𝔩𝔦𝔷 ♱

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

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

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

keep, donate, throw away. but it's almost never keep.

professional cleaners have invaded your home, moving through your space. their green gloves holding plastic bags filled with possessions that were no longer yours to claim. you watch from the doorway of your own living room, into the corner, defeated.

everything you’ve gathered over years. stacks of old magazines with curled edges, the mismatched ceramic figurines, the clothes you wore once and kept just in case the world changed, is all being erased.

"this pile, miss? it's just old receipts and scrap paper," one of the cleaners says. she’s a middle aged woman with a tight bun and eyes that see only waste. she holds up a bundle of papers tied with a piece of twine.

you remember the day you saved those receipts. a rainy tuesday in november. you’d bought a specific kind of tea that tasted like cinnamon. the paper is a tether. if you throw it away, will you remember the order next time? does it mean that tuesday will disappear entirely?

"yes," you whisper. "throw it away."

"good girl," she says with a caring smile. "you'll feel so much lighter once the clutter's gone."

you lean against the wall, watching a dust mote dance in a shaft of sunlight that hasn't touched the floorboards in months. dr. kim, your therapist, had told you that your environment is a mirror of your mind. she called it clutter induced anxiety. she suggested this purge as a way to breathe again. a fresh start. a way to stop hiding behind walls of things.

the other cleaner, a younger man with a buzz cut, drags a cardboard box toward you. it’s filled with cases, plastic cracked and clouded with age. your cd collection.

you step forward, chest tightening. you love the weight of them. the way the lyric booklets feel under your thumb, the tactile click of the case snapping shut. in a world where everything is a cloud, where music has become a machine, these are physical, permanent. if the power goes out, if the servers crash, if the world stops, you still have these.

"these are outdated, right?" the man asks, glancing at the titles. "most of this is on spotify. why keep the plastic?"

"i prefer physical media." you say, gaining a sliver of strength. "maybe i could keep those?"

the woman with the bun sighs, her gaze sweeping over the remaining piles of things you've reluctantly agreed to lose. "honey, it's the modern era. you've got the whole world in your pocket. you can listen to any song ever recorded on your phone anywhere you want. why let these take up shelf space?"

they look small, iridescent mirrors. there's a silence in your apartment when the lights are off. it reminds you of feeling unseen, misunderstood and idealized, a girl who blends into the wallpaper until she vanishes. these cds were the only things that ever felt like they belonged solely to you.

but then, you look at the sunlight on the floor. you want to breathe.

"okay," you murmur. "you can take them."

he begins to tip the box into a larger trash bin. the sound is chaotic, symphony of plastic clattering against plastic. as the discs slide out, something catches the light. a plain, white cd-r. no professional printing, no glossy cover. just a piece of masking tape stuck to the top with shaky handwriting: your initials + s inside a drawn heart.

"wait!" you perk up alarmed.

you lung forward, hand colliding with the edge of the bin and you scramble through the discarded cases, ignoring the sharp edge of a broken disc that nicks your fingertip. you grasp the white cd, clutching it to your chest as if it were a wounded bird.

the cleaners stop and stare. the woman raises an eyebrow.

"just that one, right?" she asks.

you nod fervently, breath coming in short gasps. "just this one. i'm keeping this one."

they shrug and return to their work. you don't tell them that the disc feels warm in your palm. you don't tell them that the simple letter 's' is the only thing in the room that actually matters to you.

by late afternoon, the apartment seems brand new. the floor is visible, the shelves are empty, yawning gaps where your mess used to live. fresh coat of white paint, a pleasant smell of new beginnings.

the woman with the bun stands by the door, wiping her hands on her apron.

"better, right? you can finally breathe."

you look around. the space is airy. it is clean. it is sterile. you offer her a genuine smile, though it feels fragile, like a piece of thin glass.

"thank you," you say. "thank you for everything."

"if anything, you know, you can send us a dm on our social me-"

"i'll call." you accidentally interrupt.

they smile and offer a last goodbye.

when the door clicks shut, the silence rushes back in, but it's different now. it's heavy. you take a step toward the kitchen, and the sound of your own footfall echoes. you’ve lived here for so long, and you never knew the room could sound so big. you feel small, microscopic, in the center of the void. you find yourself reaching out your hand to touch a stack of books that used to be there, fingers closing on nothing but cold air.

though they'd been nice, their words offering nothing but compassion and encouragement, you were glad it was finally over. the shame, the pity you felt for yourself whenever they found something like old used clinex in the drawers that had been obstructed, or the cobwebs behind the mountains of boxes that were too heavy for you to move on your own. 

arm frozen in mid-air, you stand there for a long time, mourning the loss of things you chose to throw away. this is for the best, you tell yourself. the emptiness is where new life begins, hopefully. but as you walk to your bedroom, the echo follows you, reminding you of everything that spoke of yourself.

as you crawl into bed (the one you hadn't been able to sleep in for who knows how much time), the sheets feel too crisp, the room too quiet. the white cd is sitting on the nightstand, small relic. you can't stop looking at it. the ink on the tape has faded, the heart slightly smeared, as if someone had touched it with a damp thumb years ago.

you reach for your laptop and slide the disc into the drive. the machine whirrs, momentarily struggling to read the old data. a folder pops up on the screen. it isn't a music album. there are no tracks, no songs. instead, there are files, photos, text documents and videos.

y/n's 17th birthday.

your finger trembles over the mouse, before you click.

the video starts with a jerk, the quality grainy and dim. the lighting is poor, the colors bleeding into one another, but the sound is clear. it's a distant hum of a city, the wind whistling through a microphone that isn't shielded. you see the train tracks first, your usual escape, then the camera pans up, and there he is.

san.

he's seventeen, his hair a bit too long, falling into eyes that look at the camera with a tenderness that makes your throat ache. he's wearing a faded black shirt, his shoulders lean and relaxed. he looks like home. he looks like the only place you ever felt safe enough to be yourself.

"look at her," he says, his voice was deeper than the one you remember. "the birthday girl is miserable."

the camera shifts to you. you're wearing a bright, obnoxious orange sweater. it's three sizes too big, scratchy and thick, swallowing your frame.

"i hate it," teenage you says, pouting at the lens. "i told my mom a thousand times i hate orange."

oh, that feeling. the crushing weight of being loved by people who didn't actually see you. your parents loved a version of you they'd invented, a girl who liked orange sweaters and stayed quiet and did as she was told. a girl who wasn't you.

san laughs, the melody fills the silence of your current room.

"you look like a giant carrot," he teases, clumsily panning into himself again as you both sat side by side.

"shut up, san," you giggle, shoving his shoulder.

the video shows the two of you sitting on the edge of the tracks, legs dangling, eating lollipops. cherry red and neon blue.

"ah, man." suddenly, you both laugh at the same time. the camera tilts down. both of your lollipops have fallen into the grey oily dirt of the tracks. without a second thought, san picks his up and pops it back into his mouth.

"gross," you say, but you're smiling.

shared filth. in that moment, you weren't the 'bright girl' or the 'dependable daughter.' you were just a teenager who didn't mind a little dirt if it meant staying with him.

"thank you for making my birthday better," teenage you whispers, leaning your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes. "i don't want to go back."

"you don't have to," he whispers back. "we'll just stay here. we'll live on the tracks. just you an me, no one else, for the rest of our lives."

the camera shakes slightly as san turns his head. he looks at you with love, with an intensity that feels like it could burn through the screen. he leans in, and just as his lips touch yours, you slam the laptop shut.

the room plunges back into darkness.

there, your heart races, your skin tingling where the memory of that kiss seemed to brush against you.

you stare at the ceiling, the white paint glowing faintly in the moonlight. you remember the incident. the fire. the screaming. the way your parents had looked at him, not as the boy who loved you, but as a catalyst for chaos. the way he left, again and again, pulled from you until he vanished from your life entirely.

he is gone. he is just a childish memory in a grainy video, a memory stored on a piece of plastic.

"you're probably somewhere better," you whisper to the empty room, the echo doesn't answer.

୨୧

it's not peaceful like they promised. it's not what you wanted in the slightest. you hate it, you hate it so bad and it's not fair.

where were the coasters? the jars? the chopsticks? your things? they got rid of everything!

when you woke up, the first thing you wanted was your coffee, nothing else. but now your favorite ceramic mug that you usually kept somewhere in the counter was gone, the one with the chipped handle and the faded pink glaze.

the shelves are white. sterile. a few surviving glasses stand in a neat discipling row, looking like soldiers in a war you didn't want to fight.

"what the fuck?" the whisper escapes you.

you scramble through the remaining cabinets, but the mug isn't anywhere. they took it. they saw a chip in the ceramic and decided for you that it was trash.

the fresh scent of paint is now mocking you. it smells like a hotel room. like someone who isn't you lives here. your eyes drift to the rug in the living room. beige, soft, sensible thing. you remember choosing it, or thinking you wanted it, but now you want the other one, the shaggy, mismatched crimson rug that if dusted off enough, could still look presentable. the one that disappeared into a black plastic bag yesterday.

a surge of heat rises in your chest, a tightening in your throat that threatens to choke you. this can't be. the walls are too far apart. the room is too big. you are too small for this unfamiliar space.

inhale for four. hold for four. exhale for eight.

dr. kim's voice echoes in your mind. with closed eyes, you force your lungs to expand, feeling the ribs push against your skin. she told you to imagine the anxiety as a physical object, to grab it and push it away.

"it's just stuff," you tell the empty room. "it's just things."

but without the things, you feel like you're floating away from the floor, drifting toward the ceiling, disappearing into the white paint.

unable to eat anymore, you don't have the stomach for breakfast. the thought of chewing feels like too much effort. instead, you move to the bedroom and pull out your uniform. it's a butter yellow dress, a little short, making you look like one of those happy 50s girls on the vintage drawings. you slide it on, the color clashing with the grey of your face. you tie the laced white apron around your waist, pulling the strings tight enough to feel the pressure against your stomach. the complementary headband slides into place, pinning back stray hairs, and you step into your white shoes.

when you open the front door, the first thing you notice is how slow people move, clutching handheld electric fans or pressing dampened handkerchiefs to their necks. the humidity clings to your skin instantly, a thin film of sweat forming under the round collar of your dress. you walk to the bus stop, observing the choreography of the heat wave. a man in a business suit has given up entirely, his tie loosened and hanging like a noose, his face a shade of boiled shrimp. a young woman beside him is frantically fanning herself with a magazine, the pages fluttering like a dying bird.

you know what this means, a heatwave is a gold mine for the ice cream shop.

you climb onto the bus and nod to the driver. "morning, artie," you murmur.

artie, a man whose skin looks like a crumpled brown paper bag, grunts in response. he handles the bus with a specific, aggressive lean, taking corners with a tilt that sends passengers sliding toward the left side of the vehicle. you've ridden this line for years, you know every driver. there's one who takes the corners too fast, making the passengers lean as a single organism, and the one who hums tunelessly to the radio even if it only plays static. depending on each one, you know exactly when to shift your weight to avoid the jolt.

third row from the back, left side. the window glass hot against your temple. you watch the city blur by, before focusing on the strangers. a teenager with neon hair is asleep, mouth open, head bobbing with every bump in the road. an elderly woman holds a bouquet of wilting lilies, the petals curling into brown spirals. you wonder if they have things at home they're afraid to lose. you wonder if they also feel the void of empty shelves, or if their lives are as streamlined and empty as your apartment now feels.

'sweet nothings' sits on a corner that catches the breeze, though today the breeze is just warm air moving from one place to another. the storefront is a pastel dream, a soft mint green that suggests a coolness that doesn't exist outside.

you unlock the door, the bell chiming a lonely. the interior is dim and smells of vanilla bean and cold steel. opening ritual, you flip the 'closed' sign to 'open,' the plastic clicking into place. then you head to the back, pulling the heavy lids off the ice cream tubs and revealing the pastel colors beneath. you check the temperature of the fridges, adjusting the dial by a fraction of an inch. if it's too cold, the scoops shatter. if it's too warm, they slump into a soup of sugar. 

the door chimes again. wooyoung, your much younger coworker, breezes in, carrying his energy drink in hand. he's wearing the same tone of yellow as you, though his shirt is modified with a few colorful pins on the collar.

"morning, i'm here!" he says, already leaning over the counter. you notice his apron, skewed to one side. "it's hell out there. we're going to be swimming in money today."

you give him a small tired smile. "hello, wooyoung."

"you look... sparkly today," he notes, tilting his head. "did you do something to your hair? or maybe you're just glowing from the anticipation of seeing me?"

"i just... i woke up earlier," you murmur.

he reaches for a roll of packing tape on the counter to fix a loose edge of a promotional poster, then freezes. he looks around the counter, then looks at you. "hey, have you seen my tape dispenser? i swear i left it right here yesterday." you point silently to the shelf behind him, where the dispenser sits in plain sight. "oh! right. thanks." he laughs, the sound loud and bright, filling the gaps in the quiet shop.

but you don't get a chance to talk further. the moment the clock hits ten, the floodgates open. customers pour in, escaping the oppressive heat. the shop becomes a blur of motion and noise.

"the usual, mr. harris?" you ask, already reaching for the scoop.

the elderly man nods, leaning on his cane. "you're a lifesaver, dear. it's too hot to think."

you serve him a double scoop of vanilla, the one you call 'burnt bones.' 

as the line grows, you find solace in the newcomers. they always stand before the menu with a look of profound confusion. you watch them squint at the handwritten chalkboard.

"excuse me," a young woman asks, biting her lip. "what exactly is 'fox's blood'?"

"raspberry," you answer softly.

"and 'golden bruise'?"

"pineapple."

the woman laughs. "that's a bit morbid."

"isn't it tempting?" you reply playfully.

between orders, you obsessively wipe the counter. scrubbing in circular motions until the stainless steel reflects the fluorescent lights above. you check the freezer temperature every twenty minutes, ensuring the ice cream is perfectly tempered. not too hard to scoop, not too soft to lose its shape.

it is a controlled environment. here, everything has a place. everything follows a rule. by the time the sun begins to dip, casting warm shadows across the pavement, the rush finally dies down. you and wooyoung begin the closing process. the shop is quiet again, save for the low hum of the refrigerators.

wooyoung is leaning against the counter, humming a pop song and scrubbing a blender.

"i love this place," he says, glancing around. "i mean, where else do you get to sell 'rabbit's tongue' to grandmothers? it's got character. our boss is a genius for coming up with these names."

you stop scrubbing the counter and look at the tubs. "gilbert didn't name them."

wooyoung pauses. "huh? then who did?"

"his father," you explain. "gilbert told me once that his dad went to college with a girl who was obsessed with art and psychology. she told him that morbid things create curiosity. that if you call something 'marionette' instead of 'cookies and cream,' people stop seeing it as just a flavor and start seeing it as a story, or something."

he makes a face, contemplating this. "deep. i just thought it sounded badass. i wonder if that girl liked pineapple."

you let out a tiny, genuine huff of laughter. 

"there she is!" wooyoung cheers.

you look away, the smile fading as quickly as it appeared. "i'm just tired, wooyoung."

"well, get some rest. don't let the burnt bones haunt your dreams."

you part ways at the corner. the air is still warm, though the humidity has shifted into a heavy, clinging dampness. you have an appointment with dr. kim, and the office building is only a few blocks away.

as you walk, your eyes wander. you've walked this route a thousand times, but today, something catches your eye in a small boutique window. you stop. it's a set of matryoshka dolls. but they aren't the traditional russian peasants, they're shaped like a specific character from an old children's tv show you loved when you were seven. round creature with a tiny hammers for hands.

you remember talking about this character at family dinners. you remember the way your mother would nod without looking up from her plate, and the way your father would ask if you'd finished your vegetables while you were trying to explain why the character's loneliness was the most beautiful part of the story.

the dolls are painted carefully, nesting inside one another, a secret world contained within a larger shell. 

there's a twitch of your hand, a longing to reach for the door handle. you can almost feel the wood in your palm. you picture them sitting on your newly emptied shelf, a small piece of your childhood reclaimed. in a rush, you take a step toward the door. then, you stop. you can't.

a fresh start.

eventually, you'll have to get used to the echo in your apartment. to the air coming in from the windows. to being able to see your things and not have them too piled up to the point of having to just buy more.

slowly, you turn away. you keep your head high and continue walking toward the office building, but as you go, you find yourself counting the steps, trying to fill the void in your chest with numbers instead of things.

when you reach the building and walk through the lobby, the sudden drop in temperature make the small hairs on your arms stand up. inside dr. kim's office, there is a potted peace lily in the corner, wilted, it's leaves drooping toward the carpet. you sink into the oversized chair, the material scratching against the back of your legs.

audrey kim sits across from you, watching you, her expression soft, waiting for you to settle into the silence.

"so, how did it go?" she asks. "the cleaning. how did you feel once they left?"

you shrug. the movement is small, barely a ripple in your shoulders. you stare at a stray thread pulling away from the armrest of the chair.

"fine."

she leans back, crossing one leg over the other. she doesn't buy it and you know it.

"fine is a very safe word," she says calmly. "you know you can be honest here."

the fabric of your dress bunching up as you shift. "it felt a little empty," you whisper.

"empty in a good way or a bad way?" she asks.

"i don't know," you hesitantly reply. " i found something important though, a cd."

the moment the word leaves your lips, you want to reach out and pluck it from the air. important. you’ve just handed her a thread, and you know audrey. she will pull until it all unravels.

"important," she repeats, curious smile touching her lips. "that sounds nice. what was on it?"

you look away, focusing on the snake print of the small pillow you're holding. you've noticed how often she includes this exact print, it fits her.

"just some photos," you say, your voice thin. "some videos. from when i was a teenager."

"and how did it feel?" she asks. "to look back at that version of yourself?"

you don't answer immediately. instead, you see a flash of a screen. the grainy video, the shoulders touching, his eyes crinkled in a way that suggested the whole world was a private joke between the two of you. a faint smile tugs at the corners of your mouth, fragile and fleeting.

"well," you murmur, "there was this boy."

you realize too late that you've opened the can of worms. you've stepped off the safe path and into the weeds.

"a boy?" audrey's voice is light, encouraging. "was he a friend?"

you pause. friend is too small a word. it’s a plastic cup when you’re talking about an ocean. "something like that," you say. "sure."

audrey watches you closely. she doesn't interrupt, she just lets the silence stretch. "you look different when you think about him," she says.

you blink, hand instinctively drifting up to touch your warm cheek. "do i?"

"yes," audrey nods. "your whole face changed. it seems like he was someone very special."

you can only nod slowly.

"what made him special?" she asks.

you want to tell her that you loved him. you want to tell her that he was your home before you knew what a home was supposed to be. you want to say that he was the only person who understood why you kept things, why the world felt too loud and too bright, and that with him, you could just be.

instead, you settle for a fragment of the truth.

"he remembered things," you say. "the little things. things everyone else ignored."

"things your parents never payed attention to?"

"yeah... and more." you swallow hard, the memory sharpening. "but near graduation, he just... vanished. he was gone. i haven't seen him since."

audrey makes a small humming sound of sympathy. "and how does that loss sit with you now? do you feel like there was a lack of closure?"

maybe there was a closure, one that wasn't decided by the both of you. maybe you weren't even meant to have a closure at all. it's hard to remember some details, specially ten years later, after so many nights of convincing yourself that it was just teenage puppy love.

but there's the grit and the grime of a childhood spent in the margins. you remember the movie theaters. the dim, the artificial butter and old carpet smell. you and san didn't care about the plot of the film. you spent the entire two hours in a whispered competition to see who could leave the biggest, grossest booger stain on the velvet of the seats. you remember the way he giggled as he pointed to a particularly glistening spot he'd left behind. disgustingly perfect.

you remember sneaking away from algebra, the adrenaline spiking in your chest as you climbed into the oversized plastic trashcans behind the gym. you'd huddle together in the dark, surrounded by rotting fruit and discarded papers, sharing a single pair of headphones. the world outside the plastic walls didn't exist. there was only the smell of old garbage and the warmth of san's arm pressed against yours.

you remember the woods. canopy of humid shade, a damp blanket. you'd nap in the tall grass, the dirt beneath your bodies. you remember the feeling of tiny ants crawling across your ankles, the tickle of a spider spinning a web near your ear, and neither of you moved. you stayed perfectly still, letting the insects claim you.

then there was the dead rat. a stiff, gray carcass he found behind the cafeteria. shared look of triumph, you both agreed it was the perfect gift. you'd carefully tucked it into the leather purse of your favorite english teacher, the one who always praised your poetry but never noticed your sadness. you remember the explosion of chaos when she found it, and the way you and san had collapsed in the hallway, unwashed hands clutching your mouths to muffle the laughs.

and the tree house.

gasoline, and the flicker of a match. you remember the orange glow reflecting in san's wide eyes as the dry wood caught fire, the only orange you'd ever liked. it was supposed to be a small blaze, a tiny signal to the universe, but it grew too fast. the screams of the neighbors, the sirens, the look of absolute horror on your parents' faces.

that was the end. the fire that burned the bridge. your parents had forbidden you from seeing him, calling him a bad influence, a danger. they thought they were saving you.

but you also remember the escapes. the midnight climbs through bedroom windows. the breathless runs to the train tracks where the gravel bit into your soles. you remember the rails, the way the heat shimmered off the steel, the shared lollipops.

you remember him blowing raspberries into your stomach until you gasped for air, you remember the spiders you'd catch and release on each other's necks, the smell of his sweaty shirts, the spit games, the nicknames, the pavement, the-

"y/n?" she snaps her fingers bringing you back.

"yeah?" you blink, the beige walls of the office rushing back in

"i asked, do you think about what happened to him?"

mind still half-submerged in the smell of gasoline and oily train tracks. you pull your hand away from your face. the warmth is gone.

"sometimes," you reply.

it's a lie. a big, big lie.

you think about him every time you see a stray piece of trash on the sidewalk. you think about him every time you feel the urge to buy something you don't need just to feel the weight of it in your hands. you think about him when you scoop ice cream and a piece falls down. when you hear the hum of the freezers, when you pass his former house on the bus, when you shower, when you eat, when you wake up.

you think about him all the time.

୨୧

inside your skin, it was a war. every time you pass a thrift store or a kiosk with shimmering trinkets, the itch returns. it starts in your fingertips, a vibration that tells you that you are missing something, that there is a hole in your life that can only be filled by a physical object. you feel naked without your piles.

dr. kim always said something about shedding old skins and you genuinely tried. you tell yourself that you are shedding, that you're becoming something leaner, something that doesn't hide stacks of magazines and forgotten plushies.

then came the anniversary.

'sweet nothings' is turning forty. your boss, gilbert, gives you a budget for decorations, but you don't just use it, you obsess over it. you spend three nights staying late, your fingers sticky with adhesive and glitter. iridescent streamers on the walls, balloons in shades of cream and icy blue, tethering them to the tables with ribbons you put your heart into tying, candy jars, each catering to various tastes. needless to say, you wentvoverboard. you know it. the shop looks less like an ice cream parlor and more like a carnival fever dream.

apron dusted with cocoa powder, gilbert finds you adjusting a banner for the tenth time on tuesday morning.

"looking good, y/n."

a roll of gold ribbon still gripped in your hand. "is it... not too much?"

you hear him laugh, he reaches out and touches one of the gold balloons.

"my father opened this place when i was six," he says. "he wanted everything to be bright because he thought the world was too grey. seeing this... it feels like he's still here. and right now, we're celebrating continuity, right?"

keeping something alive against the odds. you want to hold onto that, to something that lasts.

the doors open at noon, and the heat follows the customers inside. the air conditioner hums desperate, struggling to fight the oppressive sun. the shop fills instantly. it is a cacophony of sensory overload.

children, faces smeared with chocolate and strawberry, sprint from seat to seat, leaving sticky trails on the polished floor. parents follow behind them, apologizing to strangers while wiping melting cones off tiny shirts. the stereo is blasting a pop hit, but it is drowned out by the roar of a dozen simultaneous conversations.

the smell is a thick blend of caramelized sugar, cold cream, and the salty scent of sweat. you move through the chaos, scooping vanilla, mint chip, and salted caramel with rhythmic precision, wiping the counters and taking orders, making sure every single detail looks perfect.

"y/n! did you see my tape?" wooyoung leans over the counter, his voice cutting through the noise like a siren.

"just use mine, wooyoung." you don't even look up from the cone you're swirling.

"cool!" he shouts, he's the only person you know who can be simultaneously stressed and charismatic. "seriously, everytime i leave it by the napkins it just walks away." he wails, though he's already stepping away to help a customer.

you smile faintly, the sound of the shop blurring into a hum. you are in the zone. the rhythm of the work keeps the thoughts of your apartment, the emptiness, the loss, at bay. then, the bell above the door chimes.

small silver sound, but it slices through the noise for you. you don't look up immediately. you finish topping a sundae with a cherry, fluid and automatic.

"welcome to sweet nothings, what can i get started for you?"

said without thinking. a script, a shield. you look up, the professional smile already etched onto your lips. suddenly, the noise vanishes. the pop music, the screaming children, wooyoung’s laughter. sucked into a vacuum, leaving only a ringing silence in your ears. the smile fades, dies.

the first thing you notice are the eyes. they are big, brown, and heavy with a familiarity that makes your lungs seize. they are eyes that once looked at you across train tracks and shared lollipops dropped in the oil. they are eyes that knew every secret you ever held, eyes that were the only home you ever truly had.

he is standing there, framed by the white light of the doorway. 

he looks different. the soft edges of his teenage face have sharpened into a defined jawline and a straight nose. he is taller, shoulders broader, hair longer, falling over his forehead in a way that makes him look tired and haunted.

but he looks the same. shifting his weight from one foot to the other. his dark clothes looking like they've seen a hundred washes. the way he looks at you as if you are the only thing in the room that is actually real.

you open your mouth to speak, but your throat is frozen. no sound comes out. suddenly, it smells of rain on hot asphalt, of cheap candy and burnt wood. twenty seven years old, but right now, you are seventeen again, brain in the middle of a war zone. one side is screaming is it him? and the other is a terrifying blank space, a void where you forget how to be a human being. do you ask him for his order? do you scream? do you run to the back room and hide among the freezers?

he doesn't move either. he just stares and the silence between you stretches, becoming brittle, ready to snap.

"hey! you there, buddy!"

wooyoung slides into your peripheral vision, breaking the spell. he doesn't see the vibrations between you, he just sees a customer who hasn't ordered.

"what'll it be?" wooyoung asks, leaning on the counter with a charismatic grin. "we've got a dozen flavors, and they're all better than whatever you're thinking of."

san doesn't take his eyes off you. his gaze is intense, searching your face for something. a sign, a spark. his voice, when he finally speaks, is deeper than you remember.

"vomit," he simply says, for you.

a small involuntary sound escapes your throat, half-chuckle, half-sob. wooyoung bursts out laughing, throwing his head back.

"vomit? man, we've got some weird stuff, but we haven't mastered the taste of puke yet. sorry to disappoint you."

san’s lips twitch. ghost of a smile appears, one that only you can truly see. he looks at wooyoung, then back to you, his eyes softening.

"sorry," san says, his voice quiet. "i meant witch teeth? the honey flavor?"

"ah! witch teeth! right!" wooyoung shouts, already diving for the scoop. "one witch teeth cone coming up. you've got a weird tongue, man. i like it." wooyoung turns his back to work on the cone, humming a song under his breath. 

now it is just you and san again. the noise of the shop begins to bleed back in, the clinking of spoons, the distant cry of a child, but it feels far away. you are trapped in the gravity of him. you want to ask where he's been. you want to ask why he never wrote, or if he still keeps those insignificant things he used to love. you want to ask if he remembers everything. 

instead, you stand there, with numb fingertips gripping the edge of the cold metal counter. finally, he smiles.

"you're here," he whispers.

you can't find your voice, it's lost, so you just nod. he must've noticed the tiredness in your eyes, he doesn't need to ask if you're okay.

"when do you get off?" he asks softly.

"six," you manage to whisper. "i get off at six."

he nods. he doesn't smile, but the tension on his shoulders drops an inch.

"i'll be here," he says.

wooyoung slides the grayish brown cone across the counter. grown flavor, childish treat.

"one witch teeth cone for the gentleman! that'll be four dollars."

san reaches into his pocket and pulls out crumpled bills. as he hands them over, his fingers brush against yours. it is a brief contact, a fraction of a second, but it feels like an electric shock. for first time in ten years, you feel a thaw inside you.

as the bell chimes his exit, the space he occupied remains. the next customer steps up to the counter.

"welcome to 'sweet nothings'," you say, but your voice is shaking. "what can i get started for you?"

୨୧

the clock mocks you. it is 5:58. you're already sick of the artificial vanilla smell and the hum of the freezer units. you stand behind the counter, fingers tracing the lace edge of your apron. you're sure your dress is damp from a perspiration that refuses to evaporate in the stagnant summer heat.

across the street, a figure leans against a lamp post.

"you're staring again."

wooyoung's voice breaks the silence. he is currently wrestling with a cardboard box, his brow furrowed in intense concentration.

"i'm just... thinking about the closing checklist," you lie. your voice is thin.

wooyoung snorts, finally giving up on the box and letting it slump over.

"the checklist is fine. the freezers stay on, the floors will be scrubbed, and the tubs completely sealed."

"but what if something happens? what if a customer comes in at 6:01 and you can't find your tape? you'll panic."

"i'll survive. i'll use a stapler. i'll use glue. i'll use my sheer force of will to keep the boxes closed. go. before the heat melts your brain entirely." he waves a hand dismissively before pausing. "by the way, do you actually know that guy? the one waiting outside?"

"what?"

"maybe i haven't worked here long enough, but i've seen you deal with the rudest people in this city with the patience of a saint. but when he walked in earlier, you looked like you'd seen a ghost. or a god. your face went like, completely blank. it was actually a little scary."

you look away, focusing on a small smudge of strawberry syrup on the counter. "we... knew each other. a long time ago."

wooyoung hums, a sound of pure speculation. "huh... was he a friend, or...?"

"something like that."

as you push open the glass door, the heat weights you down. thick, exhausting humid blanket. the sun bruised orange, sinking slowly behind the skyline of the city.

san is still there. no longer leaning, he is standing straight, hands shoved deep into his pockets. you take a deep breath, but only receive hot air into your lungs. you walk across the street, each step feeling as though you are wading through molasses.

as you approach, he sees you, and raises a hand in a small hesitant wave.

"hi," he says, you're still not used to the lower tone.

"hey," you reply.

silence stretches between you. it is not a comfortable silence, but it isn't hostile either. it is a void, a ten year gap that neither of you knows how to bridge. you suddenly become acutely aware of your work uniform, feeling like a caricature, out of place in the grit of the city street. you hurriedly untie the ribbons of your apron with trembling fingers. slide the white lace off your waist and shove it into your bag.

"it's okay," he says softly, tentative smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you look... good."

involuntary heat rise to your cheeks, independent of the weather. "really?"

he clears his throat, his eyes flickering away for a second before returning to yours. "yeah. you look adorable."

the word sends a shiver through you. it is a word from another lifetime. you don't know what to do with your hands, so you grip the strap of your bag.

aimlessly, you're not sure which one starts walking first, but you fall into step beside one another. you don't decide on a destination. you simply move. the sidewalk is crowded with people fleeing their offices, a sea of grey suits and stressed expressions. you and san are a slow current moving against the tide.

you want to ask him everything. you want to ask where he went, if he ever thought about your past. you want to ask if he still keeps the things that don't matter to anyone else. but the questions feel too heavy. if you ask them now, you might break the spell. you might realize that this is just a dream, a cruel trick, and you'll wake up in your clean empty apartment with nothing but a homemade cd for company. you want to prolong this. you want to stretch the seconds into hours.

"how long have you been working there?" he asks.

"a couple of years."

"do you like it?"

"yeah," you answer.

another silence falls. stunted and nervous, you both chuckle at the same time.

"this is weird," you mutter.

"extremely weird," he agrees.

you steal a glance at him. he is looking straight ahead, but his fingers are twitching against the seams of his pockets. he is nervous. the realization anchors you. he isn't a ghost or a memory, he is a man who is just as terrified as you are.

this it it, you gather the courage. you open your mouth to ask about the disappearance, to demand an explanation for the silence that defined your twenties. before the words can escape, san lets out a short laugh.

"what?" you ask, blinking.

"i just remembered something," he says. he turns to look at you, his eyes sparking with a flicker of the boy he used to be. "do you remember when we used to fight about the seasons? the debate of summer versus winter?"

you feel a genuine smile pull at your lips.

"of course, you used to say winter was superior."

"it is," he argues, and you can't help but roll your eyes. "everything is white. everything is still. you don't have to worry about anything moving."

"i still prefer summer," you say, your voice firmer.

"yeah? you like to be all stinky and sweating all day?"

"shut up," you mutter looking down, giving him a playful nudge with your elbow.

san looks around at the oppressive heat, the shimmering haze of the city, and the exhausted people around them. he looks back at you. "i guess the nights are nice," he concedes.

as you continue walking, the tension beginning to ebb, replaced by fragile warmth. you talk about small things, the way the city has changed, the music you've been listening to on your old player, the strange habits of your customers. you make the most of the time, treating every minute like a precious currency.

streaks of humidity and time, you lead him toward your building. it is an old structure, sagging under it's own weight. countless air conditioning compressors cling to the exterior, asymmetrical cables and plastic tubes draped across the facade.

"this is where i live," you say.

san looks up at the building, his expression unreadable. he is quiet for a long time.

"i actually went there," he says softly.

you frown. "where?"

"your childhood home, yesterday." your heart skips. you remember the feeling of being a ghost in your own hallways. "it looked... dark," he says, looking down at you.

you look at the cracked pavement beneath your shoes. you aren't surprised. the description fits perfectly. "oh," you whisper.

"is everything okay?"

you shrug, though there is no lightness in the movement. "my parents divorced, obviously. a while ago. the house is just... sitting there. it's in some kind of legal limbo between arguing lawyers. i don't even know, so they just left it to rot i guess."

you look at him and see a reflection of your own loneliness in his eyes. he knows what it is to be moved, to be placed, to have a home that isn't really a home.

"i'm sorry," he says.

"it's fine. it's just a house."

the orange light of the sunset has faded into a bruised purple, you realize that the walk has ended. you don't want to go inside, but you know you can't stay here forever.

"i should go," you say.

san nods. he doesn't move to leave immediately.

"hey, uh... before you go..." he scratches the back of his neck, looking away. "i was just wondering... um, are you seeing anyone?" he bites his lower lip.

you let out a small chuckle, blushing again. "i- no, i'm not... are you?"

"no, no." he replies, returning the shy inevitable smile. you both keep stepping back and forward, knowing it's time to go but lingering. "well, we should do this again," he says.

"yeah," your voice barely a whisper. "we should."

"yeah... uh, have a good night." he gives you two awkward thumbs up.

"good night, san."

you step inside the building, the door clicking shut behind you. you stay there for a moment, leaning your back against the cold metal, listening to the sound of your own breathing. you look through the small glass pane of the door, san is still standing there, watching you, a steady silhouette against the darkening city, until you finally turn away and walk toward the stairs.

୨୧

for the last two weeks, the bell above the door has chimed at the same time every single evening. san. even as the sun dips below the horizon, the heat is still there, and he still comes. he doesn't order much, usually just a small cup of whatever calls his attention that day.

every night, after you turn the lock and the streetlights flicker to life, he walks you home.

the walk is a slow dance through the shimmering heat. you've learned things in fragments, shards of a broken mirror. he was actually just a couple of hours away this whole time, not too far but definitely not close. for now, he's staying at a hotel near your apartment building, something you didn't dare to ask if it was just a coincidence. he mentioned a thrift store, a job that ended abruptly. he doesn't elaborate on the firing. he just says it didn't work out, his voice flat, his eyes reflecting the neon signs of the pharmacy and the laundromat.

tonight, though you were having cramps earlier, the air is particularly stagnant. the shop is empty, you glance at the clock, then at san, who leans against the counter, his gaze tracing the line of your jaw. you reach over and flip the sign to closed, the door already locked.

"you want to try some of the stock?" you ask.

san tilts his head. "is that allowed?"

you let out a small laugh, stepping closer. "since when did you become a rule follower? the boy i knew used to eat dirt and climb fences just to see if the neighbors had a pool."

san’s lips twitch into a smile. "i grew up."

"doubt it," you murmur.

he glances up at the black domes of the security cameras perched in the corners of the ceiling. "won't your boss see us?"

"nah, he's too lazy. he never check the footage, he just wants the shop to run."

you turn toward the freezer, the cold air billowing out in a white cloud as you swing the heavy door open. the frost bites at your ankles, pleasantly. you reach for the tiny plastic sample spoons and scoop a small dollop of blue.

"bruised eyes," you say, holding the spoon out.

he takes the spoon and tastes it, mocking a food critic through his thoughtful expression. "tart," he whispers. "like a bruise."

"it's blueberry," you reply, though the description feels too simple for the way he's looking at you. you scoop another, sickly white. "skull."

this time, san doesn't take the spoon, he leans in, his eyes locked on yours, and licks the frozen cream directly from the plastic. he tastes it, his tongue grazing the edge of the spoon. he swallows slowly, the muscles in his throat working.

"milky. tastes like a memory." he closes his eyes, his head tilting back slightly. a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold ripples through you.

you giggle. "it's coconut."

through the flavors, the silence of the shop is filled with the sound of his breathing. you offer him rabbit's tongue, dry corpse, moth wing, and he takes them all with a slow deliberate motion.

as he licks the spoon, you notice a tiny smear of the fox's blood at the corner of his mouth. streak of red against his skin. it looks like a wound. it looks like art. you want to reach out and wipe it away with your thumb, to feel the heat of his skin against the chill of the ice cream.

you don't move. you just watch.

"this one," you say, digging into a tub of mint chocolate chip, the dark pieces of chocolate in a sea of pale green. "rotten veins."

san's eyes brighten. he doesn't wait for you to hold it up, he leans in close again, the scent of him overwhelming the sugary air of the shop. he tastes it, and you notice the look of genuine pleasure washing over his face. he throws his head back, eyes fluttering shut, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

"still my favorite," he murmurs.

"i figured."

the distance between you has vanished. you are standing in the narrow space between the counter and the freezer, the yellow of your dress brushing against his dark clothes. as you move another spoon toward him, he reaches out, fingers wrapping around your wrist, and leans in. breath warm, his tongue briefly brushes your fingertips.

he doesn't pull away immediately. he stays there, face inches from yours, his eyes searching your face for something you aren't sure you're ready to give.

"this place," he says. "it fits you."

you blink, confused. "how come?"

san lets go of your wrist, but he doesn't step back. "it's tempting."

once again you blush, and quickly turn away, reaching for the discard cup to toss the used sample spoons.

"wait."

before you can ask why, he gathers the used spoons, stained with red, white, and green, and slides them carefully into the side pocket of his bag. you don't question him.

"we should go," you say, your heart still beating fast against your ribs.

as you turn to walk toward the door, a sudden, sharp movement on the white tile catches your eye.

a cockroach.

it's large, mahogany shell, antennae whipping the air.

"shit!" you hiss. you lift your foot, aiming to crush it into the tile, but the insect is faster. it scurries across the floor and vanishes down the floor drain. "gross," you mutter.

you walk to the door, lock it with a definitive snap, and step out into the night. the walk home is different now. silence isn't a dance but a wall. san has grown quiet, his stride shorter, his gaze fixed on the pavement. the warmth from the shop has evaporated, replaced by a chilling breeze. you glance at him, noticing the way his shoulders have hunched, the way he seems to be pulling himself inward.

"it's the harsh truth of the food industry," you say, trying to break the tension. "no matter how many times you scrub, the bugs always find a way in."

san doesn't laugh like you expect him to. he doesn't even look up. for a moment, you think he might've actually changed, that the worst things you used to do before have completely slipped. you stop walking, forcing him to stop too. you reach out, touching his elbow.

"san? what's the matter? you've been weird since we saw that thing. you're not actually scared of a bug now, are you?"

the neon light of a nearby sign casts a flickering red glow over his face, eyes hollow, he finally looks at you, cracking.

"i never told you why i left," he says, barely a whisper.

the air in your lungs takes turns to lead. for ten years, you built a cathedral of theories to explain his disappearance. you imagined accidents, deaths, secret government programs, or simply a crushing hatred for everything you were. now, the truth sits between you.

you don't speak. you can't. you just nod, urging him to tear the bandage off. san lets out a surrender breath. he looks at his shoes, the worn leather scuffed and grey.

"you know how i used to spend my childhood going from home to home?" he asks.

you nod again. you remember his stories about how he was taken by cps at the age of six from his mother, only to be switched from family to family until he stayed with the parks, the ones you met, the ones who prohibited him to see you.

he groans, a low sound of frustration, and rubs the back of his neck.

"it was so stupid," he says. "i don't even know why i did it."

you shift your weight, the heat making you irritable, the suspense stretching too thin. "what is it?" you ask impatiently.

he hesitates. he looks at you, and for a second, you see the teenage boy who used to hold your hand while you both watched the world burn from the branches of a treehouse. "i made my then cousin eat one," he says. "he was eight. i found a cockroach, and i, uh... i forced him to swallow it."

the world doesn't stop. the distant sound of a car horn blares three blocks over. a breeze stirs the trash in the gutter. the image of a small child and a crunching insect flashing through your mind.

"oh," you whisper.

the word feels inadequate, a pebble thrown into a canyon. you expected a tragedy. a crime. a bloodbath. instead, it's just a moment of childhood cruelty, the kind of grossness you two had perfected together.

"what happened next?" you ask.

"they were horrified. parents, aunts, uncles. they never looked at me the same." he kicks a loose stone, his expression still. "they kicked me out. from the house, from the family. they called the foster home, told them i was unstable, dangerous. they moved me away within hours... i didn't even get to say goodbye."

the memory hits you that afternoon you walked to his house, your heart full of a childish hope. you remember the door slamming in your face. you remember the mrs. park's voice, sharp and cold, telling you that he was gone and that you were never to come back.

you and san. the arsonists. the bug collectors. the children who found beauty in the rot. they called you gross, immature, sick in the head. a bad influence on each other.

through your silence, san stops and turns to face you. he studies your expression, his eyes searching yours.

"don't blame yourself," he says. "don't think you had something to do with it. it was all me. my head was a mess."

you let out a short laugh. "don't get offended," you say, looking away from him, "but i figured you'd done something fucked up. i just couldn't picture what."

a genuine smile touches his lips. "you always knew me too well."

you look at him, really look at him. the loneliness in his eyes is the same. it's a mirror of your own.

"did you get adopted again?" you ask.

he shakes his head. "no. i turned eighteen soon after, got a job, stayed in the shadows for a while."

he doesn't elaborate on where he lived or who he loved in the gaps between then and now. you don't push. the silence returns, but it's different now. the tension has popped, leaving a raw aching feeling.

bugs. spiders, beetles, silverfish. when you were with him, the things that made other people scream were secrets you shared. you never felt disgust. you only felt a kinship with the things that lived in the dark, the things that survived on scraps.

"why didn't you reach out?" you ask.

"i didn't want to make your life harder."

you frown. "what does that mean?"

"i figured you deserved someone better." he says, his tone staying the same. "someone who wasn't a burden. someone who didn't come with a history of being thrown away."

you turn to him quickly, too quickly. "that's not true," you say.

you want to tell him that your life never got easier after he left. that the silence he left behind became a void that you tried to fill with objects, with things you could touch and keep so you wouldn't feel so invisible. you want to tell him that you've been carrying a sense of doom for a decade, a weight that made every day at the ice cream shop feel like a rehearsal for a life you didn't want.

but the words were too heavy to lift.

san sighs and shifts his gaze to the horizon. "but anyway," he says, changing the subject with a breathless suddenness. "i got to reunite with my birth mom last year."

you blink. "really?"

"yeah." he lets out a breathy laugh. "it was... an experience. she's in rehab now. spent a few years in and out of jail for drug possession. but, you know, she's doing fine now. stableish." you listen, the heat of the night pressing in on you. "she had a tattoo," san continues. "of my name. on her wrist. it was weird, honestly. i barely remember her. i have these flashes of a smell, like... stale cigarettes and cheap perfume, but that's it. to me, she's just like the other moms. the only difference is she's the one who actually gave birth to me." you imagine a woman in a sterile rehab facility, maybe she gave san his eyes or his dimples, staring at a name on her skin that represents a boy she lost to the state. "i told her about you," he says. your heart skips. "i told her you were the only person who actually liked me for being a freak. she was the one who encouraged me to come back. told me that if i didn't find you, i'd spend the rest of my life wondering if i'd killed the only real thing i ever had."

a fragile smile pulls at your lips. "thanks to her, then," you whisper. "i'm glad you're back."

at the entrance to your apartment building, the concrete steps warm beneath your feet. the dim light of the hallway spills out onto the sidewalk, illuminating the peeling paint of the doorframe.

you look at him and see the man he became. the calm exterior, his guard and patience. you wonder if he sees the woman you've spent years constructing. the dependable assistant manager. the girl who nods at the right times in dr. kim's office. the daughter who keeps her shopping bags hidden in the back of the closet so her parents don't have to acknowledge the void she's trying to fill.

you think about the teenagers you were. the two of you, smeared in dirt and reckless impulse. you loved each other in the wreckage. you loved each other when you were the things people wanted to scrub away. you loved each other at your worst, so what happens when you meet again pretending to be better?

dirty fingernails, impulse dares, laughter that arrived at the wrong moments. you wonder if he still sees that version of you, if you're allowed to be that again. he had changed your life, he had made you feel seen, understood in a language impossible to teach. he loved you because of your worst.

now, you wear a dress that doesn't wrinkle and you speak in a voice that doesn't shake. you've learned to curate your existence, to present a version of yourself that is palatable and clean. but beneath the surface, the old version of you is still there, scratching at the walls. deep beneath a clean apartment, a therapy session or a colorful ice cream shop. she's the one who wants to scream into the humid night. she's the one who knows that better is just a synonym for invisible.

your hand trembles slightly as you reach for your keys. you don't want him to leave. the thought of the door closing behind him feels like a slow death. you want to know if he still sees that version of you.

"do you want to come inside?"

after a silent elevator ride, you unlock the door and step back, holding it open. the moment the door swings wide, there, sitting right on the entryway mat, is a crushed sushi cardboard box. a stray piece of ginger clings to the side, drying into a brownish smear. 

you lunge for it, snatch the box up and shove it toward the kitchen.

"i'm sorry," you stammer, the words tripping over each other. "i just... i threw it there so i'd throw it away later. i was running late. i didn't mean for-"

but you don't mean it, the explanation dies in your throat because you don't actually mean it. you want to see his reaction, to confirm your thoughts.

san steps past you, his footsteps light on the hardwood. he doesn't look at the box. he looks at the room.

it's been three weeks since the professional cleaners left. for a while, the apartment looked good. minimalistic, clean. but the cracks have returned. maybe it was his return, maybe you just couldn't help it, but the discipline broke before it settled.

in the kitchen, more takeout containers lean against the backsplash. a pile of clothes, half clean, half forgotten, drapes over the back of a chair. hair ties and bobby pins are scattered across the floor. it's not a disaster yet, not by your standards, but to anyone else, it's a sign of a mind unraveling.

you stand there, frozen, waiting for the judgment. you wait for him to see the evidence that you are still that messy broken child. san turns to you. he looks around the space, his gaze lingering on a stack of vinyl records leaning precariously against the wall.

"it's cozy," he says.

"it is?"

"yeah, well... it has some of your touch." he replies.

you don't know if you want to cry, or laugh, or pull him close and never let go. instead, you tell him to get comfortable and wait for you.

you retreat to the bathroom, closing the door with a click that feels too loud. you lean against the sink and curse under your breath. first day of womanhood's betrayal. efficiently, you pull the tampon out of yourself, the flow is heavy, maybe you should've changed it earlier.

as your reflection in the mirror stares back, you see the dark circles under your eyes, your lips bitten raw. you wash your hands, the scent of lemon soap filling the small space, and take a deep breath.

when you walk back into the living room, san isn't waiting for you on the couch. he's standing by the wall, staring at a framed photograph. it's an old picture of courtney love. smeared lipstick, messy blonde hair, an expression of rage and vulnerability you admired. it's a relic from your teenage years, a piece of physical media you refused to throw away even when you were trying to fix yourself.

san doesn't turn around when you enter. he just points to the image.

"now this is you," he says.

with a strange sensation in your chest, as if a knot you've been tightening for a decade is suddenly being loosened, you walk over to him, shoulder brushing his as you look at the photo.

"i loved that band," you whisper.

san finally looks at you. there's a glint in his eyes, nostalgic and aching.

"i know. you used to write the lyrics in any wall you'd see. classrooms, subway stations..."

you let out a breathless laugh. "so angsty."

"you were honest," he corrects. "everything about us back then was... honest."

you move to the couch, sinking into the cushions. san follows, sitting beside you. the space between you is narrow, charged with an electric current that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

"whenever i missed you," san says, his voice dropping. "i'd listen to that album, live through this. i'd close my eyes and imagine we were still those reckless kids doing things that would get us grounded for a month."

you look down, your fingers finding the hem of your dress. you fidget with the fabric, twisting it into a tight coil. the silence returns, but it's different now.

"did you..." you swallow hard, the words sticking in your throat. "did you miss me a lot?"

san doesn't answer immediately. he shifts his weight, turning toward you. "i missed you like crazy," he says.

you finally lift your gaze. eyes locked with his. for the first time in ten years, you don't feel the need to hide. you are just you. messy, depressed, cluttered, but you.

"i missed you like crazy too," you whisper.

the air in the room seems to vanish when san raises his hand, cautious, careful. the skin of his thumb brushes your cheekbone, he lingers there.

he leans closer, his breath smelling of mint chocolate.

"you know," he whispers, his lips inches from yours, "we actually never broke up."

violent spark of recognition. "i know," you breathe.

he closes the gap.

collided, rough. ten years of silence, ten years of missing pieces, and ten years of pretending to be okay, all crashing together in a single moment. desperate, salty. coming home to a place you thought had been burned to the ground.

you let out a moan, a faint sound that vibrates in the kiss. it's a sound you didn't know you'd been holding in, a scream of release that has been bottled up since the day he disappeared.

you reach up, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, trying to merge your skin with his. in this moment, you are gross. you are messy. you are broken. and as san pulls you tighter against him, you realize that's exactly why he still loves you.

a decade of starved longing, sweat pools between your shoulder blades but you don't care. you're already walking away, stumbling backwards, heels stepping unevenly on the carpet. his hands are everywhere, clutched in your hair, gripping your waist, pulling you so close there isn't a single molecule of oxygen left between your chests.

the moment you step into the bedroom his foot catches on a plastic shopping bag, a stray remnant of a late night impulse buy you'd forgotten to put away. the bag skids across the floor, scattering a few cheap trinkets. you both break the kiss, breathless, the sound echoing in the quiet apartment.

"shit, sorry." san murmurs.

you look down at the mess, then up at him. a bubble of laughter escapes you, before you kick the bag further down the bed carelessly.

with no time to waste, he leans in, capturing your lips again, deeper this time, his tongue sweeping against yours. clumsy and urgent. the heat wave has turned the apartment into a sauna, but the fire licking at your skin comes from him.

you don't stop kissing him as you navigate toward the bed. the mattress is filled with discarded tops, a few open books, and a pile of laundry you'd promised yourself you'd fold three days ago. you pull back just enough to breathe and with one sweeping motion of your arm, you shove the mountain of clothes onto the floor. they land in a soft colorful heap. you land hard on the mattress. it isn't made. the sheets are twisted, the pillows skewed, but as you look up at san hovering over you, you see that look in his eyes. he just sees you.

"god," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "i missed you so much... every single day. i'd wake up and for a second, i'd forget you weren't there, and then it would hit me all over again."

you moan his name, the sound muffled as he dives for your neck. his lips are hot, searing your skin, leaving a trail of damp heat from your jawline down to your collarbone. his hands slide down to your sides, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your waist.

"i thought about you all the time," he whispers against your skin, his breath hitching. "every new room, every new person... i just kept wondering if you still lived in the same place. if you still liked the smell of rain. if you still hated the way the world felt too loud."

"i do," you gasp, arching your back as his teeth graze the sensitivity of your neck. "san, please..."

the heat in the room is suffocating now. you know the a.c. is just a click away, but the thought of moving, of breaking this contact for even a second, feels physically impossible. you want to burn in this. you want the sweat to glue you together.

san pulls back, his eyes dark and dilated. he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one fluid motion. you blink, breath catching in your throat. the boy you remembered, all gangly limbs and awkward angles, is gone. in his place is a man with broad sculpted shoulders and a chest defined by hard ripped muscles that ripple as he breathes. a thin sheen of sweat makes his skin glisten under the amber light.

you reach up, your fingers shy as you trace the line of his pectorals, feeling the thrum of his heart racing beneath the skin. he lets out a low sound and crashes his mouth back onto yours. the taste is an explosion. familiar and new all at once. it's the taste of a childish promise and a decade of grief, blended into something intoxicating. your tongues clash and tangle, exchanging saliva. he pulls away an inch, his thumb brushing over your lower lip.

"open for me," he commands softly as he cups your face.

you know that look. you remember the unfiltered intimacy of your teenage years, the way you used to challenge each other to see who could be the most disgusting, the way you found beauty in the things the rest of the world called foul. you part your lips obediently, eager.

san leans in, and you feel the warm string of his saliva as he spits directly into your open mouth. you swallow it down, the taste of him sliding down your throat, and a loud, shaking moan rips from your lungs.

"my girl, you're still my girl," he smirks, dark affection.

he begins to grind his hips into yours, the friction of his denim against your thin dress creating a heat that makes your head swim. he doesn't stop, pressing his hardness against your center. his mouth migrates, kissing your jawline, your cheeks, the corners of your eyes, each touch a claim.

his hand wanders, sliding down the curve of your hip to the hem of your dress. as his fingers brush the fabric, preparing to lift it, you suddenly freeze.

"wait," you whisper.

san stills instantly. he doesn't push, doesn't question. he just stops, his hand hovering an inch above the yellow fabric. he looks at you, his expression open and patient.

but as you look into his eyes, you smile.

"nothing, keep going," you breathe.

he doesn't need to be told twice. he grips the fabric of your dress and slides it upward, the yellow material now discarded. he pauses, his eyes roaming over your legs, the curve of your thighs, the skin flushed from the heat.

"so fucking beautiful," he whispers, his voice thick with disbelief. "you've become... god, you're even more breathtaking."

you reach up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, tugging gently to bring him back down to you. you kiss him again. messy, wet encounter filled with small whimpers and smiles. his hand travels further, his palm brushing against the lace of your underwear. his kisses descend, leaving a path of fire across your collarbone and over the swell of your breasts, though they are still trapped behind the fabric of your bra. you feel the weight of him, the sheer masculinity of his body pressing you into the mattress.

as his hand slides lower, slipping beneath the elastic of your panties, you feel the dampness there, but it's not just the slickness of arousal or sweat. you shift slightly, leaning up on your elbows.

"san?" you ask, your voice small.

you're exposed now. the white lace of your underwear is stained, a mixture of sweat, pre-cum, and the deep red of period blood. it's a mess. it's gross. it's exactly the kind of thing that would make any other man recoil.

san looks down. he sees the stains, the dampness, the raw reality of your body. a slow, predatory smirk spreads across his lips. he doesn't pull away. instead, he dips his head, leaning down to press his nose directly against the junction of your thighs making you roll your eyes back, a gasp escaping you as the sheer acceptance of the gesture hits you harder than any touch could. he takes a deep breath, drinking in your scent. the musk of your skin, the iron of the blood, the sweetness of your arousal.

"you smell incredible," he mutters, his voice muffled against your skin.

he reaches down, his fingers hooking into the sides of your underwear. with a slow deliberate motion, he slides the fabric down your legs, tossing them somewhere into the pile of clothes on the floor. then, he reaches for the string of the tampon, sliding it gently out of you making you whimper. he drops it carelessly onto the sheets, not even glancing at it.

then, he dives in.

his tongue lashes out, licking you, violent hunger. there is no hesitation, no disgust. he laps at the blood and the juices, his tongue swirling around your clit, tasting the salt and the iron.

"oh god... san!" you scream, your fingers clawing at the sheets, your hips bucking upward to meet him.

the sound, wet, shlicking noise of his tongue against your folds, the squelch of fluids as he drinks you in. he's thorough, his tongue flicking rapidly, creating a friction that sends sparks through your entire frame.

this is how he wants you, entirely his.

tongue diving deep into you, exploring every crease, every fold. you can feel the heat of his breath, the roughness of his tongue, the way he seems to be trying to consume you whole. the world outside the bedroom, the heatwave, the ice cream shop, the loneliness of the last ten years, all of it vanishes. san, finally, completely back where he belongs.

spine curving like a bow, legs draped over his shoulders, pulling you open, exposing everything to his relentless focus. he knows exactly where to find the center of your pleasure, flicking and swirling against your clit, it almost feels like he never left.

your fingers switch between digging into the fabric of the sheets and his hair. the friction builds in your lower belly and threatens to snap, making your thighs tremble against his back.

"san," you whimper, your voice a broken thread. "san, please."

he doesn't slow down. he doubles his efforts, sucking the small, swollen nub into his mouth, creating a vacuum that pulls a sharp gasp from your lungs. the pressure is too much, the pleasure too concentrated. suddenly, the spring snaps.

a scream tears from your throat, the loudest sound this lonely apartment has probably ever known. you shatter, your internal muscles clamping down in pulses that ripple through your entire body. you call his name again and again, raw declaration of ownership and release. you are shaking, your toes curling tight, vision swimming in gold and red.

but san doesn't pull away. at the peak of your orgasm he shifts his focus, while you are still hovering in floating state, he reaches up. the tips of his fingers find your clit, circling it in tiny motions. you let out a choked sob, your hips jerking instinctively.

"oh my god," you gasp, though you are pushing yourself further against his hand. "yes, san."

he leans back in, his tongue sweeping over the drenched skin, licking away the overflow of your release. in his throat, a moan of pure satisfaction. salt, musk, and metallic of your period blood, and he doesn't even flinch. he drinks you in like you are the only thing that can sustain him.

"you taste so good," he whispers, his voice muffled against your skin. "i've missed this. i've missed you."

he looks up at you, his eyes dark and heavy with a hunger that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.

"fuck, can you give me another one?" he asks, his voice a rough caress. "just one more, baby. for me?"

skin glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, you can barely breathe, but you nod, blissful, your head sinking back into the pillow.

san reaches down and slowly slides two fingers inside you. the entry is gentle, a tentative exploration that makes you moan softly. he watches your face, his eyes scanning every flicker of your eyelids, every twitch of your lips.

"you okay, baby? don't worry, i've got you." he murmurs.

"mmh... m'kay," you breathe. "don't stop. please, san."

he begins to pump, his fingers curling upward to find the sensitive ridge of your g-spot. the friction is different now, deeper, more filling. he leans in, spitting onto your heat, adding it to the mixture of your natural lubrication and the blood of your cycle. the squelch of fluids displaced with every thrust.

he speeds up, fingers become a blur of motion. he is talking to you now, a steady stream of dirty promises, telling you how much he loves the way you feel, how he never forgot the scent of you, how you are the only home he ever truly wanted.

"look at me," he commands softly.

your eyes, locking onto his. the intensity in his gaze is staggering. he is pumping in and out faster now, the sound of the friction filling the room, slapping that syncs with the pounding of your heart. your fists grip the sheets, knuckles white, as the tension builds again. it is a steeper climb this time, a more violent ascent.

a wave of heat starts in your toes and rushes upward. you moan, san moans with you, his own pleasure mirroring yours. as you crash into your second orgasm, your body convulsing under him, san dives back in. he presses his face against you, tasting the second wave of your release, his tongue working frantically to catch every single drop.

slowly, he crawls back up your body. skin sliding against yours, leaving a trail of burn in his wake. you crash your lips together, the kiss deep and desperate. between the moist of your tongues intertwining, you taste yourself on him. shared and honest.

as you pull apart for air, your hand wanders down. you feel the waistband of his boxers and realize his pants are gone. you reach down, your fingers brushing against the fabric, and there you feel it, a damp patch soaking through the cotton.

you pull back, a small, breathless laugh escaping your lips. "did you...?" you whisper, glancing down.

san lets out a huff of a laugh, his cheeks slightly flushed. "i think i came when you had that first one. i couldn't help it. just hearing you scream my name like that..."

you giggle and he looks at you with such unfiltered adoration, a surge of desire hits you. more than a physical need, you crave to please him, to give back the intensity he just poured into you.

"i want to taste you too," you say.

his breath hitches. "you don't have to-"

"i do, please. i need to," you reply, shifting your weight. "let me."

you both move, shifting your positions until you are both on your knees, facing each other in the center of the bed. you reach for the waistband of his boxers, sliding them down slowly. as the fabric drops, you already let out a soft moan.

grown. he has grown into a man with a cock that is thick and heavily veined, pulsing with a life of it's own. it stands proud, glistening, the skin stretched tight and flushed. the sight of it, masculine power of him, makes your mouth water.

not touching him yet, you lean in, just letting your breath warm the sensitive skin. you reach out and wrap your fingers around the base, stroking him slowly, your thumb grazing the underside of the shaft. san's eyes flutter shut. he throws his head back, throat exposed, a look of pure pleasure crossing his face. it is the exact same expression he had earlier when he was tasting the ice cream samples at the shop. genuine, childlike wonder and satisfaction.

"fuck," he groans.

you look up at him through your lashes, your hand continuing it's slow glide. you see the way his chest heaves, the way his muscles tense.

"lick it," he whispers, his voice strained. "just like i taught you, just like that."

you smile, secret thing, and lean forward. you start with the tip, your tongue swirling around the skin, catching the drop of pre-cum. you moan into him, the taste of him hitting your palate, uniquely san. you slide your tongue down the length of the shaft, savoring the texture of the veins, the heat of his skin.

san's hand finds your hair. not pushing, simply guiding you, his fingers weaving through your strands. you reach down with your other hand, cupping his balls, massaging them gently. he lets out a loud moan that vibrates through the bed, his hips giving a small involuntary twitch.

before continuing, you reach behind yourself and unclip your bra, sliding the straps off your shoulders and tossing the garment onto the floor. you are now completely naked, sweaty skin glowing in the dim light, body still humming from the orgasms he gave you.

you return your attention to him, opening your mouth wide and sliding him inside. the sensation is immense. he fills you, stretching your jaw, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. you make a soft, muffled sound, but you don't pull away. instead, you lean into it, using your tongue to swirl around him, sucking with a rhythmic intensity.

the sounds return, the squelching noise of your mouth working over him, the sound of his ragged breathing. you can feel him pulsing against your tongue, the tension building in his thighs. you increase the pace, your hand working the base of his cock while your mouth focuses on the tip, creating a vacuum that makes him gasp.

"y/n... god, y/n," he chokes out, his grip on your hair tightening slightly.

you look up at him, teary eyes wide and focused, watching the way his face contorts with pleasure. you want him to feel everything. you want him to know that after ten years of silence and distance, you are here, you are real, and you are entirely his. you swirl your tongue around the ridge, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing. san's breath hitches, his body stiffening. he begins to thrust his hips forward, meeting your mouth, the rhythm becoming frantic.

"fuck, i'm close," he warns, his voice ragged. "i'm so fucking close."

you don't slow down. you encourage him, moaning around him, your hand squeezing his balls as you suck him deeper. the friction is intense, the heat between you reaching a breaking point.

suddenly, he lets out a strangled cry, his body arching as he finally releases. you feel the first hot jet of cum hit the back of your throat, thick and salty. but you don't pull away, you swallow, taking him in, welcoming the mess. he pulses again and again, filling your mouth with his release, his entire body shaking with the force of the climax.

both of you catching your breaths, mingling in the humid air, he collapses forward and rests his forehead against yours. the silence that follows is heavy, but it isn't the lonely silence you've lived with for years. it is a full silence, a shared silence.

you pull back slightly, a bit of white cream glistening on your lip. san looks at you, his eyes soft. tired smile on his face.

"you're amazing," he whispers.

you lean in and kiss him, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue, the messy, gross, perfect reality of your reunion finally settling into your bones. drops of sweat race down your skin, rivers of grime. every breath feels like swallowing warm water. synchronized panting, your hair is a wet tangled mess, damp clumps at the nape of your neck. you lie there, sprawled on the brown and red stains of the sheets.

san lies beside you, his chest heaving, the muscles of his torso pulses with every desperate gulp of oxygen. his skin is slick under the dim light of the room. you shift, the friction of your damp thighs against the sheets creating a sticky sound. you turn your head, looking at him, and that is when you see it.

etched into the side of his torso, just above the curve of his hip, is a tattoo. the ink is dark, the lines clean, it seems recently done. you squint, tracing the letters with your eyes. a, n, n, a.

"you have a tattoo," you whisper, raspy, stripped raw by the moans you had been letting out moments before.

san lets out a shaky exhale, his head falling back against the pillow. he doesn't look at you, but a smile touches his lips.

"noticed it, huh?"

fingertips grazing the ink. the skin is hot, almost burning. he finally turns his head, his dark eyes searching yours. there is a vulnerability there, a raw edge that only ever comes out when he is completely undone.

"well, she has my name," san says, his voice low and steady. "i guess i had to return the favor."

you feel a lump form in your throat. the thought of him carrying her name on his skin, a permanent reminder to the woman who had been a phantom for most of his life, makes your chest ache.

"that's sweet, san. really sweet."

he hums, doesn't say anything more about it, letting the moment settle. you find yourself wondering what else you have missed. ten years is a canyon, a gap wide enough to swallow an entire identity. you start to move, your hand sliding from his ribs down toward his stomach, your palm skimming over the hard planes of his abdomen. you check the crook of his arm, the slope of his shoulder, searching for other marks, other secrets written in ink.

"do you have any others?" you ask, your voice trailing off as your fingers return to his shoulders.

san shakes his head. "just that one."

the silence returns, but it is different now. the tension has shifted from the frantic energy of lust to something heavier, something more permanent. his hand moves, sliding down the curve of your hip to find your ass. he squeezes, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, gentle pressure. he massages the muscle, slow warmth through your lower back.

you lean in, the space between you vanishing once again. lazily dragging your tongue against his. slow exploration, you lick his tongue, tasting him, wanting to feel the texture of him, the way his breath hitches when you suck gently on the tip of his tongue. it is a lingering sensory exchange, a way of confirming that he is actually here, that he isn't a hallucination.

after a few small wet pecks, you shift your weight. pushing yourself up, sliding your body over his until you are perched on top of him, your knees flanking his hips.

"do you actually still like me?" you ask, the words coming out small. "like this? like you remember?"

san doesn't answer immediately. he reaches up, his hand trembling slightly as he brushes a stray lock of wet hair away from your forehead. feather light, as if you might break if he presses too hard.

—"i never stopped loving you," he says, and the certainty in his voice is a physical force. "not for a single second. the versions of you i kept in my head... they were always the real you. the messy parts, the quiet parts, that's where home is for me. you're the only one for me, y/n. i'll love you forever."

the air leaves your lungs in a sudden rush. you lean down, pressing your forehead against his, your eyes closing. "i love you too," you whisper. "so much it hurts."

you stay like that for a long time, the only sound the synchronized thrum of your hearts. the heat of the room seems to fade into the background, replaced by the heat radiating between your bodies.

"did you..." you start, then hesitate, your voice wavering. "somewhere between the years... were you with anyone else?"

san pulls back just enough to look at you. he doesn't blink. "no. i couldn't. every time i tried to imagine someone else, it just felt like i was lying to myself. it was always supposed to be you."

you feel a tear prick the corner of your eye, slipping down your cheek to merge with the sweat. "me too. i tried to forget, or to find something that felt like you, but nothing ever fit. it was always just a void."

san's hands slide up to your waist, his grip tightening. "we're not letting go again. i don't care where life tries to send us. i'm staying right here."

"yeah?"

"yeah," he smiles. "it's you and me, baby. until the day we die."

the emotional weight of the confession ignites something new. the tenderness transforms, sharpening back into desire. you kiss him again, but this time there is a hunger to it, a desperate need to fuse your bodies together until there is no distinction between where you end and he begins. you press your chest against his, your nipples rubbing against his skin, electricity straight to your core.

you shift your hips, grinding slowly against him. you feel the length of his cock pressing against the back of your thigh. he is getting hard again, the heat of him seeping through your skin. you start to rock yourself and as you move, you feel your blood rubbing off onto his lower stomach, painting a smear of deep red across his skin. but it doesn't matter, it's just another part of the honesty between you, of your beautiful connection.

"i'm yours," you moan, the words breaking as you arch your back. "i'm yours, san."

the kisses grow hungrier, more aggressive. your tongues clash and tangle, swapping saliva in a frantic exchange. you reach down between your bodies, your fingers finding the head of his cock. it is pulsing, leaking a bead of clear pre-cum that smears against your finger. you guide him, the tip of him brushing against your entrance and sink down slowly.

overwhelming stretch, sliding pressure as he fills you. smooth, gliding, made for him. you let out a long breath as you take him all the way in. you stay there for a moment, frozen, simply feeling the sheer size of him inside you. you are stretched tight, your internal walls clinging to him, pulsing in time with your heartbeat. 

slowly down, then you start to bounce.

the mattress beneath you feels like a heater, the fabric absorbing the heat of your bodies and radiating it back up into you. hips circling as you sink and rise. each downward thrust creates a clap of flesh against flesh, the sound of air being pushed out of your orifice.

"oh god, san," you gasp, your head tossing back, your hair whipping around your face.

"that's it, baby, fuck..." san's hands move to your hips, his fingers digging in, helping you find the rhythm. he audibly moans as he watches you, eyes wide and glazed with lust, watching the way your breasts jiggle and bounce with every movement, the way your skin flushes. "you feel so good," his voice cracking. "so tight. fuck, y/n, you're so perfect."

the sound of your bodies colliding, the slap of his balls, fill the room. friction builds, coil of tension tightens in your lower belly. you lean forward, pressing your palms into his chest, your nails digging into his skin. climax building, you moan louder, your voice turning into a series of broken cries. you push yourself down harder, grinding your clit against the base of his shaft, seeking that final spark.

sharp hitches, his grip on your hips tightens until it almost hurts, his knuckles white, muscles locking as he reaches his limit.

"cum with me," he chokes out. "cum with me, princess!"

screaming his name, your internal muscles clamping down on him. at that exact moment, san thrusts upward one last time, burying himself as deep as he can possibly go. finally, the hot jet of his cum hits you, burst of warmth that seems to flood your entire core. wave after wave of seed filling you up, the sensation so intense it leaves you breathless.

leaning back on your heels to look down. san is still panting, his eyes half-closed, a look of absolute peace on his face. you look down at the junction of your bodies. as he slowly slides out of you, a mixture of white cum and deep red blood drips down the curve of your pussy, painting your thighs and his.

you collapse onto his chest, pinned to him by gravity and exhaustion, stagnant soup, as the world slowly stops spinning.

୨୧

warm puff against the nape of your neck, you are both coated in a thin film of sweat, limbs tangled, sliding hoarsely whenever you move. you blink at the discarded clothes on the floor before glancing at the clock on the bedside table.

it's time for an appointment with dr. kim.

carefully, you peel your skin away from his, making him stir. his gaze hazy with sleep, but the devotion in his eyes lingers.

"you're leaving?" thick with sleep, he reaches for you, his hand sliding over the curve of your hip, leaving a trail of warmth on your damp skin.

"i have an appointment," you whisper, your voice sounding small in the heavy air. "with my therapist, i can't miss it."

san pulls you back toward him, his chest pressing against your back. he smells like sweat and the intimacy of the last twelve hours. he nuzzles into your shoulder, morning breath brushing against your skin. "stay. just for an hour."

"i can't, san. i really can't."

smeared blood on your thighs, stickiness between your legs. you have to hide this from the world, so you rush into the bathroom. steaming torrent, you scrub yourself hard, using a washcloth to scour away the evidence of the night.

when you emerge, dressed in a muted tones, san is sitting on the edge of the bed. he is naked, looking entirely at home amidst the growing clutter of your room.

"you can stay," you tell him, leaning over to kiss him. "just... stay here. i'll be back in a few hours."

san smiles lazily. "i'm not going anywhere."

you leave the apartment towards the oppressive glare of summer sun. the city is baking, heat waves dancing over the hoods of cars.

dr. kim’s office smells of lavender and paper. she sits across from you, her expression neutral, her eyes observant. she is the only person who knows the depths of your loneliness, though she only knows the version of the truth you allow her to see.

"you seem restless today," she says calmly. "is something on your mind?"

you shift in the chair, the fabric rubbing against your skin. "just the heat," you lie. "it's making it hard to focus."

dr. kim nods slowly, leaning back in her chair. she doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. "let's talk about the apartment. how has the maintenance been?"

"it's fine," you say, your voice steady despite the drumming of your heart. "i've been keeping up with it. it's... it's clean."

she pauses, her gaze lingering on your face. you avoid eye contact, fingers twitch against your lap. "and the urges? the shopping? have you felt the need to bring anything new into the home?"

"no, i haven't. i'm doing better. i just... i'm just tired."

dr. kim sighs, a sound of mild skepticism. "you know, the impulse to hoard is often a response to feeling unseen. a way of filling a void. when we surround ourselves with things, we create a physical barrier between ourselves and the world that makes us feel insignificant."

"i'm not a hoarder," you interrupt, sharper than intended. "it just gets messy sometimes."

"there is a difference between a lack of organization and a pathological need to retain items that no longer serve a purpose," dr. kim replies calmly. "do you still fee unseen? do you still feel that void?"

"i feel... okay," you say. "i'm managing."

"you're very protective of your privacy, which is understandable," she says. "but remember that progress isn't a straight line. it's okay to slip. it's okay to be messy. you don't need a perfect home right now."

you nod, though you are currently hiding everything.

when the session ends and you said your goodbyes, you didn't know that'd be the last time you saw her, at least for a while. because why would you want to be cured when the filth is the only thing that keeps the world out? why would you want to be clean when san looks at you and sees what no one else sees?

yellowed, faded, curling at the edges. many old receipts, candy wrappers, plastic lids and bus tickets later, san has settled into your home like a glove. musk of two people who can't leave the bedroom or the living room. you can taste the stagnation on your tongue, repulsing neglect.

you shift, feeling the scratchy fabric of the couch beneath you. you both tried to go to the bedroom an hour ago, but the bed had become a mountain of unfolded laundry and a few oversized plushies you'd bought in a manic shopping spree last tuesday, and you can't let those touch the floor. neither of you had the energy to move it, so you had simply migrated to the sofa.

swirling your tongue around the head of his cock, san lets out a sharp gasp, his fingers digging into the upholstery of the couch. you hear the fabric strain, rip echoing in the quiet room, but you don't stop. you take him in, sliding your lips and pushing deeper.

he reaches down, his hand tangling in your hair.

"you're so... fuck, you're so good at this," he chokes out.

you don't answer, instead focusing on the sensation of him filling you. you slide off and then plunge back down, throat tightening around him. you hear the air being pushed out of the small space between your lips and his skin, popping sound every time you pull back.

you swallow his cum down in greedy gulps, the liquid sliding down your throat as he pulses inside you, emptying completely. a thin string of saliva and semen connects your lip to the head of his cock. you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, profound satisfaction.

"are you ready to go?" he whispers, looking at you still in a daze.

"yeah," you answer, giving him a small nod.

the door clicks shut behind you. san walks beside you, carrying your shoes in one hand, his other hand locked firmly in yours. the moment your bare soles hit the asphalt, you gasp. the ground is scorching, searing heat biting into your skin. it's almost too much, but the burning pain is a physical manifestation of the summer.

you're both laughing like children, jumping from one patch of shade to another, then intentionally stepping back onto the hot pavement just to feel the sizzle.

"aw! you're pushing me!" you laugh, skipping ahead of him.

"careful, careful!" san pulls you closer.

as you approach the storefront of 'sweet nothings', you stop just outside the door. san turns to you, pins you against the glass door. his kiss is passionate, desperate, he sucks on your lower lip, his tongue sliding into your mouth to claim you. you moan into the kiss, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him as close as possible. he pulls away, breathless, his forehead resting against yours.

"i'll see you later," he whispers. "i love you."

"i love you too," you reply, giggling and giving him a small peck.

he gives you one last squeeze and walks away, disappearing around the corner of the street. you stand there for a moment, catching your breath, before turning to unlock the door. the cool tiles of the shop floor feeling refreshing against your overheated soles. minutes later, the bell above the door rings.

"morning!" wooyoung bellows, his voice echoing through the empty shop. you notice his nose immediately crinkles, but decided to ignore it. "ready to sell frozen water to the masses?"

you smile, leaning your elbows on the counter. "morning, wooyoung."

suddenly, his eyes drop, his gaze locking onto your bare feet. "uh, y/n?" he asks, his voice tilting upward. "did you forget something?"

you look down at your bare toes, then back up at him, feeling a flush of heat rise to your cheeks. "oh, san forgot to give me my shoes." you already regret putting the guilt on him.

"oh, you want my shoes?" he reaches for his ankle sympathetically and you quickly stop him, shaking your head.

"no, no... it's actually kind of nice. the floor is cooling."

"alright, well. how's my man san? i didn't catch him this morning."

"he's... he's fine." you mutter, smiling.

before clients could barge in, you notice how wooyoung keeps going back and forth between checking the stock and the bathroom.

"is everything okay?" you ask from the counter.

"there's a smell," he says, waving a hand in front of his face. "like... something died in the walls? it's a weird smell, y/n. i can't tell exactly where it's coming from."

you freeze. for a split second, your mind flashes back to your apartment, to the smell of the undone dishes, the scent of suffocation. subtly, you check the smell of your armpits.

the day passes by in a blur, your wrists aching from the repetitive flick of the wrist. as you serve the clients on autopilot, you wonder if the smell is a cloud following you, a visible vapor of your secret life. you wonder if the customers notice. the woman ordering a double scoop of chocolate looks at you, then glances down at your bare feet, her expression confused. suddenly, you're afraid the apartment will pour out of you.

the hours bleed into one another. you feel a crushing weight of guilt under the pastel yellow fabric. you're a lie. the smile is a lie. what you've maintained for years is a thin sheet of ice, and san is the heat melting it from underneath.

the chime of the door announces gilbert. he enters with a burst of genuine warmth.

"afternoon, crew!" gilbert booms. "hope the heat isn't killing you two. i brought iced teas."

wooyoung beams, sliding across the floor to greet him. "gilbert! save me, man. i'm melting."

gilbert laughs, setting the drinks on the counter. he looks at you while your gaze is fixed on a spot of dried syrup on the counter.

"you okay, kiddo?" he asks.

"i'm fine, gilbert. thank you for the tea."

he doesn't move, head tilted. he reaches out and pats your shoulder. "can you step into the back for a second? just a quick chat."

you follow him into the small storage room, surrounded by boxes of cones and napkins. the air here is cooler, but it feels tighter. gilbert leans against a stack of crates, his expression shifting from cheerful to concerned.

"i ran into audrey yesterday," he says. her name makes you cringe. you stare at the linoleum floor, noticing a small crack in the corner. "she mentioned she hasn't seen you in a while," gilbert continues. "two months, she said. she sounded worried. she didn't give me details, of course, but she asked if everything was alright."

you keep your eyes on the floor. the silence stretches, filled only by the distant sound of wooyoung laughing with a customer in the front. you feel exposed, as if gilbert can see through your skin, straight into your cluttered ruins.

"i'm better," you say. your voice is a thin thread. "i don't need therapy anymore. i've... i've made a lot of progress on my own."

gilbert sighs, but it's not a sigh of disbelief. "you sure about that? you know i'm here for you. if things are getting heavy, or if you just need a few days off to get your head straight, you just have to ask. i don't care about the schedule more than i care about you."

"i'm okay," you insist, finally looking up. you force a nod. "really. i'm just in a better place."

he studies your face. for a moment, you think he sees the lie. you think he sees the depression that has morphed from a sharp pain into constant ache. but then he smiles, the creases around his eyes deepening. "alright. i believe you. just keep me in the loop, okay?"

"i will."

he starts to turn away, but then his gaze drops. he stops. he looks at your feet, his eyebrows shoot up. "y/n, where are your shoes?"

you shift your weight, curling your toes against the cold floor, sudden embarrassment. "i forgot them," you whisper, wanting the conversation to be done already.

gilbert rubs the back of his neck. "i... i'll let it pass this time. i really will. but you cannot come to work barefoot. it's a safety hazard, not to mention a health code nightmare if someone drops a scoop or breaks a glass. please, for the love of everything, wear shoes tomorrow."

"i will. i'm sorry."

"it's fine, just don't let it happen again." he says with a small chuckle, patting your arm before heading back out to the shop.

you stay in the storage room for a minute longer, breathing in the scent of cardboard. when the shift ends, san is already waiting for you outside, as always. the moment you see him, the tension in your shoulders snaps. the world stops being a place of expectations and lies.

"wooyoung noticed a smell," you say, your voice returning to it's natural quiet cadence.

san glances at you, a small, curious smile playing on his lips. "what smell?"

"i don't know, i think your smell might be clinging to me." san lets out a short, huffing laugh. he pulls you closer, his arm sliding around your waist. "we'll have to shower when we get home," you add.

"what? i thought you liked it stinky." he squeezes your waist teasingly.

you laugh softly. "no, i don't"

"liar," he says. "you used to be way worse in high school. remember that one summer? you didn't change your socks for a week because you were too busy reading those old manga volumes in the crawlspace."

you nudge him hard in the ribs with your elbow. "i was fifteen! and you were right there with me. you were the one who brought a half eaten bags of chips into the space, remember?"

"i was providing," he counters, grinning. "besides, you loved it."

"i did not," you lie, you remember the feeling of being gross and unkempt with him. "you're the one who liked it. you're a freak."

"a freak you're still in love with," he says.

before you can respond, he suddenly hooks his arms under your armpits and lifts you off the ground. you let out a shriek of surprise, your legs dangling in the air. he starts to shake you as if you were simply a bag of potatoes, making your head bob and your laughter escalate. the yellow dress flutters around you.

"put me down!" you scream, though you're clinging to his shoulders.

"not until you admit i smell like heaven!" he shouts back, his laughter echoing through the quiet street.

you laugh until your stomach hurts, until the guilt of the day and the fear fade into the background. after a few seconds, he sets you down, but he doesn't let go.

"let's go home," he whispers.

you nod, taking his hand and leading the way back to the suffocating ruin you've built together.

when you finally reach the front door, the familiarity of the struggle greets you. you reach for the knob, but the door only creaks open a few inches before hitting a wall of resistance. you can see it through the gap, trash.

"i've got it," san whispers. he steps forward, his shoulder pressing against the door. with a forceful shove, the barrier gives way and the door swings open.

quickly, he grabs you, pulling you flush against him, and crashes his lips onto yours. his tongue pushes past your lips, seeking yours with a hunger that mirrors your own.

"god, i've been thinking about this since i dropped you off," he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot and ragged.

you don't answer with words. you can't. you just lean back, guiding him deeper into the house. 

the couch is barely visible behind a mountain of blankets and books you found for free at the side of the road. san shoves away some soda cans, they roll away to be forgotten and lays you down, looming over you, his eyes dark with love and raw lust.

soon naked as usual, he enters you. slow, deliberate push. thick and hot, filling the void inside you in a way that nothing else ever could.

"do you like it?" he asks, guttural rasp.

"yes," you breathe, your fingers digging into his shoulders. "please, san. don't stop."

he begins to move, vibrating through your entire frame, his cock sliding in and out of your heat. with every thrust, the couch shifts beneath you, and you can feel the hard edges of things pressing into your back. a stray plastic toy, a heart shaped can, a remote control. they are all there, witnessing this.

as the friction builds, san shifts his weight. he reaches down, grasping your ankles. he pulls your legs back, exposing your dirty feet and brings it to his mouth. he slides your big toe past his lips, sucking on it with a slow, deliberate intensity. his tongue swirls around the digit, tasting the salt and the dirt, his eyes never leaving yours. he moans with you, together.

while he alternates between your toes, sucking and licking them with a devotion that borders on the religious, he continues to pound into you even more desperate. vulgar act and unwavering love in his eyes.

you feel yourself peaking, internal muscles clamping down on him, milking him with every thrust. you can feel his cock swelling inside you.

"i love you," he groans, his voice breaking. "i love every single part of you."

the words are the catalyst. both of you shatter and you scream into the crook of his neck. for a long time, neither of you speaks. the only sound your combined breathing.

those professional cleaners, the ones who left a nasty void, an obscurity, an emptiness that made you feel like you were disappearing. it was all gone now. underneath san, under the piles of junk, you don't want to change. you don't want the clean house.

you know that as the piles grow, the things at the bottom will become unreachable. you know you'll forget they exist, and that you'll eventually go out and buy the exact same things again, adding to the mountain. the thought brings you peace. the cycle of acquisition and burial is the only thing that makes the silence of your life bearable.

only he knows the hunger that gnaws at your gut, the desperate need to possess things that the world has forgotten. only san can wash away the sadness. he shifts, kissing your forehead and smiles.

"let's go have that shower," he whispers.

୨୧

masterlist.

"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.