RJ/Rem

"hello?" her voice drifted through the line, already sounding like home.

"mama," you whispered.

"darling! how is paris? are you eating? is the dorm too cold? i can send more of those wool blankets you liked, just tell me-"

"i got the part."

a gasp was heard on the other end and your heart fluttered. "what part? which one? oh, my sweet girl, tell me!"

"a little swan. i'm… one of the four cygnets."

"i knew it!" your father’s voice boomed in the background, sounding as if he had been leaning against the phone. "i told you she had the precision! we must celebrate! we'll send a package. champagne, as you're an adult now, and that burberry scarf you liked from the boutique in london. we are so proud of you."

"thank you," you murmured, a small smile touching your lips. "i'm nervous. the synchronization is… it's very difficult."

"you have the soul for it," your mother said, her tone softening. "just breathe. dance the way you do when you think no one is watching. the world will follow, okay? don't let them turn you into a machine."

inside your flat, it was your space that smelled of expensive vanilla candles and fresh linens, a sanctuary funded by parents who loved you from three time zones away. when the phone call ended after exchanging small stories of your little life abroad and the constant reassurance that you were doing just fine living by yourself in a foreign country, you got up from the comfort of the velvet sofa and stared at your reflection in the mirror. you looked fragile, a porcelain doll in a city of iron and stone. a little swan or a ghost in a tutu, that felt like a pebble at the bottom of a very deep well.

paris opera ballet school, you've dreamt about it your whole life. the school, a fortress of culture, it's limestone walls holding centuries of discipline and broken dreams.

the following week was a blur of repetition. the studio was a cavern of white light and mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling, reflecting a dozen versions of your own anxious face that showed every flaw, every wobbling ankle, every misplaced finger. the cygnet dance was a puzzle of interlocking arms and mirrored movements. four girls, moving as one.

you struggled with the language of the instructors, the rapid fire french commands swirling around you like a storm. you focused on the bodies of the other girls, mimicking their angles, tracing the geometry of their limbs as you stood at the edge of the floor, clutching your bag, wearing a pale pink leotard and tights that cost more than some students' monthly rent. you tried to shrink, to blend into the pale walls, but the energy of the room was too electric.

"positions!" the ballet master barked.

you scurried into the formation for the cygnets. the quartet had to move as a single organism of white tulle and precision. you found your spot, heart drumming against your ribs. to your left stood a girl who seemed to vibrate with an intensity waving off of her, you've seen her in the hallways before but never dared to speak to her.

charlotte marsh.

she was a blur of blonde hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked painful, her eyes wide and alert, scanning the room like an apex predator. by just standing alone, she occupied space. all sharp lines, high extensions and presence. she doesn't look at you. she is staring straight ahead, her jaw set, eyes hungry. radiating an intensity that makes the air around her feel thin.

"again! from the top. and for heaven's sake, tighten those arms. you look like noodles, not swans."

the pianist begins again the rhythmic, plucking melody of tchaikovsky, demanding absolute precision.

"and… echappé!"

as you spring outward, feet snapping into second position, your ankle clips her's. it is a glancing blow, but in the world of professional ballet, it's a collision. charlotte stumbles, her balance wavering for a fraction of a second. she recovers instantly, but her head snaps toward you, her eyes flashing.

"merde! you're stepping on my place." she hisses, her voice a sharp blade.

you freeze, your breath hitching. you want to apologize, to explain that it was an accident, but the words die in your throat. you simply nod, shrinking inward.

"again!"

the music restarts. you focus on the mirror, trying to carve out a bubble of safety around yourself. but the choreography is tight, the spacing unforgiving. during the next sequence of jumps, your ankle bumps hers again.

this time, charlotte stops entirely. she turns to you, her face flushed, blonde locks escaping her tight bun.

"c'est quoi ton problème?"

you flinch, the harshness of her tone hitting you like a physical blow. you open your mouth, and without thinking, you respond in your native tongue, the words tumbling out in a rush of frustration and embarrassment.

"i'm sorry, i promise i'm trying to find the alignment."

charlotte freezes. her expression shifts instantly, the anger draining away to be replaced by a softening. she blinks, her eyes scanning your face, noticing the way you clutched your arms, the hesitant curve of your shoulders.

"you're the new girl, right?" she asked, her voice clear and fluent in english.

the relief that washed over you was visceral. you felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted from your lungs by just encountering someone who could understand what you said. "yes," you whispered. "i am."

she beamed, a wide, infectious grin that lit up her entire face. "i'm charlotte. god, i'm so glad someone else here speaks english. i love paris, but sometimes the grammar can be frustrating."

"i'm y/n," you replied barely audible.

"y/n. pretty name," charlotte said, leaning in. she smelled of peppermint and strong athletic rub. "your lines are gorgeous, by the way. really fluid."

the ballet mistress clears her throat, a warning sound. "is there a reason we are having a summit in the middle of the stage? positions!"

charlotte gives you a quick wink, a flash that catches you off guard and snaps back into place. "don't hit my ankles again," she whispers, a small, mischievous smile playing on her lips.

when you slid back into place and held hands with charlotte for the synchronized sequence, you felt a spark of warmth. for the first time since arriving in paris, the studio didn't feel like a cage. it felt like a place where you might actually belong. you smiled, the reflection in the mirror finally looking like someone you recognized.

over the next few weeks, the place became brutal beauty, where the expectations were as high as the ceilings and the criticism was as sharp as the needles used to stitch the costumes. you spent your mornings in a haze of stretching and your afternoons fighting for every inch of space in the studio.

charlotte became your shadow, an inseparable pair. it was a magnetic dynamic. she was the sun to your moon, the fire to your water, a whirlwind of noise and confidence that shielded you from the harsher edges of the academy. she taught you the slang of the dancers, the hidden spots in the opera house where the ghosts were said to dance, and how to sneak pastries into the dressing room without getting caught. she pushed you to be bolder, to take up more space, to stop apologizing for existing. in return, you became the place where she could finally stop hustling, where she could breathe and relax her shoulders.

"you're doing it again."

during a break, you retreated to the corner of the studio, sipping water from a glass bottle. charlotte stood before you, leaning against the barre. she was wiping sweat from her forehead with a towel that looked like it had seen better decades.

"doing what?"

"shrinking," she said. "trying to disappear into the floorboards. you haven't noticed?"

you looked at her, saw the fraying edges of her tights, the way she held herself with an armor disguised as confidence.

"no," you whispered.

she paused, expression shifting before sitting down with you, stretching her leg out in a slow controlled arch. "i can't afford to disappear, i need to be constantly moving."

you knew she was on a scholarship, that her faded leotard had seen better days, that she didn't have the safety net you did. "you won't disappear," you said softly. "everyone sees you."

she turned her head and gave you a genuine smile, like your simple words was all she's been needing all along. "thanks. really."

the door to the studio creaked open, and san, charlotte's boyfriend, walked in. he moved with a groundedness that was almost hypnotic. he didn't bounce or flutter. shoulders so broad that seem to carry the weight of the entire company, skin a deep, warm tan that contrasted with the stark white of his rehearsal gear.

"you're shouting again, charlotte," san said. "i can hear you from the dressing room."

"i'm not shouting, your ears are too sensitive," she shot back, though there was no heat in it.

san walked over and offered her a hand. he lifted her effortlessly, a seamless transition from the floor to a standing position. there was no strain in his arms, no hesitation in his grip. he was the perfect partner. reliable and strong.

"we have the lift sequence in twenty minutes," he reminded her.

"i know, i know. stop being a clock," charlotte teased, patting his cheek.

from an outsider, they looked like the perfect couple. the powerhouse and the pillar. the kite and anchor. both carrying a presence that you feel before you see them.

a few days later, the intensity of the swan lake rehearsals reached a fever pitch. the cygnets were finally in sync, movements a seamless weave. the mistress had stopped shouting, now, she only whispered, but sometimes the whispers were more terrifying than the screams.

after a grueling four hour session, the studio emptied. you and charlotte remained, stretching in the dim light of the late afternoon. the sun was dipping below the parisian skyline, casting shadows across the floor.

charlotte was unusually quiet. she was pressed into a deep split, her forehead resting on the cool wood.

"are you okay?" you asked, your voice echoing in the silence.

she didn't move for a long time. then, she let out a long, shaky breath. "i think i'm going to do it," she whispered.

"do what?"

"end it. with san."

you paused, your hand frozen on your ankle. "but… you two are so good together."

she sat up, her expression clouded. she looked smaller than usual, the bubbly energy replaced by a weary sort of clarity. "that's the problem," she said. "he's a good guy. he's the best guy. he's steady, he's kind, and i know that if i fell off a stage, he'd be the first one there to catch me."

"isn't that a good thing?"

"it is. but the spark… it's just gone, y/n. it just… evaporated. when i look at him, i don't feel that electric pull. i feel… safe. and i love him for it, i really do, but i don't love him the way a girlfriend should."

you listened, the silence of the studio wrapping around you both. you thought about the way san looked at her with a quiet unwavering loyalty.

"does he know?" you asked.

"i think he does," charlotte sighed, rubbing her temples. "san doesn't talk much, but he notices everything. he probably knew like, months ago. he's just waiting for me to be the one to say it because he doesn't want to break my heart." she looked at you, her eyes searching for something. "do you think i'm being selfish? he's so reliable. i could just… keep going. we're a great team. it makes the academy easier."

you are silent, processing the confession. you think of san's hands, his grounding presence, of his loyalty. but you also thought about how charlotte is so used to fighting for everything she gets, about the fluidity of the dance, the way a single misplaced step could ruin the entire. "if you're forcing it," you said slowly, "then you're not really dancing. you're just marking the steps."

charlotte stared at you, then a small, sad smile touched her lips. she leaned over and bumped her shoulder against yours. "thank you for listening, i'm so glad i met you."

"it's nothing," you replied with a small giggle.

"well, thanks anyway," she said, standing up and offering you a hand. "now, let's get out of here before the mistress comes back and makes us do another hundred pliés."

as you walked out of the studio together, the cool evening air of paris hitting your faces, you felt a strange sense of grounding. you had come to this city as a stranger, a quiet girl with a heart full of fear. but in the mirrored halls of the opera, amidst the sweat and the discipline, you had found a mirror of your own.

you looked at charlotte, who was already talking a mile a minute about a new bakery she'd found near the seine, and you realized that the academy wasn't just about the dance. it was about the people who held you up when your toes were bleeding and the world felt too loud. you walked beside her, your movements soft and fluid, no longer afraid of the silence.

but beneath the blossoming friendship, a tension was simmering. the school was a pressure cooker, and as the final rehearsals approached, the atmosphere shifted. the girls in the corps began to eye each other with suspicion. the kindness that had existed in the wings evaporated, replaced by a cold, competitive silence.

one afternoon, you overheard a group of dancers whispering in the hall. you knew they were aware of your presence, speaking in difficult french tongues on purpose and laughing as they looked over at you. you caught some words about your slow dancing and your parents' wealth. the words felt like ice water pouring down your spine. you leaned against the wall, breath hitching. you wanted to defend yourself, to tell them that you worked just as hard, that you spent hours in the studio long after everyone else had left. but the words wouldn't come. you were a creature of observation and internal storms.

you retreated to the practice room, the silence of the empty space feeling heavy. you began to dance, the music of the cygnets playing in your head. you pushed yourself harder than ever, your pointe shoes bleeding through the satin, muscles screaming. you wanted to be perfect. you wanted to be undeniable.

"you're too tight."

you stopped abruptly, your chest heaving. san was standing in the doorway, his arms crossed.

"i'm fine," you panted.

"you're not. you're dancing like you're trying to prove something to people who aren't even in the room."

you looked at him, eyes threatening with tears. "they think i'm only here because of… because of money."

san walked into the room, his footsteps echoing. he stopped a few feet away from you, his expression serious. "people will always find a reason to diminish you," he said. "especially in a place like this. they'll call you too soft, or too hard, or too lucky. but the mirror doesn't lie. the audience doesn't see your bank account, they see you."

you took in his words, looking at the ground and sighing.

"hey, whisperers are just background noise, we're the ones communicating on stage."

you took a deep breath, the scent of resin and effort filling your lungs. "thank you, san."

"don't mention it. now, go find charlotte. i think she's trying to convince the costume mistress to add more glitter to her tutu, and she might be about five minutes away from being banned from the wardrobe room."

you laughed, the sound light and hopeful.

the night of the first full dress rehearsal arrived. the theater was a cavern of red velvet and gold leaf, the air thick with the smell of stage makeup and nervousness. you stood in the white dress, feathers in your hair, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

charlotte was vibrating, her eyes wide, hands shaking slightly. for all her confidence, the stage terrified her.

"i'm going to trip," she whispered, voice trembling. "i'm going to trip and the whole world is going to see me faceplant in front of the director."

you reached out and took her hand, your fingers interlocking. your skin was cool, her's was burning. "you won't," you said firmly. "because i'm right next to you. and if you do trip, i'll trip too."

she looked at you and a genuine chuckle escaped both of you.

the music began. you glided onto the stage, the spotlights blinding and white. the world vanished, leaving only the rhythm, the breath, and the girl beside you.

you moved as one. the steps were seamless, the arms curved in perfect unison. poetry and physics blended together, creating something that neither of you could have achieved alone. small swans, part of a flock, a collective soul moving through the air.

as you finished the final sequence, arms gently posed over your chest in a synchronized beat, the silence that followed was absolute.

the adrenaline was kept the rest of the night, you could say even the following week, it was your first ever big production role after all. between blistered toes and aching muscles, you walked the parisian streets side by side with charlotte and san, no longer feeling like you walked into a labyrinth. you had come here searching for a dream, but found something more valuable: a mirror that reflected the best version of yourself.

୨୧ three years later

the pale sun filtered through the curtains across your duvet. you lingered in the haze of half sleep, the ghost of thailand's humid air still clinging to your skin. then, the sound started.

thump. thump. thump.

you cracked one eye open. charlotte was already on her neon pink spandex, high knee jumps on the hardwood floor. her breathing steady and focused, yet her eyes were wide awake, sparking with an energy that felt far too loud for five in the morning.

you've let her move in after the breakup, you spent everytime together anyway, always attached to the hip. as if that wasn't enough, you even started including her on your family vacations, this year's location being the islands of thailand.

"you're a marshmallow," charlotte chirped, her voice bouncing off the walls of the small apartment. "get up, marshmallow. the academy doesn't wait for vacation brain."

you groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow. "five more minutes," you mumbled, the words muffled by the fabric.

she leaped up in one fluid motion, landing silently on the balls of her feet. she hovered over you, a whirlwind of enthusiasm. "no five minutes. we have the cast list today. sleeping beauty, remember?"

you shifted, feeling the familiar tug of anxiety and excitement in your chest. you loved the dance, the way the music took hold of your bones and turned you into something ethereal, but the politics of the academy often felt like a storm you weren't equipped to weather. you were content in the shadows of the ensemble, where you could observe the world without the spotlight burning through your skin. so it's not like you were expecting anything fortuitous personally.

"i'm getting up," you whispered, finally sitting up.

your movements were hazy, a contrast to charlotte's sharp, athletic precision. you reached for your dance bag, the leather smelling of expensive creams. as you both dressed, the conversation drifted toward the trip.

"i still can't believe your dad tried to ride that elephant," charlotte laughed, pulling her hair into a severe bun.

"he wanted a picture," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"it was so funny, i've never laughed so hard in my life," she countered. "oh! the souvenirs. we can't forget san's things. he'll kill us if we forget the silk shirts."

"do we have to stop by the gym first?" you asked hesitantly.

charlotte paused, blinking. "why not? he's always there at this hour. plus, it's on the way. come on, let's go before lana decides to start the morning rehearsal without us."

the walk to the gym was a blur of traffic lights and the scent of roasting coffee. paris felt sharper after the softness of the islands, the air crisp and demanding. when you stepped into the gym, the smell of iron and rubber hit you instantly.

san was there, mid-set, working his arms with a pair of heavy dumbbells. his skin glistened under the fluorescent lights, sweat carving rivers down the broad expanse of his shoulders. his eyes were narrowed in concentration, jaw set, intensity of the effort.

charlotte didn't hesitate. she marched right up to him, her voice cutting through the clank of weights.

"look at you, still trying to turn into a boulder!"

he stopped, the weights hitting the floor with a controlled thud. he exhaled a long, heavy breath, his chest heaving. a slow, warm smile spread across his face as he looked at her.

"you're back," he said, his voice deep and grounded. "i thought you'd join the monkeys."

"shut up," charlotte squinted her eyes, leaning against a weight rack. "we brought your stuff. y/n, give him the bag."

you stepped forward, clutching the small shopping bag. you held it out, your fingers trembling slightly.

"here," you murmured as your fingers brushed.

san turned his gaze to you, his eyes softening. "thank you," he said. "you didn't have to."

"it was no trouble," you replied, stepping back to give him space.

"the sunlight did you good, y/n." san noted, then remembered something. "oh, my water bottle. it's right here."

he reached for his gym bag, which sat atop a tall plyo box. the problem was, the box was positioned directly behind where you stood. as san reached up and over, his body momentarily hovered over yours.

the world shrank. you could feel the heat radiating from his chest, the scent of his sweat and skin enveloping you. for a heartbeat, you were trapped in the orbit of his strength, the breadth of his shoulders blocking out the rest of the gym. you held your breath, a trapped bird. you could see the fine droplets of sweat on the front of his neck, the way his muscles shifted under his skin.

he retracted quickly, the moment snapping like a taut string. he didn't seem flustered, but as he gripped his bottle, his eyes lingered on yours for a second too long.

"we're late," charlotte announced from afar, already pivoting toward the door. "if svetlana sees us walking in after the bell, she'll make us do pliés until our toenails fall off… again."

the return to the academy felt different. the air felt thicker, the anticipation of the day weighing on you. once inside the studio, the atmosphere shifted from whimsical to clinical. the mirrors reflected dozens of dancers, all of them vibrating with a mixture of dread and ambition.

svetlana popova, the ballet's director, stood at the front of the room, her posture as rigid as a frozen lake. she wore a black leotard and a wrap skirt that didn't have a single wrinkle. her voice, a sharp blend of russian authority and a melodic french lilt, sliced through the chatter.

"enough!" she barked. "you are not at a garden party. you are at the opera. positions! now!"

the next few hours were a blur of agony and art. you moved through the combinations, your body fluid and soft, drifting through the choreography like a ribbon in the wind. beside you, charlotte's extensions were a blade, every turn a whirlwind. she pushed herself to the brink, her face flushed, her breath coming in sharp gasps. you watched her from the corner of your eye, feeling a swell of genuine pride. lately it had been rare for you to share classes as she was slowly clawing her way up to the principal roles, so you appreciated these moments. she had fought for every inch of this floor, but to you, she deserved the world.

as the afternoon wore on, the tension reached a breaking point. the dancers were scattered across the studio, some stretching, some whispering, all of them glancing toward the door.

then, it happened.

a young staff member entered the hallway, clutching a single sheet of white paper. the reaction was instantaneous.

"the list!" someone shrieked.

the studio erupted. a sea of dancers surged toward the hallway, a chaotic wave of tights and buns. a polite riot, they pretended not to push, but the desperation was palpable. you were swept along in the current, your shoulder brushing against others.

charlotte gripped your arm, her fingers digging into your skin. her usual confidence had vanished, replaced by a hidden fragility.

"i can't look," she whispered, her voice shaking. "i actually can't look. y/n, please. look for me."

you nodded, stepping closer to the paper as the crowd shifted. the list was a grid of names and roles, written in svetlana's sharp, uncompromising hand.

your eyes instinctively dropped to the bottom, to the ensemble. you searched for your own name, your heart drumming a slow, steady beat.

village woman #4 - y/n y/l/n.

a sigh of relief escaped you. it wasn't a lead, but it was a place. it was a safe harbor where you could dance without the crushing weight of expectation. then, you slowly moved your gaze upward. you searched for charlotte's name under the principal roles.

there it was, her first ever lead role.

princess aurora - charlotte marsh.

you gasped, the sound lost in the noise of the crowd. you turned to charlotte, who was still hovering behind you, her eyes closed tight.

"charlie," you whispered.

"what? what is it? did i get a fairy? am i a tree?"

"you're aurora," you said, your voice gaining strength. "you got the lead, charlie!"

charlie's eyes snapped open. for a second, she didn't move. then, a scream of pure, unadulterated joy ripped from her throat. she threw her arms around you, lifting you off the floor in a hug that nearly knocked the wind out of you.

"i did it! oh my god, i actually did it!" she yelled, spinning you around.

you laughed, hugging her back, feeling her heart racing against yours. the joy was infectious, a bright, golden light that filled the sterile hallway.

as you pulled apart, you looked back at the list, wondering about san. you scanned the roles, moving past the princes and the fairies.

bluebird - san choi.

carabosse's minion #4 - san choi.

you smiled. the bluebird was a role of immense technical difficulty and breathtaking grace. it suited him perfectly. strong yet light, grounded yet capable of flight. for a moment, you wondered what it would feel like to dance a different kind of choreography with him, one that wasn't written on a piece of paper.

but the thought was interrupted by charlotte beaming with happiness when the other dancers crowded around her to congratulate her. in that moment, only your best friend's triumph mattered.

୨୧

"to aurora!" san toasted, raising his glass.

the bistro was lit up by amber lights and the scent of garlic butter and expensive red wine. charlie sat at the center of the table, her laughter ringing out like a silver bell, cutting through the chatter of the other dancers. she looked incandescent. the news of her being cast as aurora had transformed her from a hardworking student into a shimmering focal point of energy.

you watched her from the periphery, your fingers tracing the condensation on your water glass. you felt a quiet, humming warmth for her.

you noticed the way san’s eyes flickered to you for a brief second, a question, perhaps, or a silent check in, before he turned back to a conversation's excitement. you smiled, though it didn't quite reach the depths of your chest.

the dinner ended in a whirlwind of hugs and promises of hard work. as you and charlotte walked back to the apartment you shared.

"can you believe it, y/n?" she asked, swinging her bag. "the lead. actually the lead."

"i can," you whispered, your voice soft, barely audible over the distant traffic. "you're the most hard working person i've ever met."

she stopped abruptly, pulling you into another crushing hug. "i couldn't have done it without you keeping me sane. we're going to celebrate every single milestone this season."

but as the weeks progressed, the celebrations grew sparse.

the schedule for the sleeping beauty was a monster that devoured time. charlie, as the lead, was summoned to the studio at dawn and often didn't leave until the moon sat high over the city. your own schedule was fragmented. as a village woman, you were called in for group rehearsals, often in the afternoons or late evenings, filling the gaps in the production's architecture.

you and charlie became ghosts in your own home. you would wake up to find a note on the kitchen counter: love you, gone to studio, don't forget to water the ferns, and you would return home to find her already asleep, her blonde hair splayed across the pillow like a fallen halo.

you felt a drifting loneliness, a sense of being untethered. your heart selfishly missed her.

then came the tuesday rehearsal. the piano player was hammering out a melancholic sequence. you were positioned with the other village women, your bodies draped in simple rehearsal skirts. this was the scene where you begged for the king's mercy for knitting with the forbidden spindles after being caught by a supervising catalavat. it required a specific kind of vulnerability. a fluid, desperate grace. you sank into a deep plié, your arms reaching upward, fingers trembling, feeling the weight of the plea in your marrow. you let your gaze drop, shoulders curving inward, embodying a crushing sorrow.

across the room, the atmosphere was different. san was practicing the bluebird pas de deux. he was a force of nature in the center of the floor, his movements precise and powerful. he was lifting the girl cast as princess florine, but the connection was hollow.

she was technically proficient, but there was a gap between them, a missing bridge of trust. her lifts were stiff, her landings jarring. san's face was a mask of professional patience, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw. he was fighting the lack of chemistry, trying to manufacture a spark that simply wasn't there.

lana stood by the mirrored wall, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. she looked like a sculpture carved from ice. her eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned the room.

"stop," she commanded.

the music died instantly.

"this is not a dance," svetlana said. "this is a gymnasium exercise. where is the romance? where is the air? you are a bird and a princess, where are you?"

the girl playing florine, jisu, looked down at her shoes, her face flushing a deep crimson. san stepped back, his chest heaving slightly, his expression neutral but tired.

lana’s gaze drifted at the periphery. her eyes locked onto you. you were still half-sunken in your pose, your hand grazing the floor, your eyes wide and blinking.

"you," lana pointed. "the small one. come here."

you froze and you looked around, certain she was pointing to the girl behind you. you didn't move for a heartbeat too long.

"did i stutter?" she snapped. "come. now."

you stood up slowly, movements tentative. you walked across the polished floor, the sound of your shoes clicking softly. as you approached the center of the room, you felt san’s gaze shift toward you. dark eyes observant, curious.

"you know the part for florine?" lana asked, her voice slightly softer but still demanding.

you nodded once, a small, jerky movement. "yes, madame."

"good. change your shoes and get in position. let us see if we can find some life in this scene."

you changed into your pointe shoes at a world record speed and stepped into the space where jisu had been. his presence was overwhelming, but he didn't say anything, just shifted his stance, creating a pocket of space for you to fit into.

"from the lift," she ordered.

the piano resumed. the melody was light, airy, designed to mimic flight. you moved into the sequence, your body naturally falling into the flow. you closed your eyes and the story flood your mind. the longing, the ethereal connection.

then came the moment of the lift.

and the first time he lifts you, it doesn’t feel like falling. there’s a moment, right before your feet leave the ground, a split second of terror, when everything should go wrong. timing, weight, trust. you’ve seen it happen before. a hesitation, a misstep, and suddenly the illusion breaks. but not with him. his hands find you as if they’ve done it a hundred times before, steady at your waist, certain without asking. molding to the curve of your sides with intuitive precision. you don’t think about it, you just go, weightless and free. and when you rise, it’s seamless. like your body already knew where his would be.

the connection was instant, a sudden, electric bridge snapping into place between your spine and his strength. you landed softly, your breath hitching in your throat.

"again," lana calls.

you nod, but your eyes flicker to him first, he's already looking at you.

there’s something in it, not surprise, not quite pride. recognition, maybe. like he’s just realized something he didn’t know he was searching for. he looked surprised, not just by the success of the lift, but by the feeling of it. the charged frequency that made your skin tingle. the music starts again. you count under your breath, quiet enough that no one hears, except for him.

this time, your hand lingers when he lets go for a second longer. it's nothing, it has to be nothing.

"better," lana muttered, though her eyes were narrowed. "much better. stay. continue. the rest of you, clear the floor. i want them to refine the transition."

the other dancers filtered out, talking among themselves. the studio empties slowly, the echo of shoes fading into silence. someone laughs in the hallway. a door shuts. the world outside resumes. inside, it’s just the two of you and the distant ticking of the studio clock.

he reaches for your arm, adjusting it slightly, guiding the line until it feels right. his touch is brief, professional. it should be forgettable.

"like this," he murmurs, intimately.

it’s strange, the way something can begin so quietly. glances held too long. hands that don't pull away fast enough. decisions that don't leave.

later, you’ll tell yourself it happened slowly. that there were signs. that you knew what you were doing. but standing there, in the softness of an empty studio, with his hand still warm against your skin. it feels simple, harmless, the beginning of something beautiful when it really, really shouldn't be.

"again?" he suggested, softly. "the turn into the lift… the transition was a bit sharp."

you nodded, unable to find words.

for the next two hours, the world outside the studio ceased to exist. there was no paris, no opera house, no charlie. you corrected the angle of your wrist. he adjusted the pressure of his grip. you spent an hour just on a single transition, moving in slow motion, feeling the way your muscles reacted to one another. every time his skin met yours, it felt like a spark hitting dry tinder.

you noticed the small things. the way a stray lock of black hair fell over his forehead when he was concentrating. the way his chest expanded in a deep, grounding breath before a heavy lift. the way he looked at you. not as just a background dancer, but as a partner.

as the light in the studio dimmed, turning the mirrors into grey pools of shadow, the music stopped. you both stood in the center of the room, chests heaving, sweat dampening your clothes.

the silence was no longer empty. it was full. it was heavy with everything you weren't saying. you looked at him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. you saw the way his gaze dropped to your lips and then back to your eyes. there was a hunger there, a quiet intensity that mirrored your own.

san stepped closer. the distance between you vanished. he didn't ask, didn't hesitate. he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours.

it was a brief kiss, tentative exploration. it was a soft collision, a sudden grounding of all the electricity that had been building between you for hours. your hands instinctively reaching up to clutch the fabric of his shirt. a surge of vertigo, a falling that was far more terrifying and exhilarating than any lift.

he pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. his breath was warm on your skin. you gently shook your head and this might've been the first time you heard him stutter.

"i-i'm sorry… i shouldn't…" he whispered, voice strained.

"no, i…" you breathed, eyes fluttering shut.

you thought of charlie. do you have to tell her now? how would she react? they broke up years ago and never looked back. surely they got over each other. oh my god. wait, what were you doing?

san's hand moved, his thumb grazing your jawline, and the guilt was drowned out by a tidal wave of longing. you had spent your whole life being the observer, the quiet one, the girl who faded into the scenery. but in san's arms, you were visible. you were the center of the world.

you reached up, pulling him back down to you.

this time, the kiss wasn't brief. it was desperate. it was a collision of months of suppressed attraction and the sudden, violent realization of chemistry. you kissed him with an intensity that frightened you, your body molding against his. he groaned low in his throat, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you flush against him.

for a moment, you forgot the rules. you forgot the hierarchy of the ballet school. you forgot about the girl who slept in the bed next to yours.

୨୧ your toes throb inside your flats, pulsing matching the rapid beat of your heart. in every step you take, you can still feel it. the ghost of his lips against yours. the way his hand had steadied the small of your back, blurring the edges of the world.

head down, counting the cracks in the pavement. your mind is a carousel of flashing images. it was an accident, a lapse. but it was also the most honest you've felt.

swallowed by guilt, you think of charlie, of the way she laughs, of the first year she spent healing from the break up with san, that period of time where you grew close faster than any thrown arrow of destiny. when people started to think you were actually sisters, even if you looked nothing alike. you think of the way she rebuilt her confidence, brick by brick, until she could now stand center stage as aurora.

she's been the light of your life, the candle that lit the darkest rooms of your insecurities. the gentle push you've been needing, and maybe, that was the push that had led to kissing him back.

by the time you reach the door to your apartment, your breath comes in shallow hitches. you fumble with the key, telling yourself you can handle this. you will walk in, you will smile, and you will bury this secret with you.

the door creaks open, the apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of a street lamps filtering through the sheer curtains. you step inside, kicking off your shoes. you don't notice the silhouette leaning against the kitchen counter. you don't notice the way the floorboards shift. too busy tracing the memory of san's thumb brushing your cheekbone.

"you're late."

the voice cuts through the silence. you jump, a small gasp escaping your throat. shoulders hunching toward your ears. you whirl around to find charlie watching you.

she is wrapped in an oversized silk robe, her blonde hair piled in a messy knot atop her head. she holds a mug of chocolate mint drink, her favorite since the trip. her eyes are narrow, observant, dancing with a mischief that makes your stomach flip.

"god, you're jumpy," she says.

she doesn't move from her spot, but her presence fills the room. she has that effortless power, the kind that comes from knowing exactly where she stands in a room. you, conversely, feel like you are disappearing into the wallpaper.

"i just… i forgot you'd be home before me," you whisper.

your voice sounds thin, fragile. you avoid her gaze, focusing instead on a stray sequin on the hardwood floor.

charlie sets her mug down with a deliberate clack, crosses her arms, tilts her head. the silence stretches, suffocating. every second feels like an eternity where she is reading the guilt written in the tension of your jaw and the redness of your cheeks.

"is there something you need to tell me?" she asks.

the question hits you like a physical blow. you freeze, breath hitching. of course she'd know. mind racing, searching for a lie, a deflection, anything to bridge the gap between the girl who just kissed her best friend's ex and the girl who is supposed to be loyal.

"tell you what?" you manage to ask.

you try to make it sound casual, but it comes out as a breathless question. heat rises up your neck. you are certain she knows. she has to know. maybe she saw you leave the studio. maybe she sensed the shift in the atmosphere. she has always been in tune with her feminine intuition.

just as you spiral inside, charlie steps closer, her expression unreadable. she stops just a few inches away, her bright eyes searching yours. you want to shrink, to fold yourself into a tiny ball and hide. then, she beams. the tension snaps as a wide grin breaks across her face. she throws her arms around you, nearly knocking you over with the force of her enthusiasm.

"oh, stop acting so weird! i already know!" she chirps.

you stiffen in her embrace. "know… what?"

charlie pulls back, her eyes sparkling. she grabs your shoulders, shaking you slightly. "that you got the part of princess florine! i heard it from marie on the group chat. she said lana practically dragged you onto the stage and told the other girls to move aside."

the air rushes back into your lungs in a sudden dizzying wave. you blink, the world coming back into focus. she doesn't actually know. you force a smile, though it feels tight and artificial. "it's… it's not a hundred percent on paper yet. lana just… she's still deciding."

she scoffs, rolling her eyes. she lets go of you and begins to pace the small living room, her robe fluttering behind her. "oh please, princess florine matches you so well. all gentle and soft, restricted, loves quietly… and i bet you and san make a great duo."

his name drops on your stomach. you wrap your arms around yourself, clutching your elbows. "you think so?" you ask softly.

for a moment, the bubbly persona fades, charlie stops pacing and looks at you with genuine warmth. "i know so," charlie says. "besides, like florine, everyone's fucking jealous of you." she lightly laughs and shrugs.

a chuckle of disbelief manages to escape you. "no one's jealous of me."

she scoffs again, sympathetically this again. "sometimes i wish you could understand more french."

as the conversation flows, you look at her, really look at her. you see the trust in her eyes, the absolute certainty that you are her ally. she is talking about the beauty of the dance, of the partnership, completely unaware that it has bled into something far more than a practiced performance.

her humming of a tune from the score of the ballet rings in your ears as you stand in the shower, frozen under the spray, ashamed. caught in a dirty relief of not being caught. you slide down against the tile.

it's like flashes, his eyes, his hands, his electricity. you cover your face with your hands. since when were you so full of poison? were you suddenly trying to step into her place? your weight down and lopsided, every word she spoke was a thin needle, unknowingly praising the very thing that is secretly betraying her. you couldn't risk it, charlotte could never find out about the kiss.

right the next morning, when your blurry vision found the long cold of her sheets, you don't need to think about it, she left early. probably an hour ago, while the essence of his lips still stained your pillows. you stay still for a moment, listening to the distant hum of paris waking up outside your window.

lazy hand finds your phone on the nightstand. the screen glows, blindingly bright for your state. you open your messages, scrolling past the group chats and the reminders from the academy until you hit his name.

it's just his name, san, you've heard it a thousand times in the past three years, yet your heart accelerate against your ribs. you tap the message box, thumbs hover.

y/nie: we need to talk|

you type and stare at the words, before deleting them.

y/nie: about last night…|

too vague. it sounds like you're asking about a missed step in the choreography. you delete it again.

but, did you actually need to talk? if you send a message, does that admit you spent the last twelve hours staring at your ceiling, replaying the angle of his jaw and the warmth of his breath? even in your sleep? it shows you're thinking about him. it shows you're affected.

the blinking vertical line waits for you. if you act like nothing happened, maybe the tension will just evaporate. maybe you can go back to being the quiet girl in the corner and he can go back to being your best friend's untouchable ex. but then you remember the taste of him, the way he sighed into the kiss, and you know that's a lie. that you can't un-feel that.

just as you begin to type a safer version, the phone vibrates violently in your palm and the screen suddenly changes. a photo of san fills the display. he's calling.

the suddenness jolting you, you gasp and the phone slips from your fingers, bouncing off the duvet and disappearing into the folds of the floral blankets. you scramble, diving into the fabric, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your chest. you find the device, clutching it tight, but as the ringing continues, a wave of panic crashes over you. it's him, him himself who's calling. you throw the phone back onto the bed, hot to the touch and decide to pretend to be busy so you could prepare what to say-

"y/n? are you there?"

or maybe you could accidentally slide the answer option when you throw your phone, either or.

"hello?" you slowly press the phone to your ear, barely breathing.

"morning," he says. honeyed rasp of a voice, the kind of sound that feels like a physical touch.

"hello," you manage, your voice sounding small and fragile even to your own ears.

"did you sleep well?"

you freeze. you stare at the wall, your brow furrowing. "what?"

"i asked if you slept well," san repeats. there's a ghost of a smile in his tone. "you sounded exhausted when we left. i figured you'd crash the second your head hit the pillow."

you shift on the bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. "why are you calling me?"

"i wanted to hear your voice," he says simply. "and to make sure you weren't dreading rehearsal today."

the casualness of it is dizzying. he's talking to you as if this is normal. as if he didn't hold you against the mirror wall while the moonlight streamed through the high windows of the opera house and your mouths devoured each other just last night. "san, you can't just call me like this," you hiss, your voice gaining a bit of edge. "charlie could be here."

there is a brief pause on the other end. "is she there?"

"no."

"right. so, what now?" you couldn't even picture a face he could be doing right now.

"what n-? san, what are you doing?"

"just checking in on you." his tone almost innocent. "this morning i had this delicious, sweet cinnamon roll and it reminded me of you. did you have breakfast yet?"

"stop that." you murmured, shutting your eyes.

"what?" he chuckled and you sighed, over being lost in this unusual and pointless conversation.

"we need to talk." you said firmly.

"we are talking?"

"no, like, actually talk. about what happened."

"what happened?" there was a hint of a smirk and you weren't having it. "we had a nice practice. we worked hard, we clicked, it was a good day for the production."

"san…"

"ohh!" he suddenly seemed to remember. "you're talking about the kiss."

and it's quiet again, your tongue still, holding your breath, waiting for him to say it was a mistake. waiting for him to tell you that the adrenaline of the dance just clouded his judgment and it meant nothing to him. your heart sinks, but you just hear him chuckle.

"i'm just messing with you." you let out a soft breath you didn't realize you were holding. "yeah, we should talk about it. i'll see you today at rehearsal, right?"

"yeah, right." you murmured, biting your lip because apparently you were smiling.

"alright."

"mhmm, see you."

"oh, and wear that cute blue ribbon in your hair, it'll match the choreo."

you freeze. "how do you know i have-?"

"see you soon," he says. his voice is raspy, lingering on the words, a promise wrapped in a goodbye.

the call disconnects and you lower the phone slowly, the silence of the room rushing back in, you stay lying on your back for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing.

slowly, you push yourself up and walk toward the mirror wall that lines one side of the bedroom. you stop in front of the glass, looking at your reflection. your hair is a mess, your eyes are wide, as usual. but what's unusual, is the deep vivid crimson on your cheeks, like you've been caught in a storm.

closer to the mirror, you trace the redness of your cheeks. you should be terrified. you should be calling charlie and confessing everything right now. you should be thinking about the social suicide of kissing your best friend's ex in a company as tight-knit as the paris opera ballet.

instead, you find yourself reaching for a secret promise, the blue ribbon on your vanity.

୨୧

through the corridors, you walk with your gaze fixed on the polished marble floors. the security cameras pivoting through your skin, their glass lenses tracking your every movement. it feels as though they are auditing your soul, searching for the guilt you’ve tucked away deep beneath. you can almost hear the whispers of the other girls, the ones who spend their breaks dissecting your posture or mocking your silence in the dressing rooms.

shoulders square, though your heart hammers a frantic rhythm against your ribs. the blue ribbon is a weight, a promise, a danger.

when you push open the double doors to the studio, there he is. he stands near the barre, talking to another dancer, broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his black rehearsal shirt. you don't look at him. you can't. you snap your head away the moment your eyes catch the line of his jaw, pivoting toward the cluster of village women.

if you look at him, the dam will break. the heat will climb from your neck to your cheeks, painting a confession that every eye in the room will read. you slide into the group, blending into the soft pastel hues of the other dancers, trying to become invisible.

"you're late, y/n."

one of the girls whispers, pointing a flaw. you don't answer. you simply adjust your shoes, the satin scraping against your feet. dust motes dance in the shafts of morning light, eyes still glued down. you can feel san's gaze now, like a physical weight that settles on your shoulders.

the studio falls silent as the click clack of heels announces the arrival of lana. she strides into the room like a winter storm, her spine a rigid line of steel.

"enough with the chatter," lana commands as she stops in the center of the room.

you move with the others, your body, a piece of scenery sliding into the familiar, fluid motions of the choreography. emotional artistry, arms curving like willow branches. but your mind is acutely aware of where he is in the room. you can hear the rhythmic thud of his jumps, the controlled breath he takes before a turn.

every time he moves closer, something ionize between, sparking with the memory of last night.

lana's voice cuts through your reverie. "you," the dancers freeze, you hold your breath. "come to the center. i wish to see the progress of the princess florine and the bluebird. san, join her."

a collective murmur ripples through the studio, a wave of jealousy that you can practically feel brushing against your skin. jisu, the former florine, stands to the side, her expression a mask of cold indifference, though her fingers grip her dance wrap with a white knuckled intensity.

you walk to the center of the stage, movements hesitant, still refusing to look at him. chin tucked, eyelashes cascading over your cheeks, creating a private veil between you and the world. you feel small and you feel exposed, as if the mirrors are zooming in on the frantic beat of your heart.

"everyone, move aside," lana orders. "observe. this is how a partnership should breathe."

the room clears, leaving you and san in a vast circle of empty space. the silence is heavy, expectant. you stand there, a fragile point of light in the center of the room, until you feel it. his presence.

he steps closer, closing the gap until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. he doesn't touch you, not yet, but you're cornered by his shadow, tucked between his strength and the gaze of the room.

"are you okay?"

ghost of a whisper, his voice, meant only for you. it is warm, grounded, and laced with a tenderness that makes your knees weak.

finally, you look up.

you meet his eyes, and for a moment, the studio vanishes. the envious dancers, the strict director, the weight of the academy, it all dissolves. there is only san. his eyes soft, searching yours with an intensity that feels like a touch. you see the slight curve of his lips, dimple appearing in his cheek. you nod and he takes your hand, grip firm and sure. he leads you into the first position, and as the music begins to swell from the piano, the tension shifts. it is no longer the tension of fear, but the tension of a bowstring about to snap.

the choreography is demanding, blend of strength and ethereal lightness. but with san, it doesn't feel like work. it feels like a conversation. every lift a question, every landing an answer. as the lifts comes, body soaring toward the ceiling, there's a vertigo crashing over you, but not from fear.

why him? why, of all the people in this cutthroat city, it had to be him. why the boy with the broad shoulders and the quiet heart? why the one who memorizes steps with a freakish speed but underestimates the wreckage his smile leaves in it's wake? you think of the way he looked at you during those long months of silence. the stolen glances in the hallway, the way his hand would linger a second too long when he passed you in the studio, the way he seemed to anticipate your every move before you even made it.

you didn't just fall for him last night. you have been falling for a long time. you had fought it, buried the feeling under layers of introversion and a desperate need to remain unnoticed. you had denied the way your heart leaped at the mere sound of his name, the way you sought him out in a crowded room without even realizing you were doing it.

it is a terrifying realization. to love someone like him is to hand yourself a weapon and hope you don't use it. but as san brings you down from a lift, his arms wrapping around you with a protective force, the fear vanishes.

you are in love with him.

the truth settles in your marrow, heavy and sweet. you look at him and see the warmth in his eyes, the hidden smile that is meant only for you. you see the man who knows your silence and doesn't try to fill it with noise.

flow through the final sequence, your movements becoming liquid. you are dancing the truth of your heart. pouring every ounce of your longing, your secret guilt, and your newfound hope into the arch of your back and the extension of your fingertips. san matches you beat for beat. for a few minutes, the two of you are the only living things in paris.

the music swells to a crescendo and then abruptly stops. frozen, in the final pose, breath coming in ragged gasps. slowly pulling away, svetlana is standing perfectly still. her arms are crossed over her chest, her expression unreadable. then, the corners of her mouth twitch. it isn't a full laugh, but it is somewhat of a smile. there surely is a first time for everything.

the students begin to chatter, the sound a swarm of bees returning to the hive, but it doesn't make you want to shrink.

san doesn't let go of your hand immediately. his thumb brushes against your knuckles, a secret caress in plain sight. he leans in, breath warm against your ear.

"the ribbon looks beautiful on you," he whispers.

and when you feel the blush return, you don't fight it, you let it bloom.

୨୧

narrow space, choked with fabrics of tulle and satin. you were supposed to talk, to seriously figure the incident out. the cold metal of a costume rack bit into your back as san pressed you against it. the impact wasn't violent, but it was absolute, pinning you into a cocoon of hanging dresses that dampened the sounds of the bustling hallway outside.

not even a chance to speak, his mouth crashed against yours with a hunger, less like a greeting and more like a reclamation. it was a fierce, starving kind of kiss. you briefly moaned, the sound swallowed by him, and your head tilted instinctively to the side. the movement opened you up, granting him access. his tongue slid against yours, wet, sliding friction that sent a jolt of electricity straight to the base of your spine.

hands flew up, fingers tangling in the short, dark hairs at the nape of his neck. you pulled him closer, needing to erase every millimeter of space between you. he groaned low in his throat, a vibration you felt in your own chest, and his hands found your waist. his fingers dug into the soft flesh there, gripping you with a possessiveness that made your breath hitch. you felt like water beneath him, yielding.

the friction of your lower bodies was a slow torture. san shifted, his hips pressing firmly against your lower stomach. through the thin fabric of your dance tights and his trousers, the heat of him was an insistent pressure. every time he shifted, every time his weight leaned further into you, a spark of friction made your stomach flip. a breathless giggle escaped your lips, muffled against his mouth.

he broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, lips grazing your jawline, breath hot and ragged.

"fuck… you have no idea," he whispered between small kisses. "how long i've wanted this… how long i've had to pretend i wasn't thinking about this every time you walked into the room."

you couldn't find words. your mind was a blur of white noise and heat. you let your hands slide down from his neck, tracing the hard ridges of his shoulders before settling on his chest. beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, his heart hammered, mirroring your own. you chased his lips again, movements clumsy and urgent, searching for him with a desperation that frightened you.

when you finally parted to breathe, he kept his body flush against you, hands migrating from your waist to cup your face. his palms were warm, thumbs tracing the line of your cheekbones with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the violence of the kiss. he searched your eyes, gaze intense, searching for a sign that you were as lost as he was.

"let me take you out," he murmured.

you blinked, eyelashes damp. the sudden shift making your head spin.

"properly," san continued, his voice softening. "i want to take you to a restaurant. somewhere where we don't have to look over our shoulders. or a museum. we could visit the louvre. i want to see you freely instead of hiding in a closet."

gaze dropped, the image of charlie flashed vividly in your mind. charlie's bright, bubbly laugh, the way she had trusted you with the fragile remnants of her past with san. the guilt, once again, hit you like a cold wave that dampened the heat in your veins.

you slowly shook your head, swallowing a lump of anxiety that felt like a stone in your throat.

"i can't," you whispered. "this wasn't supposed…"

as you tried to shimmy past him, san didn't move, but he didn't let you slip away. his grip tightened on your face, not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor.

"look at me," he commanded softly, you lifted your eyes to his intense focus. "say it. say you don't feel this. tell me you don't look at me the way i know you do. tell me that when we dance, you don't feel the air between us vibrating. tell me this was all a misunderstanding, a moment of weakness, and i'll let you go right now. i'll step back, and i'll never touch you like this again." he paused, his gaze boring into yours. "but don't lie to me. because what i feel… it's genuine. the most honest thing i've felt in years."

you opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. you wanted to lie. you wanted to be the loyal friend, the quiet observer who didn't complicate anyone's life. but the words died in your throat, feeling the ghost of his tongue in your mouth, the weight of his body against yours, the way your soul seemed to recognize him. you did feel it. you had felt it for months. during barre work, when he offered a correction, in the silent understanding you shared during the bluebird rehearsals.

"i can't say that," you murmured, voice trembling. "because it's not true."

san's expression softened, relief crossing his features. he leaned in, his forehead resting against yours.

"i know you're worried about charlotte," he said, his voice barely a breath. "i know she's your best friend. and i know you feel like this is a betrayal-"

"it is," you whispered. "it feels like i'm stealing something. or breaking a promise we never even spoke aloud."

he sighed, breath warm against your lips. "i know charlotte. i know we had history, and i still care about her. but i also know how much she loves you. she wants you to be happy, y/n. genuinely. she's the kind of person who would want the people she loves to find each other, even if it's complicated."

"you don't know that for sure," you argued softly.

"maybe not for sure," san conceded. "but we don't have to tell her, okay? not until we know what this is. we can explore this… this little thing. we can see if it's as real as i think it is. and if it doesn't work out, then she never has to find out. everything just goes back to normal."

you closed your eyes. the logic was flawed, a fragile bridge built over a canyon of potential disaster, but it was the only bridge you had. you wanted him. the desire was a physical ache, a hunger that outweighed the guilt.

as you wavered, san began to pepper small, fluttering kisses across your cheeks. he kissed the corner of your mouth, the tip of your nose, the soft skin just below your ear. the tenderness of it broke your remaining resolve. a small, genuine laugh escaped you, sound of surrender.

"fine," you breathed. "just… we gotta be careful."

"i got you," he whispered.

with that, he didn't waste another second. he reclaimed your lips, renewed passion. deeper and slower this time, as if he were savoring the victory. you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him in, body humming with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. you felt the world outside the costume room vanish, there was only the heat of your shared breath.

in eagerness, you stumbled slightly back into the clutter of the room. your ballet slipper landing squarely on something small and plastic. there was a sharp pop and the sound of scattering beads. you had stepped on a small bag of pink glass crystal flatbacks, the tiny embellishments spraying across the floor like fallen stars. the sudden noise echoing in the small space.

before you could even register the accident, san's hands moved with lightning speed. he slid his arms under you, one beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, and scooped you up in one fluid motion. you let out a sharp gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to keep your balance. hoisted high, at face level with his.

"shhh," san whispered, pressing a finger to your lips before kissing it. "we need to be quiet."

you both giggled and the kisses continued. heart racing, you could feel the strength in his arms, the steadiness of his hold, and for the first time, the secret didn't feel like a burden.

he held you there for a long moment, in the dim light of the costume room, surrounded by a thousand performances, while you began a dance of your own. one that had no choreography, no audience. lips moved slowly together, memorizing each other's breath.

shifting slightly, his grip firm on the back of your thighs. he didn't put you down immediately. instead, he nuzzled into your neck, lips grazing the sensitive skin there.

"you're so soft," he murmured, the vibration of his voice sending shivers. "i can't believe you're actually mine to kiss."

you pulled back slightly, eyes searching his. "i'm not yours yet."

san grinned, the dimples finally making an appearance, flashing a look of pure, unadulterated mischief. "that's right, yet," he whispered, before capturing your lips once more.

the sounds of the hallway, distant shouting of a stage manager, rhythmic thumping of dancers' shoes, it all seemed a million miles away. in the narrow confines of the room, amidst the scent of mothballs and the scatter of pink crystals, you existed in a vacuum of your own making.

you felt the friction of his trousers against your inner thighs, the way his chest expanded against your breasts with every heavy breath. the heat of his skin, the callouses on his fingers, and the overwhelming presence of him. dangerous and fragile, but as san squeezed you tighter, you realized you didn't want to be safe. you wanted this.

slowly, he lowered you back to the floor, but he didn't let go. he kept you pinned against the rack, his body a warm shield.

"we have to go back to rehearsal," he whispered through a thin string of saliva.

"i know," you replied, though made no move to move.

"five more minutes," he pleaded, eyes dropping to your lips.

you smiled. "five minutes."

and as he leaned in to claim those five minutes, you felt drowned out by the roar of your own heart and the insistent, demanding heat of the man who held you.

୨୧

arms curved in soft arcs, san’s hand found the small of your back and the world narrowed. faded into a hum. grip steady, warm weight. he pivoted, sweeping you into a graceful spin. you looked up and found his eyes locked onto yours. quiet heat, a secret shared in the middle of a crowded room.

lana's eyes tracked every movement, cold and calculating. she sighed, a sound of a satisfied acceptance. she hadn't yet officially announced the change, but the way she nodded, the way she stopped correcting your posture and instead watched the synergy between you and san, told the story.

the realization brought a flicker of triumph, a triumph shared with charlie who stood at the barre. she had taken some time off from her own busy schedule to drop by. she caught your eye and beamed, genuine smile that made your stomach churn.

"you look like a dream, y/n!" she called out, her voice ringing through the hall.

you managed a small, tight smile and looked away. the guilt was a cold stone settling in your gut.

the weeks that followed became a messy sequence of double lives. by day, you were the quiet student, the shadow in the sequins. by night, you were san's secret. he took you to a paris that didn't exist in maps. led by the hand, you wandered into hidden bookstores you didn't even know were there before, shelves reaching toward ceilings lost in darkness.

"try it," san whispered, leaning close to your ear. he pointed to a weathered bookseller with spectacles perched precariously on his nose. "ask him for the poetry section. in french."

you froze, fingers tightening around san's hand. "no, i can't. you do it," you murmured.

"come on, you gotta practice your french," san stepped closer, his chest brushing your shoulder. the warmth of him was an invitation. "just like you practiced, okay?"

deep breath and you stepped forward. you stumbled through a sentence, your accent hesitant. the bookseller didn't scoff, he replied and led you to a dusty corner of the shop. instead of the expected embarrassment, you smiled and looked back at san, and the way he was watching you with a quiet tenderness. these were the highs, the moments you forgot about everything.

but the return to the apartment always felt like a descent. the moment you stepped through the door, the mask slid back into place.

"you're late again!" charlie exclaimed, leaping up from the sofa. she was wrapped in an oversized sweater, her fair skin glowing under the warm light. "did svetlana keep you for extra coaching?"

you avoided her gaze, sliding your shoes off. "i got caught up in practice," you lied, words tasting like ash. "i wanted to perfect that one sequence in the second act."

charlie frowned, though her eyes remained soft. "you're already the best one there, y/n. don't let that russian hag get in your head. you'll burn out before opening night."

"i'm fine, charlie. just… tired."

"well, go shower. i ordered crepes."

every lie was a brick in a wall you were building between you and the person who had been the ground beneath your feet for years. charlie had fought for everything, her scholarship, her place in the academy, her dignity. she had come from nothing, hustling through every rehearsal with a grit that you admired. and here you were, the girl from the supportive, wealthy family, stealing the one thing that should have been off limits. the thing you underestimated how fragile it could be.

the next afternoon, the tension in the studio was palpable. jisu spent the rehearsal staring at you with eyes that could cut glass. you felt her gaze on your back during every adagio. every time you and san locked eyes, you could feel her resentment radiating from the sidelines.

during a break, you found yourself alone in the dressing room, staring at your reflection. tracing the line of your collarbone, the fragility of your shoulders. the mirror is a cruel thing. it does not lie, and it does not offer mercy. you looked shrinking, folding inward and utterly terrified. as you look at yourself, you don't see a princess. you see a thief.

the door creaked open, slow and heavy, and san stepped in. he didn't say a word. he simply walked up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, the warmth hits you, pulling you back against his chest.

"hey pretty," he whispered.

"hey," your voice replied quietly.

"are you okay?" his lips gently kiss your temple.

"yeah i just… made a hole in my thighs and it's ruining my day." you tried to give him a small, childish smile.

it was a snag. a tiny jagged hole in the nylon of your tights, right on the swell of your thigh. it should be a small thing. a nothing. but in the suffocating perfection of the paris opera ballet school, a hole in the tights is a crack in the armor. if the world could see this one flaw, what else could they see?

you feel him huff, amused breath against your skin. his grip tightens slightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist. you can feel the hard lines of his physique through the fabric of his dance gear. fingers teasingly traveling down the curve of your hips.

"ruining your day, hm?" he murmurs, his lips migrating from your temple to the sensitive shell of your ear. you can feel the heat of his tongue flicking lightly against the lobe, a gesture so casual yet so electric that your toes curl inside your pointe shoes. "maybe i can help," he whispers, his voice dropping an octave. "maybe i should just help you change out of them."

a quiet laugh escapes you. you turn slightly in his arms, looking up at him. he's so unfairly breathtaking. his skin, his jawline, his knowing smirk. his eyes hooded and dark with a hunger that he only ever shows to you. he looks like a predator who has decided to be gentle, and the thought makes your stomach flip.

"you're terrible," you whisper in disbelief.

"what? i'm just thinking of solutions," he replies.

before you can respond, his hands shift. they move upward, leaving the safety of your waist to slide over your ribs, the friction of his palms sending sparks across your skin. then, with a sudden boldness, he squeezes your breasts. you gasp, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet room. your back arches instinctively, chest pressing harder into his palms. calloused hands against the thin fabric of your leotard. he doesn't let go, instead, he kneads the soft tissue, thumbs brushing over your nipples, which harden instantly under the pressure.

"san," you moan. "someone… someone could come in."

the fear is there, constant anxiety of charlie walking through that door and finding her best friend entwined with the man she once loved.

san doesn't flinch. he leans forward, his lips capturing yours in a claiming kiss. his tongue pushes past your lips, sweeping through your mouth, demanding pull that makes your knees weak.

he pulls back just an inch, "i locked the door," he whispers, his voice strained. "we're alone. just you and me."

the words act like a key, unlocking the last of your restraint. terror transforms, turning into a pulsing need. you want him. you want the weight of him to crush the guilt out of you.

san turns you around fully, pressing you back against the cold surface of the mirrors. the ice of the glass against your back and the furnace of his body against your front. he looks at you with an intensity that feels like it could strip you bare.

his hands move to the straps of your gray leotard. he doesn't pull them down immediately. instead, he hooks his fingers under the thin elastic, tugging them just enough to ask a question, to create tension, his knuckles brushing against the sensitive skin of your shoulders.

"can i?" he murmurs, locked on you.

can't speak, can't even breathe. you simply nod your head. you want this. you need this. you need to feel something other than the hollow ache of longing.

with a slow motion, san pulls the straps down. the fabric slides over your shoulders, sliding down your chest, shushing sound. leotard peeled down, breasts exposed to the cool air of the dressing room.

he stops and stares.

eyes roaming over you, tracing the curve of your breasts, the pale, transparent skin where blue veins map out the path to your heart. nipples peaked, trembling in the chill. you feel a surge of vulnerability. raw, exposed. it makes you want to cover yourself and lean into him all at once.

"you are so beautiful," he whispers, thick with awe. "so beautiful y/n, holy shit."

he leans in, his mouth descending. when his tongue first touches your nipple, you let out a strangled cry. he licks, swirling motion that gathers the moisture of your skin before he closes his lips around you.

vacuum of his mouth creating a pressure that sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core. you bite your lips, teeth sinking into the inner flesh to keep from moaning too loudly. the sound of his suction, the licking of his mouth on your breast fills the silence of the room, echoing off the mirrors.

his other hand isn't idle. he reaches around to massage your other breast, his palm cupping the weight of it, fingers kneading the softness with a focused intensity. he rolls the nipple between his thumb and forefinger, mimicking the action of his mouth. the dual sensation is almost too much to bear. you feel a warmth pooling between your legs, the fabric of your tights suddenly feeling too tight, too restrictive. san moves from your breast to your neck, his kisses becoming more frantic, more biting.

"san… god," you whimper, your head lolling back against the mirror.

he groans, a low, animal sound, and slides his hand down to the waistband of your shorts. he doesn't pull them down, not yet, but he presses his palm flat against your crotch, rubbing the mound of your pussy through the nylon. rough fabric of the tights grating against your clit, waves of heat crashing through you.

through his trousers, you can feel him. hard, thick length of his cock pressing against you. he is just as desperate as you are, his movements jerky and urgent. he kisses you again, a messy exchange of saliva.

then, as quickly as the storm arrived, it begins to recede.

san pulls his hand back, his eyes clouded with lust but tempered by caution. he knows the risks. he knows the clock is ticking. with a tenderness that hurts, he reaches and pulls your leotard back up, smoothing the fabric over your skin, adjusting the straps with steady fingers.

he kisses your forehead, lips lingering there for a long moment.

"you're beautiful," he repeats, his voice returning to that grounded, warm tone. "so beautiful it hurts."

he steps back, giving you space to breathe, though the air feels thinner now that he's not occupying it. , his grip firm and protective.

"i'll take you home tonight," he says. his fingers already interlacing with yours.

flushed, skin still tingling where he touched you, chest still aching from the pressure of his mouth. you nod, feeling marked, changed.

together, you walk toward the door. san reaches for the handle, his hand covering yours for a brief second before he easily opens it. as you step out into the hallway, the cool air hitting your heated skin. you glance back, realizing it was never locked in the first place. not once. maybe he said it on purpose, maybe he forgot, but you don't say anything.

that night you returned late, again. he wanted to stay a little longer to get a thai dessert you introduced him to. when you opened the door, charlie was sitting at the couch, a notebook open in front of her, legs draped over the armrest, sketching out choreography. she looked up as you entered, her expression thoughtful. you instinctively pull the white bag of candy behind your waist, shoulder blades tightening.

"hey ghost, where were you?" charlie said, her voice unusually quiet.

you froze, your hand still on the doorknob. "hey, uh… hung out with jisu." ash in your mouth. at this moment, you wanted to shoot yourself for such dumb lie. of all the people in the academy, you had to choose her. you haven't spoken more than ten words to her in a months. jisu, who you replaced. jisu, who probably hates the very air you breathe.

"jisu? really?"

"yeah," you say, not wanting to explain further.

charlie leaned back. "well, that's nice," a small, sympathetic smile touched her lips. "i heard she's a bit begrudging, but it's nice to see you two get along well."

you felt the blood drain from your face. "y-yeah," you stammered.

"i honestly didn't think she had it in her to be friendly," charlie continued, her voice warm. you feel a dip in your stomach, a sickening plunge. the lie is working, and that's the worst part.

"she's alright." you whisper.

""see, that's why i love you," she stands up and glides toward you. "you have this way about you. you're like a little magnet for the broken and the grumpy. if there was anyone in the entire academy who could make someone like jisu friendly, it would be you."

she wraps her arms around you in a sudden hug. you stay stiff for a second, the bag of thai desserts pressed between your back and the wall, before you slowly lean into her.

"you're too kind for your own good," charlie whispers into your shoulder. "don't let those vultures at the school eat you alive, okay? you've got a heart of gold, and god knows this place tries to turn everyone into stone."

each word a precise strike against your conscience. your integrity innocently praised while you were drowning in your own dishonesty. you close your eyes, a single tear threatening to spill. you want to tell her. you want to scream that you're not kind, that you're a liar, that you're in love with a closed chapter in her life.

"thanks, charlie."

you forced a smile and nodded, mechanical movement. she pulls away, her eyes sparkling.

"oh! i almost forgot!"

she bounces back to the coffee table, grabbing a small shopping bag. she reaches inside and pulls out two sets of knitted leg warmers. one is an innocent baby pink, the other is a muted blue.

"look! i found these at that little boutique near the opera house. they're thick enough for the winter drafts in the studio." she holds them up, one in each hand. "pink for me," she says, waving the bright pair. "and blue for you." she steps closer, holding the two pairs of leg warmers together. with a playful giggle, she makes the fabric ends peck each other like two little birds.

"that's so sweet, charlie. thank you."

"of course! only the best for my favorite person."

she beams at you, her energy filling the room until you feel like you're suffocating in it. she turns toward the hallway, already thinking about the next thing.

"i can't wait for tomorrow," she says, her voice trailing off as she walks toward the bathroom. "i hope we can get photos with our dresses together."

your heart stops. you forgot the dress rehearsal.

"tomorrow?" you whisper.

charlie stops and looks back at you, a look of pure bewilderment on her face.

"yes, tomorrow? the announcement was posted on the board three days ago, girl. did you actually miss the notice?"

you stare at her, mind a complete blank and she lets out a dramatic sigh with a shake of her head.

"honestly, what would you do without me?" she leans at the doorframe, smiling softly. "you always have your head in the clouds, don't you? just make sure it stays there at least until the show."

when she closes the door behind her, the silence returning, heavier than before. you slowly bring the bag of thai desserts from behind your back and set it on the counter. the mango is probably warm now. the lie, too large to hide.

୨୧

screech of the metro wheels against tracks bites, metallic screams and the knot tightening in your chest. you lean your shoulder against the cold glass of the window, watching the grey blur of paris slide past. beside you, charlie's voice a bright contrast to the doom of the train car.

she describes her vision for aurora’s awakening. her eyes sparkling and hungry, hands carving shapes in the air. you only offer a tight smile.

the moment you step into the theater, you feel the sharp scent of hairspray first. frantic bustle. dancers in various states of dress scramble across the marble floors, pointe shoes echoing through the halls.

you find yourself in the costume wing, where the air is humid and smells of steamed fabric. the costume manager, a woman with a face like a crumpled map and eyes that see every loose thread, beckons you forward.

"stand still," she grunts.

you hold your breath as she pins the heavy fabric of the village dress against your waist. the dress is a rustic, peasant style garment, meant to look humble, but the manager is currently sewing a cluster of tiny, shimmering sequins into the bodice to catch the light.

as you stare straight ahead, your gaze drifts across the room. san is there.

near the wings, he's talking to another dancer, but his attention isn't on the conversation. he is looking at you. he doesn't smile, but there is a warmth in his gaze that feels like a physical touch, a secret hand brushing against your cheek. you feel a spike of panic and glance around quickly, wondering if charlie has seen, or if the other dancers are whispering.

you look back at him, and this time, san lets a small reassuring smile tug at the corner of his lips. the warmth of his look makes you soften, your shoulders dropping an inch. you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, eyes lingering on the sharp line of his jaw.

suddenly, a sting pierces your hip. you gasp, jumping slightly.

"damn it," the woman mutters, pulling the needle back. "stop fidgeting, will you?"

the pain is small, but it jars you. the bubble of intimacy with san pops, leaving you cold and exposed in the middle of the room.

when she finishes, she doesn't even say anything, the next dancer is already pushing you off the way. you move toward the stage, taking your place among the other village women, sequins itching against your skin.

"positions!" lana’s voice booms from the darkened house.

the music swells, the opening act of the sleeping beauty beginning it's unfold. you and the other women frolic through the scene, movements light and airy. the choreography calls for you to be playful, carelessly playing with knitting needles as you dance, a picture of innocent rural life.

with a fluid grace, your body remembering the steps, but your mind is elsewhere. you are thinking of the way san’s hand felt on the small of your back last night, the way he whispered your name against your skin in the dark. the guilt is a living thing now, curling around your heart, tightening with every beat of the orchestra.

as you twirl, you glance toward the darkened seats of the theater. charlotte is there. she's sitting in the third row, perfect posture even in repose. you notice her lean forward, eyes fixed on you. she is smiling, proud of you, cheering you on in silence.

the scene shifts. the supervising catalavat enters and catches the village women in their forbidden act of knitting, threatening of punishment. the choreography dictates that the women should beg for mercy, drop to their knees in a theatrical pleading.

the stylized plea breaks. your voice, usually a whisper, rips through the music of the theater.

"i'm sorry!" you sob, raw and guttural. the other dancers stumble, their synchronization breaking as they glance at you in shock. "i'm so sorry!" you scream, heartbroken rush. "please, forgive me! i didn't mean to, i'm so sorry!"

you aren't dancing anymore. you are collapsed on the floor, your forehead touching the cold wood, your shoulders shaking, uncontrollable sobbing. you can't stop the tears streaming down your face, blurring the world into a smear of gold and brown. the dam has broken, and every ounce of anxiety, every moment of hidden longing, every shred of guilt pours out of you in a cacophony of grief.

the music falters. the orchestra slows to a confused halt. the silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the sound of your gasping breaths.

"what in the name of god is this?" lana strides onto the stage, heels clicking rhythmically, and stops in front of you. russian severity, her accent thick and sharp. "you're ruining my show! what is the meaning of this collapse?"

you look up at her, your eyes red and streaming, chest heaving. you can't explain it. you can't tell her that you're breaking under the weight of a secret. you can only shake your head, trembling movement.

"sorry," you choke out, the word barely a breath.

"off! get off the stage!" lana barks, gesturing wildly toward the wings. "go clean your face and find your composure before you ruin the entire act!"

you don't wait for a second command. you scramble to your feet and run away. you bolt past the other dancers, past the confused gaze of the catalavat, and disappear into the shadows of the wings.

the moment you hit the darkness of the backstage area, the walls close in. you lean against a cold brick wall, sliding down until you are huddled in a ball. you are shaking so hard your teeth chatter. the panic is a wave, pulling you under, leaving you breathless and alone.

then, a pair of strong arms wraps around you. you don't have to look up to know who it is. he pulls you into him, protective urgency, tucking your head under his chin. you cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his costume, sobbing into his chest. he doesn't say anything, he just holds you, his hand rubbing slow, grounding circles into your back. for a few seconds, the world is just the two of you.

"i've got you," he whispers. "just breathe. i've got you."

you close your eyes, letting his strength calm you, feeling the beating of your heart slowly align with his.

"y/n?"

the voice is a cold splash of water. you freeze, san stiffens his arms. you pull back slowly, blinking through the tears to see charlie standing a few feet away. she looks small in the vastness of the wings, her expression a mixture of horror and profound confusion. she looks at you, then at san, then back at you.

san steps away from you instantly, the distance between you suddenly a canyon. he clears his throat, his face returning to it's neutral, controlled mask, but his eyes remain troubled. you wipe your face with the back of your hand and step toward her, your voice trembling.

"charlie… i…"

"what happened?" her voice laced with genuine concern. she reaches out, touching your arm. "you just… you started screaming. you looked terrified. what happened?"

you swallow hard, the lie forming in your throat like a bitter pill. you look at san, who is standing perfectly still.

"i don't know," you whisper, letting a few more tears fall. "i just… i got overwhelmed. i think i had a panic attack."

she pulls you into a hug. "oh, you poor thing," she murmurs, rubbing your shoulder. "i had no idea you were feeling that much pressure. you're always so quiet, i forget how much you carry inside. you can't let the role consume you like that, though. you'll burn out before opening night."

you pathetically lean into her, the guilt returning, sharper and more painful than the needle prick from earlier.

"i'm sorry," you whisper into her shoulder, the words carrying a deeper meaning.

"don't be sorry," she says, pulling back to look at you with a bright, encouraging smile. "just take a breath. let's go get some water. san, thanks for looking after her."

san nods once. "no problem."

you both walks away, but before you're too far, you look at san. he is watching you, melancholic. he doesn't move toward you. because he can't.

୨୧

two years ago you, had signed up for this wellness center that offered late night relaxing treatments for frustrating days after work. you were supposed to be there now, at least, that's what charlie believed.

comforting blanket against the lingering chill of humiliation. curled in the center of his bed, the duvet a cloud around you. his room, unlike the vibrant chaos of your shared apartment, was a study in muted tones and precise order. you glanced at the pair of framed mountain landscapes hung above the headboard, their monochrome beauty a quiet statement to his name. it was a space that spoke of careful thought, of a mind that found peace in structure.

a soft clink of ceramic, then the gentle creak of the floorboards as he approached. a warmth spread through you. he settled on the edge of the mattress, the bed dipping slightly under his weight. a steaming mug held carefully in his large hands, herbal promise.

"here," he murmured, his voice a low thrum against the quiet. he extended the mug, it's warmth radiating against your cold fingers as you took it.

you felt the ceramic against your palms, the heat seeping into your chilled skin, a small comfort. you took a tentative sip, sweet liquid, balm to your raw throat.

"how do you feel?" he asked.

you swallowed, the tea warming your chest. "better," you admitted. your voice still felt thick, heavy with unshed tears. the memory of the stage, the blinding lights, the sea of faces, still flickered behind your eyelids.

"still worried about lana?" he prompted, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand, a quiet reassurance.

"she’ll drop me. i know it. after… that."

he shook his head. "no. she won’t." his voice was steady, a rock you could lean against. "not if i have anything to say about it. you're princess florine. my princess florine."

involuntary laugh escaped you, fragile. "you don’t have to," you said, the corner of your mouth twitching upwards. the thought of him, san, standing up to svetlana popova of all people, a formidable force of nature, brought a faint smile to your lips. he was protective, fiercely so, a trait you had always admired, even from a distance.

you glanced around his room again. "your room is… it's really nice, san. it's so… you." you gestured vaguely with your free hand. "nothing like charlie's and mine, we're always complaining about the mess, but not doing anything about it."

your head lowered, eyes fixed on the patterns swirling in your tea. he saw it, of course. he always did. his hand covered yours. "hey," he said. you slowly raised your eyes, meeting his. "picture it," he began, sketching a scene in the air between you. "charlotte finds out about us. she sees us together, maybe she just knows. what happens then?"

you bit your lip, the scenario playing out in your mind, a horror show you’d replayed countless times. "she’ll be hurt," you whispered. "she'll feel betrayed. i… i can't stand to hurt her."

he squeezed your hand gently. "she won’t be mad. not really. not after a while. she’ll be happy for us. for you. she cares about you more than anyone, y/n. she wants you to be happy." he paused, his gaze searching yours. "you know charlotte, don’t you?"

the question hung in the air, weighted with years of shared laughter, whispered secrets, and unwavering loyalty. you thought of her infectious laugh, her boundless energy, her protectiveness, her deep unwavering love.

"to know her is to love," you replied, soft confession, a truth that resonated deep within you. it was a sentiment so pure, so absolute, that made the secret you were keeping feel even heavier.

at the last sip of your tea, the warmth a fading memory as you set the mug carefully on the bedside table. he shifted, and then, with a gentle hand at your waist, he pulled you towards him. you didn’t resist, instead melting into his embrace, your back settling against the solid expanse of his chest. his arms wrapped around you, strong and secure. your head rested against his shoulder, the soft fabric of his shirt comforting against your cheek. his fingers calloused from years of gripping a barre, began to work their magic on your skin, tracing slow patterns along your arm, then moving to your shoulder, kneading the tense muscles there. he knew exactly where the stress coiled, the places you carried the weight of the world.

"everything will be fine," he murmured, breath against your ear. his lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck. a soft sigh escaped you, released of tension.

the gentle rocking motion of his body against yours, the rhythmic massage of his fingers, the intoxicating scent of him, all worked to lull you into a state of blissful oblivion. your mind, so recently a whirlwind of anxiety, began to quiet. you felt the subtle shift against your lower back, a growing hardness pressing into you. his joggers, soft cotton against your skin, now contained a throbbing proof of his desire. the sensation was both a shock and a thrilling affirmation, a silent language spoken between your bodies.

his lips moved from your neck to the sensitive skin just behind your ear, his tongue a warm, wet caress. you tilted your head, granting him better access. his hand, which had been gently massaging your shoulder, now slid lower, gliding over your hip, his thumb brushing against the curve of your bottom. you felt yourself arch into his touch, a silent invitation.

"relax, okay?" he whispered, thick with a desire that mirrored your own. his other hand found your waist, pulling you even closer, eliminating any space between your bodies. the insistent press of his erection against your lower back grew more pronounced, a tangible heat that ignited a fire deep within you.

unconsciously, you shifted slightly, grinding your ass against him. a low groan rumbled in his chest and his grip tightened, his fingers digging lightly into your flesh. he began to pepper your neck with open mouthed kisses, each one a spark, igniting a trail of goosebumps across your skin. your breath hitched, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

body aligned with need, his hand moved from your hip, tracing a path upwards along your side, his touch light, exploratory, until his fingers brushed against the soft swell of your breast. a gasp caught in your throat, and you leaned further into him. the thin fabric of your shirt was little barrier against the heat of his touch.

his thumb began to gently caress the underside of your breasts, tantalizing motion that made your nipples harden in anticipation. you closed your eyes, lost in the intoxicating sensations, the world outside this room fading into insignificance. "y/n," he breathed. he turned you gently in his arms, so you were facing him, your knees still resting on the bed. your eyes fluttered open, meeting his. his hands cupped your face. silently, you leaned in, parting your lips just slightly.

he took your mouth then, not with a gentle touch, but with a consuming urgency. his lips were soft yet demanding, pressing against yours, molding them. your own lips, still slightly swollen from the earlier tears, responded with an eagerness that surprised you. his tongue traced the seam of your mouth, faint hint of tea, and you invited him in.

with ease, he lifted the hem of your shirt, pulling it upwards, over your head, and then, with a soft rustle of fabric, it was gone, tossed carelessly onto the floor. his eyes devoured you, lingering on the delicate lace of your bra, the curve of your breasts. he traced the delicate lace of your bra, then slipping underneath, brushing against the soft skin. a moan escaped you, and you instinctively pressed into his touch.

"i'll never get tired of these, fuck," he murmured.

a liquid heat pooled between your thighs. you wanted more, desperately. your hips began to grind, seeking friction, seeking release. his hand now slid downwards, over your stomach, tracing the curve of your hip, then moving lower, towards the junction of your thighs. he brushed against the soft cotton of your underwear, the dampness there, a testament to your arousal. he paused, his gaze meeting yours, a question in his dark eyes. you nodded, a silent fervent agreement. he smiled, sensual curve of his lips, and then his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, finding the warm, wet folds of your pussy.

gentle at first, tracing the delicate outer lips, then slowly, deliberately, parting them, exposing your clit to his knowing touch. he circled it, a caress that made your entire body clench. you whimpered, your hips pushing forward, seeking more pressure, more friction. he obliged, his thumb pressing down, rubbing gently against your swollen clit. the sensation was exquisite, overwhelming, a spiraling vortex of pleasure that threatened to consume you.

your legs trembled, your fingers gripping his shoulders so tightly your nails dug into his skin. he didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. his focus was entirely on you, on bringing you to the brink. his fingers moved with a practiced rhythm, stroking, pressing, teasing, each movement sending fresh waves of pleasure through your already overloaded senses.

the pressure built, sweet, unbearable pressure coiling tighter and tighter within you. your breath hitched, your body arching into his touch, on the edge, desperate for release.

"san," you gasped, his name a desperate plea on your lips.

his mouth found yours again, his tongue plunging in, mimicking the rhythm of his fingers between your legs. the double sensation was too much, pleasure agony. your body convulsed a shattering orgasm that shook you to your core. muscles spasmed, back arching, guttural cry tearing from your throat.

you clung to him, trembling, your body still vibrating with the aftershocks of your climax. he held you tight, his fingers still stroking your clit, even as the intensity of your orgasm began to subside, slowly, deliciously. his mouth was still on yours, kissing you deeply, tasting your pleasure.

when the tremors finally eased, you lay breathless against him, your body heavy and sated. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still dark with desire, but now softened with tenderness. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

"still good?" he whispered, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

you managed a weak nod with a contented sigh. your body felt heavy, languid, utterly relaxed. the panic, the fear, the shame. all of it had been momentarily banished by the sheer force of his touch, by the intensity of your shared pleasure.

suddenly he shifted, pulling away just enough to allow him to reach for your underwear. he slipped them off, then reached for his own joggers, tugging them down, freeing his impressive large erection. it sprang free, thick and hard, slick with pre-cum. you watched, mesmerized, as it bobbed slightly. beautiful, powerful thing.

now on top of you, he moved between your legs, knees settling on either side of your hips. you instinctively opened for him, thighs parting, welcoming him. he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a passionate kiss. meanwhile his hand found your pussy again, parting your wet folds, guiding his thick cock to your entrance. you felt the tip press against your slick opening.

"y/n" he whispered against your lips, his eyes locked with yours. "i love you, i really do."

you watched him, breath catching in your throat. "really?"

he sighed a smile, pressing a quick peck to your lips. "really… i love you so bad."

you smiled back, fighting back the tears. "i love you too."

with another reassuring slow kiss, he pushed into you. you felt the stretch, the fullness, the delicious invasion as his cock slowly, inch by agonizing inch, slid into you. mixture of pain and pleasure.

pushing deeper, stretching you, filling you completely. your body, still sensitive from your orgasm, welcomed the invasion, molding itself around his thick shaft. he paused, allowing you to adjust, to acclimate to his size, his eyes never leaving yours.

"so tight," he groaned, his hips still. "so good."

you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him to move. you wanted him, all of him, deep inside you. your hips began to buck, impatiently asking. he smiled, predatory grin, then he began to move, deep thrusts. he pulled back almost completely, then plunged back in, filling you entirely, hitting your cervix.

"do you like that?" he breathed, his voice ragged, his hips still moving.

"yes," you gasped. "more. please, more."

he picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, more urgent. you met him thrust for thrust, hips grinding against his, a dance of desire. the bed creaked beneath you, rhythmic accompaniment to your lovemaking.

you could feel the friction, the delicious rub of his cock against your sensitive walls, the way it stretched and filled you with each powerful thrust. the air was filled with the sounds of your moans, his groans, the wet squelching sounds of your bodies colliding. his hands gripped your hips, lifting you slightly, adjusting the angle, allowing him to thrust even deeper, hitting a spot that made you cry out, a high pitched moan of pure ecstasy.

your orgasm was building again, heat that was rapidly escalating into a raging inferno. your body was a taut bowstring, stretched to it's breaking point, trembling with the intensity of your pleasure.

"i’m close," you whimpered, voice raw with desire.

"come for me, my princess," he commanded. "come for me."

over the edge, your body convulsed again. shattering orgasm that rippled through you, your muscles clenching around his cock, milking him. you cried out his name as your body surrendered to the overwhelming waves of pleasure.

with a final thrust, he spilled his seed deep inside you and collapsed against you. heavy body heavy, breath ragged, heart hammering of genuine love. you lay tangled together, breathless and sated. your legs were still wrapped around his waist, bodies still intimately joined, the warmth of his come spreading through you, tangible proof of your shared feelings.

୨୧

sunlight spills through the gaps of the curtains. syrup-thick sleep, the weight of a muscular arm draped across your waist and the lingering scent of skin on skin. for a heartbeat, the world is small and safe, limited to the perimeter of these sheets.

then, the clock on the bedside table catches your eye. you bolt upright and the sheets slide down, leaving you exposed to the morning air. your heart doesn't just beat, it thrashes. you scramble out of bed, your feet hitting the cold hardwood with a slap.

"shit, shit," you hiss, your voice a dry rasp.

you dive for the floor, hunting for your clothes. the lace bra tangled with your discarded shirt. you clumsily pull them on, nearly tripping over your own balance. you grab your phone and the screen is a wall of notifications.

charlie: babe? where r u?? charlie: going to sleep now, left salad for u in the fridge charlie: y/n, answer me. i'm getting worried charlie: istg if ur still at that spa place, at least just text me

before you could reply, a sleepy voice interrupts your thoughts.

"what's the rush?" you turn to see san propped up on one elbow. his dark hair is chaotic and the sunlight catches the sharp line of his jaw. he looks peaceful, too peaceful.

"i have to go," you whisper, struggling to pull your sweater over your head. "i fell asleep. i wasn't supposed to fall asleep, san."

he reaches out, his fingers grazing your hip, trying to pull you back towards the edge of the mattress.

"stay a little longer," he murmurs. "c'mere."

"stop that," you snap, though the sternness is undercut by the tremble in your voice. you yank your arm away. "i told her i'd come home last night. she's probably terrified."

san sighs, he raises his hands in a lazy surrender. small knowing smile playing on his lips. "sorry," he says softly. "i just wanted you for a bit more."

the anger vanishes, replaced by a hollow ache. you lean down, pressing your lips to his. it's a soft kiss, tasting of sleep and desperation. you linger for a second too long, breathing him in, memorizing the warmth of his skin before the cold reality of the academy swallows you whole.

"thank you for last night," you whisper against his mouth.

the walk to the metro is a blur of grey pavement and rushing parisians. your hands shake as you dial charlie's number and think of lame excuses about how you fell asleep at the sauna and the staff just randomly let you sleep there for 10 hours. she picks up on the first ring.

three days later, the atmosphere at the academy is electric. "the sleeping beauty" no longer distant but looming. you are at the barre, at an extra class, working through the basic exercises. the repetitive motion is a meditation for you, after all before being your full time job, ballet used to be your escape.

you feel a threatening bead of sweat trickle down your spine. without thinking, you slide the zipper down of the high neck jacket and peel the garment off, draping it over the end of the barre. you return to your plies, focus narrowed to the movements of your feet. but you can feel it. a shift in the room.

it starts as a flicker. a glance from a girl two stations down. then, a whispered comment from a group near the center. you ignore it. you tell yourself it's just the usual envy, the petty judgments of girls who see your softness as weakness.

as the class transitions to floor work, you step away from the barre to grab your water bottle. but when you turn, jisu steps into your path. she doesn't smile, she never really smiles. she only smirks a cruel expression that doesn't reach her eyes. she looks you up and down, her gaze lingering on your neck.

"you know," jisu says. "some of us are here to dance, not to show off."

you blink, confused. "what are you talking about?"

jisu leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper that feels like a cold blade. "you couldn't you hide it a little better?" she doesn't wait for an answer. she pivots on a dime, gliding away with a mocking grace. your heart stops when you slowly turn toward the mirror, lifting your chin.

there, just below the curve of your ear, is a vivid blossom of purple and red. a hickey. a giant pronounced mark that stands out against your skin like a neon sign. you remember this morning, san's hands, the way he had laughed against your skin, the heat of his mouth. when he drove you to school, his hand resting on your thigh, his eyes dark and playful.

you scramble for your jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves with trembling hands, zipping it up to the very top until it presses against your throat. you can't breathe. you can't stay here.

ignoring the teacher's call for the dancers to assemble, you bold out of the studio. running down the corridor until you reach the prop storage room.

it's a dusty dim space filled with painted forests, cardboard castles, and velvet curtains that smell of mothballs. you slam the door shut and slide down against it, your chest heaving. you pull out your phone and dial san.

"hey, pretty. you okay? how is your class go-"

"why didn't you tell me?" you whisper-shout into the phone, voice shaking.

there is a pause. you can hear the distant sound of music on his end. "tell you what?" he asks, though his tone suggests he knows exactly what.

"the hickey, san! you left a mark and jisu just pointed it out in front of half the company!" you hear it then. a rumbling chuckle. he is laughing, actually laughing. "are you kiddi- this isn't funny!"

"it's a little funny," he says, his voice warm and teasing. "i thought you'd notice it the second you looked in a mirror. i figured you'd find it yourself before-"

"i didn't! do you have any idea what happens if charlie sees this? do you have any idea how this looks?"

"it looks like you're loved, y/n," he says, his voice softening, losing the edge of the joke.

"she could've seen it!" you suddenly raise your voice, the sound echoing off the fake cardboard trees surrounding you. silence falls over the line. the teasing is gone.

"i'm sorry," he says gently. "i didn't think it would be that obvious."

you sigh, raising your palm against your forehead.

"look, i'll come pick you up. i'll drive you to mine and we can-"

"no," you interrupt, your voice cracking. "no, don't come. don't come near me right now."

"y/n-"

"do you even understand how risky this is?" you whisper. "charlie is already questioning me. she's asking where i am all the time. she's noticing things, san. it's swallowing me."

"we can handle her," he says, though he sounds uncertain.

"no, we can't. because while you get to suck on my neck, i'm the one who has to look her in the eye every single night. i'm the one who has to pretend i'm the 'perfect, quiet friend' while hiding your marks on my skin." you swallow hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone. "i can't see you outside of class anymore. i just can't. it's too much. i can't breathe with this secret."

"baby, you're panicked," he says. "let's just talk tonight."

"no," you say, your voice final. "not tonight."

you end the call before he can respond and drop the phone onto the dusty floor. arms wrapped around your knees, pulling yourself into a tight ball. you fight back the sob that threatens to tear through your chest. you can't cry. you can't afford to be this fragile. if you start breaking again, you'll never put the pieces back together in time for the curtain to rise.

he's calling again but you decline it, instead, you look for another name. fingers hovering over your contacts, you scroll past charlie, past the other dancers, and stop at 'mom'. you press call. you hold the phone to your ear, listening to the rhythmic ringing. once. twice. five times. the call goes to voicemail.

you close your eyes and lean your head back against the wall. you know where she is. she's at the salon, the one with the big mirrors and the experts in manicure. she's probably sitting in the chair, letting the stylists perfect her hair, her makeup, her image. she's probably painting herself as the matriarch of the perfect family, the woman with the perfect, successful daughter at the paris opera ballet.

you are supposed to be the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, the perfect dancer. but as you sit in the dark, surrounded by fake scenery and cardboard dreams, unaware of the prying ears pressed against the door, you have never felt so far from perfect in your entire life.

after class is over, the first thing you do when you get into your apartment is covering the hickey with makeup, blurring the evidence inside your skin. only then you realize the ache in your calves from the hours of extra floor work that left your muscles screaming. your toes feel compressed, the skin raw beneath the layers of tights.

inside the apartment, your mind is a storm, so you move to the kitchen. you want to do something, anything, to bridge the gap between the girl charlie thinks you are and the woman you’ve become in the dark.

frozen strawberries and almond milk, her favorite. as you scoop the fruit, your fingers tremble. the blender whirrs. loud, grating, masking the silence of the apartment. you pour the deep red liquid into a glass and set it on the counter, right next to where she usually puts her dance bag.

you sit on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest. the clock on the wall ticks, each second a hammer blow against your nerves. charlie is never late without telling you. she's constantly glued to her phone, even when you're living together, she stills texts you about every minor inconvenience. you expect her to burst through the door, recounting every critique she was given, thrilled about the show getting closer. but the minutes stretch into an hour. the smoothie begins to separate, the ice melting, the vibrant color fading.

the silence becomes oppressive. it presses against your eardrums, making your heart race. you wonder if she’s still at the academy, perhaps staying late to polish her variations, or if she’s stopped at a cafe. but a cold knot forms in your stomach, tightening with every passing second. you know the rhythm of charlie's life, and this is a broken beat.

then, the sound of a key turning in the lock.

you sit up quickly, hopeful smile flickering on your lips. you prepare to greet her, to offer the smoothie, to pretend that the world isn't crumbling beneath your feet.

the door opens, it isn't the usual explosion of energy. there is no "i'm home!" or the sound of her humming a tchaikovsky melody. charlie steps inside, her movements unusually slow, almost robotic. she doesn't look at you. her gaze is fixed to the hardwood floor, her shoulders hunched as if she's carrying an invisible weight. her blonde hair, usually a crown of polished curls, is slightly disheveled, a few strands clinging to her damp forehead.

"charlie?" you whisper her name, the sound barely leaving your throat. she stops in the middle of the room, her dance bag slipping from her shoulder. she still doesn't look up. "charlie, you're late. i made you a smoothie," you say, your voice trembling.

she finally lifts her head. the expression in her eyes stops the air in your lungs. it's hollow, vacant, devoid of anger. as if the person you've known for years has been scooped out, leaving only a shell. her blue eyes are bloodshot, rims puffy and red. she looks at you, but it's like she's looking through you, seeing a stranger instead of her best friend.

your anxiety spikes. the room feels smaller, the walls closing in. you can feel the sweat breaking out on the back of your neck.

"charlie, what happened? are you okay?"

she doesn't answer immediately. she shakes her head slowly, her lips parting as she tries to find the words. her chest heaves, uneven breaths that sounds like a sob caught in her throat.

"you lied to me," she whispers.

there it is. hoarse words, stripped of their usual brightness. you freeze. there's no need to specify the lie. there is only one that could carve this kind of expression onto her face. you stand up and the blade you've been carrying in your gut for weeks finally sinks deep, twisting slowly into your stomach.

"charlie," you say, your voice softer now, pleading.

"don't," she snaps, her voice cracking. "don't call me that."

she takes a step back, as if your voice is a physical contaminant. she looks around the apartment, your shared sanctuary, and her face contorts.

"you lied to me," she repeats, louder this time, her voice trembling with a volatility that scares you. "every single day. every time we sat on this couch, every time we talked about the show, every time you told me you were going to jisu's or wherever the fuck… you lied."

"i… charlie…" your heart was beating out of your chest, you've fucked up.

"jisu heard you on the phone with him… i had to fucking find out through her?" her voice raised in disbelief.

"i-i can explain," you whisper, tears already blurring your vision."please, just let me explain."

charlie lets out a harsh laugh that sounds more like a scream. she finally looks you in the eye, and the void is gone. "explain what? explain how it felt? the timing?" she steps forward, her voice rising. "explain that you're fucking my ex boyfriend behind my back?"

you flinch, standing there, stripped bare, the secret finally dragged into the light of the living room.

"it's not… it wasn't like that," you sob, the tears streaming down your face. "it just happened, charlie. i didn't want to hurt you, i tried to stop it, i swear i tried-"

"you tried?" charlie screams, echoing off the walls. "did you try while you were kissing him? while you were sneaking into his apartment? did you try when you were touching him, thinking about me?"

"no! never!"

"you're a liar!" she yells, her face flushing angry. "i trusted you! you were the one person in that fucking academy who didn't look at me like i was just a scholarship girl from the slums. you were my sister! and you… you took what was mine first, just to satisfy some secret little crush?"

"no, charlie…" you plead. "there's… there's more to it."

charlie recoils as if you've slapped her. the anger vanishes, replaced by fragility. she looks at you with a mixture of pity and disgust. "more to it," she repeats. "how poetic. what is it, huh? are you in love with him or something?"

"please, just listen to me," you say, reaching out to touch her arm but she jerks away violently, instinct of a dancer.

"don't touch me. i can't even look at you anymore. every time i see your face, i just see him. i see the two of you together, laughing at me. wondering when the stupid clueless charlie would finally figure it out… god, i'm so stupid."

"we never laughed at you! we were terrified of this!"

"because you knew it was wrong!" charlie shouts. "you knew it was wrong and you did it anyway! you chose him over me. a few hours of dick over years of friendship." she pauses, her breathing heavy, her eyes searching your face for some shred of the girl she used to know. "how did you even find the nerve to look me in the eye every morning?" she asks, voice dropping to a whisper. "did you smell him on your skin and just… smiled at me?"

"no, i hated myself!" you cry, your voice breaking into a wail. "i felt like i was dying every day! i wanted to tell you, i wanted to scream it, but i was so scared of losing you!"

"well, congratulations," charlie says, cold and dead. "you finally fucking lost me." the silence returns, but this time it's a wall. an insurmountable barrier of ice and resentment. you want to reach out, to pull her into a hug, to beg for a forgiveness you know you don't deserve, but you can see the boundary she's drawn. you are on the outside now. "i would've never done this to you." she whispers sadly, mostly to herself. "i would've never, ever done this to you."

she looks at the smoothie on the counter, the red liquid, now separated and lukewarm. she looks at it for a long moment, then turns her gaze back to you.

"get out," she says. the words are quiet, but they carry the weight of a mountain.

"charlie, please, let's just talk-"

"i don't care! get out of my sight!" she screams, the sudden volume making you jump. "i can't breathe in here with you! i can't stand the smell of you! just leave! go to him! go to your now precious san and tell him you finally did it, you finally destroyed the only real friendship you ever had!"

you sob, your body shaking with the force of your grief. you look at her, searching for a flicker of the warmth, the sunshine, the girl who used to hold your hand when you had a panic attack. but there is nothing left. the light in charlie has gone out, extinguished by the truth.

"i'm sorry," you whisper, the words sounding pathetic and empty. "i'm so, so sorry."

"sorry doesn't fix this," she says, turning her back to you. "just leave. now."

you don't fight her. you can't, she's right. the weight of your own guilt is too heavy to lift. you grab your bag from the floor, you don't even take a coat, despite the evening chill of paris. you just walk out the door, the click of the lock behind you sounding like a gavel coming down on a sentence. wandering the streets once shared with her, vision blurred. you don't remember the walk. you don't remember the cold wind biting at your skin or the confused looks from the people passing by a girl sobbing openly on the sidewalk.

i would've never done this to you.

hollow. stripped, there is nothing left but raw nerves.

legs moving on autopilot, in less than twenty minutes, you reach his apartment. forehead resting on the cool wood, breath ragged, shallow gasps. you weakly knock and when the door opens, san stands there, wearing a simple grey shirt and sweatpants. his eyes widen when he sees you. he looks at your tear streaked face, your shivering frame, and the sheer devastation in your eyes.

"y/n?" he starts. "i thought you said-"

he doesn't finish the sentence. you launch yourself at him, your arms wrapping around his waist, face burying itself in the crook of his neck. you cling to him with a strength you didn't know you possessed, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. san freezes for a split second, the surprise registering in the tension of his muscles. then, he understands. he doesn't need to ask. he can feel the tremor in your body, the way you're shaking with a grief that transcends simple sadness. he knows the inevitable has happened. charlie found out.

୨୧

you knew charlotte’s rhythms. you knew the exact cadence of her breath when she was pushing through a grueling set of fouettés. you knew the specific, sharp scent of the citrus perfume she wore to mask the smell of sweat. you knew how she liked the texture of her blankets, heavy, woolly things that cocooned her against the damp parisian chill, and how she meticulously measured the salt in her pasta, always a pinch more than necessary. you knew the ritual of her pointe shoes, the way she would break in extra pairs weeks before a show, ensuring the satin didn't pinch and the shanks gave just enough to support the arch of her foot.

the hallways of the academy felt longer now that you were hunting for someone you had wounded. the walls, oppressive cream, seemed to lean inward, narrowing your world until it was nothing but the sound of your own slippers clicking against the polished wood. your heart felt like a bruised thing, fluttering erratically against your ribs as you slowed your pace outside studio four. you knew she was inside. that she was definitely rehearsing aurora, treating the ethereal role like a high intensity workout, pushing her muscles until they screamed.

low, mourning creak, you pushed the door open.

charlotte was sat on the floor, her legs splayed, baby hairs clinging to her forehead. she looked like a fallen angel stripped of her grace. in her hands, she held a pair of brand new pointe shoes. she was bending them, her knuckles white, forcing the material to submit to her will.

as the door clicked shut behind you, she froze. she didn't look up. she didn't acknowledge your presence, not with a word or a glance. she simply continued to detach the top of the shank, as if you weren't even there.

you stepped closer, the distance between you feeling like a river you didn't know how to cross.

"charlotte," you whispered.

she kept her gaze fixed on the pink satin in her lap, pretending you were nothing more than dust.

"i know you're mad," you said, your voice trembling, barely audible over the hum of the ventilation system. "and you have every right to be."

suddenly, the silence was shattered. charlotte slammed the pointe shoe against the hardwood floor violently making you flinch, shoulders jumping. you decided to keep going.

"i fucked up, charlotte. i fucked up so bad. i never intended for this to happen, but it did, and i know that doesn't change anything, but i never wanted to hurt you."

she finally looked at you as if you were a stranger, a parasite. she reached into her dance bag and pulled out a silver cutter. the blade clicked open and you instinctively stepped back. she lowered her gaze again, gripped the pointe shoe and sliced through the top of the shank with clinical precision. the sound of the fabric, tiny scream of satin.

"i understand if you never forgive me," you said, your voice breaking. "i know i can't erase what happened. i can't take it back. i just… losing you… it'll stay my biggest regret for the rest of my life."

she remained still. didn't offer a nod, a scowl, or a word of anger, at least that you could understand. she simply sat there in the center of the vast, empty room, figure of grief, murmuring something in french she knew you wouldn't get. you realized then that some bridges didn't just burn, they evaporated.

"i'll leave you alone," you whispered.

the sound of your own footsteps felt final. it was an ending, not the kind with a grand finale or a curtain call. the kind that happens in the ugly spaces between the music.

୨୧

it's the last official rehearsal. charlotte strides through the heavy velvet curtains, chin tilted just enough to signal to the world that she is untouchable. she is the aurora of this production, the sun around which the rest of the company orbits, and she refuses to let the fracture in her personal life bleed into the spotlights. she has worked too hard, fought too many battles against the poverty of her childhood, to let a heartbreak ruin her crowning moment.

then comes the final act. the sequence for princess florine. charlotte settles her weight on one leg, crossing her arms over her chest. she prepares herself for the sight of you. she expects the sting of anger, the surge of betrayal that hums pushed down under her skin. she expects to see you and san, moving in harmony.

instead, jisu glides onto the stage.

the atmosphere in the room drops. there is a void where the soul should be. it's a caricature of a princess, her expressions exaggerated, movements stiff and devoid of the emotional artistry that you had once brought to the role.

beside her, san is a machine, his broad shoulders squared, lifts effortless and stable, but his eyes are dead. he is looking through her, providing the necessary support, but there is no heat, no friction, no spark. it is a dance of strangers who happen to know the choreography.

charlotte steals a glance towards lana, who is standing with her arms folded, her lips pressed into a thin, hard line. she doesn't scream this time. she doesn't even offer a correction. she simply closes her eyes for a moment, a flicker of profound disappointment crossing her features before she masks it with her usual stoicism. the chemistry is non-existent, a forced intimacy, holds that are purely functional and she knows it.

there's a hollow sensation in charlotte's gut. she had wanted you gone to punish you, but seeing the vacuum you left behind is worse. because she realized you did this to remove yourself completely, so she could have her moment.

back at the apartment, the world is reduced to the size of a mattress and crumpled tissues. you are curled into a ball, duvet pulled up to your chin. your throat in a constant ache that reminds you of every word you didn't say and every lie you told.

you haven't eaten anything since a piece of dry toast this morning. the hunger is there, gnawing in your stomach. the clock on the bedside table ticks toward midnight. the silence of the apartment is oppressive, until you hear her coming in. you pull the blanket higher, over your head, squeezing your eyes shut. you hold your breath, praying that she will just go to her bed, then wake up early for the show and leave. leave you in this dark, quiet purgatory, where you belong.

"i know you're awake," charlotte says, voice tired. you don't move. you keep your eyes closed, pretending that the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest is just a deep sleep. "y/n," she says, her voice a bit softer now. "don't do this. don't try to be sleeping beauty now."

you remain still, but a single tear escapes, salty path down your temple and soaking into the pillowcase.

charlotte sighs, draining the remaining tension from her shoulders. she doesn't leave. instead, she shifts, sitting on the very edge of the mattress. the bed creaks under her weight.

"you can't just quit the whole show one day before the premiere," she says. "it's insane, even for a ballet dancer."

you swallow hard, the lump in your throat feeling like a stone. you don't want to speak. you are afraid that if you open your mouth, you will simply dissolve into a puddle of apologies and sobs yet again.

"i saw jisu dancing today," charlotte continues, her tone bordering on a scoff. "she's actually good."

a shaky breath escapes you. you can't help it.

"there you are," charlotte murmurs.

you slowly peel the blanket back, your eyes red and puffy, your hair a tangled mess against the pillow. you look at her, feeling small and exposed.

"it was the least i could do," you whisper, thin and raspy. "i'd figure it'd be easier for you."

charlotte sighs again, rubbing her temples with her fingertips. "god, you love to decide how i feel. look at me."

you sit up, instantly looking into her eyes. "what? no, i just thought-"

"i know what you thought." she looks exhausted, but her eyes are clear, searching your face with an intensity that makes you want to shrink away.

"i just… i didn't want your debut to be about me." your voice cracks for the first time.

she takes a deep breath, her chest expanding. "i've had enough of you thinking for me. you keep making these decisions thinking it'll hurt me less." she says. "they don't, they just make me feel like i don't get a say in my own life."

you pressed a shaking hand against your mouth. "i'm so sorry."

"i am still so mad at you," she says.

you nod quickly, a sob catching in your chest. "i know. i don't know what else to say apart from so-"

"shut up," she interrupts. "just listen to me for one second. please."

you fall silent, your lips trembling.

"i am very mad," she continues, her voice steadying. "but not for the reasons you think." you blink and she looks away, staring at the wall for a moment before continuing. "y/n, you know i got over san years ago. we dated briefly when we were practically children. it was a crush, a summer fling that lasted a few months. i don't see him like that. i haven't seen him like that in a long time. like, there are days where i completely forget we ever even dated."

"it's… it's not about him?" you ask, your voice barely audible.

"no," charlotte says, tired smile touches her lips. "it's not. san is a good dancer, he's a decent guy, and if he makes you happy, then i'm happy for you."

there's a sudden feeling of hope, but it's quickly dampened by the look in her eyes. she isn't smiling anymore.

"what hurt me," her voice dropping an octave, "was that you lied to me. you're my best friend. the one i trust more than anyone in this godforsaken city. and you looked me in the eye and pretended everything was normal while you were sneaking around behind my back."

"charlotte…"

"no, let me finish," she says, her voice trembling slightly now. "if you had just told me, i would have listened. i would have probably been confused for a minute, maybe a little weirded out, but i would have supported you. because that's what we do. but i found out through jisu. of all people, i found out from that viper because she wanted to use your secret as a weapon to humiliate me." she leans in closer, her expression raw. "i was never mad because san was mine. he was never mine to keep. i was mad because you were mine. you are my person, y/n. and you made me feel like i wasn't worth the truth. like a stranger in my own life."

"i was just so scared," you sob, the dam finally breaking. "i was so scared that you'd hate me. i didn't know how to tell you without feeling like i was stealing something from you. i love him, charlotte. i love him so much it scares me, and i didn't want that love to cost me you, so i… i wanted to leave."

charlotte doesn't pull away. she doesn't hug you yet, but she doesn't move. she lets you cry, the sound of your heartbreak filling the small room.

"you idiot," she whispers, though there is no malice in it. "you don't get to give up your role for this."

"no, i… i don't deserve it" you wail, covering your face with your hands.

she reaches out and firmly pulls your hands away from your face. she grips your wrists, forcing you to look at her.

"i can't hate you," she says, her voice cracking. "i tried. i really, really tried. but i can't."

you sniffle. "you don't?"

"of course not," she says, finally letting out a small, watery laugh. "but i'm still angry, i'm still hurt, i don't even know if i know how to forgive you yet. and i'm still annoyed that you're a terrible liar and that you let jisu get the upper hand."

you let out a shaky breath, a tiny flicker of warmth returning to your limbs. "i know. i'm the worst."

"you are," she agrees. she lets go of your wrists and leans back, crossing her arms. she looks at you for a long time, her expression softening. "you need to come back," she says.

"what?"

"the show," charlotte says. "you have to come back for the premiere. i can't do this with jisu. she danced every step perfectly, yes. but she's not you."

"i can't," you whisper. "lana will never let me back. i already dropped out. i sent the email."

"you think lana cares about something other than doing a perfect show?" charlotte counters, her bubbly confidence returning in small increments. "if you show up tomorrow and dance the role of your life, she'll forget you were ever out. she wants the best show possible, and the best show requires you."

"do you really want me there?" you ask, your voice small.

charlotte reaches over and flicks your forehead, a gesture of affection that feels like a lifeline. you yelp and rub your forehead. "i want my best friend back on that stage," she says. "and i want san to stop looking like he's attending his own funeral, i think i even saw him sulking when the dance finished."

you let out a genuine laugh, a sound that feels foreign and wonderful in your throat. you reach out and wrap your arms around charlotte, pulling her into a tight hug. she stiffens for a second, then relaxes, wrapping her arms around you and squeezing back.

"i missed you, charlie."

"i missed you too," she murmurs, her voice muffled by your hair. "now let's get some sleep."

the guilt hasn't entirely vanished, but the air feels lighter. for the first time in days, the weight on your chest has lifted just enough to let you breathe.

y/nie: i'm coming back sannie: 😃😃😃😃😃

backstage bore little resemblance to the calm world awaiting beyond the curtains. you step over a discarded pointe shoe, left foot, ribbons frayed, and narrowly avoid a collision with a frantic boy in tights who looks like he’s about to vomit into his sequins.

to the audience, the paris opera ballet is a sanctuary of ethereal grace. backstage, it's a collective nervous breakdowns. you watch as a dancer stands frozen in the center of the chaos, her arms awkwardly upward like a sacrificial offering. three other girls swarm her, their faces twisted in concentration as they wrestle with a stubborn zipper that refuses to yield.

"pull harder!" the dancer shrieks, her voice hitting a frequency that could shatter the crystal chandeliers in the auditorium.

"just suck in your stomach!" one of the girls yells back, leaning her entire body weight into the fabric.

"i am sucking in!"

you duck under a passing rack of velvet capes. this is it. opening night. the culmination of endless rehearsals, of blood and blistered toes, and the suffocating weight of the now revealed secret. every time you glance toward the wings, you find san. his eyes searching for yours as well. when they land, a silent current of electricity zips through your skin. you want to run to him. you want to bury your face in the crook of his neck and forget that the world exists outside the curve of his jaw. but right now you can't.

"where is the lilac fairy?" a voice bellows. "someone find the lilac fairy!"

you scramble toward your first position, blending into the sea of pastel fabrics. the curtain rises, and the crowd roars, muffled by the heavy velvet. as the music swells, the world shifts. blinding glare of the spotlights, the chaos of the wings vanishes. you move as a background guest for aurora’s birth, a soft echo to the main action.

as the carabosse makes her grand, menacing entrance, you glide off the stage with a practiced smile, the moment you hit the wings, the mask drops. you sprint.

"out of the way! move!" you gasp, dodging a misplaced tiara that someone has dropped on the floor.

diving into the costume rack, searching for your village woman dress. the transition is a blur of energy. in the middle of the madness, you spot her. charlotte is tucked into a small alcove, earphones plugged in, her eyes closed. she is stillness in the middle of a hurricane. fragile yet unbreakable, gathering every ounce of her strength for the role of a lifetime.

pride swells in your chest. you want to tell her she’s a goddess. you want to hug her and tell her that no matter what happens with boys or whatever, she is the sun of your life.

instead, you just smile. she opens one eye and catches your gaze, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips.

"move it, now!" a dresser shouts, shoving you forward.

practically thrown into your costume, a hand sprays a cloud of hairspray directly into your face, making you cough, while another set of hands yanks the bodice tight enough to steal your breath.

"thirty seconds!" someone screams in your ear. "go, go, go!"

back onto the stage. the scene: the forbidden spindles. the atmosphere shifts from celebration to dread. body arching as you beg for mercy, haunting quality. before your character is left to go freely and you bow gratefully to the queen and king.

skin damp with sweat, the second act is a whirlwind of minor roles and quick changes. you catch glimpses of charlie through the curtains, because of course you couldn't miss her debut. her poise, her power, the way she commands the stage. you love her, and you love san, and the two truths are currently warring for territory in your soul.

then comes the third act. the tension in the air changes. it becomes thick, electric, and poisonous.

you race toward the costume rack to change into your princess florine dress. as you reach out, another hand clamps down on the fabric at the exact same moment. you don't even need to look up to know the scent of bitter perfume.

"let go, jisu," you say, steady despite the tremor in your hands.

jisu’s grip tightens. she pulls the dress toward her, her knuckles white. her eyes are slits of pure venom. "why?" jisu sneers, her voice a sharp whisper. "i don't see your name on the silk. though, i suppose you're used to taking things that don't belong to you."

you feel the heat rise in your cheeks. "it's my costume for this act. i gotta dance now, now let go."

"your costume?" jisu spits the word out like it's poison. "you little backstabber. did you steal your way into san's bed too? or did he just find you more convenient since you're so good at lying?"

you recoil, but you don't let go of the dress. the tug of war begins. struggle over a piece of satin. both pulling, trying not to rip the delicate fabric but refusing to concede.

"let. go," you hiss.

"make me, you stupid little-"

"hey!" a hand reaches in, grabbing the fabric between you. san is there, half-sewn into his costume, a needle and thread still dangling from the dresser's hand near his shoulder. "stop it, both of you. we are minutes from the curtain. act like professionals."

"she started it!" jisu snaps, though she loosens her grip slightly. "this was my role!"

before anyone can respond, white satin sweeps into the fray. charlotte arrives, her bride dress billowing around her like a cloud. she is already in character, her posture regal, but her eyes are focused. she doesn't hesitate as she reaches out and firmly pries jisu’s hand off the dress.

"let go of the dress, jisu," charlie says coldly. "now."

jisu bristles, glaring at charlie. "oh, you're defending her? god, you're just as pathetic."

but charlotte doesn't flinch. she steps closer, her fair skin contrasting with the stark white of her dress. "the only thing pathetic here is you, standing in the wings throwing a tantrum while the rest of us are trying to put on a show. leave. before i tell lana you're obstructing the cast."

maybe she wanted to scream, maybe she wanted to tear the dress to pieces, but the mention of lana acts like a bucket of ice water. she lets out a sharp, jagged breath and shoves past you, mentioning something about both of you deserving each other. her shoulder slamming into yours as she disappears into the shadows.

you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, you look at charlotte, she doesn't smile, but she reaches out and gives your hand a quick, firm squeeze.

"what is going on here?"

the voice is a whip. lana marches toward you. charlotte steps forward, her voice clear. "lana, y/n is back. she's ready."

"who?" lana blinks, her gaze shifting to you. for a second, you think she’s going to scream at you for the delay. you brace yourself, pulling your shoulders back. instead, she lets out a long, dramatic sigh of relief that sounds like a deflating balloon. "thank god," lana breathes, her expression softening by a fraction of a millimeter. "now get dressed and into your place!"

the dress finally yours to wear, the fabric sliding over your skin. cloud of pale blue and shimmering silver. as you struggle with the fastenings at the small of your back, a warmth blooms against your spine. the touch is sudden, grounding. a pair of hands replace your fumbling fingers. you don't need to turn around to know it's him. the heat seeps through the thin fabric, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. he doesn't say anything at first, his movements methodical and steady. he smooths the fabric over your hips, his touch lingering just a second too long to be purely professional.

"stop shaking," he whispers.

he finishes the knot with a deft flick of his wrists and doesn't pull away. instead, he slides his hands up to your waist, drawing you back against his chest. you can feel the steady thrum of his heart through his costume, a rhythmic counterpoint to your own erratic pulse.

san turns you around slowly, his eyes search yours, reading the flicker of doubt and the lingering guilt that still haunts the corners of your mind. he looks every bit the bluebird. strong, poised, utterly focused. he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours.

"just us," he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. "for the next twenty minutes, there is no one else. only me. only you."

you lean into him, your hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders. you memorize the feel of the fabric under your palms, the solidity of him, the way he anchors you to the earth when you feel like you're floating away into a panic but he closes the gap, kissing you. not for the stage, not for an audience. it is raw and honest, silent vow. it is the feeling of coming home after a long, freezing winter.

the orchestra swells, the music shifting into the heraldry of the third act. the stage manager gives a sharp nod, the cue finally arriving. san offers his hand, his fingers locking with yours. you take a final, deep breath, filling your lungs with the scent of the theater, and together, you step out of the darkness and into the blinding white glare of the spotlights.

the stage is an expanse of gold and velvet. as you glide into position, the audience becomes distant. you are no longer the girl who cried during dress rehearsals, you are no longer the friend who kept a devastating secret. you are princess florine, and the world is narrow, consisting only of the music and the man standing before you.

san moves toward you, his presence filling the space. as the bluebird, his movements are a contradiction, powerful yet weightless, grounded yet ethereal. he offers his hand, and as you take it, the chemistry between you snaps into place like a missing puzzle piece.

you begin to dance.

it is a conversation without words. every extension of your leg, every tilt of your head, every flutter of your fingers is a question, and san’s responses are the answers. you move in perfect synchrony. when he lifts you, you feel as if the air itself is holding you up. you soar, your blue skirts billowing around you like a crashing wave, and for a moment, you are suspended in the silence between notes.

you don't count the cues. you don't think about the placement of your feet or the angle of your chin. you simply feel him. you feel the way his grip tightens slightly when he rotates you, the way his breath hitches in time with yours. it is a magnetic pull, an invisible thread tying your heart to his, pulling you closer with every pirouette.

as you drift apart and then collide again, your eyes lock. unfiltered, you see the love there. you smile, and it isn't the practiced, porcelain smile of a performer. it is a genuine expression of joy that radiates from your chest. you are in love, and this love doesn't feel like a burden.

the dance reaches it's crescendo, a whirlwind of leaps and turns that leave you breathless. as the final note lingers in the air, you collapse into his arms, your forehead resting against his shoulder. the silence of the theater is absolute for a heartbeat, a vacuum of anticipation.

then, the music shifts. you glide to the side of the stage, skin glowing under the lights. you watch as charlotte makes her entrance. she is breathtaking. dressed in a white bridal gown that catches every single photon of light in the room, she looks less like a dancer and more like a vision. her blonde locks are swept up, revealing the elegant line of her neck and the spark in her eyes.

you stand at the side, hands clasped over your heart. you watch her execute a series of flawless turns, her extensions high and sharp, her presence commanding every inch of the stage. she is powerful. she is radiant. she is your best friend.

a lump forms in your throat, but it isn't born of guilt this time. seeing her now, owning the stage with such grace, you realize that the bond you share is forged in something stronger than a romantic entanglement. it is a kinship of survival, a friendship that weathered the storm and came out polished.

the finale arrives. the entire company floods the stage, a sea of color and costume. you find your place beside san, his hand brushing yours. the audience rises as one, a thunderous wave of applause that vibrates through the floorboards and into the soles of your pointe shoes.

the sound, roar of approval that washes over you, scrubbing away the remnants of the anxiety and the shame. you look at the faces in the front row, the critics, the parents, the elite of paris, and they feel small. insignificant.

you look at charlotte as she bows, her face glowing with a mixture of exhaustion and triumph. she catches your eye and gives you a tiny wink.

it isn't total forgiveness. you know that. you know there are still long conversations to be had, quiet afternoons of apologizing and healing, and a slow process of rebuilding the trust you fractured. there will be awkward silences and moments where the ghost of the betrayal flickers between you, and you hold yourself completely accountable.

but as you stand there, enveloped in the warmth of the spotlights and the love of the man beside you, you know that you can handle the slow work of healing. san’s hand slip into yours, his fingers squeezing tight. you don't pull away. you don't hide. the curtain falls, plunging the stage into heavy darkness, but you aren't afraid of what's waiting in the shadows.

you stand there, hand in hand, heart in heart, knowing that the beauty between your friendship is more valuable than any role, any applause, or any secret.

୨୧

masterlist

permanent list: @mythicalthing @hokuuu @youngstardust @a-muse-of-sorts @threepointstogryffindor @snookerdoodle @nnoonlightbae @jooholicx @pyuddings

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

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

He pushed himself upright so quickly that the room spun around him.

The fire had almost burned itself out.

Gray morning light seeped through the frosted windows.

Around him his brothers still slept where they had collapsed the evening before. Some lay against the walls, others still at the table where dinner had ended far too abruptly.

Hongjoong groaned first.

"...What..."

He rubbed his eyes before looking around.

"Did somebody hit me?"

Wooyoung slowly sat up beside him.

"My head feels like Mingi sat on it."

"I have never sat on your head."

"You probably would."

"I absolutely would."

Normally the exchange would have earned at least a smile from Seonghwa.

Not today.

His eyes searched the room.

The bed.

The table.

The fireplace.

The sewing corner.

Her bag was gone.

His heart stopped. "No."

The word escaped him before he could stop it.

The blanket beside him was cold. Completely cold.

As though she had been gone for hours.

He stood so abruptly that the chair behind him toppled onto the floor.

Every pair of eyes turned toward him. "Seonghwa?"

He wasn't listening anymore.

His gaze landed on the little blackboard resting carefully against the table.

His stomach dropped.

Slowly...

Almost afraid of what he might find...

He crossed the room.

The chalk writing trembled slightly, as though she'd struggled to keep her hands steady.

Please don't follow me.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the slate.

Beneath it another sentence waited.

Thank you...

The next words had been erased.

Written again.

Erased once more.

Finally she had settled on only three.

...for loving me.

The room became perfectly silent.

Hongjoong had reached his side. He looked down at the board.

His usual grin disappeared instantly. "...No."

Seonghwa barely heard him.

His thumb brushed over the chalk marks.

They smudged beneath his skin.

She had stood here.

Only hours ago.

Writing this.

Alone.

Thinking she would never come back.

His breathing became uneven.

No. No. No.

His eyes darted toward the empty shelf where she always kept her sewing bag.

Gone.

Her winter cloak.

Gone.

The knife she'd insisted on carrying despite barely knowing how to use it.

Gone.

Everything suddenly made sense.

The untouched bowl.

Her restless hands during dinner.

The tears she had tried so desperately to hide.

The kiss.

The way she'd looked at him as though memorizing his face.

He staggered backward. "I was supposed to stop her."

His voice sounded hollow. "I knew."

Nobody answered.

Because they had all known something was wrong.

None of them had understood just how wrong.

Hongjoong quietly picked up the blackboard.

His eyes scanned the writing once more before he whispered,

"She's gone to finish the prophecy."

Seonghwa turned toward him so quickly it almost hurt.

"No."

"Seonghwa..."

"No."

His voice cracked. "I won't let her."

He was already reaching for his coat.

Already strapping his sword to his belt.

Already moving toward the door.

Hongjoong caught his wrist.

For the first time in centuries, Seonghwa saw genuine fear in his oldest friend's eyes.

"You know where she's going."

"The castle."

Hongjoong nodded once. "And if we're right..."

Neither finished the sentence.

Because they didn't have to.

The witch.

The final trial.

One life...That other hearts may live.

Seonghwa ripped his arm free. "I'm bringing her home."

His brothers had risen now.

Yunho stepped forward.

"We're coming."

"So are we," Mingi said immediately.

Wooyoung was already pulling on his boots.

"As if we'd let you do something this stupid alone."

Jongho fastened the clasp of his cloak.

"If she's facing the witch..."

He looked toward the forest beyond the window.

"...then every second matters."

For one heartbeat the seven of them simply looked at one another.

Seven brothers.

One friend.

Bound by centuries.

And by one woman who had somehow become family in only a few months.

Seonghwa opened the door.

The cold hit him immediately.

Snow covered the clearing.

Fresh footprints stretched away from the hut.

Small.

Determined.

His chest tightened so painfully he could barely breathe.

He knelt in the snow and touched one of the prints with trembling fingers.

Still fresh.

She hadn't been gone long.

Hope ignited inside him.

"I'm coming."

The words were barely louder than the falling snow.

He stood.

Turned toward the ancient forest.

And began to run.

Behind him, seven sets of footsteps followed.

The cave trembled.

As though the mountain itself had drawn a slow breath after centuries of waiting.

Y/N remained where she stood.

Silver threads circled lazily around her wrists, neither cutting nor binding, simply waiting. Their glow painted pale ribbons of light across the ancient stone floor while the witch regarded her with an expression that had become impossible to read.

The warmth draining from Y/N's body had stopped.

Nothing happened.

No pain. No darkness swallowing her whole.

Only silence.

The witch tilted her head. "So."

Her voice echoed strangely inside the cavern. "You still stand."

Y/N's breathing remained uneven.

The blackboard rested against her chest.

Her fingers tightened around the piece of chalk.

The witch stepped closer.

"So many who came before you begged."

She smiled faintly.

"They bargained."

"They cursed."

"They accused fate."

"You have done none of those things."

Y/N lowered her gaze to the board.

Slowly she wrote.

There wasn't anything to bargain with.

The witch laughed softly.

"No."

"There wasn't."

She circled Y/N once, the hem of her faded crimson gown whispering over the stone.

"You believe you understand love."

Y/N looked up.

The witch stopped directly before her.

"So answer me one final question."

The silver threads became still.

Even the cave seemed to listen.

"If there had never been a prophecy..."

Her dark eyes searched Y/N's face.

"If no mysterious door had appeared."

"If no dreams had led you."

"If no curse had ever existed."

"If you had met him as nothing more than an ordinary man..."

Her voice softened almost imperceptibly.

"...would you still choose Seonghwa?"

Y/N didn't look down.

She didn't hesitate.

Not even for the space of a heartbeat.

She raised the chalk.

Her hand moved with complete certainty.

Every single time.

The witch stared at the words.

Long enough that Y/N began wondering whether she had answered incorrectly.

Then something extraordinary happened.

The silver threads surrounding her wrists loosened.

Only slightly.

The witch smiled.

Not triumphantly.

Sadly.

"You answered differently than I did."

Y/N frowned.

The witch turned away, walking toward the center of the chamber where ancient symbols had been carved into the stone centuries before.

"When I loved..."

She looked upward into the darkness.

"I demanded."

The cave echoed quietly with her voice.

"When he refused me..."

She laughed once.

A hollow sound.

"I convinced myself that if I could not have him..."

Her hand brushed one of the glowing symbols.

"...then no one should."

The light beneath the stone flickered.

"I called that love."

She closed her eyes.

"It never was."

Y/N remained perfectly still.

The witch continued.

"It was hunger. It was pride. It was possession."

A long silence followed.

Then the witch looked back.

"You..." Her gaze settled gently upon Y/N. "...would choose him even if the story had never demanded it."

Y/N nodded.

The witch's smile became smaller.

"Good."

The cavern shook.

This time violently.

Cracks spread across the ceiling.

Stone dust rained softly around them.

Y/N instinctively stepped backward.

From somewhere far above came the unmistakable sound of shouting.

Then running footsteps.

Then…"Y/N!" Seonghwa.

Her heart stopped.

"No..." The whisper escaped her without sound.

Another voice followed.

Hongjoong.

Then all the others.

They had found her.

The witch sighed. "They are late."

Y/N shook her head desperately.

The entrance to the chamber exploded inward.

Stone shattered.

Cold winter air rushed into the cave.

Seonghwa stumbled through the dust first.

His hair was covered in snow.

His breathing was ragged.

His eyes searched wildly through the darkness until they found her.

For one endless heartbeat neither of them moved.

Then he ran.

He crossed the chamber without caring about the glowing symbols beneath his feet or the silver threads circling through the air.

He reached her.

His hands caught her shoulders.

He looked over her frantically as though expecting to find wounds she was somehow hiding.

"You left." His voice broke. "You actually left."

Y/N felt tears filling her eyes immediately.

Behind him the others entered more cautiously.

Hongjoong's gaze darted between the witch and Y/N before settling on Seonghwa.

No one spoke.

The witch simply watched.

Almost...curiously.

Seonghwa gently cupped Y/N's face. "You don't get to decide this alone."

His forehead rested against hers.

"I don't care what the prophecy says. I don't care what the forest says. I don't care what fate wants."

He looked directly into her eyes. "I refuse to lose you."

Y/N's shoulders trembled.

She reached shakily for the blackboard that had fallen against her side.

Her fingers moved quickly.

I promised I'd save you.

He read the words.

Then shook his head. "No."

She wrote again.

This is the only way.

His expression hardened with a quiet certainty she had rarely seen.

"No."

She stared.

He turned toward the witch. "If a life is required..."

His voice rang clearly through the chamber. "...then take mine."

Y/N's heart lurched.

Immediately she grabbed his arm, shaking her head so fiercely tears spilled onto her cheeks.

"No," she mouthed desperately.

He smiled at her.

The same gentle smile that had first made the lonely hut feel like home.

"I would choose you."

His thumb brushed across one of the tiny scars on her hand.

"Every lifetime. You are not dying for me."

Y/N erased the board with trembling fingers.

Her handwriting had become uneven.

Almost unreadable.

Neither are you.

She pressed the board against his chest.

Her eyes begged him to understand.

He did.

He simply refused.

"I won't let you."

She stepped in front of him.

He gently pulled her behind him again.

"I mean it."

She moved in front once more.

Hongjoong watched the exchange in complete disbelief.

"...You're both impossible."

Neither of them even heard him.

The witch observed them silently.

Y/N looked up at Seonghwa.

Then back at the witch.

Then at him again.

Neither of them was willing to move.

Neither would step away.

Neither would allow the other to take their place.

The cave became utterly still.

Even the cracks creeping across the walls stopped spreading.

The witch's shoulders slowly relaxed.

Then she laughed.

It sounded almost...free.

At the sound, everyone turned toward her.

Tears shimmered in the witch's ancient eyes. "Finally..."

She smiled through them.

"After all these centuries..." She looked between Y/N and Seonghwa. "...someone remembered."

Her hand rested gently against her own heart.

"Love was never meant to be ownership."

The silver threads dissolved into thousands of tiny points of light.

"I built my curse upon wanting to possess."

She looked at Seonghwa.

"I could not bear that your heart belonged elsewhere."

Then at Y/N.

"And you..." Her smile became unexpectedly warm. "...would rather lose everything than force his choice."

The chamber began glowing.

Not red.

Gold.

Warm sunlight poured through the cracks in the ceiling.

The witch closed her eyes.

"The prophecy was never asking for death."

"It was waiting..." She looked at them one final time. "...for two hearts that would freely choose one another while refusing to own the other."

The cave roared.

Light burst through every wall.

The curse had finally understood its own ending.

Seonghwa had never heard silence sound so loud.

For one endless heartbeat, no one moved.

The witch stood bathed in golden light. Y/N remained between him and the ancient magic, tears glistening on her cheeks. His brothers watched from the mouth of the cavern, each frozen exactly where they had stopped running.

Even the mountain seemed to hold its breath.

Then the witch smiled.

It was unlike any smile she had worn before.

Gone was the bitterness that had carved itself into her beautiful face for centuries.

Gone was the pride.

Gone was the anger.

Only exhaustion remained.

"So this..." Her voice echoed gently through the cavern. "...is what it was always meant to be."

She lowered her hands.

The silver threads circling Y/N dissolved into countless shimmering specks that drifted upward like tiny stars returning to the night sky.

Seonghwa immediately crossed the remaining distance between them.

He didn't think.

He simply moved.

His hands cupped Y/N's face.

He searched her desperately, looking for wounds, for pain, for anything that told him he had been too late.

"You frightened me."

His voice trembled despite every attempt to steady it.

"You frightened me more than anything ever has."

Y/N's eyes filled with fresh tears.

She reached for the blackboard with shaking fingers.

Before she could write, Seonghwa gently stopped her.

"You don't have to."

He rested his forehead against hers.

"I know."

Her shoulders shook as she silently cried.

His arms wrapped around her instinctively.

This time he wasn't letting go.

Not for fate.

Not for prophecy.

Not for anyone.

Behind them, the witch watched quietly.

"Look at you."

Her words were almost wistful.

"So simple And yet so impossibly difficult."

Seonghwa turned toward her, keeping one arm firmly around Y/N.

"You ruined generations." His voice had become calm. "You destroyed my family. My kingdom. My people."

The witch nodded. "I know."

"You cursed innocent children."

"I know."

"You cursed Hongjoong."

Again she nodded. "I know."

There was no excuse.

No attempt to defend herself.

Only acceptance.

For the first time since entering the cave, Seonghwa saw not the terrifying sorceress of every story...

But simply a woman who had carried the weight of one terrible decision for far longer than any soul should.

She looked toward Y/N. "I waited centuries for someone worthy."

Y/N frowned.

The witch smiled softly.

"Not worthy because she was brave. Not because she was kind. Not because she was willing to suffer."

Her gaze shifted between Y/N and Seonghwa.

"You became worthy the moment love became choice."

The cave began trembling again.

This time the shaking spread through every wall.

Ancient stones cracked.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

The witch looked upward.

"It begins."

The first pillar shattered.

Rock crashed onto the cavern floor.

The brothers instinctively moved toward Seonghwa and Y/N.

"We need to leave!" Yunho shouted.

Another deafening crack echoed through the mountain.

The witch remained where she stood.

Golden light surrounded her now, growing brighter with every heartbeat.

She almost looked...Young.

Seonghwa hesitated.

Then he realized. "You aren't coming."

The witch smiled.

"My story ended long ago."

She looked around the crumbling chamber. "I simply refused to accept it."

A tear rolled slowly down her cheek.

"For centuries I believed love meant keeping. My greatest punishment..."

She laughed quietly.

"...was discovering far too late that love has never belonged inside a cage."

Another pillar collapsed.

The mountain roared.

She closed her eyes. "Go."

None of them moved.

The witch opened her eyes one last time.

Her gaze settled on Seonghwa. "I'm sorry."

Then on Hongjoong. "So very sorry."

Finally on Y/N. "Thank you."

Light exploded through the cavern.

Not destructive.

Warm.

Like sunrise after an endless winter.

The witch's body dissolved into thousands of glowing fragments.

Not ash.

Not dust.

Light.

It drifted upward through the collapsing ceiling before disappearing into the morning sky.

And with her the curse broke.

It began with the shirts.

Folded neatly inside the brothers' packs, each silver shirt suddenly burst into brilliant white light.

Wooyoung gasped. "My shirt!"

The fabric floated free, hovering in the air.

One by one the other six followed.

Seven silver garments circled above them like stars caught in a gentle wind.

The threads Y/N had spun from star flowers glowed brighter and brighter until Seonghwa could no longer look directly at them.

The light poured downward.

It wrapped itself around each brother.

Around Hongjoong.

Around him.

Warmth flooded his body.

Not painful.

Comforting.

Like coming home.

Outside, something answered.

A sound echoed through the forest.

Not one voice.

Thousands.

Birds.

For the first time in centuries, birdsong filled the woods.

The mountain gave one final groan.

"Run!" Jongho shouted.

Seonghwa scooped Y/N into his arms before she could protest.

She laughed silently through her tears, wrapping both arms around his neck.

Together they raced toward the cave entrance.

Behind them the ancient chamber disappeared beneath falling stone.

The moment they burst into the open air...

The world transformed.

Snow melted beneath their feet.

White drifts became rushing streams.

Frozen earth softened.

Tiny green shoots pushed through the ground before their eyes.

Flowers burst into bloom across the forest floor.

Branches that had stood bare for centuries suddenly unfurled fresh leaves.

Sunlight.

Real sunlight.

Warm sunlight.

It poured through the trees, reaching the forest floor for the very first time in generations.

Seonghwa stopped.

Everyone did.

The barrier.

The ancient silver wall that had always surrounded the forest...

Shimmered once.

Then cracked.

Like glass.

With a sound as soft as a sigh, it dissolved into the wind.

Far away, beyond the trees, church bells began ringing from Alderbrook.

The earth itself seemed to breathe.

Hongjoong slowly looked toward the clearing where, every dawn for centuries, he had become a maple tree.

Nothing happened.

He looked down at his own hands.

Turned them over.

Touched his face.

Then laughed.

A real laugh.

One that quickly became something very close to crying.

"I..." His voice broke. "I stayed."

Wooyoung threw himself at him immediately.

"I KNEW YOU WERE TOO STUBBORN TO BE A TREE FOREVER."

"I literally had no choice!"

"You do now!"

One by one the brothers embraced him.

Some laughing.

Some crying.

Some doing both.

Seonghwa barely noticed.

His eyes never left Y/N.

She stood quietly in the middle of the blooming forest, sunlight catching in her hair.

The scars on her hands gleamed pale against her skin.

Proof.

Not of suffering.

Of love freely given.

She looked up at him.

Smiled.

And in that single moment, with spring unfolding around them and centuries of sorrow finally ending, Seonghwa understood that every dream he had ever had of her had been only the beginning.

Now their real story could finally begin.

Two years later, Alderbrook no longer looked like a village holding its breath.

Y/N noticed it most in the mornings.

Once, the fields beyond Marta’s cottage had seemed tired. The soil had been thin and stubborn, the harvests uncertain, the sky too often bruised with storms that arrived too quickly and left too much damage behind.

Now the earth bloomed.

Wheat grew high and gold beyond the road. Gardens spilled over fences in bright colors. Merchants traveled through Alderbrook regularly now that the forest no longer twisted paths or frightened horses away. The roads had widened beneath wheels and footsteps. New signs hung above new shops. Children ran closer to the treeline than their parents liked, laughing as if the woods had never been something to fear.

Sometimes Y/N still stopped in the middle of the street and stared.

The curse was gone.

Truly gone.

And life had filled the empty spaces it left behind.

Her tailoring shop stood near the center of the village, between the baker and the apothecary. A painted wooden sign hung above the door, swaying gently in the warm evening breeze.

Needle & Moon.

Hongjoong had called the name dramatic.

Seonghwa had called it beautiful.

Y/N had chosen to listen to Seonghwa.

Inside, bolts of fabric lined the walls in careful stacks. Linen, wool, silk, cotton, velvet from faraway merchants who had begun arriving once the roads became safe again. Dresses hung along one side, coats along another. A half-finished wedding gown rested near the window, pale cream fabric catching the late sunlight.

It was hers.

Her shop.

Her work.

Her life.

And people loved what she made.

That still surprised her sometimes.

Not because she doubted her skill the way she once had, but because praise still felt like something delicate. Something she had to hold carefully until it settled in her chest.

A bell chimed above the door.

“I brought dinner,” Seonghwa said.

Y/N looked up from the sleeve she had been pinning.

He stood in the doorway with a basket hanging from one arm, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark hair slightly messy from the wind. He looked nothing like a prince from a forgotten kingdom.

He looked like home.

Y/N smiled. “You cooked?”

“I always cook for you.”

“That sounded defensive.”

“Because you looked surprised.”

“I was admiring you.”

He paused.

Then smiled, soft and warm. “That is better.”

Two years had changed him in quiet ways.

He still carried grace in every movement. Still had the calm watchfulness of someone who had lived far longer than anyone in Alderbrook could imagine. But the sadness that had once clung to him had loosened. He laughed more now. Slept deeply. Stood in sunlight without looking startled by it.

And every morning, without fail, he made breakfast.

He worked with her in the shop most days, though “worked” was generous depending on his mood. He helped cut fabric when she trusted him with the expensive pieces, sorted thread by color, carried heavy deliveries, charmed customers without realizing it, and somehow convinced half the village that a former cursed prince was simply a very pretty househusband with excellent knife skills.

Y/N adored him for it.

Marta adored him even more.

Which was deeply unfair.

“I told Marta we’d visit tomorrow,” Seonghwa said, setting the basket on the counter.

Y/N immediately softened.

Marta.

When Y/N had returned from the forest two years ago with seven strange men behind her, Marta had opened the door before she even knocked.

The older woman had taken one look at her, alive and whole and standing beneath real spring sunlight, and burst into tears.

Y/N had barely said her name before Marta pulled her into the strongest hug of her life.

She had cried too.

Messily.

Completely.

Because Marta had felt like the loving mother she had never truly had. The one who waited. The one who worried. The one who knew when to hold on and when to let go.

Even now, two years later, Marta still came to the shop twice a week pretending she only wanted thread or buttons.

She never only wanted thread or buttons.

She wanted tea, gossip, and to tell every customer within hearing distance that Y/N was the best tailor Alderbrook had ever seen.

Y/N never stopped pretending to be embarrassed.

Seonghwa reached over and gently removed a pin from between her lips.

“You’ll hurt yourself.”

She gave him a look.

“I’ve been sewing longer than you’ve been uncursed.”

“And yet.”

She rolled her eyes, but let him take it.

His smile deepened.

“Come on. Wooyoung sent someone earlier. He said if we’re late, he’ll tell everyone the tree story again.”

Y/N gasped. “Hongjoong will kill him.”

“Probably.”

“Then we should hurry.”

They closed the shop just as evening settled.

Alderbrook glowed beneath lantern light. The tavern stood at the end of the main road, bright and loud and full of music. San and Wooyoung had opened it a year after the curse broke, claiming they needed a respectable business.

It had taken exactly three days for everyone to realize “respectable” meant gambling, drinking, flirting, singing, and occasionally throwing people out through the back door if they insulted the food.

The tavern had become the heart of Alderbrook.

Merchants came for ale.

Farmers came for cards.

Travelers came for stories.

And women came, very often, to try their luck with the mysterious handsome men who had appeared from the once-cursed forest.

Tonight was no different.

The moment Y/N and Seonghwa entered, noise wrapped around them.

Laughter.

Music.

The clink of cups.

Wooyoung’s voice rising above everything.

“I am telling you, if I had stayed a swan, I would have been the most elegant swan in the kingdom.”

“You were the loudest swan,” Jongho said dryly.

“That is a form of elegance.”

“It is not.”

Y/N smiled before she even saw them.

They sat at their usual table near the back.

Hongjoong lounged with a cup in hand, looking far too pleased with whatever chaos he had already caused. Yunho waved warmly. Mingi moved aside to make room. Yeosang observed the whole tavern with quiet amusement. San leaned over the bar, arguing with a customer about whether cheating at dice counted if nobody could prove it.

Wooyoung spotted them first.

“The lovebirds are here!”

Several women turned.

Seonghwa sighed.

Y/N smiled sweetly. “Hello, Wooyoung. Still shouting for attention?”

“I own the building. It’s called atmosphere.”

“It’s called noise,” Hongjoong said.

Wooyoung pointed at him. “You wound me in my own home.”

“Good.”

Y/N slid into the seat beside Mingi while Seonghwa sat next to her, his hand settling naturally against the back of her chair.

It was easy.

All of it.

The teasing.

The warmth.

The way the brothers fell into conversation like no time had passed since the hut. For years they had only had one hour together beneath moonlight. Now they had full evenings. Full days. Full lives.

Yunho worked with horses at the new stables.

Yeosang kept the village records and somehow knew every secret in Alderbrook.

Mingi helped rebuild farms and homes after the last old storms had passed.

Jongho had become the most intimidating bookkeeper the merchants had ever encountered.

Hongjoong advised the village council, which mostly meant telling people when their ideas were stupid.

San and Wooyoung ran the tavern.

And Seonghwa went home with Y/N every night.

The thought still made her smile into her cup.

Seonghwa noticed, of course.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “That was not a nothing smile.”

“It was.”

“It was suspicious.”

“You’re suspicious.”

Hongjoong leaned across the table. “That was terrible.”

Y/N pointed at him. “No one asked.”

“I offer criticism freely.”

“How generous.”

“Isn’t it?”

The night stretched comfortably after that.

They drank, laughed, argued over cards, and listened as Wooyoung dramatically retold a story in which he was apparently the hero of a bar fight that San had actually ended. Y/N laughed until her cheeks hurt. Seonghwa watched her with the same soft look he always got when he thought she would not notice.

She always noticed.

Later, when the night deepened and the tavern grew even louder, Seonghwa leaned close.

“Walk home?”

Y/N looked at his face.

At the quiet smile there.

At the warmth in his eyes.

“Yes.”

Outside, the air was cool and sweet.

The road home wound past sleeping cottages and moonlit gardens. Crickets sang in the grass. Somewhere in the distance, the forest stood dark and peaceful, no longer a prison, only trees.

Seonghwa held her hand as they walked.

For a while, neither spoke.

Then he said, “I was thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He laughed softly. “About the future.”

Y/N looked at him.

He kept his eyes on the road, but his thumb moved gently over her knuckles.

“The shop is doing well.”

“It is.”

“And Alderbrook keeps growing.”

“It does.”

“Marta thinks we should expand the back room.”

“Marta thinks many things.”

“She is usually right.”

Y/N smiled. “Don’t tell her that.”

“I already did.”

“Traitor.”

He smiled, but there was nervousness beneath it.

Y/N slowed. “Seonghwa?”

He stopped too.

Moonlight rested across his face, turning him silver and soft. For a moment he looked like the man from her dreams again, the one who had waited beneath centuries of moonlight.

Then he took both of her hands.

Her breath caught.

“I spent a very long time believing my life had ended before it was over,” he said quietly. “I thought all I had left was waiting. Watching. Remembering.”

His thumbs brushed across her fingers.

“Then you came.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

“You brought spring back to the forest. To my brothers. To Hongjoong. To a kingdom that had forgotten its own name.”

His voice softened.

“But before all of that, you brought me back to myself.”

Tears gathered before she could stop them.

Seonghwa smiled, and this time his own eyes shone too.

“I love our home,” he said. “I love waking beside you. I love cutting fabric badly enough that you pretend not to notice. I love cooking while you sew. I love watching you become more yourself every day.”

He lowered himself onto one knee.

Y/N’s heart stopped.

The whole world seemed to still.

Seonghwa looked up at her, holding her hands like they were something sacred.

“I do not have a kingdom to offer you anymore,” he said. “No crown. No palace. No title that matters.”

His smile trembled.

“But my heart belongs entirely to you.”

Y/N covered her mouth with one hand.

Tears spilled freely now.

“I want to build every ordinary day with you. I want every morning, every winter, every spring. I want to grow old beside you, if time will finally allow me that kindness.”

He drew a small ring from his pocket.

Simple silver.

A tiny moonstone set in the center.

“Y/N,” he whispered, “will you marry me?”

For a moment, she could not speak.

Not because of magic.

Not because of silence.

Because happiness had filled every corner of her so completely that words had nowhere to go.

Then she dropped to her knees in front of him and kissed him.

Seonghwa laughed against her mouth, breathless and relieved.

“Is that a yes?”

Y/N pulled back just enough to smile through tears.

“Yes.”

His face broke into the most beautiful smile she had ever seen.

“Yes?”

“Yes, you ridiculous man.”

He kissed her again, and this time she laughed too.

Somewhere down the road, the tavern door opened and Wooyoung’s voice shouted, “DID SHE SAY YES?”

Y/N froze.

Seonghwa closed his eyes.

Hongjoong yelled, “Of course she said yes, you idiot!”

Marta’s voice followed from somewhere much closer than it should have been.

“I told you he would do it tonight!”

Y/N turned slowly.

Half the tavern stood in the road.

Marta was crying.

Wooyoung was waving a towel like a banner.

San had both hands raised in victory.

Seonghwa looked mortified.

Y/N started laughing so hard she nearly fell into him.

And as Seonghwa slipped the ring onto her finger beneath moonlight, surrounded by the strange, loud, impossible family she had found beyond a door, Y/N understood that home was not always the place you began.

Sometimes home was a forest that had learned to bloom again.

Sometimes it was a village with warm windows and open arms.

Sometimes it was a man kneeling before you in the road, promising every ordinary day he had left.

And sometimes, if magic was kind, home was the life that waited after the fairytale ended.

Epilogue

So turns another page at last,

Another tale becomes the past.

Yet stories never truly sleep,

For magic keeps what hearts will keep.

Where devil’s gold once caught the light,

A fearless soul restored what’s right.

Where scarlet cloaks through forests tread,

The wolf now bows his noble head.

Where Bearskin wandered cold and worn,

New hope awoke with springtime’s morn.

Where wedding bells hid dreadful lies,

Truth bloomed beneath forgotten skies.

Where straw was spun to threads of gold,

No bargain bound brave hearts of old.

Where geese once wandered fields of white,

A stolen crown reclaimed the light.

Where six white swans through moonlight flew,

A silent promise carried through.

And love, unclaimed by pride or fear,

Brought spring where winter ruled each year.

Thus seven doors have opened wide,

With fate and wonder side by side.

Seven hearts have crossed the seam,

Born from one forgotten dream.

Yet still one story waits unseen,

Where yellow doors glow bright between

The winding paths of wood and stone,

Where crumbs may lead the lost back home.

There laughter hides where witches grin,

And hungry hearts may yet still win.

One clever soul has yet to stray,

One door still waits another day.

So if one evening, calm and fair,

You find a doorway standing there,

With golden handle, silent gleam,

Half forgotten like a dream,

Do not ask from whence it came,

Nor whisper softly magic’s name.

Simply listen. Soft and low.

For ancient forests always know.

Step across and do not flee,

For fate is seldom what we see.

Each ending leaves one thread untied,

One path still winding far and wide.

Until the final tale is done,

Until the last brave soul has run,

The doors shall wait.

The woods shall sing.

And somewhere yet…

A tale takes wing.

For every once upon a time

Still waits beyond the next soft rhyme.

Fairytale Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Seonghwas Masterlist

To read the other members Fairytale Retellings go to the Fairytale Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

San

Mingi

Wooyoung

Jongho

Hyung line | ATZ masterlist | main masterlist

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This is a request by planateez🪐 sorry it took so long. Hope you like it tho sweets. 😊❤️

Hongjoong

Hongjoong had worked with you for years and could count on one hand the number of times he'd even seen you mildly annoyed.

You were the patient one.

A member forgot his passport? You smiled and fixed it. Someone spilled coffee on your schedule binder? You laughed. Three members decided that 2 a.m. was the perfect time to debate whether cereal was soup? You joined the conversation.

So when he accepted your offer to drive him to an early morning radio schedule, he expected another peaceful car ride.

What he didn't expect was you slamming the brakes slightly as another car cut you off.

"ARE YOU SERIOUS?" you shouted.

Hongjoong nearly dropped his phone.

"Did you get your license from a cereal box?! USE YOUR INDICATOR!"

You threw one hand into the air in dramatic disbelief before muttering several extremely creative insults under your breath.

Then the traffic cleared.

You smiled at Hongjoong.

"Sorry. Anyway, did you want coffee before we arrive?"

Hongjoong stared.

"...You know what? I respect it."

By the end of the drive, he was secretly writing down some of your insults for future song lyrics.

Seonghwa

Seonghwa thought you were incapable of anger.

Actually incapable.

So when a car merged into your lane without looking and you let out a string of profanity that made even him blink, he froze.

"Oh my god," you groaned. "LOOK WITH YOUR EYES. THAT'S WHAT THEY'RE FOR!"

The driver sped off.

You sighed deeply.

Then you turned to Seonghwa with your usual gentle smile.

"Sorry about that. Are you comfortable? Is the AC okay?"

Seonghwa just stared at you.

"You... swear?"

"Only while driving."

"You called that man an evolutionary mistake."

"He almost hit us."

He spent the rest of the trip quietly processing the fact that his sweet, patient manager apparently transformed into a completely different person behind the wheel.

Oddly enough?

He found it adorable.

Yunho

Yunho laughed.

At first.

A driver cut in front of you.

You let out an offended gasp.

"Oh, absolutely not. Absolutely not. You don't get to do that and then act confused!"

Yunho burst out laughing.

Then another driver failed to use their turn signal.

Your hand flew up in dramatic frustration.

"THE STICK NEXT TO YOUR STEERING WHEEL ISN'T DECORATION!"

Yunho laughed harder.

Then another.

And another.

Eventually, he was crying.

Not because you were dangerous.

You weren't.

You maintained perfect distance, obeyed every law, and drove safely.

You were simply the most theatrical road-rage driver he'd ever witnessed.

By the time you arrived, Yunho could barely breathe.

"You called that guy a sentient traffic cone!"

"He deserved it."

He laughed for another ten minutes.

Yeosang

Yeosang didn't react immediately.

He simply watched.

A car nearly cut across three lanes.

You inhaled sharply.

"Oh, wow. Amazing. Incredible. Did we get our driver's license from a claw machine?"

Silence.

"You absolute walnut."

More silence.

Yeosang turned slowly to look at you.

You looked perfectly serious.

Five minutes later, another driver honked at you despite being at fault.

You gave them a look of profound disappointment and muttered something so creative that Yeosang actually had to process the sentence structure.

After a long pause, he nodded.

"That's fair."

From that day onward, he quietly looked forward to car rides with you.

San

San was horrified.

Not because of your road rage.

Because of how GOOD you were at it.

A driver swerved into your lane.

"OH, YOU'RE JUST MAKING UP THE RULES TODAY? THAT'S FUN."

Another cut you off.

"Fantastic. Wonderful. I love sharing roads with people who apparently learned driving from interpretive dance."

San was staring at you with wide eyes.

You noticed.

"Sorry."

"No, don't apologize."

"What?"

"I've never heard anyone insult somebody's driving style as a form of performance art."

He was genuinely impressed.

And, unfortunately for everyone else, he started copying your phrases.

Mingi

Mingi discovered this entirely by accident.

He'd forgotten his wallet, and you offered to drive back to the dorm.

Everything was normal.

Until someone tailgated you.

You looked into the mirror.

"Wow."

Pause.

"Wow."

Longer pause.

"Congratulations on being the only person in this city who thinks physics is optional."

Mingi choked.

You continued.

"If you want to climb into my trunk so badly, just ask."

"M-manager?"

You blinked.

"Oh. Sorry."

"No, no. Keep going."

Then another driver ignored a stop sign.

The resulting speech was so eloquent, so passionate, and so devastating that Mingi sat there in stunned admiration.

Later, he told the members:

"Our manager could win rap battles."

Wooyoung

Wooyoung thought he'd discovered blackmail material.

He secretly recorded your reaction after a driver parked across two spaces.

"Oh, that's lovely. Why use one parking space when you can inconvenience everyone?"

He nearly died laughing.

Then another driver cut you off.

You threw your hand up dramatically.

"WHO GAVE YOU ACCESS TO A VEHICLE?"

Wooyoung was crying.

Actual tears.

He replayed the recording three times.

"You swear!"

"Only while driving."

"You called that man a failed group project!"

"He deserved it."

For weeks afterward, whenever you scolded him for being late, he'd grin and ask:

"Should I merge improperly? Is that what gets the real manager to come out?"

Jongho

Jongho didn't laugh.

At least, not at first.

He simply sat there quietly as you muttered increasingly creative insults toward reckless drivers.

Then someone ran a red light.

You stopped yourself from saying something particularly colorful.

"...I hope their pillow is warm on both sides."

Silence.

Jongho blinked.

Then he laughed.

Really laughed.

The kind of laugh that made his shoulders shake.

You looked offended.

"What?"

"That's your revenge?"

"It's devastating."

He laughed even harder.

The funniest part wasn't the road rage.

It was the fact that after every single outburst, you immediately returned to your usual professional voice.

"Anyway, Jongho, don't forget your rehearsal notes."