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supplemental materials:

a southerner on southern hockey – Puck It We Ball

To Canes Fans by Sebastian Aho | The Players’ Tribune

I Tried the NHL's HARDEST job (Sports Photographer) - YouTube

The Weight of It

Coach Rod Brind'Amour's 2025 Pre-Camp Speech

Behind the Storm: Episode 1

how i think the canes would say stfu

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The wind didn’t just blow; it knifed through the gap between your scarf and your throat. Beside you, Yunho was doing his best impression of a turtle, hands shoved so deep into his pockets his shoulders were practically touching his ears. It was a ridiculous look for a man who usually moved with the unbothered grace of a runway model, but lately, he seemed determined to make himself as small—and as gloomy—as the weather. He had this habit of picking the most miserable days to meet. Days where the sky was the colour of a wet sidewalk and the sun was a distant memory. Every time you suggested a bright, crowded café or a sunny park, he’d blink at you as if you’d suggested a casual stroll through a nuclear blast site.

“The sun makes my eyes hurt,” he’d say, his voice as flat and unyielding as a textbook.

The first three times, you’d laughed. By the fifth, you’d stopped looking for a punchline and just started wearing an extra sweater.

“You’re doing it again,” you muttered, your fingers tightening around the warm paper cup he’d pressed into your hand the second you met, like he always did now. A little ritual that had formed without either of you naming it. A warm drink in your hands. His gaze on your face for half a second too long. Then the careful, practiced looking-away.

“Doing what?” he asked. His eyes flicked to yours, all dark lashes and hidden depths, before he performed his signature move—the “careful, practiced looking-away.”

“Being... you,” you said, letting the steam from your drink kiss your nose. Cinnamon. He always remembered the extra dash of cinnamon. “You didn’t have to get this, you know. For the hundredth time.”

“I wanted to,” the words were simple, but they landed in your stomach with a heavy, confusing thud. It was the classic Yunho special: a dash of extreme sweetness followed by a mile-high wall of emotional unavailability. You took a sip of your drink, watching Yunho out of the corner of your eye. His posture had shifted—shoulders square, jaw tight. He looked like a man who had just decided to jump off a bridge and was now reconsidering the height. “Do you ever...” He started, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a heavy swallow. He paused, his jaw working as he fought with whatever thought was trying to claw its way out. “Do you ever feel like you’re going to say something and it’ll change everything? Like there’s no going back to how it was five seconds ago?”

You slowed your pace, the ripples in your coffee mirroring the sudden tremor in your chest. You tried to laugh, but it came out sounding hollow. “That sounds like a classic ‘Yunho Thought.’ Deep, slightly ominous, and very dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” the silence that followed wasn’t the cozy, “friends-hanging-out” kind. It was heavy. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ribs until it was hard to breathe. You could feel the weight of him beside you—an oddly steady, cold presence that seemed to pull the air toward him. Then, his head snapped to the left—sharp, predatory, and way too fast. You followed his gaze into the mouth of a narrow, shadow-choked alley. You saw nothing but trash bags and darkness.

“Did you hear that?” he asked, his voice so dropping low it made the hair on your neck stand up.

You held your breath, listening to the distant hum of the city. “Hear what? I don’t hear anything, Yun.” He didn’t answer. He just stood there, head tilted, nostrils flaring as if he was trying to catch a scent on the wind. His face was a blank mask, but his body was tense. “Yunho? You’re being weird. Even for you.” He didn’t answer right away. His head tilted at a slight, unnatural angle, eyes narrowing as if he were cataloging a sound on a frequency you couldn’t even perceive. His face remained blank, but his shoulders turned to stone. And then—so quick it was almost a blur—his nostrils flared. It wasn’t just breathing, more like catching a scent. A cold knot of unease tightened in your stomach. “Earth to Yunho?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, the focus vanishing so instantly it felt like a lie. He blinked once, slow and deliberate, and when he spoke, his voice had returned to that gentle, melodic lilt—the one that always felt a little too practiced. “Sorry. I thought I heard… something.”

You tried to laugh it off, leaning into the easy sarcasm that usually bridged the gaps between his silences. “You’re turning into a paranoid old man.”

A ghost of a laugh escaped him, but it died before it reached his eyes. “I’m not paranoid,” he murmured, his gaze dropping. “I just—” He cut himself off, the words seemingly stuck behind his teeth.

Your fingers fidgeted nervously with the lid of your coffee cup. “Just what?” Yunho’s gaze dropped—not to your eyes, but to your mouth. It wasn't a casual look; it was as if his eyes had slipped there against his will, drawn by a magnet he was failing to fight. Your throat went tight. For a second, the grey autumn air felt thick and suffocating.

He blinked again, sharper this time, looking startled by his own lapse in control. “Nothing.” And then—because he was apparently determined to kill you slowly with unspoken things—he reached out to adjust your scarf. His knuckles brushed the sensitive skin of your neck, and you physically jumped. His hand wasn’t just “chilly.” It was cold. It was the biting, absolute cold of metal left out in a frost. You froze. He stayed still for half a heartbeat, his dark eyes searching your face for a reaction, before he pulled back so abruptly it felt like a slap. “Sorry.”

You stared at him, your skin still tingling where he’d touched you. “Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re literally not—” You stopped. The way he said it—the tight, vibrating control in his voice—made it clear that this wasn’t a conversation he was going to let you win. His jaw worked, a muscle jumping as he looked away toward the street as if the passing traffic held the secrets of the universe.

“I’m just… not used to the cold weather,” he said finally.

You frowned, gesturing to the grey sky. “You only hang out on cold days.”

His lips parted, and for one dangerous second, you thought the wall might actually crumble. You could see the truth sitting right behind his eyes. Instead, he swallowed hard. “I should walk you home,” he said, the words coming out too fast, too urgent.

“We’ve been out for ten minutes!” you huffed, checking your phone. 5:43 PM. “It’s barely even dark yet.”

“Please.” The word came out softer than the rest of him. Quieter. Like he was asking for something he didn’t have the right to ask for.

You stopped. It had been months since he’d asked for your number after you bumped into each other in that coffee shop outside your workplace. You’d still remember the smell of espresso and wet wool, the little jolt of embarrassment when you’d spilled a few drops on your white sleeve, and the way he’d reached past you to grab napkins with hands that were too pale and too steady. At first you were excited. You’d been ridiculously excited. You’d checked your phone too often, thumb hovering over the screen like you could will a notification into existence. You’d wondered if he’d text, if he’d ask you out, if there’d be a moment where the story slid into place. But it was never quite did. You’d hang out. Talk. Walk. He’d pay for your coffee without making it a thing. He’d tilt his head when you laughed like he was loving the sound. And then he’d keep his distance like there was an invisible line drawn between you, like he was terrified of crossing it. No lingering touches. No flirting that lasted longer than a breath. No “I missed you” even when he looked like he had. It got to the point where you stopped calling these meetings dates in your head. You tried to steel yourself. Tried to strip yourself of hope like it was something childish you needed to outgrow.

You swallowed, throat tight from the cold and from the stupid ache of wanting something that wasn’t happening. “Why do you always do that?”

His gaze snapped to you, and it was so intense it felt like someone had cut the air. For the first time he didn’t look away. “Do what?”

You lifted your cup a little, then lowered it again when you realised your hand was shaking. “You ask me to hang out and then you—” You made a small, sharp gesture with your fingers, like snipping thread. “You disappear inside yourself. You’re right here, but you’re a thousand miles away.”

His jaw worked once. He looked like he was holding something back behind his teeth “I don’t,” he said, but the lie was thin.

You took one step closer. Close enough that you could feel the cold radiating off him again—that unnatural, metal-left-outside cold that seemed to defy the very laws of biology. The streetlight painted his lashes gold, casting long, dramatic shadows across his high cheekbones. “You do, and I can’t tell if it’s because you don’t want me like that… or because you want me and you’re fighting it so hard it’s killing you.”

Something flickered in his eyes—fast and dark, like a shadow passing over a moon. Yunho’s hand lifted, hovering near your wrist without touching, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. Like he was asking permission from the air itself. “Please don’t do that, don’t try to read me.”

“I just—” Your breath fogged between you, thin and shaky. You hated how honest your body was, how it betrayed your vulnerability before you could turn it into a joke. “When you asked for my number… did you mean it in a friendly way?” The words rushed out like you could outrun the sheer embarrassment of them. “Like… ‘I’m new to this town and I need to meet someone’ friendly?” The wind surged, a violent shove against your shoulders that nearly knocked you off balance. You didn’t budge. You were pinned by the weight of his gaze.

“A friendly way?” Yunho repeated. The words sounded foreign in his mouth. He let out a short breath—one that didn’t even make a cloud in the freezing air, a detail you were too frustrated to notice. “Is that what you thought? That I was just... looking for a tour guide? Someone to show me where the best coffee shops are?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore! You’re hot and cold, Yunho. Mostly cold!” Yunho didn’t flinch at the sound of your words; he didn’t even blink. He just stood there with that terrifying stillness while you shivered hard enough for your teeth to click.

“I’m not looking for a tour guide.” He took a half-step toward you. The movement was predatory in its smoothness—no sway, no heavy footfall, just a sudden, seamless shift in the space he occupied. The smell of him hit you then, cutting through the cinnamon of your drink: crisp winter air, expensive laundry soap, and something metallic, like tasting blood in your mouth when you bit your tongue too hard. “If I wanted a friend,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours with a magnetic intensity that felt like it was pulling the very soul out of you, “I wouldn’t spend every night staring at my phone, wondering if I’m strong enough to see you without...” He stopped. His jaw clamped shut so hard you heard the bone grind.

“Without what?” You reached out, your fingers grazing the rough wool of his coat sleeve. Yunho recoiled as if you’d branded him with a hot iron. He backed into the brick wall of the alley, the rough stone scraping against his coat with a harsh sound. His chest wasn’t moving. You realised with a sudden, jolting clarity that he hadn’t taken a single breath since you’d mentioned the word ‘friendly’.

He looked down at your hand, then up at your throat where the scarf had loosened again, exposing the pale skin of your neck. The veins in his own neck were standing out, taut. “Please don’t do that. You have no idea what you’re asking for. You think I’m being shy? You think I’m... awkward?” A dark, humourless sound escaped his throat. He looked back toward the dark alley, his pupils blown wide until the brown of his irises was just a thin ring. “I can hear your heart,” he whispered, and for the first time, there was a visible tremor in his hands. He shoved them deeper into his pockets, bunching the fabric. “It’s been hammering against your ribs for the last three minutes. I can hear the blood rushing behind your ears. It’s... it's the loudest thing in the world, and it’s all I can focus on.”

You let out a shaky breath, the fog of it dissipating against his cold, marble-like cheek. “You’re scaring me a little. Stop talking like you’re in a movie.”

“Good,” he snapped, his eyes snapping back to yours. They looked darker now, almost black, reflecting the amber streetlamp. “You should be scared. I’m trying to give you a choice. I’m trying to stay on my side of the line, for your sake.” He leaned in, his face inches from yours. The cold coming off him was like a wall, and it made your skin prickle into goosebumps. He looked at your mouth again, but this time, there was a hunger in it. His tongue swiped over his lower lip, a quick, nervous habit that seemed at odds with the sheer power radiating from his frame. “Let me walk you back home. Now.”

“And if I don’t want to go?” You challenged, your voice small but stubborn. You were tired of the mystery. You dropped your half-empty cup onto the pavement. It spilled with a dull splash, the scent of cinnamon-sugar swirling around your boots. You stepped into his space, forcing him to either retreat further into the wall or hold his ground. Yunho’s hands flew out, grabbing your upper arms to stop you. His grip was firm—not painful, but like iron bands that refused to let go.

“You’re so warm,” he hissed, his eyes fluttering shut for a second as he leaned his forehead against yours. He took a breath, inhaling the scent of your skin as if it were oxygen. “You’re so bright, and it hurts to even look at you.” One of his hands slid up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. His skin was impossibly smooth. He paused at the pulse point just below your ear, his thumb hovering there, feeling the frantic thump-thump-thump of your life. His eyes opened, and for a split second, you saw a flash of something—a vein-like pattern darkening the skin beneath his eyes, a hunger so raw it made your stomach flip.

“Yun, your face is—”

Then, he blinked, and it was gone, replaced by a look of profound, aching sorrow. “I want to kiss you so badly I can’t think about anything else,” he whispered against your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “But if I start... I don’t know if I can stop. I don’t know if I’m strong enough.” He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “I won’t contact you again. I’m sorry.” He said it like a sentence he’d rehearsed in the mirror. But his hands were still on you. Not gripping now. Not iron bands. Just… holding, as if letting go might send you both skidding off the edge of the world. His thumbs pressed faint, trembling half-moons into your sleeves. Yunho’s gaze dropped to your spilled drink. Cinnamon and sugar turning to a cold puddle. He watched it like it was evidence of a crime. Then his eyes lifted again, slow. They weren’t pleading. They were hungry and tired, like he’d been starving for a century and was still trying to be polite about it. You noticed the tension in his neck, the way his jaw clenched until the muscle jumped. He didn’t blink.

You swallowed, and he watched the movement of your throat as if it were a confession. As if it were an invitation. You leaned in first. For one heartbeat, he didn’t move. Not a flinch. Not a breath. You could feel the pause like a held knife. Then Yunho surged forward—controlled, yet brutal in his restraint—and his mouth met yours.

Cold.

It was like kissing winter itself. Like your lips touched something that had no right to be this smooth, this still, this alive. His kiss wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t hungry either—not yet. It was precision. A question he had been dying to ask. Your breath hitched, warm air spilling into the space between you, and Yunho made a sound low in his throat—half pain, half need—as if your warmth physically scorched him. You kissed him back anyway, your hands tangling in his hair. His lips parted, just barely, and the edge of his control frayed. The kiss deepened with a slow, deliberate pressure that made your knees go unsteady. Yunho’s hand slid up, cupping your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he couldn’t help checking you were real. Your mouth tasted like cinnamon and sugar. Yunho tasted like nothing at all. And that should’ve terrified you. Instead it made something reckless spark in your chest. His other hand found your waist, pulling you closer until your heat bled into him and he shuddered like it was too much. The world narrowed down to the scrape of brick behind his shoulders and the way he kissed you.

Then his lips broke from yours so suddenly you gasped, chasing him without thinking. “Stop,” he rasped, his forehead pressing to yours again, his voice shaking so much that it felt more like a machine than a man. “If you keep looking at me like that—if you keep letting me—” His pupils were blown wide, the brown nearly erased by ink-black. His thumb hovered at the sensitive dip of your throat, right over the frantic, rhythmic hammering beneath your skin. He didn’t press—he didn’t even touch—but the air in that microscopic gap felt charged like the atmosphere seconds before a lightning strike. “I’ll go insane,” he whispered, the words ghosting over your dampened lips.

When he pulled back, it wasn’t far, but it was enough to break the magnetic pull. Enough that you could actually see him. You saw the way his dark lashes trembled as he forced them down, the way his jaw was locked so tight you feared the bone might actually crack under the strain. Your lips stung from the cold and the bruising pressure of the kiss; your chest burned from the way you’d inhaled him, realising only now that you’d been starving for this just as much as he had.

“Stop,” he repeated, the word scraping its way out of his throat. His forehead remained pinned to yours, his thumb still a prayer he refused to speak against your pulse. And something inside you—something that had been patient and sweet and so fucking careful for weeks—finally went sharp.

You laughed once. It was a small, ugly burst of sound that fogged between you like a white flag you were done waving. “Okay,” you said. Your voice was quieter than you expected. Too steady. “You want me to stop? I’ll stop.”

His eyes flicked up instantly. Dark. Blown out. Caught on your mouth again.

You stepped back. The space you left felt immediate and violent, like ripping a bandage off skin that wasn’t ready to be exposed. “You know what’s actually insane?” you continued, because now that the seal was broken, you couldn’t swallow the truth back down. Your fingers curled tight inside your sleeves, nails biting into your palms to keep from reaching out. “We’ve been doing this for weeks. Weeks! Coffee. Walks. These miserable cold days. You staring at me like I’m—” You cut the sentence off, the heat of humiliation rising in your cheeks. “Like I’m something you’re not allowed to want. Like I’m a mistake you’re trying not to make.”

His throat worked. His mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“And I tried, Yunho. I tried to be so normal about it.” Your laugh turned into something that almost broke. “I tried to tell myself it’s fine if you don’t want me like that. I can take a hint. I can take ten hints. I can take a whole fucking billboard.” The streetlight buzzed overhead, a low, electric whine. “But you don’t get to do this,” you said, and this time your voice did shake, not from the autumn chill, but from a fury that had been marinating in sweetness until it turned bitter. “You don’t get to kiss me like that and then tell me to stop like it hurts you—like I’m the one hurting you—when you’re the one who keeps pulling me close and then shoving me away the second things get real.” His fingers flexed against the air, a reflexive reach he aborted halfway through. His hand dropped slowly, as if gravity were the only law he was capable of obeying in that moment. The lack of contact was louder than the kiss had been. You swallowed, and his gaze jerked to the movement of your throat so fast it was almost violent. His shoulders went rigid, as if your voice was a sound he could no longer bear to hear. “I won’t do push and pull,” you said, softer now, because the anger had a deep bruise under it. “I won’t keep showing up just to feel like I’m begging for basic honesty.”

Yunho’s nostrils flared. He turned his face a fraction away, looking toward the alley as if trying to shield his eyes from a glare. Your heat “Don’t.” The word was different from before. It wasn’t stop kissing me. It was: don’t make me choose.

“Don’t what?” You hated that your voice cracked, hated that you still sounded like someone who wanted him to stay. “Don’t call you out? Don’t ask for more? Don’t—what, Yun? Don’t make you admit you actually like me?”

His head snapped up. For a second, his expression was empty in a way that was genuinely terrifying. The careful, awkward Yunho had stepped aside, and something much older, much colder, was leaning forward in his place. His lips peeled back just a fraction—not a smile, but a warning of how thin his leash had become. “I’m trying— I’m trying to be—” He stopped, his eyes flicking to the ground.

“To be what?” you pushed, pressing on the bruise because the pain was already there anyway. “It’s so simple! Either you like me or you don’t.”

Yunho’s jaw clenched so hard you heard the faint, grinding sound of bone. Then—so suddenly it made your stomach drop—his expression sharpened into a cold, glittering anger that cut across his face like a shadow. His shoulders squared, and it was like watching a heavy door slam shut. “You don’t get to reduce this,” he said, his voice matching the freezing temperature of his skin. “You don’t get to stand there and decide what this is.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think this is me being indecisive? Playing games? You think I’m doing this because I like the chase?” His eyes flashed, and for a heartbeat, you could swear you saw that vein-dark pattern spidering at the edges of his lower lids. “I’m not angry at you for wanting an answer. I’m angry because you’re acting like you have any idea what you’re actually asking for!”

Your mouth went dry. The air around him felt unnaturally still.

“You think you want me,” Yunho continued, his voice lower, more dangerous. “You think you want me like that because you like the way I look at you, because you like the way I’m—” His breath stuttered. He swallowed it down. “Because you feel like something pulls you to me. You think it's a romance.”

“That is not—”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t play push and pull, and I don’t—”

You cut him off before he could build another wall out of excuses. “Stop it! It’s fine if we’re friends. But not like this. Not while you look at me like that.” His eyes flickered—that half-second of raw hunger he always tried to swallow before it reached his face. “And you do,” you added, sharper now. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You kiss me and then talk to me like you’re doing me a favour by keeping your distance. You don’t get to punish me for noticing!”

“Listen—” he started, stepping toward you.

“No! You listen to me!” You stepped back, and the space between you felt like stepping off a ledge into the dark. Cold poured into the gap where his presence should be. Your mouth tasted faintly of cinnamon and the ghost of him, and it made you miserable. “We’re adults. I’m not doing this weird, half-lit, maybe-someday thing anymore.”

“I’m trying to—” he said, louder now, as if volume could bridge the gap.

“You’re trying to keep me on a hook,” you interrupted, done being gentle. “And I can’t keep navigating your mixed signals like it’s my job to translate you. I see it clearly now. This is going nowhere.” The sentence dropped between you like a stone in deep water. No splash. Just weight. He flinched as if you’d physically struck him. His hand lifted—instinct, reflex—reaching for your sleeve, for your wrist, for any part of you he could claim without having to speak.

You took another step back, out of reach.

“Wait,” he said, and the rough edge of his voice was new. Desperate. “Just—just let me explain.”

“I’ve been letting you explain. For weeks. Every time you stared at my lips. Every time you touched me like it was an accident. Every time you asked me to stop like I’m the one doing something wrong.” He tried to talk over you, panic rising in the set of his shoulders. You didn’t let him. You turned on your heel. The wet pavement flashed under the streetlight, slick as spilled ink. Your boots slapped against the ground, the sound indecently loud in the quiet alley. You didn’t look back. You wouldn’t give him the mercy of seeing your face break. “I’m done,” you called over your shoulder, your voice carrying like a thrown blade.

Behind you, Yunho said your name—once, like a warning. But you kept walking. You didn’t look at him. You just left him there in the cold, where he seemed to think he belonged. The wet slap of your boots against the pavement echoed through the narrow street, a rhythmic, angry punctuation to the silence you’d left behind. You didn’t look back, even though the back of your neck prickled with the heavy, unmistakable weight of his gaze. You expected him to stay there, frozen against the brick like a statue left out in the rain, but then you heard it—the soft, unnervingly smooth scuff of his shoes following you.

“Stop walking for a second,” Yunho called out, his voice sounding thinner than usual, stripped of that steady, melodic mask he usually wore.

“No, I’m good,” you snapped over your shoulder, your breath blossoming in front of you in a frantic, white cloud. “I’m going home to a place that has a heater and people who use their words. You should try it sometime. The words part, I mean.” You increased your pace, your fingers still stinging from the cold of his skin. He was right behind you now, not even winded, despite the speed you were trying to maintain. He didn’t have that heavy, huffing footfall of a normal man; he just moved like a shadow sliding over glass.

“I am trying to use them!” he protested, and you could hear the frustration bubbling up, that awkward, clumsy sincerity that made it so hard to actually stay mad at him. “It’s just... there isn’t a manual for this. I’ve never had to explain this to a human before!”

You spun around so fast you nearly tripped on a slick patch of sidewalk. “A human? What are you, an AI? A very handsome, very confusing chatbot?” You threw your hands up. “Just go home. Go back to your gloomy, sunless cave or wherever it is you spend all the sunny days in!”

Yunho stopped a few feet away, his shoulders hunched again, looking less like a predatory threat and more like a kicked puppy. He looked down at his feet, his jaw working as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. “I’m not a chatbot,” he muttered, the words barely audible over the distant hiss of traffic. He looked up, his dark lashes wet from the mist, and for a second, his pupils were so wide the brown of his eyes was almost gone. “I’m a vampire. That’s why I’m cold. That’s why I don’t... I don’t breathe right when I’m near you. That’s why I can hear your heart.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the heavy, rib-pressing kind from before. It was the kind of silence that happens right after someone says something so profoundly stupid you have to reboot your entire brain. You stared at him. A beat passed. Two. Then, a laugh escaped your throat, sounding bright and ridiculous against the grey dampness of the evening.

“Oh, okay,” you said, your voice dripping with a thick sarcasm. “Right. A vampire. Of course. How silly of me not to realise. Is your name actually Stefan? Is your brother Damon chilling around the corner in a leather jacket waiting to kill my roommates?”

Yunho flinched at the names, looking genuinely confused. “Who? No, I don’t have a brother named Damon. My brother name is Geonho, he works in real estate in Busan, but that’s hardly—”

“And let me guess,” you interrupted, stepping closer, emboldened by the sheer absurdity of his lie. You reached out and poked his chest—it felt like poking a marble pillar covered in wool. “You sparkle in the sunlight? You have a collection of graduation caps on your wall? You’re a hundred years old and you’ve decided to spend your eternity hanging out in mediocre coffee shops with a girl who works 9-to-5?”

“I don’t sparkle,” he said, his voice taking on a wounded, defensive edge. “That’s... that’s a very weird thing to suggest. And I’m only twenty-seven. Well, technically. I’ve been twenty-seven for a while, but I wasn’t alive during the French Revolution or anything dramatic like that.”

You laughed again, but this time it had a bitter edge. You were hurt that he thought you were gullible enough to accept a literal fairy tale as an excuse for why he was a terrible communicator. “You are unbelievable,” you whispered, shaking your head. “I ask for honesty, for a reason why you’ve been treating me like a puzzle you don’t want to solve, and you give me The Vampire Diaries fanfiction? Did you think that would make you sound cool? Or mysterious?”

“I’m not trying to be mysterious!” He looked frantic now, his hands hovering near your arms but never quite touching, as if he was afraid he might actually break you. “I’m trying to tell you why I’m terrified to touch you! I can hear the blood rushing through your veins, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard, and I have no idea how to be a ‘boyfriend’ without wanting to... to...”

“To what? Eat me?” You rolled your eyes, stepping back and turning away. “Give it a rest. It’s actually embarrassing at this point. I’m going home. Don’t call me again. I’m not really into the whole ‘undead martyr’ thing. I prefer guys who have a pulse and don’t lie to my face because they’re too awkward to admit they just aren’t that into me.”

“I am into you!” he yelled at your retreating back. “I’m extremely into you! That is the entire problem!”

“Go find a Bella!” you shouted back, not stopping. “I’m sure there’s a moody teenager somewhere who’d love this. Me? I’m going to go have a glass of wine and forget I ever met a guy who thinks he’s a supernatural predator because he’s bad at dating!” As you rounded the corner, you could still feel his presence at the edge of the alley, a cold, still point in a moving world. You didn’t look back to see him standing there, looking perfectly, devastatingly human in the amber glow of the streetlamp.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎You had barely kicked off your boots and put on a warm hoodie when the knock came—three sharp, precise raps that sounded far too steady for someone who had just been told to get lost. You stomped to the door, tearing it open with enough force to make the hinges groan. Yunho was standing there, his hands shoved back into his coat pockets, his shoulders hunched.

“If you say one word about wanting to drink my blood, I am calling the police,” you snapped, blocking the doorway with your entire frame. “Or a therapist. Honestly, Yunho, pick one.”

“I’m not here to—I don’t want to drink your—” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening as he looked at the floor of the hallway. He looked exhausted. “I just... I didn’t want things to end like that. You were so angry.”

“I’m still angry!” you countered, leaning against the doorframe. “You spent weeks acting like I was a burden for liking you, and then you try to exit the conversation by claiming you’re a character from a CW show. It’s insulting. What’s next? Are you going to tell me you have a daylight ring? That you’re secretly pining for a girl from the 1800s who looks exactly like me?”

“I told you, I’m only twenty-seven, and I actually can’t find my daylight ring, that’s why we only hang out on gloomy days.” He muttered, taking a half-step forward, then stopped abruptly, his toes hovering exactly at the line where your apartment’s hardwood met the carpet of the hallway.

“Oh, what’s the matter?” you teased, a mean little spark of humour cutting through your fury. “Did you forget to check the moon cycle? Or are you waiting for me to throw a steak at you? No, wait—it’s the invitation thing, isn't it?” You let out a short, mocking laugh, gesturing grandly toward your living room. “Come on then, Dracula. Step into my parlour. Come tell me more about how you’ve been ‘twenty-seven for a while’ while you help me fold my laundry.”

Yunho didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He just looked at you with a an aching intensity. He shifted his weight, his upper body leaning slightly into the apartment, but his feet stayed glued to the threshold.

“I’m serious,” you said, your voice losing some of its edge as the silence stretched. “Stop the act. Just walk in, sit on the couch, and tell me the truth. No more vampires, no more ‘I can hear your heart’ nonsense. Just... talk to me.”

“I can’t,” he whispered. His throat worked as he swallowed, his eyes flicking to yours, wide and dark.

“Yes, you can. The door is wide open. I’m literally standing here.” You reached out, grabbing the sleeve of his coat to tug him forward. The moment you pulled, you felt it. Yunho’s body jerked forward, but it was like he’d hit a wall. His shoulder slammed into an invisible barrier in the empty air of the doorway, the impact making a dull, thudding sound that vibrated through your grip on his arm. He didn’t stumble; he just stopped dead, his face contorting in a brief flash of genuine frustration. You let go of his sleeve as if it had turned into fire. You looked at the empty space between the doorframes, then back at him. He was standing perfectly still again, his chest not moving, his face pale and marble-smooth. “Wait,” you breathed, the teasing air in your lungs turning into a cold stone. You reached out again, slower this time, and passed your hand through the air where he had just hit the ‘wall.’ There was nothing there for you. Just empty space. “Why did you... why didn’t you move?”

“You didn’t invite me in,” he said simply, his voice trembling just enough to break the ‘cool’ persona he never quite managed to pull off anyway. He looked down at his feet, then back at you, his expression a mess of embarrassment. “I told you. I’m trying to stay on my side of the line.”

The realisation hit you like a bucket of ice water. The metal-cold skin. The way he never seemed to breathe when things got intense. The way he looked at your throat as if it were a ticking clock. “You’re actually...” You trailed off, your voice sounding small and far away in your own ears. You looked at him and saw the way he was shaking with a tension that had nothing to do with being awkward and everything to do with restraint.

“I’m a vampire,” he repeated, and this time, you didn't laugh. “And I really, really like you. Which is a catastrophic problem for both of us.” The silence in the doorway was too thick. You stared at the empty space where his shoulder had just thudded against nothingness, then back at Yunho, who was looking at his own feet as if they had betrayed him. The anger was still there, simmering under your skin, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a bewildered, scientific curiosity that bordered on the absurd. “Okay,” you breathed, stepping back into the warmth of your living room but keeping your eyes locked on him. “So, the threshold thing. That’s… that is a very specific architectural hurdle for a supernatural predator. It’s deeply inconvenient.”

“It’s humiliating,” he corrected, his voice muffled. He looked up, and the amber hall light caught the frustration in his eyes—that familiar, awkward Yunho expression that usually meant he’d forgotten how to order a complicated latte. “I’ve spent the last three minutes trying to figure out how to look cool while being physically barred from a studio apartment by a lack of social etiquette.”

“Right, because that’s the part of this that’s weird. Not the fact that you’re technically a corpse,” you shot back, though your voice lacked its previous bite. You crossed your arms, leaning against the hallway wall. “Fine. You want an invitation? You can come in. But if you try to sparkle or turn into a bat or a crow, I’m hitting you with a broom. I’m serious. You are invited into my home. Just… step carefully.” He took a tentative step, and this time, there was no thud. He slipped across the line with a fluid grace that made the hair on your arms stand up—a sudden shift in the space he occupied that felt entirely unnatural. As he passed you, the air temperature in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees. “Okay, stop right there,” you said, pointing toward the middle of the rug. He stopped instantly, his hands still bunched in his pockets. “Stay. I need to check something.”

“I’m not a dog,” he murmured, but he didn’t move. He watched you with that intense, magnetic gaze that used to make your stomach dip, but now it just made you want to take notes.

You hurried into the kitchen, your mind racing through every movie trope you’d ever watched. You returned a moment later, clutching a jar of minced garlic and a small, silver-plated butter knife.

“Is that… is that garlic?” Yunho asked, his nose wrinkling. His nostrils flared, caught by the scent. “Are you actually going to season me?”

“It’s a diagnostic test!” you countered, unscrewing the lid and holding it out at arm’s length. “Well? Does it burn? Do you feel like you’re going to explode into ash?”

Yunho leaned forward, sniffing the jar with a look of profound boredom. “It smells like a pasta night I wasn’t invited to. I’m not allergic to seasoning. I just can’t digest it. It stays in my stomach like a rock for three days. It’s… it’s very uncomfortable, actually.”

“Disappointing,” you muttered, setting the jar on the coffee table. You held up the butter knife. “Mirror? Do you have a reflection, or am I currently talking to a very handsome hallucination?” You marched him over to the mirror in the hallway. You stood behind him, peering over his shoulder. In the glass, your own face was flushed and messy, but Yunho was there too—sharp jawline, dark lashes, and that pale, steady stillness.

“I’m in the mirror,” he said and it sounded almost bored. Like he had done this multiple times before. “The silver-backing thing is an old myth. Physics still applies to light bouncing off my skin, even if I don’t have a pulse.”

“You really don’t have one?” You stepped closer, the fury from the alleyway turning into a reckless sort of courage. You reached out, your fingers hovering over his wrist. “Can I?”

Yunho went rigid. “Okay,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut as you pressed your warm fingers against his skin. There was nothing. No thrum, no rhythmic push of life. Just that impossibly smooth, marble-like surface. It was like touching a statue that breathed—except he wasn’t breathing. You realised then, with a jolt of clarity, that his chest wasn’t moving at all.

“You’re holding your breath,” you whispered, looking up at him.

“I don’t need to do it,” he rasped, finally letting out a jagged, shuddering puff of air that didn’t even fog in the room. “I only do it to make people feel comfortable. But when I’m this close to you… when I can hear your heart hammering against your ribs like that… I forget to pretend.”

“So you’re telling me,” you said, trying to regain your witty footing because the sheer intensity of him was starting to make your head spin, “that all those times we went for coffee, you were just… what? Renting a chair? Pretending to enjoy the ambiance while your internal organs were on strike?”

“I like coffee, I can have human food but it doesn’t help with hunger,” he said softly, a small, genuine smile finally twitching at the corner of his mouth—the first one you’d seen all night that actually reached his eyes. “And I like watching you. You’re so bright, it actually hurts my eyes sometimes. I wasn’t lying about that part.”

You huffed, crossing your arms again to hide the way your hands were shaking. “You’re still a dork. A supernatural, immortal dork who let me think I was being rejected for a months because you were too busy being a martyr.”

“I was trying to be a gentleman!” he protested, his awkwardness returning in full force as he gestured vaguely toward the door. “I didn’t want to be the guy who… who ruins your life because he can’t stop staring at your pulse point!”

“Well, you failed,” you said, stepping into his space and forcing him to look at you. “You’re already in the house. The garlic didn’t work. Now, are you going to sit down and tell me the rest of this ridiculous story, or do I need to go find some holy water?”

The frantic, buzzing energy of the hour—the shouting in the street, the mocking laughter, the ridiculous garlic test—evaporated all at once, leaving a hollow, ringing silence in its wake. You stood in the middle of your living room, the butter knife still clutched in your hand like a toy, while Yunho remained exactly where you’d told him to stay. He didn’t shift his weight. He didn’t itch his nose. He didn’t even seem to be blinking. He just stood there, a perfectly rendered human shape that felt like a glitch in the reality of your apartment.

“You’re not breathing,” you whispered, the words finally landing with the weight of lead. It wasn’t a joke anymore. “You’ve been standing here for two minutes, and your chest hasn’t moved once.”

“I already told you,” he said, his voice quiet, devoid of the defensive edge it had earlier. “I don’t... I don’t need to. It’s a habit I keep up so people don’t stare at me, but right now... I’m a bit overwhelmed.”

You dropped the butter knife onto the coffee table. The clack of metal on wood sounded deafening. You walked a slow circle around him, your eyes scanning him with a new, terrifying clarity. You saw the way the lamplight hit his skin—it didn’t look like skin, really. It looked like fine porcelain, translucent and bloodless. You remembered every time his hand had brushed yours over a coffee cup, and how you’d just thought he had poor circulation. “So when you said your eyes hurt in the sun...” you started, your voice trailing off as you pieced the weeks together.

“They really do,” he interrupted, his gaze following you with a slow, heavy tilt of his head. “It’s like someone is stabbing a needle into my brain.”

“And the mixed signals?” You stopped in front of him, close enough to feel the wall of cold air radiating from his body. “All those times you’d lean in and then practically jump back like I’d burned you? Was that—”

“I was hungry,” he blurted out, then immediately looked horrified, his face twisting into a grimace of pure, awkward shame. “No, wait—that came out wrong. I wasn’t... I didn’t want to eat you. I mean, I did, but not—God, this is why I didn’t say anything! I’m terrible at this.” He dragged a hand through his hair, the first truly human-looking gesture he’d made since entering. “I have a crush on you,” he continued, the words tumbling out in a rush, messy and unpolished. “A massive, terrifying crush. And I’ve never had one on a human before. I didn’t know how to handle the fact that I wanted to kiss you and also, simultaneously, my instincts were telling me that your carotid artery was exceptionally vibrant.”

“My carotid artery? That is the least romantic thing anyone has ever said to me.”

“I know!” he groaned, finally moving from his spot to pace the small rug. “I’m a disaster. I spent three nights practicing how to ask you to the movies without sounding like a predator, and then I realised the movie was a matinee and I’d just spend the whole time squinting and smelling the popcorn I don‘t like! So I just... I didn’t ask you. I thought it was better if you just thought I was a jerk.”

“You went with ‘vampire’ instead of ‘jerk’?” You sat down on the edge of the couch, your legs feeling a bit like jelly. The reality was sinking in—the person you’d been falling for was a literal myth, a creature of the night who was currently pouting because he found human dating mechanics too difficult. “You have a total martyr complex, you know that? You decided to suffer in silence and let me feel like I was crazy because you were afraid you’d... what? Bite me?”

“I don’t trust myself,” he said softly, stopping his pacing to look at you. The vulnerability in his expression was devastating. He looked like he was waiting for you to scream, to throw him out, to realise he was a monster. “I’ve spent a long time being very careful. Being alone is easy. Being with you is... it’s a constant test. And I’m so tired of failing it.”

You looked at him and saw the awkward, silent boy you’d been meeting for weeks, just with a much darker secret. He wasn’t a legend. He was just Yunho, and he was terrified of hurting you. “Well,” you said, your voice shaking just a little as you gestured to the empty spot on the couch next to you. “You’re already in the house. And I’m pretty sure you’re not going to eat me tonight. So... sit down. Stop being a martyr for five minutes and just be my friend. Or whatever this is.”

He hesitated, his eyes flicking to the door and then back to you. “Are you sure? I can leave. I can go back to Busan and work in real estate with my brother. You don’t have to—”

“Yunho,” you interrupted, a small, weary smile tugging at your lips. “Sit. Down. Before I get the garlic again.”

He sat. It wasn’t a smooth, relaxed sink into the cushions; it was a rigid, mechanical descent, his body hovering an inch above the fabric for a second before he finally let his weight settle. He looked like he was sitting on a bench made of high explosives rather than a budget-friendly IKEA sofa. “You’re supposed to be screaming,” he gripped his knees, his knuckles white—or rather, whiter than usual. “You’re supposed to be halfway down the stairs calling a priest or... or a Van Helsing. Why are you just standing there looking at me like I’m a science project?”

“Because the ‘science project’ currently looks like he’s about to have a panic attack, and I’m pretty sure dead hearts don’t do that,” you said, crossing your arms. The initial terror had settled into a strange, buzzing adrenaline. “Besides, I’ve seen you try to use a self-checkout machine. You’re not exactly the King of the Damned.”

“That machine was rigged!” he snapped, his eyes flashing a brief, startling gold before fading back to dark brown. He caught the change and immediately looked away, shamed. “See? That. Right there. I’m a predator. I’ve lived through three different wars and I could—”

“You could what? Drain me of blood?” you interrupted, moving closer. You watched him flinch, his whole body tensing as you sat on the opposite end of the couch. “Let’s get to the important part, Yun. You just admitted, in the middle of a very dramatic, very weird confession, that you’ve had a crush on me for weeks.”

Yunho’s ears turned a faint, dusty sort of grey-pink—the closest he probably got to blushing. “That’s what you’re focusing on? I just told you I’m a literal monster, and you’re—you’re asking about my dating preferences?”

“Yes! Because the ‘monster’ part explains why your hands are cold, but the ‘crush’ part doesn’t explain why you’ve been acting like a total jerk!” You leaned in, invading his personal space, watching the way he leaned back until he was practically horizontal against the armrest. “So, let’s be clear. You like me. Like, ‘I want to take you out on actual dates and hold your hand without worrying about your pulse’ like me?”

“I think about holding your hand every five seconds,” he whispered, the honesty sounding like it was being pulled out of him. “And it terrifies me. Because if I stop thinking about it, if I let myself just... be with you, I might forget to be careful. I might—I don’t know, I might accidentally crush your bones because I don’t know my own strength when I’m happy.”

You felt a sharp tug at your heart, the kind that was definitely too warm for the creature sitting across from you. “You’re such a martyr. You’ve spent our entire ‘friendship’ trying to protect me from yourself, haven’t you? That’s why you always walked me to my door and then disappeared like a ghost.”

“I didn’t want to be another thing that hurt you,” he finally looked at you, and the raw vulnerability there was so human it made the vampire thing feel like a footnote. “I’m not a good person to love. I’m a dead end. Literally.”

“Well, luckily for you, I’m the one who gets to decide who’s a ‘dead end’ or not,” you said, moving even closer until your knee brushed his. He looked like he wanted to bolt through the ceiling. “So, what are we now? Are we still ‘just friends’ who ignore the fact that you want to bite my neck and I want to kiss you? Or are we actually doing this?”

“Doing what?” he repeated, his eyes wide. “You want to—with a guy who has to drink blood to stay somewhat sane? I don’t even have a pulse!”

You reached out, and this time, you didn’t hesitate. You took his hand. It was cold, yes, like a river stone in winter, but it was steady. “Stop looking for reasons to run away. You’re not that scary.”

“I am scary,” he insisted, though he didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, his fingers tentatively curled around yours, his grip so light it was almost non-existent. “I’m a nightmare. I’m the thing under the bed.”

“You’re the thing that brings me my favourite coffee and listens to me complain about my boss for three hours,” you countered, squeezing his hand. “So, answer the question.”

Yunho looked down at your joined hands, his chest finally hitching in a simulated breath. He looked back at you, a slow, shy smile—the one that always made your heart do a stupid little flip—creeping across his face. “I’d like to... do this,” he said, the word sounding foreign and precious on his tongue. “If you’re sure you’re okay with... all of this.”

“I’m sure,” you said, leaning in until your forehead rested against his. The coldness was there, but so was he. “But I’m still making fun of the ‘Stefan’ thing. That’s never going away.”

“I really don't know who that is,” he groaned, his shoulders finally dropping as he let out a long, silent puff of air. “But I have a feeling I’m going to hear a lot about him.”

“You actually don't know who Stefan Salvatore is?” The shift in your tone was so sudden it made Yunho’s head snap up. He looked at you, bewildered, as the heavy, romantic tension evaporated, replaced by a look of genuine, wide-eyed horror on your face. You weren’t scared anymore; you were offended.

“I—should I?” he asked, his voice small and genuinely concerned. “Is he… is he a local celebrity? Did I miss something?”

“Something? Yunho, he’s an icon! He’s the sensitive vampire with the hero hair!” You scrambled off the couch, paced to your TV stand, and then turned back to him, pointing a finger dramatically. “And you’re literally doing his whole bit! The ‘I’m a monster’ speech? The ‘I can’t be near you’ dramatic pouting? You are a walking trope, and you don’t even know the source material!”

Yunho blinked, looking deeply insulted. “I am not pouting. I am experiencing an existential crisis regarding my predatory nature and its proximity to the person I care about.”

“That is literally the definition of pouting in the vampire world!” you shrieked, a giggle bubbling up that you couldn’t suppress. You felt a hysterical wave of excitement wash over you. “Oh my god, this is incredible. You’re a vampire who is culturally illiterate. We have so much work to do! Do you have a daylight ring? Please tell me you have a piece of vintage jewellery that lets you walk to the grocery store at noon.”

“I told you, I don’t sparkle and I lost my a ring,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands. “So during sunny days I just get a really bad migraine and my skin feels like it’s being poked with hot needles. It’s a biological sensitivity, not a magical curse.”

“Whatever, we’re calling it a daylight sensitivity,” you sat back down, much closer this time, leaning into his cold side without a second thought. “Wait. Can you do the thing? The eye thing? Do they go all veiny and scary when you’re hungry? Can you run really fast? Like, if I forget my phone at a cafe, can you zoom there and back in four seconds?”

Yunho peeked through his fingers, looking at you with a mix of affection and utter disbelief. “You’re… you’re fangirling. I just admitted I’m an undead creature who lives on blood, and you’re treating me like a—a marvel of modern convenience?”

“It’s cool, Yunho! It’s objectively cool!” You grabbed his arm, shaking it. “Think about the possibilities! No more waiting in traffic! You can carry all the groceries in one trip!”

“I’m glad my curse is so ‘convenient’ for your shopping trips,” he muttered, though the corners of his mouth were twitching. He looked down at where you were clutching his arm, his expression softening. The fear that had been radiating off him for the last hour was finally starting to melt. “And no, I’m not zooming anywhere. It’s exhausting. It’s like sprinting a marathon in five seconds. I’d rather just… walk. With you.”

“Ugh, so Stefan,” you teased, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Total hero hair energy. We are starting a marathon tomorrow! Eight seasons! You need to learn the rules of your own people.”

“I have my own rules,” he said softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. He reached out, his cold thumb grazing your jawline with a tenderness that made your breath hitch—not out of fear, but because he was finally here. “Rule number one: no biting the girlfriend. Rule number two: try to survive her taste in television.” The word hung in the air, vibrating with more electricity than any of the supernatural talk that had preceded it. You froze, your head still resting against his shoulder, but your eyes went wide, staring at a very specific, very un-dusted corner of your bookshelf.

“The what?” you squeaked, your voice jumping an entire octave. You pulled back just enough to look at him, and for the first time tonight, Yunho looked truly, devastatingly caught. If he were human, he’d be a deep shade of crimson; as it was, he just looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He didn’t pull his hand away from your face, but his fingers twitched against your skin.

“I... did I say that out loud?” he stammered, his eyes darting toward the ceiling as if looking for an escape route that didn’t involve a door he couldn’t pass through.

“You very much did,” you said, a slow, triumphant grin spreading across your face. The anger from the alleyway was a distant memory, replaced by the chaos of the moment. “‘No biting the girlfriend.’ That’s a very specific title. A very official, non-ambiguous, ‘we-are-definitely-dating’ title.”

“I was getting ahead of myself,” he muttered, finally dropping his hand and looking at his knees. He looked so small for a guy who was technically an apex predator. “The logic was... if I’m staying, and you’re not screaming, and we’re doing the TV marathon... I just assumed the role was open. I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, don’t you dare backtrack now!” you laughed, poking him in the ribs. He jumped, a surprised, huffing sound escaping him. “You can’t drop the ‘G-word’ and then try to hide behind your existential dread. Is that what we are? Am I the girlfriend? Because five minutes ago you were telling me to never call you again.”

“I never told you not to call me,” he protested, finally looking back at you, his expression softening into something incredibly sweet and painfully awkward. “You told me not to call you. I was just... I was going to mope in my apartment for a few decades and wait for the regret to subside.”

“A few decades? God, you’re dramatic,” you teased, reaching out to grab the lapels of his coat, pulling him a few inches closer. “But seriously. Say it again. Without the ‘no biting’ part.”

Yunho swallowed hard. He looked at your mouth, then back to your eyes, his gaze heavy and dark. The vampire part of him—the stillness, the intensity—merged with the boyfriend part in a way that made your heart do a frantic dance. “You’re my girlfriend. If you’ll have a guy who’s basically a high-maintenance houseplant that only drinks O-plus.”

“I’ve had worse boyfriends,” you shrugged, though your heart was hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it. “One of them didn’t even have the decency to be immortal, he didn’t even have a job. At least you’re... interesting.”

“Interesting,” he repeated, a genuine smile breaking through his nerves. “I can work with interesting.”

“Good,” you said, leaning in until your noses brushed. The coldness of him wasn’t a barrier anymore. “Now, as your official girlfriend, I have my first executive order: we are going to the kitchen, I am making a grilled cheese, and you are going to sit there and tell me exactly how you’ve managed to live years without seeing a single episode of The Vampire Diaries. It’s a literal hate crime.”

“Can I at least hold your hand while you do it?”

“Always,” you whispered, tugging him toward the kitchen. “But if you start brooding while I’m flipping the bread, I’m calling you Stefan for the rest of the night.”

“I still don’t know who that is!” he called out, his laughter—short, rare, and musical—following you into the warmth of the kitchen.

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎The grilled cheese sat forgotten on its plate, the cheese cooling. The kitchen was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the frantic, erratic thrumming of your own heart—a sound that, apparently, was currently a drum solo in Yunho’s ears. You were leaning against the counter, and Yunho was standing directly in front of you. He had finally shed his coat, revealing a simple black sweater that made his skin look like polished cream. Up close, without the barrier of the “friend” label, the air between you felt charged that it made the small hairs on your arms stand up.

“You’re staring again.”

“You’re hard not to stare at,” you countered, your breath hitching. “Especially now that I know you’re not just moody, you’re actually a legend.”

Yunho let out a soft, huffing sound—almost a laugh, but more of a surrender. He reached out, his movements slow and deliberate, and tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers were freezing, but the gesture was so tender it made your toes curl against the linoleum. He lingered there, his thumb grazing your temple, his gaze dropping to your lips with a hunger that was finally, terrifyingly honest. “Can I?” he whispered.

“If you ask one more time, I'm revoking your invitation.”

He didn’t wait. He leaned in, and when his lips met yours, it wasn’t like anything you’d ever felt. There was no warmth, no soft puff of breath against your cheek, just a firm, cool pressure. It was shocking, then intoxicating. You reached up, your hands finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate to share your heat with him. Yunho’s grip on your waist tightened. His strength was startling. Emboldened by the contact, you let your hands slide down his back, tugging him flush against you. You wanted more—more of this strange, chilly friction, more of the way he seemed to melt into you despite himself. You tilted your head, your teeth grazing his bottom lip, and let out a small, needy whimper.

The effect was instantaneous.

Yunho tore himself away so fast he was on the other side of the kitchen island before you could even blink. He hit the opposite counter with a heavy thud, his eyes wide. “No,” he gasped, his hands gripping the edge of the counter so hard you heard a faint crack. “No, stop. Don’t—don’t do that.”

You stood there, breathless and flushed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “Did I... did I do something wrong?”

“Your pulse,” he rasped, his head snapping to the side as if he couldn’t bear to look at you. The veins under his eyes were prominent now, dark and pulsing. “It’s too loud. When you move like that, when you... when you make that sound... it’s all I can hear. It’s like a siren. It’s not just a crush anymore, it’s—it’s an instinct.” He looked at you then, and the martyr complex was back in full force, mixed with desire. “I want you so much it’s actually making my teeth ache. I can feel the venom, and I won’t... I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said, taking a tentative step forward.

“You should be!” he snapped, though there was no heat in it, only desperation. He held up a hand to stop you. “Please. Just... give me a second. I need to remember how to be the guy who likes your grilled cheese and hates your TV shows. I can't be... that other thing.” The silence returned, but this time it was heavy with the reality of what he was. You saw the struggle in the way his shoulders shook, the way he was fighting his own nature just to stay in the same room as you.

“Okay,” you whispered, leaning back against the counter, giving him the space he clearly needed to not lose his mind. “Okay. We can go slow. We can go ‘human-speed’ slow.”

Yunho closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool surface of the fridge. “Thank you,” he breathed. “And for the record? That was... the best kiss I’ve had in about seventy years. Even if it almost killed us both.”

“Seventy years?” you chirped, trying to break the tension with a bit of your usual bite. “Wow. I’m dating a senior citizen. Stefan would never be this dramatic about a kiss, just so you know.”

“I am going to delete that show from your Netflix account,” he muttered, though the black in his eyes was finally beginning to fade.

The tension in the kitchen didn’t break so much as it dissolved, melting into a domestic, slightly ridiculous warmth. Yunho stayed by the fridge for another minute, his eyes closed, performing what looked like a very intense meditation on the concept of not being a predator. When he finally pushed away from the counter, the veins under his eyes were gone, replaced by that familiar, slightly dazed look of a man who had just survived a very confusing day at the office. He walked back to you, stopping a respectable three feet away, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as if to keep them from misbehaving. “Okay,” his voice was finally steady. “The grilled cheese is cold. I’ve ruined the mood. And I’m fairly certain I cracked your countertop. I should... I should probably fix that.”

“Forget the counter,” you said, reaching out and grabbing his hand, pulling him back toward the living room. “You’re an immortal being with superhuman strength and you’re worried about a hairline fracture in my kitchen counter? Sit. We have work to do.”

You pulled him back to the living room and shoved him onto the couch. He sank into the cushions, looking utterly defeated by your enthusiasm. You grabbed the remote, hopped onto the sofa next to him, and pulled a soft, oversized throw blanket over both of your laps.

“Is this necessary?” he asked, looking down at the fuzzy fleece. “I don’t actually get cold, remember?”

“No, but I do,” you countered, snuggling into his side. “And since you’re basically a high-end refrigerator, you need to be under the blanket so I can use you for structural support. Now, hush. Season one, episode one. Meet the Salvatores.” As the opening credits rolled, Yunho sat as stiff as a board, his eyes fixed on the screen with the intensity of a scholar studying a dead language. Every few minutes, he’d let out a small, huffy sound of disapproval.

“That's not how it works,” he whispered when a crow appeared on screen. “We don’t control birds.”

“Shh! Focus!” you nudged him.

Halfway through the episode, you felt him finally begin to relax. The rigid line of his shoulders softened, and slowly—so slowly you almost didn’t notice—his arm lifted, sliding behind your shoulders to pull you closer. His skin was still cold, but your own warmth was beginning to seep into him.

“He’s very dramatic,” Yunho muttered, nodding toward Stefan on the screen. “Is that what you think I look like? Like I’m constantly mourning my own existence?”

“Absolutely,” you laughed, looking up at him.

Yunho looked down at you, and for the first time that night, there was no fear in his eyes. No martyr complex, no “monster” talk. Just a boy who had finally found a place to land. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. It was brief, careful, and perfectly safe. “I’m glad I told you,” he whispered, his chin resting on your hair. “Even if you’re going to spend next years making fun of me.”

“Oh, I'm counting on it,” you said, closing your eyes and listening to the beautiful, eerie silence where his heartbeat should have been. “Now, be quiet. Damon’s about to show up, and you’re really going to hate his leather jacket.”