨୧

effortlessly, he laid you gently on the bed, following you down, his body a warm weight against yours. his lips found yours, soft at first, then deepening, hungry desperation underlying the tenderness. your mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in. his tongue tangled with yours, a slow, sensual dance, tasting of coffee and him.

"mine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to whisper the word. "you’re mine, y/n. no one else’s."

his hands, large and strong, moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly, deliberately, pulling it up and over your head. the cool air brushed against your skin for a moment before his hands were there, warm and firm, stroking your sides, your ribs, the soft skin of your belly.

you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat. you reached for his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. he helped, peeling the fabric from his broad shoulders, revealing the taut muscles of his chest before he reached around, touch gentle, unfastening the hook of your bra. the lace fell away, revealing your breasts, full and soft in the dim light. he stared, his gaze lingering and before you knew it, he leaned down, lips closing over one nipple, drawing it into his mouth. a jolt of pure pleasure shot through you. he sucked, softly at first, then harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. your breath hitched, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him closer. he moved to the other breast, suckling with equal fervor, his free hand stroking your side, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

"so beautiful," he breathed, pulling back to look at your flushed face. "so fucking beautiful."

rough with desire, igniting a fire deep within you. you reached for the button of his jeans, eager to shed the remaining barriers between you, pushing them down his hips, along with his boxers. his cock sprang free, already hard and engorged, glistening in the dim light. you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his heat, stroking the soft skin. he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

"baby," he gasped, his voice strained. "god, y/n."

you continued to stroke him, feeling the pulse of his arousal against your palm. your own desire mounted, a burning ache between your legs. he reached for your shorts, pulling them down with your panties. the cool air kissed your bare skin, a fleeting sensation before his hand was there, warm and knowing, finding the wetness between your thighs.

his fingers parted your folds, gently, slowly, exploring the slickness, the delicate curves of your clit. you gasped, your hips arching instinctively. he dipped a finger inside you, then another, preparing you. you were already so wet, your body aching for him. a soft squelching sound accompanied his movements, a wet, intimate symphony.

"so wet," his voice husky, eyes never leaving yours. "for me."

he watched your face, gauging your reactions, thumb circling your clit, drawing out whimpers and soft cries from deep within your throat. you writhed beneath his touch, your body trembling, on the precipice of release.

"please," you pleaded, your voice hoarse. "san, please."

he shifted, kneeling between your legs. his heavy cock, slick with your wetness, brushed against your opening. you gasped, a desperate sound. he hesitated, looking into your eyes, a possessive fire burning in his gaze.

"say..." he whispered, slightly overwhelmed already. "say you’re mine."

"yours," you choked out, tears stinging your eyes, a heady mix of pleasure and raw emotion. "i’m yours, san. only yours."

he entered you then, slowly, pushing past the soft resistance, filling you completely. a deep groan rumbled in his chest as he buried himself within you. you cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. he paused, letting you adjust, letting your body stretch and encompass him. the feeling was overwhelming, profound sense of fullness, of belonging.

he began to move, slow, deliberate rhythm at first, his hips rocking against yours. the friction was exquisite, the sound of your bodies joining, a wet, rhythmic shlicking. he pulled back almost completely, then drove back in, deep and hard, a sigh escaping his lips. your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.

"mine," he repeated, each thrust punctuated by the word. "no one will ever... have you like this, only me."

the pace quickened, becoming more urgent, more primal. he pounded into you, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks on his tanned skin. your hips rose to meet his, matching his rhythm, your bodies a blur of motion in the dim light. the bed creaked beneath you, a testament to the intensity of your passion.

he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plundering yours, tasting your desire, your cries muffled against his lips. your climax built, a tight coil in your belly, spreading outwards, consuming you. you bucked against him, your body convulsing around his cock. a guttural cry tore from your throat as you shattered, waves of pure bliss washing over you.

the thrusts got deeper, harder, his own climax building quickly on the heels of yours. groans and bodies tensing, hips slamming into yours one last time as he emptied himself deep inside you. his hot cum flooded you, warm thick rush that made you gasp.

collapsed and slick with sweat, your legs were still wrapped around him, intimately entwined. he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"mine," he whispered the promise again. "forever."

fingers tangling in his damp hair, you held him close. the noise outside, the loneliness, the fear, all faded away, replaced by the overwhelming presence of him, of this rediscovered connection. you felt utterly safe, utterly loved, utterly his.

he shifted, pulling back slightly, propping himself on his elbows, his eyes soft, heavy lidded. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a tender exploration.

"i love you, y/n."

the words, so rarely spoken, so deeply felt, resonated through you. a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but these were tears of joy, of relief, of a profound sense of peace.

"i love you too, san," you whispered back. "more than anything."

a new chapter had begun. a chapter filled with soft reassurances, intentional conversations, and a love that, though tested, had found it's way back home. the question of children lingered, a new seed planted in the fertile ground of your renewed intimacy, a promise of a future you could now, finally, envision together.

each day a thread re-stitched into the fabric of your life together. no longer a frayed edge, but a strengthening seam. the silence shedding it's heavy cloak of unspoken expectation. now, it held the hum of shared understanding, a quiet comfort that didn't demand filling. some days you still spent less time together than you'd wanted, yet, even then, the goodbye no longer felt like a hurried escape.

you learned to speak your needs, not with the tremor of a plea, but with the steady beat of a declaration. he listened, brow furrowing in concentration, his eyes soft with an empathy he’d struggled to articulate before. you saw the effort, the conscious wrestling with words that didn’t come easily to him. it was a language you were both learning, halting at first, then gaining fluency with each shared vulnerability. he’d ask about your day, not as a formality, but with genuine curiosity, sometimes even calling during his lunch break, a rare occurrence that made your heart do a little skip. love rediscovered, a future being built, one honest word, one tender touch, at a time.

your phone still buzzed with notifications from instagram. you scrolled past anna’s stories, a flurry of candid shots from her son’s fifth birthday party. a lopsided cake, sticky fingers, a wide, gap toothed grin. you tapped the little heart icon, then saw sally’s latest transformation, her hair now a vibrant neon green. she’d posted a picture of a sizzling pan, tagged with a question about your secret to perfectly crisp tofu. you sent back a detailed message, outlining marinades and pan temperatures, a smile touching your lips. you knew, and they knew, that the physical space between your worlds had widened, perhaps irrevocably. there was no expectation of meeting up, no casual invitations to late night gigs. seonghwa’s shadow still stretched too long, too dark, across that part of your memory. the thought of stepping back into that haze, even for a moment, made your stomach clench. you had found your way back to the light, and you were fiercely protective of it.

this morning, however, began with no alarms. skin to skin, a perfect fit. he had begged for five more minutes and how could you say no when his mouth was already moving in between your thighs? lazy swipes, you felt your muscles tense slightly, then relax, his hand finding your hip, drawing you closer, before moving your legs over his shoulders. his tongue stroked the soft skin of your pussy, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

time dissolved. the soft rustle of sheets, the faint thumping of your heart against his. the world outside your bedroom, outside this intimate cocoon, ceased to exist. you were just two bodies, intertwined, rediscovering a forgotten language.

when your third orgasm of that morning alone hit, you pulled your head back, accidentally looking at the clock and freezing, a gasp escaping your lips. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still clouded with passion, then clearing with the dawning realization. a groan, this one of frustration, escaped him.

"shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath. "oh, san. you're going to be late."

a deep sigh, rueful sound laced with disappointment escaped him. you pushed yourself up, pulling the sheet with you, a sudden chill striking your skin. he ran a hand through his hair, dishevelled from sleep and your shared passion. "i know." he sat up, stretching, his muscles rippling, a sight that still made your breath catch. he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet falling away, revealing the strong lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders and his half erect dick.

"go, go," you urged, though a part of you wanted to pull him back, to steal a few more precious minutes. you threw off the covers, padding naked to the closet, already mentally planning his lunch.

he glanced back, a wry smile on his face. "you’re not exactly helping." his eyes lingered on your retreating figure, a spark of lingering desire in them.

"i’m making your lunch. that’s helping." you laughed shyly, a clear sound before pulling out a crisp white shirt, a dark tie, laying them out on the bed for him.

when the sound of the shower starting grounded you, you moved with purpose, opening the fridge, pulling out containers. yesterday’s leftover bulgogi, a side of kimchi, some fresh fruit. you packed it all neatly into his bento box, arranging the colours, making it appealing.

now dressed in his dark suit trousers, he emerged from the bathroom, his shirt still unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. his hair was damp, slicked back, making him look even more handsome, more put together. he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his solid frame. chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.

"i love you," he murmured, the words no longer feeling forced, but a natural outflow.

you leaned into him, closing your eyes for a moment. "i love you too," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

he squeezed you gently, then released you, picking up his jacket. you followed him to the doorframe, a familiar ritual, but one that now held a deeper significance. he turned, his eyes searching yours, then he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss. it was a kiss that spoke of hurried passion, of regret for lost time, and of promises for the future. his hand found your butt, giving it an extra, firm squeeze, a playful, intimate gesture that made you giggle.

"sannie, you have to go." you laughed against his lips.

"i know, just let me-"

he pulled you back in, tongues dancing against each other as he opened the door.

"you gotta... go... leave..." despite your protests, you were leaning into the kisses as well.

finally, when he pulled back, a wide grin appeared on his face, those dimples on full display. "i left something for you on the counter." his eyes twinkled.

your eyebrows rose in surprise. "oh?"

he just winked, then stepped out into the hallway. "have a good day," he called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.

"you too." you watched him go with a warmth spreading through you, chasing away the morning chill. your cheeks burned pleasant blush. you closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, the echo of his kiss still on your lips.

a curious smile played on your lips. you turned, walking back into the kitchen, your eyes scanning the clean, uncluttered surface. amidst the neatly stacked mail and the fruit bowl, an envelope lay, pristine white, tucked beside the coffee maker.

your heart gave a little flutter. you picked it up, fingers tracing the simple, elegant script of your name. you recognized his handwriting, though it was slightly more rushed than usual, a testament to his morning scramble. you glanced back at the lace box that sat on your dresser. finally, a new companion piece awaited. you carefully tore open the seal, your breath held in anticipation.

you pulled out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. it wasn’t a thick expensive stationery, but a page torn from a small, spiral bound notebook, perhaps one he kept for jotting down notes at work. the paper felt thin, slightly rough urough under your fingertips. the words were penned in his familiar, slightly cramped hand, some of them a little smudged, as if he’d written it quickly, probably during a stolen moment on his break.

you began to read, a soft smile blooming on your face.

my y/n:

you know how i am with words, they get stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. it’s frustrating. for both of us, i know. i think about that first letter i wrote you. it was bad. really bad. i cringed just thinking about it. but i tried, i guess, even if it doesn’t look like it. these past few weeks... they’ve been good, better. i hope it's the same for you. seeing you smile again, truly smile, it’s like the sun coming out after a long winter. i never want that winter to come back. i never want you to feel that coldness again. i was so blind. so stupid. i thought providing was enough but i was wrong. you taught me that. you always teach me things, even when you don’t mean to. i want to be better. for us. for you. i want to learn how to say these things out loud, not just write them down when no one’s looking. i’m sorry for the pain i caused. i’m sorry i let you feel alone. i promise to keep trying. to keep learning. to keep loving you, in all the ways you deserve. you are my home, y/n, my everything, my wife, and i will never ever let another man think they got a mere chance with you, never again. you're mine and i'm yours.

you're stuck with me, always.

san.

୨୧

your hands reach for her waist, gently pulling her back into you. she rolls her eyes. god you love it when she does that. “i know. i know you are.” with your nose resting atop her shoulder, you inhale just barely—taking in every ounce of her sweet vanilla in the small chance she bans you from touching her.

“i cannot believe you,” she mutters, but she doesn’t push you away. in fact, you surely don’t miss the way her eyelids flutter. “of all the things you could forget.”

“i know, my love,” you wrap your arms around her waist, “you think maybe we could get away with buying it from the grocery store this week?”

she groans, what an absurd suggestion. you know this. “you know it’s not the same. i like the way she makes it.

“that’s fair,” you kiss her shoulder, “but i want to make it up to you. maybe she’ll have extra loaves next week, and i’ll get two.”

a small frown spreads across her lips, “but we won’t go through that much sourdough in just a week..”

“hmm,” your lips trail towards her neck, and you can barely hear her breath catch, “maybe we invite some friends over. sourdough party. hell, i’ll buy three loaves. is that enough to make you happy, baby?”

her ears perk up at the sound of party. you chuckle against her skin. “is that enough to make you happy,” your lips are right by her ear now, “bunny?”

she gasps when you bite the shell of her ear, a low whine from the back of her throat as your tongue follows. your hands move from her waist, grabbing the cooling cup of tea and setting it on the counter.

“i think—” her mind gets fuzzy as your hands migrate under her (your) shirt, hands cupping her stomach. “i think i need one more thing,” she whimpers when your thumbs hook onto the waistband of her panties. you snap the elastic back against her skin.

“well,” your lips are back on her shoulder, “i have to leave for work in an hour, so do you think we can make it qui—”

The old wooden door to your bedroom creaked open when you pushed it. You cringed at the noise. A soft meow came from the bed, and you watched as the shadow of your kitty stretched out her little limbs. "Shh," you whispered, sloppily petting her head.

Seonghwa didn't stir as you entered the room. She was curled up in your bed, her long, freshly dyed platinum hair sprawled out across all of your pillows. She was wearing one of your loose sleeps shirts again, the ones that couldn't quite hold her boobs behind the fabric. You slid your miniskirt down your legs, stepping out of it and simultaneously pulling your top over your head. You covered yourself with an oversized tee, furiously rubbing at your face with a slightly dried out makeup wipe before falling into the bed.

A small grumble came from beside you, and you cringed. "I'm sorry," you whispered softly, turning to curl into her side.

Her eyes fluttered open, lashes moving in quick movements on her cheeks, "mmh, it's okay." She rolled toward you, opening up her arms just like you had prayed she would.

You immediately buried your face between her boobs, the soft skin warm against your cheeks. She ran a hand over your head, nails scratching down the back of your neck. With legs tangled together, wrapped up in each other, you hummed contentedly into her chest.

A small laugh vibrated in her chest, "did you have a good night?"

You nodded, "mhmm. Wooyounggie said you should've come. She misses you." Your words were all spoken into her skin.

"Aww," she yawned, "tell her she can come over anytime."

Her lips pressed against your forehead, causing you to giggle quietly. You wiggled further into her embrace.

"Oh you're drunk," she laughed tiredly. "Was getting home okay?"

You nodded, looking up at her, past the boobs blocking your face, "Yunho brought me home." You giggled, "you should've seen it. He was trying to flirt with that bartender again, but he's so awkward 'bout it. 'S like he's never talked to a man before."

"Aw I wish I had been there," she grabs the blanket from her side of the bed and throws it over the both of you. It was as if it held you closer to her. Completely encased in her warmth and her scent.

Your baby. Your everything. You squeezed her waist again. "I love you," you pressed a sloppy kiss to the closest peice of skin to your mouth—her sternum.

yunho shifts just slightly. his hard on presses into your thigh. seonghwa grabs him by the hair, forcing his head to look directly at you. “she’s pretty, isn’t she?”

“yes ma’am,” he nearly chokes when she jerks his head back, yanking him by the hair. she looks down at the tent in his underwear, the leaking tip of his cock stands out through the thin fabric.

“dogs don’t fucking talk,” she slips her finger from your mouth. “listen to me.” she pats her hand on his cheek. it glistens with your spit. he sits patiently, lips parted slightly. you can’t help but think he looks like a thirsty dog. panting with need. “if you fucking come,” her voice drops, a shiver running down both of your spines, “i won’t let you in this bedroom for a week. and you’ll have to fucking beg if you wanna be let on that couch.” she slaps him, and a desperate whine falls from his lips. “do you understand me?”

his eyes slide to you on instinct. a dark chuckle comes from seonghwa, deep in her chest. he yelps when she tightens her grip on his hair. “ohhh what? am i too mean? you want mommy to make the rules around here? if i left her in charge of you, you’d piss in the bed, and she’d still let you sleep in it.”

she presses her lips to his cheek, “mommy’s not gonna help you this time. you’re gonna be my little bitch. and you’re gonna fucking like it.”

tears well up in your eyes, “hwa…” you can’t help the little pout on your face. “don’t be so mean.”

she lets go of him, racing to cup your face gently, thumbs wiping your tears off your cheeks, “shhhh, it’s okay, baby. he needs to learn the rules. if he’s good, which i’m sure he will be, you can hold him when we’re done. alright, mommy?”

you nod, biting your lip. “okay…”

“that’s my good girl.” she’s pulls you forward, into her lap, your clothed cunt pressed up against hers. “forget about him for a second. focus on me and you. let me make you feel good.” she cups her hands over your hips, dragging your pussy over her own.

you moan softly, and seonghwa merely hums with enjoyment. “thereeee you go.” she keeps moving your hips, circling them forward, the seem of your panties drags against your clit. “does that feel good?”

“yes..”

she pats your ass, “stand up, pretty girl. let’s get these panties off of you.” you stand up, legs wobbly on the bed. she slides them down your legs, helping you step out of them. you move to sit back down but she stops you, “hold on, mommy.” she helps you turn around, your ass right in her face. she slaps it playfully, spreading it. like she’s inspecting you. it sends a shiver down your spine. “want a treat from your mommy, mutt?”

you don’t even have to look to know the desperate nod he just gave her. she moves you again, this time standing you right above his face. yunho nearly dives right between your legs, but seonghwa stops him. “no one told you it was okay to eat. why do you seem to struggle with rules so much?” her hand is back in his hair, “just look at it. pretty, right?” he nods. “you think you deserve a taste?” he shakes his head. he’s learning. he doesn’t deserve anything. “that’s right. it’s not for you to taste. mutts don’t get mommy’s pussy. at least not to taste it.” she pulls him a little closer, your legs are shaking now. “but i’m feeling a little gracious so,” she presses a finger under his chin, “i’ll let you in there. but if i see you even try to open your mouth, you’re punishment will be so much worse. understand?”

he nods. she leans him back on the headboard, his neck secured by pillows.

“just sit down, baby,” she pats your thigh.

you hesitate, “hwa..”

“it’s okay, baby. he can take it. this is what good puppies do.” she chuckles, “and you know he wants so bad to have even a little taste of mommy’s pussy.”

you swallow hard, letting some of your weight shift back, sitting down on his face. he doesn’t move. just inhaling your scent. he’s being so good. you’re so proud of him. just taking the little bit he’s given even though you know he wants so much more. seonghwa pressed his face deeper, his nose right in your ass.

seonghwa looks down at the tent in his pants. it’s clear just a little bit of stimulation would be enough to push him over. she brings her hand between his legs, slapping at the underside of his shaft through his boxers. he moans. loud. straight into your pussy.

she just laughs. enjoying the effect she has over the both of you. she thinks he might suffocate if she leaves him up to his own discretion—taking everything he can get. she pats your thigh, lifting you off his face.

his face is bright red as she helps you sit back down. he’s panting, but there’s not an ounce of distress on his face. he’s pussy drunk.

she sets you between his legs, letting you lean back against him, but your ass is strategically placed right on top of his cock. you can feel the wet spot against your skin.

you watch as she shuffles down the bed, ending right between your legs. she throws one leg over your shoulder, one of her hands pressed against your stomach.

her eyes lock with yunho when she licks the first stripe up your sweet cunt. something he can only dream of. she hums with delight, sucking your clit. she releases it with a “pop.”

your hand falls to her hair, they thread through the short strands. “hwa…”

“you taste so good, mommy,” she groans, “i can’t believe you’re all. mine. to taste.” she dives back in.

your back arches with a desperate moan. yunho whimpers when your ass rolls over his cock. he licks the taste of you off his lips, desperately trying to recover any hint of your taste. seonghwa’s too distracted to notice. the bridge of her nose grinds against your clit as her tongue fucks your hole. you roll your hips again.

yunho is shaking at this point. it’s all too much. the scent of you still lingering in front of his face, your ass rolling against his leaking cock, the sweet desperation of your moans as you get closer. he can’t handle it. if you don’t come soon, he won’t make it.

your legs shake, but seonghwa holds you down, “come whenever you’re ready, baby. let me feel you.” you hand tightens in her hair when you do come, back arching, ass digging into yunho’s cock.

he tries to hide it. he really does. but seonghwa’s keen ears could never miss the desperate whine that falls from his lips. or the deep shudder through his body. and when she lifts you off of him, it’s clear as day.

you don’t exactly remember how and when you met yunho and mingi. all you know is that it was years ago, around the time ateez had their debut. obviously, things had changed throughout the years, with them doing shows and promotions all around the world, and you having your own job.

but the one thing that didn’t change? the bond you had developed with the pair. it was obvious to anyone with eyes that what your three had going on wasn’t completely platonic per se, but they didn’t really care enough to question you. it’s not like that wasn’t the truth, you’ve shared kisses with both of them (separately),  though you weren’t sure if they knew about the other.

it had never gone beyond that, things always coming to a halt when you were sitting in their laps, hips grinding against each other and mouths tangled in messy makeout sessions. despite everything, there was always a thought stuck in the back of your mind, one you were determined to keep buried there so it would never see the light of day; what would it be like to have both of them… at the same time?

⸻

fortunately (or unfortunately) for you, the answer to that question came sooner than expected. with another successful comeback under their belt, the company organised a private after party of some sorts, inviting only the producers, members and their plus ones. of course, yunho and mingi immediately invited you, wanting to spend the night celebrating with their favourite person.

did they have a plan in mind for how they wanted the night to end? not exactly. but during a late night in their hotel room after the last show they had a bit too much to drink and shared some secrets they both thought would be taken to the grave.

that’s how they found out that they’ve both kissed you, both almost crossed the line with you, and mostly importantly, they both wanted you. together.

⸻

that’s how you find yourself in the current situation, squished between them on some worn leather couch, conversation flowing. san and wooyoung are sitting on the floor, fighting over a game of cards. on the loveseat to your right, jongho is lounging with a glass of unknown liquor, utterly amused by the pair. hongjoong and seonghwa had disappeared god knows where after saying they’re going to get more drinks, and yeosang is picking out more snacks in the kitchen.

when you got the invitation you thought that maybe the dorms weren’t the best place to host such a party, but at the moment, you don’t really care anymore. not when your brain feels a bit fuzzy, the warmth of the two men warming you up. the smell of their cologne is lingering in the air, and your head is spinning.

mingi has his head resting on your shoulder, yapping your ear off about something you stopped listening to about 20 minutes ago; right at the time when yunho stretched out his long arm and put it behind your head. you couldn’t move away if you tried, not that you’d want to, but you do feel a bit conflicted.

you’re usually this close with only one of them, never both. if the situation was different you know you’d already be kissing one or the other, yet now you’re stuck. yunho seems to notice your mind racing, his long fingers brushing through your hair, “what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, hm? you’ve gone so quiet, you usually aren’t like this”.

you gasp a little, not expecting him to read you so easily, too easily. “i’m okay, yunho, really. guess i just got a bit distracted.” he laughs a little at your answer, eyes darting down to make eye contact with mingi. they exchange a glance, unnoticed by you, eyes silently agreeing that it’s now or never.

⸻

you feel the loss of pressure as mingi lifts his head from your shoulder, looking at you with a stupid smile on his face, the one he always has before doing something dumb. wordlessly, he offers you his hand, helping you stand up and pulling you behind him. you notice yunho get up too, offering you a wink before following you down the hallway.

mingi kicks open a door, and you freeze when you see it’s his bedroom. yunho comes up to press at your back, hands resting on your hips as he slowly guides you into the room. both men notice your shocked expression and confused glances around, unsure of what exactly is happening? did they find out about each other?

“did you think we would never find out baby? you really thought you were going to keep us from knowing about your little adventures? you’ve been getting bolder lately, and a lot more obvious. i think it was only a matter of time before you revealed yourself.”

you slap your hand over your mouth, absolutely mortified that you said that out loud. that wasn’t part of your plan, they were never supposed to find out about it. but now it’s out in the open, and when you finally make eye contact with mingi on the bed and yunho over your shoulder, they don’t really look mad?

yunho, still behind you, starts slowly pressing kisses down your neck, hands gripping your hips. you look up at mingi who’s lounging on the bed, hand coming to palm the front of his jeans, getting hard just from seeing his best friends kiss.

yunho pulls away, giving you a gentle push to guide you towards mingi. he spreads his legs so you can stand between them, large hand coming up to cup your cheek and pull you down for a kiss. now it’s yunho’s turn to watch and groan; this might be the hottest sight he’s ever seen.

mingi is rock solid at this point even though all you’ve done was kiss. it’s so much better than the fantasies, knowing yunho is actually here in person, watching you. not even in his dirtiest fantasies, when he was fisting his cock in the shower, did he think the real deal would be this good.

yunho clears his throat, causing you to pull away from each other. he helps you turn around in mingi’s lap before he’s kissing you too, faintly tasting the liquor and mingi on his tongue. you start squirming around mingi’s lap, panties growing uncomfortably damp from the sensation of feeling both men next to you.

when yunho’s had his fill he’s pulling away again, looking at the two of your with hooded eyes, “mingi, why don’t you prep our girl for us? she can’t keep still for a second, i bet she’s fucking soaked already; needy little thing, desperate for her two best friends. what would the others think? bet they knew how much of a whore you are, wanting two guys at once.”

both you and mingi moan out loud at yunho’s words, not expecting such filth to come from him. they help you stand up, one pair of hands coming to pull your shirt over your head while the other fumbles with the button of your jeans before pulling them down your legs.

yunho gives you a command again, making you realise that he’s the one in control of this situation, “get up to the pillows and spread your legs baby, let us see you.” you do as you’re told, not wanting to disappoint them. when you’re all settled yunho pushes mingi down between your legs, wordlessly giving him a command on what to do.

he looks up at you with his pupils blown wide, thick lips starting to press kisses all the way from your knees to you inner thighs. just when you were about to beg he finally used his fingers to pull your panties to the side, your cunt already glistening with slick. he blew cold air on it to make you shiver before finally latching his lips on your clit and sucking hard.

meanwhile, yunho settled himself at the foot of the bed, rubbing himself over his slacks, taking in the sight of you falling apart on his best friend’s tongue. he could tell you were enjoying it, everyone probably did with how loud you were being, but it was obvious it’s not quite enough for you. “add fingers too mingi, help her cum. we need her nice and open, don’t wanna break our doll the first time we use her.”

mingi did what he was told with no hesitation, like a good boy, slipping one of his fingers inside. he was trying to find that spongy spot inside you, and when he did, he added a second finger. by that point all three of you were moaning; you from the stimulation mingi was providing and yunho’s eyes on you, mingi from your taste, and yunho from watching the both of you.

you couldn’t even properly warn them about your impeding orgasm, mouth going slack and back arching off the bed as you came, drenching mingi’s face, fingers and sheets with your juices. he continued lapping at you until you were overstimulated, only pulling away when yunho’s hands gripped his hair and pulled him off.

“don’t wanna ruin her completely before we even get inside her now, don’t we mingi?” the younger man nodded in response, still drunk on your taste, willing to do anything yunho tells him to. “you did so well opening her up, why don’t you fuck her sweet pussy first min? i think you deserve it after working so hard.”

in that moment, mingi thought we would cry. he would finally get to fuck you, after years of having a crush on you and not knowing if he could ever get what he truly wants. but he wasn’t gonna let yunho just watch again, he wanted them to ruin you together.

“you should take her mouth yunho, she can take you. right baby? you can take yuyu’s cock down your throat?” you whimpered out a meek yes, sitting up on your knees and bending over, elbows resting on the bed right in front of yunho.

“such a good girl for us, didn’t even have to ask her twice. undo my belt doll, don’t be shy.” just like mingi, you would do anything yunho told you to in this moment. you reached up to unbuckle the belt and threw it down on the floor before popping open the button so you could pull down his slacks.

you stared in awe at the bulge in his boxers, even through the black fabric you could tell he was big. he helped you pull them down to his knees, cock slapping his abs and smearing a bit of precum on the skin.

while you were busy getting yunho naked, mingi was on his own mission. you felt him slide his velvety tip through your folds, bumping your clit in the process. you opened your mouth to moan and yunho used that opportunity to slide his cock in your mouth, making you choke a little. at the same time, mingi pushed into your dripping pussy, groaning as he bottomed out.

they gave you a minute to adjust, they weren’t monsters, before starting to fuck you in a rhythm - one pushed in when the other one pulled out. yunho gathered your hair up in a makeshift ponytail, slowly starting to fuck your face but still checking to see if you were doing alright. mingi, on the other hand, was way further gone. his hands had a bruising grip on your waist, moans and whimpers slipping from his mouth.

the force of his thrusts made your moans vibrate on yunho’s cock, driving him right to the edge as he spilled in your mouth. he eased out before commanding you to swallow, wiping the drop that spilled from the corner of your mouth. you and mingi weren’t far behind either, the sight of yunho coming apart getting you close.

“rub her clit yuyu, she’s gripping me so tight i think she’s gon- , fuck, i think she’s gonna come soon” mingi was falling apart behind you, barely holding back; but he was determined to let you cum before him.

yunho did listen to mingi though, rubbing tight figure eights until you came, elbows sliding out from under you and gripping mingi so tight he could barely move. that made him come as well, spilling hot, sticky ropes until you were stuffed full.

⸻

suddenly, the room was completely quiet save for your joined pants as you all came down from your highs. you thought that it would end here, your secret fantasy did come true after all, but the boys didn’t seem to agree.

a warm pair of hands moved you, mingi’s you realise, to sit between his spread thighs, half hard cock pressing against your back. he started playing with your hair, peppering kisses on your cheeks and shoulders, telling you that you did so well, such a good baby for them.

but while he was busy being all soft with you, yunho got between your thighs, completely hard, watching yours and mingi’s mixed cum dripping from you. he finally broke the silence when he spoke up, “you didn’t think we’re done already, did you? no honey, we need to get our fill. this wasn’t just your fantasy”.

and when he slid inside you it became clear, you were in for a long, long night.

taglist (open): @atetheluck @nyxaluna @hyunesdoll @ch3rry15pin @luvmunchies @lovelyun @kisssan @spiderfae03 @bruisesandsatin @livonianmaia @belongjoong @way2jellyous @pinkyerkz

the other thing you wanted was for your parents and close friends not to find out that you had been dating someone not two or three years older, or even a year younger, but a whole twelve years older. yes, you were twenty-one when you met him, a couple of months before your birthday, through mutual friends. one gathering led to another, and before you knew it, you were dating him, convinced you had finally found the one you were going to marry, the only man who truly knew how to be a man. alas, it turned out he was just another shark in the ocean, ready to strike at its defenseless prey.

it doesn’t matter anymore, since you’re single, genuinely happy, enjoying your summer, shining brighter than the sun itself, and everyone sees you like some kind of eternal sunshine. you finally returned to yourself, only smarter this time, no longer falling for tricks or manipulative tactics. life is good when you don’t have a man bitching in your ear about the outfit you’re about to wear or asking why you were talking to some guy for too long. the waiter, if you must specify, who was simply announcing the lunch menu.

“ah, can’t believe we have to be back at university that soon…” you said, sipping from your drink while idly chewing on the straw. karina was on your left, glued to her phone, while yeji sat on your right, carefully lining up small seashells along her thighs.

“and we’re graduating this year too… but someone decided to study at a different university, breaking our teenage dreams,” karina said as she turned off her phone, glancing at you with a playful look while you rolled your eyes.

“not my fault the one you’re in didn’t have what i wanted.” you took another sip, and yeji giggled softly. “none of us dropped out though, which is an achievement on its own.”

yes, you didn’t study at the same place as them, but that didn’t stop you from hanging out, if anything, there was even more gossip to share. and so the conversations continued, all the way until you started getting ready for dinner, and then for a few more days after that, until eventually you had to go back to seoul and wish each other “good luck for the new last year.”

you really did need some luck, because you had just found out that your favorite professor had retired. you were going to miss the woman; you had been her favorite student, but all good things eventually come to an end. everyone was already sitting in the lecture room. you had heard that the new professor was someone young, but there hadn’t been time to check who exactly he was since they were still fixing schedules and systems. the only thing you knew was that tuesday at nine in the morning was your first lecture with the new professor in question.

“i think he probably used to play basketball or football, i saw him earlier and he’s really tall,” one of the boys said, and the others quickly agreed, while you remained focused on your phone, scrolling through reel after reel, meme after meme. then you overheard the girls whispering nearby, their voices a little more excited. “did you see his hands? and him in general… he’s so fine…”

the problem with having a young professor is exactly that — he was young, and from what everyone was saying, quite attractive too. the other problem appeared the moment everyone finally sat down when the door opened. a tall figure stepped into the room, his style was effortless in a way that made it impossible not to glance twice. a soft gray cardigan hung loosely over his shoulders, the thin knit falling open enough to reveal the clean white t-shirt beneath.

the muted colors helped him blend in, making him look more like a student than a teacher. slim black pants traced the long lines of his frame, the strap of a black crossbody bag thrown diagonally across his chest, and he wore simple sneakers. his black hair fell in soft layers that framed his face, the strands straight and smooth, cut just long enough to brush the tops of his eyebrows and skim the sides of his cheekbones.

you were sitting a little further back, your phone still in your hands. the room buzzed with chatter as people continued talking among themselves until the professor cleared his throat, the sound cutting clean through the noise as he prepared to introduce himself.

“hello everyone, i’m jeong yunho and i’ll be your new photography professor this year.”

your eyes widened instantly, your head snapping up so fast it almost hurt. oh no… houston, we have a problem. you blinked several times, half expecting your vision to clear and reveal someone else entirely. maybe it was just someone with the exact same name, appearance, and voice. unfortunately for you, it wasn’t. why is your ex-boyfriend the new professor? out of all the people in the capital, it had to be him who got the position.

you sat there frozen in complete shock, your mouth slightly open until your deskmate and close university friend, jeongin, gently pressed a finger under your chin to close it as he leaned to whisper, “i guess everyone, including you, just found their new crush, huh?”

what, why, and how? was this some kind of twisted karma? because if it was, you definitely weren’t the one who deserved it. your heart started beating faster, anxiety and something close to fear crawling up. could you run away? maybe copy someone else’s notes, no… you couldn’t. suddenly you wished you were studying metaphysics with karina, because that sounded far more pleasant than this.

“i’d love to get to know all of you,” he continued, smiling as he set his bag on the desk before leaning back against it, arms loosely crossed, while his gaze moved around the room. “so i’ll share a few things about myself. and don’t worry, i won’t make you do anything today. i’ll just introduce the course and explain what i expect from you.”

surprisingly hands immediately began rising with questions. meanwhile, you were still struggling to believe what you were seeing and hearing. he hadn’t changed at all, you had to admit it. he had only gotten more attractive. always taking care of himself and being unfairly pretty, making you remember how two years ago you thought about what your future children would look like... now you want to throw up. forcing yourself to keep your composure, glancing at jeongin and making a slightly grimaced face. yeah, a crush for sure, except you wanted to crush him into pieces.

“how old are you, professor?” someone from the middle rows asked, earning a few curious murmurs from the class, making yunho chuckle, “straight to the personal questions already? alright then. i’m thirty-six.”

everyone was surprised by the answer, and all kinds of reactions rippled through.

“don’t look so shocked,” he added with a small grin. “i promise i’m not that ancient.”

“are you a full-time professor?” another student asked.

“not exactly,” yunho replied, pushing his sleeves up slightly as he spoke, revealing his forearms, “i’m a professional photographer first. i mainly work in editorial and commercial photography such as fashion shoots, campaigns, exhibitions, that sort of thing. teaching is something i enjoy doing on the side, especially with students who are serious about the craft.”

“does that mean you’re going to give us easy grades?” someone joked, making him raise an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting. “absolutely not.”

the class laughed again, a little nervous this time.

“i can be friendly,” he added, shrugging lightly, “but don’t mistake that for me being tolerant. photography is about discipline and perspective. if you’re here just to press a button and hope for the best, you’re going to struggle.”

another hand went up. “so… we won’t pass easily?”

“correct,” nodding his head once. “i expect effort, creativity, and consistency. if you work hard, you’ll do amazing. if you don’t…” he paused briefly before smiling again, “you won’t pass this course by simply showing up and smiling at me. well, at least you’ll get some nice pictures out of the experience.”

more chuckles followed, but the message had landed. the atmosphere quickly became relaxed and comfortable as he answered questions with small jokes. the students were already warming up to him, clearly charmed by how easygoing he was. as you listened to him speak, watched the way he carried himself so seriously and correctly in front of everyone, you couldn’t help but wonder where exactly all that cheerful composure had been when he was with you?

“attendance is mandatory.” and then his gaze settled directly on yours, a faint smirk pulling at his lips as he stared straight into your soul, the one he had almost taken from you a year ago. “of course, if you have to be absent, it’s not a problem, as long as it doesn’t happen often. i know some of you will be at the mall with friends. also i don’t grade by email; everything you do will be shown and discussed in class.”

the entire time he spoke, his eyes kept drifting back to you. when he paced slowly across the front of the room, even when he turned to answer someone else’s question, somehow his attention always circled back. for some reason, you held his gaze instead of looking away, and the longer you stared at him, the more that fear slowly faded until all that remained was pure hatred.

jeongin leaned slightly closer to you, lowering his voice into a teasing whisper. “well there goes our plan of skipping class to eat kfc… or getting more sleep,” he murmured, nudging your arm lightly.

thank god your best friends studied at different universities, otherwise they would have dragged you straight to the administration office and forced you to drop out for real. and honestly… you were starting to think about it yourself. the worst part was that you couldn’t switch the class for anything else. great, truly amazing. you were trapped for an entire semester.

“that’s everything for today,” yunho said after a while, clapping his hands together once as he was done answering questions and talking about cameras, “i won’t keep you any longer. enjoy the rest of your morning.”

chairs scraped across the floor as everyone began packing their things, the room filling with chatter again. you grabbed your purse quickly, already standing up before most people had even processed that the lecture was over. as you walked out with jeongin, you noticed a small crowd forming around the professor’s desk. a couple of boys and girls had already gathered there, asking questions, laughing at something he said, clearly eager to stay a little longer.

you didn’t even glance his way. no goodbye, or a polite “have a nice day”, because he didn’t deserve to have one. you just kept walking toward the door, hoping that you would manage to graduate before the sudden temptation to drop out started looking a little too appealing.

“your analysis lacks depth,” yunho says, placing your paper on his desk, making you scoff, since this is the third time now that he’s returned it for edits. lacks depth, he says… well, you did as well, asshole. if you had to edit one more thing, it honestly wouldn’t be that bad to buy a gun, and no, it definitely wouldn’t be pointed at your head.

every single tuesday he calls on you far too often in class. your assignments always come back covered in detailed comments, red ink everywhere like a declared war on your academics. you swear he’s grading you harder than everyone else, which honestly seems unfair to the people who are actually doing nothing. apparently, you’re the only one being treated like a social experiment.

“and what exactly do i need to change again, professor?” you ask, grinning through your teeth, burying every thought that would probably send you straight to jail under a perfectly fake smile. you’re this close from going insane, feeling that familiar anger rise again, the irritation that always appears when you’re forced to deal with someone you can’t stand.

for the last four weeks, your life has been hell, to say the least. during lectures he’ll ask a question, several hands go up while yours remain fiddling with a ballpoint pen, and yet he always picks you. and the first time you didn’t know the answer, what followed was a casual, “it would be nice to learn things before the test, hm?” which felt like complete humiliation, because beneath that joking tone there had been something that definitely wasn’t a joke.

once you and jeongin arrived ten minutes late, which honestly wasn’t even your fault. what were you supposed to do when your friend insisted on waiting for his coffee while there was already a long line that early in the morning? of course, a comment followed: “please be on time next time.” but when someone else walked in thirty minutes late during the same lecture, there were absolutely no remarks.

that’s exactly why you always come prepared with answers and make sure you’re always on time. you know his tricks far too well. no matter how charming his smile is, how sweetly he talks, how funny and relaxed he seems… it’s just one of his many masks. karina really was right about him being some kind of psychopath.

everyone else, unfortunately, loves the new professor. they talk about his fun classes, how nice he is, and how cool it is that he’s such a professional teaching them new techniques. some of your peers even linger after lectures just to chat with him. meanwhile, you sit there thinking that your older ex should seriously consider enrolling in acting instead of photography, because the performance he’s putting on deserves ample shiny awards proudly displayed on a goddamn mantlepiece.

the whole thing has turned into some twisted cat-and-mouse game. he teases, pushes, and provokes. you glare, don't bite back, and refuse to give him the reaction he clearly wants. despite all of that, he always finds his sneaky ways to make your life a little more miserable.

here and there, he calls you to his desk after class for absolutely no reason. “you should consider approaching a different lens for your next project,” like this couldn’t have easily been written in a single email. or he’ll start explaining camera settings you already know perfectly well, dragging the conversation out while the rest of the class disappears into the hallway.

and god forbid you see him outside the classroom. the moment you notice him walking down the hallway, you immediately pull a perfect one-eighty and walk in the opposite direction because you hate this man so fucking much, you refuse to breathe the same air as him.

what’s more upsetting is that you can’t even tell anyone. because if karina and yeji ever found out that your toxic ex-boyfriend was now your professor, they wouldn’t hesitate for a second before throwing a chair at him.

what you don’t know, however, is that he requested this university job partly because of you. actually, not partly at all, he knew exactly what he was doing. even when you were still together, he knew where you studied and what major you were in, just like you knew about his photography work. of course, teaching also gave him the chance to try something different in his career. and what better opportunity than this? his unbelievably beautiful ex-girlfriend just so happened to be one of his students, completely unplanned.

and it doesn’t stop there, oh no, everything is just starting.

jeongin begins to notice a pattern, which honestly isn’t hard to miss when during class yunho asks another question. probably ten hands rise into the air, but he still chooses you. your friend leans closer to your ear and whispers, “you must be his favorite~”

you stare at the board like you want to burn it down, alongside mister pretty devil himself, who of course, happens to wear clothes that fit his figure perfectly, fuck him honestly. “if i was his favorite, do you think i’d be studying camera obscura in this much detail?”

not to mention the way he addresses you with that smooth voice, softly calling you, “miss (name).” the moment you hear it, it’s game over. you have to respond with “yes, professor,” or “yes, sir,” like some twisted academic roleplay you never signed up for. it makes you want to vomit, bleach both your eyes and your trachea. you hate his guts so much. he has always liked being in control, and now he has it again, at least within the walls of this campus. outside of it, however, he has absolutely none.

when it comes to homework and assignments, everyone else receives short feedback, brief but explanatory enough to understand their mistakes, things like: “good composition” or, “nice lighting” and even, “if you try a black and white effect, it might work better.”

your feedback, on the other hand, is practically a full essay. it could probably qualify as a documentary script because he covers everything, even the tiniest details. he has a ridiculously keen eye for things, which apparently also makes him a professional at being a complete jerk who picks on you for absolutely no reason.

“your framing… well, it’s technically correct,” he muses, tapping the printed photo with his finger exactly where he seems most dissatisfied, “but technically correct isn’t the same as emotionally effective.”

you want to throw your camera at him and shove the lens straight down his throat, as the class sits there admiring him. “wow, professor jeong gives such thoughtful feedback.”

it also happens that he’s constantly spammed with emails from students asking if their work is passable or what more they  can do to improve their visuals, so eventually he announces loudly, “if anyone needs extra help, my office hours are wednesday and thursday afternoon.”

later that same day, only you receive an email: “your project concept has potential. come to discuss it.”

you go, of course, because you care about the grade. knocking on the door to his office, and he lets you in, acting like the two of you are complete strangers. the entire conversation stays professional, purely academic, every word measured, but the tension makes your heartbeat faster. after ten painfully long minutes, you finally stand to leave, and just as your hand reaches the door, he says, that same smile on his face, “don’t sabotage your own work out of stubbornness.”

almost slamming the door behind you, but you need to have self-control and not let him know that you are slowly losing your cool.

it goes without saying that the girls in the course absolutely adore him. some of them simp for him, always giggling and gossiping. “the way he looked at me today… he said he is single, so do you think i have a chance?” or “he’s literally the most handsome professor here, why isn’t my boyfriend like him?”

you almost choke hearing that, because you know the other version of him. the one who used to kiss apologies into your neck after fights. the one whose hands knew every point of your body andwho knew you better than you knew yourself. fingers that always seemed to know exactly where to press, where to… why are you even thinking about that?

during one of his lectures, yunho suddenly says something that makes your stomach twist.

“photography is about obsession. you need to want the subject more than anything else. you have to focus on it completely if you want to capture the perfect shot.”

you freeze, eyes widening slightly at his words, because you know exactly how obsessive he can be. yunho glances at you, that smug little smile appears again, and he continues the lecture as if nothing happened.

it’s almost nightfall when the young professor arrived home. he dropped onto the couch, leaving his bag on the floor beside it, his head falling back against the cushions as he stretched his legs over the small wooden table and stretched his arms up above his head.

he exhaled once, then again, tapping his thigh with his fingers in the quiet that filled the apartment. the silence didn’t last long before a small laugh slipped past his lips. he closed his eyes, and of course, you appeared in his mind again. you were constantly there, living somewhere between his thoughts and his heart, occupying space you had no right to anymore.

weren’t you just adorable? each and every time you walked into class, you were dressed better than everyone else, always prepared and looking at him with that sneer that no one else seemed to notice. not even your deskmate, the one he sometimes caught himself glaring at out of pure irritation and jealousy, though he knew jeongin wasn’t any real threat.

you were his muse, his fallen angel, the pliable doll he had once controlled so carefully until two other puppets, your dear best friends, stepped in and cut the marionette strings, ruining the entire show. you had been so kind-hearted and obedient, so sweet and perfectly made for him… but everything had ended so quickly.

yunho knew exactly how to push your buttons; it was too easy for him. he watched every little reaction, the glares you tried to hide behind forced politeness. he fed on it more than he probably should have. still obsessed with you and completely unable to let go, hiding it well enough behind the role of a professor. 

you were his one weakness, the sensitive gap between two ribs guarding the heart he had, the one thing that made the control he prided himself on slip through his fingers. he had never stopped loving you, at least not in his own twisted way. goddamnit, you looked like an absolute doll today. the dress, the way your hair fell over your shoulders, the gloss on your lips. were you going on a date with someone? with who? when? where? normally he would have known already. the thought made his jaw tighten slightly, tongue pushing the inside of his cheek. if it wasn’t for the university schedule taking up so much of his time lately, he would have kept better track of things. he hoped you weren’t going on a date with anyone.

reaching for his phone, unlocking it as he opened one of the many accounts he used. your instagram appeared on the screen, and even though your profile was private, that had never really stopped him. the pretty much convincing fake account had been accepted months ago and you had never questioned it. he doesn’t just have one fake account, there are several, each with a different purpose: one follows you, the second follows your friends, the third follows men who comment on your photos.

his thumb scrolled slowly through the posts, stopping at one in particular.

you standing by the ocean with goldensunlight catching your skin, wearing that stupidly beautiful dress that he bought. the same vacation he had surprised you with, and the irony was that he had been the one holding the camera when those pictures were taken, and then his scrolling stopped when he saw you had a story posted.

you sitting across from someone in a restaurant, a glass in your hand, smiling. the caption tagged someone… jaemin? the quiet apartment suddenly didn’t feel so quiet anymore. yunho stared at the screen a little longer than necessary, his fingers tightening slightly around the phone. he decided to do his research, and within minutes, he knew jaemin’s major, his other social media, his schedule and which classes he attends.

“so you were going on dates now, huh?” his hand ran slowly across his face before he leaned back against the couch again, letting out a low breath that almost sounded like a mocking laugh. he shouldn’t care, and what’s left of his sanity knew that, but something in his chest twisted like a scalding hot knife. the truth was simple, and it irritated him more than anything else.

his home still has traces of you. your favorite mug still in the kitchen, a sweater you forgot draped over a chair, the perfume bottle you left behind on the bathroom counter. he hasn’t moved them at all, so when passing them he’ll sometimes pause, observing your belongings like they’re priceless artifacts he forever wants to keep.

a drawer in his desk contains a perfectly organized stack of polaroids. shots he took of you while you were dating, containing multiple domestic situations of you laughing on the beach, asleep on his shoulder and drooling, you looking annoyed while he teased you endlessly, you wearing his hoodie… there’s a lot, some even nudes taken during private moments when you trusted him. nothing is displayed openly, but preserved with a date written on the back, sometimes a short note, things like mine or xoxo.

as a photographer, he justifies it to himself as art. in his mind those photos were the purest versions of you, deleting them would feel like destroying masterpieces. the man doesn’t see anything wrong with it. they were taken with consent back then, and the memories belong to him, so he never questions keeping them.

though, admittedly, yunho still adds to the collection with printed screenshots from your instagram stories. blurry shots of you crossing campus, a candid photo of you mid-laughter taken from far away during a university event. he keeps a hidden folder on his computer, where inside are hundreds of photos and videos, not just from when you dated, but also recent ones.

sometimes he records his lectures for teaching review, as the university demands, and in private, he’ll rewind parts where you speak. listening again, and again, and again, so he can get off with his dick in hand, trying to chase his high from being turned on by watching you argue with him in class. she still looks at me the same way… anger is better than indifference. your hatred is still attention, and attention for men like him is oxygen.

he studies those images and compares them to how you look in class now. noticing the differences in the way you dress, how you glare at him and refuse to look at him too long… she pretends she doesn’t belong to me anymore.

also your old professor who retired? yunho knew her; she was a well-known photographer in seoul, a colleague of his whose exhibitions he had attended more than once over the years. during a gallery event, the two of them talked for a while, as she casually mentioned that she would be retiring soon and that the university needed someone to take her place. then she also mentioned that one of her best students would be graduating soon. the way she spoke about that student caught yunho’s attention immediately. the woman even pulled out her phone, scrolling through photos from one of the class exhibitions before zooming in on a familiar face — yours.

the elder woman happily explained how talented you were, the potential you had and how you were easily one of her favorites.

that was when he applied to the university, under her recommendation.

yunho finally stood from the couch and walked toward his bedroom. he opened the drawer of his bedside table, reaching inside until his fingers brushed against a familiar photograph: a polaroid from two years ago.

you were laughing in it, leaning slightly toward a cake with him beside you on your 22nd birthday. the faint lipstick mark you had playfully pressed onto the corner of the photo was still there, and he ran his thumb slowly over it. he just stared at it, placing the polaroid carefully on the nightstand beside his phone and the nightlamp. when he finally lay down under the covers, the photograph remained within reach, the faint outline of your smile visible in the dim light.

he closed his eyes, hoping, as he drifted toward sleep, that maybe tonight you would appear in his dreams.

fridays are always a godsend, especially after sitting through a lecture with the devil the day before. anything feels better after that, especially when you’re out for lunch with jaemin. sunlight spilling through the windows, soft chatter around you, and for the first time in a while you feel at ease. he insisted on paying, of course, saying something about how you “deserve to be spoiled properly,” and honestly… you didn’t argue.

he knows what you like. not in a suffocating way that feels like he’s memorized you without permission. but in a very gentle and attentive way.

“are you free tomorrow?” he asks, stealing a bite of your cake like it’s his.

“i wish,” you sigh. “i have to attend a birthday party with my parents.”

“mm,” he hums, pretending to think, though the smile on his lips gives him away. “guess i’ll have to reschedule my very important plan of kidnapping you for the evening.”

you chuckle softly, taking another bite of the sweet treat. “you’re not funny.”

“i’m hilarious,” he corrects you, lifting his index finger. “you’re just in denial.”

rolling your eyes, but you can’t hide the smile that appears on your face. the thing you really liked about jaemin was how sweet-talking and funny he was, knowing what to say at any given moment. he has this mischievous side, but he was also very loving and attractive. 

“i was going to ask you to come over,” he adds more quietly, almost shy beneath the teasing. “but… another time.”

that makes you pause, because he doesn’t push or corner you. more so, never demands you to be with him and cancel any plans you have already made with someone else. it’s like an option, not an expectation. there’s no hidden trap set ahead of time for you to fall into.

“maybe next weekend?” you echo, that playful tone came as you asked him, looking at him for a moment, and then down at the already finished cake. and that’s enough for him. his bright and boyish grin returns instantly, like he didn’t just make your heart skip.

“see? progress. next thing you know, you’ll admit you like me.”

“don’t get ahead of yourself,” you warn, pointing your fork at him.

“too late, i already did.”

“jaemin–”

“what?” he leans in slightly, eyes sparkling with that same mischievousness. “you gonna hit me?”

you narrow your eyes. “if you keep talking, maybe.”

he gasps dramatically, pretending to be scared for his life, “not the man-hater queen threatening violence again.”

“i am not a man-hater!”

“you are when it comes to me.”

“you’re annoying.”

“and who is paying the bill?”

that shuts you up completely. instead of teasing you more, he just smiles, playfully winking at you, letting you have that moment.

after lunch, he insists on walking you to the mall so you can meet up with karina and yeji. it’s not far, twenty minutes at most, but he acts like it’s a whole event, a met gala of sorts, and you should be escorted like the princess you are. you walk side by side, hands brushing at first, then naturally finding each other, fingers lacing together. the weather is warm for the autumn season. leaves crunch when people pass by, cars hum in the distance, and for a while, you forget about yunho and about everything.

jaemin talks about random things like how he and jeno tried to summon ghosts as kids, jokes about what he saw online, and somehow, you’re laughing again without having to worry or trying to come up with excuses or reasons of how you can be so happy when something else gives you joy? he looks at you with adoration in his eyes and that’s what makes you feel safe.

when you reach the mall, he slows down, not letting go of your hand immediately. he lingers for a second, like he wants to say something else, then just smiles.

“have fun, man-hater queen.”

“thank you, cake thief.”

he laughs, finally letting go but not before leaving a quick, soft kiss on your cheek. “text me when you get home,” he says, and you nod, a little stunned by this bold yet sweet gesture. he walks off with a smile, and your best friends are already waiting for you inside at the usual meeting spot. 

the moment karina spots you, she’s already sprinting, grabbing yeji by the wrist and dragging her along like she’s on a mission. it’s been weeks since you last saw each other, university has been kicking all of your asses, and you didn’t realize how much you needed this until now.

“(name), babe, how are you? you don’t know how much we missed you,” karina squeals, letting go of yeji just to throw her arms around you in a near-death hug. you laugh, breath knocked out of you for a second before hugging her back. 

“i missed you, too,” you manage, and then yeji is right there, pulling you into her own hug, softer but just as tight. “and you don’t know what i have to tell you.”

“jaemin?” they ask in unison, already cocking their brows up.

“how did you know?”

yeji nodded her head towards the glass storefront behind you. “we can literally see you from outside.”

“he walked you here, didn’t he?” karina snorts and you don’t even deny it. that’s enough to send both of them into giggles as they hook their arms through yours, dragging you further into the mall.

the next hour follows it’s rhythm. gossip, teasing, overlapping conversations, with you telling them about jaemin and the date earlier, how attentive he is without being overbearing. sometimes you catch yourself thinking you don’t deserve someone like that. someone so patient and sweet, but karina shuts that down immediately, while yeji nods along, reminding you that the bare minimum just feels extraordinary after what you’ve been through.

what you don’t tell them… is everything else. you don’t mention yunho, not a single word leaves your mouth. it sits somewhere in the back of your mind, tucked away like it doesn’t even exist. they deserve to know, you know they do, but you don’t even know where to start, or how they’d react. and… you’re not ready for that, to lose them, so you stay quiet. maybe sometimes silence is the solution.

you move from store to store, bags slowly piling up in your hands. makeup is a priority, you’re running low, and soon enough, you’re standing in front of rows of lipsticks, testing shades against your skin. just for a second in your peripheral vision, you catch a tall figure, standing a few meters away. you turn your head, and nothing. you blink, frowning slightly. that’s… weird. you could’ve sworn someone was there.

“(name), come here, we found the new face masks,” yeji pops up out of nowhere, grabbing your arm and pulling you along before you can think about it too much. “they’re not even that expensive like everyone says.”

letting yourself be dragged away as the rest of the day passes in a blur of chatter and shopping bags. trying on clothes and spending money like you were the granddaughter of a very wealthy ceo. maybe in a past life you were rich, because right now, money seems to disappear the second it touches your hands. 

by the time you finally sit down for coffee, you take a slow sip of your ice-cold drink, letting the sweetness settle on your tongue as you listen to karina and yeji talk. your social battery was starting to fade, and you were also running out of things to gossip about, content on just listening instead of talking.

for a moment, everything is fine as it should be, until you get that feeling again, like someone’s watching. you glance up, eyes scanning the space around you, but everything looks normal. people talking, walking, laughing, nothing out of place…. you shift slightly in your seat, fingers tightening around your cup. probably your brain is messing up with you after the tiring day you had.

the day started on like that — him following, and you being completely unaware.

he saw you earlier and was there during the whole date. he doesn’t hate jaemin even if jealousy spikes, but he quickly calms himself down. the younger man is just a temporary placeholder, a distraction you picked up because you didn’t know what else to do with the space yunho left behind. his tongue presses briefly against the inside of his cheek, a habit surfacing whenever irritation starts to settle in. he already knows what to order; he’s been here before… with you. at this restaurant, same table across the room, known for its delicate pasta and overly sweet desserts you always claimed you wouldn’t finish.

it’s wrong, not because you’re laughing and enjoying yourself, but because it’s not with him. 

he watches the way jaemin leans in when he talks, how quickly he smiles, casually reaching for your plate, how comfortable he acts like he’s already earned a place he doesn’t deserve. jaemin doesn’t notice the smaller things like the shift in your posture, the way your fingers tighten around your fork when you’re thinking too much, the way your eyes drift when your mind starts wandering. he sees what’s in front of him, nothing more.

yunho sees everything.

he doesn’t need to chase you. he never will. you come back on your own. anger, frustration, curiosity, it doesn’t matter what drives you, it always leads back to him. because no one else will ever know how to handle you the way he does. he doesn’t want a version of you that’s easy. he wants the one who pushes and bites back to keep the spark alive.

you think you hate him, he can see it in your eyes. hatred means you still care; you react because you are affected. indifference would be a problem. but you’re not indifferent, just confused, pretending not to see what’s already there. he missed you. not just your voice, your presence, or your body. he missed this, the way you draw him in without even trying, like a moth to a flame.

he could have walked up to you right now. say your name to strike up a conversation as your professor. what a coincidence, right? you and he in the same place, at the same time, ordering the same food. your expression would drastically change; he knows exactly what it would look like. he’s imagined it enough times, but he doesn’t move.

he doesn’t rush things anymore, learning that the hard way. you need to feel like you have space and the freedom to choose. so he waits, and that’s fine, yunho understands. after all, you’re already his… you just haven’t admitted it to yourself yet.

it was getting late, and when you finally said goodbye to your friends, he’s already on the move. you don’t seem to notice how he chooses the same subway train, standing where the reflection in the window does the work for him, watching you through the blur of the passing lights and shadows.

you’re on your phone for a while, and by the movement of your fingers, you are scrolling through instagram or tiktok. then you are staring ahead, you always get like this when your energy runs out. he knows the exact moment your thoughts start drifting and when exhaustion takes over.

someone dares to look at you for too long. yunho burns holes with bloodshot eyes as the stranger looks away. the train slows at your stop, and you step out. he follows by matching your speed, always out of sight. footsteps always a few seconds behind, stops when you stop. he’s walked this path more times than you’d ever guess. yunho’s gaze moves over everything on the street: the corners, people walking and the cars passing by, the distance between you and anything that could get too close.

you reach your building and pause for a second, opening your purse for your keys. he’s already stopped, waiting for you to step inside. the door closes behind you, as he stays where he is. his eyes lift, scanning the building, counting without thinking how long it would take to reach your floor… it should be one minute and twenty-three seconds.

he waits a little longer, enough to see the second light flicker in your bedroom. it’s the same every night with him walking you back home. what if you hadn’t come back alone? what if some creep had followed you? that wouldn’t have ended well, not for them.

his shoulders finally relax as he turns away. to anyone else, that would be the end of it. just a random man on the street… even if his home is in the opposite direction, thirty-five minutes away. hands sliding into his pockets, the quiet jingle of metal breaks the silence with each step. a small cluster of keys, shifting against each other, and one tucked among them does not belong to him. his thumb brushes over it absentmindedly; it has always been there.

yunho still has a key to your place. sometimes he visits when you’re not there, and he always knows when that is. why does he do it? even the divine beings don’t seem interested in answering that, and they don’t want to interfere either. what is he doing in your apartment? nothing, he goes there when he wants to rest. he doesn’t move things around or leave signs. he just sits on your couch and enjoys the atmosphere you created.

your bedroom door stays open, so he doesn’t need to enter to know if anything has changed. he’s like a ghost, maybe a poltergeist, one that doesn't haunt by moving objects but stealing them instead. 

he opens drawers sometimes. the most familiar one is always the same — the drawer with your underwear. never takes anything new or expensive, always the ones at the bottom. old pairs, the pieces you don’t think about anymore, and you wouldn’t even notice are missing.

it’s proximity, a way for him to be close to you, or for you to be close to him. 

in the living room, there’s a plush toy you never threw away. he gave it to you when you celebrated your six-month anniversary. it still sits in its place, untouched and harmless-looking. except it isn’t. inside it, carefully hidden where no one would think to look, is a small camera. he watches from time to time, when he needs to. nothing invasive, just enough for him to see you when you’re home. someone has to make sure you get home safe, even if you don’t know it, and if it has to be him, then so be it. 

your father had a lot of friends, and it just so happened that your family was invited to mr. kim’s 50th birthday, an anniversary celebrated in a rather grand and luxurious way. honestly, it felt more like a wedding than a birthday… but either way, it was still an occasion for drinking. people of notoriety greeted each other left and right, laughter and chatter filling the air, until the man of the hour finally made his entrance, the one who had every right to celebrate until the very last drop and bite were gone.

“if this isn’t my one and only goddaughter?” it should probably be mentioned that this kind and ridiculously rich man was your godfather. no blood relation, but he had always been like an uncle to you. the affluent one  who spoiled you endlessly as a child, giving you everything you wanted, because clearly your parents failed to treat you like the princess you deserved to be.

“happy birthday, uncle minseok!” you said, stepping forward to hug him, genuinely happy to see him. the gifts were still left by the entrance, but you always had your own little privileges. “this is for you, i hope you like it… even if you are getting old.”

inside the small wrapped bag was a simple package of marshmallows, as your mother immediately noticed, lightly tapping your shoulder. “(name), this is inappropriate.”

“calm down,” minseok laughed warmly, taking the bag from your hands without a second thought. “she knows exactly what to give someone.” he glanced at you with a grin, because this candy has become very significant during the years, something small but from the heart. “thank you, my dear. you’ll get the second piece of cake.”

the evening continued with drinks being passed around, conversations flowing about business, and whatever gossip caught your ear. at some point, your godfather rested a hand on your shoulder, “come, there’s someone i want you to meet,” he said casually, guiding you through the crowd. “a very dear friend of mine, and an excellent photographer. you might learn a thing or two.”

you didn’t think much of it at first, nodding as you followed along, heels clicking softly against the polished floor, your drink still in hand. this would be just another introduction for you to smile at a stranger. this would hopefully be someone you could form a connection with to help you in the future when you do decide to pursue a career, but just like that, everything in your body turned upside down. your entire world tilted and your pulse quickened, because of course it had to be him.

dressed like absolute sin in a suit that made it painfully obvious he knew exactly what he was doing. professional and put together… but unlike on campus, where he toned it down by being casual and relatable to young people your age, here amongst people closer to his age and high calibre, he wasn’t holding back. the clothes fit him perfectly, outlining his frame in a way that makes you force yourself not to react — masking your expression into something neutral that doesn't scream what the hell are you doing here.

“yunho,” minseok called out, catching his attention. “ah, perfect timing, indeed. i want you to meet someone.”

yunho turned, and for a split second, his eyes met yours. there it was, that familiar recognition, gone just as quickly as it appeared. his own expression of shock smoothed out instantly, slipping into that same composed mask you had grown to despise.

“this is my goddaughter, (name),” minseok continued proudly, squeezing your shoulders by the exposed skin your dress created. “she’s studying photography as well.”

you swallowed and played along, like you were meeting him for the very first time. as if you didn’t know the way his hands felt, or how his voice sounded when it wasn’t calm and controlled, the way he used to look at you when no one else was around… as if you hadn’t let him take your virginity. 

“it’s a pleasure to meet you,” you said, offering your hand with a polite smile that stung like acid to hold. his gaze lingered for just a moment too long before he took it. warm and bigger than yours, soft too, just like it always has been, perfectly made to fit.

“the pleasure is all mine, miss (name),” yunho replied, smiling at you, and god, you hate how natural he makes it sound, like you’re nothing more than a stranger he’s just been introduced to. but of course, he doesn’t stop there. the pad of his thumb brushes lightly against your knuckles before he lets go.

it wasn’t awkward, more like… unsettling in a way that made your skin itch. it wasn’t just that you saw him every week at the university, no, now he was here too, at an event where you were supposed to have fun, not stand there thinking of at least five different ways to get away with his murder. your godfather, completely unaware of the tension, patted your shoulder before turning to yunho. “i’ll leave her in your care, and (name), you might want to take some photos now that it’s still not too crowded. have fun, kiddos.”

and just like that, minseok walked away, leaving you alone with the man you hated the most.

your blood started boiling like molten lava almost instantly. the fake smile dropped the second his back disappeared into the crowd, your nails digging into your palms as you inhaled slowly through your nose and you stared at yunho with pure and undisguised hatred.

"you know it's not very polite to stare." he was fixing something on the camera, or looking at photos, you didn't know, but you knew one thing, and that was that you hated him. “so, how is your project going? did you fix what i told you to?” 

you stiffen for a split second, your smile tightening as you look at him, because of course he would say that here, of all places, since he just couldn’t resist torturing outside campus.

“i wasn’t aware this was a consultation,” you reply sweetly, but your tone carries that hostile warning of a bark that tells him you are about to bite like an angry dog.

“old habits,” he hummed softly, deleting a few blurred pictures.

“yeah?” you shot back, one eyebrow rising, “then maybe you should work on dropping a few of them.”

“that explains a lot.” the way he calmly answers makes you want to punch him.

“explains what exactly? you enjoying your little performance? you’re very convincing, i’ll give you that.”

“i don’t know what you mean,” he says lightly, though the way he looks at you says the exact opposite. liar. something about the way you’re talking back instead of ignoring him, clearly tells him one thing — you haven’t moved on completely.

“you still get worked up so easily,” murmuring almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear.

“you still talk too much,” you snapped, and he took a step closer, enough to close some of the distance, his presence more noticeable and intimidating, and you sometimes forget how tall he actually is.

a small smile tugged at his lips because, truth be told, he was enjoying this far too much. his eyes were scanning your face, studying every reaction of the grimace you tried so hard to hide. you scoffed, crossing your arms, tapping your freshly done nails against your skin, irritation written all over, and for a moment neither of you spoke. the noise of the party faded into the background as the tension stretched like silk almost pulled to the point of tearing between you.

then yunho exhaled softly, removing the camera strap from his head, he closed the lens cap and put it back in the small bag, leaving it on the desk he evidently used for work here.

“what about we take a walk?” yunho suddenly suggests, tone light, sounding harmless and innocent. “talk a few things out. it seems like you have a lot to say.”

you should have said no. you should’ve walked straight back to your parents while ignoring him like you’ve been fighting tooth and nail to do, but somehow… you didn’t. maybe it was the tone of his voice, coaxing you with the way he said it like a suggestion, not a command, even though it somehow felt like one. or maybe it was just him, knowing exactly what to say, with just the right intonation for invitation.

“fine,” you muttered, big mistake.

he guided you through the venue, away from the main crowd and toward a quieter part of the hotel where the noise began to dull and the lights softened because fewer people meant fewer distractions. now it’s just you and him, the way he’s been craving and aching for.

then he stopped.

reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. you frowned slightly as he pulled out a cigarette, placing it between his lips before lighting it and exhaling slowly, white smoke curling between the two of you before dissipating into the air. 

“you’re smoking again?” 

“you’re staring again.”

“i’m judging,” you correct. “i thought you quit.”

“i did,” he agrees, “for you.”

then he takes another drag, eyes never leaving yours, but you know you were the main reason, if not the only one, for him to quit. you hated the smell and the taste that transferred once you shared a kiss. or two. or dozen… neither of you ever bothered to count.

“stress does things, work, life… you find ways to relieve the tension,” he continues after a moment, carefully choosing every word to get a reaction out of you. he shares just enough, mentioning that the workload and the pressure made him go back to this bad habit, skimming over the real reason without ever actually saying it — the break up. of course, he wouldn’t admit that to you. he never gives you the full truth, only carefully selected pieces. 

and as he speaks, you find yourself checking him out. you feel steel heavy shame that you are, but you can’t help it. he looks… good. no, that’s an understatement. dressed like he stepped out of some magazine, a black coat draped over his broad shoulders, a clean white button-up tucked neatly under a fitted black vest, finished off with a loosely worn black satin tie. as much as you want to deny it, to lie to yourself, roll your eyes… you can’t. when it comes to jeong yunho, all bets are off, because he’s so fucking hot.

yunho stubs out the cigarette, pressing it into the ashtray beside him. you’re both sitting on the edge of a small staircase, tucked away from most of the guests, the noise of the party distant like background static.

then, without much thought, he shrugs off his coat and throws it over his shoulder. the movement is simple, but it draws your attention to his rolled sleeves, exposing his slim but defined forearms, his veins faintly visible under the skin. his cords of muscle hold subtle tension that make it really goddamn difficult not to look. it gives him this quiet intensity, composed on the surface but never fully restrained underneath. a wildfire raging beneath a perfectly composed surface.

you really try to look away, only to realize something else, that you didn’t bring a jacket. you’re wearing a short black dress, feminine shoulders bare, the evening air cooler than you expected. it hadn’t mattered before since you won’t stay outside the venue all night, and yet before you can even think about it properly, warmth settles around you. 

snapping out of your thoughts, your gaze shifts downward to see his coat now draped around your shoulders. when you look up, yunho is already adjusting his sleeves again, completely unfazed, like the gesture means nothing at all. 

“so,” he says casually, sitting down beside you on the staircase, spreading his legs slightly as he leans back on one hand, the other idly flipping his metal lighter open and closed, “graduating soon, right? any plans career-wise?”

it catches you off guard. you almost scoff, because wasn’t he the one who suggested this, the one who said you had a lot to say. the truth is, you don’t, at least not to him. now he’s the one guiding the conversation somewhere… normal. like so normal that you’re not sitting next to your ex, who is actively messing with your head.

“i’m planning to try abroad.”

“where?”

“i’m not going to tell you,” you glance at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “don’t want you suddenly becoming my coworker.”

that earns a chuckle from him. “you really think i’d follow you that far?”

you don’t answer, because you’re not entirely sure he wouldn’t. he makes it very clear that he is not talking about your career. the silence settles again, but it doesn’t feel empty. it feels intentional, as if he’s waiting for the exact right moment to put the puzzle piece into place.

you shift slightly on the step, exhaling through your nose, trying to ignore how aware you are of him sitting so close beside you. the party noise is distant now, blurred into nothing. now it’s just the two of you, tucked away in a space that suddenly feels too small… then he speaks again.

“are you seeing someone right now?”

your eyes flick to him immediately, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of a proper answer. “none of your business.”

no reaction at first, just the soft click of his lighter opening again. the small flame appears, disappears, and flickers back to life as he plays with it absentmindedly. it’s almost hypnotic, the rhythm of it: small flame, bigger flame, gone again. he’s buying time, or making you sit in discomfort a little longer than necessary. you stare at it longer than you should, trying to steady yourself. it’s stupid, but it gives your eyes somewhere else to go and your mind something else to focus on.

he exhales quietly, then the lighter closes with a soft snap, and he looks at you.

“jaemin, right?” he says like he’s commenting on the weather. “he seems like a nice guy, but doesn’t seem like your type.”

everything in you stops, freezes like you’ve just touched a block of ice. your entire body goes still for half a second too long andyour expression betrays you before you can even think to control it. it’s shock at first, then disbelief, because you never told him a name, or anything of the sort. never even showed signs of you being involved with someone else.

your mind starts racing immediately — how does he know that? how long has he known? what else does he know?

only a few people know you’ve been seeing jaemin, and yes, you do post stories with him just like you do with the other people you trust, people who wouldn’t… your fingers tighten unconsciously around the fabric of his coat still resting on your shoulders.

“how do you know that?” your voice comes out lower than you intended. yunho tilts his head slightly, observing a reaction he already predicted, since just confirmed something he was quietly testing. a faint smirk pulls at his lips, he shrugs, leaning back on one hand as his gaze stays fixed on you.

“you’re the campus's new hotshot couple,” lies, obvious lies. you know it, he knows it, but the confidence in his voice makes it sound real. rumors, gossip, students talking, maybe someone exaggerating something they saw, but nothing that should have him perfectly informed with a name.

you don’t even realize your grip has tightened until the fabric of his coat shifts slightly under your fingers.

“relax, i’m not interfering.” but his tone says otherwise, “you can date whoever you want.”

you can't because you are mine.

yunho doesn’t move away while talking; he closes the distance slowly instead, testing exactly how far you’ll let him go before you stop him. knee brushing yours, nudging you teasingly, he doesn’t break eye contact, and doesn’t give you space to believe or question anything. because the way he says it doesn’t sound like permission, it sounds like ownership he’s pretending not to enforce.

“you lost the right to care about who i see a long time ago.” 

oh? 

amused by how you’re trying so hard to stand your ground, trembling just beneath the surface. it’s beautiful like that, so unfiltered and honest. aren’t you the prettiest little angel when you’re angry? when you’re fighting him, resisting him, convincing yourself you’ve moved on. it’s almost impressive, and adorable. your will is always too big for your own good, too loud to stay buried, always insisting things should go your way, even when reality bends differently once he is in the picture.

he’s memorizing it all over again with the way your breath changes when he gets too close, the way you refuse to look away even when it would be easier. your eyes are the most dangerous part of you, he decides. they’re full of everything at once — malice, frustration, sadness you pretend isn’t there, excitement you refuse to acknowledge. a fire that burns brighter than the weak flicker of the lighter between his fingers earlier. a fire that could bring him to his knees if he let it.

but he won’t, he knows how to protect himself.

he knows you better than anyone else ever has. better than those two annoying best friends of yours, than jeongin, better than jaemin, even your parents. better than the version of yourself you try to present to the world. 

yunho doesn’t need to chase because he knows your anger will bring you to him. he doesn’t need to beg, either. not when pulling the right strings of your nervous system is far more satisfying, watching you unravel and logic slipping away piece by piece until all that’s left is emotion, exactly how he wants you. he doesn’t need you rational, he needs you emotional. to destabilize you until you’re reacting instead of analyzing, feeling instead of understanding, until you’re his again in everything but name.

your thoughts slow, your focus breaks, you start reacting instead of thinking… just like he planned.

it’s sudden when it happens, you grab his collar, and before he can even fully process it, you pull him in and kiss him. not what people would call romantic, it’s out of pure spite and the need to shut him up. it’s messy, all teeth and frustration and months of things left unsaid. it’s the words i hate you pressed into his mouth like a punishment. 

yunho doesn’t take control immediately. he lets you bite his lip and put all that frustration finally into something tangible, lets you pretend this is just about physically shutting him up. yunho lets you have your moment of control, an illusion of victory, because he can feel you’re not over him… should the fact that he isn’t over you either be good or bad news?

only then does he finally respond, when your breath catches in that familiar way, something in him snaps as he kisses you back. the taste is noticeably bitter, ashy, and slightly stale. a trace of smoke still clings to him, dry against your tongue with that faint chemical edge, following the chemical romance between you that has no clear answer or reaction to this day, only that it is intense.

his lips part slightly against yours, the movement slow, testing. he deepens the kiss, blurring the line between hesitation and intent, one hand sliding up to your neck, fingers resting there, guiding rather than forcing. he pulls you closer, and the way your breath stutters in the gorgeous column of your throat, the way your body reacts to his body without thinking, tells him everything he needs to know.

then, just as suddenly, he stops. not pulling away completely, neither of you really wants to break it, but he’s the one who finally pulls back first. you’re left staring at each other, chests inviting air in and out in hurried paces to catch your breaths.

“you look at me like you hate me…” and doesn’t seem like you want to stop, though. “but you always looked at me like that.”

there’s something in his expression, satisfaction, like your reaction alone is enough. your breathing is uneven, lips slightly parted, and you hate how aware you are of him again: how close he is and how familiar it feels. your lipstick is slightly smudged, some of it transferred onto him, and the sight alone makes something twist in your stomach.

because you want more, but you don’t want to want him.

this is wrong on so many levels, kissing your ex out of nowhere, yet your body remembers him far too well, as it responds far too much. it’s frustrating, confusing, and addicting in a way you wish it wasn’t. what are you even supposed to do now?

“this isn’t a good place…” he says after a moment, glancing briefly toward the direction of the party before looking back at you. “…unless you want an audience.”

and suddenly it feels like the decision is yours, except it isn’t. because the way he looks at you says he already knows what you’ll choose.

by the time you are fully recovered his hand is already around yours, fingers lacing, as his grip doesn’t loosen, not once, he already knows you won’t pull away. he starts walking and you’re just following along without questioning it.

away from the crowd, into the quieter parts of the hotel, the lobby is nearly empty, the noise fading behind you as he moves straight for the elevators. he presses the button, and as if perfectly timed, the doors slide open to an empty cabin.

you step inside, and the moment the doors close behind you, the space feels smaller and tighter. mirrors line the walls, reflecting everything from every angle. no matter where you look, it’s him first and only then, you.

yunho and mirrors are a dangerous combination, because he doesn’t just want to feel you, he wants to watch you feel him and memorise the way you submit to his touch each and every time he manages to catch you. standing behind you, his taller frame hovering close, his chest warm against your back even if he doesn’t fully press himself in. still, if you lean back even slightly, he knows he has you.

his lips brush your shoulder, not quite a kiss, more like a promise of one. he makes you aware of everything — your breathing, the expression on your pretty face, how close you really are to him. one hand slides low, brushing your thigh right where the hem of your dress ends, while the other rises to your face. his soft fingers tilt your chin upward. he doesn’t need to do much to make you go insane; his voice does most of the work, not his body.

“all that attitude, and look at you now,” murmuring right next to your ear. the hand resting on your thigh doesn’t move further, and somehow you react more to what almost happens than to what actually does. as if hypnotized, trying to hold onto some sense of control, but it’s slipping fast, because your eyes betray you again. “is that really how someone looks when they want me gone?”

he doesn’t think of himself as a freak about it. he just likes watching, prefers you vulnerable like this. his eyes never leave your reflection, taking in the way your lips part, your lashes flutter, the way you try to close your eyes against how overwhelming it feels.

“don’t close your eyes, doll.” his voice is low, slightly rougher, his fingers tightening just a little on your jaw. you forgot how much you loved being called that, and how much it didn't help your attempts at resistance. “i want you to see what i’m doing to you.”

the hand on your leg slips beneath your dress until it finds the soft fabric of your panties, and you’re already so wet. his fingers press against you through the material, enough to make your breath hitch while moving in a slow and controlled rhythm as you squirm in result. your back arches finally pressing into him, and he exhales softly against your ear, completely obsessed with the sight of you falling apart in front of him.

“y-yun–” his name halfway leaves your lips in a soft whine, breaking into something breathier when he moves just right. he loves the way you say his name like it belongs in your mouth, and believe it or not, it’s already tattooed on your skin with invisible ink.

“keep looking.” his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, guiding your attention back to the mirror. your thighs tremble, and your hands clutch at his forearm. the way your body reacts instantly, the way he has literal heart eyes when you make that sound again, his dick pulsating at the sight as he leans down slightly, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “see how pretty you look like this?”

you move without thinking, pressing back against him, your legs drawing closer together as if it might help, when his name slips from your lips again, your eyes glossy, barely staying open like he told you to, he smiles faintly against your skin. 

“good girl.” but being good doesn’t mean you get everything. if anything, it means the opposite, because he’s making you want it first. you feel it before you can think about it. he could push you further, make you admit things, but he knows you won’t, not yet.

a soft ding breaks through the moment. his gaze flicks up toward the numbers, 10th floor. 

the doors are about to open, the risk of someone being there and catching you… and just like that, he stops. he withdraws, leaving you aching, breath uneven, your body still caught in the aftermath of something unfinished. the doors slide open, and thankfully, no one’s there. the hallway is empty; most guests are still downstairs celebrating, others are already asleep. not that he would care much… or maybe he would. yunho has never liked sharing or the idea of anyone else seeing what he considers his.

he reaches toward you again, and for a second you think… but no. his hand slips into the coat you’re still wearing, pulling out the key card from the inner pocket.

“come on, angel… we don’t have all night.” all night. you don’t even know what time it is. your purse is still downstairs, abandoned at the table with your parents, your phone out of reach, “need help walking?” 

he asks, and that more than anything, pulls you back to reality. because when you glance at the mirror again, you finally see yourself properly. flushed and out of breath. your dress is slightly ridden up, your lips parted, your entire body still buzzing with heat that hasn’t gone anywhere. fuck. you’re left standing there, completely worked up, and he’s the only one who can do anything about it.

you know this is wrong, but your body isn’t listening. the empty hallway was your chance to leave, yet your feet never moved. you should have walked away, right then and there… so why didn’t you? zoning out and staring into the void of nothingness, thinking how no one can even compare and you hate that it’s still him who makes you lose your sanity. with yunho, it was never just attraction and maybe that’s the problem. you hate him. you hate this. you hate that you don’t hate it enough.

telling yourself you still have a choice, only that you don’t. because somehow, without realizing it, you’re already following him to his room. the door closes behind you with a quiet click that feels louder than it should, and suddenly you don’t move.

you don’t sit. you just stand there, near the edge of the bed, fingers fidgeting with the ends of the sleeves, pulling the fabric over your hands as if it might calm you somehow. your breathing still hasn’t settled, your body is still carrying everything from moments ago.

he moves further into the room as if you being here is expected and inevitable. his hand reaches up to his collar, his eyes don’t leave you, though, not once. fingers hooking under the knot of his tie, loosening it slowly, sliding it from around his neck, the fabric slipping through his fingers before he lets it hang loosely in his hand. he stands there too, looking at your posture, and the way you haven’t dared to sit or do anything at all.

his lips twitch slightly when your fingers pause for half a second, then continue. you don’t dare to talk, you don’t trust your voice right now. he takes a step closer, then another, slowly closing the space between you until it feels suffocating again, and you’re aware of him in the same way you were in the elevator.

“take a seat,” he says softly, “you don’t have to stand there like that,” and you obey. 

you sit right at the edge of the bed, back straight, still clutching the sleeves, as yunho watches you for a moment longer. then, without breaking eye contact, he lowers himself not onto the bed, but down, kneeling in front of you.

it shouldn’t feel the way it does, as if he were praying to his goddess for a blessing of a lifetime. it should be unsettling, he chose this position for a reason; he wants to be right here, close enough to see every reaction you try to hide. his hands rest lightly against your legs at first, thumbs caressing the flesh as you tense, but don’t pull away. 

“do you know…” fingers sliding slightly higher, tracing and craving, then there’s a pause. “how hard it was not to think about you?” not crossing any line too fast, he continued, eyes fixed on your face, “to see you every week, and pretend we are just strangers?”

his razor sharp gaze softens for what you can barely count a millisecond, before it shifts back to its sinister depths, something that looks a little too close to obsession.

“should i? or are you going to pretend you don’t want this?”

beneath the dress, fingers slipping under the fabric as he hooks into your waistband and starts to pull it down. you are leaning in just slightly, giving him the access he’s already taken. that’s all the permission he needs. the delicate lace follows, sliding down until it pools at your feet, as you gently kick them fully aside with the help of your heels.

"last chance to leave, angel... say or do something if you want me to stop.”

holding himself back, and it’s taking more effort than he wants to admit. his gaze drags over you, taking in every detail like he’s been starved of it.

you look the same. no, you like you never left him at all.

his jaw tightens faintly because god, he missed you. no matter how much time passed or how many distractions he surrounded himself with, nothing and no one helped. they didn’t look right or feel right, they simply weren’t you.

you changed, of course you did. your hair, your style, the perfume, even the way you carry yourself now, like you’ve grown into something that bites back.

but he sees through it: you are just a little sheep wearing the wolf’s head.

and he is the wolf wearing a sheep’s clothing.

something restless stirring beneath his skin, the way it creeps in, settles deep, refuses to leave. he’s been stuck on a feeling, just can't stop, once ain't enough.

his thumb presses just a little firmer, grounding himself, because he might actually lose that thin thread of control he’s still pretending to have.

“i hate you.” you say but your legs part for him. his head tilts at that, tongue pressing into his cheek, amused, your defiance only entertains him more. don’t mind him then, as he eases you back, gaze heavy on you, his hands slide firmly to your thighs, guiding you then lifting your legs to settle over his shoulders. 

he looks at you like he’s about to show you what heaven feels like when its most precious and divine being finally falls from grace.

yunho loves teasing you with his words almost as much as he loves tasting you. his tongue dives in, relentless at first, exploring every twitching nerve that seems to remember him all to well, then deeper, faster and harder. he pushes in and out like he’s trying to swallow you whole, sliding in and out with perfect rhythm.

“babydoll, you’re so sweet,” he groans, licking and sucking, eyes rolling back when he finally tastes you. you're addicting. he laps up your juices, swirling his tongue on your clit. “did you save all this for me?”

his hands grip your thighs, holding you open, pressing you closer as he devours you like a meal he can’t get enough of. every moan, quiet or loud, drives him further to the sinful gates of temptation. he buries his face in you, lips and tongue hungry, mouth wet, making sure every inch of you is tasted.

“look at you, trembling for me…” he whispers, nibbling at your inner thigh between laps of your cunt. he’s relentless with the words, praising every tiny quiver, “that’s it, you’re such a good girl, letting me do this.”

god, your pussy’s perfect. can’t believe this is all his to play with after a whole year of craving you. the way he grins while teasing you, making you feel like you’re both the most desirable and most obedient thing in the world. 

“you like it when i talk to you like this, hm? gonna make you scream my name before i even touch you properly,” he teases, tongue pushing deeper, fingers brushing where you couldn't even reach. every compliment and filthy line makes your body shake more, your pussy grip tighter around nothing, dripping just from his mouth and words.

he mixes praise and filth, so you’re caught between feeling worshiped and utterly used. the combination makes you desperate and completely under his control. by the time he lifts his head, cheeks wet, lips shiny with your slick, because he knows exactly what he’s done to you — and he isn’t done yet.

“mmh… yunho–” your back arches, hips rising to meet him despite yourself. you’re dripping, trembling, completely lost to the sloppy sounds of his tongue. he groans, deep in his throat, enjoying the taste of you. he doesn’t rush when he devours and dominates your senses. “fuck, you are so… hahh–”

your legs are clamping around his head as your hands tug his hair, gosh it’s still so soft to the touch. your chest heaving, voice hoarse from moaning, and yunho finally lifts his head, grinning at the mess he made glistening on his lips. wiping his mouth slowly, chuckling, because he’s left you begging without even doing too much.

“mmhm,” diving back in as his fingers brushing against your clit while his tongue plunges deeper. he just keeps going — tongue flicking, fingers circling, whispering filthy praises with every movement. “that’s it, that’s my good girl… come on, let it all out for me.”

your walls clench and your pussy gushes over his tongue, spurting uncontrollably as your legs tremble and your back arches off the surface. yunho groans, licking up every drop, smiling like the maniac he is, “god, you’re insane… look at you squirting for me.”

he doesn’t stop, still moving, coaxing out every last drop, praising you with every breath he takes. his thoughts are full of you, and soon enough, you will be full of him. “mine, you are only mine… keep coming for me, angel.”

you’ve never felt so ruined and so completely at his mercy.

“i should leave you like this,” he adds, quieter, more to himself than to you. the idea actually tempts him, letting you feel exactly how easy it is for him to get you like this. “send you back downstairs all pretty, like nothing happened…” a soft exhale followed, “...but you wouldn’t make it far.”

pulling back, but his fingers keep toying with your clit, and you’re already so sensitive from that alone. he talks dirty in that manic and possessive way of his, murmuring about how he’ll keep you in the dress and the heels, since you can’t spend the night with him… no matter how much he wants you to.

he eases your legs off his shoulders, standing up with a slow stretch, but before he can even undress, he steps back in between your shaky legs, looking down at you with that same secretive, almost warm smile. maybe it’s love, maybe it’s lust, if not both. his index finger and thumb catch your chin, tilting your face up so you have no choice but to look at him, especially when you were trying so hard not to. how cute.

“drop the act, dollface,” he growled, his fingers slide down, big palm spreading around your throat, squeezing to cut off that long-awaited breath you wanted to take, watching you closely, eyes fixed on your lips as they start to quiver with every subtle tightening of his grip. “or do i need to remind you who you belong to?”

one moment he’s choking you, the next, he’s already stripped from the waist down, preparing you to take him.

lying on your back on the bed, with him hovering above you, one long finger slides inside you, immediately feeling how tight and slick you are as he starts to move. he watches closely, eyes fixed on the way your face twists with undeniable pleasure, all while his own cock pulses hot against your leg. a second finger slips in beside the first, and you feel the stretch right away. your walls clenching around him, creaming over his knuckles as small, broken sounds leave your throat, half cough, half whine, still trying to catch the breath he stole from you.

“there it is… i was waiting for that.” and by that, he means you being ready to take him. his thumb drags over the tip of his throbbing cock, stroking himself a few slow times, and your gaze drops — was he always this big? you’re not even sure how you’re supposed to take it… how you managed before. he’s thick, lining up at your soaked entrance, pushing your walls to their limit before he’s even halfway in, your cunt already molding around his size.

missionary is always a gamble with him, because you never know which version you’re going to get: the gentle one, the mean one, the jealous one… there are options, but you’re never the one choosing. this time, he is a meanie. a creature of extreme sadism.

all you can do beneath him is squirm and cry, clinging helplessly to every inch of him he gives you, heavy as he presses in, hitting places your own fingers could never reach. he grunts softly, hips pulling back again because you’re still not full of him, not yet. he has to carve the shape of himself into your insides, and claim you properly, like he always will.

maybe you’re already close, just from the way he moves. shallow at first, his pelvis dragging sinfully against you, making your writhing body jolt upwards on the bed. he switches between soft and controlled thrusts to slow and grinding circles, anything to ease you and help your body relax, make you greedy enough to take him deeper.

“is that all you do, cry?” yunho hisses under his breath, lips brushing wet against your ear as your nails dig into his shoulders. his cock presses right against your most sensitive spot, pulling a loud moan from you, and you think it’s too deep already, when he is not even that deep. “babydoll, be a good girl for me and take every inch, yeah? no, don’t cry now… you can handle it, because you’re mine… my pretty girl.”

your eyes sting, tears slipping free, smudging your makeup a bit. it’s been so long since you had any sexual intercourse, a whole year. you didn’t even do anything more than a few careless kisses and make out sessions with jaemin, nothing that even comes close to tonight’s carnal ravaging.

you need yunho. not just inside you, you need him under your skin, running through your dna. you hate his guts, you do, but god, he fucks you so well you can feel him in your guts.

the tears fall, catching the light like silver, as if tiny diamonds slip down your cheeks as he stretches you open again.

his fingers lace with yours, pinning your hands against the mattress as he hisses filthy praises into your ear. your sensitive cunt takes every devastating thrust, each one pulling out those wet and sloppy sounds, the kind that make you want to scream again and again until your vocal cords tear apart and you lose your voice for days as a reminder of what yunho is doing to do you. what he will always do to you. the way his cock drives fully into you sends that overwhelming urge through your quivering body, threatening to make you come undone, you’re not even sure if you want to. it’s a sensation so intense, such painfully good pressure building with nowhere to go.

you’re so cockdrunk it’s insane. you always thought you were in control, always told yourself he wasn’t a good person, but the dick was too good to let go. he fits too perfectly, like he was made just for you.

“scream for me, doll,” he groans, that husky tone rolling off his tongue and straight through you, pulling a helpless whimper from your lips. his brown eyes flick over your face, taking in every desperate expression like he’s committing it to memory, because watching you fall apart is his favorite part. his pre-cum leaves a messy ring at the base of his cock, trailing down the inside of your thighs, and maybe if he weren’t so consumed by you, he’d comment on just how desperate you look.

“yu-yunho–!” his name tears from your throat as it echoes through the room. his hips snap into yours without mercy, hard enough to leave bruises. your back lifts off the bed, arching into the overwhelming rush flooding your body. you praise and beg for him, pushing him further into ecstasy as he presses you back down every time you move too much.

“you think anyone else could handle you like this?” yunho coos, his pace picking up, thrusts growing faster and faster, until your thighs start to numb. “think anyone could love you the way i do?”

“yunho, please… ahh–” you hear yourself, like you’re outside your own body and have lost control of even your own voice. all you can feel is your nails digging into his back, your body tightening around him as you suddenly break, soaking him, your release spilling over his cock. and still his eyes stay on you, he adores your face more than anything else. it’s almost as if your reactions to the pleasure only he can give you appeal more to him than the sex itself.

“you say you hate me, but i bet you were just mad at me, yeah?”

but you’re too stubborn to admit that, refusing to give him even that much satisfaction. you close your eyes, trying to reclaim some dominance over him, but he only chuckles, bringing his hips to a stop at the fading edge of his own release.

that’s what makes your eyes snap open, staring up at him. “why’d you–?”

“i asked you a question, angel,” he sneers. one hand drifts down to your clit, rubbing slow, agonizing circles that pull a helpless whine from your throat, your head tosses back.

“p-please, yu– i can’t, i–” but your legs stay wrapped tight around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper, your heels pressing cold against the heat of his body.

his other hand moves, this time settling around your throat. at first, it’s loose, enough pressure to make you notice. then it tightens as he watches everything: from the way your lips part, to how your chest struggles to rise. completely focused on how dependent you become on him for air. forcing eye contact, watching you go from stubborn to needy, leaning in close to whisper instead of raising his voice. 

“tell me if it’s too much… go on.” with every small twitch or squirm, it only makes his grip tighten more, restricting your breathing while muttering praise after praise. what a fucking sadistic psychopath. “so pretty like this…can barely breathe and still taking me so well.”

pushing your limits on purpose, to remind you exactly who’s in control. he feels the way you start to struggle, your body begins to give, and only then does his grip loosen.

air rushes back into your lungs all at once, burning on the way in. your chest stutters, breaths coming out broken and uneven instead of steady. your vision blurs, tears slipping freely now, and you don’t even realize you’re shaking until he notices it first. his hand doesn’t leave your throat. it stays there, fingers still curved around it, no longer squeezing, just resting.

“there you go, babydoll,” his voice drops, softer now, but no less heavy. “breathe.”

but he’s watching you too closely for it to feel like kindness. his thumb drags slowly over the spot he pressed into, feeling the rapid flutter of your pulse beneath his touch. your lips part, pulling in air that still doesn’t feel like enough, as another broken sound slips out of you.

it does something to him. you like this, glassy-eyed and trembling, wants him to hold onto this exact version of you for as long as he can. then, without warning, he leans in. his lips press against yours. it’s not an apology, far from it. a kiss that lingers just long enough to steal the breath you just fought to get back, a quiet reminder of how easily he can take it and when he pulls away, there’s the faintest hint of a smile, because he’d do it again.

“shh, don’t cry… you know i take care of what’s mine.” still too dizzy to think about anything but breathing and kissing, your legs are thrown over his broad shoulders, his hands pushing them closer to your head to get the angle just right. he watches himself slide between your folds, then looks down at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

you glance down to where your bodies meet, even if every instinct tells you to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go. every movement hits heavier, deeper; your body can’t tell the difference between pleasure and pressure anymore. he drags himself all the way out at a torturously slow pace, only to push back in just as cruelly.

"s-shit… don’t move,” he groans, thrusting into you, when he finally decides to snap his hips, his pelvis pressed against yours. his fingers find your sensitive clit again, rubbing it fast to get you to cum again, throwing his head back as he thrusts one last time, before shooting his load into your aching cunt. spurts of warm cum fill your insides while you wither beneath him, all hot and sweaty, not even processing the mess both of you made under the clean bedsheets.

his cock was pulsing so hard you could feel it bulging through your tummy, filling you to the brim as you milk him dry. his palm presses flat against your lower stomach, and he actually smirks when he feels and sees the faint movement beneath, occasionally shifting his hand lower or higher just to make you lose focus mid-thought.

“you fell that, doll?”

do you feel how deep my love runs for you?

yunho looks at you like he’s completely gone, someone who operates on obsession, trying to imprint himself into every part of you, leave something behind that no one else could ever do. he’s smug about it too, of course he is. he just won in life, like out of everything in the world, he got you. fuck, wishing he had his camera right now, just to capture this exact moment. you look unreal beneath him, divine even dressed in black, an angel dragged down just for him.

his voice softens, murmuring sweet nothings under his breath as he leans in, pressing slow kisses to your cheeks, your temple, the bridge of your nose. gentler now, calming you down after everything he just put you through. a quick peck lands on your lips, lingering just a little longer than it needs to.

finally, yunho pulls out, watching closely as a small trace of him drips from you. his fingers follow immediately, sinking to keep it all in. then he pulls you up, arms wrapping around you, holding you tight against his chest, lips pressing into your hair, breathing you in like he doesn’t get enough of you, even now.

the aftercare is minimal, because it has to be. he lets you rest for a few minutes, helps you steady yourself, maybe guides you to the bathroom, helps you fix your clothes and makeup, and put your panties back on, while he dresses himself again as if nothing happened. and only now, that you’re about to leave, does he decide to act sweet. 

“you good, need anything else?”

“i’ll manage, thank you very much, asshole.”

you smile through your teeth, already turning, only to wobble slightly in your heels. gee, wonder why, like you just didn't have some mindblowing sex. making your way out, you’re glowing, there’s no other word for it. a little wrecked, sure, a little unsteady, but shining brighter than the stars in the sky. 

he doesn’t close the door right away, waits until you step into the elevator, as the doors slide shut and you’re out of sight. only then does he finally close it, the click echoing a little too loud in the empty room. he leans back for a second, alone with himself, because yeah, he’s an asshole, he knows that.

but you’ll always come back to him, and he’ll always come back to you.

having big gaps between classes was something you enjoyed, but sometimes hated. just like you hate everything about him. from the smug smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth to how his fingers are inside your mouth, making you gag and be disgusted by the way he does such things like he owns you — he doesn’t.

he’s your ex, the one you’ve tried so hard to forget: the sound of his voice, the way he felt under your skin. now his lips are back on your neck, sucking, kissing, leaving marks you’ll have to cover the second you walk out of his office once he’s done fucking you on his desk. you feel his thumb press against your throat, taking his time, teasing you in ways you swore you would never let him do that again, claiming you like he never left.

trying to tell him, no but your body keeps telling him yes.

you should be disappointed in yourself, letting him pull you off track like this, letting him take control when you know better. yet, with every touch and mark sends heat racing through you, clouding your mind until you can barely remember why you hate him so much. is it because he wasn’t who you thought he was… or because you still feel something for him? hating him is easier than admitting you never stopped wanting him. 

you don’t want to care; you want to despise him for what he did and for who he is. but that’s slipping away when your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, eyes roll back when he slides inside of you, filling you completely, making you forget everything else. you want to resist, hold onto the anger, but you can’t. not when he’s deep inside, hitting all the spots that make you arch and gasp, his name falls from your lips even when you swore you’d never let it happen again. 

“y-yunho... faster!” you choke out, hands clawing at his back, desperate and needy, but of course, he doesn’t give in that easily. yunho only slows down, teasing you, lips curling into that infuriating grin against your skin. 

“angel, i told you to be quiet, didn’t i?” he murmurs, voice low and slightly mocking, “so impatient, as always. good things come when you obey… and wait.” 

you are tired of waiting and being toyed with, and if he’s going to take his sweet time, then you’ll make sure he regrets it. your nails dig into his shoulders, even through his shirt, hard enough to strain the fabric and leave marks far more lasting than the lipstick stain on that secret polaroid sitting on his nightstand. 

"stop being such a dick and fuck me already!" you hate him, you repeat it to yourself over and over, until his breath is hot against your neck and his hands are gripping your hips as if he’ll never let go.

and just like that, he snaps, relentless now, giving you exactly what you begged for.

his pace quickens, the plastic creaks underneath, each thrust pushing you closer to that edge, all you can think about is him, all you can feel is him. the hate melts away, replaced by a pleasure so overwhelming it almost hurts. you are so full, burning hot by how he uses your body as a canvas to paint you all white with no drops going to waste. purity and innocence, those words don’t exist for you anymore, as they are replaced with sin and punishment.

“that’s it, pretty. feels good, yeah?” he knows exactly how the two of you collide, like you’re at war with each other. it’s rough, as it drags your pride and self-respect straight through the dirt. the relationship is so damn dysfunctional, but yunho knows you better than anyone else. you don’t even realize how much he thrives on this, how easily you let him take control. he loves you like this: soft and bratty, vulnerable and entirely his. 

you hope, no, you pray, that the good thing he promised finally comes, because you can’t take much more of this. when it hits, it crashes through you at the same time as him, your cries muffled against his shoulder, your chest rising and falling as all that tension finally spills out. he will take care of you, he will always look out for you because you are his most adored and precious doll, his favorite thing to hold and ruin.

a few minutes later, after he’s helped clean you up with a towel from one of the cabinets he keeps just for these getaways. you zip your pants back up, still feeling the lingering warmth between your thighs. you just hope your panties are enough to keep things from showing through. shit… you should’ve worn the black jeans.

“i only came here to give you mine and jeongin’s project, not to get creampied.”

“baby, you know you don’t have to do anything,” he says, spinning lazily in his chair. one hand clicks the mouse as he scrolls through whatever just came into his email. “you’re my favorite student, you pass without lifting a finger. your friend, on the other hand… needs to learn how to use photoshop.”

“yeah, but…”

“but what?” he glances up at you from the computer, that same knowing look settling back in. “you missed me?”

ah, your eyes betray you again. you missed him, no matter how much your ego tries to argue otherwise. after what happened at the hotel two months ago… yeah, that was all it took for both of you to realize you can’t stay away from each other. and maybe you’ll regret it one day, but not now. you’ve already decided to keep it hidden from karina and yeji. as for jaemin… yeah, he’s nice. he’s always been, but that’s all he is now, nice. you made sure you stayed friends, nothing more, and nothing less.

so you leave yunho’s office, of course not before kissing him goodbye, not that it matters much when he’ll be at your place later anyway. “don’t forget we’re watching spiderman~” like you could forget, you know the entire plot by heart at this point.

you’re wearing a sweater that’s way too big for you, one you casually told your friends you found at a thrift store. sure, if that store was called yunho’s apartment. thankfully, no one suspects a thing, not even your two best friends, because if they did… it would be over, and you’re not ready to lose them, but the heart wants what it wants.

later, you meet jeongin at the campus café, sitting across from him like you didn’t just leave your professor’s office in a completely different state than you entered it.

“innie, thank you for ordering for me too.” you smile, taking a sip of your drink, looking… brighter than usual, too happy for someone with a four-hour gap between classes. 

“yeah, no problem,” he says, watching you for a second longer than usual. “also, are you… okay? i don’t know, you just seem different lately after things ended with jaemin.”

you blink, caught off guard. “huh, am i?” a small shrug follows. “i don’t know… i guess i just decided to focus on myself for a while, not on men.”

“well… whatever it is, it suits you,” he mutters, still a little unsure. “oh– by the way, what did professor jeong say about the project?”

“he said we’ve got max points secured,” you shrug lightly. “and that you’ve improved your photoshop skills.”

“really?” jeongin perks up, grinning. “well, don’t mind me if i skip next week then.”

the first part is true, the second isn’t. you can lie to everyone else, but not to yunho. it’s harmless. not everyone needs to know everything about you, not even the people closest to you. so here you are back with your toxic ex, because being stuck on a feeling means being stuck on him. if anyone found out, they’d probably kill him first… and then you.

he knows exactly what you risk every time you come back to him. this was never a temporary game, something that could end just because you decided it should. to him, it’s an inevitable cycle. he doesn’t see himself as someone you return to; in his mind, you never truly left in the first place.

he would give you everything without hesitation. tear the world apart for you, piece by piece, if that’s what it takes to keep you where he wants. but he would ruin you just as easily, because to him, being broken by his hands is still better than letting anyone else touch what he was already his.

yunho is a monster creeping in your heart. a wolf in sheep’s clothing, the kind of character no one expects to be the villain. he isn’t some bad habit; he is an addiction with no cure, letting him consume you, until there’s barely a line left between where you end and he begins. you chose to stay, considering no one plays the role better than you do. this version of yourself that looks put together, untouchable, and guarded… while slowly giving everything away to the one person who knows exactly how to take it.

you didn’t fall for a good man — you fell for the one who learned how to look like one. you keep calling it love, even when it’s nowhere close, because you can’t tell the difference anymore. and if this is what love is supposed to feel like… you don’t want to be saved from it.

© KISSSAN do not copy, repost or modify my work.

thank you phoebe ( @tinyfixon ) for doing a beta read and being an amazing editor! i love you so much and i hope mingi is going to propose to you soon <3

The next time you wake up, you’re alone. 

Everything hurts but also… doesn’t. Like something is blocking you from feeling any of the pain from before. A dull, underlying discomfort. 

You don’t remember much of what happened, why you ended up here, wherever you are. There’s a black hole in your memory that turns everything fuzzy and confusing. What you do remember is how cold you were, near freezing. Cautiously, you move each finger one by one, and wiggle your toes, making sure all were accounted for. You remember two loud, sudden noises. Someone else got hurt. Two others, you think. You can’t recall who, though. 

You remember being touched by strangers. The thought terrifies you all over again, and you slowly squeeze your thighs together, testing for any soreness. You don’t feel anything. A huge mental weight suddenly lifts off of you, and you sink further into the bed, turning your head to the side to cry in relief. Daddy would’ve been so mad… 

When you eventually open your eyes, the first things you see are balloons.

Odd. 

Off to the side, they float on a large shelf beneath a large flat screen television, telling you to get well soon in funky fonts. Underneath the balloons are an array of gifts, each one differing in packaging and size, and a teddy bear perched on top of the pile like a throne. You wonder if they’ll find and give you Puppy sometime soon. That would be a greater comfort than the teddy bear, even if it did have a cute red ribbon tied around its neck. But you breathe a sigh of relief upon the sight of all the gifts. A wave of comfort washes over you at the thought of Yunho sending you all of these. He must not be mad at you anymore, and sent you these, knowing how scared you are here. You can’t wait to see what he got you. 

You see that they have also placed a small Christmas tree in the corner. 

Right… you remember, it is Christmas – or at least it was recently. 

You groan as you shift to get more comfortable, and feel a small tug within your chest. Your eyes fly open and you panic once you see multiple tubes protruding from your chest and arm. Immediately, you want to rip whatever is in there out, but your hands are still restrained. A rough scream that sounds just like Yunho’s name tears from your throat and two nurses run in, trying to calm you down. 

“No!” You try to scream at them, but it comes out as a breathy, broken cry, “No! Leave me alone!” 

Both nurses back off right away. One of them calmly tries to explain to you that you’re in the hospital, and the tubes you see are to drain the fluid in your chest, and an IV to keep you hydrated. You don’t respond. You regress further. 

Daddy hasn’t given you permission to speak to any of these people. 

He’ll take the presents away if he finds out.

He’ll leave you here. 

You press your mouth together, refusing to say another word. Curling up on your side, you don’t even look in their direction. In this position, there’s an added pressure somewhere in your chest and a pull in your shoulder that you don’t like. Yet you don’t move. You hate that they’re looking at you. They’re not allowed to. 

One of them brings the teddy bear over, setting him down on the foot of your hospital bed, leaning against the footboard. Eventually, after checking your vitals and trying – and failing – to ask you a dozen questions you don’t want to answer, they leave. 

You break down as soon as you’re alone again. 

You don’t understand… why did Daddy leave you here? He would never leave you out in the world unprotected, no matter what. He didn’t even assign one of the boys to stay with you. It just does not make sense. The not-knowing overwhelms you, and your temples begin to throb from stress. 

The only comfort you can find is in being asleep. So you’ll sleep until Daddy comes to get you. 

Until he brings you back home. 

  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Sleep is something you’re not really afforded. 

You wake up often due to the pain, sometimes pressing the button for the nurse to administer more pain-killing drugs to your system, and several times throughout the day – and night – people walk in to poke and prod you. They keep asking you questions. The same ones, every single time, every single shift. It’s always loud, bright, and disorientating. You hate it here. You miss the blackout curtains throughout the apartment, shielding you from this blinding light. You miss waking up snuggled next to Yunho. You miss that safety. 

The nurses finally freed your hands from your sides earlier this morning and you don’t even thank them. You hid your hands under the blankets, like a child that didn’t want to give you their favorite toy. In your somewhat newfound freedom, you pulled the blanket higher over you, so you really didn’t have to look at anyone if you didn't want to. It’s easier to block out the world this way. 

By mid-morning, you’re unable to fall back asleep, which you kind of anticipated. Still, it’s desperately annoying. One of the nurses that had come in when you first woke up stands by your bed, checking your vitals and typing something into her laptop. She checks on the dressing that covers your wound. You watch her work for a while. You decide that you dislike her the least. She keeps the shades drawn, having noticed your agitation when the sunlight streamed into the room. And so far, she’s been nice. She can read what you want better than the other nurses. 

You startle her by speaking. 

“Where is he?” 

She jumps and clutches her chest, not expecting a question from you. But she quickly regains her professionalism and asks, “Where is who, dear?” 

“Da–” You think twice in the middle of saying it. You need to be specific. “Yunho.” 

“Yunho?” She repeats. 

You nod twice. 

“I– I don’t know, dear. Is he your boyfriend?” 

You drop the conversation there, frustrated. And partly because you don’t know how to answer her question. Whatever your relationship is, it’s so much deeper than that. 

“You say his name a lot in your sleep,” she mentions, resuming her typing after flicking through your chart again. 

She looks up at you, hoping for an explanation, but you just turn onto your side, closing yourself off. You don’t move again until she leaves, and even then you wait a few extra minutes to make sure she’s gone. 

Sleep drags you down out of nowhere. It’s welcomed. 

But of course, it doesn’t stay with you for too long.  

“Honey?” A woman’s voice stirs you out of your deep slumber about two hours later. A gentle hand shakes your shoulder, just enough to wake you up. You grumble and rub your eye, intent on ignoring whoever this is and going back to sleep – it doesn’t register that you’re no longer restrained just yet. But she speaks again, and the words catch your attention. “Someone’s here to see you.” 

Your eyes open and you push yourself up all at once, looking around the room. Did they find him that quickly? Is he going to take you home? A dangerous hope blooms within you, watching the door. 

“Your parents are right outside. Do you want to say ‘hi’ to them?” The nurse asks. 

Parents…? 

The word feels foreign. Wrong. The only person in the world you have is Yunho, you know that. Your parents stopped looking for you. They don’t care. Their faces are blurry, names forgotten. 

You don’t say anything to the nurse, staring at the mattress in silence, hoping she’ll go away. You hope everyone will just go away. The nurse gives you a minute to answer before going to the door, waving two people in. 

A roughly middle-aged man and woman enter your room slowly. The woman clutches the man’s sleeve, staring at you through watery, round eyes. The man holds a small present in his shaking hands. They appear to be exhausted, maybe jet-lagged. There are dark circles under the man’s eyes like he hasn’t slept in days. They both look at you like you’re a ticking time bomb, ready to detonate at any second. 

“Hi sweetie,” the woman says softly, keeping her distance even though you can tell it’s taking a lot of effort on her part to do so. 

The man chimes in, “Hey, kiddo.” He stops himself from saying more. 

The nurses must have said something to them. 

Again, you don’t reply. You keep your eyes on them, watching and waiting for them to do something that Yunho wouldn’t like. Their being here… it doesn’t sit well with you. There’s absolutely no way Yunho would ever let them see you. Especially not unsupervised. For the hundredth time, you wonder where he is, why he’s letting this happen. 

The two people in your room dare to come closer, and you tense with each step.  

Misplaced blame shrouds them both.  

Once they’re close enough to see the extent of your injuries, the woman collapses into one of the chairs near the bed.    

“Oh, my poor baby.” She cries, unable to tear her gaze from the violent purple and red bruising that covers every inch of your throat up to your jaw, and down towards your chest. 

Ugh. 

This display of emotion annoys you – or maybe it’s hearing the nickname Daddy gave you coming from someone else’s lips. You even roll your eyes, though you instantly feel guilty for doing so. She weeps harder, covering her face with her hands as she tries to pull herself together. The man places a hand on her shoulder, and the small action triggers something. 

A memory. 

You remember the airport, waving goodbye to… someone. A man and a woman, the man’s hand on the woman’s shoulder. To control her? To comfort her? You can’t tell anymore. They had waved goodbye until you were out of their sight. They had shouted encouraging words after you so that they may follow you on your journey, far from home. 

They had picked you up from school, taken you to doctor’s appointments, held your hand in the dentist’s chair, let you sleep in their bed when you woke up from a nightmare. One of them coached your soccer team when you were a kid, you just couldn’t remember which one. You loved them once. 

This was all lifetimes ago, now. 

You’re different. You’re not theirs. They stopped looking for you. They gave up. 

Yunho would have torn the world apart if you ever went missing. He wouldn’t have stopped his search, not for anything. Of this, you’re certain. 

“I’m sorry,” the woman says through sniffles, plucking a tissue from a nearby tissue box and wiping her eyes. “We’re so sorry, sweetie.” 

You don’t look at them. You don’t want to, even though your body naturally starts to relax around them. It’s recognizing them before your brain does. The heart monitor records how your pulse gradually begins to slow to a normal pace. 

The man changes the subject, pointing out the pile of presents. “Looks like you didn’t miss Christmas after all.” 

You almost shrug. The most he gets in response is a slight twitch in your left shoulder. 

“Do you wanna see what you got?” He asks. 

Yes. But not with them. You don’t want them to touch what Yunho got you. The man picks one of the presents up, bringing it over to you. The tag is written in unfamiliar handwriting. 

To: Y/N

From: All The Staff ♡

Oh… well, that’s nice of them, you suppose. All you do is stare at it, unmoving. It’s not from Yunho, so you really have no desire to open it. 

But the man takes it upon himself when you don’t unwrap it. Growing more and more agitated, you clench your teeth, hands itching at your skin. You don’t want your first present to be from strangers. No. 

You look away before you can see what it is. 

“Oh wow,” he says, pulling the gift out of the box. “The staff got you a weighted blanket. That was nice of them.”

Your shoulders hunch and you bow your head, not wanting to hear. He places it over your legs, and it takes every single ounce of self-control to not throw it off of you like a petulant child. The weight of it feels claustrophobic, meant to keep you here forever.  

“Gotta make sure to thank them when they come in again,” he reminds you innocently, but that’s the last straw. 

He doesn’t tell you what to do. You press the call button for the nurse to come back in. You hope it’s the one you like. 

“Are you okay, sweetie?” The woman asks, worry lacing between every syllable. Her eyes are still red from crying. “Are you in pain?” 

Right away, the nurse you want comes in, her eyes sweeping across the room, trying to figure out what you need. 

“Hey, honey. What’s going on?” 

Keeping your head off to the side, all you do to answer is point over at the door. It only takes the nurse a second to realize what you want. 

“Okay, no problem. Mom, Dad, we’ll see her tomorrow, okay?” 

You want to correct that, to say that you don’t want to see them tomorrow at all, but remain silent. They’ll just keep coming back anyway. Deep down, you know you’re expected to go home with them. But that’s not what Yunho wants.   

The woman cries again as the two of them leave, escorted out by the nurse, and you can hear her until she reaches the end of the wing. You don’t relax until you know they’re gone. With a swift kick, the blanket falls off the side of the bed, and the weight is gone as well. That’s enough excitement for one day, surely. 

A knock on the door shatters that hope. 

Thankfully though, it’s just the nurse from before. She lets herself in quietly, picking up the discarded blanket and setting it down over the back of one of the chairs instead of placing it back on you. Smart. 

Then she sits down. 

Neither of you say anything for a while, and you don’t look at her. You watch the clock like it’s the most fascinating thing to you, never wanting to miss a single second. You tap your finger against the mattress, the one with the pulse oximeter on it. 

“It’ll all get easier,” the nurse says, this time startling you. “Just takes time, you know?” 

She doesn’t expect a response, and you don’t really give her one. However, a shrug in response from you is still considered progress. She’ll gladly take it between the alternatives. You suppose she’s right, but you’re not happy about it. You don’t want to get used to a new normal, whatever it may look like. The uncertainty of it all scares you.  

There’s another bout of silence. 

“Your parents don’t know who ‘Yunho’ is… do you know his address or number?” 

You used to know his number, but you haven’t exactly seen your phone in about a year. You’re pretty sure Yunho chucked it into the Han River the same night he took you. He couldn’t have it potentially alert your location and bring the police right to his doorstep, per se. You bite your lip, shaking your head. It’s frustrating to be able to remember select, small details like that, and not what happened recently. Or your parents. 

Wanting more answers, you point at your throat and chest and then your wrist, hoping you’re making it clear you’re asking when this all happened. Two days ago? A week? The nurse tilts her head, confused. You point towards the Christmas tree and tap your wrist again. 

After a few moments, she seems to understand. 

“How many days since…?” She gestures to your injuries. 

You nod, looking down again. 

“It’s December twenty-seventh today, so… four days ago.” 

Huh. So that’s why the man said you didn’t miss Christmas after all, even though technically you did. You woke up only yesterday, the twenty-sixth. A brief memory of being happy to know the date again flashes in your mind, but you can’t place when that was. December something. Someone had told you the date… who was it? Why can’t you just remember? 

You look up at her, as if she has the answers. Speaking of names you don’t remember, you point at her nametag, unable to read it. You’re sure she’s told you before but you weren’t exactly in a get-to-know-you mood yesterday.  

“My name?” She clarifies. You nod. “Jiyeon.” 

Pretty. It’s nice to put a name to a face. You repeat it over and over in your head so you can maybe remember it later. Hopefully everything else will come back to you in time. It’s just going to be frustrating for now. At least you still remember Yunho. The thought of him is keeping you somewhat grounded while you’re here, though it raises a lot of questions you don’t have the answers to. And no one here knows who or where he is, which brings up even more unanswerable questions. 

A loud siren blares through the hospital halls, calling all available medical staff to one of the rooms. An automated voice announces that it is a ‘Code Blue’ and Jiyeon springs up from her chair at once, telling you that she’ll be right back before rushing out. Before the door closes behind her, you see other nurses sprinting down the hall as well. You blink, and you’re alone again. The announcement stops after about another minute or so. 

Jiyeon doesn’t come back right away like she said she would. Eventually, you just stop waiting for her to return. The silence creeps in, burrowing into your ears and you paw around at the blankets to try and find the remote for the TV. You find it on the table next to you, within reach. It’s similar to the remote you are used to in Yunho’s apartment, which is helpful. With a push of one of the buttons, the television blinks to life. Color explodes across the screen. 

You relax once you see it’s some sort of children’s cartoon program, something that Yunho would allow you to watch. It entertains you for a while, but it quickly becomes too overstimulating. The voices and sound effects mixed with the bright colors proves too much for your head to handle at the moment. The channel switches to the news. The two anchors relay all the information about a recent bus crash somewhere in the city before moving on to a singing program, and you decide it’s good background noise. You lower the volume a little more, and turn on your side, intent on trying to fall asleep again. 

An hour later, with no success, you just listen to the news anchors once they reappear on screen. You don’t want anyone to come in, but you are antsy that Jiyeon already broke a promise to you. She said she’d be right back. You know it’s selfish of you to think you’re the only patient that she should pay attention to, but you can’t help it. However, you guess you’re used to being alone. 

Unfortunately, you’re not left alone for long. A nurse you don’t think you’ve met before comes in, alongside a tall man. A doctor in a long white coat, holding a clipboard. On sight, you instantly tense up, scooting farther up the bed to put distance between you and him. Your pulse quickens, and each pound of your heart hammers against your bruised chest. 

“Hi, Y/N,” he says warmly, standing at the foot of your bed. “Glad to see you awake. I’m Dr. Ahn. I just wanted to touch base with you and see how you’re doing.” 

You bring your knees in so your feet are no longer that close to him. If he’s going to touch you, you’re going to see him coming towards you first, which gives you time to act. You don’t like him saying your name so casually. 

He’s obviously been briefed that you are refusing to speak, because he doesn’t wait for a response from you. He flicks through your chart like he’s reading the newspaper. 

“Your vitals are looking good, so no issues there. We’ll be taking the chest tube out this afternoon, see if your lung is doing what it should be on its own. Your parents are gonna be here all day, so if you want them in here when that happens, just let us know.”

You glare at him as he gets closer, checking your IV bag. The squeak of his shoes against the floor make you nauseous. He notices you staring and offers a small smile. 

“You’re very brave, you know,” he says, patting your knee. You resist the urge to bite his hand off. Your skin crawls, astounded at his audacity. A wave of anger and fear crashes into you all at once, and you shove his hand away. You ignore the surprise on his face, more preoccupied with how frightened and fed up you are. Can’t they just get all of this over with so you can go home? At this point, you’ll walk back. You don’t care if that’s what you have to do to get back there.     

The doctor says something to you, but you ignore him. You watch the door, waiting for Yunho to come in and kill him for touching you. 

The young nurse speaks up next, taking his place beside you.  

“Y/N, I’m Nari. I’m a sexual assault nurse examiner. I would like to perform a Sexual Assault Forensic Exam on you, but only with your permission. It’ll be entirely up to you if you want to send the results to the police as evidence. Do you think that’s something you’d like to do?” 

You freeze. Sexual assault? 

Your pulse skyrockets. Is that what they think this is? Is that what you’re a victim of? Is this why they’re keeping Yunho from you? They don’t understand. No one does. Yunho didn’t put you in the hospital, surely not. He wouldn’t. He’d never hurt you this bad. Even when he had burned you, he made sure it wasn’t bad enough of an injury for you to need a visit to a hospital. He’s smarter than that. Minor injuries, or death. No in between, and certainly no hospitals. You breathe heavier and heavier, suddenly feeling like you can’t get enough air into your lungs. 

Both of them see that you’re getting worked up again and back away, getting out of your space. 

“It’s okay, honey,” Nari says, trying to calm you down. 

You want to yell at them, scream, cry, throw things, but you force yourself to keep quiet and still. If they think Yunho made you into such a mess, you won’t just play into that theory so easily. No. You won’t prove them right by acting up. 

You flip that same switch that always straightens you out. Suddenly you’re calm, indifferent. You can’t let them continue to think that Yunho was a bad influence on you, so you’ll be on your best behavior. However, you’ll still keep the no-touching boundary. You’ll talk to people when they’ve earned the right. You breathe normally again, settling back against the hospital pillow like nothing happened. 

Dr. Ahn and Nari stare at you, utterly perplexed. You don’t meet their stunned gazes. In fact, you only look up again when you hear Dr. Ahn leave. 

“It was nice meeting you, Y/N. I’ll see you later to remove the chest tube, alright?” He’s already halfway out the door before he finishes his sentence. 

Nari lingers for a little longer before leaving as well. You almost relax once she’s gone but you hear her run into someone just outside your door. 

“Jiyeon!” She says, “I’m glad I caught you.” 

You perk up. Jiyeon was on her way back to your room. 

“What’s going on?” You hear Jiyeon say, lowering her voice. 

“Okay so… she’s refusing the SAFE,” Nari starts, seriousness lacing through her words. 

Jiyeon exhales. “Okay,” she says, processing that as Nari continues. 

“And she responded badly to Dr. Ahn. I think we should keep the male staff to an absolute minimum when it comes to treating her.”

“I agree,” Jiyeon says. “I’ve been trying to tell them.” 

Your heart warms a little upon hearing that. She’s been sticking up for you even when you’re not around to hear it. She probably doesn’t realize you can hear her now. 

“I’m gonna try and hold off the detectives until tomorrow. Does that sound good?” 

“Yeah, she’ll be off the chest tube and in less pain, I think that’ll be okay. Her dad said the family lawyer flew in this morning, too. I’ll talk to her about it. I don’t want her getting caught off guard by such a big visit.”

“Okay… alright, thanks, Ji. Have a good rest of your shift.” 

“Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Knock knock.

Your door gently opens, and Jiyeon peeks in. You’re still curled up, knees bent and feet flat on the mattress, absentmindedly running your hand over the soft blanket. 

“Hey, Y/N,” she smiles as she comes in, settling back down in the chair she was in earlier. “Doing okay?” 

You nod, keeping your expression neutral. 

“Good. Listen, I wanna talk to you about tomorrow. There are some people who would really love to come talk to you, and just figure out what’s been going on the past year. I can try to be in here with you, or, if I’m not available, I can get Mijoo to be there.” Mijoo must be the other nurse, the one who told you that your parents were here. 

Jiyeon waits, giving you space and time to say anything before continuing. 

“Y/N… I want you to know that all of these people, they just want to help you. Our number one goal is to help you in any way we can. Does that make sense, honey?”    

The words impact you, but it just takes a while to process and believe them. They sound genuine coming from her, but you can’t say the same for the others that she’s talking about. Your trust is not so easily earned anymore. Especially not here. Jiyeon is nice, yes, but that doesn’t mean you trust her as much as you did Yunho or– 

Oh my god– 

There were two shots that night. Both hit their targets. 

Three bodies in the snow. 

Unbeknownst to Jiyeon, a certain word she said triggers a memory or two. There’s a familiar voice in your head, “There are other people who want to help you. Protect you.”

“Angel, please let me help you.” 

Seonghwa’s injured. Mingi’s shot. They’re hurt. Hell, you don’t even know if they’re alive or dead. You cover your mouth with your hands.

Jiyeon’s voice cuts through your panic, “Seonghwa and Mingi?” 

You realize you must have said their names out loud without even noticing. 

“They came in with you,” she says, scooting her chair closer. She doesn’t try to touch you, which you appreciate in this state. “They’re here, don’t worry.”

“Alive?” You ask, and she hides her reaction to you speaking quite well, maintaining a calm demeanor. 

“Stable,” she confirms. “I can’t really tell you anything else, for privacy reasons.”  

The sigh of relief that leaves you is from your very soul. 

Stable. Alive. Not dead. 

If only you knew anything about Yunho. 

“Can I see Seonghwa?” You hear yourself saying before you can stop yourself. 

Jiyeon shifts, fidgeting with her ID badge. “I– I don’t know, honey. That may not be such a good idea.”

“Why not?” You ask, not understanding why you shouldn’t be allowed to see him. 

She shifts again, avoiding eye contact with you, clearly trying to think of a professional answer that will satisfy your question without saying too much. She looks over her shoulder, towards the door. You follow her gaze, not understanding why she’s looking over there. 

“I’ll ask,” she says finally, faking a quick, small smile. You don’t return it. “Anyway– back to what I was saying about tomorrow. Do you think you’ll be up for that?” 

You almost forgot what she even said. It takes you a long moment to remember. Something about people who want to talk to you, that either she or Mijoo will be with you while they talk to you, how they want to help. Something tells you that you’ll have to do this eventually – it’s not something you can ignore. 

You nod, even shrugging a little. 

Jiyeon sighs with a small grin playing on her lips, and she pats the bed. “Great. I’ll let them know.” 

She gets up to leave again, but you make a small noise, like a cat not wanting their owner to leave for work. There’s something you want to say, on Yunho’s behalf. It takes you a couple minutes to force the words out, pushing past the mental block. 

“It’s… not assault,” you manage to get out. Jiyeon’s eyebrows furrow, but she says nothing, waiting for more. “He– he didn’t sexually assault me.” 

Now her face is unreadable, but it’s clear she doesn’t believe that at all. It’s rather jarring when she doesn’t say anything back to you. She just pats the mattress again, and sees herself out. 

You look away too quickly, missing the two policemen guarding your door. 

You deflate once the door clicks shut behind her. The teddy bear continues to stare at you, still leaning against the footboard. You’re rather surprised you haven’t kicked it off in your sleep yet. Or maybe you have, and someone put it back on the bed. 

Whatever. 

You pull the blanket up and over you, ready for this day to be over already. At least you got some answers, though. Seonghwa and Mingi are accounted for. They’re both here, somewhere. Since you have similar injuries, you bet that Mingi is probably even on the same floor as you. Two people you know and are familiar with. They’re here and they’re ‘stable’. 

It’s quite a comforting thought. 

You hug the blanket, tucking it under your chin where the bruises aren’t so bad, and decide to try and sleep again.   

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You get about three hours of sleep before you’re woken up to remove the chest tube from you. 

Gladly. 

Every time you breathe, you can feel it rubbing against your ribs. It’s rather uncomfortable. 

It’s a semi-quick procedure, albeit a bit painful as it’s being removed. Later, they wheel you into a room to be X-rayed, to make sure your lungs remain expanded, working properly. Judging by the satisfied looks on the nurses faces, it must be a success. 

By the time you get back to your room, you’re exhausted, but you already know you’re not going to be able to go to sleep until tonight. You eat your lunch quietly, finishing everything on the plate and showing Mijoo when she comes back in to take the tray away. You flick through the same channels before finally giving up and landing on the sports network. It’s a replay of a baseball game from over the summer. You’ve never been interested, but you remember Yunho talking about a team he liked several months ago. You can’t think of the name of the team for the life of you, but you know it isn’t either of the ones on screen right now. Hm. 

You’re trying to figure out and understand the rules of the game when there’s a soft knock on your door. As usual, you don’t really react, but your eyes instantly snap to the door, waiting to see who walks in. 

It’s two men. One is obviously a police officer of some kind, complete with a badge pinned to his chest. You’re taken aback by his presence entirely. The second man, you don’t recognize at first. Dressed head to toe in black, sunglasses on even though he’s indoors, face mask, and black fluffy hair. It’s the hair that gives him away, as well as the sweater he’s wearing. 

“Seonghwa!” You gasp, sitting up. 

He takes his sunglasses off, looking over at your window. Of course you still had the shades drawn. He won’t need his glasses in here. Unsteadily and slowly, he makes his way over to the chair by your bed, taking your hand in his when you reach out for him. He sets something down on the floor that you didn’t realize he was holding before. His eyes linger on the officer who stays put by the door, waiting to see if he’ll break you two apart.  

“Hi, angel,” he says quietly, like talking any louder will earn him another concussion. The officer shoots him a look, which Seonghwa sheepishly looks away from. 

You lower the TV volume, as well as the volume of your voice, “Are you okay?” 

He shrugs, glancing down at his sunglasses that dangle off of his free hand. The obvious answer is ‘no’. You both know that. 

“Linear skull fracture. Could’ve been worse. I got discharged today,” he says, lightly touching the back of his head. On instinct, he checks for blood when he lowers his hand back down. “Are you okay?” 

You squeeze his hand, bringing it closer to you. “Yes… kind of. They want to bring in detectives tomorrow to talk to me.” As you finish your sentence, you look over towards the officer. He doesn’t look like he’s paying too much attention to what you’re saying. Then again, you could be wrong. 

You still have no idea what he’s doing here. 

Seonghwa nods, taking that in. He pulls his face mask off too, putting it in his pocket. His lip is split but healing, the skin there a noticeably darker color. The dark circles under his eyes are fading, and his skin has more color to it than before. That’s good. He looks much better than last you saw him. He looks alive. 

“You should talk to them.” He clears his throat, playing with the face mask and sunglasses in his hand. 

“Okay…” you acquiesce. Only Seonghwa could’ve made you agree to do that. Him or Yunho. Maybe that’s why the nurses let him in to visit you. 

Seonghwa chews the inside of his cheek for a moment or two, looking down at your intertwined hands before seeming to remember something. 

“Oh yeah,” he mutters to himself, leaning down to give you what he had brought in. It’s a little gift bag, with sparkly white tissue paper peeking out at the top. You prop yourself up even more. He glances over at the pile of presents on the desk, comparing the size of some of them. He hopes you like what they got you. 

“The boys and I, um… we got you this.” 

You unlock your hand from his so you can open your gift, setting the tissue paper down on your lap to unveil two items: a leather-bound journal, and a small, flat box. You pause, knowing what type of box this is. Seonghwa’s leg bounces from nerves, alternating between watching you open it, and the baseball game that apparently just got interesting. You take the journal out first, flipping through the fresh, blank pages. The edges are silver lined. The leather feels expensive, definitely high quality, and there’s a pure white ribbon attached to the spine of it for you to use as a bookmark. 

“I needed a new one,” you murmur, saying it more to yourself than to Seonghwa. “Thank you.” 

You set it down on your lap, peering into the gift bag to see if that box is still inside. It is. It wasn’t an illusion or trick of the light. You pick it up like it’ll break, glancing up at Seonghwa as if to verify that they really got you jewellery of some kind. His leg keeps bouncing rapidly, carefully watching your reaction. 

Engraved within the deep maroon lid, is the word, ‘Cartier’, and your heart skips a beat. No way. When you lift the lid off, you’re met with a stunning silver bracelet, thin and delicate and beautiful. There are tiny black stones intricately embedded into the silver, and you look back at Seonghwa for answers on what they are. 

“It’s obsidian,” he explains rather sheepishly, “it’s meant to um… it’s supposed to protect you. At least, that’s what Wooyoung said.” 

“Wow,” you breathe, almost too nervous to take it out and try it on. It looks so dainty and fragile nestled between the velvet interior of the box. “It’s just… it’s so beautiful. Thank you.”

Seonghwa scoots forward, taking it from the box to help you put it on. It’s so light against your skin, and it catches what little light filters through the shades effortlessly. If you thought the journal was expensive, this must be worth so much more. You bring your wrist up to your face, looking at it closer. Every single detail is perfect. How did they– why did they do this for you? 

“You deserve it,” Seonghwa says, as if he was reading your thoughts. 

There’s a long pause between the two of you. The baseball game and the accompanying commercials break up the silence adequately. Your free hand keeps touching the bracelet, running your finger over the deep black stones. It’s much prettier than the hospital one you have to wear. The officer keeps staring at Seonghwa, like he’s waiting for him to make a wrong move, or say the wrong thing. Occasionally, you’ll steal a quick glance over to both of them before returning back to the game. Before long, you and Seonghwa just pretend to be interested in it, unwilling to talk about anything serious just yet. 

“Do you…” you swallow hard, hoping he’ll actually tell you something about this. “Do you know why Yunho hasn’t come to see me? Is he still mad at me?” 

Seonghwa pales. 

The officer clears his throat. Seonghwa stops talking. You glare at the officer, anger flaring up. 

“Can you give us some privacy, please?” You ask, tone more impolite than your words. When the officer doesn’t move, ignoring you to just continue staring directly at Seonghwa, you almost lose it. You’re so tired of not being listened to here. And the way he’s just standing there silently, observing and eavesdropping like an invasive ghost is making your fucking skin itch. 

“An– Y/N, he has to be in here with me… it’s for your safety.” Seonghwa explains in a meeker, unsteady voice. 

“You won’t hurt me,” you insist, a little surprised at how much you actually believe that. It was barely a formed thought in your head before you said it out loud. It must be true. “He won’t,” you say to the officer, trying to convince him. 

Seonghwa takes your hand again, “It’s alright, it’s alright. He has to be in here to make sure that we’re both safe. That we’re not mixing up our stories.” 

You bring his hand closer, frustrated tears starting to gloss over your eyes. 

“I don’t understand…” you mumble dejectedly. “I can’t even remember most of it.”

He gets it. His memory is just as patchy, if not worse due to his injury. “No one’s expecting anything from you right now. All you need to do is focus on getting better.” 

You try to agree with him, stubborn as you are. You know he’s right. In time, you will know everything, you’re sure. It’s just hard to be patient when there are gaps in your memory you’d really like to fill. Which brings you to ask your next question. 

“Have you seen Mingi?” You ask, suddenly very interested in your blanket, avoiding eye contact for now. You feel kind of stupid for asking, but are curious nevertheless. Of all people, you know that Seonghwa will give you the answers you’re looking for if you ask him. 

He sighs shakily, squeezing your hand tighter. “I’ve heard that he’s okay. I’m not really allowed to see him.” It’s obvious that he’s trying extra hard to cherry-pick the words he uses in front of you and the officer. 

‘Keep it vague,’ they had told him before entering your room. ‘Don’t push it.’ Jiyeon had to pull so many strings to even get him allowed to be in the room in the first place. Even more to allow him to bring the gift in. Seonghwa knows his lawyer is probably freaking out right about now. Oh, well.  

“But– why–?” You shake your head, pressing your free hand to your forehead. You know you should just drop it, but you can’t. “Seonghwa, where is Yunho? Tell me.”  

He leans back, away from you and peeks over at the cop. This, he knows, he really cannot say anything about. 

Basically, he only knows what Wooyoung and Jongho told him. Both of them came to the hospital yesterday to visit him, and to supply him with some updates, as well as your gift on the off chance he’s allowed to give it to you. In a word, the two of them are conflicted about their roles in all of this. They feel just as guilty, but were never as involved as the rest of the group. Hongjoong, effectively, saved them from most of the legal trouble the others are currently facing now. They’re free. They spent one night at the police station, answering questions, and that has been it so far. 

Hence, the need for a cop or two outside your room, as well as Mingi’s. It makes everyone who knows more details about this than the general public feel more at peace, knowing that there are two that essentially ‘got away with it’. 

Wooyoung and Jongho told him that Yunho has been charged with aggravated assault since neither you, Seonghwa, or Mingi died. However… they’re having a hard time finding any concrete evidence to pin any of the attacks on him. They have the group as witnesses to the shooting of Mingi, but nothing else. Just word of mouth simply isn’t good enough. It’s highly likely that Mingi will testify against Yunho, so his security will be ramped up soon. Apparently, since the boys told them, the cops working your case have been trying to find any evidence that links him with the manager’s death, and the girls before you. The apartment has been picked apart piece by piece, swept through by forensic teams and equipment. Evidence collected, bagged, and shipped off for analysis. The detectives have a lot of grieving families and loved ones looking at them for answers right now. The pressure is building. 

You are their miracle. The one who can put him away for good. 

The question is: will you? 

“Tell me, Seonghwa. Please?” You shake his hand, trying to convince him. 

“He…” Seonghwa gradually begins to shake, pulling at the collar of his sweater with his free hand, looking anywhere but at you. He’s just so nervous as to how you’ll react. The only way to find out though, is by telling you. 

But the officer beats him to it. 

“He’s been arrested. That’s all you need to know.” 

Seonghwa winces, and you blink. 

First of all, you’re angry that the cop so rudely interrupted your – what should be – private conversation, and secondly, what he said just doesn’t compute. 

“Was Hongjoong arrested too?” You ask Seonghwa in a quieter voice, ignoring the cop once again. 

He takes a deep breath. “No… not yet, at least. But they’re gathering evidence against us–” 

“What more evidence do they need?” You interrupt, gesturing towards yourself. 

“What?” He asks, eyebrows furrowing together in total confusion. 

“Hongjoong shot me.” 

Now Seonghwa is really taken aback. Who told you that? 

He blinks before repeating his last question, “What?” 

“Hongjoong shot me.” You repeat yourself as well. In your patchy memory, what you do recall seeing clear as day is Hongjoong reaching for the gun right before you were shot, and holding it in his hand afterwards. It makes sense to you that that is what happened. 

The cop in the corner starts to get antsy, silently making sure his bodycam is still recording everything accurately. Anything said in here has to be reported back, especially if it relates directly to the case. You saying that someone else shot you could be detrimental to the aggravated assault charge they booked Yunho with.  

“A-angel, no…no, no, Hongjoong didn’t shoot you. Yunho did.” Seonghwa says as gently as possible, subconsciously leaning farther back to avoid a potential explosion. This time, the officer lets the pet name slide. 

“How do you know?” You snap at him. “You were unconscious almost the whole time.”   

He doesn’t even flinch. “Wooyoung and Jongho told me.” 

Well… Wooyoung and Jongho were definitely awake during that whole ordeal, so it’s hard to discredit what they say. Nevertheless, your mind argues against believing it. They’re just trying to demonize Yunho, surely. Of course. 

“No, that… he wouldn’t… that doesn’t make sense.” 

Your breathing turns erratic, though you fight to control it. The thing is, it does make sense. 

Even if you deny it, your memory reorders itself. 

Hongjoong trying to get the gun away from Yunho, he grabbed his arm, not the gun. Not until after you were already on the ground. Even then, you try to reason against your memory that because he touched Yunho, the shot was accidentally aimed at you. That explanation would satisfy you if you didn’t remember moving to protect Seonghwa at the same exact time. The look of pure shock on Yunho’s face… wasn’t because Hongjoong shot you. It was because he shot you. 

Well… you always knew he would. He’d made it clear to you that he would. This is an outcome you’ve been trained to expect if you acted out. You stood in front of a loaded and aimed gun. That probably counts. 

Contrary to what Seonghwa expects, you process this information quietly. There’s no outburst. Not yet. Just a silent realization that you’ve been wrong. Confident in your incomplete and ungrounded recollection. You go into damage control right away. It was an accident. He didn’t mean to. But there’s a price to having your memory begin to repair itself: the truth. You had prepared to die. You accepted it.  

And yet the knowledge that Yunho isn’t coming to bring you home nearly kills you. All the time you wasted in this room waiting for him, wondering why he let you come here… 

So, you attach yourself to the nearest person. As usual. You clutch Seonghwa’s hand with both of yours, desperate to keep him here. Maybe he’ll take you back to the apartment. You can wait there until Yunho is released, right? They can’t make you go home with your parents. You’re an adult. But you can’t convince yourself that you can function on your own. And you can’t ask Seonghwa to uproot his life, though a selfish part of you wants to. However, before you interrupted him, he mentioned that the police are gathering evidence ‘against us’. 

The thought of losing Seonghwa next is almost catastrophic. 

Your pulse spikes, beeping incessantly on the monitor. Unfortunately, the cop notices. And, with the worst timing imaginable as you feel the world as you know it on the brink of falling apart, the officer takes a step towards Seonghwa. 

“That’s enough. Let’s go.” 

Without a fight, Seonghwa stands, sending an apologetic look your way. 

“No, no, don’t–” You pull him back, “Please, please don’t leave.” 

“It’s okay–” He tries to reassure you, but the cop pulls him by the arm, breaking you two apart. 

You call his name again, but the officer hurries him out, calling for a nurse. You don’t want a nurse. You want him to bring Seonghwa back to you. Alone, preferably. Body shaking uncontrollably, you throw the blankets off of you, and set your feet on the ground, trying to remain steady. You’re already out of breath by this point, and sobbing rather loudly from distress. Not a good combination for your lungs. Again, your pulse increases its pace. 

You don’t even hear Jiyeon come in, but suddenly she is at your side, helping you lay back down. No one is listening to you. Jiyeon said they care, that they want the best for you, so why can’t they just give you what you obviously really want? 

Jiyeon is saying something to you, but the world suddenly seems so far away and way too close all at once. The feeling of her hand around your wrist causes you to panic, reminding you of the rope tied around it a few nights ago, as well as the restraints on the hospital bed, and you twist and yank it out of her hold. You must’ve accidentally scratched her because she too pulls her hand back quickly, keeping it close to her chest as she assesses the damage done to it. Nothing bad, but you definitely scratched her hard. 

Another nurse runs in, then two more. Jiyeon shoos them out before they can crowd your space and overwhelm you more, calmly but firmly telling them that she’s fine and to go back out. It was her own fault, touching you in this kind of state. She’s just worried about you. 

Once back down against the pillows, you keep your hand on your chest. You’re not sure why… maybe you’re just waiting to feel your lungs collapse or your heart stop. Something to blame this panic on other than the truth. 

The truth that everyone you have loved has left or is leaving you. 

“Honey, let’s calm down now. Tell me what’s wrong.” Jiyeon prompts after checking your vitals to make sure you’re stable. 

“They took him,” you sob, looking back at the door to the room, hoping and praying he comes back in. “I– I got upset ‘n panicked so they t–took him away.” 

Jiyeon nods sympathetically as you talk, giving you the space to air everything out that’s weighing on you. 

“I ruined it, I ruined everything,” your voice pitches all over the place. “They’ll never let me see them again.” 

The door doesn’t open, no matter how many times you look over at it, and no matter how hard you internally beg him to come back. No one is coming to save you anymore. That plan has already been carried out. Yunho’s locked up somewhere, Seonghwa isn’t allowed to see you unsupervised, and even if you decided that you wanted to see him as well, you’re sure Mingi is beyond off-limits now, too. Especially if and when he tells the truth. 

God… everything is such a mess, and it’s all your fault. If you had told Yunho about the plan to get you out, maybe none of this would’ve happened. There’d be hell to pay, sure, but you wouldn’t have disappointed him as badly. If you didn’t look at Mingi through rose-colored glasses, maybe you'd still be in the apartment, impatiently waiting for Yunho to come home. Mingi wouldn’t have been shot. Seonghwa would’ve never gotten hurt that badly. Yunho wouldn’t have been taken from you. Glancing around at your hospital room, a heavy thought makes you sink deeper against the pillows.  

Technically, you aren’t even supposed to be here. And you don’t just mean in this hospital. 

You wipe your eyes with the corner of the blanket until Jiyeon hands you a couple of tissues. They’re from the box that your mom had used that morning. Another wave of guilt crashes over you, remembering how you’d been rather mean to her. 

She lets you cry it all out. You’re not sure how long that takes. When you eventually calm down just enough to speak again, you crumple the tissue in your hand, staring at it for a moment. 

“Are my parents still here?” You ask, tossing the tissue into the nearby trashcan. 

Jiyeon nods. “They are. They’ll be here tomorrow as well.” 

You bite your lip. You’re not ready to see them again, moreso out of fear that you’ll end up hurting them again. But it’s a nice thought that if you need them, they’re available. It’s a tricky thing to want to be alone, but not feel alone. 

“Tomorrow…” you echo, not finishing the rest of your thought out loud. Maybe tomorrow you can try again. Your eyes flick over to her, hoping she understands. 

As usual, she does. 

Once she makes sure you’re calm for the time being, she jots down your vitals for her notes later, and sighs. 

“Okay, honey,” she says, and pats the side of the bed again, “I’ll talk to them. Get some rest for now, I’ll have Mijoo bring in some dinner later. Okay?”

You respond with a short hum, retreating back into your silence. Maybe it’s best if you’re just seen and not heard after all. Maybe Yunho was right… of course he’s right. But something demands to be said. It sits uncomfortably in your mouth, pressing against your teeth and blocking your airway until you let it out. Jiyeon twists the door handle, just about to let herself out.  

“I was supposed to die…” you mumble, sniffling into your pillow. You trace the silver bracelet against your skin. 

Jiyeon freezes in place, the door halfway open. She doesn’t look back at you, doesn’t try to put you right. The staff assigned to you have recently been notified of what happened. 

She knows you’re right. 

The door closes behind her with a small click, and you’re alone again. And being alone is exactly what you wanted, and at the same time, your biggest fear.     

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The rest of the afternoon into the evening goes by less eventfully. 

You manage to sleep, even sleeping through your prescribed dinnertime, and wake up to a tray covered in tinfoil to keep the food hot. You eat slowly, having no one to show your progress to, and come to terms with the fact that Yunho isn’t going to find out if you ate everything you’ve been given or not. It’s rather hard to ignore that so far, they haven’t given you proper utensils to eat with. More like knives and forks for kids, rounded and blunt so as to not inflict any potential damage to the user. The spoons are always nice, though. You lazily push around some of the rice left on your tray, a little unnerved that no one’s watching you anymore… and a little relieved. 

No more newcomers or visitors come into your room for the rest of the day. As night creeps in, you keep replaying your interaction with Seonghwa. You wish you can just be… you don’t know. Normal? Is that the word? Everyone looks at you like you’ll shatter any moment, and they’re basically right. You pretty much proved that today. But what he said sticks with you: “No one’s expecting anything from you right now. All you need to do is focus on getting better.” 

So that’s what you’ll do. Yunho placed him in charge of you while he was gone, and now it’s just extended time. You follow directions, you obey orders. That’s what you’re good at. That’s what you can concentrate on for now, until you and Yunho can see each other again. 

If they’ll let you. 

You run a hand through your hair as if to push that thought away, but your hand gets caught halfway through. Ugh… you haven’t bathed in way too long. You look towards the bathroom, hesitant to go in. Mijoo had told you how to properly wash around the stitches and bandages to avoid any infections or accidentally removing them. It’s just… the water. 

Facing the water by yourself is more daunting than you know it should be. But you feel just gross enough to at least try. You decide to at least stay in there long enough to wash your hair, you feel like you can still smell the forest air from each strand. 

It’s a slow trek from your bed to the bathroom, often taking breaks to breathe and reset. Luckily, it’s not too far of a distance. You manage a small grin at your efforts when you finally reach your destination, this being the farthest you’ve walked by yourself since you’ve been here. But now, you have to continue standing up and face one of your biggest fears. One hurdle down. 

Flicking on the light, your ears ring at the sudden, blinding brightness of the sterile room. It’s a small space, no bigger than Yunho’s closet. The strong scent of the level of cleanliness in here disagrees with what you just ate, but you try to ignore it as best you can. 

You almost back into the door when you catch a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror. For the first time, you see how bad your injuries still are. Nasty red and purple bruises cover your throat and neck, your chest is basically grey from the severity of the surgery you underwent, and your eyes and cheeks are both sunken in. You’re scary. A patchwork nightmare. After being so used to keeping up appearances for Yunho, this is like getting a lightning bolt straight to the brain. This is what Seonghwa saw when he walked in earlier today. You cover your face with your hands. 

“Oh, god…” you lean against the door for support, sneaking another glimpse at your startling reflection. You’re not just smaller, you’re diminished. The hospital gown wilts off of your thin frame like it’s meant for someone else, there’s a matching cut on your bottom lip that’s similar to Seonghwa’s, and a hauntedness about you that doesn’t sit right at all. A would-be corpse stares back at you through the mirror. You can almost see the dirt that’d be covering you, embedded into your decaying skin.  

All you want to do at this moment is to wash that corpse away. 

Undressing winds you, but you’re too determined now. You have all night to sleep, and you know you’ll feel much better once you’re clean. It’s just the process of getting clean you have to get through now. That’s your one and only goal for tonight. 

The rush of the water hitting the tile nearly decimates all of your confidence in one fell swoop, though. You have to grit your teeth and close your eyes, pushing back against the memories as they come. You force yourself to breathe deeply as you finally step into the shower, the warm water only comforting for a fleeting moment. Turning your back to it helps a little, and after a while your shoulders start to relax, no longer tense and hunched by your ears. The lack of curtain aids you tremendously, as you can see the entirety of the bathroom at once, knowing you’re still safe. No one’s watching you or keeping track of how long you’re taking. You can take this as slowly as you want to. 

Keep going, you tell yourself. 

It also helps to imagine that Yunho is just outside, waiting for you to return to bed, even though your brain keeps replacing him with Seonghwa. Now that you know what you looked like today, you feel a huge crash of embarrassment overcome you more than anything else. You forget your fear just for a second, leaning a little farther back than you are ready for. The water cascades down, dripping off the ends of your hair and you freeze. 

This part is the biggest hurdle.  

You’re not in the apartment… you’re not in trouble… you control it. 

You have control. 

The droplets that drip past your ears kind of make you want to die, but you push through it. Little by little, you tilt your head back, letting more and more of the water fall over your hair. You cover your face with your hands, keeping it as dry as possible, and just sit with the discomfort for as long as you can. Instead of any feelings of accomplishment, you only notice the beginnings of panic stirring somewhere in your body. Time to wrap it up while you’re able to keep yourself in here. Shampooing is easy, and you get through rinsing your hair okay, repeating the process even slower than before. 

By the time you get out, you still don’t feel very proud. Not yet. You’re exhausted, and ready to lay down again. What warms your heart as you finally step out is thinking about how much Yunho had praised you after every bath since that day he corrected you. To the best of your ability, you combat every negative, fearful thought with something you think Yunho would say to you. How proud he’d be. It’s enough to keep you on your unsteady, weakening legs to redress and open the door back out into the room. 

Halfway back to bed, that’s when the exhaustion really hits you. You sit down in a chair by the window and catch your breath. You’re not dizzy, but you’re definitely caught between the borderline. Looking up, you see that your water is both mere feet and hundreds of miles away. 

“Fuck…” you sigh. 

Your hand jumps to cover your mouth, horrified. You look around the room out of instinct, waiting for someone to yell at you for saying such a vulgar word. You know better. Only Daddy is allowed to say that word. Yet the room stays the same. Nothing happens. No one redirects you. 

But they’ll have it on camera, you tell yourself. In the dark, you try to find where they’ve hidden theirs. You don’t see any. 

You’re digesting this when something blinks at you from outside. 

Something white casts the faintest glow past the edges of the shades that cover the windows. High in the sky and constant, unblinking and unmoving – at least not that you can see from where you are. It is no plane or light atop a building. 

The moon. 

You hadn’t seen it in such a long time. In all honesty, you had stopped trying to look for it, especially after Yunho covered up all the windows. The sunlight in the apartment could only creep in around the sides, lighter than air and able to weave its way past the smallest opening. The moonlight was never granted access to you. But this moon tonight is full and glowing brightly, and you wish you could see it properly beyond the shades. 

It hits you hard: you don’t have to wish to see the sky anymore. 

You lean forward before stopping and looking back over your shoulder, just waiting for someone to stop you at any second. You sweep the room one more time for cameras. Maybe you’re tired and missed one because you didn’t look hard enough. Regardless, no matter how hard you search and double check, you find none. Your hand pulls the shades back, only about two inches, just to peek. No one appears behind you. The shade lifts easily, opening even further. No one intervenes. 

The window is now fully uncovered, unobstructed. And you’re unharmed. Your forehead presses against it, your breath fogging up the glass as you exhale through your mouth. 

The snow is in the process of melting away, only a couple of inches left on the ground. The roads below, from what you can see, are completely clear with the amount of hospital traffic in a big city like Seoul. There’s no one outside on the streets, just a couple of nurses, doctors, and other hospital staff leaving work for the day, pulling their puffer coats closer to their bodies as they juggle their car keys and bags. Stoplights take their turns turning green, yellow, red, and cars glide past to dozens of unknown destinations. You decide you like the world like this, with less people and quieter streets. Sleepily humming instead of the shouting of car horns, the music in stores to entice people inside, the hundreds and thousands of strangers that you’ll never know the names or stories of. 

You wonder if you’ll feel like this forever, always looking at life from above and never from within.  

It’s quieter in the world that Yunho has kept you in. Safer… right?

‘You’re safe,’ says the voice that sounds more and more like you, slowly advancing forward again, venturing back from her forced hibernation. The other voice in your head is still there, just without her pedestal and carrying less authority than before. Less weight to each word. That one doesn’t have too much to say tonight, which is a first. 

You stay by the window until sleep beckons you, unwilling to sleep so uncomfortably in the stiff chair. When you finally tear yourself from the view, closing the shades again and tucking yourself back in bed, you fall asleep with moonlight flooding the entire suite. Though a part of you misses the tealights, you think this is not a bad alternative. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Head clearer than it has been since you woke up, the next day carries the calm theme from last night. 

You’re still selective on who you give your voice to – Jiyeon is off today, so you’ve been mostly silent so far – but there seems to be… life within you again. More than what the staff have seen thus far. It’s promising. It’s better. Everyone’s feeling a similar cautious optimism to your sudden switch. Although they’re quick to note your ever-present, continuing aversion to male staff. 

Which is why you’re still nervous about meeting with these detectives soon. They’re supposed to be here in two hours, and you don’t feel ready. Exactly what you’re not feeling ready for, you’re not sure. It’s not something you can pinpoint exactly and neutralize the problem. Unfortunately, you’re sure you’ll find out if and when the detectives do something to unintentionally set you off. You sigh, once again feeling out of control in a situation that hasn’t even happened yet. 

You push your empty lunch tray further away, like it’s offended you by overstaying its welcome. Your hands itch to wash it, to be good. The television is a good distraction. Today you’ve got it tuned into a nature documentary. You have a theory that maybe seeing the outside world inside may help you assimilate back into it later if need be, although deep down, you really hope you don’t have to. It’s the fear talking, but it's so loud and impossible to ignore. It’s the self-doubt that makes you want to give up and turn the TV off altogether, the memory of going out onto the balcony and feeling fresh air again hitting you hard. And the woods… that’s a whole other battle. 

Let’s just say you’re very happy the little Christmas tree in the corner of your room is fake. The scent of sap and bark will haunt you for quite a long time. 

At two o’clock, you’re making some progress, walking around your room, still avoiding the pile of presents you’ve yet to open. The gift Seonghwa gave you is enough. You’re just trying to build up endurance again, impatiently wanting to walk without difficulty. For some reason, it felt much easier to walk last night. Maybe it’s because at night it feels like less eyes on you, no spotlight from the sun even if the shades block most of it out. The day just feels too exposing. There’s too many people who could walk in and start fussing over you. You don’t want that. You know your limits better than anyone else. 

You may as well have spoken it into existence though, because you’re just catching your breath when you hear someone coming right up to your door. As if you’re getting caught doing something you’re not supposed to be doing, you quickly sit in the chair by the window that you were in last night. The door opens just as you sit down. At first, you avoid eye contact with whoever it is, hoping that they don’t comment that you’ve moved. Giving yourself something to do to really sell the nonchalance, you play with your new bracelet again. The person in your room pauses near your bed, mere feet from you. You almost cover the bracelet protectively, not wanting them to ask where you got it… or who gave it to you. 

“I’m glad you liked our present,” a man’s soft voice says, cutting through the silence.

You react at a record speed. You know that voice. It’s the same one you heard in here yesterday.

“Oh my god–! Seonghwa!” You nearly shout, standing up a bit too quickly than you’re used to. 

He must see you stumble or sway, because he makes it to your side in two strides, hands ready to catch you if you fall back into the chair. But you’re determined. You stay upright. You resist the urge to paw at him, to make sure he’s real and that he’s here again so soon. He fusses with you to sit, to rest ‘like he told you yesterday’, he nags. If it was anyone else, you’d be staring daggers at them right now. With him, it just warms your heart, and you cooperate, sitting down slowly and smiling as you watch him drag a chair over to sit with you. You’re just happy he’s here. 

He’s wearing sunglasses indoors again, so the bright lights of the hospital must still be bothering him. You look over at the shades, just in case they can be drawn any tighter to totally block out what little light comes in. 

“Technically you asked for me specifically, so they let me come back. Still supervised, of course.” He answers your question before you even ask it. You look away from him for the first time and see a different officer than before, standing by the still-open door. “The door will just stay open the entire visit. Alright?” 

Honestly, you’ll take it. It’s a small price to pay if it means that Seonghwa is allowed to come see you. 

“Yes, sir,” you say habitually. 

You watch his small grin slip completely from his face. The room feels a bit colder. 

He supposes he can’t just expect all the ‘training’ and trauma you endured to just melt away all at once merely because you’ve been freed of Yunho, but he can’t deny that it shocked him back into reality. Such a small, simple word, and yet the history within its use is ten months long. 

Seonghwa ignores the moniker usage, and does a really good job of pretending that that doesn’t affect him at all. But it does. You can tell it does. 

You self-consciously look away, hand still covering up the bracelet as if you’re scared he’ll take it away as a result of his disapproval of your word choice. Gifts are never permanent, never your sole property. They are privileges, not rights. Based on a reward system, they’re the best way to steer you towards good behavior – following rules, staying quiet, knowing your place.  

Luxuries can be taken away.

“I– um,” you stall, trying to change the subject, “how– how are you?” 

Glad to shift the focus somewhere else, Seonghwa replies, “I’m alright. How about you?”

“Okay. I have my ‘meeting’ soon… the lawyers.” You glance at the clock, hoping that time hasn’t somehow jumped forward an hour. You hope this time Seonghwa will stay for longer. 

He scratches the back of his neck. “Right,” he says, keeping his tone as natural as possible. “I had one of my own this morning.” 

There’s an uneasiness to his voice there that you pick up on. He still hasn’t removed his glasses, so you can’t tell if he’s looking at you or not. Something’s not sitting right, and it’s not just because of a certain word slip. He must notice your look of concern, because he rolls his shoulders back, trying to relax himself. The facade he kept up around you at the apartment is getting to be too heavy to carry with him now.  

“The story will break tomorrow,” he says through an obviously fake grin, trying to make you not feel guilty about it. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. Once or twice, he looks up at your bracelet that you’re still playing with.  

It takes you a minute to understand what he’s saying. You adjust how you’re sitting, just to give yourself something to do. All you can say in response is, “Oh.”

‘The story’... reported by outside perspectives with a mystery narrative. No one has asked for your side of it all yet. The boys have probably already given their testimonies, their witness statements as to what happened. Days ago, most likely. That’s one thing you forgot about while staring out the window last night: the world keeps turning. It doesn’t wait around for you. But that’s what today is for. The public can have their crumbs of facts and multitudes of theories about you, but only those closely involved will ever really know the truth of all of it.  

“Listen… as far as, y’know, the legal aspect of everything, we want you to know that we will accept any charges you wish to file against us.” 

There’s a grim, solemn air around Seonghwa that unsettles you. The cop by the door side-eyes the two of you but ultimately says nothing. He’s better than the one yesterday, that’s for sure. 

But… charges. You vs. all of them. Your legal team against eight different sets. Nine stories, all with varying perspectives. You wonder if anything you say will hold any weight to it on account of how bad the fogginess in your memory has become. You wonder if Seonghwa’s worried about the same thing. He keeps subconsciously touching the back of his head, making sure nothing is behind him that could hit it. You desperately want to ask how that happened, but it’s probably a not so pleasant subject to talk about. You’d rather avoid making him feel more uncomfortable than he already is. 

In the silence between you, Seonghwa just listens to the background noise coming from the hospital hallways. The nurse’s station is mere feet from your door, so he lets their quiet chatter fill in the spaces. What he said to you is true; they will accept any charge brought onto them. It’s the very least they can do for you, to accept full responsibility for not doing more. 

The public is going to eviscerate every last one of them, and they brought it on themselves the countless times they could’ve gone to the police and didn’t. All for the same result. Yunho threatened to drag them down with him, and it’s happening, albeit by their volition. 

A gentle, repeated three-note chime coming from his phone seems to pull him back from his brief stupor. Automatically, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small medicinal bottle. You watch as he taps two white pills into his palm before popping them into his mouth, chasing them down with water. 

“Pain-killers,” he explains, twisting the cap of the water bottle back on. He leans back in his chair, but not before feeling the air around where his head will be, and sighs. The exhale comes from deep within his chest. You watch his hands, searching for something. He notices you looking. 

“What?” 

“You’re not wearing your ring.” You point out. 

Seonghwa looks down at his hand, as if to confirm. “Yeah,” he mumbles, “it just… doesn’t feel right anymore.”  

In all honesty, he didn’t think you’d even notice. He had taken it off on the second day of his hospital admission, when Yeosang and San had come to visit him. It felt heavy in his palm, like a weight that he could no longer bear. He’s not quite sure where it is, as he told San to take it back to the dorms, wherever they had all put theirs. The only ring missing from the pile is Yunho’s, but it has more than likely been confiscated by that point already. 

“What time is your meeting?” He asks, changing the subject. 

You glance at the clock on the wall. “It’s at three,” you inform him, finding a stray piece of hair to play with. You lean back against your chair, mirroring him. “How long can you stay?” 

At this, he hesitates. The officer by the door offers no help or answer. 

“Well… I can stay until the detectives get here.” He says uncertainly. Again, the cop says nothing to contradict what he says. 

You nod. “My parents may get here before them.” 

“Ah…” Seonghwa rubs his arm, a subconscious way to try and calm himself. “I doubt they’ll want to see me hanging around you.” 

“I asked for you,” you counter, leaning forward again for emphasis, wanting him to hear and remember that part. “I get… I get nervous when you’re gone.” You admit in a murmur, barely audible.  

Seonghwa still doesn’t look at you, staring off a thousand yards into the tile floor, his hand on his arm pausing a couple of seconds every so often before continuing the attempt to soothe himself. Honestly, he doesn’t know how to feel right now. He supposes he should feel flattered maybe, or content with knowing that his presence is beneficial to you, but is it really? He fears that his presence only keeps you stuck… he reminds you of Yunho based on association. That name you called him by earlier only proves that. Although he knows there’s no one else around that you trust right now, he doesn’t feel very deserving of that trust. He should give you space after today, let you rebuild a new relationship with your parents, and restart a normal life. As normal as you can possibly achieve after all of this. 

“Still, you should be with your family,” he says carefully, “I think it’ll help.” 

You don’t say anything right away, unhappy that he doesn’t volunteer to stay. You’re behaving like a child, you know that, but you can’t help it. 

“If they weren’t here, would you stay?” 

Seonghwa picks up where you’re trying to go with that question at once. “A– Y/N, don’t replace your parents with me. Give them time.”  

Of all people, why must Seonghwa not listen to you, either? Your fuse never used to be this short. Why is it sparking and hissing now? 

“What if I don’t want to? I asked for you specifically–” 

“You only asked for me because you’re not allowed to see Yunho instead.” Seonghwa snaps, speaking before he could think. 

The flames of his words settle in the short distance between you two. He pinches the bridge of his nose, wincing at the throbbing in his head as well as what he just said. Hopefully the painkillers work fast, his vision is already going black around the edges every other time he blinks. If he’s honest, he doesn't regret saying it, moreso how he said it. It’s a sentiment he’s been harboring since the first day he was assigned to look after you. Something far from love, but a relative fondness. A soft spot just for you that he doesn’t know what to do with. Nothing about your situation nor your relationship with him is easy to navigate or filter through. He’ll keep his distance because he wants to do the right thing, show his support for you always but never cross an invisible line he’s drawn for himself. 

He won’t be like Mingi. He won’t believe your traumatic attachment to him is real, or healthy for that matter. It’ll only hurt you in the end. 

At the same time, he knows he’s hurting you now. 

You lean back again, wrapping your arms around yourself defensively. 

It’s not true… it’s not. You’re happy to keep telling yourself that, even if you don’t fully believe it. It doesn’t matter anyway. 

The blunt truth of the matter you’ve been avoiding and ignoring like the plague is that Yunho has been arrested. He’s not coming back for you. Not anytime soon. The detectives coming to your room today are going to take whatever you say as evidence against him. Even if you don’t say anything, they’ll take it to mean you’re so traumatized, the whole ordeal has rendered you mute. No matter what, you’re not going to be allowed to see Yunho ever again. 

You swipe at the tears that pool in your eyes, refusing to let them fall. If they do, you’re afraid that the cop may take Seonghwa away again. God dammit, you think before mentally berating yourself again for using another swear word, even just in your head.  

“I didn’t do that for someone I don’t genuinely care about,” you sniffle, speaking to him but keeping your eyes down. 

Seonghwa’s breath hitches slightly, and you wonder if he’s starting to cry underneath those sunglasses. A petty part of you thinks, good, I hope he is. 

Besides, you only jumped in front of a bullet meant for him. 

But you think back to when you had upset him only a few nights ago now, in the living room in the middle of the night. It never feels good to intentionally hurt the ones you care about. The ones you let in. You’re just lashing out because he struck first, trying to get the last word in. Very Yunho-esque. 

Needing to lie down, you stand shakily, slowly trudging back to bed. With time, eventually you calm down. You let Seonghwa sit there, working it out on his own, until the clock nearly runs out. The officer whistles for his attention, breaking him out of another dissociation, and signals him that it’s time to leave. You don’t shy away from looking at him this time.    

When he’s only a couple of feet from the door, you call out to him one more time. 

“Seonghwa?” 

He looks over his shoulder. The officer does too. 

“I’d still like you to come back… if you can.” The insinuation of the incoming chaos ahead is thinly veiled in your words. 

Seonghwa nods once, internalizing what you said, and leads the officer out. It’s a bittersweet change from yesterday, when he was basically dragged out. 

Barely granted two minutes of silence and alone time to process everything, there’s another knock on the door. This time around, you know who it is. 

Your dad opens the door slowly, like he’s trying to not startle you. 

“Hey kiddo, it’s us.” 

Your mom follows suit, a small bakery to-go box in her hands as she comes in. “Hi, sweetie.” 

You swallow hard, managing a small “Hi…” in return. 

Your mom looks like she could explode, cry, and laugh all at once. It’s a lot to contain so as to not overwhelm you. 

She’s really trying her best to hold it together for you. It’s thoughtful. You remember she was a sweet lady. Always wanted the best for you, supported your dreams no matter what. 

Naturally, mainly because it’s such a bright pink color, your eyes drift to the bakery box in her hands. She places it on the portable table near your bed. Her perfume smells familiar… like home somehow. It’s nice. 

“Don’t feel pressured,” your mom starts, “I know you just had lunch not too long ago but… you used to love the chocolate cupcakes I used to make for you, so I just…” she trails off, knowing she’s over-explaining herself a bit too much. 

Your eyes light up – you haven’t had cake in god knows how long. And your favorite, too. 

You grab the box and set it on your lap, sitting up against the pillows. Once open, the chocolatey smell hits you at once and the corners of your mouth twitch, almost grinning. Your parents try not to stare at you, not wanting to make you feel like you’re under a microscope while eating, and you appreciate that as you take a small bite of the cupcake. 

Perfect. 

It’s so rich and decadent your eyes close as you chew. 

“Thank you,” you mumble, placing the cupcake back in the box to eat later. You don’t particularly want chocolate all over your face when the detectives arrive. And, you’ll enjoy it more when you’re not as full from lunch. Maybe you’ll find a way to ask her for another one. 

Your dad helps you put it back on the table and goes over to the window to retrieve a chair for your mom to sit in. He drags it back to its original spot near the bed and you just keep looking at it. Seonghwa had been in that chair mere minutes ago. You’re not sure how kindly your parents would take that piece of knowledge; Seonghwa had gotten so antsy at the idea of being seen in here with you by them. 

“So,” your dad says, standing by your mom who is placing her purse down by her feet, “did they tell you about talking to the detectives today?” 

You nod. 

“Okay, good. We’re also gonna have a lawyer here as well. She’s really good, I’ve heard.” 

You’re not really sure how to respond so you just… nod again, looking down at your lap, picking at your nails. 

Your mom notices how fidgety you’re becoming and asks, “Who gave you that? It’s beautiful.” 

She points to your bracelet with a small smile, curiosity in her eyes. Your heart drops to your stomach. Do you tell them? Yunho had beaten it into you not to lie, but you really don’t want to deal with a lecture or horrified reactions or worse, the two of them making it impossible for Seonghwa to come see you. Something tells you it will already be borderline impossible without their help. 

“A friend,” you say carefully. Not a lie, but not a very detailed answer either. 

The universe has such divine timing for you because before either of your parents can ask anything about this ‘friend’, there’s a knock on the door. You hide your sigh of relief as they turn to look towards the three people who enter, two women and a man. One of the women and the man are dressed similarly, a slight step above business casual, while the other woman is dressed formally, everything tailored and sharp down to her briefcase. All business. But she smiles at your parents and instantly goes over to shake their hands and mention how good it is to meet them in person and not over the phone. Then she turns to you. There’s still a smile on her face but her eyes change into something more serious. 

“Hi, Y/N, I’m Choi Hyein, I’ll be representing you in this case.”

She pauses then, but not to wait for you to say anything. Her pause feels intentional, giving you a chance to really look at her, and to register that she’s on your side for this. She is no threat and no enemy. It’s definitely reassuring.  

The two detectives linger about six feet from the door, measured and alert. The man scans the room like he’s mapping it. The woman lingers half a step behind, already pulling a small recording device from her pocket. You stiffen at the sight of it. But you’re grateful that they don’t crowd you; there’s already so many people in here – more than you’re used to – and they’ve been advised to give you your space. 

“Ms. Y/L/N,” the man says, voice steady. “I’m Agent Lee. This is Agent Jang. It’s nice to finally meet with you. We’re here to take your statement.”

You simply nod politely, not quite sure what to do with your hands. For now, you just keep them on your lap, still twisting and playing with the bracelet. 

“I know this is overwhelming,” Ms. Choi says, voice pleasant but serious. “So we’re going to walk you through this carefully. If anything becomes unclear or too much, please don’t hesitate to ask for clarification or a break.”

Her words make you feel less trapped. You’re not going to be forced through anything if you panic. Hopefully, you won’t, but the exit ticket is nice to have just in case. A choice. Options. 

You’re in control.

“Okay,” you breathe, straightening up a little more.

The detectives seem to relax, knowing that at least for now, you’re onboard. You may give them the answers they need, the final pieces to fit the puzzle. Your mom gets up and lets Ms. Choi sit in the chair by you, while she and your dad stand against the wall near your bed. The two agents move to the window, Agent Lee leaning against the sill and Agent Jang taking the chair. There’s so many eyes on you. 

Agent Jang presses the record button on the little device, crossing her arms and holding it by her elbow. At first, she speaks quietly into it, like she’s talking to herself. “This is Agents Jang and Lee conducting an interview with Y/N Y/L/N. It is the twenty-eighth of December, two-thousand-twenty-five.”

She rolls her shoulders back, clearing her throat as quietly as she can before looking up at you again. Ms. Choi opens her briefcase to retrieve her laptop, intent on writing notes throughout the entire process. You imagine she is also recording this conversation. 

“Let’s start from the beginning,” she suggests, leaning forward a bit. “Can you describe what happened on the day you were taken?” 

Taken. Like you were plucked out of existence. 

“Um…” you itch your arm for no reason other than to just give your hands something to do. Everyone’s watching you. Analyzing you. Waiting for you. 

It’s just like the shower: one thing at a time. But last night, you didn’t have five pairs of eyes looking at you the whole time. 

You look down, trying to recall as much as you can. Something about ice cream… a nightclub maybe? It was blindingly bright and then harrowingly dark. The air was cold, but less so than your recent night in the woods. You had a coat… or he put his around you? What was the weather? There was something pressed against your face, it made the lights above you swirl and your head hurt until you fell asleep in his car. You woke up in his bed. 

“We went out,” you swallow hard. 

“Do you remember where?”

You shake your head. 

And then comes the question you’ve been dreading since yesterday. Agent Lee is the one to ask it. 

“Do you remember who took you?” 

The first instinct is to deny Yunho had anything to do with it. Protect and deny everything – clear his name, be good, be quiet, shift the blame elsewhere, go back to him somehow, deny, deny, deny. It wasn’t safe, you could say, someone else was after you. Yunho just let you stay with him until that mystery threat was removed. There is someone still on the run, loose in the world. But you imagine that the police have swept through the apartment by now. They’ve seen the footage and the chemicals he had on hand to knock you out, they’ve probably found the gun. 

Not many people in South Korea have a gun. 

You’re torn. If he’s already been arrested, though… no– you can’t turn your back on him. This is exactly what he was talking about. Yunho gave you an inch of freedom, leaving you with Seonghwa, and you immediately disregarded all of your rules and responsibilities. But you’re not stupid. Being arrested for his actions towards you obviously means what he did was rather… harmful, to put it into a simple word.  

You press your lips together, stress making your arm even more itchy. There’s no clear answer, at least not in your mind. How can you turn your back on him so easily?   

“Honey…do you know who took you?” Your mom asks, squeezing your dad’s hand so tight he winces. She loosens her grip for a couple moments before forgetting and repeating the same pressure. 

“No,” you say monotonally, “I have no idea.” Your nails leave white scratches against your reddening skin. 

The mood in the room shifts, like everyone already knows the answer and you just won’t confirm it for any of them. Your parents look at Ms. Choi, helplessly, as if she can make you give him up at the drop of a hat somehow. They all stare at you in complete disbelief. They look at your body, shadows of intense abuse and malnourishment, shaking like a leaf, your irises dulled grey from seeing too much, haunted by memories and nightmares alike. 

“Are you sure?” Your mom presses, her rings digging into your dad’s hand. “You don’t have to protect anyone. You can tell us. Whoever it is can’t hurt you anymore.” 

But it will hurt him…

And it will hurt them.  

Part of you says ‘fuck it, tell them’. Let all of the boys fry, let them burn, make them watch everything they’ve worked for come crashing down in a shameful spiral. Give them just a taste of your suffering. 

But you think of Seonghwa. 

Hongjoong, Yeosang, San, Wooyoung, Jongho… even Mingi. The ones who worked tirelessly against their own friend – someone who was once considered their brother – to free you. Do they deserve that? The knowledge of what they’ve done, what they’ve been forced to become a part of, may be punishment enough. You will be the source of their shared guilt and shame forevermore. 

You will haunt them to their graves regardless. 

That quieter, but equally sinister voice pipes up in your head, reminding you that they’re the ones who tore you and Yunho apart. Though, it is getting harder and harder to be angry with them about that. 

The decision you make is not said without a slight waver, that loyalty to Yunho still digging its claws into your vocal chords, but it needs to be said before you tell the room anything further. 

“I don’t want to punish the ones who helped me,” you preface.

Based on the vague facts they’ve heard from the detectives, it’s quite hard for your parents to hear the plural attached to that noun. Your dad crosses his arms and covers his mouth, keeping his eyes glued to the floor. Your mom is shaking. A small part of you wants to reach for her. 

You don’t. 

“That’s a reasonable position,” Ms. Choi says, closing her laptop halfway. “We can advocate for that. We can make it clear that certain individuals acted under duress or made sincere efforts to protect you, which led directly towards your release. However, I will not promise that I can fully exempt them from the law if they are held liable in court.”

The weight of relief that lifts from your shoulders as she talks suddenly slams back down on you again. You wonder if Seonghwa’s lawyer has told him this exact thing already. Most likely. And the others as well. As for Yunho and Mingi, well… their lawyers are going to be in a much harder position if either of them tries for a ‘not guilty’ plea. You have no idea if Mingi is even coherent or awake to have had a talk with his yet. 

Regardless, if there’s a chance you can help them, even just a fraction as much as they’ve helped you, you’ll do it.  

Agent Jang draws your attention back to her, “Y/N, can you tell us who did this to you?” 

Your heartbeat feels erratic, like your pulse is skipping every other beat and then really hammering the next to make up for it. Are you going to denounce him like this? Condemn him like he means nothing to you? You feel like your chest is opening back up again, as if your ribs are trying to crawl out of the wound like a spider. That authoritative, warning voice tries to convince you to not say anything, that he’ll find out and somehow come back to kill you – this time for real. 

What if you tell them and he gets out? Will he even want you back? 

There’s so many outliers, variables, differing scenarios, all being met with uncertain outcomes. You can’t predict the future. You have no idea what will happen tomorrow…how can you decide the fate of all these people? You were so level-headed and clear this morning. It’s overwhelming that his influence has this much of a chokehold on you. 

Even now, you’re just his little puppet, aren't you? 

You look down at your arm that you’ve been lightly scratching this whole time, just skin and bones. The image of the walking corpse in the mirror last night pushes to the front of your thoughts. 

Just tell the truth. Let them decide, it says. 

Maybe you don’t have to make the decision. Everything you say will be without bias, only reciting facts about what happened, and you’ll let them reach their own conclusions. That’s… reasonable, right? 

You roll your shoulders back again, breathing in as deep as your damaged lung allows you to without starting a coughing fit. 

Your lips part. 

All five people wait with barely contained suspense. 

The name fights against your tongue, but you push it out anyway. 

“Jeong Yunho…”  

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

One week later… 

Your last full week at the hospital feels surreal. 

Less people come and go, only your nurses and your parents. Ms. Choi came back three additional times the past few days, but you mostly just let your parents talk to her with you present in the room. 

It’s still undecided whether or not you will actually speak at the trial.

The trial itself will be held a few months from now, but there’s no set date yet. Ms. Choi informs your parents that she will be keeping you all updated as soon as she knows anything new about it. Right now, you decided that you will not attend, and Ms. Choi supports this decision. Seeing Yunho again is most likely a very bad idea, especially while testifying against him. 

Your parents bought you a new phone, but the most you’ve done with it is peel the protective sheet off of it and set it up. The wallpaper on the lock and homescreens are the default options. You don’t have any photos anymore. You definitely remember taking many when you first arrived here, though. Now, your old phone could be anywhere in the entire world. More than likely, it’s already been drowned in the Han River. You almost envy it some days when the pain medications wear off. It’s a gradual fight towards recovery, but you’re happy that you can at least take deeper breaths. 

It’s admittedly been rather awkward between you and your parents, especially after the interview with the agents. Both of them had to leave the room, and you weren’t even exactly giving explicit details of what you went through. Regardless, it was more than they could bear to hear. You can tell every time they see you, they’re replaying what they heard. 

It’s been interesting getting to know them again. Every now and then you remember small details and inside jokes, shared memories together, those sorts of things. You’re speaking to them as much as you would if Seonghwa were here. 

But you haven’t seen Seonghwa all week. 

The story is probably everywhere by now. Globally, more than likely, but you haven’t seen or read a single article about it. There are several reasons why, but mainly because you just don’t want to relive everything through a stranger’s words. Your television is firmly set on the documentary channel and or the drama channel. This is mostly enforced by Ms. Choi and your parents. Anyway, you imagine Seonghwa has his hands rather full, dealing with all of this public outrage and shame brought upon the group’s name. You know it’s almost impossible for him to come see you at all, and yet you find yourself waiting for him to show up every afternoon and evening. Just in case. You really don’t want your last conversation with him to end in a panic, or a heated exchange. Since it’s your last day, your hopes are really being tested as each minute and each hour passes without him coming through the door. 

Your parents had left maybe ten minutes ago to go back to their hotel for the night, leaving you to the rare silence of your room, save for the background noise of a history documentary that’s playing on the TV. Something about spies in World War Two. You’re not really paying attention to it, but the snippets of what you do hear sound interesting. 

The phone your parents got you is by your side, nestled on top of the blanket. Your curiosity of the severity of the story and how bad it is for the group nags at you to check. You unlock it, but tap on the TikTok icon instead, scratching the itch to be on your phone but not to search the case. The app successfully numbs that nagging feeling to check for about ten minutes, until you stumble across someone talking about your case. No search required. 

The person talking in the video refers to your case as ‘unfortunate’, but ‘hot’ at the same time. A lump forms in your throat rather quickly the more she talks about how jealous she is of you. 

The video ends with her asking Yunho if she can be next.

By this point, you’re shaking badly, and the comment section is no better. You had hoped there would be a majority of people defending you, calling her out on such a strange and controversial opinion, but what you see shocks you to the very core. 

[user1603275809]: my dream ughhhh 

[b<3]: ungrateful bitch lmao

[SAW ATEEZ 07/31]: girl move over i’ll be your next victim yunho🤪

You shut your phone off. 

Definitely a mistake. You doubt that you’ll reach for your phone again until you get on the plane back home, and even then, you’ll only use it for music. It’s not even the comments and the whole general message you’re getting from the video that hit you the hardest, it’s the fact that they don’t know about the others. The dead girls in the forest. You wonder if they’d laugh online so freely if they knew about them. 

There’s an abrupt gunfire sound effect that explodes from the TV, even on low volume and it startles you that much more. You’re quick to change it back to the drama channel, hands shaking as you sit up and swing your feet onto the floor, intent on getting up and walking this off. The nurses have been encouraging you to go on walks, longer and longer distances each time. You’re almost up to a mile without needing a break. Now’s as good a time as any. 

Walks help not just your body, but your mentality too. And you need a bit of both right now. 

You’d been adamant the past two days that you want to walk alone, without a nurse present and hovering, waiting for you to fail. They’d respected your wishes, but you noticed how they watched you until you’re out of sight or if you caught them looking. Hopefully, because the evening is already giving way to the night, there won’t be as many eyes on you this time. 

When you step out of your room, you’re proven right save for the officer that guards your room. The officer outside your door gives you a look but you draw a circle with your finger, indicating that you’re going to be walking around. He makes an ‘ok’ sign with his hand and waits for you to set off. He gives you as much privacy as he can on these walks, remaining quiet and keeping his distance, staying about ten feet or so behind you.  The hallways for now are clear in both directions, and the nurse’s station is only occupied by two nurses, facing the opposite way. Jiyeon is one of them. She looks up from the computer, a brief look of concern flashing across her face before she lifts her hand, her pointer and middle fingers alternating to mimic leg movements. 

‘Walk?’ She mouths the word. You nod. She nods as well, and just goes back to whatever she’s doing. You’ll miss her. 

As you finish up your second lap, you’re already starting to feel a bit better. That video you watched only had a couple of hundred likes anyway. Surely, not everybody thought the same as she apparently does. It’s just hard to forget about it completely… or forgive. 

A male nurse opens a door to a room you’re just about to walk by, and he wheels out what looks like a medication cart. You stop to let him go with a small bow, and glance at the name written on the wall to indicate who is occupying this room. 

Someone named ‘Song, M’. 

Nosy by nature, you can’t help but peer into the room before the door closes. You can hear the steady, rhythmic beat of a heart monitor, and all the lights appear to be off, just like how you like your room to be. The soft glow of light from the hallway is always enough to keep the rooms dark enough to fall asleep comfortably, but lit well enough to be able to see where everything is. There’s a man propped up in the bed, his face mostly covered by the water cup he’s using to knock back the pills the nurse no doubt just gave him. 

You pass by the room and continue your walk. 

You don’t think much about it, refocusing on thinking about the flight home tomorrow. Home. You can barely remember what your house looks like. Your parents, upon hearing this from you, have started showing you pictures that were taken in the house, and it’s all slowly coming back to you. There’s pieces being filled in the puzzle again. You imagine it’ll be different actually being there again rather than just seeing pictures of it. They showed you pictures of your room as well, and some different memories from varying ages came back rather easily. Sleepovers and sleepless school nights doing homework at your desk, childhood stuffed animals, shelves full of photos and trinkets collected over the years. 

When it comes to your clothes and other belongings here in your old apartment, apparently your parents had received everything a few months ago when it was released from the police. Your old roommates had sent you several of the presents still sitting in your hospital room. The balloons wilted a couple of days ago. 

Rounding the corner, from down the hall you can see another police officer standing guard and you look behind you to see if yours is still following you. He is. He looks up at you when he sees you turn around. 

“You okay?” He asks, also looking behind him to see if you saw something. 

“Yeah, I just…” you trail off, watching the other officer again. He doesn’t look like he’s standing outside your room, he’s too far away. He’s further down the hall, near to where you had stopped to let the nurse go in front of you. 

A slow realization dawns on you then. Who else could it be? 

Continuing on, albeit at a much slower pace, you stop once again at your room. Wordlessly, the officer assigned to you retakes his post, but you don’t push open the door to go back inside. You hesitate, staring down the hallway. 

“Jiyeon?” You quietly call her, moving closer to the nurse’s station. 

Her head pops up from her computer again, at the ready. The light from the screen reflects in her eyes, making them partially glow white and blue. 

“Who’s in that room?” You ask, already knowing the answer. You just want it confirmed. 

Jiyeon follows where you’re pointing with her eyes and leans forward slightly to speak quieter. “I can’t tell you who, hon. Patient confidentiality.” 

You bite your lip. 

“If I know who it is…” you begin, “are you able to tell me if I’m allowed to see him?” 

Jiyeon looks back over towards the room and the cop that guards it. You can almost see her thinking, recalling protocol and hospital rules. 

“It’s Mingi, right?” Your voice barely above a whisper. 

“Honey, I’m just not sure it’s a good idea for you to see him,” she says gently. “Actually, I really doubt that they’ll let you in.” 

You rest your arms on the desk, picking at your nails again. “I know it’s not a good idea,” you agree. You understand completely. Honestly you’re rather bewildered that you’re even asking to see him. “I just… I don’t know.” 

Jiyeon sighs, looking up at you apologetically. It’s not her fault. Again, you understand. And maybe it’s for the best that you can’t see him. Maybe he doesn’t want to see you, and then what? More chaos, more heartache, more trouble than you need right now. Even so, that nagging tugs at you. 

“Is it possible for me to maybe write him something?” 

At that, Jiyeon looks down at her computer again, like the answers are on the screen. She hums as she thinks. 

“Possibly. Whatever you write will have to be approved by these guys,” she says, gesturing to the officer outside your door and the one outside his, “so keep that in mind. Some things may be redacted.”

You nod, looking back at the officer outside Mingi’s door one more time. 

“Alright,” you say, turning on your heel and disappearing back into your room for the night. 

You set about writing your message to him right away, using the new journal and pen that Seonghwa had given to you from the boys. Although, you do spend a majority of the evening staring at a blank sheet of paper. Luckily, the nurse that brings in your dinner doesn’t ask what you’re doing or who you’re writing to. She minds her business, setting your food down with a small smile and a quiet ‘of course’ when you thank her. 

The words don’t come easily, and you don’t expect them to. Dozens and dozens of potential things you want to say to him come to mind, but none of them sound or do any good. It has to be short and simple if you want to avoid any potential redactions, but also carry meaning. You dig deep, searching for what you truly want to say. If you were allowed to go into his room and see him, and say anything to his face, what would it be? 

Your pen moves not too long after you ask yourself that. 

You deliver the note to Jiyeon, on the off-chance she is allowed to bring it to Mingi’s room and she sets it down by her keyboard with a promise that she will have the officers look it over. With a small nod of acknowledgement, you wish her a goodnight and settle down in your room for the last time. 

A part of you wishes you had time to look around Yunho’s bedroom the same way you’re taking in the hospital suite you’ve been in for the past week and a half. Just to say goodbye to it, but how were you supposed to know you’d never return there? You sigh as you tuck yourself in one more time even though it’s still pretty early – not yet eight-thirty – and you admire the patterns of light on the floor coming from the hallway and the television. The volume is low in case you wake up in the middle of the night, you don’t want to wake up to dead silence. That’s almost as bad as not being able to see. 

But you sleep soundly, letting the occasional quiet beeps from the machines lull you. 

And with perfect timing, with twenty minutes left to spend in visiting hours, Seonghwa knocks on your door. 

He ignores the side-eye from the cop by your door as much as he can, adjusting his face mask even higher up on his nose so the top of it grazes his bottom lashes. Those dark circles under his eyes from his injury never quite went away on account of the lack of sleep lately. When he pushes open the door, he freezes in place. You’re turned on your side, facing the door, and he can tell that you’re asleep. He hesitates, not sure if he should come in anyway or just turn around and leave. He knows you have an early flight tomorrow. 

Just five minutes, he tells himself. 

Leaving the door open as instructed, he quietly makes his way over to the chair by your bed. You don’t stir. You look peaceful… healed, at least physically. The lines on the heart monitor jump in a standard, healthy rhythm, and there’s some plumpness to your skin now. It no longer clings to your bones. It’s nice to see you like this.  

He definitely stays longer than five minutes, just watching you sleep. He feels like a creep for doing so, but he can’t help but hope that you’ll just wake up on your own and know that he came back to say goodbye. In his head he replays all of your shared time together, internally apologizing to you for all the chances he had of getting you out sooner rather than later, and wishing that he could’ve done more to help. He stares at the fading, leftover patches of bruises around your neck that he put there until his eyes unfocus and his vision blurs. He lifts the heel of his hand to his temple, pressing it there for a second to combat any oncoming dizziness. It’s an internal battle to not cry. He doesn’t feel like he really deserves to. 

There’s some murmuring outside your door, and he looks up at the clock to check the time. Five minutes after nine. Time to go. Jiyeon knocks as she comes in. 

“Visiting hours are over,” she politely informs him. 

Seonghwa fixes his jacket for no reason. “Right. I’m sorry,” he says as he stands, patting his pockets to make sure he has everything and leaves without another word. 

Jiyeon catches him in the hallway before he gets to the elevators. “Mr. Park,” she calls softly, jogging after him to close the distance. 

He looks over his shoulder, then turns around to face her, awaiting some sort of scolding for staying later than allowed. He’ll take it. 

“I’m sorry–” he starts to say, but Jiyeon cuts him off. 

“I wanted to thank you. I think you played a big part in her recovery,” she says sincerely. Her words startle him, catching him off guard. It’s definitely not what he was expecting to hear. Seonghwa doesn’t meet her eyes anymore, choosing to inspect the tiled floor instead. 

Of course, he denies this. “I didn’t do that much… all I did was upset her each time I came.” 

“You remind her of a very difficult part of her life,” Jiyeon says bluntly, not one to sugarcoat, “one that will stay with her forever. But, you’re also part of the reason that she’s safe. You helped to get her out.” 

Seonghwa shakes his head, refusing to accept any responsibility of aiding in your rescue. He’s part of the problem that you escaped. Jiyeon steps closer, trying to make him look at her. 

“Whether you realize it or not, you’re probably one of the only truly safe people she has right now,” She says. “You’re very important to her.” 

He keeps his head down, crossing his arms over his chest and hunching his shoulders. 

“ I–I didn't do enough,” he says, his voice betraying him by breaking right at the beginning of his sentence. 

Every pent up emotion hits him then. Right there in the middle of the hospital hallway, under bright, accusatory fluorescent lights, outside of your room where he believes he put you, even if he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger. By not informing the police beforehand, he believes that he is part of the reason you were hurt, indirectly or directly. He promised you that night that you’d be okay. He told you to trust him. Every bottled up feeling suddenly demands to be felt. His stress threatens to make him explode like a pressure cooker. 

Jiyeon cautiously places her hand on his back, guiding him into an empty office area and sitting him down. She fills a paper cup with water and hands it to him, advising him to breathe. 

“I’ll never be able to m-make it up to her,” he says, close to crumpling the cup in his grip. “I told her she w-wouldn’t get hurt and–”

He stops in the middle, too ashamed of himself to continue. Glancing at the clock, he winces, knowing his manager is probably wondering where the hell he is. He won’t come looking for him though… the whole KQ staff have kind of stopped talking to them unless absolutely necessary. Nevertheless, he feels bad for making him wait. 

“From what she’s told me, you did your absolute best to protect her. You kept showing up for her, even now, and that will help her heal in the long term. It’ll remind her that she had someone good by her side at the end of all this.” 

Seonghwa sniffles quietly, running a hand through his hair and pausing halfway through. 

“She still got hurt though,” he says dejectedly. “She got hurt by saving me. I didn’t deserve such kindness from her… I didn’t deserve to be saved. It should’ve been me instead.” 

“She’s alive,” Jiyeon reminds him, “and she’s going home tomorrow because of you. Because of all of you. She didn’t even have to think before she chose to save you. Doesn’t that tell you all you need to know about how much she cares about you? Don’t make her decision meaningless by saying that you didn’t deserve it.” 

A beat passes. 

Seonghwa nods once, slowly, like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s agreeing to just yet, but maybe one day he will. Her words imbed themselves within his mind, branding into his brain and sticking with him for the foreseeable future. 

You’re alive. You’re going home tomorrow. 

Except for two snags, not including his own injury, the plan was successful. They achieved what they set out to do: free you from Yunho. They got you out. The risks involved in said plan were well-known, and they knew the level of danger they’d be exposed to if things went south. Despite it all, you and Mingi are both alive and recovering, and Yunho is where he should be: in jail awaiting trial. 

Jiyeon hands him a tissue box from one of the desks, and he plucks one from it to blow his nose. He calms down gradually, and she lets him take his time. Glancing up at the clock again, he stands abruptly. He’s way over time now. He wouldn’t be surprised if his manager left him there. 

“Oh– I should go,” he says, but doesn’t break for the door just yet. Again, he pats his pockets to make sure he has everything, and pauses when he dips a hand into the one in his jacket. He pulls out a small, torn piece of paper with a number scribbled on it. He’d forgotten to leave this in your room. Dammit. 

“I’m sorry, could you please give this to her?” He asks, “It’s… it’s just in case she wants to keep in contact. If you don’t think it’s a good idea though, it may not help her recovery–” he rambles, overthinking. 

Jiyeon interrupts him, “Y’know what? Why don’t you stay with her tonight. I think she’d like that. You can give it to her yourself.” 

Seonghwa blinks before bowing to her, thanking her sheepishly. 

She waves him off, guiding him out of the room and back down the hall to your room. She exchanges a few quiet words with your room guardian, letting him know what’s going on. He side-eyes Seonghwa again, but luckily, says nothing.    

“Thank you,” Seonghwa says to her again when she turns back to him, “really. For everything.” 

“Of course. Have a good night, Mr. Park.” Jiyeon says with a small wave, already starting to head back to the nurse’s station. 

Seonghwa sends a quick text to his manager and takes off his face mask, taking a deep breath before placing his hand on the doorhandle. 

This time, your back is facing him as he walks in and you stir when the door is opened again. You sleepily rub your eyes and make a small noise upon hearing someone come in. A nurse, you assume. You lazily drape your arm out to the side to make it easier for her to check your vitals or something. They always need your arm out for some reason or another. 

Instead, someone sits in the chair. Someone takes off their jacket. A familiar scent of cologne hits your nose and your eyes snap open. 

“Hello?” You ask, confused. 

“Hi, angel,” he says quietly, taking your hand that you reach for him with. 

“What time is it?” You mumble, looking around the bed for your phone. 

“Late,” Seonghwa says with the slightest twinge of a laugh, “they’re gonna let me stay the night with you. Is that alright?” 

You nod immediately, worried he’ll change his mind within the millisecond of time between him ending his sentence and you responding. A small grin plays on his lips. 

“I’ll stay up–” You start to push yourself upright, but he stops you.

“No, no, it’s okay. I’ll just…” He scoots the chair closer and leans forward, resting his head on his arms. You worry about his back, though. This position can’t be good for his neck either. 

You pull his arm towards you until he sits on the bed. Closer, but not what you’re trying to get him to do. Sure, you could outright say what you want, but you’re tired and admittedly still shy around him. So you scoot over, to the very edge of your bed to make room for him. He sighs as he hesitates, and eventually gives in. You unsuccessfully hide your victorious – and honestly, shocked – smile as he gets in next to you in the cramped space. You throw your blanket over him and both of you turn on your sides to face each other. Draping your arm over his shoulder, you play with his hair on the nape of his neck. His eyes flutter closed, allowing himself to relax. He keeps his hands to himself, not assuming that you want to be touched in any way until you tell him. 

You breathe him in, snuggling closer to his chest, silently giving him his answer. Your free hand finds one of his, guiding it over your body. The comforting weight of it calms you just as well as any sedative. He presses you close, dropping his arm down towards your lower back, and sneaking his right arm under your neck to embrace you properly like this. You sleepily smile into his chest. His hair is soft between your fingers. The added heat from his body makes the cold hospital room perfectly warm. 

You fall back asleep in no time at all.   

And so does he. 

In the meantime, your little note does make its way to Mingi’s room. The only thing the officers decide to redact is your name at the end. He’ll know it’s from you, but he will be denied that small verification at the bottom of the page. He won’t get to see you or say a proper goodbye. He knows, though, that he doesn’t deserve to. This little note is the best he’s going to get, and he’s grateful nonetheless.  

Mingi, 

Though I may not feel this way 100% right now, I know in time I will mean what I write wholeheartedly:

I forgive you. 

Thank you for helping me.

– ◼/◼  

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The morning is rather busy. 

Busier like it had been when you first woke up here. Your parents arrive first thing, bags packed and passports already at the ready. You can tell they can’t wait to leave. To bring you home. The butterflies in your stomach are rather agitated at the thought. ‘Pre-flight nerves’, you refer to them as when your mom asks why you’re so antsy. 

Seonghwa had left an hour before they got there, around five in the morning. You had set your alarm at that time to give yourself some time alone, to mentally prepare for the day ahead. Instead, that time was spent exchanging Kakao IDs and resuming playing with his hair. Time seemed against you, moving faster than it ever had here before. Each minute seemed to last ten seconds. 

He squeezed your hand tight before he left. You can still feel it now. 

Much to your surprise, Agent Jang comes into your room ten minutes before you’re due to leave, carrying a lumpy bag. You hadn’t expected to see her again. Your parents greet her warmly, eyeing what she has in her hand. 

“Your clothes,” she explains to you, “from when you were first admitted here.” 

All you can think to say in response is “Ah.” 

She sets it down on one of the chairs and asks how you’re doing. The two of you actually have a nice little conversation for a couple of minutes before she has to go back to the station. You wish her luck as she walks out. For what exactly, you’re not sure, but you think the sentiment of what you said makes itself known. She wishes you all the best and steps out, nodding to the morning shift officer guarding your door. His shift will be short today, although he is going to be accompanying you to the airport. Then, airport security will take you and your parents through.   

“I’ll go through them on the plane,” you decide, gesturing to the bag and the presents that all three of you managed to somehow stuff into an extra suitcase and your carry-on. You read some of the tags. None of them are from Yunho.  

Your mom crosses her arms, looking at it like it’s a bug. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“I’ll be fine.”

“I just… I don’t want you to be triggered and then we don’t know how to help you.” 

You sigh, but not in annoyance. This could very well happen, and happen while you’re 30,000 feet in the air with no escape. But you’re stronger now. “That’ll happen anyway. Doesn’t matter when, really. I’ll tell you how to help me.” 

Unconvinced and wary, your mom lets it go. She trusts you on this. You’re the expert on you. 

Jiyeon isn’t working this morning, but she did leave you a little card for Mijoo to give to you. You’ll read it later, right now your parents are checking their phones and watches over and over, silently telling you it’s almost time to leave.  

You thank the staff as you pass them in the hallways, stealing a glance down towards Mingi’s room again before stepping into the elevator and descending down, back into the world. You don a face mask and sunglasses, feeling a bit like Seonghwa, and tie your hair up. The last thing you want is for people to easily see what you look like now. 

As expected and dreaded, the airport is swarming with reporters and devastated fans who all want a glimpse of the girl who survived the idol. Luckily, you’re well hidden by your parents and the officers protecting you. You’re on autopilot until you actually board the plane, ascending and accelerating towards the clouds. 

The mini screen helps the ride go by a lot faster. You alternate between movies, listening to the music and closing your eyes, and just resting your head against the window, watching the clouds drift below. You sleep for about an hour, and when you wake up, the plane has already begun its initial descent. Home. Your skin starts to itch again. 

To distract yourself, you reach into your carry on for that bag Agent Jang gave you and the note from Jiyeon. Your mother next to you takes her AirPods out, but says nothing to deter you from looking through it. She’ll just keep a close eye on you, watching for any signs of incoming distress while your dad is passed out, still asleep next to her. 

The note from Jiyeon is short and sweet, wishing you all the best, and signing her name with a little drawing of a bunny on the side of it. You pass it to your mom so she can read it, and then you start in on the bag. 

The clothes themselves are wrinkled from being in the snow for so long and not being dried properly. You don’t unfold your sweater, not particularly keen on seeing the hole where the bullet ripped through the fabric. The pants are bloodstained on the waistband. Your socks are crumpled like your sweater, soaked through and sad looking. You shove the socks and sweater back into the bag, curiosity over. But you feel something in the pants front pocket. Your eyebrows furrow together, not knowing what this could be. 

But the second your fingers touch it, you know exactly what it is. And who it belonged to. 

You pull the rosary out slowly, almost bead by bead until you’re holding it up in front of your face. The cross at the bottom points directly down towards the bloodstains.    

“Who’s is that?” You hear your mom ask through the roar of the engines and your screaming thoughts. 

Quickly, you lie. “Seonghwa’s.” 

Though visibly tense, she doesn’t say anything further. You’ve told them a little about him. They’re not particularly crazy about him, as they have a harder time seeing him for anything other than being part of the group that took and had access to you. She looks at it like she wants to chuck it out of the plane window. If only she knew who it really belongs to.

You put the pants back in the bag, holding onto the rosary for the remainder of the flight. 

The cold metal burns your skin the whole way down.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Eight months later…

The sun warms your skin as it blinds you. 

You cover it with your hand as much as you can, squinting and blinking away the eye floaters that creep into your field of vision. Cars rush past, threatening to splash you from the puddles left overnight. It had been an impressive storm, but you slept through most of it. 

The sunlight that reflects off the building makes it look like it’s sparkling all over. You remember this place well; at least, the interior of it. You lower your hand and look across the street, heading the opposite direction. The walking signal shines for the pedestrians and you join the crossing groups of people seamlessly. 

Seoul in September is always pretty. 

That certain floor and apartment right at the very top look down upon you. They didn’t think they’d ever see you again. Last they saw of you, you were being driven out to the woods again. They should’ve known. You’re the only one who survived the woods… twice. 

Sadly, there’s no time to gloat or reminisce, as you’re currently running to find your Uber before they drive off. 

Once located, you confirm your names with each other and situate yourself in the backseat of the car. It’s rather nice, and you double check that you didn’t accidentally pay for the Uber Black or something. You’re thankful for the strong air conditioning. Tucked under your thigh, your phone vibrates a few times but you ignore it – you already know it’s your mother texting you for the hundredth time today. She has your location on like she did last year, but now she wants live updates in real time of how you’re doing and where you’re going and who with, every possible detail. 

You had to really plead your case to her and your father to let you come back. 

Before the entire question was even finished, they flat out forbade you from coming back, especially by yourself. It took a lot of persuasion, a couple big fights, multiple reminders that you’re an adult, and a promise to be monitored at all times while there, but eventually they allowed you to fly back. You’re staying at a nice hotel in the heart of the city, somewhere you’re rather familiar with. Yet another topic of discussion you had to fight over. They wanted you to stay with your old roommates, but you vehemently opposed this – you didn’t want to infringe on their lives by staying with them and make them have to babysit you all hours of the day. That’s not fair to them. You did agree to spend the first two nights back in Seoul at their apartment, though. 

You’re 99% sure your mom is also keeping in touch with them as well. 

Holding in an exasperated sigh at the fourth and fifth buzz of your phone, you shoot a quick text to your mom as proof of life and safety, screenshotting the route you’re taking to your hotel to check into your room. She reads the text immediately and answers with a thumbs up emoji. It’s both comforting and suffocating that you know she’s watching your location at this very moment. It reminds you of where you were last year at this time. 

Driver tipped, bags collected, and key handed over, you finally flop down on the plush hotel bed, sighing into the memory foam. You’re looking forward to these next two hours spent alone before you go back out again. You definitely need them. 

You unpack, taking your time to set everything where you want it around the room, quietly enjoying how therapeutic small stuff like this feels. Habitually though, you do check in the upper corners of the walls, in the lamps, and in the bathroom for hidden cameras. Every search conducted ends in the same result: finding none. It’s one habit you’ve yet to fully shake off. Another one is how you tend to freeze when you hear people outside of your room, even muting the TV so no one can hear you inside. Once the sound of their voices fade away, you’re okay again. 

You try to tighten up. You have to, especially today. 

After sending your mom a picture of you, safe in the hotel room, she finally relents and leaves you alone. It’s annoying, but it’s what you agreed on in order to be here, so you force yourself to not roll your eyes every time your phone goes off. 

You spend the next hour sitting on the floor in front of your suitcase, looking down at it like the right outfit will just jump out at you. It’s not that you’re trying to look good, just… confident. Confident and put together without overstating it. You rummage through the shirts, pants, socks, and one dress you brought with you, but none of them feel right. Now only thirty minutes before you have to leave, you give up on it for the time being and just focus on your hair and makeup. 

Even though you want to, you can’t bring yourself to wash your face. There are good days and bad days when it comes to water, and today is one of those bad days. Instead, you run one of the hand towels under the sink and lightly dab your face with it to feel more refreshed. You forego winged eyeliner simply because your hands are shaking too much and you don’t have time to make them match, and then find yourself brushing your hair right back where you started, standing in front of the open suitcase without a clue of what to wear. In the end, you just decide on some baggy jeans and a hoodie. 

You text your mom that you’re gonna nap and stay in the hotel the rest of your night, and switch your phone completely off. 

Sunglasses on and purse in hand, you’re out the door.  

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re very hyper-aware of your skin. 

Specifically how your clothes feel on your skin, brushing up against it. Your chest hurts. Stress causes some pain flares from time to time, so you’re used to the feeling, but it doesn’t make it any less comfortable. You lightly trace your collarbone through your hoodie with your knuckles, just to ground yourself more. It tells you that nothing is touching your chest or your neck. 

You’re glad you chose the hoodie because it is freezing in here. The cold metal of the chair seeps through the fabric of your jeans and takes a while to warm up as you wait. Your nails tap against the metal table in front of you. It’s a rather small room, only two other ‘booths’ like the one you’re sitting at now, and dim. You run your hands up and down your arms to self-soothe and to warm yourself up. Your anxiety grows more and more the longer they make you wait. 

Maybe you shouldn’t’ve come here. This was a mistake of gigantic proportions, and you know it. Your hands start to itch instead of soothe. Your bottom lip is already bitten to hell, and you stand up, ready to leave and forget you ever even tried to do this.

But the door opens. 

And there he is. 

You freeze in place, no longer as put together as you tried to appear. Instead, you’re right back into who you were last year. Your heart hammers against your ribs, trying to escape through them to get as far away from him as it can. You wish your feet would follow. 

The rattling and jingling of his handcuffs hitting the small table as he sits opposite you make your ears ring and static erupts in your brain. All systems sound the alarm: danger, danger, danger, get out. But you block it out. There’s glass in between you, he can’t hurt you. 

You take a small step forward, back towards the chair you were just in. He watches you like a snake would a mouse.  

A heavy sound behind him informs you both that the guard has left, the door shutting behind him. The air around you feels thick, like you have to double your efforts just to breathe normally. 

He still looks just as handsome as he did when you last saw him. Dammit. 

The metal of the chair scrapes unpleasantly against the floor as you sit back down, ignoring the giant lump forming in your throat. For a moment, you still can’t bring yourself to look at him, but you can feel the weight of his stare. You’re glad you chose this baggy, loose-fitting outfit. Subconsciously chosen so that he couldn’t see your body. Yunho makes a face as he looks at your outfit as he sits there, waiting for you to say something. You can tell that he disapproves. 

Your entire body starts to feel feverish the longer you prolong this. 

“Hi…” you mumble, clearing your throat right after. 

Yunho tsk’s, waiting for a certain word to accompany that greeting. You know which one. You look down at your lap, picking at the skin around your nails. If you thought you felt hot before, it’s nothing compared to now as a fierce blush blooms across your cheeks, warming your whole face. 

“I’m not supposed to call you that anymore,” you inform him, still not quite meeting his eyes. He seems to tower over you even while sitting. Was that always the case or did he get taller? 

Yunho places his elbows down on the little table and rests his chin on the heels of his hands. The little chain linking the cuffs pulls taut. “Mhm. And who told you that?” 

“T-the… my…” you trail off, unable to speak. The words ‘the officers’ and ‘my psychologist’ just die on your tongue. 

Yunho smirks, knowing the effect he’s having on you. 

“Why are you here, baby?” He purrs, tilting his head to one side. 

The pet name makes your skin crawl and a dark part of your mind sing. Your hands begin to shake again, but you just sit on them, trying to remain calm and strong. At least externally. You can do this. 

You’re in control. 

He’s the one behind bars – well, glass at the moment. He can’t get to you physically, and if he tries, the two guards keeping watch of your visit will tear you away from him before you could even blink. It’s like seeing a shark at the aquarium. Protected and kept apart by the glass, you know you’re safe, but there’s always the same thought that looms in the back of your mind: if the glass suddenly disappears, you’re in his element. At his mercy. Would you scream and kick for the surface, or would you just succumb to him like you used to? An hour ago you were sure of which one you’d pick. Now, you’re not so sure. Not while face to face with the threat itself. 

Despite this, there’s a reason you came to see him. You have something for him. 

Instead of verbally responding to his question, you simply reach into your pocket and pull out his rosary. His eyes widen at the sight of it. So that’s where it’s been this whole time. 

“This belongs to you,” you murmur, stating the obvious. “I w-wanted to return it.” 

You can tell you’ve gotten under his skin this time. You don’t feel smug or proud about it. No matter how thick the glass is, you’re still afraid of him. Of all people, you know exactly what he’s capable of. He doesn’t need to touch you to hurt you. 

He lowers his hands back down, drumming his fingers on the table. The sound makes your skin crawl. You gently place it down in front of you. He almost reaches for it, like he forgot the glass is there for a second before retracting his hand, cracking his knuckles in quiet and controlled frustration. 

“How thoughtful,” he hums, his voice tight. 

Involuntarily, you blush again, your lips parting to thank him for such small praise. You nervously run a hand through your hair, trying to pass it off as nothing. The air shifts. The power dynamic between the two of you skews even further towards him.  

The smirk that slowly grows on his face is pure evil. Sickly sweet, manipulative. Your skin crawls, waves of adrenaline zip down your spine and into your legs, every instinct telling you to get out there now. 

“You missed me, didn’t you?” He sneers, leaning forward to get even more into your space. He lazily gestures to the rosary, “Just wanted to see me again?” 

Unwilling to back down from him, you ignore those instincts. You stay put, right where you are. You pull the collar of the hoodie away from your neck, suddenly feeling rather suffocated.

“No.” You say as firmly as you can, not offering him anything more to work with. A simple ‘no’ is good enough. 

He laughs, his amusement evident. “You’re not being very nice to me, are you?” 

“I j-just… I n-needed to see you in h-here,” your voice wobbles a little as you stammer. You’re unable to think or speak clearly. It’s like your mind’s been suddenly placed on pause, slamming on the brakes while going one hundred miles an hour. You try to remember if you had been like this when he first took you. This pathetic. “I don’t have t-to be nice to you.”  

“Look at you,” he smirks, leaning back in his chair, without a single care in the world. Superior to you even now. “Acting so high and mighty all of a sudden. Already forgotten who’s in charge, huh?” His voice lowers in volume on the last sentence spoken, leveling you with just a sharp glare. 

You shake your head, refusing to let him get in your head like this. Not without a fight.  “You’re not in ch-charge of me anymore.” 

Yunho doubles down, his voice a soft purr. The same timbre he used to make you forgive him for almost drowning you in the bath. Sympathetic, warm, caring, safe. 

“Aww, poor baby. Is it hard to have nobody telling you what to do anymore? Bet you miss that structure, don’t you?” 

“Stop it,” you snap at him, though there’s not a lot of edge to your voice. “I’m not yours.” 

“Yes you are. You keep waiting for me to praise you… is that what you want? Need my validation? Need to know I don’t hate you for ratting me out to the police?”  

“I only came back for Seonghwa.” You say before you can stop yourself. One of your hands flies up to your mouth before hesitating, twitching in the space between your mouth and your lap. Using every single ounce of courage, your eyes flick up to garner his reaction. 

You’ve seen that look before. 

Through fire, water, earth, and air, you’ve seen it. You’ve never been so grateful to have a thick pane of glass separating you from him. 

From the cold metal of the room, you can smell the forest again. The water burns your throat and nose. The snow freezes your skin. The flames lick at your legs. 

His jaw twitches and he laughs once, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. There’s no readable expression on his face, not that he lets you see. His hands curl into fists and he hides them in his lap. His bangs cover his eyes as he looks down, jaw clenching and unclenching. 

“Park fucking Seonghwa…” he says under his breath, shaking his head in amused disbelief.  

Your hand massages your throat, trying to ease the lump in there. He can’t hurt you. You can leave any time. 

So why aren’t you? 

You came all the way here to give his rosary back to him, to see him in jail with your own eyes in an attempt to stop your nightmares and paranoia. You’ve done what you set out to do. Leave. 

However, you’re glued to your seat, and you start to wonder if he’s right in some of the things he’s saying. Are you still seeking his validation? Even though you wanted to come across as confident and better off without him, that charade quickly vanished upon seeing him again. You instantly retreated back into your timid, obedient self that took months to shed off of your normal behavior. Back at square one, you can’t stop the brutal self-deprecating thoughts that berate and jeer at your failure. How easily you crumble in front of him. How small you feel when his eyes are on you. The past months of work you’ve put in with your therapist and the fruition of progress you’ve been so proud of disappear altogether as if they never happened. As if you never left. 

You steal another glance at him, and fight against the intensely strong urge to comfort him, clarify what you meant. You hate seeing him upset, especially when you’re to blame for it. He looks so dejected… you’ve never seen him like this. There’s no fire within him anymore, not like before. You have to really force yourself to not say anything to him. It’s none of his business what your relationship with Seonghwa is or is not, especially when you aren’t even sure. 

You wipe your eyes with your sleeve, smudging the mascara and eyeliner. 

Don’t cry. Please, don’t cry, not in front of him. 

You inhale sharply, trying to collect yourself and keep the tears at bay as long as you can. In all honesty, you just want to put your head down on the little table and scream. You don’t have to explain yourself to him. You don’t owe him anything, right? 

It’s a question that’s still hard to answer. Obviously you don’t owe him anything, not a damn thing. But you can’t block out the quiet moments you two shared as easily. The good times you had were so good, even if they will never come close to cancelling out the bad. You think, at least for a period of time, you may have actually loved him. Or, felt something quite close to it. Maybe that’s why you want to explain yourself to him, because you still can’t fully deny that you don’t feel anything towards him anymore. You doubt you’ll ever really know. It’s not that simple. Trying to move on from a man who would burn the entire world for you is not something easily done. 

The most terrifying realization you’ve had to face at home was feeling that you may never feel as strongly for someone other than Yunho ever again. 

Your shoulders hunch and you shrink in the chair, chin to chest.   

What you don’t see as you bow your head, is the drastic and visible change in Yunho. No longer smug or condescending, he becomes distant as he holds back his true emotions. Head down as well, his eyes search the floor, his lap, his hands. For what exactly, he himself isn’t even sure. For once, he doesn’t have a quick, lashing reply to give back to you. He bites the inside of his cheek. He slouches in the chair. 

Another fantasy dragged back into harsh reality. Disintegrating right in front of him. Again. 

Because as much as he denied it, and despite what he has told you… Yunho really does love you. 

You were never nothing to him, you were everything. Telling you that he only loved broken things turned out to not be true. Not exactly. At one time, he thought it was true, but he realized he was only talking through his anger and frustration. Not from any substantial meaning. No, he only let you in as deep as he let anyone else get, just surface level. Treading the water there so he can keep an eye on everyone he allows in. You were dangerously close to venturing further, getting to the very heart of him. 

He denied himself of you. From seeing you that night in the convenience store, he denied himself of you. 

Call it an act of self-sabotage, or that he didn’t know what he was in for, but he saw something in you that none of the others had. A certain spark, a glow, not just potential for his own sick view of what he could shape you into, but also a strength that told him you can persevere. Kindness, humility, beauty, and a natural magnetic attraction that damn near pulled all the members towards you. Of course Mingi fell for you. And now Seonghwa… 

Surprisingly, he’s not mad. Not at all. Actually, for the first time, he feels quite defeated. Seeing you past the glass only confirmed that he’ll never have you the way his soul wants. A rather delusional part of him thinks you still want him. That you’ll always want him. That you love him. 

He needs to hear you say it so bad. So bad. 

But he won’t ask you. He won’t even entertain the thought. Not when there’s a chance you’ll refuse to say it – he doesn’t think he’ll be able to handle that. 

So what can he do? He can either push you away and come to his own conclusions based on how easy it is for you to leave, or he can push you harder, see if you’ll break for him again. Neither one reaps many benefits for either of you. It’s just another assessment of loyalty. Another test. 

“Why are you here?” Yunho asks you again. 

The rosary starts to turn cold on the table. You don’t have an answer for him. The words just won’t come together in the right order, nor do they hold the depth of what you want to attempt to convey to him. Nothing fits or sounds good enough. Each choice is just as cold and lifeless as this room you’re in, void of any real meaning. None of them hold any weight. 

Is there anything worth saying at all? 

“I’m not…” you swallow hard, knowing that he’s staring at you without needing to look up and verify, “I’m not afraid of you anymore.” 

This silence is different. Instead of coming back immediately with a quip or smug response, he simply lets what you said fully process. He really does seem different. It’s the same kind of mental distance you experienced with him when you and Mingi were still close. Jealousy? Maybe, but you don’t want to assume. For all you know, he could just be pissed off that you’re presumably giving your free attention to Seonghwa instead of him now. He must think you’ve completely abandoned him – which, you know you should do, and yet here you are. But again, Yunho doesn’t know how that specific relationship with you and Seonghwa works. 

What you say is true, for the most part. There’s a large part of you that still hungers for his approval, yearns for his touch, misses the idea of him. And there’s another part of you that is comforted knowing that he cannot dictate your life anymore, nor touch you like that ever again. The idea of him you hold onto is your own fantasy, conjured up by the fleeting and counterfeit imitations of care and love that he showed you. Seeing him in here does calm your nervous system though, it tells your paranoid mind that he really is locked in here. He can’t get to you. There are dozens of people, several laws, and physical distance between you that will not allow him to touch you again. The thick glass and the handcuffs aid this thinking as well. 

For Yunho, all he can hear is white noise and a sentence he’s haunted himself with for almost a year. His lips press together. He can’t be too surprised that you really were afraid of him the whole time, but again that delusional side of him has been very convincing. It was so easy to believe in his own lie until Mingi derailed it with one fatal blow. Just six words. Now here you are in front of him, speaking freely as yourself for the first time since last February, telling him that you’re not afraid of him. 

He’s almost split in half. One side glowing, singing that now you can love him, there’s nothing holding you back from it now, and the other realistic side of him shooting all of that nonsense down. He can’t ignore reality forever. 

One of your hands rests on the table, drumming your fingers close to the rosary. He subconsciously mirrors you. Tap, tap, tap. 

When he doesn’t say anything for another few silent minutes, you pick your purse up from the floor, placing it in your lap. “I should go…” 

Yunho wants nothing more than to jump up and beg you to stay with him. So, he doesn’t. He keeps control, clenching his fists tight, knowing he’s solely to blame for how he ended up. If he was just a little more careful… 

He watches you stand, the scraping sound of the chair against the floor digging into his ears. Once again, he holds back what he really wants to say. 

“I’ll um–” you pick up the rosary, gesturing over to the guard. Why won’t he speak to you? You shift your weight, not wanting to leave like this. You’ve always been the type to not rest so easy knowing that you’ve said something that hurts someone. Even someone like him. 

Ready to go, you don’t move. You don’t knock on the door to let the guard know that you want to leave. You have an idea of why he’s gone so quiet. 

“We’re not– Seonghwa and I… it isn’t like that.” You tell him, not as eloquently as you wanted to be. 

But it does invoke a response of some nature. A single nod, indicating that he understands as simply as possible. 

You continue, “I’m not ready for that kind of thing yet.”

“‘Yet’,” Yunho echoes, surprising you by replying quickly this time. “But you will. One day.” 

He sniffs, leaning back in the chair. The rest of his sentence goes unsaid, insinuated and understood by you. ‘And it won’t be with me’. 

You bite your lip, hand absentmindedly tugging at your sweatshirt, pulling it away from the healed scars on your chest. Your heart is threatening to leak through them.  

“I don’t know,” you admit honestly. Right now, you don’t see yourself getting into any kind of relationship in the near future. You don’t want to. You’re afraid everything will remind you of him. You’re afraid you’ll compare – that fear of never feeling the same level of devotion to someone ever again keeps you alone. 

“You will. And he’ll be there, I’m sure.” Yunho fails to hold back a scoff. His nails dig into his palms, close to breaking skin. “But all he’ll do is remind you of me.”

Your muscles tense. 

There’s a hurt tone to his voice that he tries in vain to hide. Not enough to be obvious unless you knew him quite well… which you do. 

It dawns on you then that the two of you trigger each other so much. He triggers your fears, your perfectionism, your traumas, and you trigger his abandonment issues, his overprotectiveness, and his desperate desire for love. Fake or real. He was so close with you. This time, he felt it. The others told him they loved him like they were reading a line from a book. Too rehearsed, without any feeling. You were the only one who almost convinced him. 

You know he thinks it’s easier to just push you away if he can’t have you the way he wants. 

And suddenly, you think of something worth asking him. 

“Were you going to kill me that night?”

He pauses to keep his true emotions in check. He’s not about to let you read him so easily when it comes to this topic. 

“Which one?” He asks, lazily, trying to come across as unbothered, nonchalant, but his eyes betray him. 

You can see a slight twinge of wariness, like you’re getting too close to the truth of him. Something he’s hidden from everyone else so seamlessly. That’s how you know you’re on the right track, asked the right question. Also, you’d genuinely like to know. Having the answer, fake or real, may help some of the nightmares you keep having ever since that night. 

“The last one,” you clarify quietly. 

He clears his throat, procrastinating by readjusting how he’s sitting in the chair, straightening up and crossing his legs. He feels caught. The handcuffs dig into his wrists. The only way he can keep control is to not give you what you want – a straightforward answer, but instead, he speaks truthfully.

“I don’t know,” he says, his eyes landing on the silver bracelet fastened on your wrist. 

He wonders who gave that to you… it matches his rosary. 

You nod once, knowing that’s the best you’ll get out of him. It does kind of tell you everything you needed to know, though. It pairs well with what you remember from that night, the shock and horror on his face when he realized he shot you instead of his intended target, and his many attempts to try and break out of Jongho’s hold on him to rush to your side. You have your answer. 

And now you’re not sure what to do with it. You’re still standing in front of him like an idiot, leaving and not leaving at the same time.       

His eyes flicker over towards the door on your side of the room. “You should go.”    

That startles you almost, and your feet move immediately, like they were waiting for his permission. You don’t miss how the corner of his mouth twitches, and you’re thankful that this time, he doesn’t point it out. He doesn’t have to. Such a small thing like that all but confirms his delusional side’s way of thinking. He latches onto it quickly as he watches you try to slip through his fingers again. 

Even if you choose Seonghwa down the line, you’ll still be his. When you’re just a step away from the door, he lets you know that. 

“No one will ever love you as much as I do.” 

That nearly kills you. It strikes you harder than a fist or a bullet ever did. Hearing the admission you’d been waiting for for all of last year… it almost makes you crumble completely. You knew it, you knew you were right. 

He loved you, and still does. 

You feel your breath leave your lungs like you’ve been hit there again. Shakily, you turn to look over your shoulder, expecting to see him basking in his small victory, taunting you that his claws are deep in you even after all of this time apart, and that they will continue to be for the foreseeable future. 

Except you don’t see that at all. What you thought was a jeering, condescending comment, doesn’t quite match the look on his face. A mix of a small, knowing smile which you expected, and utter desperation, selfishly hoping you’ll never be able to move on from him, that you’ll always come back to him. As hard as it is to admit it to himself, he needs you. So, he’ll revert back to methods that he knows worked on you once. Manipulation, for one.   

The desperation that he fails to conceal is what gives him away. You stand your ground, refusing to fall for him again. 

“And no one will ever hurt me as much as you have.” You mean to stay strong, but your voice cracks and wobbles halfway through. 

You watch his lips part, his eyes widening ever so slightly. 

He's always had a talent for hand-picking words and placing them in the exact order that will make you remember them for months to come. Maybe even years. You really have learned from the best. 

You tear your eyes away, and it turns out to be the hardest thing to do. Your fist knocks on the door too hard, too urgently. The guard lets you out quickly and asks if you’re okay. You just nod, breathing erratically. He doesn’t believe you, but you’re already walking away, eager to get the hell out of here. Even well past his line of sight, you can somehow still feel Yunho’s eyes on you. Your teeth start to chatter as you collect your phone from one of the guards, barely audibly thanking them as you hitch your purse higher up on your shoulder. You force yourself to walk slower. High stress, high emotions, and high pace can’t be a good combination for your lungs.   

When the sun hits you again, you gasp for the fresh air. The very thing you used to hide from, in this moment, you can’t get enough of it. You sit on a bench outside, hands shakily ordering an Uber that cannot come fast enough. Pressing a hand to your head, you will your body to calm down before you act crazy in front of this poor stranger coming to pick you up. You can imagine the headlines if the driver recognizes you, first of all, and tells the press that you were shaken up after visiting the very same prison Yunho is being kept in. 

Your parents would never let you leave the house ever again, much less the fucking country. 

For a moment you panic, and then remember the time difference. Both of them are surely asleep now, and you relax at the lack of frantic text messages from either of them. Thank god– 

The fresh air helps, a gentle breeze occasionally caressing your hair off of your shoulders. You busy your hands by sending Seonghwa a text. 

Luckily, he responds right away. Unluckily, he asks how your visit went. 

Obviously, he’d been rather opposed to the very idea of you going to see Yunho by yourself. It led to a fight between you, though both of you saw where the other was coming from. He knows you’re an adult and can make your own decisions, and you know that he didn’t want you to give Yunho another chance to hurt you again. When the anger had subsided, he let you know he’d support you no matter what you decide to do. As always. 

By the time the Uber gets there, you still haven’t answered Seonghwa’s question. All you send back is a simple, ‘omw’. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Seonghwa opens the door before you can even knock. 

You duck inside, knowing how bad it’d be if anyone saw you going into his apartment. It’s smaller than the one you were kept in, but a lot more lived in. Signs of life decorated every inch of it. He’d told you it’s taken a while for him to adjust to living alone. Whenever he gets out of the shower, he still sometimes expects to see San curled up in his bed instead of his own down the hall. 

It’s a temporary place. For now, it works. 

You think it’s lovely.  

“Hongjoong came by earlier,” Seonghwa says. “He um… yeah, he just told me to say that he hopes you’re doing okay.” 

You nod, sitting down on his couch. Something tells you there’s more to that, but you don’t press him for details. All you can think to say in response is, “Oh. Well… tell him I said ‘thank you’ and ‘same for you’.” 

“Are you?” 

“Am I?” You ask, tilting your head. 

Seonghwa sits next to you, one cushion over. “Are you okay?” 

You know he wants to know about your visit with Yunho, and you’ll tell him eventually. Right now though, it is the last thing you want to do. You haven’t seen Seonghwa in person since your last day in the hospital, eight months ago. Sitting here, on his couch, not two feet away from each other, all you want is to just… sleep, actually. You want to be held, even though you know it’s selfish to want to ask of him, and fall asleep together like you did last December. Before either of you were hurt. 

You push that need down. 

“I’ll be alright,” you say behind a weak smile. 

He looks like he wants to say something, but ultimately decides against it, keeping his mouth shut. Instead, he places his hand on the cushion between you. He lets you decide whether or not to hold it. 

Of course, you do. 

The reconnection feels like coming home. So many things are conveyed through just a simple touch. Commiserations, apologies, trust, and admissions that you’re both glad to see each other again. It’s a special, impenetrable bond, and for the time being, that’s good enough for both of you. It has to be. There’s still too many things to work out and work through to be anything other than just… two people there for each other. It’s an unspoken arrangement. Neither of you are willing to admit why it’s needed. 

“How are the others?” You ask, genuinely curious. 

Seonghwa leans back, resting against one of the pillows on the couch. “They’re alright. We’re still constantly in touch with each other, so… that’s nice.” 

Well, the six of them are. 

Mingi’s being held in a separate prison on the opposite side of Seoul, on the outskirts of the city. He’ll get out before Yunho does, having taken a plea bargain and willingly cooperated with law enforcement. 

You ask about each of them, where they are and what they’re doing. You’re not surprised to know that they all live quite close to each other. Yeosang and San even live in the same apartment complex. It’s nice to know that they’re all still somewhat together despite everything. You’ve been told about the fight Jongho, Wooyoung and San are leading to keep Yunho in prison for longer than he was sentenced. Without the USB or the files from his laptop, they’re trying to find other forms of evidence to get him charged with homicide, and get justice for the girls and the manager. You’ve seen the mixed social media reactions. Some view it as admirable, others call it performative. 

Hongjoong and Yeosang are both relatively off the radar, intent on maintaining a low profile. This, apparently, is almost normal for both of them. ‘Chronic homebodies’, Seonghwa calls them. Still, you naturally worry about them. 

The three of them are planning to move abroad early next year. Since the three of them were most implicated in the case, the public outrage towards them despite their contributions towards your rescue, and despite your written testimony that they were not privy to the truth of who you were when Yunho introduced them, has proven to be impossible to simply ignore. Not even the ‘chronic homebodies’ want to be sheltered inside forever, anxious about going outside. 

Hopefully western Europe will be more peaceful for them. 

An hour into talking, you’re now curled up on the couch while he plays with your fingers, making small noises of disapproval wherever he sees that you still pick at your nails and the skin around them. He just doesn’t want you to hurt yourself like that. On more than one occasion, he’s threatened to buy you a fidget toy or something to help you stop the habit. 

He closes your hand, setting it down again and rubs his thumb against the back of it. Another hour later, there’s a natural lull in the conversation as the apartment starts to darken. The sun is peeking out from behind some of the taller buildings in Seoul, beginning its early descent. 

The two of you stand in his kitchen as he cooks dinner. He swears he’s gotten better now that he has to fend for himself. The money he’s made from being an idol won’t hold out forever, so he’s trying to be smart about it now and not order takeout so much anymore. He offhandedly says that you should have something that Wooyoung cooks sometime, as he’s the best chef in the group, but he gets quiet afterwards. You don’t push it. 

You eat in the living room, feet tucked under you as Seonghwa flicks through all the options on Netflix. You eat slowly, but you’re almost halfway done before he picks something from the ‘Oscar Winning’ category. It’ll do for now. Good background noise while you eat. He checks in on you twice, asking if the food is actually good or if you’re being nice to him, and offering to get you more. You wave him off playfully both times, likening him to a mother hen. It’s a nice little dynamic. 

Halfway through the movie, the sun has disappeared altogether. You haven’t planned on staying the night with him or anything like that, but he’s not kicking you out either. You look down at your purse on the floor, resting against the couch, making a mental inventory of what you have in there. Wallet, perfume, headphones, fan, gum, pill pouch stocked with Tylenol in case of flare ups, and a portable charger. You sneak a glance at Seonghwa, who’s busy finishing his second serving of food, eyes flicking up from the bowl to watch the movie. It doesn’t feel like you’re intruding, but you hate to overstay your welcome. The unofficial plan you made for this visit was only a couple hours at most. Already, you’re dangerously close to several hours.    

A couple minutes later, Seonghwa collects the empty bowls and dishes that have accumulated on his coffee table, and places them in the sink to wash later. He wants to now, but instead he just lets them soak until the movie is over. You watch him as he walks back to you, sitting himself down a little closer to you than before. 

You don’t allow yourself to think anything of it. Not even when you adjust the way you’re sitting, leaning towards him. If you think about it too much, you know who you’ll hear. You know what you’ll remember. You’d rather keep the world and everyone in it out for as long as you can. Since arriving here, you’ve been doing a pretty good job so far, despite the state you were in when you left the prison earlier. 

It’s comforting knowing that any silence between you isn’t awkward or tense, it’s just natural. Even more comforting to know that you can’t say or do anything that will ever make him lash out or physically hurt you. The bare minimum, you know, but you’re working on it. You just… feel safe with him in the little things. 

That’s the tricky part – the little things, they all pile up, don’t they? 

You know you may have waded too deep when you rest your head on his shoulder and he sighs, letting his body relax more into the couch. You lift up, thinking he may be opposed to you doing that, but he guides you back down, not making a big deal of it. The rest of the movie goes by with the two of you staying just like that. Nothing more, nothing less. 

When the movie ends, you know you should leave. 

You engage in polite small-talk about your assessments of the film, coming to a similar conclusion about it: ‘pretty good’. His eyes glance up towards the kitchen sink, and he bites his lip. 

“Would you mind if I washed the dishes really fast?” He asks. 

“Oh, no, go ahead,” you say, sitting up straight to let him go. “I can um… I should probably go back to my hotel.” 

Seonghwa stops mid-stride to turn around and look at you. 

“Oh–” he starts to say but pauses for a moment, wrestling with his inner monologue on what to say next. He looks at the digital clock on the oven. “It’s um…”

“Yeah… I don’t want to intrude.” You smile weakly, gathering your purse. It’s not that late yet, but you’re not terribly keen on going back by yourself in the dark if you can avoid it. 

Seonghwa fidgets with the hem of his shirt, alternating between looking at you, the kitchen, and the television. You’re not sure what he’s thinking. He hops from one foot to another as you stand from the couch. 

“Hwa?” You check on him, noticing his anxious behavior. It’s rare that you call him by that nickname, but you’re trying to do it more often. 

He scratches the back of his neck, stuck in his own thoughts. 

“I uh… if you want– I mean, you can stay here, if you want.” 

You’d tease him for his eloquence if you weren’t busy processing what he’s saying. Now you’re stuck. 

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” you say quietly, looking down at your purse. If you stay, you’d need to ask for so many things from him for the night. Clothes to sleep in for one, a toothbrush, a blanket and pillow for the couch, makeup remover, and… no, not that. You put the end of that thought out of your mind. There’s no need for it, you tell yourself. 

Seonghwa steps closer to you, “No, not intruding at all. I’d like it if you stayed, but… if you’d rather leave then that’s fine too.” 

In danger of sounding too enthusiastic, you make sure he’s being serious about his offer. “Are you sure?”

This time, he just nods. He lets you think it over. 

He watches you place your purse down on the couch. You shyly look back up to him, hoping he’s being serious about his offer. He seems to relax again. A hand reaches out for you to take, which you do, and he leads you into the kitchen. You hop up on the kitchen counter, letting your heels gently hit the cabinets as he washes and dries the dishes. You try to convince him to let you help, at least drying them, but he refuses. 

“A guest shouldn’t have to do any work,” he states. 

When the dishes are done, he brings you into his room so he can get some clothes for you. His room is very… him. That’s the best way you can describe it. You emerge from his closet, in his T-shirt and sweatpants that you roll up so you don’t step on them. He lets you use his bathroom to take your makeup off and tells you there’s a new toothbrush in its packaging in one of the drawers there. That, there is. 

You look away quickly when you place the toothbrush next to his in the little holder. 

Y/N, it’ll never work, you tell yourself. 

He’s back in the living room when you come out of the bathroom, tying your hair up. He looks up at you from the couch and offers a small smile, and your pick for a ‘double feature’ night. You grin as you take the remote from him, sitting next to him and beginning your search. You’ll show him one of your favorites. 

As the movie starts, the two of you resume your earlier positions – you leaning against his shoulder, and him settling back against the couch. This time, he has his arm over the back of the couch, and almost halfway through the movie, he lets it drift closer, but ultimately doesn’t touch you. He’s still so overly cautious. You kind of want him to snap out of it, but at the same time, you feel that much more safe with him. He’ll keep himself close enough to make you feel protected, and not like he’s expecting anything from you. By doing this, he gives you the option to either lean into it or ignore it and keep to yourself. It’s there if you want it, and it’s immediately taken away if you don’t. 

You wouldn’t have such a choice with Yunho… 

By the time the double feature comes to an end, and the credits start to roll up the screen, you’re sleepily smushed into Seonghwa’s side. He gently shakes you and you mumble incoherently that you’re awake while your eyelids lose the fight to stay open. Very convincing. He turns the TV off and takes your hand to help you off the couch. You wake up just enough to stand and rub your eyes.  

“Do you have an extra blanket?” You ask, gesturing to the couch. It’s definitely comfortable enough to sleep on. 

Seonghwa blinks before understanding. “Oh, yeah, I do.” 

He disappears into his room to retrieve it and hands it to you. You wrap it around your shoulders. He shoves his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to say or do in this standstill. He won’t outwardly say what he wants for fear of sounding like Yunho, and you won’t say what you want for fear of making him uncomfortable. The kitchen light casts shadows against both of your faces. You hug the blanket tighter around you. 

It’ll never work. 

The polite exchanges of ‘goodnight’ send you both off to sleep. 

In theory. 

You spend an hour on the couch trying to reclaim the heaviness in your eyelids and the deep relaxation needed in order to sleep, but neither will return. 

Two hours later, still with no success, you give up for the time being and scroll on your phone. However, you exhaust all of your social media apps rather quickly – you don’t follow many people anyway. Phone set back down, you get up and shuffle to the kitchen to get some water. You feel like you’re snooping through his stuff as you try to find a glass to put said water in, and eventually pull open the right cabinet. As you set it down carefully on the counter, you note the time on the oven clock. Almost two-thirty. You groan inwardly, knowing you’re probably in for a sleepless night. 

Oh, well. It’s better than potentially having a nightmare on his couch, you suppose. 

You wince as the cabinet closes a little too loudly, hopefully not disturbing Seonghwa while he sleeps. Trying to be even more quiet, you fill your glass with water and lean against the kitchen counter, just taking in the view of his apartment from there. You like the huge windows in the living room the most. It takes up most of the wall space and boasts a rather pretty view of the city. You take a small sip, the water feeling nice so late at night. Definitely needed. 

There’s some small rustling noise from Seonghwa’s bedroom and you freeze, hoping you didn’t wake him up with that cabinet. 

But he pads out to the kitchen, rubbing one of his eyes and stopping in his tracks once he sees you. 

“Hey,” he says quietly, looking over at the discarded blanket on the couch. “You okay?” 

You set your glass back down, “Yeah, I’m okay. Can’t sleep.” 

He hums, nodding. “I can’t either.” 

Instead of awkwardly standing still in front of each other, he moves to your side to get himself a drink as well. Instead of water, he substitutes it for soju. He reasons it might help him sleep. From the same cabinet, he grabs a smaller glass and fills it up about halfway with soju. He drinks it all in one go, wincing slightly as it burns down. You laugh lightly at his expression, and his ears turn pink. You wonder what type of drunk he is. Maybe one day you’ll find out, you doubt he’s about to get hammered tonight. He takes another shot, and then puts the bottle away. 

Something tells you he drinks in order to sleep quite a lot. 

You cradle your little glass of water self-consciously. Being here may be nice for you, but it could be triggering him, and he’s just too nice to you to say anything. You look down at his clothes hanging off your body and bite your lip. 

“Hey,” he gets your attention, “enough of that.” 

“What?” You ask, even though you know he caught you overthinking. 

“I want you here. And this,” he gestures to the bottle, “is getting better.”

You lower your head again, feeling caught. He also all but confirmed that what you were thinking is true, or was up until recently. 

“I don’t dream if I drink,” he says in a quieter voice. “So…” 

Maybe it’s late-night courage, or what have you, but you set your water down and wrap your arms around him in a hug. You’ve wanted to do this since you walked in. Luckily, he doesn’t tense or back away from you like you’re afraid he will. No, he pulls you tighter against him, sighing against your hair as one of his hands rests on the back of your head. 

Two broken people in the kitchen, holding the pieces of each other together. 

You’re not sure how long you stay like this, but when you two eventually pull away, he takes your hand. He avoids eye contact again, trying to build enough confidence to say something.        

“I don’t like sleeping alone,” he admits. 

Your cheeks warm. He knows you don’t either. That’s one of the things Yunho told him the night he left. “Me neither.” 

Seonghwa nods once. You look back over at the couch. Surely the two of you can be comfortable there for the night? You don’t want to intrude on his private space. You feel like a vampire, you can’t go into a room without being invited first. 

This invitation isn’t verbal. 

Seonghwa gently leads you into his room before hurrying back to the couch to grab the blanket again. When he reenters, you’re still standing in the middle of his room. God, both of you are so awkward and so overly cautious with each other. You think it’ll just be like this until you both get better mentally. You already plan to talk with him in the morning. For now, you let him know that you don’t feel pressured, and that you want to be here. 

He physically relaxes, obviously worried about that until you said something. He gets into bed first, sighing once he settles down. You get in after him slowly, still checking him to see if it’s okay, if he’s not regretting his offer. It doesn’t look like it. 

You lay apart, with a few inches of distance between you two, for a couple of minutes, both trying to sleep. It is quickly apparent that this won’t help. You risk moving closer to him, laying your hand next to his. Still awake as well, he plays with your bracelet for a while before he moves to hold your hand properly. 

It’s a gradual shift, testing the waters to see what the other is okay with. Eventually, there are no more inches of distance between you, and you’re curling up by his side, your arm laid over his torso, and his arm wrapped around you.    

“Does this feel… is this okay?” He checks one more time as the soju starts to kick in, dragging him towards sleep. He fights against it for a little longer, needing to hear your verdict. 

You look around the room. 

Trinkets overflow off of shelves, a huge monitor on his LED illuminated desk, an equally large Lego collection showcased behind glass, a bladeless fan perched on his nightstand, also equipped with soft LED lights, and small, miscellaneous plants anywhere else there’s room. 

You look up at him. 

His eyelashes dust the tops of his cheeks as he waits for your reply. He holds a slight tension in his hand, ready to either let go of you entirely, or pull you in closer. 

And suddenly, there’s no more forest. No more cameras or fire. No more water or knives or guns, or belts. There’s no more betrayal, tests, or fear. There’s only him. And for tonight, that’s enough. That will make all the difference in the world. Everything else you’ll figure out in the morning, already visualizing the many texts you’ll wake up to from your mother, asking where the hell you are. You’re content to stay right here until your flight home, honestly.    

You nuzzle your cheek against the space between his shoulder and his chest. His cheek rests against the top of your head and he gently presses you closer. Both of you breathe in the other.  

“It’s perfect.”  

Yunho adjusted his grip on the gun, turned the safety off and pressed it against her head. 

Another disappointment, another waste of his time. She trembled beneath him on the forest floor, begging him to not end her life, to let her go, blah blah blah… It bored him. Agitated him, too. By now, he was so sick of hearing the same things over and over again. As if they could change his mind so easily. She dug her own grave, as far as he was concerned, attempting to commit the biggest sin of all: trying to run from him. 

She’d gotten rather far – farther than the others ever hoped to get – making it all the way out to the elevator before he caught her around the middle, kicking and screaming as he dragged her all the way back.  

“Let me go,” she warbled, struggling against the ropes that bound her ankles and wrists. All that Yunho heard from that plea was, ‘I never wanted to stay. I lied to you’ and quite frankly, it only pissed him off even more. His disappointment in her manifested into his infamous anger. She had been a good girl, until she tried to get away.  

He rolled his eyes when she started crying. Not only was it annoying, but it was useless as well. 

“Shut up.” He hissed, pressing the barrel of the gun harder against her head. 

When she didn’t stop after he hit her over the head with the gun the first time, he shoved her to the ground, pressing a muddy boot up against her throat. The next hit to the head did shut her up, knocking her unconscious without any further problems. 

The cut-off scream echoing into the air was the last piece of evidence that she’d ever been alive in this place. She simply wouldn’t exist anymore in a few short minutes. She didn’t deserve to, anyway. Not anymore.  

Normally, if she had stayed quiet and he’d just shot her instead, next would be the most laborious part: removing the identifiable features. He had to remove their hands and feet due to the ligature marks, which also gets rid of finger prints. Those have to be buried deeper into the forest, far away from the body. Tedious, but necessary. Sometimes, he’d pull their teeth and or cut off their heads. Just depended on if he felt like doing it, or had the time to. But he’d rather forgo all that trouble. She'd pissed him off too much, and he didn’t want to be near her anymore, not even in death. If she had just accepted her fate quietly, he would’ve been nicer to her. 

Quiet girls get the gun. Noisy ones choke on the dirt.  

It’s all too easy for him to nudge her body into the freshly dug, shallow grave with his boot. Custom made, just for her. She hits the ground with a dull thud, some loose soil shaking loose above and landing on her neck. And when he stared down at her, body laid in a crumpled heap only four feet below the earth’s surface, watching the slight rise and fall of her chest, he felt… nothing. Just like he did when he had to do this to the others. At least that was a good sign – he wasn’t becoming weak. 

Yunho’s hand flexed on the handle of the shovel.

All the months he wasted on her, all the trouble and the headaches she caused him pile up as the sight of her body burned into his brain. He rolled his shoulders back. 

Next time would be different, he was sure. Trial and error is all this is, after all. 

The morning sun started to filter through the tree branches, warning him that it was time to wrap it up. Get her under. 

“Min,” he called lazily, holding the shovel out towards his best friend, who took it without a word. As expected in this routine of theirs. He stood back, busying himself by warming up his hands, his breath visible in the wintry air.  

Mingi tried not to look at her as he shoveled the dirt back into the grave. Occasionally he’d catch a few glimpses of her body and have to turn away or lower his gaze even more. He’d warned her in the backseat on the way here. He’d warned her to not scream or cry and she’d get the preferred way out. She was hyperventilating the whole drive there, leaning into him for comfort. He was glad she was blindfolded – he didn’t have to see the raw terror in her eyes. 

His own eyes were shut tight when he heard her start to wake up again, choking and weakly trying to claw the dirt away from her mouth and nose to no avail. Already more than halfway, he couldn’t hear her for much longer. 

For his sanity, he has to believe it’s better. For the best. She was suffering in that apartment, as they all did. But when they don’t die right away, those times are always the worst. He hated that he had hoped Yunho would just shoot her, get it over with. He can’t imagine anything worse than a slow death, one you can see coming before it fully envelops you. The sounds of dirt being coughed up, breathless, piercing screams managing to slip through the earth, and the slow, gradual silence that follows. 

‘Air is a luxury’, as Yunho would say. 

Mingi thought of the girl before. Kara. Her life ended with the sound of birds flying out of the trees, scrambling away from the man with the gun. She’d stayed quiet. However, not exactly because she was being ‘good’. In all ways except physically, she was already dead. It’s why Yunho got so bored with her. She only lasted three months.   

He finished his grievous task quickly, unfortunately used to it, and quickly walked back towards the car to throw the shovel into the trunk. He never lingered after the last shovel of dirt was placed, only smoothing over the surface to better blend the unnatural mound into the forest landscape. Nothing out of place, hidden by plantlife and the shadows of the trees overhead.

He took off a glove and ran a hand down his face, bracing himself against the boot of the car for a minute. Just a minute. Nauseous guilt, that had once been strong enough to make him physically sick after each time, was slowly becoming manageable. He just needed some time to push it down. 

Come tomorrow, he’d reset. He’d be alright… somewhat. Ready to move on, already patching up the memory of this in his mind with large, black spots until it fully covered the entire picture. Time would heal everything, as it always had.  

Yunho came back to the car, staying in that clearing for a while longer, making sure she wasn’t able to claw her way out. Once he broke through the trees, Mingi noted how carefree he was, inspecting his nails for any dirt or visible blood stains. The simpler it is for him to shake off this loss, the more it proved to him that she wasn’t the one. Not meant to be. That was always easier to digest. 

“Ugh,” Yunho yawned, stretching his arms, “let’s go. It’s fuckin’ cold.”    

There was a lingering emptiness in the car that only Mingi felt. Three arrived here, and only two left. His hand stays in his pocket, one of her bracelets still safe in there, unbeknownst to Yunho. It had fallen off of her wrist in the struggle to get her tied. Once they got back to the apartment, it’d be a couple hours of deep cleaning, removing any sign that she had been there whatsoever. Only the ghost of her would loiter there now. 

“Are you still going out tonight?” Mingi asked, making casual conversation in order to focus on anything other than the image that he cannot unsee. Sounds he cannot unhear. A girl he couldn’t save… but probably could have if he had done more.  

Yunho nodded as he drank his coffee, placing the cup back into the holder next to him. 

“Yeah… should be fun.” He said as his hand flexed on the wheel. He smirked as he looked over at his friend, knowing Mingi had picked up on the insinuation.

Mingi only nods, tight-lipped and mentally far away from the claustrophobic confines of the car. One of the first emotions that bubbled up for him then was irritation – the knowledge that he’ll have to go through all of this again, only to inevitably aid in the next one’s demise. The clean-up, the memory gap, the renewal, over and over. A drawn-out routine as predictable as the sun rising and setting every day and night. 

His phone dug uncomfortably into his thigh, as if urging him to use it. Call the police now. Stop the cycle now. But all he does is readjust how it was laying in his pants pocket. Complicit and loyal as ever. As silent as the grave they just filled. 

The forest eventually gave way to highways and city streets, shifting from green to grey in less than an hour. In the heart of the city again, Mingi looked away from the windows, avoiding looking at the people on the streets. He told himself if he did, everyone would be looking back at him. They’d know what he just did. They’d know what was in the trunk of the car, they’d see the guilt on his face, as well as the unwillingness to end it. Maybe she could have been saved that morning, if he had just tried to talk Yunho out of it. But he knew all too well, once Yunho decided to do something, there was no talking him out of it. There was no stopping his plans once in motion. 

Mingi rested his head against the window, eyes shut tight to avoid his reflection in the side-view mirror and the people in the streets. He didn’t need to see in them what he already saw in himself. 

When the car finally crawled to a stop, he took a deep breath before glancing over to Yunho, who was already moving to get out of the car.  

“Let’s get this over with.” Yunho grumbles, not particularly looking forward to the clean-up process. He was used to it, though, having done it five times before. Again: tedious, but necessary. The price he paid, risk and reward. However, he was getting rather impatient, what with all the risks without rewards, the gambles without the payoffs, and all of this effort with no results. A thankless job, if you asked him. 

The thought never failed to amuse him, as he scrubbed every single appliance, washed every pillowcase and blanket, separated the trash to later burn what she had touched, and moved the stuffed animals back into the apartment next door; the thought that Jeong Yunho, global boyfriend, member of ATEEZ, was spending his rare days off cleaning up a crime scene. He couldn’t stop the corners of his mouth from pulling up, smug as ever as he ripped up her journal, collected the torn pages into a fireproof bowl, and grabbed his lighter. Her deepest fears (which were primarily him), her thoughts, her very memory all burned before him. The light of the flame danced in his dull, wicked eyes.

As soon as she was reduced to ash, she was tipped over the balcony railing, catching on the wind and disappearing, seamlessly blending into the dust and concrete on the city streets. 

Mingi ignored the smell of smoke, electing to breathe through his mouth until it became dry just to avoid it. He had volunteered to deep-clean the living room, away from the burning and bleaching tasks. His eyes watered and stung from the harsh chemicals of the bleach. At least the loud humming of the vacuum kept his thoughts at bay for now. However, he wasn’t sure how long he could stay here. The walls were closing in on him by the minute.   

Hours later, somehow he found himself on the floor in the hallway, sitting next to Yunho, waiting for the bedding to come out of the dryer. The very last thing. The two of them sat in silence, listening to the constant whir of the machine. Yunho leaned his head against the wall, Mingi silently picked at the skin around his nails. Both of them, exhausted. There wasn’t much to be said, at least not out loud. 

Yunho scrolled through Instagram and TikTok on his phone during the wait, occasionally nudging Mingi with his elbow to show him something funny. Mingi would laugh via a sharp exhale through his nose, as a courtesy.

Too normal. Way too fucking normal. 

“I gotta start getting ready soon,” Yunho sighed, glancing up at the time on his phone before switching it off. “You got this, Min?” 

Mingi nodded, muttering a small ‘yep’ in reply. He’s used to this, too. Yunho would create a mess, or start something, and he’d be left to finish it. That was just how their dynamic was, and Mingi was all too willing to play the part Yunho wanted him to play. Anything to make sure he stayed. Even if it meant hating himself after.  

Yunho pushed himself up, disappearing into his room and starting up the shower to get the smell of earth and bleach off of him. Mingi looked down at his own body to find dirt streaking up his forearms and staining the lower legs of his jeans. His fingernails were black. From the hallway, he looked over at the entranceway of the apartment where they had kicked off their shoes upon arrival. He’d have to get the dirt off of those too. 

The dryer sang, announcing that the cycle had ended and fell silent. With a huff, Mingi also pushed himself up off of the floor, ignoring the ache in his lower back as he straightened, and set about collecting the freshly dried sheets and making up the bed. 

The sun was beginning to take more and more time to set, a hopeful sign that spring would come sooner rather than later, even if the biting winds and freezing temperatures said otherwise.

When golden light filtered in through the blinds, Yunho reemerged, pulling on a glove with his teeth, texting with his other hand. Mingi looked away, bringing the shoes back in from the balcony after banging each pair against the railing to shake the remaining dirt loose. Even though he came back inside, he swore he could still see his breath inside the apartment. 

Yunho paused, watching his best friend place the shoes back down next to the front door. He was less shaky than last time they did this. Yunho grinned to himself as he sent off the text, everything falling into place for him. As usual. As expected.   

“I think we’re good,” Yunho said, giving the apartment a once-over. He nodded once, his final seal of approval. “I’m off. Are you staying?”

Mingi cleared his throat. “No, I’ll um… I’ll go home.” 

“Mm.” 

After waiting for a minute, to see if Yunho would say anything else, Mingi finally allowed himself to put his newly cleaned shoes back on, as well as his coat. When Yunho still didn't say anything, his shoulders dropped in relief. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mingi said, hand on the doorknob, ready to go. 

“See you tomorrow,” Yunho echoed, waving him off. 

Once the door closed behind Mingi, leaving Yunho in the rare, empty silence of the apartment, he looked around him one more time. His eyes scanned for anything they might’ve missed, and found nothing. With a sigh, he checked his phone for the time again before pulling on his other glove.

Thankfully, he expected the rest of the night to go smoothly for him. He’d been so stressed recently, having just gotten back from Europe, wrapping up the tour and an appearance at Fashion Week, preparing for their comeback, working on choreography and his solo, variety appearances, everything just piled up. And she didn’t make it any easier on an already troubled mind. She didn’t ease his stress whatsoever – so what really was her purpose in being there any longer? 

Which is why he’s so glad that you fell into his lap when you did. 

Hidden well behind the likable, meet-your-parents type of golden boy charade he put on so masterfully, a predator hunted the streets, scanning and cataloguing everything. Everybody. The widely accepted misconception that he would never hurt a fly only played right into his hands. Effortless charm that never failed to completely dismiss any suspicion from him, and you were no exception. You fell for him hard. A cute, innocent thing, relatively new to the city, with no knowledge of ATEEZ whatsoever, and far from home. Just what he was after. 

Too trusting, too good to be left out wandering the city streets for just anybody to look at or come across. All too easy for someone like him to happen upon you – with thanks to Mingi. 

He had ordered the same drink as you on purpose. Of course he did. 

He had followed you to that cafe, already knowing the ins and outs of your schedule, the names of your friends and your parents, and where you lived – both at home, and here in Seoul. To attract you towards him even more, trust him even more, he tailored himself to be your dream, though he didn’t have to do too much. He was blessed with an enviable card in life; rich, tall, naturally charming, and handsome all on his own. 

What he needed now was to genuinely feel in control and loved. That was the hard part. 

Whatever else there was to know about you, he would figure it out by taking you out on these dates, like the one he had planned that night. Only the second official date, and he already knew you were next. You were ticking off all of his boxes: submissive, good listener, kind, beautiful, and just naive enough to let your guard down around him already.

If you managed to survive and behave, he knew he would owe Mingi big time for finding you for him. Matchmaker, indeed.  

The drive there was smooth if not just a little too long for how impatient he felt. A restaurant hidden deep in the city, with a booth that boasted luxury and privacy awaited his arrival. He’d turn the charm all the way up, just the right amount to be the perfect man, the envy of all of your friends, the angel you always dreamed of. He’d also try small, easy commands to see how you would react to receiving orders; whether you’d fight him on it, or obey without any pushback. He hoped for the latter. 

Arriving twenty minutes early, he parked his car nearby and kept his face hidden well as he walked inside the restaurant, quickly being ushered to his reserved booth in a private dining room upon giving a fake name. You knew to ask for ‘Jeong’ whenever you arrived. You assumed he was just rich and important in some way, a private guy. Nothing wrong with that. He had given you no red flags, and hey, you could get used to luxury like this even if you had to arrive separately.

When you entered the private room, he stood immediately, wrapping you in a welcoming hug, muttering something about how you need a thicker coat to protect yourself against the frigid weather. 

The date was perfect, and so were you. 

He complimented you on how beautiful you looked, and when you shyly looked down, avoiding the praise, he just tilted your chin back up, a silent command to keep your head up and your eyes on him. And you did. Behind the undeniable but unspoken sexual tension between you two, you failed to recognize how you were playing right into his fantasy. With a disarming smile that showed he meant you no harm or underlying remarks about your weight in any way, he whined that you should eat more to keep up your strength, in your best interest in the long run. You giggled and agreed with him. It wasn’t hard to finish everything, it was delicious and you paced yourself well. He watched you eat the last bite with a glint of something unreadable in his eyes, and then it was gone again. 

What you missed in the smile that he gave you was the predatory fire in his eyes. You were the lamb that willingly walked into the wolf’s den, believing that he would show you kindness and love instead of hunger and bloodshed. But just like in the folktales and warnings, the wolf didn’t reveal himself right away. All the while proclaiming how the world sent you to him, and only the big bad wolf could ever protect you from the dangers within it. 

First, he earned your trust, and then he went in for the kill.    

It took everything in him to not take you back to the apartment then and there. Against every fiber in his body telling him to take you now, he only allowed himself to hug you goodbye, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead that made your cheeks burn and your heart flutter in the night air. He told you to get home safe, to text him when you got there as he looked around the darkened city, and you nodded. You would. 

And you did. 

The drive home is spent white-knuckling the steering wheel. He stared at the pitch black road ahead of him without paying much attention to it, fighting against himself to whip the car around and steal you from your apartment now. He hadn’t felt this strongly about someone in such a long time, and although he couldn’t place his finger on precisely why, something in him just told him that you would be worth the effort this time. 

You wouldn’t leave him. You wouldn’t be able to, nor hope to. He had practice and experience with this now. He knew what worked and what didn’t, and he corrected his foolish past mistakes. He knew to lock the windows so you couldn’t jump like Yuri, never let you bathe without supervision like Hyerim, and to not let you starve yourself like Sofia did. Every girl before you had failed him before because they had something you wouldn’t be able to have: a chance to leave of their own accord. A choice.  

No. You would be his greatest achievement yet. Kept safe and beautiful just for him. And the guys would thank him for it. 

As he parked the car in the dorm building’s garage, his phone lit up. 

[pretty girl🖤]: home safe! :) 

[pretty girl🖤]: thank you so much for dinner, i had such a good time !! 

Good girl, he smirked, biting his bottom lip. You remembered one of his orders. He replayed the date in his head, already planning the next one – the most important one. The next one was when he would finally take you here. Tonight solidified that plan. 

Accordingly, and to his own sick amusement, he changed your contact name in his phone before he responded. 

[Yunho]: good im glad :) 

[Yunho]: get some sleep baby. i’ll text u tomorrow <3

You emphasized that text, a thrill running through your entire body at the pet name. 

[7🖤]: yessir🫡😴

[7🖤]: goodnight :) 

He didn’t respond, simply hearting your last message and finding his and Mingi’s conversation. His message to his best friend was short and to the point, saying everything that could be conveyed in the simplest way possible. 

[Yunho]: ;) 

Back in his own dorm, Mingi threw his phone against the wall. It cracked immediately on impact. 

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Yeosang?” Seonghwa whisper-shouts towards the dark hallway. 

You tense, choking the life out of Puppy, veins popping out of your hand as you listen to the footsteps drawing nearer and nearer. One set of them, not two. 

You know that sound all too well. 

There is a brief, terrible pause before the owner of the footsteps steps into the candlelight. 

Met with the last person he expected – or wanted – to see, Seonghwa nearly hits his head on the wall behind him, his body jolting backwards, away from the danger. At the same time, your body locks up, even though all your training tells you to get on the ground as fast as you can. A part of you sighs in relief, glad that he’s back. Another part wants to jump out of the window as soon as possible. 

In the dim, golden light, he looks more devilish than ever you’ve seen him. His anger is palpable, radiating off of his body. Your hand starts to cramp painfully as you nearly squeeze off Puppy’s head. You notice his hands are filthy, dirt staining his pants up to the knee, and tracking off of his shoes with every step. 

He’s the first to speak. “Expecting someone else?” 

Seonghwa exhales shakily, too frightened at the moment to say anything in response. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, having never seen him this scared of Yunho before, and you don’t know why. But you don’t have much time to ponder that as Yunho’s attention turns to you next. His jaw sets, eyes flickering between you and the space on the floor in front of him – where you should be.  

“How. Fucking. Rude.” Yunho snarls, punctuating each word by removing his belt, pulling the leather out more and more until it finally unfurls from his hips like a whip about to be cracked. 

You scramble off the bed, landing hard onto the floor, but you know you’re already too late. He watches you tremble beneath him, looking down at you past his nose like you were pathetic to him. Disappointing too. 

“W-welcome h-h–” 

“Shut your fucking mouth.” He growls, looping the belt once. Every vein in his hand pops.  

The apartment holds its breath, sucking all the air out of the room. Each one of you, a livewire, ready to spark, snap, and burn. 

“Y-Yunho,” Seonghwa stammers around his fear, “h-how are you he–”  

“Early flight. Got in this afternoon.” Yunho bites the words as he speaks them. He doesn’t look towards Seonghwa while he talks, keeping his gaze fixed solely on you. You try to focus on your breathing, anything to try and calm yourself down. You don’t know why he’s this angry, though you’re sure that your attempt to open the window must be part of it. A cold shiver runs through your body. You can suddenly feel each individual scar on your legs from the fire. What will it be this time? 

Yunho stalks towards you, pointing the belt at your face, accusingly. “You knew, didn’t you?” 

Utterly confused, you can only gape at him, eyes wide in fear, looking to Seonghwa for clarification. 

Wrong move.

The belt strikes you across the cheek, the metal buckle snagging on your cheek and ripping the skin. A startled, pained yelp tears from your throat before you can get a hold of yourself. You force your hands to stay by your side. Your knees already ache. Stay still, be good. 

“Answer me,” Yunho hisses, grabbing you by the hair and yanking it painfully. Up close like this, you can smell the scent of earth that clings to his skin and clothes. 

“No, Daddy, please, I swear! I don’t know what you’re talking about, please–” 

Tired of your babbling already, he shoves you to the floor. In a foolish attempt to straighten yourself up, back on your knees, he flattens you down again with his boot, stepping right between your shoulder blades. Your jaw hits the floor hard, and you narrowly avoid biting your tongue on impact. 

“Yunho, she didn’t know–”

“Stop talking.” 

You whimper at the loud and harsh tone coming from him, and he rolls his eyes at you. He applies more pressure on your back, your ribs pressing uncomfortably into the carpet. Some of your hair is trapped underneath his boot and it rips out of your scalp when he sharply pulls off. 

Off to the side, you hear Seonghwa push himself off of the wall, lunging for his backpack. He barely gets his hand inside of it before Yunho grabs you from the floor again, bringing you up on your knees, causing your head to spin, and he presses the knife up to your throat.  

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns. The very tip of the knife digs into your skin, stinging underneath your jaw painfully. You can feel your heartbeat pulsing in your throat, against the sharp edge of the blade. Seonghwa freezes immediately, dropping the bag back down to the floor with a dull thud. He swallows hard, seeing you so close to getting your throat cut right in front of him. It definitely is more than a threat – it is a very real possibility. 

“Bring it to me.” Yunho says lowly. When Seonghwa hesitates, clearly not wanting Yunho to have the gun, the knife is only pressed against your throat harder, cutting you deeper. Your hands reflexively fly up to his forearm and you whimper, begging Seonghwa with your eyes to just do what he says. 

So he does. Reluctantly, he wraps his hand around the handle of the backpack, fighting against every instinct in his body to get away from Yunho rather than walk right towards him. They watch each other the whole time. You can feel the air from the bag as it drops in front of you. Yunho nudges it with his foot to bring it closer to his side. His breath is hot against your ear. 

“Don’t move,” he hisses before shoving you back down to the floor. Only a small noise escapes you as you hit the ground, your upper back sore from his earlier reminder to stay down.  

He lazily points the knife in Seonghwa’s direction. “I believe I told you to do something,”

Seonghwa stiffens but somehow remains defiant even in the very face of danger. “Yunho give it up, they’re on their way. You don’t have–” 

He’s cut off by Yunho laughing. Actually laughing at him. “Is that supposed to scare me? Stop me? No, no, no, I gave you a very simple task and I want to see it carried out.” 

All laughter gone in an instant, Yunho throws his belt at Seonghwa’s feet, who takes a step back from it. “I’m not–”  

“This is the last time I’ll be nice about this,” Yunho warns bluntly, stepping forward to crowd Seonghwa’s personal space, towering over him. When neither man moves after a few seconds, Yunho sighs, tapping the flat edge of the knife against Seonghwa’s shoulder. “You wanna keep her alive? Then do it.” 

Seonghwa swallows hard. Your heart sinks. You watch his eyes flicker from the knife, to you, to the belt. 

The weight of uncertainty lingers, a crack forming in your conditioning that makes you feel like you’re rising towards the surface after spending so much time underwater. Yunho’s presence is like an itch underneath your skin that you can’t scratch. Something you always longed for, worked yourself to the bone for. It feels like a steel rod has been shoved down your throat and you’re being forced to look and act like nothing is wrong. Stay quiet, stay down. Don’t move. 

Your body obeys, used to listening to that voice in your head, but now your mind is fractured. Pulled in two different directions: what it knows, and what it’s been told. Similar, but opposite. At least, that’s how you’re categorizing them. Suddenly the air feels vile, the floor supporting you now trying to swallow you whole. Trap you. Again. You push yourself up onto your palms, wanting to get your face off of and away from the floor. Your legs itch to run. Get to the door. Get out. 

But the fear of him catching you is more than enough to keep you down. You’ve tried this before. Look where it got you last time… look where it has you now. 

He steps back from Seonghwa, giving him room to get closer to you. The belt lays below him like a snake, curling by his feet. Left without many options, hoping that the rest of the guys will get here sooner rather than later, he slowly picks up the belt. Slower still, he steps towards you, Yunho close behind. Seonghwa’s hands shake. 

“What do you want me to do?” He asks, voice hollow and void of any emotion.  

Yunho looks down at you as if he’s thinking about it, even though you and Seonghwa both know he made up his mind hours ago. He sighs, like he hates having to make him do this. Unexpectedly, he crouches down next to you. 

“Well, that depends on if she wants to be conscious or unconscious for what I do to her.” 

You exhale shakily, body trembling underneath the weight of his gaze. Surely what you did wasn’t so bad it would earn you such a harsh correction. And the fact that he is making you choose… oh, that frightens you to no end. He tilts his head to one side, waiting for you to make your choice. Unconsciousness seems like a blessing. A rare show of mercy from him. Whatever happens to you, at least you won’t be awake for it.

“U-un-unconscious,” You manage to stammer out, unable to look him in the eyes for longer than a second at a time. It dawns on you then that you’ll have to deal with however he chooses to get you unconscious… and the fear takes hold of you again. But he grabs Seonghwa by the shirt and pulls him forward, impatient. 

“Go on,” he says, glancing at the belt, and then back to you. You can almost see flames in his eyes. Meanwhile, you can clearly see the tears in Seonghwa’s. 

“I’m not–” Seonghwa chokes on his own voice, “just kill me, Yunho. Go ahead, just leave her alone.” 

Yunho’s anger flares again. When will they fucking learn to not try and dictate how to treat you or what to do with you? As if they know you better than he does. His hand grips the knife tighter, resisting the urge to grant Seonghwa’s wishes and sink it deep into his chest. Mingi’s arm be damned, that will truly send a big fucking message to the rest of the group. But he keeps control of himself, as much as he can. 

“Seonghwa, it’s okay,” you hear yourself murmur when he’s close enough to hear. You fully expect a hit for speaking without permission, but surprisingly, Yunho doesn’t do anything like that yet. Instead, he gathers familiar black rope from the nightstand and moves behind you to tie your wrists behind your back. He’s not gentle about it. 

Seonghwa’s hands shake uncontrollably as he kneels down in front of you, staring down at the belt in his hands. You make brief eye contact with him, just for a fleeting moment. 

You lower your voice, even quieter than before, “I’d rather it be you.”

He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut, nodding once. His words from just minutes ago run through your already racing mind: ‘You’re gonna be okay, I promise.’ You wonder if this time, a promise made to you will be kept. It’s highly unlikely. 

Seonghwa fights to keep himself together, unable to look at you as he wraps the belt around your neck. Not moving as fast as Yunho would like, he feels the knife press up against the side of his throat as ‘motivation’. It only takes one more bark from Yunho to get him to actually do anything, hatred burning in his heart all the while. 

The buckle especially digs in the hardest, cold and unforgiving against your heated skin. Seonghwa’s breath hits your stinging cheek, and you wince, and again when the belt finally tightens, constricting your air from each side of your neck. Instinctually, your hands try to fly up to the leather, wanting to pry it off of you, but the ropes are unrelenting, restricting you completely. Your chest rises and falls rapidly, desperate for a full breath that you know you will not be getting any time soon. Yunho watches you both like a hawk the whole time, tapping the knife against the back of his hand as he waits.  

Eyes watering, you blink hard to try and restore your vision as it blurs and darkens. It’s not long before you slump back down to the floor, coughing and thrashing for air. Your legs kick, your back arches, your body tries its best to find air for you, an angle that can allow for breath, but finds none. A strangled cry escapes you, from the very depths of your chest. You can’t see Seonghwa above you anymore. The pressure in your face and head threatens to explode, temples feeling like they’re just about to burst from the tension. One more pathetic wheeze from you, and you fall limp. You stop struggling. 

Air is a luxury. 

Immediately, Seonghwa yanks the belt away, quickly checking for a pulse. When he finds one still hammering away, he sighs in something like relief. Your chest rises and falls slowly. An angry, deep red ring marrs your neck, cutting into the flushed skin. Internally, he sends you every apology he can, distraught that the others didn’t come before he had to do this to you. Where are they?  

Yunho hums as he gets up, nudging your cheek with his shoe to test for any reaction. Your mouth opens slightly. He pauses. Then he stomps on your chest, hard, to check if you’re faking it. You’re not. You don’t respond, but your breathing becomes shorter, more labored. He looks away quickly, blinding himself from how he hurt you, and instead focusing all of his attention back on Seonghwa. He rolls his eyes at his obviously distressed expression, how he can’t bring himself to tear his eyes from you now, in case you stop breathing for good. 

“How do you feel, Hwa?” Yunho asks, tilting his head to the side. “Feel like you’re one step ahead of me, still?” 

Seonghwa seethes at the question, hands still shaking. The belt, now laying lifeless on the floor next to you, taunts him relentlessly alongside its owner. 

Yunho smirks when he doesn’t get a reply, knowing the answer already, and sets about getting everything ready to leave and leave fast. Luckily, he’s practiced this. In case he ever needed to take you out of here at a moment’s notice, he had a system and plan in place. Of course he does. But first, he has to make sure the… anomaly in the room is taken care of. 

After more black rope is collected from the nightstand drawer, Yunho turns back to Seonghwa, who isn’t paying much attention to the fact that he is now Yunho’s main focus. No, he’s trapped in himself at the moment, the visual of your eyes looking up at him as the air was choked out of you is branding itself into his memory. Guilt and trauma swarm him, battering his mind from all sides until he almost cannot think of anything else. But what he does catch onto is the fact that… Yunho, though efficient and quick, isn’t acting like he’s about to get caught any second. He acts like he has time. And the more time that passes, the more Seonghwa fears what he could have done to ensure this amount of leisure. 

That familiar fear flashes through his mind, the image he’s created in horrific detail of the six others laying dead somewhere. Logically, because of the timing of Hongjoong’s text and when Yunho actually arrived at the apartment, he knows it can’t be true. The thought haunts him anyway. Yunho knows about their plan. He could’ve done anything to prevent them from carrying it out, or at least something to buy himself more time – and he probably doesn’t even have to be there to execute it. Still, he hopes that they’ll show up any second now. 

Especially when he sweeps Yunho’s legs out of nowhere, causing him to crash down a little too close to where you lay. 

Seonghwa scrambles to his feet, intent on getting the gun again, but as quickly as he was brought down, Yunho is up and grabbing Seonghwa by the shirt. Seonghwa still tries to fight him off, not making it too easy for him anymore. It’s a match he knows he will not win by himself, but at least he’ll be able to say he did something. He made a promise to you. To himself. 

Yunho is quick to react, as expected. Before he can blink, he pulls Seonghwa far back from the bag by the back of his shirt, the fabric digging into his throat. Seonghwa shouts once, twisting awkwardly to escape as well as stop the uncomfortable pressure just under his jaw, and stumbles backwards. 

Yunho then grabs him by the throat and slams him up against the wall. Twice. 

The back of his head hits hard each time, creating a good sized dent in the drywall. The sound echoes throughout the room, vibrating up through the very foundations of the apartment. A crack in the wall explodes upwards and outwards like a bolt of lightning splitting a tree. Seonghwa’s hands go slack on Yunho’s wrists after the first hit. The second hit, they jump off to protect the back of his head from a potential third. Once was enough. Twice is more than necessary. 

Though to Yunho, it is entirely justifiable. One for his behavior that night in the living room, and another for trying to take you away from him. Oh yes, he keeps track of every grudge, and he’s patient when it comes to carrying out his revenge. He’s been waiting for a chance to get Seonghwa in here, to reciprocate. To get the last word in an old argument.   

Ears ringing and head pounding, Seonghwa’s vision blurs instantly. His body is light and heavy at the same time, and he knows his eyes have gone half-lidded. Second by second, it’s harder for him to stand or even think. His very skull seems to vibrate. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth and a sharp pain to accompany it somewhere on his lip. He must’ve nicked it. His ear feels warm, like when you finally get water out of it. The scariest thing is that his whole body suddenly goes quite cold. Perhaps from shock. 

“Move one fucking inch, and I’ll cut your throat.” Yunho snarls, mere inches from his face. The threat is all too real. 

Grappling with the hand around his throat, the dizziness intensifies the more he tries to fight Yunho off. But Yunho just waits for the fight to die out on its own… if he can even call it that. Seonghwa merely paws at his hand, a featherlight touch. Yunho knows how hard he hit his head. He knows he doesn’t have to do much to get him to back down again. Nevertheless, he glances at his watch as he holds him up. He’s bought himself time, but not that much. The others will surely be on their way here now. 

The buzzing in his ears grows, and Seonghwa slumps to the floor once Yunho releases him, desperate to make the room stop spinning. His arms cover his head to prevent anything else from coming close to it, as well as to try and stabilize himself. He can barely hear himself making pained noises as the throbbing grows. Every vibration from his vocal chords just travels up to his temples, pummeling through his skull. He has a concussion for sure. Slowly, he lowers himself further, laying on his side to try and stop the fogginess he’s experiencing, easing the pressure of keeping his head upright. It’s hard to tell if he’s blacking out or if Yunho is turning off the tealights one by one. Maybe both.  

The suitcase is then pulled out from underneath his bed, and he retrieves a rag from one of the zippered compartments, as well as an amber colored bottle, sealed tight. You won’t stay unconscious for long, so it’s necessary. He douses the rag and unceremoniously presses it against your face for a little more than ten seconds. Now you really won’t wake up. Seonghwa can only watch, just barely making out his shadow in the dark. From the bed, he can hear his phone blowing up. It vibrates every two seconds, no doubt from frantic texts and calls from the others. He closes his eyes. Even the dark spins around him. The dizziness ramps up again as he’s moved to lay on his stomach, and he groans into the carpet. He registers how his wrists are tied behind his back, similar to yours, and then he’s pulled up again. A strong wave of nausea rolls through him and it takes everything in him to keep everything in. His body protests loudly at being upright, and the ringing in his ears comes back even louder than before. There’s a loud ripping sound followed by a soft snip, and then pressure against his mouth. It sticks to his skin, and he understands what it is. What remains unclear to him is how much time has passed, he doesn’t even remember Yunho going to get duct tape at all. 

When did he get that? He wonders. Did he have it on him? Oh… probably.  

Something else is placed over his nose and mouth, looping around his ears. It’s softer, breathable. It rubs up against his cheekbones and the thin skin right under his eyes. He manages to open his eyes just enough to look down to see what it is. 

A mask. A clandestine muzzle hiding the real horror beneath. Silenced.  

Before he can begin to wonder why he needs one, he is pulled up to his feet. Once more, the room spins, even faster this time and his head feels like it weighs one hundred pounds. As Seonghwa tries to pull himself together, supporting himself by pressing his back against the wall, the next time he looks over towards where you are laying, he only finds carpet. The suitcase is closed. Only an inch or two between zippers to allow some air to circulate into the luggage. Yunho flits about the room in a practiced way. He knows what to do next, the levels of importance of each action, and he carries everything out with precision. Seonghwa opens his eyes again when he hears a sickening crack, catching Yunho breaking his laptop in half over his knee and shoving each piece into Seonghwa’s backpack. The knife he keeps close at hand at all times. Finally, the next instructions from Yunho. Seonghwa feels him place something in one of his tied up hands. A handle of some sort. He hears Yunho talking to him, but everything is muffled, like he’s underwater. There’s a light shove to his shoulder and he takes a step forward. Every step makes him want to collapse and black out, but Yunho has a tight grip on his shirt, pulling him along. When he hears the click of the front door, he understands. 

He’s taking us out. 

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Hongjoong had barely finished his sentence before Mingi was out the door, so close to forgetting to grab his keys on the way out. He could hear them scrambling behind him, shouting at him to wait for them, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t, more so. 

“Mingi!” San shouts after him, five pairs of footsteps pounding through the dorm and into the hallway after him, “Wait!” 

He doesn’t bother waiting around for the elevator, shoving the heavy door at the end of the hall open and flying down the stairs. He knows how much danger you and Seonghwa are in. He knows all too well. He has to get to you two now. That’s all he’s thinking of, even when just mere minutes ago he was taking himself off of the rescue crew entirely. Now, he’s voluntarily on the front lines. 

When he finally gets to the bottom level, throwing open the door that leads into the parking garage, he beelines right to their shared car – only to find the tires slashed. Hongjoong’s car is no different. The rest of the boys nearly run over each other, standing behind Mingi as he tries to process what he’s seeing. It all but confirms their worst fear.

Yunho was here. 

Like taking a picture and only seeing the unsettling figure behind you when you look at it later, they somehow missed his wrath here. But only by so much. The distance between them is no longer somewhat comforting, it is now too close to home. Abruptly so as well. 

And not a moment later, red and blue lights flash in alternative succession, rounding the corner and pulling up right in front of them. The loud whooping sound of the siren deafens them, echoing around the garage. 

If they were pale before, they’re practically the same shade as the snow outside now. They turn into the complete opposite of how they were acting before: stunned into stillness, silent and mortified. 

Is it really going to end like this? 

The sedan crawls to a stop, lights still on. All six of them wait for more to show up. They can’t possibly be taking them all inside one police car. Mingi takes one step back, agitated and cornered. Yeosang grabs the back of Jongho’s sweatshirt. Wooyoung is convinced a puff of wind could easily cause him to collapse, so he stands closer to San. Hongjoong steels himself as the car engine is cut and the silence and the smell of tires and gasoline wafts through the air. 

Two officers step out of the vehicle, closing their doors and walking at a normal if not slow pace towards the group. One of their radios chirps, and a muffled, loud voice within it relays a code that he doesn’t respond to. 

“Hello,” one greets them with a slight bow, surprising the group even more. The officer hesitates before continuing, noting their noticeably shocked expressions as odd. “I’m Officer Shin, this is Officer Nam. We got a call that someone slashed your tires. Are these the vehicles?” 

Hongjoong doesn’t understand a word that the officer says at first. It doesn’t process. None of it is what he was expecting to hear. He follows the direction of where the officer is pointing, expecting it to be on one of the members. But it’s not. He’s clearly gesturing towards the two cars. It still doesn’t make sense. 

Evidently, everyone seems to be in the same boat in terms of confusion. 

“What?” Wooyoung asks, his disbelief making itself known. 

“I– we–” San tries to speak, but gives up halfway, looking to Hongjoong. They don’t even need to make eye contact with each other to know which question they all want to ask. 

Do we tell them now? 

Mingi seems to answer before the rest of them can. 

“Yeah, but it’s okay. We don’t want to file charges, it’s okay.” He does a bad job of hiding how urgently he wants to get out of here. 

Officer Nam raises an eyebrow at his tone, but says nothing yet. Instead, he moves closer to the cars to inspect the damage done. One stab to all four tires on both vehicles, with a large, sharp weapon of some kind. Each cut is almost surgical in their precision, in the same exact place on all eight. Like they had to be.  

Officer Shin is understandably perplexed. “You–? These tires have been obviously slashed, are you sure you don’t–” 

“We’re sure,” Jongho cuts in, glancing at Mingi and Hongjoong from the corner of his eye. “It’s fine.” 

“Do you know who did this?” Officer Nam puts the pieces together, turning towards the group. 

Now here’s a test for honesty. 

Yes, they do fucking know. In fact, they don’t even need to see video evidence to know with one-hundred percent certainty who did this, and who called the police to ensure that they would be delayed and not be able to get to the apartment in time. It’s rather debilitating. Actually, incredibly debilitating. Gutting that they continue to be three steps behind him always. 

But if they say yes, they’ll have to explain. And they just do not have the time to. Informing the police was always the plan, and Yunho has thrown that right in their faces. I got them for you, go ahead. He’s giving them an ultimatum. Tell them now, watch them go by the book and take their time step by step while you and Seonghwa are in immediate danger. The type that will not wait for them.  

They want the police involved? Well, here they are.  

There’s a painful stab in Mingi’s chest that won’t go away the longer they idle around. And it’s about ready to burst if he doesn’t get out of here in the next two seconds. He inches further away. 

“Can we just come by the station later?” Jongho says with a little too much force behind it, his exasperation managing to break through. 

The two policemen look at each other. 

“Are you guys too busy or something?” Officer Nam questions, specifically looking towards Mingi now. 

Both Jongho and Mingi open their mouths to say something, but Hongjoong beats them to it. 

“I’ll stay,” he says. The accompanying look he gives the rest of the group tells them outright that they better not waste time arguing with him on this. It’ll only waste time they can’t afford to lose.  “I’ll handle it. You guys go.” 

Mingi meets Hongjoong’s gaze, an unspoken thankfulness for his volunteering in his eyes that he hopes comes across clearly. 

Then San speaks up, tearing his gaze from the slashed tires. He feels rather uneasy about anybody being left by themselves when they don’t know where exactly Yunho is, or what his plans are. They all have to stay together. Someone has to stay with Hongjoong. 

“I’ll stay too.” He says, avoiding looking at Wooyoung. Between Yeosang, Mingi, and Jongho, San knows he’ll be safe. “We’ll be there soon.”  

Hongjoong doesn’t question his decision, but can’t hide the initial combination of surprise and confusion on his face. 

When no one moves yet, Hongjoong raises his voice louder than they’ve heard him in the past few months. “Go!” 

No sooner had the word left Hongjoong’s lips than the four of them finally took off in a sprint. The echo chases them out onto the streets, disappearing into the wind. 

If they can’t drive, they’ll run.

Thankfully, no one is out at this hour, so they don’t have to weave through any crowds of people. What they do have to worry about is the ice and snow on the ground. Even then, they run like it's spring. Their feet pound over the covered pavement, only slowing slightly to turn corners. The wind at their backs only carries them further. Faster. The only obstacle is distance. 

They can only hope that Yunho has become too confident, too sure in himself that he chooses to take his time going to the apartment. But Mingi knows him best. You are Yunho’s first priority, his main responsibility and prize. He will do anything to prevent you from being taken from him. Even if it means ultimately killing you.

Wooyoung and Jongho follow the others deep into the city, not as familiar with the route as the rest of them. But they’ve been down these streets before, they recognize the stores and street names that lead the way towards this apartment they have only ever heard about before. Jongho stops caring if his sweatshirt hood stays on his head as they fly over a crosswalk, it’s a losing battle, one he doesn’t care enough to keep up with. Wooyoung nearly knocks into him as he slips on ice, momentarily losing his footing and side-stepping into the snow.    

“Come on!” Yeosang shouts over the wind, grabbing Wooyoung’s hand to help him keep up. 

Mingi only runs faster once the tall, familiar building comes into view, just down the street. One more block. The others pick up speed as well. Their feet barely touch the ground. One more crosswalk. 

He hears Jongho yelling his name just in time to become more aware of his surroundings, a hand yanking him back from the road as a large black car speeds past, only two feet from Mingi. A few of them grumble at the reckless driver, muttering under their uneven breaths as they resume their race down the street – this time, checking for potential cars.   

Soon enough, they file into the lobby. The warm air of the building’s interior stings their skin as their bodies adjust to the sudden change in temperature. They make wary glances over towards the receptionist, but she pays them no mind, only glancing up once in well-suppressed confusion at their presence here at such an hour before letting it go, and going back to whatever she is watching on her tablet. Probably just a late-night party or something, she figures. Not exactly accurate.  

Once they reach the elevator, Mingi hesitates. Only now does he stop to think, to consider everything that may happen. How you may react to seeing him again since that day. Facing Yunho again. 

Yeosang surges forward and presses the button to call the elevator down, giving him a weird look. Why, of all times and places, would he hesitate here? 

The elevator takes about four hundred years to lower down to the lobby level, but boasts its emptiness upon arrival. Once all four pile into the elevator car and the doors close, now the dread kicks in. The claustrophobia, as well as rising towards something they may not be ready for all hit at once in the silence. In here, they can do nothing but wait after almost ten minutes of steady adrenaline. Yeosang’s eyes never leave the little screen that shows which floors they are passing, the numbers increasing rapidly. The higher they rise up, the lower their hearts sink. 

An automated voice announcing ‘Floor 20’ nearly makes them all jump out of their skin. 

Last to go in, Wooyoung and Jongho step out first, but hang back, not knowing which way to go. The group follows Mingi, no longer at a run now that the door is in view. He can’t tell if it is a good sign or a bad sign that he can’t hear anything coming from the apartment. He’s learned his lesson about cautious optimism before. There is scarcely any room for it here. 

Now, not four feet from the door, he stops again, looking the Ring camera dead in the eye. It has probably already alerted Yunho of their movement. Evidently thinking the same thing, Yeosang turns around for a couple seconds, literally watching their backs for an attack from behind. 

“Min?” Wooyoung asks, anxious to continue. He and Jongho exchange a look. 

Mingi shifts his weight, the very door mocking him, daring him to open it and see what fate lies beyond it. However, contrary to what the rest of the boys think, he’s not afraid to go in. He’s afraid of what may happen to them, if Yunho is in there. Suddenly, he feels how Hongjoong must have felt about sending them on without him. He’s probably worrying himself out of his mind right now. 

Mingi turns to face them. 

“I think only me and Yeosang should go in.” 

Immediately, the quiet uproar. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Quips Jongho, hands balling into fists. “This shit again?” 

“But Hongjoong said–” Wooyoung protests. 

Frustrated that he can’t quickly or articulately put into words why he’s telling them to do this, Mingi snaps, “I know what Hongjoong said! But now I’m telling you: stay out here for now.”   

“No, he’s right,” Yeosang says. “Just for this part. If she’s still in there, it’s better if she recognizes the people taking her out. If everything is clear, we’ll call you in. It has to be this way.”  

The two of them simmer. It’s so hard to argue with Yeosang because they know he only says what is worth saying in serious situations. Additionally, they have to remember it’s not just Yunho and Seonghwa, but also you they have to take into consideration. They don’t know you at all apart from what they’ve heard from the others, and what they’ve unknowingly seen in the group chat. If Yeosang agrees that this is the best way to handle it by just the two of them entering first, then so be it. 

“Fine. But you tell us the second you think something is off.” Jongho relents, his tone quiet but firm.  

Mingi and Yeosang nod before turning back to the door. 

“Still have the key?” Mingi whispers, prompting Yeosang to dig in his pocket. 

“Right here,” Yeosang whispers back, showing him before taking a step closer to the door. He too looks right into the Ring camera for a split second before averting his gaze. If Yunho wasn’t alerted now, he definitely is about to be once the door opens. 

He knocks in four – the same rhythmic pattern they agreed upon a week earlier. 

Only their breaths fill the hallway, still cooling down from their sprint. Besides that, the entire building seems to go silent. Yeosang’s hand shakes as the key slots into place easily, and he holds his breath when it turns, the lock clicking quietly. Mingi catches the door as he initially opens it, going in first, Yeosang following close behind. Wooyoung cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of a place he and Jongho have only heard of, only seeing it in their nightmares. Jongho keeps his eye on the hallway behind them, waiting. 

The eerie pitch dark of the apartment swallows both men whole as they step into it, prompting Yeosang to take his phone out to switch on the flashlight feature. The interior becomes even more creepy and ghostlike like this. Shadows play tricks on them as they move further inside. 

Even now, there’s nothing. No clear sign of life whatsoever, but they check anyway. Mingi switches on the hallway light – there’s no harm in doing so. If Yunho is in fact in here, he knows they’re inside already anyway. Yeosang relaxes a little bit with the aid of the overhead light, pocketing his phone alongside the key. 

The door to the bedroom is closed. 

Mingi’s throat tightens. 

“Seonghwa?” Yeosang whispers, daring to softly knock on the door as he opens it as slow as possible so he doesn’t potentially frighten you if you’re in there. “It’s us.” 

The light from the hallway floods the room, casting a spotlight on a chaotic scene. Rumpled bedsheets, faint dirty shoeprints, discoloration on the carpet near the bed, nightstand drawer pulled open, closet door left open as well, Yunho’s belt discarded on the floor. And above all else, more importantly, no sign of you or Seonghwa. 

Mingi’s mouth dries instantly, desperately looking around on the extremely low chance he just missed both of you somehow. He pushes the bathroom door open only to find the same result. Nobody there. Just the map of shoeprints, walking in and out of each room. 

“Bring them in,” he instructs Yeosang, who quickly jogs back to the front door. 

Standing in the middle of the chaos, he reaches over to turn the lamp on. When he hears the group enter through the front door, he turns to call out to them, but something catches his eye before it can be said. For a moment, he wonders if it’s just his eyes adapting. Another shadowy trick of the light, perhaps. But he moves closer, and it doesn’t fade away or turn into anything else other than what it is. 

A large dent in the wall. Almost eye level to him. Small, dark red traces paint the very center of the cracked drywall. His eyes trail downward to the floor, a few drops of blood spotting the carpet, mainly staying in this one area. If he didn’t feel sick before, he definitely does now. That small crater is about Seonghwa’s height. 

“God dammit…” he mutters under his breath, his body beginning to shake. 

Yeosang hurries back into the bedroom, hesitating in the doorway once he sees Mingi. He calls his name, but gets no response. 

They can both hear Wooyoung talking to Jongho in the living room. “I don’t–” he breathes, “I don’t get it, his location says he’s here.” 

Below them, a police car howls into the night, speeding away from their location, a firetruck following suit. Yeosang must have seen the indentation in the wall as well because Mingi hears him gasp and swear loudly upon first glance. Yeosang backs up once he sees the blood and his hands fly up to either side of his head, careful not to touch anything. He shouts for the others to do the same, to just stay where they are and to not move, use, or touch anything. In fact, it’s best if they don’t even breathe in here. The whole place is a crime scene. 

A low buzzing sound draws both of their attention towards the bed. 

Wooyoung enters the bedroom, inching past Yeosang in the doorway, staring quizzically at his phone before showing it to him. He’s calling Seonghwa. 

Mingi reaches over, moving the bed sheets around until the vibrations become clearer, revealing Seonghwa’s phone hidden under a pillow. This, and the blood, confirms it. Yunho took both of them. 

Mingi snaps all at once. 

“God dammit!” He yells, throwing the phone back onto the pillow with such force that it just bounces right off, onto the floor below. “Fuck!” 

Yeosang tries to calm him down, but he knows it's like being assigned the task of trying to calm a grizzly bear. Jongho hurries down the hallway to see what happened to warrant such a reaction. Once he steps foot into the room, his eyes take in everything. This is the room he’s heard about the most – and has actually seen, as well, although he wasn't aware at the time. 

It’s rare for any of them to see Mingi break down, especially at this level. He sits on the edge of the bed, trying to breathe normally, head in his hands with Yeosang right by his side, trying his best to be his usual helpful and caring self when he too is terrified at what this could mean. 

They’re too late. Despite their best efforts, they continue to fail. And they fail not just themselves, but you and Seonghwa as well. If they had left just a minute earlier, maybe they could’ve intercepted Yunho. It’s a long shot, but all Mingi can think about are the dozens of scenarios that could have played out had one thing been done differently. If he was smarter, he would’ve thought to check for a fucking bug on his phone. Or San’s. He should’ve known to look, to be overly cautious. But he can’t change the past. What’s done is done. 

Wooyoung and Jongho all react similarly to Yeosang once they see the large depression in the wall. The blood, particularly. Jongho tightens his jaw, determined to not let his emotions get in the way of what needs to be done next, whatever that may be. Wooyoung holds himself in a self-hug. 

“Th– the blood is still fresh,” he says to no one in particular, just stating a fact in hopes that someone will listen to him. “This must’ve only happened recently. Wherever they’re going, we won’t be too far behind.” 

Yeosang looks over at him, and then the darkening red dots that stain the carpet before turning back to Mingi, placing his hand on his back and leaning down to speak to him quietly. 

“Min,” he says, “you know Yunho better than any of us. Where would he take them?” 

It’s not like he has to think about it too hard. He knows exactly where Yunho would take the two of you. That’s the problem. He knows this routine, he’s ran it before. Once they get there, everything happens quickly. Mere minutes could be the difference between saving you and Seonghwa, and… 

Mingi clears his throat, interrupting the thought before it can finish. He straightens, lowering his hands to his lap.   

“I know where they’re going,” he says, keeping his eyes down. The boys all exchange glances, waiting for more. “But we need a car to get there.” 

“Shit…” Wooyoung hisses, scrambling to pull his phone out of his pocket to call Hongjoong. With all eyes on him, he feels the pressure rising. With a tap, he puts the call on speaker so they can all hear.  

The call rings just once before Hongjoong picks up. Wooyoung doesn’t even let him say ‘hello’ before speaking. 

“Hyung? Can you ask San to go to the company and take one of the vans here? Do you need the address again?” Wooyoung looks up at Mingi to confirm that he’ll text Hongjoong the address before refocusing back on the call. 

On the other line, Hongjoong has already taken off running before he finishes the last question. 

“Yeah, send it,” he pants, the cold wind making it harder to breathe, going against it. “We’ll be there soon.” 

The word choice is not lost on Wooyoung. 

“‘We’?” He clarifies, hoping he heard him correctly. Yeosang perks up. 

“Yeah, we got out of it, like, two minutes ago. Don’t worry about it. Is everyone okay?” 

Wooyoung looks around at the others, mouth open to reply but stops short when his eye catches on the dent in the wall again. He swallows hard. He hasn’t thought about how Hongjoong will react to the fact that Seonghwa is both injured and gone. 

He stammers a little before clearing his throat.   

“Hyung…” Wooyoung trails off. 

Yeosang stands up, taking the phone from him. They can all hear Hongjoong trying to get an answer from them, evidently slowing down. In the background, they hear San’s voice, distant and muffled, calling for him to keep running. 

“Hyung, they're both gone.” 

Wooyoung winces at the blunt delivery of the news. Even Jongho inhales sharply through his teeth, whispering frantically to him to say it another way. Mingi stiffens, awaiting the response.  

“W-who– what do you mean?” Hongjoong’s voice crackles through the speaker.

“There’s… there’s no one in the apartment. He took Seonghwa too.” 

There’s a longer pause this time, San’s voice intermittently interrupting the silence as Hongjoong processes what he’s just been told. He sniffs and clears his throat. 

“We’ll be there in ten.” 

The call ends there, Hongjoong hanging up first. Cautious relief eases the tension in Wooyoung’s shoulders, knowing that at least they’re safe and on their way. However, now the four of them just have to… wait here. 

Jongho stays near the door, not exactly keen on venturing any further into this room. Every so often he looks down the hallway, towards the front door, just to make sure that it’s still closed and locked, as they had left it after entering. 

Yeosang hands Mingi the phone to text the address after he checks it for the time. Almost five minutes after three. Wired, he gets up with no specific directive in mind. He just needs to pace, do something to put all this pent up energy. He goes into the bathroom, checking to see if they missed anything important in there, but finds nothing. Only a strong chemical scent near the sink where a rag has been unceremoniously tossed into. He leans forward to see if that’s where the smell is coming from before recoiling immediately upon verification. Yep. That’s it. 

“Fuckin’ hell…” he mutters, rubbing his nose like that will help get the scent out of it quicker. Definitely something chemical, which would explain the odd discoloration in the carpet if some of it had gotten onto the floor. But what it is exactly, he isn’t sure. 

Keeping that in the back of his mind, he reenters the bedroom again, just in time to see Wooyoung about to pick something up off of the floor. 

“Hey, don’t touch anything,” Jongho warns. 

Wooyoung’s hand snaps back to his side. “Min,” he calls, “do you know what this is?” 

Mingi stands, walking around the bed over to where Wooyoung is.   

Ah. 

Yes, he does. 

“Oh,” he falters slightly, “that’s uh– her journal.” 

“Definitely don’t touch it.” Jongho says, watching the front door again. 

Yeosang rubs the back of his neck, nose still burning slightly. He checks the time again. Time seems to be going at supersonic speed, while simultaneously dragging out every single second as much as it can. Only two – now, three – minutes have passed since he last checked. He wonders how long it will take Hongjoong and San to get here. Mingi is probably wondering the same thing. 

Wooyoung straightens up, his eyes stay locked on the journal. It’s splayed face down on the floor, partially hidden by the duvet. The damn thing seems to have some sort of magnetic pull surrounding it. Or maybe it’s just curiosity, the chance to know more about this girl he knows barely anything about, to be on the same page as everyone else. He’s tired of not knowing.   

But Mingi picks it up, the pages fluttering in the air. 

“Min–” Jongho starts, about to go off on him for touching it when he just said they shouldn’t. 

Mingi just waves him off, “My fingerprints are already all over the apartment.” 

The three other men look at each other, but choose to say nothing about it. It’s not like they didn’t know, but hearing it said so bluntly is rather disquieting. It shocks them back into reality. The reality that tomorrow morning, all of them will be answering dozens, hundreds of questions in separate rooms with their lawyers, and they’ll never be able to be a group again. Yeosang touches where his ring used to be. It’s strange to feel nothing there.  

Mingi places the journal down on the bed, his hand lingering a little too long. 

He wonders if you found the note. 

He hid it again after he found it underneath the couch. Yunho would’ve definitely found it there had he searched the living room a little too closely. That’s why Mingi volunteered to do the living room. Knowing you were next, he hid it in hopes that you would find it, and try to get out. He would’ve helped you. That was honest. 

Or maybe just wishful thinking. Maybe he would’ve only thought of helping you, but ultimately decided to stay by Yunho. Continue to be his little aid. It’s hard to tell what he would’ve done if it had come down to it… but he likes to think he would’ve been stronger than he has been in the past. There’s really no telling. Maybe, if you’re saved tonight, that will prove something. 

Maybe.    

The minutes drag and carry new scenarios with them, all insinuating what will happen if they’re too late. Even without a car, Mingi feels like he can sprint all the way out there no problem. There’s certainly enough adrenaline in his system to do so. He knows the fastest way to get to you and Seonghwa, though, is to wait for the van, but it’s like a new form of torture to hurry up and wait. All of them are getting close to bouncing off the walls, besides Yeosang, who somehow manages to consistently keep his cool. Mingi often wonders how the hell he’s able to do that, and especially now. 

But if he really lets himself think about it, he’ll know the answer: because he has to. 

In a room full of chaos, there has to be someone who can regulate everyone else and be thinking clearly. If it has to be Yeosang, he’ll take up the responsibility quietly and efficiently. That’s just how he is. It’s why most of the members have always gone to him or Seonghwa when stressed, they know they’ll leave their company feeling better than they did initially, set on the right path, whatever it may look like. 

Even if Mingi can see the stress weaving itself through Yeosang’s features, he’ll never truly let it show. It’ll never be obvious. 

A shrill ring startles all four men before they each realize what it is – Wooyoung’s phone ringing again. He holds it up to his ear and mutters a greeting, pausing as whoever is on the other line speaks to him. Mingi steps closer to him, something rising up his spine, ready to act within a moment’s notice. 

Quickest phone call ever, Wooyoung hangs up hastily before looking up at the others. 

“They’re here!” He announces, already starting to book it out of the room, bumping into Jongho on his way out. 

The energy bursts once again, all four of them scrambling towards the front door. Mingi and Wooyoung run straight to the elevator, calling it back up to this floor, while Jongho hangs back with Yeosang, waiting for him to lock the door again. Just as they rejoin the other two, the elevator arrives with a cheerful ding! They pile in, and down they go again. 

The farther down the elevator takes them, the more Jongho realizes how less tense he’s becoming. He didn’t think being in the apartment would affect him this much, but here’s the proof. He doesn’t even realize that his hands had been balled into fists the entire time they were in there. His joints ache something terrible as he opens them back up again. In front of him, Wooyoung exhales a big puff of air, shaking a similar feeling off as well.    

Another ding! and they’re at ground level once more. They can’t get away fast enough, running back out onto the streets like they’re being chased. This time, the front desk attendant does watch them for longer. Her eyes trace their hurried path from the moment the elevator doors opened, all the way to the lobby door. She sees the frightened looks as they pass by, and how quickly they look away when they notice she’s watching them. She jots down the time, making a note of the suspicious behavior and debates checking the CCTV cameras around the building. This could all just be paranoia; working the overnight shift anywhere as a woman, you’re bound to run into odd situations such as this, but there’s something about it that doesn’t sit right. 

A group of guys sprinting like their lives depend on it in and out of the lobby at three in the morning is hardly ever for a good reason. 

She shakes her head, going back to watching the drama on her tablet. If working the night shift has taught her anything, it’s to not get involved. 

Outside, the group rushes to the familiar black van parked right in front of the building, engine humming, ready to race to wherever you and Seonghwa are. Mingi knocks on the driver window, and steps back when the door opens. 

“Hyung, let me drive,” he says, not even hiding his impatience. 

Hongjoong nods, unbuckling quickly and hopping out, moving to stand next to Yeosang, who awaits his turn to pile into the car. He almost jumps a mile when he feels Yeosang touch his shoulder. 

“You okay?” 

He shakes his head, honest. “It doesn’t matter if I am.” 

And with that, he climbs into the van, Yeosang following right after. The door barely closes before they’re speeding off, most likely breaking several traffic laws to get out of the city. Multiple times, San almost yells at him to ‘slow down’, but he keeps his mouth shut. They can’t afford to lose any more time than they already have, and San doesn’t think that saying that to Mingi will do any good anyways. 

Darkened buildings turn into highways and then into trees. Seoul falls away behind them, the lights of an alive city diminishing in the rearview mirror, plunging the interior of the car into the thick, black night. The only light comes from occasional oncoming cars in the lane next to them, and the center display of the car. If they all weren’t so wired, they could probably fall asleep right now. Only Mingi knows how far of a drive it is, not really needing the GPS until they get off the highway. 

No one speaks. 

What can they say to ignore the violent imagery that haunts them all, fearing what they’ll roll up to upon arrival. Again, only Mingi knows the extent, the details, of what it will look like for sure if they’re too late. Seonghwa is a wild card, though. This hasn’t happened before, and Mingi has no idea what Yunho will do with him. But the fact that he is not one hundred percent sure that Yunho won’t kill him, doesn’t make him rest easy whatsoever.  

Nearing almost ninety miles per hour, flying down the empty highway, he tries to prepare himself for any outcome, any end. Only one side will survive the night. It is all or nothing. And he has to come to terms that no matter who succeeds, he is losing Yunho one way or another. 

And you, well… he never had you to lose in the first place, did he? 

But his mind keeps conjuring images of what may happen to you tonight. He absolutely hates to hope for this, but if Yunho does decide to kill you, he hopes he shoots you. He hopes you go quickly, if you have to. The alternative, he cannot bear to picture for too long. The memory of Haneul torments him, breathing in and choking on dirt as he shoveled more on top of her, still alive. 

He pushes the gas pedal down, accelerating a bit more. 

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You can’t breathe. 

Everything feels heavy, and the freezing air weighs you down as well. Your hands try to press against whatever you’re laying on, but only strain against the rope that binds them together. Your face burns again, and your eyes somehow feel sore. Every muscle in your face and neck is tender, aching with every miniscule movement. There’s a sharp, bruising pain in the center of your chest as well as your back, and a headache that makes you wish you were dead. Something snaps underneath you and for a minute you wonder if you just broke a bone somehow, but feel no additional pain. Fighting through the ache to open your eyes, you can’t see too much anyway – only shadows and blurry shapes. Nothing definite. 

But you can hear. 

Something repeatedly strikes the ground close enough to you that you can feel the vibrations of it. A groan only gets halfway out, the pain in your throat too much to bear. Muffled, distant voices like two people talking in another room confuse you on where the sound is coming from. 

You just want to go back to sleep, blissfully ignorant to what is happening around you, and numb to the pain. 

That’s when the wind hits you. 

Your eyes squeeze shut as a chill shudders through your body, freezing you to the very core. Once you begin to shake, you can’t stop. The cold gnaws at every inch of your body, unavoidable and impossible to ignore. Your hands are almost numb, a sharp pain in each of your fingertips that makes you ball them up into fists to restore some warmth in them. It doesn’t help much. Every joint feels rusted, unable to move without difficulty. You try to open your eyes again, feeling the wind slice across your cheek. 

Overhead, the clouded night sky loosens its grip, allowing the black to shift into a deep indigo. The trees reach high above, quietly waiting for the sunlight to return. Billions of tiny crystal flakes float down around you, dotting your frozen hair, covering your body like a secret. A secret the forest knows to keep. It knows Yunho well by now, the routine is always the same. The frozen ground gives the shovel no hindrance, ready to conceal another one of you. 

Against the all-encompassing pain, you manage to lift your head up, blinking away the snow and the blurriness. 

And you know exactly where you are. 

Even though the ground is covered, the clearing in the forest is all too familiar. The reality drowns you in waves, one harrowing memory after another, unrelenting. The scent of sap and bark wafts on the wind, invading your nose and mouth. Suddenly you feel held down, even though no one is near you. You can’t move, paralyzed by fear, trapped by the trauma of last time. One part of Mingi’s overheard admission crosses your mind: “I can’t believe you took her there… bringing her to the same place you put the others in.”  

Black, lumbering trees shield you from the moon’s watchful eye. Away from sight, far from any help. 

Help… Seonghwa. Where is Seonghwa? 

You turn slowly to the left, wincing from how much everything hurts. Your shoulder digs into the snow, rapidly soaking through the fabric of your thin sweater. That dull thudding sound next to you stops momentarily. A hissing voice is quick to reprimand, to make whatever it is continue. Snow crunches underfoot somewhere behind you, near your head. 

Through the dark and what little moonlight is allowed to filter down through the trees, you catch a glimpse of Seonghwa. You can’t really tell what he’s doing, nor can you see his face. What you think is just shadow is really the mask, working together with the duct tape hidden underneath to keep him quiet. From what you can see, only his shoulders and up, he’s shivering as well, breathing heavily but staying quiet. Occasionally, he sniffles, and you can’t tell if it’s because of the cold, or if it’s because he’s crying. 

Your head lolls to the side, the left side of your face stinging in the snow, but you ignore it as best as you can, only one goal in mind: get water. You mouth at the snow, shoulders tensing at the freezing temperature on your tongue and against your teeth, throat shrieking in protest at first before finally relaxing again, soothed by the melted snow. 

The moon shifts, its light breaking through the thicket, making it easier to see Seonghwa. You thought he was kneeling down or something, explaining why he was so low to the ground, but you realize that he’s in some sort of pit. A metallic sound strikes the earth and dirt lifts up and is tossed over his shoulder, trying his best to aim away from you. But the wind is less forgiving, blowing some of it into your face. You fight the urge to jerk away from the discomfort. 

He’s digging… why is he digging? Where is Yunho? 

You don’t stay curious for long. 

You sharply inhale when he makes eye contact, and he immediately tenses at the sight of you awake again. It’s clear he wants to say something, but he looks off to his right, somewhere behind you, and thinks twice about it. He glances at you one more time. 

“That’s enough,” Yunho says, too close for comfort. 

Seonghwa places the shovel down before wearily pushing himself up, which takes some effort. Yunho does nothing to help. He merely watches as Seonghwa struggles to get himself out of what he’s just dug. 

A hole in the earth that was waist-deep on him. The way he looked at you… you know what it is. 

Yunho’s promise to you in the forest races through your mind: ‘Next time, I’ll do it for real.’ Well, ‘next time’ has officially come. You’re here again… and you know you’re not leaving this forest alive.   

A useless scream builds and gets stuck in your throat. You know damn well that it won’t help you, it won’t change anything. It’s natural though, when you don’t feel ready to go just yet. Justified. But you allow tears to flow, keeping quiet, trying to come to terms with your fate. You don’t want to die. You can’t bear the weight of the gun pressed against the back of your head again – you’re sure that you will scream if you feel that again. Yunho’s done with you. He’s abandoning you. 

And he made Seonghwa dig your grave. 

If your eyesight wasn’t obstructed before, the tears make everything even more blurry. But you’re able to see Yunho pick up the shovel, tossing it far away so Seonghwa doesn’t get a stupid idea to try and fight him with it – even though Seonghwa is in no condition to try and fight anybody right now. He was barely able to dig. Now out of the grave, he sits in the snow across from you, the earth, from his viewpoint, spinning wildly. He grits his teeth and furrows his eyebrows as he raises a hand to his head, trying to ease the dizziness. He’s exhausted and frozen, not to mention utterly terrified. 

As far as he knows, this is a grave meant for two. 

Yunho stalks around the grave, assessing it. You and Seonghwa both watch him, waiting for his next move. 

The world holds its breath when he finally sighs. The kind that triggers a reaction, something to delay whatever it is he’s about to make Seonghwa do next. 

Muzzled still, his words are garbled and unintelligible under the tape and mask. Yunho rolls his eyes, clearly fed up, and you wonder if Seonghwa had tried to speak to him on the drive over here. You both tense as he walks over to Seonghwa, ripping the mask and tape off in one go. Seonghwa bites back a pained noise, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. 

“What do y–” Yunho begins to say.   

“Yun, don’t do this.” Seonghwa speaks before he can finish, his voice soft. It takes a lot of energy and effort to talk at all, add in the freezing temperatures and he’s already winded. 

“Don’t tell me what to do.” Yunho fires back, a hardened edge to his tone. His biggest pet peeve struck – someone telling him what to do, how to do something, or how to handle you. His fist clenches around the mask, crumpling it. “You’re done. Just sit there and look pretty. Isn’t that what you’re good at?” 

Seonghwa’s lips part, genuinely hurt by his words. 

“Don’t give me that fuckin’ look,” Yunho rolls his eyes again. “You think I want to be the bad guy?” 

“No, but I think you enjoy it.” Seonghwa hisses. 

Now it’s Yunho’s turn to be taken aback. He pauses, digesting Seonghwa’s retort. You whimper as another forceful wind cuts across your face, unable to breathe until it dies down. Both men hear you. 

Seonghwa continues while he has the opportunity to, making Yunho focus on him instead of you. He plays to his ego, his complex.  

“Yunho, you’ve already won. You knew what we were planning, you proved your superiority. You don’t have to kill her.” 

“No?” Yunho asks incredulously. 

You look up from the ground at the mention of you. The first thing you see is the gun in Yunho’s hand, glinting in what limited moonlight it catches on, and black rope on the ground by his feet. The knife is probably somewhere on his person. The gun taunts you like an old enemy. One you thought you had escaped before, only to be right back where it nearly destroyed you in the first place. A villain in and of itself, harboring unfinished business with you. Your skin crawls, a thousand knives pricking you all over your body.  

Now every slight lift or twitch of his hands could be your end. You watch him closer than ever before, eyes wide so as to not miss a single thing like a viper has been placed in front of you, and you’re waiting for it to strike.

Yunho doesn’t look at you at all. In fact he turns away from you completely so as not to be tempted to even glance in your direction, focusing solely on Seonghwa instead. Truthfully, you’re relieved… and devastated. 

But it’s like he can’t bear to see you like this. Hurting and cold in a heap behind him. Unwilling to accept his own rules and self-tailored morals just yet. If he doesn’t kill you, what does that say about him? About everything? It means he’s gone soft, easy on you. It’ll show you that you can bend his rules, know about a plan where the only goal is to take you away from him and not tell him about it for a whole month, misbehave, and there’ll be no consequences. 

He’s killed others for less. 

He looks deep into the grave that already has a thin blanket of snow beginning to cover the bottom of it. Deeper than the others. He’d made it this way, fresh off of the plane, making this the first place he came to after retrieving his car from the lot. A headstart, if you will, knowing that he’d be racing against the rest of the guys later. Two steps ahead. 

Arriving here later tonight, he decided that it wasn’t deep enough to hide you. Possessive even in death, he wants no one to be able to find you, even if he’ll never admit that that is why he had Seonghwa dig deeper than Mingi was ever made to. Two feet deeper. 

Still, he has to look away from it, knowing that’s where he has to put you soon. 

At least you’re making it easy for him – staying quiet, not begging him for your life. You hadn’t done that last time he brought you here either. You were good. 

Almost perfect. 

Yunho’s throat constricts, and he has to tilt his head back slightly to try and ease it. What the hell is wrong with him? 

Seonghwa sniffles again, trying to come up with anything to make him stay this execution. He doubles down on what he knows he wants: the fantasy. “Please, Yun,” he begs, “we’ll back down. We’ll do whatever you want.”

“Oh, now you want to listen to me,” Yunho sighs, cocking the gun. A zap of lightning shoots up your spine at the horribly familiar sound. “If you guys had just accepted it on day one, I wouldn’t have had to do all of this bullshit!” 

“Yun–” 

Click. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Seonghwa looks directly into the barrel of the gun, pointing right at his forehead. He lowers his head, sobs wracking through him. The mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion all catching up to him at once. The pressure in his head feels like it’s on the verge of imploding, and he has to catch himself on the ground as the world begins to spin again. 

Then, a voice. Meek and raspy, coming from behind Yunho. 

“Daddy…” 

He lowers the gun. Seonghwa fights to look up at you, squinting through the dark. 

Yunho slowly turns to you. He’s not entirely sure if he actually heard you or not. You’re still curled up, shivering only a few feet from the grave. Although he doesn’t pay much attention to this thought, he does hope you don’t say anything stupid. Anything that won’t make him have to bury you before you’re dead.  

Really, you have no big speech or any kind of plan in mind, you just wanted him to stop pointing the gun at Seonghwa. You don’t know what’s wrong with him, but it’s clear that he’s been injured in some way. Now, with both of their attentions on you, you realize you have to keep going. The trees listen in, and even the wind dies down. 

The floor is yours. 

You look up at him, using your legs and core to push yourself up out of the snow with much difficulty and pain. Even in the darkness you can see his lips part, and he takes a half-step towards you like he wants to help. But he holds himself back. 

“Daddy, you’re…” you cough even though it feels like lighting a fire in your throat and chest, “You’re right. M-Mingi told me about their plan to get me out, b-but I promise I didn’t know it w-was st-still happening. I’m-m sorry, Daddy.” 

Once you’re done talking, another violent shudder runs through you like the cold had waited until you were finished. This one lasts longer, pulling quiet whimpers from you again. You tuck your knees closer into your chest, but it doesn’t help too much. All you want to do is go to sleep. Temporarily or forever, you don’t care which one anymore. 

Yunho shifts his weight from one foot to another. He makes you wait. He makes Seonghwa wait, who appears to be getting worse and worse. But at least there’s no gun pointing at him now. 

The snow crunches underneath each step towards you. If you had any strength or smarts or will left in you, you’d probably try to move away, maintaining distance between you two at all costs. But you don’t. You stay still. Quiet. You keep yourself upright even though it’s killing you to do so. 

He crouches down next to you, at an angle so his back isn’t facing Seonghwa. He keeps you both in his sights at all times. However, there’s no real threat. Neither of you have the strength – nor the luck – to successfully overpower him whatsoever. You feel his hand on your cheek before you see it. It’s always been a calming weight, and this time is no different. You lean into his touch, for warmth if nothing else, and a new wave of frozen tears begin to fall. 

“You didn’t tell me,” he says, his voice tight from betrayal. “I had to find all of this out myself. Why should I ever trust you again?” 

“I j– I just didn’t w-want anyone t-to get hurt,” you mumble, shaking your head, daring to glance up towards Seonghwa. You see him swaying slightly, eyes not really focused anywhere in particular. You bite your lip. He needs a doctor sooner rather than later.  

Yunho chuckles, removing his hand from your cheek to run it down his face. 

“‘Didn’t want anyone to get hurt’,” he echoes your words, peering over his shoulder, glancing at Seonghwa before turning back to you as if to say, ‘it happened anyway’. 

Your bottom lip quivers, and you lower your head in shame.   

“Why do you always make me do this?” Yunho sighs, his hand coming back up to play with your hair. “One minute you’re so close to perfect, and then you force me to make you remember your place. You’re so fucking exhausting.” 

“Is that why you killed the others?” You hear yourself ask, eyes going wide with shock at your boldness in such a situation. If your hands were free, you would have clapped them over your mouth, stuffing the words back in. But he heard them. 

It makes Yunho’s eyebrows raise. He hasn't heard such an attitude or tone from you since February. Of all times to act out… this was the worst possible timing. His hand flexes around the grip of the gun.  

“They were all disappointments,” he grits, “much like how you’ve turned out to be.” 

Oh. 

A sharp pang of hurt strikes your heart. He ignores your rounded, teary eyes, keeping an air of disdain and nonchalance about him. Actually, he looks away entirely so that you are barely in his peripheral vision. Like he can’t stand the sight of you anymore. But you’re just his weakness, and he can’t afford to be weak right now. He can’t help but think that this would be so much easier if you tried to run, screamed at him, pissed him off. Something. Then, he could hate you with all of his heart. 

However… even then, he’s not entirely convinced that he would. So what can he do? He can make you hate him. 

“You’re nothing to me now.” He lies.  

The world inhales sharply. Every star, tree, leaf, snowflake, and twig waits for your reaction. 

The heartbreak on your face is unmistakable.

In a word, you shatter. Devastation pummels you from all sides, suffocates you as you sob. It pulls you back down to the ground, the snow burning your exposed skin once more. Luckily, this new wave of tears is hot and endless, and keeps your face somewhat warm. He stands up again, walking away from you. He doesn’t want to hear you cry. He doesn’t want you to give him a reason to not end your life quickly. But your broken voice follows after him, a raspy wailing that cuts through the wind. 

“All I ever tried to do was love you,” you sob, inhaling snow. 

That makes him stop. His grip around the gun falters slightly, and he almost looks back. He remembers your would-be last words the last time he took you here. You proved yourself to him that night. You proved that you really are different from the others… better. 

But you speak again. 

“Daddy, please,” you warble, unable to keep as quiet as he’d like you to be. 

He grits his teeth. Don’t beg, he pleads with you internally, please, don’t fucking beg me. 

The ruptured earth at his feet yawns, waiting to be refilled. 

“Please…” 

His hand tightens around the gun, finger moving to the trigger. Seonghwa coughs and wheezes, unaware of the rising danger you’re putting yourself in. He’s just hoping Yunho will listen to your pleas. He has no idea. Underneath the snow, he doesn’t see the manmade, uneven hills that depict where the others are.   

In your dismay, and in the darkness, you can’t see how Yunho is starting to shake. Literally vibrating with frustration. Maybe he should just shoot you anyway, get it over with. Fuck the routine, go off script just this once, make an exception. 

“Daddy,” you cry one more time, “I love you, please–” 

That sets him off. 

She’ll never love someone she fears.  

“No you don’t!” He yells, pointing the gun right at you, absolutely irate. “You fucking don’t! You never did!” 

Smartly, you shut up right away. Your despair is palpable, sobbing yourself into hysterics. The wind punishes you, blowing ice directly against you, keeping you pinned down. 

He’s hurt… you hurt him. He doesn’t know how much you think you truly loved him – so, you failed him. 

Your heart wrenches and twists violently as your mind calls you a barrage of horrible names, demolishing all of your efforts, telling you that you were never good enough for him. You were never enough at all. Every piece of you that he broke off and remoulded in his favored image, every declaration of unwavering love, everything you did right, everything you did wrong… it’s all been for nothing.  

Nothing. 

You’re nothing to me now. 

You shut your eyes tight, unable to look at the gun. It’s better this way, you think. You don’t want to know when he’ll pull the trigger. Any second could be your last, and you’re okay with that. 

A switch flips and you silence yourself. Like there was never an outburst in the first place; the only evidence of one being red, puffy eyes and occasional sniffles and sobs. Yet Yunho still aims the gun right at you, finger on the trigger, experience egging him on. 

She’s nothing special, he tries to tell himself. You’ll forget her just as easily as the others.  

“I’m done…” he mutters like he needs to convince himself that he is. “I’m fucking done.” 

He shakes off any trace of empathy, any remnants of his true feelings towards you. None of it matters now. He rolls his shoulders back, regaining his self-control, and forces himself to reset. Detaching himself from any emotion, purely focusing on getting this all over with before he changes his mind. 

A deep breath, the air filling his lungs, and he is mostly switched off. 

Voluntarily depraved, depriving himself of you. 

This side of him grabs you by the ankle, dragging you the short distance towards the grave. The closer you get to it, the more the earth seems to open up, ready to swallow you whole. Another sob tears from your throat, no longer pleading, but still upset at the prospect of dying so soon. He lets you cry. It’s all for nothing, anyway. 

Then, you feel an odd vibration. It reverberates through the earth. Quiet thunder moves through the thicket, muffled noises increasing in volume, heading right towards you three. Blearily, you turn to the side, towards the sound. Yunho drops your ankle, turning towards it as well, gun at the ready. 

He has a good idea of who this may be. 

Six figures burst through the trees like a pack of wolves, stronger together. The moon acts as a searchlight, catching Yunho redhanded in its glow. Without thinking, Mingi and San continue sprinting once they enter the clearing, yelling at Yunho to stop, ready to brawl. You gasp upon hearing their voices loud and clear, especially Mingi’s. You haven’t heard him in so long. 

But the gun pointed right at their faces stops them dead in their tracks. Their calves burn from running in the snow for so long, and their breaths fog the air around them in quick succession. 

“Stop moving now!” Yunho yells, seemingly towards the others behind Mingi and San who instinctively move forward to protect the two of them. 

“You won’t shoot us, Yunho!” San yells back, rather bravely. Mingi braces himself, knowing that was the wrong thing to say. 

Not a second later, Yunho fires the gun off to the side. The bullet comes so close to grazing Yeosang’s arm that he can feel the breeze of it whizzing past him before it collides into one of the trees. The bark splinters. His body locks up as it does an internal check, making sure he’s still alive and unharmed. It is rather effective in making all six not want to move a single muscle. 

Lesson learned. 

Both you and Seonghwa cower from the gunshot, ears ringing. Seonghwa feels like he’s going to black out again. He covers his head with his arms and stays as still as possible, only focusing on breathing deeply as he fights through the worst pain of his life.  

“Yunho, we called the police. It’s over!” Hongjoong shouts, “Let them go!” 

Yunho steps in front of you, blocking you from view. He’s at his most dangerous, entirely unpredictable. Not even Mingi knows what to expect from him. He’s frazzled, cornered, willing to do whatever it takes for his desired ending. Whatever that may look like to him. Yunho’s never been in this type of situation before, and even if Mingi knows him best, there is just no telling how tonight will end. 

In the tense, silent standoff, Hongjoong’s eyes search frantically for Seonghwa, looking over him several times in the dark, mistaking his curled up shape for a rock or bush. 

Then, out of nowhere, Yunho laughs. Cold and amused. He ignores Hongjoong entirely, opting to stare right through Mingi instead. 

“Min,” he hums, his tone saturated with patronizing warmth, “I thought I told you what would happen if you showed up.”

San dares to look away from Yunho and the gun, towards Mingi instead, wondering what the hell he’s talking about. Had they… spoken to each other before this? Because that’s exactly what it’s sounding like. 

All eyes turn to Mingi, waiting for an explanation, wanting to know. 

Meanwhile, your attention is on Seonghwa, about a yard away from you and looking worse and worse by the minute. As the sky overhead lightens, you can see grey-black rings forming around his eyes, how pale his skin has become, and most concerningly: how he hasn’t moved much in the past few minutes, slumped in the snow. Both of you aren’t dressed appropriately to be in this kind of weather for this long, and you’re terrified he’ll catch hypothermia. You’re not so worried about yourself… you know your time is about to be up anyway. 

You can’t feel much of your body anymore. The burn of ice is unrelenting, the kind of stinging pain that never goes away. It sticks to your skin, burrowing underneath it to cool the blood. 

Yunho sighs in mock disappointment. “You didn’t tell them? Again? How much are you gonna keep from them, Min?” 

“Tell us what?” Hongjoong asks, “Mingi, what?”

Yeosang also speaks up, his voice soft, “What is he talking about?” 

But Mingi ignores them, never looking away from Yunho. Standing his ground. “I remember. You said that you’d kill me.” 

This snatches your attention back, eliciting a small noise from you. You can’t see all of the boys from behind Yunho’s legs, but you can just make out Yeosang, someone standing next to him that you haven’t seen before, and San a little farther ahead of them. It hurts too much to try and crane your neck to see where Mingi is, but you wish you could see him. Despite all that he’s done, you don’t want him to die. You certainly don’t want to watch Yunho kill him, either. Everyone else probably shares that same sentiment as well.  

But Jongho and Wooyoung both dash to Mingi’s side at once, shielding him. San side-steps closer, joining the protective huddle, as well as Yeosang and Hongjoong. A team protecting their own. The four of them are closer to Yunho, you, and Seonghwa now, having stepped in front of Mingi and San. Yeosang can just barely see you behind Yunho, and Hongjoong takes another closer look at what he thought was part of the scenery. 

A third of Seonghwa is buried underneath the snowfall, a near-perfect camouflage in the dark with his black hair and sweater. It’s clear at first glance that he is unconscious, unmoving, and severely injured. It takes everything once he finally sees him to not rush to his side, to help in any way he can, to tell him that he’s going to be alright. Anything. Hongjoong’s blood boils. It only ramps up the tension, the need to end this now. 

Jongho shouts, “You’re not killing anybody! Put the fucking gun down!”

Yunho smirks, ignoring Jongho for now to look directly towards Hongjoong. 

“So, you finally brought them too, huh?” He says, carelessly pointing the gun at Wooyoung and Jongho. “Kept them from ‘danger’ only to bring them now?” 

Hongjoong bristles but stands firm, refusing to show any sort of emotion on his face. He can’t let Yunho see that his words are getting to him. Not this time. Yeosang slowly reaches back, grabs Wooyoung’s coat and pulls him behind him, out of Yunho’s line of sight and fire. Jongho’s hands clench into fists, beyond annoyed that Yunho is continuing to act so high and mighty when he is clearly outnumbered. However… he is the one holding the gun. The rest of them are critically unarmed. 

“Don’t try and change the subject,” Hongjoong growls, risking another step forward. Closer. “Let them go.” 

A corner of Yunho’s mouth twitches, a short exhale of a laugh evaporating into the air. If there’s one thing he hates, it’s being so openly challenged like this. He looks over his shoulder, down at you, glad to see that you haven’t moved at all. You’ve stayed right by his side, close by and safe. 

At least someone is behaving. 

He’ll never admit it, not even to himself, but seeing you quiet and half-frozen below him, still so submissive for him… there is a pang of regret. It’s small, not quite noticeable or easily labelled as such, but there nevertheless. Not necessarily for what he’s done to you, but for not just punishing you for not telling him about the plan. Truthfully, he doesn’t want to kill you. He either didn’t care or actually wanted to with the others in the past, but with you… he really doesn’t.  

For the first time, he questions his ability to carry it out. 

The others… they preach loyalty until kingdom come, but they don’t know what true loyalty looks like. It looks like you. Curled up at his feet like a scared kitten, not making a sound in front of the others. A naive little lamb, who has evaded death so many times, just to obediently stay by her master, right up to the slaughter. You still know your place and your rules. 

And yet you didn’t hesitate to break those rules and forget your place. 

Yunho grits his teeth. He’ll deal with you soon. He can do it. 

He turns back to the group, all casual. 

“Oh, fine. But I’ve been promised something.” He says, his index finger tapping lightly on the gun, gaze locked onto Mingi again. “And you can either give me what I’m owed, or say ‘goodbye’ to them.” At the last word, he gestures behind him towards you and Seonghwa. 

The slow realization dawns on them, one by one. The impossible ultimatum takes them all aback. 

He’s making them choose who to save, and who to kill. 

Two for one, or one for two. Either way, someone will be put into that yawning grave. 

The group erupts in protest, shouting at him to just give it up and that he doesn’t have to do this. Yunho, however, doesn’t budge whatsoever. Not even a flinch. He’s dead serious and immovable. The group moves tighter together, really shielding Mingi from Yunho, only a sliver of his hair visible to him now. His hand tightens around the gun, the only physical display of his frustration. 

At the sound of raised voices, and a new wave of nausea rushing through him, Seonghwa begins to stir, slowly coming back into consciousness again. He makes a small noise as his eyelids flutter open, undetectable under the din of wind and livid men. His head continues to pound, especially as he pushes himself up out of the snow. Most of it falls off of him as easily as powder, but some still clings to his damp hair, clothes, and skin. He doesn’t exactly remember where he is, nor what’s happening. He wants to yell at everyone to be quiet, even if the act of yelling might cause his head to explode from the added pressure and volume. It hurts to blink, but he fights against how heavy his eyelids are to try and figure out what is happening in front of him. 

Someone calls his name. The voice is familiar, but sounds like it’s coming from miles and miles away. So far, it’s the only thing he can attach to in order to keep himself awake. He hopes he’ll hear it again. 

Upright now, the pressure in his head increases tenfold, magnifying with each and every movement, no matter how small. He doesn’t quite remember why he wants to sit up, but he goes with it. It must’ve been for a reason. Perhaps to try and hear his name again, but the voice doesn’t call for him a second time. A wave of pain slams into him upside the head and he keeps his mouth pressed into a thin line to avoid being the center of Yunho’s attention once more. He gingerly lifts his hand to touch the back of his head, trying his best to assess the damage done there. A memory flashes by him, fleeting in its detail, but he briefly remembers seeing his own blood on the carpet in the apartment. The ache in his teeth as he clenched them, his body bracing for the second blow. Then the memory disappears. The dull and constant hurt of the here and now is more than enough for him to concentrate on. 

Plus, everyone around him won’t stop yelling, which is making the throbbing in his head that much worse.     

“Or you can stop being a fucking psycho and let them all go!” Wooyoung shouts, disgusted at this version of Yunho in front of him. He understands the stories now. 

Pushed to the back of the group, Mingi starts to move away. Slowly, to not draw attention to the fact that he’s abandoning his defenses. They’re all so preoccupied with guarding him from Yunho, they don’t even notice that he’s drifting from them. 

The wheels in his head that have been spinning out this whole night finally slow. An odd clarity settles over him. He doesn’t feel the wind. He doesn’t hear the uproar in front of him nor the trees overhead swaying and rustling, adding to the swell of noise. He looks at his hands, past the sleeves of his coat. They’re a pinkish-red color from the cold. Numb. Then he turns his head to the forest that surrounds them on all sides. How easy it would be for him to just slip away, to back up only a few feet and let the night swallow him whole, hiding him from imminent danger. No one would forgive him if he did that, least of all himself. The thought is just… there. The opportunity presents itself. 

Instead, he turns back towards Yunho. 

His next decision is not clarity borne from some sort of act of noble redemption. To him, it’s simply repayment. He indirectly made you pay by not standing up to Yunho that night outside the convenience store, telling him to fuck off and find someone else. To be in debt this long, knowing the game, it’s better if it’s him. He’ll gladly choose your life and Seonghwa’s over his own.  

He moves out to the side, no longer hidden behind his friends, and no longer hiding behind his past excuses. Whatever he used to tell himself to smooth over everything he’s done, downplay his own actions, he throws all of it away. This, he admits, should have been done years ago. The first instance in which he knew what Yunho was really doing with these girls, and why they would suddenly ‘disappear’ without any reason or warning.  

Now, standing over them, he can finally make the right decision.  

“Kill me if you want,” Mingi declares, his deep, husky voice distinct over the top of everyone else’s voices. “Just let them go.” 

All eyes snap to him. Including yours. 

You can see him clearer now, off to the side. You’re glad you’re still hidden behind Yunho, even now, still not ready to see him. His deception rocked you to the core. It’s something you cannot and will not forgive or forget so easily. Yet, you can’t deny the wave of calm that washes over you once the initial shock wears off. 

He looks hollow. Bent out of shape and just… overall different. Less of a spark to him. His eyes are tired, but hold determination within them regardless – the same look he had months ago in late summer, standing up to Yunho in the living room. If you had any sort of ego left, you would assume it has something to do with what he did to you. 

What he says doesn’t quite hit you yet. Or maybe, you just genuinely don’t see yourself getting out of this, so everyone’s attempts to persuade Yunho to change the ending, just go in one ear and out the other. Though it still hurts to do so, you look up at Yunho, curious as to what his next step will be. It’s not every day someone offers him their life on a silver platter, especially when that someone is his old best friend. 

You can hear the others, shocked and defiant. San grips the sleeve of Mingi’s coat, trying to pull him back towards the group, but Mingi shakes him off. Hongjoong rushes over to him, speaking quickly and hushed, trying to talk him out of it, insisting they can all go home unharmed. Nobody has to die. 

Debatable. 

Mingi brushes him off too, nudging him back towards the others. They stare at him wide-eyed, in disbelief that he’s doing this. That he’s choosing to do this. They don’t know the full story, they don’t know why he feels like this is all for the best. 

Jongho tries one more time, with a slightly less gentle approach. 

“Don’t give him what he wants,” he urges, trying to get him to look him in the eyes. Mingi stays fixated on the ground, though. He doesn’t want them to try and fight for him to keep his life, knowing that they probably wouldn’t be doing so if they knew the truth. 

“Hyung,” Jongho grabs his coat with a grip that will not be as easy to pry off. “Think about it. He won’t give her up that easily just because you let him kill you.” 

Mingi hesitates, but only for a few seconds at most. In those few seconds, he asks himself if their optimism about saving everyone is grounded in reality. Jongho’s words hit him hard. The unpredictability of what Yunho will do once he’s dead stops him from continuing. But he feels that gun pointing at him, and he has to finally acknowledge something about himself. 

Is he stepping in front of the bullet to save you, or because he wants to die? 

He accepted his fate without a second thought when he decided to lead the boys here. No hesitation, just silent acceptance. No tears, no wallowing. His only thoughts were of you and Seonghwa. How you both deserve better, how neither of you should die at the hands of Yunho, not if he can potentially change that. He doesn’t want to be the hero, he knows he will never be. It’s the cost of his actions – or, his lack of actions – simply coming back to him. A debt that must be paid in full. 

He looks up at Yunho. His closest friend, someone he would’ve gone to war for in the past, a real brother to him. Standing a few yards away from him now, he’s a stranger. Externally appearing to be the Yunho he knows and loves, but internally possessed by something much darker. An entity feeding off of every last bit of good nature and empathy. He has to remind himself that the man standing in front of him is not Yunho. At least, not the one he’s been hoping will return. 

The future just isn’t something he wants to see. He can’t see it, can’t possibly imagine what tomorrow will look like, and can’t place himself anywhere near a somewhat normal life. How can he live one when he knows what he’s done? How can he live with himself? 

His eyes find you next, already looking straight at him. You don’t shy away. 

Yunho taps the side of the gun again, impatient. He keeps quiet for now, choosing to watch instead of speak. Analyze, calculate, observe any trickery that may occur with this voluntary display by Mingi. He thinks he’d know about it because of the bugs he hid in their phones, but he hasn’t exactly had time to listen to what they’ve been saying tonight. This could all be a trap they had set in the car on the way here. His heel moves back, gently hitting your shoulder, just to make sure you’re still behind him.  

He doesn’t bother to look over at Seonghwa. To be honest, he doesn’t care if Seonghwa escapes back to the group. He’s not the target that he’s after. Not really. Plus, Seonghwa is in no position to try and fight Yunho successfully. 

But Seonghwa is sitting up now. Trying to get himself to stand, movement by movement. It takes all the energy within him just to bring his foot out from underneath him. The world spins when he tries to stabilize himself with his hands. You watch him from the corner of your eye, saying nothing, barely breathing. 

Go! Go, go, go, you silently encourage him on. He’s right on the tree line. He could disappear easily while Yunho has bigger problems at the moment. 

You don’t want him to watch you die. 

Inspired, you begin to take measures to start to sit up as well, always watching Yunho. You aren’t planning any sort of escape or attack – how could you, in this state? – you’re simply curious to see if you’ll feel better if you are upright.   

Yeosang pries Jongho off of Mingi’s coat, expression unreadable. His eyebrows are furrowed slightly, looking at Mingi like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. Which, in a way, is true. He’s sure Mingi is so willing to trade his life for yours and Seonghwa’s for a reason, he just can’t place what that reason could be. Whatever it is, Seonghwa apparently knows about it. 

The purpling sky dyes the forest and its guests a deep shade of indigo.  

“I’m tired of waiting,” Yunho huffs, looking up to address the entire group, “make your decision.” 

All everyone else can do is watch in horror as Mingi obeys, stepping even closer to Yunho, farther from the group. You can see him even better now, though your eyelids are starting to grow heavy again. You look down at the ground, shifting uncomfortably at him being so close to you again. It’s been so long and then not long at all. Lifetimes since you trusted him, in just over thirty days. 

Face to face again, the world halts. The branches above try to crane past the others, each wanting a better view of the standoff below. Occasionally, a thick clump of snow will fall from one of them, misting the air as it descends. Everything diminishes to just the two men and their sordid history. 

The air is thick between them. The stillness that awaits a detonation. The woods after the shot that never fired. No one risks even a poorly timed breath. 

The air whirls and howls around Yunho, begging for bloodshed. The bare branches on the trees above whisper and creak, placing bets, enjoying the show. Birds who are just waking up only sing once or twice before falling silent or flying away. Even they know not to interrupt. The moonlight tilts, shadowing Yunho once again, making him appear even more dangerous and frightening than he already is. 

“Let them go first,” Hongjoong appeals, trying anything to buy time. “Then–”

Yunho interrupts him with another chuckle, a short and sharp exhale through his nose, quite amused at his sudden demand. They must think he’s stupid. That’s fine, they can continue to underestimate him. That only serves him better, keeps his position at the very top of superiority. They need a show of honesty? Something that tells them he might keep his end of the deal? Fine. 

“No,” he says flatly, “I really don’t think any of you are in any position to be telling me what to do.” 

San grabs the back of Jongho’s collar before he can try to beat him into the ground. 

There’s a small pause before he speaks again, pretending to mull something over. “But, just to show how merciful I can be…” 

As soon as he finishes the last syllable, while still pointing the gun in Mingi’s direction, he walks over to Seonghwa. He’s rather surprised that he’s awake and trying to get himself up. 

He can help with that. 

Yunho grabs Seonghwa by the arm, hoisting him up roughly, ignoring the shouts from the group, everyone growing more and more agitated. He shoves Seonghwa towards them, now in the dead center of the two opposing teams, right by Mingi’s feet. Because of his condition and the snow, he does fall right down, landing with a soft thud, hands first so as to not hit his head again. The next wave of nausea is the most powerful, and he has to really fight to keep himself from getting sick. His vision is darkening again. As his shivering gradually stops, his body begins to show signs of shutting down. It is more than sufficient to say that he’s afraid he’ll die here. 

You’re halfway between laying down and sitting up, frozen in place as you watch him, lifeless in the snow. Before anyone can use this opportunity to go retrieve him, Hongjoong shoots an arm out, a silent signal to wait, even though all he wants to do is run forward and drag Seonghwa back to safety. Yunho won’t be handing him over that easily. There’s got to be more. 

You hold your breath, eyes still locked onto Seonghwa. You don’t realize that Mingi is staring right at you, eyes darting back and forth between you and Seonghwa since Yunho moved away. You don’t hear his sharp intake of breath, lost to the night air. The sight of you like this, or any of the others before you in a similar state of distress and injury, on the very precipice of dying, has never been easy on him. 

He takes a small step back, giving Seonghwa room, taking care to not potentially kick any snow into his face by accident. 

Seonghwa, Mingi realizes, is being dangled in front of them. Yunho’s making them look directly at what is at stake. The longer they argue, fumbling over their morality and mortality, the less chance of survival Seonghwa has. And you’re not far behind, equally dressed and equally as frozen. Time is against them just as much as time is against him. Yunho needs to show them that. 

Mingi watches as Yunho steps right back into place, directly in front of you. The others are simply not allowed to look at you. Not even now. If he really is honest in that he’ll let you go if he kills him, would he still be this worried about keeping you hidden? He could have just as easily thrown you down next to Seonghwa, visually rub it right in their faces that they can trade one life for two, so why doesn’t he?

The thing is, Yunho isn’t a liar. But he bends the truth, finds the loophole. When he asked them to choose who to save, he never specifically mentioned that he’d let both you and Seonghwa go in exchange for Mingi’s life. They just automatically assumed via false, optimistic hope. It was never going to be two for one – always an eye for an eye, an even exchange. 

“You won’t give her up,” Mingi states bluntly, his words becoming fog as he speaks them. “Will you?” 

Yunho doesn’t react, his expression unchanging and stoic. His trigger finger itches. 

Mingi risks a step forward, careful to go around Seonghwa. 

“You can’t even bring yourself to kill her, can you? Either of them. Because you can’t. You killed the girls before because you didn’t care about them. It’s different now, isn’t it? You care this time. You could’ve killed them long before we got here. I bet you won’t even kill me, you fucking coward.” 

Oh god– Hongjoong thinks as he watches in horror, internally yelling at Mingi to stop provoking him. 

If only he said it out loud. 

Yunho’s hand tightens around the gun, and he smiles. Unnerving and cold, full of promise. He’s never been one to step down from a challenge. And if Mingi, of all people, wants to test him like this in front of everybody, then he’ll rise to the occasion.  

“Oh, Mingi,” Yunho laughs, as if he’s just heard a mildly funny joke. “You really gotta stop underestimating me.” 

The gun goes off. 

The birds that fell silent scream as they flee from the trees. Seonghwa flinches, but lacks the energy to cover his ears. He feels a light misting of snow land on his cheek from something falling near him. 

Barely missing a beat, Yunho has the gun pointed at someone else now, swallowing down the lump in his throat that grows larger and larger as his psyche attacks him for what he’s just done. Psychologically, he snaps. None of this is real anymore, and he dissociates. If he’s going to be disrespected, he’ll just take them all. It’s justifiable. He focuses on the new target, next on the list. 

All hell breaks loose around him. Everything happens in both slow-motion and hyper-speed, all at once. Now all bets are off. 

The rest of the group, having just registered what he’s done, no longer sits still on the sidelines. They run right towards the gun that’s pointing directly at Seonghwa. 

You don’t hear yourself screaming, but you feel the strain in your throat. Somehow, you manage to gather enough energy to kick at Yunho, trying to stop him from shooting Seonghwa next. He is distracted by you for only a single second, debating on who to shoot next. He cannot let them get to you. 

You don’t want to watch him die. Neither of them. 

The single second, miraculously, is enough. 

Jongho and Hongjoong both slam into Yunho at the same time, causing all three of them to trip over you in the struggle. One of their feet kicks your jaw, and you shriek again, lifting your head up to try and see what’s going on. You feel someone behind you, and you hear them say something, but you just look around frantically, trying to get your bearings again. That someone lifts you up to your feet, and the forest spins. Your knees buckle and you sink back into the snow again. Whoever is behind you lets you drop, intent on dragging you away instead. Their hands go to untie the rope around your wrists. A punch lands somewhere, and numerous shouts fill the air, getting lost within the howling wind. 

San rushes forward, but not to maim Yunho in any way he possibly can. He drops next to Seonghwa’s limp body, checking him for his injuries. It’s obvious he’s fading and fast, his lips are starting to turn blue, and he’s mumbling incoherently. Without further delay, he peels off his coat to wrap it around him, looking back at what’s happening with the others. 

Wooyoung is kneeling by Mingi’s side, applying pressure to the wound in his chest. His once cold hands are warm now, covered in his friend’s blood. To keep himself from freaking out, he has to remind himself the police are already well on their way. He reminds Mingi of that as well, trying to keep him awake by talking to him. 

The brawling trio only a foot or two away from you continue their death match, fighting for the gun. It’s all too easy for Yunho to overpower both of them, one of his hardest punches hitting Hongjoong right in the jaw, and managing to shove Jongho into the grave, taking him out of the fight at least for a few moments. You see Yunho clearly thanks to the lightening sky, teeth bared, and supremely pissed off. His eyes are dead. Unhinged. Unpredictable, and still armed. 

The rope around your wrists breaks apart, and you see him look at whoever helped you with pure fire in his eyes. He stands back up without any trouble. Jongho pushes himself up from within the open ground, intent on jumping right back into the fray. 

“Motherfucker–” He spits out, swinging his knee up to the edge of the grave to get out. 

Hongjoong staggers to his feet from behind him, one hand holding his jaw. 

The gun is pointed again. 

But not at you, nor the person behind you. 

At Seonghwa. 

Something in you makes you act before your brain can catch up. You don’t even realize what you’re doing as you’re doing it. You’re just pulled to move, to protect him. It’s been traumatizing enough watching Mingi get shot, but you don’t think you can bear any more harm to be inflicted upon Seonghwa. Yeosang reaches to pull you back, but you slip just out of reach. 

Hongjoong grabs Yunho by the arm. 

Another shot rings out, deafening all those near it. 

Nobody moves at first. 

The pure white snow is stained with blood. A body hits the ground as the bullet within them nestles violently into its new host before exiting. It lands several feet behind them, burying into the snow, never to be seen again until the spring. 

San freezes, looking up towards the five of you as he processes that he hasn’t been hit, even though he lunged to cover Seonghwa’s body with his own once he saw where the gun was pointing. 

Yunho’s arm lowers, but not solely due to Hongjoong’s grip. Due to shock. His once lifeless eyes are now round with disbelief. 

You don’t scream this time, not even when you hit the ground. 

All the air is sucker-punched from you, stolen right out of your lungs. Your body feels cold in a completely different way, and your breath quickens. You watch a couple of birds dart overhead, escaping to safer skies. The world is minimized to what you can see above you and what you can hear. Yeosang’s blurry face appears in your field of vision, but you can’t talk to him. You’re stuck. He takes your hand, squeezing it tight before looking up, towards the others. You feel uneasy, now that he’s not looking at you. 

Yeosang watches as Jongho wraps his arm around Yunho’s throat, forcing him to kneel. He lets himself be taken down easily. Hongjoong stands close, gun in hand, finger on the trigger. Ready. His hands shake. 

“Don’t fucking move.” He orders, his voice firm and controlled despite everything. In fact, this is the most held together the group has seen him in months. Even if they all know he’s absolutely going through it internally, this is the leadership display that they’re used to. Under different circumstances, they would celebrate this more. 

“Y/N? Can you hear me?” Yeosang prompts, trying to get any kind of response as he applies pressure to your wound. All he receives is a strangled gasp as your body finally realizes what has happened to it. The adrenaline gradually begins to wear off. He says something low and calm to you as you shut your eyes. You can’t discern any of his words. 

In immeasurable pain, frightened, and confused, all you want is one person. 

Seonghwa can feel someone touching him. Maybe two people? He’s not sure. But whoever it is, and however many are around him, take this opportunity to drag him back towards the treeline, far from the barrel of the gun. He’s not sure where he is, what he’s doing here, or how he got here in the first place. He’s hot. Burning up rapidly, he paws at whoever’s touching him, they’re only adding to the fire that he is now desperate to put out. He hears his name again, less distant than before, but just as muffled. 

“Hwa? Hwa, stay with me, okay?” Someone says from above him. 

His unfocused eyes flutter open for just a moment before closing again. Other than that, he doesn’t respond. Nor does he move. Everything is so heavy… so heavy and confusing. He just wants to sleep, but everything’s too loud. 

“Fuck… what the fuck…” Wooyoung mutters under his breath, hugging himself tight. 

The carnage around him was exactly what they all feared. He just felt better that the gun is in Hongjoong’s hands now. He’s sure everyone shares that feeling. The scent of blood catches on the wind, accompanied by gunpowder, and he tries to bury his nose in his coat as best he can while still applying pressure to Mingi’s wound. It’s hard to tell, but he thinks he’s successfully diminishing how much he bleeds from it. But he needs to get to a hospital now. 

Mingi’s still breathing, but not responsive. Wooyoung wishes he could spare just a couple of seconds to check his pulse, but keeps his bloodied hands right where they are. He won’t let him bleed out in the snow. He won’t let him die here. Not like this. 

You’re not faring any better yourself. 

The wind rakes through the leaves, making them laugh above you. You turn your head to one side, nose almost touching Yeosang’s knee. Nothing helps. Nothing can distract you. Your entire chest is on fire. Everything is simultaneously too loud and too quiet, both making you anxious. Your body convulses, desperate for air, and you cough up blood. Above you, Yeosang shouts for help, even though no one can leave who they’re with. No one wants to leave the wounded alone. 

You hear your name called, the familiar voice cutting through all the noise. Already in the process of protecting itself, your mind clings to that voice, knowing that in the past the owner of it has given you so much comfort when you are hurting. 

To the best of your ability, you lift your head up, though it emphasizes the sharp pressure you feel in your chest tenfold, forcing you back down with a yelp. 

“Daddy…?” You croak, wondering if you even said it loud enough to be heard by him. 

Yeosang keeps pressure, unaware of the exit wound pouring blood beneath you. His voice is calming, a soft low timbre that comforts you somewhat, telling you that they’re going to help you, and that you’re going to be okay. “It’ll all be over soon,” he says. He hopes he’s telling the truth. Yunho is still uninjured, but unarmed. However, that doesn’t mean he’s not just as dangerous. 

Where are the goddamn police?  

“Where… hm– Daddy?” You slur your words, blinking lethargically. 

There’s some rustling, thrashing noises on your right, until Hongjoong shouts something and it stops abruptly. 

“Shhh,” Yeosang hushes you, looking over to your right to make sure everyone is exactly where they should be. “He’s right here, don’t worry. Hongjoong and Jongho got him.” 

He can’t look down anymore, the sight and scent of the blood all too much. You could have sworn it was almost morning, so you’re confused why everything is going dark again. 

“He’ll kill them…” you mumble, turning your head back to the right to try and see where they are. 

“Jongho’s holding him down. He’s not going anywhere.” Yeosang murmurs, applying more pressure to your chest. The words don’t make sense to you. Not really. You pick out that Yunho isn’t going anywhere, and that comforts you. 

You cough again, tears rolling down your cheeks from the pain and cry out for Yunho one more time.

Yunho digs his nails into Jongho’s forearm, but fails to actually cause him any pain due to his padded coat. Jongho holds him tighter, threatening to break his neck right then and there. Surprisingly, Yunho doesn’t say anything. No snarky remarks, no other threats, nothing. He just keeps staring at you, still in shock. If he could shake free of Jongho, he’d run right to you. 

It’s when Hongjoong steps right in front of his line of sight, blocking you from view that he starts fighting back again. Luckily, Jongho is up to the challenge. Yunho jerks one way, clawing at Jongho’s hand since the skin there is exposed, but Jongho retaliates quickly and efficiently by decking Yunho in the nose with his free hand. Hongjoong presses the gun into his forehead, shaking with anger. 

“You don’t get to see her,” he says bitterly, “not anymore.” 

If looks could kill, Hongjoong would be six feet under right now. Yet, the grave remains empty. 

Delirious, your mumbling fades out the sleepier you get, rapidly becoming lightheaded and faint. Time expands and shortens. Yeosang tells you to open your eyes, and you swear you’re following directions, being good and obeying, but he keeps repeating himself. He sounds worried. It’s your fault. 

Daddy’s gonna be so mad… 

Sirens wail and screech in the distance. Someone shouts and someone replies from afar, but you’re too tired and out of it to discern what is being said and by whom. It hurts too much to even try. Everything is so much easier down here, drifting languidly in this state, somewhere in the middle of consciousness as the pain begins to roll back. Yunho uses this brief distraction to try to get out one more time, only for Hongjoong to press the gun harder against his forehead. He’s not going anywhere. 

San whispers a promise of returning to Seonghwa before sprinting through the woods, back in the direction they came from. Your eyelids flutter open, but you don’t actually see much of anything. Everything’s blurry and dark. 

“Hurts…” you whimper, trying to find Yunho with a lazy, short-lived search with your hand. 

Yeosang replies, though he’s not who you intended to answer back, “I know, just a little longer, don’t worry. The police are here.” 

The police? 

You remember something being said about the police earlier, but none of the context. Yunho drilled into your head that the police were bad people who would take you away from him immediately if ever given the chance. Why would they be here in the forest? Nothing is making sense, and a fresh wave of tears cascades down your cheeks. You don’t want them here. All you want is Yunho, why won’t they bring him to you?  

It’s unclear how long it takes for the police to descend upon the scene, lead straight to it with San’s help, but unfamiliar voices begin to fill the air soon enough. Mostly male voices, if you’re not mistaken. 

Still confused, your skin crawls. You can’t possibly be expected to take anybody in this state. 

Little spots of light blind you, peppering your already cloudy vision and your hands grip the fabric of Yeosang’s pant leg, only for him to be ripped away from you. With a distressed wail, you blindly search for him again, but someone is hovering above you, shining a bright flashlight in your eyes. Someone else holds your wrists down, which only makes you panic more. These people… you don’t know who they are. They’re touching you without Daddy’s permission. They’re signing off on their own death sentence and they don’t even realize it. You desperately kick your legs, trying to get everyone around you away, but to no avail. You have no energy. No say. 

Daddy didn’t do this to you… 

They did. 

This is all part of their plan; they called the police, and you’ll suffer for it. Their presence here only means that they’re going to separate you and Yunho. Now, they’re going to take advantage of you. You’re not strong enough to stomach any of this.

A new rush of adrenaline bolts through you, and despite the pain in your chest, you’re able to kick one of the men away from you. Though your vision is blurry, you can just barely see Yeosang and Hongjoong be forced to the ground and handcuffed, and Jongho being pried off of Yunho. Your heart races. You want to scream at them to not touch him, but before you can attempt, you are laid back down, nearly blacking out again. A stretcher is carried over and they maneuver you onto it.

When you still don’t stop fighting them, the paramedics have to restrain you on the ambulance bed, and you scream in terror, not knowing what is happening or where they’re taking you, or where Yunho is. This isn’t how the night was supposed to go at all. You’re supposed to be dead. Forever bound to Yunho. Not whatever this is, with an unknown future laying ahead of you.

One of the paramedics slaps the window to signal the driver to go, and with a lurch, the vehicle takes off, lights and sirens blaring. Every mile takes you farther and farther away from Yunho. The paramedics don’t care about that. You do.

You can’t breathe. Not without him telling you how to.

 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

“Female patient, early to mid twenties with a GSW to the upper right chest. Injury sustained about twenty minutes ago. No ID. Lost consciousness during transport.” 

Everything is so bright. Sterile. Loud. Something covers your face, but when you move to rip it off, you realize that your hands are still tied down. Air breezes through your hair, and you get the feeling of motion, even though you’re laying down. It’s all so dizzying. You feel sick. People around you talk loudly and over each other, turning it into an endless cacophony of urgent chatter. 

“Patient is hypotensive and tachycardic–”

“Single gunshot wound, visible entry and exit–” 

Someone with a face mask on leans over you, getting way too close to you. “Hi, honey,” he says, “need you to keep your eyes open for me, okay?”

The pet name makes your skin crawl in the worst way. You turn your face away, wanting nothing more than to escape this torment. This is all a horrible nightmare. You hope you’ll wake up in Yunho’s bed soon.  

“Starting the IV–” 

“What’re her vitals looking like?”

“Pulse ox is eighty-seven on fifteen litres–”

 “Can you tell me your name, sweetheart?” 

You’re not telling anyone anything. But you do open your eyes at the sound of female voices. You haven’t been around another woman in a year. 

“Honey? Can you hear me? Need you to keep your eyes open. Can you do that?” One of them asks. Her voice is nice. Calming.

“There’s blood coming up. It may have hit the lung.”

“I need a chest tube tray, get a thirty-two French–”

“Trauma two is ready, let’s go, now!”

A mixture of rough and soft hands paw at your clothes, taking them off and you instantly resist. You put up a hell of a fight even though you’re restrained, not making it easy for these people whatsoever. You’re not ready. Yunho hasn’t given them permission. He hasn’t given you permission. You’re disappointing him again.

You shriek once you feel a small but strong pinch in your side, unfocused eyes glaring towards that direction, staring daggers into the male nurse that stabbed you. In only a few seconds, you’re calm again, even more floaty you were in the woods. Your body, however, still subconsciously flinches away whenever a man gets too close to you.

Daddy… wouldn’t... like… it… even your thoughts are slow.

The brightness above you dims. 

Everything goes dark again.     

The tension between you had started this morning when you made the mistake of reading one of his texts over his shoulder. Your mom asked if you’re single again?” you’d said, your voice already edged with something sharp.

He’d tensed up immediately, like he knew what was coming. “She wants me to meet some girl from her church,” he muttered. “It’s nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. Not when this wasn’t the first time. Not when you’d been together for three years and she still referred to you as “that girl from the city.”

So naturally, you snapped. And then he snapped. And then came the hours of passive aggressive silence followed by sharp edged comments about your flirting habits, like how you couldn’t possibly go a night out without batting your lashes at some bartender to get free drinks.

“Maybe if you had a better job, I wouldn’t have to,” you’d shot back and immediately felt bad for saying it but too damn stubborn to apologize.

Now you were in his passenger seat, legs crossed, arms tight against your chest in your barely there black dress, because fuck his mom, and fuck being the respectable church girl she wants him with. You were wearing sin like perfume.

The air conditioning was blasting but your skin was hot. From anger, from guilt, from him. From the way he kept shifting in his seat like the veins in his arms were trying to keep him from doing something reckless. Like dragging the car over to the curb and telling you exactly who you belonged to.

“You gonna talk to me at some point,” you asked, eyes trained out the window, “or are we just going to arrive in awkward silence and pretend we haven’t been at each other’s throats all day?”

His hand flexed on the gearshift. “You wanna keep fighting?”

You turned your head slowly. “You’ve barely said ten words since we left.”

He scoffed. “Because if I open my mouth again, I’m gonna say some shit I can’t take back.”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Try me.”

His head snapped toward you, his voice low and deadly. “You think it’s cute, don’t you? Playing dumb, dressing like that, laughing at every goddamn joke some guy tells you like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I know exactly what I’m doing,” you snapped. “I’ve spent the last three years watching your mom try to set you up with her fantasy nun in training while I’ve bent over backward for you, so yeah, maybe I like it when people treat me like I’m worth something.”

The tires screeched slightly as he pulled into the club lot, slamming the gear into park with a growl deep in his chest. “You think I don’t know your worth?” he asked, finally looking at you. Really looking, like he was seeing you through the fury, the hurt, the weeks of pushing it down and pretending things were fine. “I know exactly how much you’re worth. That’s why I haven’t ripped the head off every asshole who so much as breathes in your direction.”

His voice dropped, almost a whisper now, as his eyes dragged down your body. “But tonight? You so much as smile at the wrong guy… I might just stop holding back.”

Your breath caught. Not fear. No, nothing like that. It was want. Ugly, bitter, bone deep need. For him to snap. To do something reckless. To remind you why no sweet little church girl could ever survive the heat of his hands on her skin.

═════════ ═════════ ═════════

The music hit first, bass thick enough to rattle your ribs, lights strobing like the club was trying to induce collective blackout. It was already packed inside, bodies pressed together in sweaty celebration, and the second you stepped in, Yunho’s hand brushed yours like he might take it.

But he didn’t.

He just pulled it away, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and set his jaw like he’d rather chew glass than touch you right now.

Mingi spotted him immediately from the upper section, two empty shot glasses in his hands and that stupid birthday grin that could charm the pants off anyone. “Yunhoooo!” he called out over the music, barreling down the steps. “There’s my man!”

You didn’t even get a second to adjust your dress or shake off the frost between you and Yunho before Mingi wrapped a heavy arm around your boyfriend’s neck and tugged him into a hug so aggressive it probably knocked his spine back into alignment.

“Come on,” Mingi grinned. “There’s a bottle with your name on it upstairs. I’m two tequila shots from legally changing my name to Park Seonghwa, so you’re babysitting tonight.”

Yunho opened his mouth like he might say something, to you, maybe, or to protest, but Mingi was already dragging him off by the shoulder, weaving through bodies like a man on a mission. And just like that, Yunho was gone.

You stood there alone for a beat, the throb of the music suddenly too loud in your ears.

“Rough night?” came a voice beside you.

You turned to see Seonghwa standing with a fresh drink in his hand, dressed in all black and already looking faintly amused, like he could read the tension radiating off you like heat waves. Hongjoong was beside him, half a head shorter and smirking like a little gremlin who knew everything.

“Oh, the roughest,” you said, shaking it off and forcing a smile. “Remind me why I didn’t just stay home and drink in my bathrobe?”

“Because I texted you three times that I’d be offended if you didn’t show up,” Hongjoong said, sipping his drink. “And because you knew you’d look hot in that dress and make Yunho insane.”

You raised a brow. “I’m not trying to make him insane.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Seonghwa muttered into his glass, eyes casually dragging down your body. “That dress is weaponized.”

You shrugged one bare shoulder. “He was already mad before I put it on.”

Hongjoong leaned in. “Still mad about his mom?” Him recalling the conversation, well you snapping about everything earlier on the phone.

You didn’t answer at first, just accepted the drink Seonghwa handed you, a dangerously pink thing with way too much vodka and sugar, and downed half of it in one go.

“He won’t say it, but yeah,” you muttered. “She invited him to brunch with that girl from her church. Again. Vanessa, Veronica or whatever.”

Seonghwa made a noise that sounded vaguely like a dying cat. “Does she think he’s gonna marry someone who plays acoustic guitar in the church choir and makes casseroles?”

“She made her own rosary beads,” you said flatly.

Hongjoong choked on his drink.

“I can’t compete with that,” you added. “I’ve said fuck six times since I walked in the building.”

“Seven,” Seonghwa corrected, then winked. “Make it eight and I’ll buy your next round.”

You laughed, finally, genuinely. It felt good. It felt like your ribs weren’t made of stone anymore.

But somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew Yunho was watching.

And he was. From the top floor, half a glass of whiskey in hand, pretending to listen to Mingi and San argue about who had better taste in partners. But his eyes?

They hadn’t left you once. Not since the moment you smiled at Seonghwa. Not since you leaned in a little too close to Hongjoong and tossed your hair like you knew exactly what you were doing.

Not since you crossed your legs in that dress and gave someone else the laugh he hadn’t earned all day.

And the way his jaw clenched?

It said you were about to learn what happens when Yunho stops pretending to be calm as he kept watching you now as the three of you grabbed shots.

Three shots in, the burn didn’t hurt anymore.

The first one had seared its way down like punishment, sharp and heavy in your chest, maybe for everything you wanted to say to Yunho but didn’t. The second tasted a little like regret and mango syrup. And the third? That one just made you warm.

You were sitting at the bar now, legs crossed, back arched just enough to be comfortable and just enough to make that slinky dress of yours hug the dangerous parts. Seonghwa had pulled up a second stool beside you, and Hongjoong stood between you both, drink in one hand and your wrist in the other like he was trying to show you how to fold a damn origami crane with a cocktail napkin.

“No, no, you have to crease it like this,” Hongjoong insisted, smirking as he pressed his thumb over yours. “You don’t just fold and hope for the best. It’s not your love life.”

Seonghwa snorted, and you flipped Hongjoong off, but not before laughing, real and unguarded.

It felt good to laugh. You needed it. And if Yunho wanted to stew in his own petty silence all night, that was his choice.

You snuck a glance upward, toward the balcony section. He was still up there. Still with Mingi, still nursing the same whiskey, still watching, but only occasionally. Not like before.

Which annoyed you. Which, you could admit it, hurt a little too. You wanted him to look.

You wanted him to care that you were here, having a good time without him, even if every laugh felt just a little bit hollow.

“You okay?” Seonghwa asked, nudging you with his shoulder, sharp eyes reading yours too easily.

“Yup,” you said, and took your fourth shot.

He didn’t believe you. Neither did Hongjoong. But bless them, they didn’t push.

The music was better now, less aggressive, more rhythmic. The kind that made your hips start to sway on instinct, even seated. Around you, the club pulsed with sweat and bodies and light. It felt like the kind of night that could go anywhere. Dangerous. Loose. Free.

You leaned in toward Seonghwa. “Do I look like I’m trying too hard?” His mouth twitched. “No. You look like a girl trying not to care about the fact that her boyfriend’s being a dick.”

“Good,” you said, lifting your chin.

Because you were. Trying not to care. Failing miserably, but trying.

And Yunho? He was back at the railing now. Still quiet. Still unreadable. Still stewing. He’d seen your fourth shot. He’d seen the way you smiled after it. The way Seonghwa leaned in to whisper something in your ear and you tilted your head, giggling into your shoulder.

He wasn’t mad at them. Not really. He trusted them, maybe more than anyone. But you? You were his. And watching you fall into that easy charm you always used when you were trying to prove a point…..

It fucking burned.

Mingi, oblivious and a little drunk, slapped his chest and offered him another shot. Yunho waved it off.

“I’m good.”

Mingi raised a brow. “You don’t look good.”

Yunho didn’t respond. Because his fists were clenched again. Because you were smiling again and it wasn’t at him.

And because deep down, somewhere under the bruised ego and unsaid apologies, he knew the longer this night went on, the closer he was to snapping.

You’d just finished twisting your straw into a coil of plastic frustration after Hongjoong and Seonghwa went to talk to Yeosang, when you felt a familiar weight drape dramatically across your back.

“Babe…” Wooyoung’s voice drawled against your ear, theatrical and soaked in tequila. “Why is your man up there glaring at everything like he’s about to set the entire club on fire with his mind?”

You didn’t even turn around. “Because he’s mad at me.”

“I can see that,” Wooyoung said, arms winding loosely around your shoulders as he leaned his chin on your head. “He’s staring like he wants to fight me just for being this close. Which, rude, considering I’m your favorite.”

You snorted, finally twisting in your stool to face him. “You are not my favorite.”

“Your mom thinks I’m your favorite.”

“My mom thinks you’re my gay best friend.”

“Exactly.”

Wooyoung flopped onto the stool beside you, already halfway through someone else’s abandoned drink like it belonged to him. He looked devastating, as always, black mesh shirt clinging to his chest, eyeliner sharp enough to draw blood, and those lips already curled into a shit eating grin.

“Did you two fight again?” he asked, voice sing song as he tapped your glass.

You hesitated, then nodded. “It’s been building all day. All week, actually.”

Wooyoung raised a brow, his voice dipping. “And yet here you are. Looking like sex in heels. Drinking without him. Laughing with Seonghwa. Flirting with Joongie. Mm, baby girl… you trying to start a war?”

You arched a brow. “I’m just living.”

“You’re poking the bear,” he said, eyes glittering as he leaned closer. “And the bear is feral. I haven’t seen Yunho look this pissed since that guy asked if you were single at karaoke night after you first started dating and you said….”

“‘Depends who’s asking,’” you finished for him, grinning.

“He didn’t speak to me for three days after that,” Wooyoung huffed, tossing back the rest of his drink. “I’m not even the one who said it! I just invited the guy to join!”

You giggled, your chest finally starting to relax. The club felt better now. Lighter. Fuzzy around the edges. Yunho was still up there, sure, but right now he felt like a shadow. A beautiful, brooding statue of rage and repressed emotions.

Until you made the mistake of glancing up again. Because he was watching. Elbows on the railing, drink forgotten, eyes locked straight onto you. He looked darker now. Not jealous. Not possessive.

Just done pretending he was okay.

Wooyoung followed your gaze. “Oh damn.”

“What?” you muttered.

“He just licked his teeth,” Wooyoung whispered, sipping someone else’s drink now. “You are so getting railed tonight.”

You rolled your eyes. “Unless he fights me first.”

“Oh, he’ll fight you,” Wooyoung purred. “With his dick.”

You shoved him, laughing, but your gaze flicked back up.

Still Yunho. Still watching. But now? Now he wasn’t just watching. Now he was moving.

Slow. Purposeful. Drink gone, hands flexing as he handed Mingi something and murmured something to San.

The bear had left the cave.

And he was coming straight for you.

You lost him somewhere between the bar and the DJ booth.

One second Yunho was a looming shadow stalking down the stairs, eyes fixed on you like a storm cloud with legs, and the next, he was swallowed by the crowd. A flash of flannel. The glint of his cross necklace. Then gone.

Which, fine.

If he wanted to play emotionally constipated beast, then you were going to be a brat right back.

You set your drink down and turned to Wooyoung, your lipstick stained grin already halfway to dangerous. “Come dance with me.”

He blinked. “Now?”

“No,” you deadpanned. “On my deathbed. Yes, now.”

Wooyoung let out a laugh that turned heads and gave a little bow. “Lead the way, queen of chaos.”

You grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dance floor, already packed, already pulsing, the music vibrating up through your heels and into your bloodstream. Lights flickered hot pink and violet overhead, bodies moved in rhythm, and you let it all wash over you. Let yourself be loose. Let yourself forget Yunho’s cold shoulders and sharp words and that pinched, disapproving scowl.

Wooyoung spun you effortlessly, laughing when you bumped into him, hips brushing. He was warm and silly and sweet, your anchor and your weapon, all rolled into one. And unlike your boyfriend currently brooding somewhere in the shadows, Wooyoung danced with you like you deserved to be seen.

You threw your arms around his neck, tilted your head back, and let your hips roll to the music. The tequila shimmered in your bloodstream, making you bold, shameless. It was harmless. Just you and your best friend blowing off steam.

Until he appeared.

Not Yunho.

Some random half drunk guy with no boundaries.

You didn’t even catch his face at first, just the hands. One on your waist. Then another settling lower. Close. Too close.

You tensed, instinct flaring. But before you could even react, Wooyoung turned, “Uh…. hey man….” just as the guy leaned in behind you, his breath too close to your ear.

“You wanna dance, baby?”

You froze.

Baby.

BABY.

That’s what Yunho calls you when his voice drops into his throat and his hands are on your thighs and he’s about to wreck your entire existence.

You turned, slow and unimpressed, swaying slightly from the shots. Your hand rose to brush his arm off as you said, “Can you back the fuck off….”

CRACK.

The sound was deafening. Not from the volume, but from the shock.

Because in one heartbeat, Yunho was behind him.

And in the next, his fist was flying, slamming straight into the guy’s cheek so hard his head snapped sideways, body stumbling back.

“Yunho!” you shouted, but he didn’t even blink.

The guy barely regained his balance before throwing a punch back, landing hard into Yunho’s jaw with a sickening thud, and then it was on.

Not a scuffle. Not a push.

A full on, fists flying, tables shifting, club goers screaming BRAWL.

“OH SHIT!” Wooyoung yelped, immediately grabbing your arm and dragging you back as the two of them collided in the middle of the dance floor.

Drinks went flying. A table toppled. Yunho didn’t care.

He was all muscle and fury as he swung again, rage in every movement, pure instinct. You’d never seen him like this. Not even close.

Yunho. Sweet, loving Yunho.

Yunho, who once sobbed when he stepped on a roach and tried to bury it with dignity.

Yunho, who cried watching the last scene of Coco and apologized to a vending machine when he kicked it.

That Yunho was gone.

And in his place?

An unhinged, terrifyingly hot version with blood on his knuckles, fire in his eyes, and only one thing on his mind, protecting what was his.

And oh God, you were shamelessly, absolutely, wildly turned on.

“Holy shit,” Seonghwa breathed behind you, as he, Hongjoong, and Yeosang pushed their way through the crowd to join you and Wooyoung.

“Is that?” Jongho’s voice cut through, followed by the unmistakable bark of San yelling, “YUNHO, STOP!”

But he didn’t. Not until security came rushing in, two thick men grabbing the other guy, one grabbing Yunho by the arm. And still, Yunho fought to get one more punch in, his chest heaving, sweat glistening down his throat, lip split, hair wild across his forehead as he growled, “Touch her again, and I’ll fucking bury you.”

“Yunho!” Mingi was there now too, panting, trying to wrestle his best friend back with an arm across his chest. “You’re done, man! You got him!”

The guy, dazed and bleeding, was being dragged out through the crowd.

Yunho finally stopped fighting.

But he didn’t take his eyes off you.

His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, jaw clenched, fists still flexing at his sides as everyone turned to stare.

You should’ve been mortified. Shocked. Maybe a little horrified.

And sure, you were a little shocked. But mostly? You were wet.

Like ruin your underwear, (if you had any on), legs squeezing together, core clenching WRECKED at the sight of your usually quiet, soft spoken boyfriend losing his mind because someone dared to touch you.

“Are you okay?” Yeosang asked beside you, genuinely concerned.

You blinked at him slowly. “I think,” you said, voice dazed, “yeah….. I’m….” Need to climb right now. Make him know that you didn’t want that dude. Show him he was the only thing you wanted.

Yunho brushed past the others, not saying a word as he grabbed your hand, rough, fingers locking with yours like steel, like he needed to feel you to stay grounded. He didn’t look at anyone. Didn’t thank Mingi. Didn’t acknowledge Seonghwa’s wide eyed “what the fuck was that?”

He just pulled. Out the side door. Through the alley.

And straight to the car.

No words. No hesitation.

Just heat radiating off him like asphalt in the August heat, his grip ironclad and silent until he threw the driver’s door open, got in, and waited until you did the same before slamming it shut.

The engine roared to life. And still not a word.

The only sounds in the car were the pulse of your heart in your ears and the low crunch of his cracked knuckles gripping the steering wheel.

You swallowed thickly, sneaking a glance at him.

His lip was split, the crimson trailing into the corner of his mouth like a slash of warpaint. His knuckles were smeared with drying blood, his or the other guy’s, you didn’t know. His chest was still rising and falling beneath his black tee and flannel like he hadn’t quite come down yet.

And that look, his eyes glued to the road, the tight line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth twitching like he still wasn’t finished.

You clenched your thighs. Hard. Because it was too much. He looked like sin. Like a punishment.

Like a man who’d been holding it together all night and finally snapped, and now didn’t trust himself to speak because if he did, he might pull over and fuck you against the hood.

You watched the muscles in his forearm flex as he shifted gears, the bracelet on his wrist catching the streetlights in flashes of silver. Your thighs pressed tighter, core throbbing with each quiet second that passed.

You wanted him to say something.

You wanted him to do something. But the silence? It was worse. It was foreplay. Hot. Charged. Lethal.

You shifted in your seat, breath shallow.

“Yunho,” you whispered.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even blink. Just turned the wheel, took the last corner toward your apartment and parked hard, tires squealing a little as the car jerked to a stop.

He finally looked at you then.

And oh God, the look in his eyes…. Still silent.

Still storming.

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The door slammed behind you with a thud, the echo still ringing in the apartment as Yunho strode in like he was trying not to pace. His jaw was still clenched. His shoulders still tight. He was breathing through his nose like every breath might be the one that gets him under control.

You stood there in the entryway, your heels clicking on the wood floor as you watched him pull off his flannel, slow, tense, controlled, then reach behind his head and tug off his shirt.

It stuck to his skin for a second. Bloody, sweaty, soaked in a night that had ruined you both.

And still, he didn’t speak.

He tossed the shirt in the direction of the laundry basket in the hall but didn’t check if it landed.

Just walked into the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water, took a sip.

You were still standing there like a fucking Victorian ghost in a slutty dress and smeared lipstick, your thighs pressed together, heat pulsing between them like a warning siren, and he, HE, had the audacity to act like nothing happened.

He ran a hand through his hair, still silent, and finally said, muttering almost to himself, “I’m gonna take a shower.”

You blinked.

Hard.

And then your body moved before your brain did.

“Are you serious?”

He froze.

Slowly turned to face you.

You didn’t even give him time to process it.

“No. No, no, no. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to beat the shit out of someone for touching me, drag me out of the club like I’m about to be claimed in the wild, drive me home in brooding silence, and then, what? Shower? Like this is just a normal fucking Wednesday?!”

He stared at you.

And God help you, he looked even hotter under your kitchen light, busted lip, bruised knuckles, small blood smudged across his forearm, a red fingerprint on his neck where someone tried to pull him off. Bruised jaw. Like war torn sex.

“I am soaked, Yunho,” you snapped shamelessly, stepping toward him. “I’ve been soaked since you threw that guy across the floor like a ragdoll and growled at him like you were about to bite his throat out. And now you’re just gonna rinse off?!”

Yunho blinked once. Twice.

Then he let out a single laugh, dry and sharp, like it had been dragged from his chest against its will.

But it died in his throat almost as soon as it escaped.

Because something shifted in him.

His eyes darkened. His body stilled.

His hand snapped up to grab your jaw, not harsh but firm, fingers curled just beneath your ear, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You want me like this?” he asked, voice low and hoarse, barely more than a growl. “Blood on my knuckles and barely holding it together?”

Your breath caught as he stepped closer, chest brushing yours, the heat of him swallowing you whole. The scent of sweat, blood, his skin, him, was dizzying.

“You want me when I’m this fucked up?” he whispered, words pouring hot against your lips. “When all I can think about is burying myself so deep inside you I forget why I was pissed off in the first place?”

Your knees damn near buckled.