S A R A H

Once, you had thought he would've, could've, loved you. A child's dream, you realize now. An arranged marriage could never bring forth love, not when it was put in motion by scheming parents who thought of a future long after they were dead. Your marriage to Paul had made sure your family's name would never fade into obscurity, your parents had gotten your weight in jewels and coin’ a thousand times over, your marriage had meant everything to them. To you. But to Paul, to his family?

You had been a punishment. The closest and prettiest broodmare. His parents had thought it would stop his wandering, his rebellion in loving a savage girl who lived planets away. You had looked similar enough, curly hair, brown eyes and brown skin, they thought you enough to quell his hunger. But one can not simply trade swords, sand and love for silk, stars and a willing cunt. They never stopped to think how this would affect you, how his anger towards them, towards the universe would slowly turn to you.

Paul never hit you, never yelled and, somehow, this was a fate worse than any death.

Paul seldom spoke to you. You could count on one hand how many times he looked at you in the past four years. For four years, you had raised your son with the echo of his father, a shadow you caught out of a corner of your eye. You knew he made time for his son, the boy never kept these things a secret, the man dragged his son everywhere and anywhere, they rode horses together, danced and painted. In your eyes, he had gathered all the stars in the sky and displayed them for Oliver and left you in the dark. You both raised your son, never in the same room, never speaking ill of each other or to each other. It was, is, a cruel existence.

“Mama,” Your son's voice is a whine, he pulls at your hand for your attention, letting his body go limp in the opposite direction trusting you wouldn't let him fall. “‘M hungry.”

He's not hungry, you think. He had just eaten an hour or so ago, snacked a few minutes before. He's bored, his coloring forgotten in his effort to bother you and that somehow, worked up his appetite. Ollie whines when you don't so much as move under his effort, you keep your arm locked, your fingers gently wrapped his smaller brown hand. Still, you relent, caving just a bit as you think back to all the times you went hungry in childhood because your mother was worried for your figure. Sure, he wasn't hungry but he was willing to eat. You rather him eat something now than him having an unhealthy relationship with food in the long run. “Yeah? What do you want, Bubba?”

He brightens, drawing closer to you but never letting go of your hand. “Can I haves pie?”

You give him a look, wiggling your fingers in his grasps, he giggles as the tips of them dance under his chin and curls further into your space. “It's ‘can I have’ and no you may not.” You shush his annoyed whine with a kiss to his forehead and you stand from your chair, picking him up as you go. You sulked long enough, motherhood never ends and now your son wants attention and you are eager to give it to him. “But, you can have a sandwich. Do you want turkey or–”

“Can I haves–” Oliver interrupts excitedly then pauses, starting again just as excited. “Can I have the jam one? The one grandma gives me?”

You're already nodding your head in agreement before he even finishes, a short hum leaving you. You haven't the faintest idea what he's talking about, of course, your mind goes to the simple answer: a grape and peanut butter spread, a simple and favorite of yours when you were pregnant with Oliver but then you backtrack almost instantly. Jessica has a taste for the finer, sweeter, things in life. Expensive things. You love your mother-in-law dearly, deeply, but whatever jam she's giving your son is probably from some secret collection she only pulls out for him and with her being off planet, you have no access to it. No matter, you've dealt with worse and Oliver will survive without her expensive jam. You'll just make sure he gets a little something extra with this snack, not a slice of pie but maybe juice… a few candied nuts, even?

You ponder silently to yourself as you leave your room. Ollie talks your ear off— something about his grandfather, about the older man taking him to see bulls and whatnot, you respond halfheartedly, humming in acknowledgement. As you walk from your wing of the estate, servants bow at their waist, greetings of, ‘My lady,’ wash right over you as you pass, you only truly pay mind to the ones who greet Ollie before the greet you, slowing your pace to let the boy twist in your arms and greet them happily. A talker he is, curious and somewhat loud, the various servants respond just as eager to him as he is to them. It's an endearing sight and you find yourself smiling as he converses, a smile that quickly falls at the sound of a familiar name calling out to you.

“Lady Wife!”

Your eye nearly twitches at the title. You dismiss the servant with a dim smile and Oliver squirms out of your arms to rush to his father. You hesitate to turn and face him but having your son out of sight so close to him makes you a bit nervous, you turn only to pause. Paul kneels before his son, running a delicate hand through the boy's curly mass of hair, his green eyes sparkle as he smiles at his son. He pokes at the boy's chubby stomach and smiles wider, brighter, when Ollie giggles leaning into him. He looks handsome today, more present than he ever was for you. His hair looks clean, freshly washed, glossy and swept out of his face— you've grown so used to him wearing ridiculously fancy suits that seeing him wearing a tunic and a simple pair of pants sends your mind blanking.

You only realize you're staring longer than you should when Duncan— has he been standing there the whole time?— clears his throat. There's a slight humor that dances across his face when he sees your own mortification but it's gone quickly as he bows his head towards you, your name leaves his lips in a pleasant, near whisper as he regards you, “Where are you off to?”

“The kitchens.” You answer, smiling when he cocks his head in a silent question. “Not for me, Ollie is hungry and I was going to make him something.”

Paul makes a noise from the ground, a grunt but doesn't rise nor pull away from his boy. “We have servants for that, Wife.”

“And there won't always be servants, Husband.” You reply harsher than you intend and Paul's widen eyes snap away from your son to you in shock. You look away before your eyes can meet and they fall to the other guard by the mens' side. He's tall, taller than Paul but not quite as tall as Duncan; his dark hair is pin straight and slicked back but there are a few strands that purposely, stylishly, hang in his face. His eyebrows raise slightly as he watches you take him in and he puffs up under your gaze. He squares his shoulders, shifts his feet and folds his hands behind his back and when your eyes meet again, he gives you a wink.

Oh, you like him.

You huff a laugh, “Your name, soldier?”

“Emmett, My lady.”

You wave a dismissive hand, “Please, you may call me my name. Only my husband ever calls me Lady.” Duncan snorts and Paul doesn't respond, doesn't care to. He stands and your son is in his arms, still talking but in a whisper. Odd. “I haven't seen you around before, promoted recently?”

Emmett's lips quirk into an easy smile and his lips part to answer you but Paul steps into your line of sight and interrupts him. “I am going to visit a friend, but I must stop to visit my mother first. Oliver wants to go.”

Your brow dips. Your husband, Paul, didn't have friends. Not one. His words not yours, he has his parents, a guard and an advisor; Duncan and Gurney. He has you, his wife and even then you hesitate to describe yourself as much. Your mind racks itself for information and then it finds something. A sand covered, golden skinned, something.

It's been two weeks since he's stepped out on you for her. Two weeks— nearly three, he almost broke his record.

You will yourself not to be sick but the sudden bout of nausea is harsh, hot and it sends a bile creeping up the back of your throat. Your heart can't seem to decide what it wants to do, it tries to thunder— to pound its way out of your chests but it trips, stutters and damn near stops at the idea of him bringing your son to see that woman. You clear your throat and try not to scream; are you not good enough? You have wept for the man before you, bled and produce a fucking heir to continue his legacy. And yet…

You clear your throat again, you can't help it. Years of training fly straight into the sun. You know how to read, to cook and manage estates, you know how to hold a sword and parry a strike, you know because you were trained. Rigorously, endlessly. But it still leaves you unprepared because no one ever, ever trained to be emotionless in the face of the person who was supposed to love you the most. You were married off young to another young person for this very reason, the time spent together as you grew older was supposed to grow your love, to nurture it so by the time you were both older you would be an united front. An unshakable unit.

You wish you could throw the pieces of your marriage at all who thought it was a good idea. You want to roar; is this what you wanted? Is this the front you dreamed of? But the training, that god-damned training kicks in and you steel yourself. For the sake of your son. For the sake of your sanity. “Oliver has lessons he can't skip.”

Paul makes a face and your boy whines in his arms, “I'm sure he can afford to miss one, he's just a boy.”

Your nails dig into your palm and your lips pull up into a humorless grin. “You said that last time when you took him riding. Again when you said painting would be a better lesson. He has missed too many lessons, boy or not, he is a future leader and it is good we do this while he is young.” You unclench your fist and soften, just slightly as you draw closer to your husband, to the boy who pouts at you in his arms. You extend yours and he goes easily, much to Paul's dismay. “Come on, sweet boy. I promised you a snack, leave your father to play with his toys.”

Paul watches you leave with thin lips, his teeth clenching. He doesn't have to be smart to see the insult when you bare it to him unabashedly. Even if it wasn't directed at him, he is offended on her behalf. He lingers in his spot for a moment longer, stewing in a petty anger— how is he ever supposed to try with you when you hate everything he loves?

Duncan calls his name and when he looks at the man, there's a deep frown on his face. The look of disappointment is something he's familiar with, it's an age-old argument between him, between his parents, between her about how he treats you. Well, not you but your feelings. Duncan won't say anything about it anymore, not when he knows he won't listen, not when he knows the exact words Paul will say back to him.

'What of my feelings? Why do I have to suffer in a marriage I did not want— a marriage I protested the very idea of? I gave the family an heir. The least they can do is let me finally be happy.'

The two men look at each other and like always, Paul is the first to look away. He turns on his heels, his shoulder colliding with Emmett's who still stares after you instead of watching the tense moment before him and his oldest friend. He storms down the hall, his steps sure but fast, Paul runs from it all. From his responsibilities, his power, from you. Paul always runs.

Emmett lets out a whistle— he and Duncan linger behind their fuming ward— and Duncan raises a brow at the sound. Emmett smiles, dipping his head in your direction, “A proper one that one is. Real easy on the eyes.”

Duncan's brow drops, annoyed. “She is to command you.”

“Trust me, ser. I'd do anything she asked.”

Duncan resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's not like Emmett is the only one to fall for your looks, he has had to rotate multiple guards because of it— most, if not all, of them never tried anything other than looking but he couldn't bring himself to listen to all the vile things they said and when they tried touching, well. You could handle yourself just fine but Duncan doesn't deny the enjoyment he gets from acting on your behalf.

Still. Still, there are ones that you enjoy. There are some he can't send away and he pretends it doesn't bother him. It's the game, the chase of it all, he sees how you blossom under the attention, his attention. Sometimes, he sees it. The flickering lust in your eyes when a pretty soldier leans in real close or when he cradles your face. But you aren't like your husband, not like Paul because you never give in and while Paul has been stepping out on you for years, this small streak of rebellion only started up a few months ago.

Duncan shakes his thoughts clear and then swallows his annoyance. It goes down like shards of glass and lemon juice; he can't send Emmett away, not yet. Not when he's good at what he does and not when you blossom under his attention. He settles for indifference, a dry indifference as he mutters. “She’d eat you alive.”

He ignores Emmett's cheeky reply of, “Stars, I hope so.”

“How is she?”

Arrakis smells sweeter than he remembers. It's hotter too, the sun set a few hours ago but the heat still clings to the air, to the sand that's almost uncomfortable to sit on. He sucks it up though because it feels like home and the sight is as pretty as it is familiar.

Said sight shifts when he doesn't answer, the fire light is gold against her face and her eyes are sapphire jewels in the night. Her fingers move quickly, steadily as she weaves her basket. Two bowls sit before her, one bigger than the other filled with a liquid that isn't water but safe for enough to handle and thin pieces of wood, the other bowl is filled with beads made of rocks, wood, bone and whatever else the carvers deemed bead worthy. “Muad'Dib,” She says and when he still doesn't answer her, she snaps. “Paul.”

It's enough to pull him from his thoughts, he blinks at her then he frowns. “She’s fine. I tell you the same thing every time you ask, I doubt it will change.”

Chani pauses in her weaving. “You told me she was sad once.”

He had. It was an off comment from years ago, when you cried and cried, and cried. Back then, it was rare to see you dry-eyed, rare to see you outside your room but you had gotten over it. You are fine now, you don't cry, you don't shout or pitch a true fit like he's seen other women do. You're just… fine. He thinks of your face when he told you he was leaving, that practiced control but the twitch of your lips giving you away. You were angry, maybe. But not angry enough to lash out, you were okay stewing in it. And that was fine. To you, to Paul. Everything is fine.

When Chani sees he isn't going to reply, she sighs again. Her fingers start to move again, faster than before and Paul tries not to be awed at the sight. She's a master at her craft, something he so rarely sees nowadays, “Nevermind.” She says and before he can speak, she asks, “How is Oliver?”

The smile that falls on Paul's face is easy. “He’s wonderful. His studies are going well– his tutors say he's picking up reading faster than I ever did.” He looks away from Chani and plays with the fabric of his pants, “I wanted him to come today.”

The thin piece of wood between Chani's fingers snapped. She looks up at him, her blue tinted eyes furious, “No, Paul.”

Still, he tries, “He would love you. If she only gave it a chance–”

“Do you hear yourself?” She hisses and he flinches at the tone. “You want to bring another woman's child to me? Do you hate her so much that you'd go this far to disrespect her?”

“I do not hate her. I could never hate her she is the mother of my child–”

“She is so much more than that.” She snaps. “She is your wife. She is the keeper of your estate, she is a person, a woman, you continuously hurt by visiting me.”

Again. It is always that argument, always the flag they throw up, the sand they throw into his eyes. It's always you, you, you. Why can't it never be him? Why can't he ever think for himself? Want more for himself? Paul shifts where he sits, “You wouldn't understand.” He whispers. Chani wouldn't, couldn't, get it. She's not him, she has never been in his place, she has never loved him as he loved her, she just wouldn't get it.

There is a certain fury that settles on Chani's face. It is thunderous, all consuming, a lightning storm that threatens to strike him thrice over and then, it clears. Faster than he can blink and she's standing, throwing the rest of her weaving into the fire. “Grow up, Paul.”

And he's at a loss for words. “What?”

“Grow. Up.” She says again, as if she hasn't said something world tilting. Paul feels like his chest is collapsing, like the sand around him is starting to swallow him whole. “I have put up with it for years. You complain about things not being fair to you.” She shakes her head, gathering all her finished baskets and her bowls of beads. “You complain and complain and complain. Do you see where I live? Do you see what my people have to do to survive? What do you know of struggle? Of suffering? You cry and whine about loving me, about caring for me but having to suffer a fate of never having me. I am not an object to own. I am not a prize to wave in your wife's face.”

She looks at him then, her face grim, haunting in the fire's light. “What do you know of suffering when you are here with me and she's alone with your son? What do you know of pain when she bled to produce an heir for you? I love you, Paul. As a friend, always a friend. Only a friend and I can't just sit here and pretend like you aren't ruining lives over petty childishness. Go to her, love her, see her as she is.”

“I–” Paul stumbles to his feet, nearly tripping to reach out to her. “I can't– do not do this to me, Chani– please, do not do this.”

Pity. There is only pity on her face. “Go home, Paul.” and she leaves him. Standing alone in the Arrakis' desert, surrounded by sand, stars and the sweet smelling wind, Paul begins to weep.

It is hard to play dumb but…

“Higher, my lady…”

Emmett's voice makes you shiver slightly and you all but let yourself relax in his warm arms. They circle you, his hands on your elbows raising and steadying the bow in your hands. You force yourself to let your fingers shake and smile when his hands leave your elbows to hover over yours. He slides a forefinger over the back of your hand before it hooks under your wrist and holds the bow true. “Release.”

Whoooosh! Thunk.

The arrow misses.

Emmett lets out a polite laugh, his breath brushing against your ear and it's enough to make you bite your lip. If playing the role of the defenseless noblewoman was enough to get him this close, you think you'd do it all the time. “You’re laughing at me?”

“Not at you, my lady.” He chuckles. His warm embrace leaves you as he takes a step forward, a hand playfully gliding past your waist as he does— he goes for the many missed arrows from the previous tries and shoots you a smile. “At the situation, I suppose.”

“Oh?” You ask, coyly. “And what's funny about the situation, Ser Emmett? My lack of skill with the bow or my streak of missing the target.”

He gathers the arrows, his smile growing a tad impish as he picks up the last as twirls it between his fingers. Your eyes follow the movement instinctively— it glides between his nimble fingers, around and under, under and around— Emmett ends the small show with a flip of the arrow, catching it by the small bit of the notch, the dull arrowhead tapping against his lips. “What's funny is… the famed daughter of a very noble hunting family needs help with a bow.” The arrowhead presses into his lip when he smiles, “I heard said daughter used to bring down bucks the size of small shuttles but now she stands before me as if she never handled a bow.”

You tut, annoyed you've been caught but delighted he knew so much about you. “You aren't the only one who can do research.” You say, you move forward with graceful steps, till the both of you are face to face. “Emmett Deacon. That is an old name, you know. But strange as Lord Deacon has no heirs or living relatives besides his wife. Now, it is unbecoming of me to gossip– to listen to the words of those who whisper behind backs but… but I was, am, curious about you, Emmett.”

This close, you notice his eyes are green. They are far darker than the eyes of your husband, Duncan or Jessica. Emmett's eyes are the color of the forest after a thunderstorm; when everything is still dark near black underneath the clearing clouds. Emmett grins at your closeness, his eyes glinting, promising some type of mischief. “Careful now, my lady.” He teases, his voice light despite the subtle redness creeping up his neck, “You walk a dangerous line, some men would take offense to what you are attempting to imply.”

Carefully, you pull the arrow from the man's grasp, your lips quirk up in a humorless smile as you take a step away from him. “Attempting, Implying? Make no mistake, Emmett, I know what you are.” You give the man your back as you face another untouched target. Mentally, you thank yourself for having the thought to scatter them about the training area before approaching Emmett under the guise of needing guidance. This target is much closer to the door, just a few paces to the right.

“Do you?”

Suddenly you are warm. He is pressed right up against you, his hands on your hips pulling you flush against his body and you barely bite back a shiver as you right your posture as if he wasn't there. His breath comes out ragged, fanning against your ear and he holds you so tight he scrunches your silks. Emmett is pretty as he is eager for you, desperate almost. It is not what you usually go for but the men you usually do go far were always so hesitant, reminding you of your husband or the ever watchful Duncan. Emmett fears neither, it makes you like him more but you are not an idiot, Emmett Deacon doesn't exist outside of the Atreides Castle. Lord Deacon has no legitimate heirs, only bastards, hundreds of bastards he refuses to recognize unless they make a name of their own. There is no Emmett Deacon, only Everett Brightwater. Son of a working mother and elder brother to a handful of other siblings.

But in the Atreides castle, the castle of a bastard, those types of things tend to go overlooked. Most like to forget that technically, Paul Atreides was born out of wedlock, that he was legitimized by the former Duke Leto— it is a story all bastards wished for, what Everett wished for. Pity it is you, that always seems to take a fancy to them.

“I have bedded a bastard before, Brightwater. Void-forbid I don't recognize the touch of another.”

The sound that leaves the man is downright sinful, a ragged gasp and his hips damn near hump into you. “And you have made heirs–”

“A singular heir, Oliver has no siblings.”

“But he could,” He rolls his hips against yours backside again and you bite back a grin, “I could give you–”

The door opens and it startles you. Your fingers slip from the bowstring and the arrow is sent flying, hurtling towards the target as Emmett rips away from you like he's touched fire. Your husband stands at the door, his eyes red rimmed and looking downright furious. His eyes never meet yours, staying trained on Emmett who looks everywhere as the arrow hits its mark. Bullseye.

Emmett's voice is choked as he speaks, “Congratulations–” His eyes flicker over to Paul for a brief second as he rasps your name. It makes your heart nearly jump to your throat as you blink absurdly at the man but he pushes forward, inclining his head as Paul prowls closer, “Your talents amaze me–”

“Leave.”

Emmett pauses mid sentence, he blinks once then nods, his lips set tight. He says your name again, lower, sweeter, then his dark green eyes cut to Paul as he gives a shallow bow. “Your liege.”

He is out the room faster than you can blink and it draws a scoff from your lips as you turn to face your husband. “That was rude.”

That makes his face twitch. Like he wants to scowl or even pout down at you but can't decide which one to choose and it settles as a sneer instead. “Was it, now? I walk in on one of my men pawing at you–”

The laugh that leaves you is sudden and sharp, “You are being ridiculous.”

“He was all but humping your leg and you let him!” He hisses. Then takes a breath to blink and shake his head, “It is disrespectful, my son is only paces away–

“Oh, that is disrespectful?” You ask. Your blood is boiling, your heart thundering in your ears. How dare he throw your son in your face? The very boy you put to bed alone, hushing his cries for his father. The very same boy that spent the day talking about his father and his mysterious friend that he insisted Ollie call an aunt. “What about you trying to take my child to see another woman?”

Paul flinches then, just barely, but keeps the sneer on his pretty face. “That is different, you know that is different–”

“What of all the times I've found your letters to her? All the times you've left me for her?” You press, “All the birthdays, my birthdays wasted alone waiting for you, all the anniversaries? What do you know about disrespect, husband?”

He is silent, silent but staring, gaping, trying to muster an answer he knows he can't. But it is strange, odd, that he hasn't tucked tail and ran. In the rare arguments that seemed to happen between the two of you, he'd spit his poison and then choke on yours; floundering for a rebuttal before escaping to his wing of the castle and yet… he still stands before you, unmoving. Then, he speaks. He whispers, “I am sorry.” He clears his throat, “I am, for what I put you through, for everything but I want better for us, I want–”

“She finally did it, didn't she? She finally turned you away?”

He doesn't respond and that's an answer all on its own. You cast your bow aside, not caring how it crashes against the floor and your quiver soon follows. “You’re pathetic.”

You don't look at Paul as you go.

Duncan stands beside you.

It's nothing new, of course. He is always there, whispering into your ear, a guiding hand on your back or teasing Ollie who was usually on your hip.

It's been nearly two weeks since the incident in the training room, since Paul came to you saying he wanted better for your relationship— nearly two weeks since you almost allowed Emmett to fall under your skirts and Duncan no doubt knows this by now and yet, he stands by you.

You're sitting on your bed with nothing but a thin sleeping shift with Ollie curled up into your lap as you gently twist and braid hair away from his face and Duncan watches, his eyes trained on your steady hands. Then, quietly, he speaks to not stir Oliver.

“It’s going to be cold tonight.” He says lightly, his eyes pulling away from your hands, letting them trace over the way the fabric hugs your form.

You don't look up as you finish a braid, using the tip of your nail to section out another braid, a distracted hum leaving your lips, “It is always cold, Duncan. It's Caladan.”

“It doesn't have to be.” He says and he hates how you pause when he says it, he hates the way his voice grows tender for you so he clears his throat, unwilling to unearth something you both ignore daily and plasters a teasing grin on his face, “Shall I call for Emmett? He is rather eager–”

He barks out a laugh when you toss a throw pillow at him, twisting out of the way before it even hits him. “Damn you.” You curse him despite the smile playing on your lips, “Speaking like that to your lady could be considered treason, you know.”

“Maybe on Somnus.” He teases as he slinks closer. He pulls the stool from your vanity and plops down on it next to you, his smiling falling just a bit as he asks, “How are you?”

“Fine.”

He levels you with a look that you don't meet, continuing to part and braid through Oliver's hair. He reaches forward then, to pull your hand free from the boy's hair and simply hold it— to command your attention towards him as he whispers your name, “I worry about you. Truly. I– Paul has told me what he said to you.” He holds your hand tighter when it jerks in his grasp, he searches your face, his eyes soft. “And it was cruel. You waited for him for void-knows-how-long and he comes to you when you finally search for another.”

Stubbornly, you purse your lips and force your eyes away from him. “I don't care.”

“It is not my place to call you a liar.” He says and it's almost automatic, years of training resurfacing as he searches for the right words. “But as someone who is close to you… as someone who cares for you, I think you do.”

You pull away and he lets you, your hands returning to Oliver's hair almost nervously. The boy doesn't even stir, “Your concern for me is endearing but it is misplaced.”

“Don’t shut me out.” He says, his voice tight and it makes your eyes slide back to him. “Your pretty words don't fool me, I know you. I see you, you have been miserable, you have suffered and it is okay to acknowledge that. It is only you, your sleeping boy and I in this room, you do not have to pretend.”

“What would you have me do, Duncan?” You ask, a touch incredulous. “Would you have me pitch a fit? You'd have me disgrace the Atreides name because what– my husband wants to be a husband?”

“I would like it if you cried.”

You flinch back, “What?”

“You haven't cried in years.” He says. “Oliver was born and you haven't shed a tear since, you have not mourned, you haven't grieved.”

“Those are the same things.” You start frowning at him. “Besides, I am a mother, a Duchess to a growing empire. There are whispers that I could be Queen, what do I have to cry about?”

“Everything.” He answers, his voice true. “Yes, you are all those things and more. But you are also young, you may be a woman now but you were a girl when you were wed.”

“That doesn't matter.”

Duncan looks at you like you've grown a second head. “It does matter. The very concept of your love was crafted for you before you ever got the chance to make it yourself. Do you like laying down and taking it or is that what you were taught? Do you like that he walks all over you or were you told to accept that?”

Your hackles rise before you can even stop yourself, “He is your lord.” You hiss, “Watch your tongue.”

Duncan throws his hand out, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline. “You defend him and call him Lord, you do not call him a husband because that is what you are taught.” He lets his hand drop, “When I was your age–”

“You are not that much older than me.”

He continues like you didn't speak. “When I was your age, I experimented. I built my ‘love’ from the ground, I know how to kiss, how to fuck because I have done so with enough people to know what I like. That is not something that can be taught.”

You flush at the topic, imagine Duncan in such intimate situations would not be a… first for you. There were many lonely nights in your marriage and your mind often wandered. It was natural, of course, Duncan is kind. He is strong and sweet with a silver tongue, it is only natural that your mind went there when your hand traveled between your thighs. It was only natural that you had toyed with him out of pure boredom and curiosity. Moans of his name often left your lips when it was his turn to keep your room guarded. You had left your door cracked, catching his wandering eye once or twice as you… reached your peak. For voids-sake, you are quite certain Duncan has seen you in some state of undress more than Paul has and has not once mentioned it to you, has not tried to close your door or turn his head. Duncan has stood beside you for nearly six years, watched you for the same amount of time. You know you could say one simple word, a plea more than a command and it'd be just as damning and he'd be in your bed.

And yet…

You clear your throat and shake your head. Ollie jolts in your lap but doesn't wake, turning a curling deeper into your warmth. You steer the conversation back on course,“What does this have to do with me crying?”

“You were young when you were married.” He says again, like he truly doesn't understand why you don't get it. “You were young when you had Oliver, it was scary. Traumatizing, even. No one prepared you.”

“Yes they did, my parents, my tutors even–”

“Did you even get to say goodbye to the girl you once were before you were ripped away from home or did you bury her– throw her into this fucking sea the moment your engagement was announced?”

When you don't answer, he makes a noise— it's nearly a scoff but it sounds much too pitying. “I know you.” He says again, “I know that you hurt. I see it in the way you carry that blasted bow— it is all metal and wrong because your planet crafts from wood and vines. I see it in the way you hesitate at dinner because you want a second helping but the teaching of tutors or maybe even your mother told you it was unladylike. I see it when you look at Oliver because you were only a girl when you had him–”

“Do not.” You interrupt weakly, your eyes darting to your son. “I love my son.”

“I know,” He agrees. “You love him more than life itself, I'm sure, but it does not negate the fact that your family, this family, was okay with a child having a child.”

You swallow once, twice, then you blink hard. There is an odd pressure building up in your head, a pounding behind your eyes. You open your mouth to respond but your lip wobbles unsteadily. You struggle to find your words, your breath leaving you unsteadily— pinched as you try to control yourself and Duncan only smiles soft and sad. His hand resting on your knee, he speaks. “I’d have you cry.” He says again, “For the girl you lost, for the woman you became. Cry because you are a mother, a good one and you do it nearly alone, cry because you can– because it's okay. Over spilt milk or broken glass, cry because it feels right and it's a start.”

“And then?” You murmur.

Duncan shakes his head, “I can not teach how to feel better.” He says, “I can not teach you to forgive. I can only give advice— guide you through your tears. I want better for you, My lady. To give Paul a chance, to see if his word is true, if you truly want to stay in a place that caused you nothing but grief.”

“What could I do?” You ask and it hurts to hear how helpless you sound to your own ears. “If I don't want to stay, what would I–”

And for the first time since this conversation has started, Duncan hesitates— then, much quieter than before he begins to speak, “It was Leto who granted your marriage, while your parents drafted the contract– he was the one who allowed it. Therefore, if you were to go to him– if you were to air every grievance you have with Paul, tell him of all the cruel things his son has done to you… he could void your marriage.”

You shift, pulling your son up your body, cuddling him close and Duncan follows the movement.“ But what would happen to me, to Oliver?”

“Nothing.” Duncan answers. “You are the one approaching Leto here. You are the injured party and if you were to separate, you'd get half of the Atreides… well, everything.”

“What?”

“It is an old tradition.” Duncan explains quickly, “It went by many names; dissolution, annulment, divorce. You'd get half of everything– if not more, you'd get to keep your status as Duchess, you'd probably have enough money to build your own castle free and far from all of this.” He sighs. “You’d get to decide if Paul even got to see Oliver–”

“I cannot do that to him, he loves his son–”

“You are the injured party.” Duncan stresses, “It would be your choice, all of these would be your choice. I can not tell you what to do, my lady. But if you were to ask me, I'd cry first. At least once.”

And despite all the training saying otherwise, you let one tear fall. Then another and another and a–

Duncan lets you cry, his hand finding yours as you begin to curl around Ollie and bless the void— the boy doesn't so much as stir— and you sob for the first time in years.

The next few days are… odd.

Paul tries, you give him that. He is there before you wake, lingering just outside your door with Duncan by his side. He greets you with a smile, a kiss on the hand then he offers you his arm— it varies where he leads you. Sometimes it's straight to Oliver, the boy wakes with a big grin and messy hair delighted at the sight of his parents together and other times, he leads you to a hidden alcove; a well furnished cave on a cliff side overlooking Caladans’ main sea. These moments are often spent in silence— you eat a bit and Paul watches you, you spend more time pretending not to notice then actually enjoying it but it is… time spent together and that is good, you think.

Today, however, is proving to be a bit different from most. You eat as you always do, you watch the waves crash on the rocks, you count the seconds between each of your husband’s blinks and take little glances at Duncan when the man sighs whenever Paul clears his throat. He always clears it,you find, a nervous habit only ever shown amongst close family or friends and most times, nothing would follow it, Paul would fall back into silence and the both of you would eat then go back to the castle.

Paul clears his throat and you look at him curiously because that is twice within a minute and as much as you detest him, you wouldn't want to see him choke and when you do look at him, he's fumbling with a bundle of grey cloth wrapped in twine, “Oliver,” He starts, soft and unsure and it makes you strain to hear him over the sea. “He says you like these so–” His fingers are slick because of his nerves and it takes a minute or so for him to unravel the twine but once he does— he places the cookies on the table and slides them towards you with a smile.

You look at the oddly shaped balls and smile— they are obviously handmade. They're big, clumpy and some even sink in on themselves, a few have seeds on them burnt and crumbling but seeds nonetheless and it gives you some pause. Your eyes flicker up, past Paul to Duncan who is giving the cookies an equally puzzled look. This isn't lost on your husband who frowns— he looks between you and Duncan and his brow dips, he fidgets with the edge of the grey fabric, then the skin around his nails, “What?” He asks a bit louder than he should, “What is that look?”

Your mouth opens to answer then it closes just as fast. Paul is trying. You remind yourself that he's spent much of the marriage away from you in his own universe, he wouldn't, doesn't know much about you. He is trying and so are you, trying to give him grace— he has given you cookies, as ugly and deadly as they might be, they are made by his unskilled hand and you can't help but appreciate that.

Duncan, though, is not you. “Were these made with sunflower seeds?”

Paul continues to frown, looking up at the man. “Yes, why?”

“Ah.” Duncan starts, his voice flat as you instantly push the cookies away with the butt of your fork. “Your wife is allergic.”

Paul turns red. From the tips of his ears to the ends of his toes— his mouth drops open and he founders, a choked apology starts to leave him but he only gets as far as, ‘I'm–’ before he stops because you aren't cursing him out or banishing him away from your sight. Hells, you don't even move from the table, you just watch him carefully, your eyes dancing across his face and he wishes that a sun– any one of them, explodes and spares him from this experience, from this life.

Sadly, no exploding sun spares him from this. There is no blistering heat or quick death, just your searching eyes and your cool words.“You wouldn't know.” You say simply, smiling and Paul is shocked that it holds no maliciousness. “Ollie seems to have tricked you because these are his favorite not mine but… I appreciate that you thought of me.”

“I–” He's still red, still choking on his words but his mind spins as multiple things fly through it; he can't be mad at his son because he would have pulled the same trick on his father, he is embarrassed, incredibly so because he had almost killed you because he did not know of a simple allergy but Duncan knew. He is your husband and he didn't know.“Forgive me.” He breathes, pleads.

For once, he wants you to be mad at him but you only frown, your hand carefully intertwining with his. “You didn't know,” You say, “We are… we are only beginning to know each other. We have much to learn. You didn't know and that's okay.”

Paul nods but his head spins. Duncan knew. His green eyes meet his trusted guard and he frowns, he then notices your closeness— even though your fingers are locked with his, you're leaning back towards Duncan and he is standing as close as possible to your chair. You both are sharing the same air and it is not like you and Paul who sits across from you with only a hand connecting you both. You breath out and Duncan inhales– shifting somehow closer, his lips twitching when Paul obviously catches the movement. Paul thumb strokes your hand and any negative feeling that was starting to build melts away when you smile at him, he pushes Duncan from his mind as he refocuses himself on you, a smile of his own forming.

“Well,” He starts and his voice is still shaky from the embarrassment. “Besides sunflower seeds, is there anything else I should be aware of?”

Paul doesn't know how he never saw it before. The warmth in your smile, the light in your eyes. Paul had begged for a Sun to end him, blind to the star burning bright promised to him. These years of neglect had not dulled your shine, your heat— you glow and Paul thinks he'd happily go blind if it meant staring at your light forever. “Well…” You start, smiling wide and warm.

The two of you spend the next five hours talking, laughing and trading stories of food illnesses to embarrassing ones from your youths.

When Duncan is called to Paul's study, he already knows for what. Emmett pesters him with endless questions but the Brightwater man quickly falls silent at the mention of your name, he pales and Duncan clicks his tongue when the bastard excuses himself from the room.

To think you thought that man was bold. You thought him brave and uncaring, Duncan pretends he does not hear him emptying his stomach into the toilets. He knows the man fears he'll lose his job and Duncan does not bother to reassure him.

The route there is easy, quick. It's as if he blinks and he is there, pressing up the door and taking a step inside. Paul is sitting, facing a large window that shows Caladan’s raging sea. The waves crash on the beach's shore and drag the sand out with it, the sky has grown dark since your outing with your husband— a storm raging in the distance. A storm raging in the man in front of Duncan.

“For how long?”

Duncan doesn't bother trying to play stupid, he doesn't sit nor does he take a step further in the room. “Does it matter?”

Paul turns just as lightning strikes the sea. His eyes flash and Duncan is taken aback at the rage that is there. He doesn't not flinch away from it, he bares the storm that spills when Paul speaks. “She’s my wife, Duncan. My wife!”

Duncan blinks. “I am aware.” He then looks away. “She is aware of that too. It is by her hand only that I haven't landed in her bed.”

Paul stands, he is shaking. Duncan is his friend but this— he smoothes a hand over his face. His eyes sting but he does not cry, he did not do so when he caught the beginnings of something with Emmett so why would he cry now? He looks at Duncan and his heart clenches. Duncan is his friend. “And if she said yes–”

“In a heartbeat.” Duncan answers. He is cruel in his honesty but he doesn't care, Paul has been crueler with his own and he can't help the smile that twists at his lips. “Castle Atreides would be filled with more bastards than you, Paul.”

Duncan does not flinch. Paul in all his anger and crashing tides has made his way across the room, his blade to his neck and drawing blood. The cut stings, bubbles with his blood and Duncan doesn't not break eye contact. He has hid his love for you long enough and this is freeing, Paul would not kill him. He knows that because Paul is a trained soldier, trained to kill and his blade shakes against his throat. “You will leave.” Paul says and his voice is shaking. There is a tear threatening to spill from his eyes. “You will leave and you will not return until I call for you.”

Duncan's heart drops. “What?”

“You will not come when she calls.” Paul continues. “And she will call and you will not answer. Not for her not for Oliver. Do you understand?”

Duncan searches his young master's face for some kind of tell but Paul is serious. The blade presses closer and when Paul opens his mouth, it is The Voice that leaves it. It is hundreds of voices all at once, it is his mother's, it is his fathers and it is yours. The commands sinks into his brain, pulling at flesh and his eye twitches as it forces it's will deeper. He is being sent on a mission, he is being sent to Arrakis. The voices dig deeper and there is a dull alarm that coils around his heart, Duncan hopes Paul will not take his love for you away. His lungs tighten and the blade is pulled away from his neck as he falls into a kneel before Paul who still commands his existence. He is to forget this. This confrontation, this moment of insecurity and rage, he is to forget why he never wanted to leave Caladin in the first place.

Please, please, please. He begs when the voice doesn't fade, there is terror building in his blood but as soon as it grows it is wiped away by The voice, by the soft whisper of your voice. He is to bring Deacon's bastard son. The voice fades and Duncan is gasping, clutching at his neck and his fingers slip in his own blood. Paul stares down at him, his eyes blank, the storm raging on behind him and Duncan remembers… nothing. Just his mission.

He pushes himself to his feet, surprised when he stumbles. His blood flows dark and Paul doesn't look away, a thin lipped smile on his face. “You slipped.”

Duncan knows that's not right but he can't bring himself to question it. Paul is moving away from him, back to his desk and fixing his chair. “Best to prepare for your departure and send Emmett to me when you see him.”

Duncan knows his way to Paul's office and he knows the way back just as well. But today, he couldn't help but get lost on his way. He has a headache brewing.

You like to believe you do not know who cries more when Duncan leaves. But Oliver stops crying within an hour, distracted by his grandparents and pulled away for a mini adventures and it is two weeks later when you burst into tears because you think you've smelt him.

It is embarrassing, unladylike but Duncan had told you he had wanted you to cry more and Paul took it in stride. Duncan had been your foundation for so long so for him to be sent away, you are left crumbling but Paul is there and more than eager to get to building. At some point, he had snuck his way into your rooms— he had wide eye amazement as he took in everything, the plants that climb their way up your walls to your blankets and how much thicker they are than his. Paul had smiled when he saw despite everything, you still favored his colors– your house colors. You and Paul sleep together but not sleep together. Your mornings had become shared, whispers and giggles shared the first time you both woke up together— you and Paul had talked into the night, Oliver curled into his side and his hand running through his son's hair.

Still days later, you find waking up next to him, your husband hasn't gotten old. Paul clings to you when he sleeps, he's incredibly warm and you find you no longer need your blanket when he wraps around you in the night. Emboldened by his soft snores, you pull away gently, taking him in the soft morning light. You brush a soft curl from his face and he frowns in his sleep, it strikes you just how pretty he is. He's the makings of every Prince you ever read about growing up, blessed by luck and kissed by beauty and all that. He nuzzles against your hand with a sigh, his frown melting from his lips and you realize you want to kiss him.

You pull your hand away out of pure embarrassment, flushing hot. You shouldn't be embarrassed, you try to reason with yourself. He's your husband— the father of your child, he's touched your naked body before, he's kissed you before but that was years ago and all of that stopped the moment you fell pregnant. You haven't ached for such affection from him in years yet here and now, you wish you could press your lips to his. How embarrassing, you simper trying to pull further away from him but Paul's hold is ironclad, he curls around you tighter, his legs sliding between yours, his hands settling on your back. “What are you doing?” He murmurs, “Where are you going?”

You thank every star that's ever existed that he doesn't open his eyes. He keeps his eyes clamped shut as if protesting the morning sun and he completely misses your fading flusteredness. “Nowhere.” You answer, trying to relax in his touch. He's drawing patterns against your back, trying and failing to lull you back to sleep. He's just so close and it was easier to ignore when you're too tired to be flustered. “I wanted to give you space.”

Paul frowns, blinking his eyes open. “Don’t want space.” Then processing what he said, he offers you a timid smile before he rolls away to yawn and stretch. “Sorry, that was…” He shakes his head and doesn't bother finishing what he was going to say. He gets out of your bed with another stretch, his bones cracking and your mind flounders, rushing to think of a reason to keep him in bed— you never thought a day would come when you wanted to keep Paul near you. Your mouth moves before you can think and through and—

“Oliver says he wants a sibling.”

The moment it leaves your mouth, you're clapping a hand over your lips in pure, unfiltered embarrassment. Paul is still frozen mid stretch, his eyes wide and his cheeks completely pink and you wish a moon would come crashing into the planet and take you out in its destruction. “What?” He asks, his voice is strangely pitched. His arms drop as he turns to face you.

“Nothing.” You say and your voice is a squeak, your mortification growing. What are you? A blushing virgin maiden? You should have stood your ground, repeated what you said proudly but you're suddenly… shy. Your heart is pounding and you pull your blanket up and over your head, “Forget I said anything.”

Paul says your name and you ignore it, pulling the cover tighter and it's a sight that makes Paul's heart soar. His lady wife is shy before him, it is a welcome change that has his own heart skipping delightfully. He can't help but tease you, he says your name again as he rounds the bed, he drags it out, stretches it across his tongue and you shiver under the blanket. His hand touches your covered leg and you jump and he laughs, sitting at your side. “My love,” He starts and he says it like he's sure of it, like you are his only love. “Can you repeat that?”

“No.” You hiss and it pulls another laugh from him. He pulls the blanket from your face and he is smiling like he's never smiled before, his peachy cheeks dimpling.

“Oliver wants a sibling.” Paul repeats and you purse your lips nodding, Paul's smile only grows. “I knew that already.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oliver has always wanted a sibling.” Paul starts casually, shrugging. “But if he told you and you told me that means– you've considered it.”

Your face flushes hot and you go to pull for your blanket but Paul puts his weight on it, stopping you from covering yourself. So you deflect, your lip pulls up in a halfhearted sneer, “I was making conversation. I was trying to be polite.”

Paul hums, slow and soft. “You thought it proper to a conversation by asking me to fuck you?”

You blink rapidly, your mouth falling open in shock. “I-I wasn't– I w-wouldn't–” Paul is smiling and you swallow. “You’re teasing me.”

“A little.” He murmurs, his eyes are searching your face. His hand raises from your blanket and you brace yourself when it caresses the length of your face, his thumb dragging across your bottom lip. “I wouldn't mind.”

Your tongue follows the path of his thumb out of instinct and when it sweeps across it, you swear you see your husband’s eyes flash. “Mind what?”

“Another child.” He says. “Sleeping with you.”

You're nodding and suddenly Paul is on you, his lips on yours as he cups your face to drag you closer. You are clumsy, unsure with how you kiss him— it's been years you remind yourself but Paul is so much more confident, he kisses you and it's nothing like the ones from years ago. Those had been pecks, his lips on yours to shush your moans as he humped into you, it all felt professional— a duty he had to perform but this, Paul is kissing you. It is all tongue, teeth and lips, he's eager with his nips and how his tongue drags across yours but he goes at your pace; or at least he tries, you whimpered and the kiss quickly grew messy— wet as he wraps his tongue around yours and sucks. It's an odd feeling and it pulls a startled moan from you. It is years of programming that has you saying it, your hands clenching at the fabric of his shirt, “Husband–”

“Paul.” He urges, his voice a touch desperate as his hands begin to roam your body. He's squeezing you in places you've never been touched before, his hands tickling up your sides— pushing your nightgown up. You are bare beneath them and Paul lets out an appreciative groan at the sight of your pussy. He barely looks up when he says, “Call me Paul when I touch you like this, please.”

You swallow and nod, you have to ask. You have to know. “Paul, did you ever–” Your voice breaks and you can hear how small you sound. “Did you touch her? While we were together?”

“No.” He says it so quickly, you're blinking but his voice is serious, he doesn't falter but his hands still. “I would never do that, not even if she offered.”

You take a breath. “But you left, Paul.”

“I know.” He murmurs, “I’m sorry. Will you let me apologize?”

“You already–” Your voice catches as he bends, he kisses his way down your body, hot opened mouthed kisses, his tongue dragging across your flesh. Your stomach clenches when he lowers and presses another kiss to your mound, uncaring of the hair there. Your legs try to clamp together but he is quick to keep them apart, his eyes meeting your frantic ones, “You don't– you never–”

“I’m apologizing.” He says simply and then his mouth is on you. There is nothing shy about the way his tongue drags through your folds, he licks and licks, and licks till he's drooling— he's making a wet mess out of you, his tongue dipping in and out of your fluttering hole as moans spill from you. Your legs tremble at the side of his head and you barely catch his eye roll as he pulls your thighs close to his head. He groans when they clench around his head and he licks his way back up to your clit and sucks hard, slurping loudly. Your back arches from the bed, a shrill shriek of his name escaping from your mouth, his head bobs with each suck, his tongue dragging and swirling hard against your dripping core.

“Oh, oh-” A curse he's never heard before explodes from you and your hand is carding through his hair and pulling closer to your cunt. His nose digs into your flesh and he lets out a puff of air before he flattens his tongue and shakes his head, your hand was keeping him centered enough but it loosens when he does this, flying to your mouth instead to muffle the squeal that leaves you. He keeps his mouth on you as he looks up, taking in your teary eye expression— your eyes meet and Paul can barely hold back the smile when he teases a finger against your slit. You moan, arching down towards it and it makes his nose grind against your clit as his finger slips in easily. You're incredibly wet and you would be embarrassed if Paul wasn't the one to blame for it, you could barely tell what was your own arousal or his spit at this point.

Paul presses another finger into you and it goes just as easy as the first, his fingers gliding against your clenching, wet walls. His fingers prod and rub and when they hook against a spot that has you twisting away from him, Paul is fighting to keep your hips from bucking wildly. “That’s it.” He encourages, his voice husky. His fingers bully a spongy part inside of you, pressing and rubbing as his other hand moves, his fingers rubbing tight, hard circles against your clit. It's an awkward position but Paul doesn't seem to care, his wild eyed look is trained on your leaky cunt and the way it clenches and flutters around his fingers. You smack at his hands because something is brewing— your stomach coiling right. He rides the waves your hips rock to, a crooked smile forming on his face. “That’s fucking it, so pretty like this.”

You cum and you swear you've gone blind. You've touched yourself before, you've made yourself cum before but this— this is something completely different, your back is arching off the bed, your moans are choked to a stop as you try to force air to your lungs. Your legs clamp shut but Paul keeps pumping his fingers inside of you, he's cooing like you're something precious and he's riding your high, his hand matching the twitching of your hips. You wheeze his name, your chest heaving and it is only then Paul pulls his hand from you, his fingers wet and creamy and he slips the digits into his mouth with a soft moan.

You're blinking up at him, your breath rattling in your chest and Paul meets your gaze unabashed, his fingers leaving his mouth to rub a soothing pattern in your thigh. “Are you alright?”

You quickly realize Paul can't help but do that. In the next week, Paul pulls you into every dark corner he can find. He'd drop to his knees, his mouth finding your cunt like it was home and he'd licked you till you were quivering, creaming all over his face and pushing him away. Paul licked your cunt like a man starved and again, you quickly realize with an odd twinge of fear that he loved it. Loved your legs clamped around his head, loved his nose buried in your scent at its source. He loved it so much it took nearly another week for him to bend you over his desk and actually fuck you.

“Oh, f-fuck!”

The office is filled with the wet slap of skin on skin, the squeaking of the desk moving forward. Paul has a hand splayed over the curve of your back, keeping you bent over as he rolled his hips into you. You're moaning, cursing really and it makes him twitch inside of you. He loves when you act like anything but a Lady and when you're clenching down on him, choking his dick and soaking his thighs, he thinks he might lose his head. Still, there are guards who roam the halls outsides, servants that go about their duties and you are just so vocal— his hand slips over your mouth and though he knows the damage is done and the outside world has probably already heard your sounds, he feels possessive; he wants to keep your moans and whimpers to himself. He used the hand over your mouth to pull you up and flush against him, groaning when you clamp down on him, fucking back on him without abandon.

His knees nearly buckle when you begin to set your own pace against him, one of your hands holds his hand over your mouth, your nails digging into skin as your other hand flies to your stretched cunt. You're so wet your fingers slip and mess their mark and Paul feels your frustrated groan vibrate against his hand as you try again, your fingers finding your clit and you rub furiously little circles against the sensitive nub. Faintly, Paul thinks you touch yourself a little too rough but you're tightening up on him and Paul moans, you feel so good. Better than his hand ever did and, his hips meet yours— it's almost frantic, animalistic in the way he fucks into you and when he cums, he shakes, a moan spilling from his lips as he continues to roll his hips, fucking his spend back into you and try to get you to finish.

And you do, you always do because Paul refuses to stop until you do. He could be shaking from pure overstimulation and he'd still fuck into you until you're creaming on his dick, his fingers, his face. Later, he tells you that he's glad you don't squirt. You had hit him on his shoulder, tried to hide your face from his lecherous gaze but he had cupped your pussy with a grin filled with heat, “You’d wash away all my work if you did.”

You had hissed his name in warning but Paul was already slipping his fingers back inside of you and you were mortified with how your body just accepted them.

Your recent… couplings had not gone unnoticed by the people of the Castle. While your ladies had more tact in asking you— your Father-in-law and Jessica were not. You had been tending to Oliver at dinner, trying to coax your son into eating his vegetables with Paul watching fondly at your side, his arm curled around the back of your seat.

Leto had cleared his throat, shifting in his chair as he watched the two of you warmly. He has been the more accepting of the recent change, greeting you both with a grin or a chuckle whenever you two stumbled into the room disheveled. “Would it be remiss of me to assume I'll be getting another grandchild soon?”

Paul snorts into his cup of wine, the red liquid spilling across his front and you are no better, the fork holding Oliver’s broccoli shakes and the vegetable falls on the boy who instantly whines in disgust. You are quick to clean him, apologizing in a coo as your face warms, you look anywhere but your in-laws and Paul takes charge. “Father–” He began, his voice warning but Leto showed his palms with an easy smile.

“I’m simply curious.” He amends, Jessica is deathly silent at his side, watching the conversation with an odd look in her eyes. “The castle hasn't been baby proofed since Oliver and I wanted to know if we should start–”

Oliver, hearing his name looks to his grandfather to you with excited green eyes. “There’s a baby?”

Your mouth opens, then closes, your face warm as suddenly everyone turns to look at you. “Well, yes but–”

The adults at the table all sit straighter, Paul's hand curls tighter against the back of your chair. “Yes?” He repeats a touch breathless and you risk a glance in his direction, and he has once again gone pink in the face. Your lips pinch and you look away, it is much easier to admit this to a child, your son, rather than his father.

“Yes,” You begin again, your voice strong but soft, a hand smoothing over his curly little head. “But the baby won't come for a number of months, Ollie.”

Oliver makes a face. “I’ll be five when it comes.”

Paul from your side lets out a watery laugh, his arm leaving your chair and settling on your shoulders. “Yes,” He replies, “You’ll be an older brother, Oliver.”

That has the boy smiling, he turns back to his grandfather already babbling about all the things he'll do as a big brother and Leto is smiling so widely, you think the grin might split his face. Paul uses it as an opportunity to pull you from the table and out into the hallway, his hand shaking in yours.

“Paul, I'm–”

He silences you with a kiss salted with his own tears. You return his kiss a touch confused and he lets out a puff of laughter against your lips. “Do not apologize.” He orders, leaning away, “Do not apologize for making me a father again.”

“I wanted to tell you differently.” You say, your heart pounding. “I wanted to wait another week just to be sure– wanted to surprise you.”

The plaque glinted under the soft fluorescent light, its polished edges reflecting back a room that was far too clean for the kind of damage that usually entered it. You could’ve been anywhere else, preferably doing something productive, like chasing down a target who owed you blood and money, but instead you were here, legs crossed, back straight, wasting two hours in a room that smelled like lavender and futility. As if this expensive, ineffective junk would magically bring back a ship that had already sunk.

Across from you, Jay tapped his watch. Again. The sound was rhythmic, deliberate, like he wanted you to notice it. You didn’t look up from your nails, filing them into sharp, immaculate ovals that gleamed under the dull lighting. You could feel his eyes flick toward you anyway, just a brief, silent assessment, habitual, detached.

The therapist’s office looked like it had been curated for calm. Light beige walls, two steel-framed chairs facing each other, a small table between them stacked with tissues and mint candies. A diffuser hummed softly in the corner, puffing out a lazy curl of scented air. The smell was supposed to be soothing. It wasn’t.

You shifted your leg slightly, the heel of your boot clicking against the floor. Jay’s gaze followed the movement for a second before he went back to adjusting the cuff of his shirt, his fingers running down the smooth white fabric until it was perfectly aligned with his wristwatch. He did everything that way, precise, practiced, exacting.

He looked good, as always. That was part of the problem. Hair slicked back in that calculatedly careless way, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins visible, posture so relaxed it bordered on arrogant. He didn’t have to speak for you to know he’d rather be anywhere else, preferably in a room where there were more weapons than words.

The counselor, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and too much perfume, shifted in her seat, her pen hovering over the open notebook in her lap. She was waiting for something. For anything.

You could hear the clock ticking behind her. Every second dragged.

When she finally spoke, her voice was warm, measured, professional. “So,” she began, glancing between the two of you like she was approaching a pair of unpredictable animals. “Why are you here today?”

You didn’t answer. Neither did he.

Her pen hovered. The silence settled, heavy and stale, stretching thin like glass that refused to shatter.

Jay exhaled through his nose, low and impatient. The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried enough weight to fill the room. His eyes flicked toward the clock, then the window, then you. You caught the glance from your peripheral vision, but you didn’t bother to meet it. You simply continued filing your nails, slow, deliberate strokes, tiny sparks of metal scraping against the emery board.

The counselor cleared her throat. The sound was tentative, like she didn’t want to startle either of you. “It’s okay,” she tried again, forcing a small, placid smile. “There’s no wrong way to start. Most couples feel uncomfortable at first.”

Still, neither of you said a word. If silence could kill, this room would have been a crime scene already. The counselor shifted again, that nervous little smile faltering when neither of you took the bait. Her pen made a soft click as she pressed the end compulsively, as if the noise might fill the silence neither of you seemed willing to break.

“Why don’t we start simple?” she tried, voice lilting, hopeful in the way of someone trying not to drown. “Who’d like to share first?”

Still nothing. You sat with your ankle crossed neatly over your knee, back straight, every inch of your posture polished and controlled. The kind of stillness that took years to learn. Inside, though, inside you were ticking like a bomb. You could feel Jay’s attention like static at the edge of your awareness, brushing against your skin even as he looked away, pretending to check the time on that damned expensive watch. He didn’t need to look at you to make you feel watched.

It had always been like that with him. A quiet, constant pressure. A touch that wasn’t a touch. Finally, you sighed, a deliberate, theatrical exhale, and muttered, “He left the door open again.”

Jay’s head tilted slightly, the smallest shift, but you caught it. “Excuse me?” “The door,” you repeated, voice flat, still not meeting his eyes. “Front door. Wide open. Again.” He blinked slowly, as if replaying the memory frame by frame. A faint tick pulsed in his jaw. “It was locked.” “It was open.”

A pause, long enough to taste. Then, smoothly, “You sure you weren’t too distracted rearranging the kitchen to notice?” That made you look at him. Finally. The counselor blinked, pen frozen midair. “Rearranging?” You smiled, small, sharp, surgical. “He hates the new layout.”

Jay returned it, equally thin. “Because it doesn’t make sense. The knives are nowhere near the cutting board.” “They’re decorative knives, Jay.” He leaned back slightly, voice deceptively soft. “Knives are never decorative.” “Depends,” you murmured, “on what you use them for.” The air thickened like smoke. The counselor let out a shaky, misplaced laugh, mistaking the sharpness for humor. “Well, it’s good that you can joke—” “We’re not joking,” you both said, almost in unison.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was pressurized. A held breath waiting for something to explode. The counselor swallowed, adjusting her glasses, her pen trembling just slightly as she tried to look at one of you without staring too long at either. Her voice came out thinner this time. “Alright, um… let’s try to keep things constructive. Maybe talk about what’s working?”

You ignored her. Jay did too. Instead, you tilted your head toward him, almost lazy. “He replaced my coffee beans,” you said, like it was an accusation. Jay’s brows lifted. “Because yours taste like burnt rubber.” “They’re imported,” you shot back, just a little too fast. “You wouldn’t know the difference.” “I’d know poison if I tasted it.”

That earned you a low hum from him, barely audible, but his gaze was locked on yours now, steady, calm, dangerous. There was nothing romantic about it. It was the stillness before the pull of a trigger, the charged quiet of two professionals who’d memorized each other’s tells: the flick of a wrist, the dilation of a pupil, the heartbeat quickening just slightly when the line was crossed.

The counselor scribbled something down, uncommunicative, defensive, mutual hostility, as if any of those words came close to describing this. Jay leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the side of his chair, the picture of lazy indifference, but you caught the twitch in his fingers, the way his thumb brushed absently over his ring, like a tic. You wondered if he realized he was doing it. You wondered if he’d kill you before or after he stopped pretending to love you. 

You noticed because you always noticed. Every tic, every micro-expression. It was a habit you couldn’t unlearn, observing him was survival. And maybe, somewhere deep down, compulsion. He noticed your glance. He didn’t stop. “So,” the counselor tried again, her smile stretching thin as paper. “You two have been together… how long?”

“Seven years,” you said. “Eight,” Jay corrected. You turned to him, brows arching. “Eight?” He met your look evenly. “You always forget the first year.” You let out a faint, humorless breath. “That’s because we were pretending to be other people the whole time.”

Jay’s lips twitched, but his eyes didn’t. “You make it sound like it stopped.” The counselor laughed again, high, nervous, sharp around the edges. “Ah! So you’re both very… um… playful.” “Sure,” you said lightly, crossing your arms. “Let’s call it that.”

Jay’s tone was even smoother now, honey over glass. “She’s always been creative with her definitions.” You tilted your head toward him, eyes narrowed just enough to pass as teasing. “You’d know.” He smiled back, slow and deliberate, that same charming smile he used in interrogation rooms right before the subject broke. The one that never reached his eyes. “I do.”

The counselor’s pen stuttered against her notepad, a faint tap-tap-tap. Her gaze darted between you again, searching for a foothold, some way to steer this shipwreck of a session back to shore. “Why,” she asked carefully, “do you think you’re here today?” The question hung in the air, too light for how heavy the room had become.

You looked at Jay. Jay looked at you. And neither of you answered. Outside, a car door slammed somewhere down the street. Inside, the hum of the diffuser filled the silence like a heartbeat. The counselor waited, blinking, as if time itself might coax the truth out of you. Jay’s thumb tapped once more against his ring before he finally spoke, voice low enough that it barely reached the other side of the room. “Because someone thinks one of us might snap.”

You didn’t flinch. Just smiled. “They’re wrong.” He looked at you again, longer this time, slower, and something unreadable passed through his expression. A flash of recognition. A memory, maybe. Or the ghost of the night he’d wiped blood from his hands and kissed you before the body had even cooled.

Flash: White walls. Fluorescent lights. A man tied to a chair, shaking. You stood over him, one gloved hand wrapped around his jaw, the other holding a blade so sharp it glimmered even under the cheap light.

“Who paid you?” you asked softly. He whimpered something useless. The knife pressed closer, the point grazing his pulse. His eyes darted, terrified. You smiled faintly. Professional. Detached. “You’ve got one more chance.” The man spoke. You didn’t even need to hear the words, you could tell from the tremor in his voice that he was lying. By the time you left the room, the floor was a Rorschach painting of red.

Flash: Different lighting. Different silence.

A lab, sterile, humming, too bright. The air reeked of ozone and burnt circuitry. Jay stood in front of a dismantled computer tower, hands gloved, wiping blood from the barrel of a silencer with an efficiency that was almost tender. The man slumped over the desk beside him had stopped breathing five minutes ago. Jay didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to.

He wiped his hands, slipped his phone out of his pocket, and typed a brief message. Target acquired. Cleanup in process. Then, like nothing had happened, he removed his gloves, adjusted his cuffs, and walked out.

Now. The therapist’s office. The scent of lavender diffusing through stale air. Your pulse in your throat. The counselor cleared her throat again, too loud this time. “Okay, let’s try something different. I’d like each of you to share one thing you admire about the other.” Jay leaned back, that half-smile ghosting across his lips again. “She’s good at lying.”

You didn’t miss a beat. “He’s good at pretending it bothers him.” The counselor’s pen stilled. The silence returned, heavier than before. And beneath it all, the quiet hum of mutual recognition, the tension between love and annihilation, the unspoken truth that neither of you would ever walk away first.

Because in your world, leaving was just another way of dying. The counselor blinks at the two of you like she’s trying to decode a foreign language. Her pen stills halfway through an unhelpful note, the faint scratching noise fading into the hum of the too-cold air conditioner. You and Jay sit in the same metallic chairs, same careful distance apart, enough space for a ghost to sit between you, maybe two.

She clears her throat again, voice pitched in the way people do when they’re trying too hard to be gentle. “You two seem… distant.” You don’t even look at him when you answer. “We work on communication.” Jay leans back, arms crossing, it’s almost lazy, but you know that posture is defensive, practiced. His jaw flexes just enough to betray irritation. “Not effectively,” he says.

The counselor blinks again. “Right. And what does that mean to you?” You shrug, the corner of your mouth lifting into something almost resembling a smile. “It means we’re talking, aren’t we?” Jay scoffs softly, it’s not cruel, but it’s edged. “If you call this talking.” “Better than silence,” you shoot back. She looks between you, a human metronome of confusion, before scribbling something again, probably deflection or passive hostility. You’d bet a bullet on it.

The silence that follows is weighted, brittle. You stare at the wall clock ticking away the seconds of your so-called therapy, while Jay stares at you. You can feel it, that sharp, assessing gaze that’s less husband and more… analyst. The air between you feels like it’s been split by a blade neither of you has drawn.

He shifts slightly. “So. How long do we have to do this?” The counselor blinks. “It’s a fifty-minute session.” “Feels longer,” you murmur. Jay smirks, and it’s infuriating, that same smirk that used to melt you, now just fans the irritation in your chest.

The counselor forces a smile, her voice catching somewhere between concern and exhaustion. “Maybe we can start small. What’s something you both… appreciate about each other?” A pause. You open your mouth, then close it. Jay’s hand twitches like he’s about to speak but doesn’t. You can see her hope crumble a little more with every second that passes.

Finally, you say, “He’s punctual.” Jay turns to look at you, a glint of amusement cutting through the cold. “She’s efficient.” You both smile, but it’s nothing close to warmth. It’s choreography, neat, sharp, and deadly in its precision. The counselor sighs. “Right. Okay. I think that’s… progress.”

You almost laugh. Jay does, quietly, under his breath. The counselor mistakes it for relief. When the session ends, you both stand at the same time. No words exchanged, just the scrape of metal chairs against tiled floor. The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence is louder than anything said in that room.

You drive home with the radio off. Streetlights flash through the windshield, slicing your reflection into fragments. In the corner of your eye, Jay’s hands stay perfectly steady on the steering wheel, controlled, precise. He always drives like that, like he’s calculating escape routes rather than directions. Neither of you speaks. You haven’t, not since the door closed behind the counselor’s polite wave. The hum of the tires on asphalt fills the space between you. You glance out the window, rain threatens in the distance, smudging the city skyline into streaks of gray and gold.

At a red light, your phone buzzes against your thigh. You glance down, thumb flicking open the hidden compartment under the console. The burner glows faintly, one message. Target confirmed. 0300 hours.

You lock it before Jay can see. Not that he’s looking. He’s too busy checking the reflection in the rearview mirror, not for traffic, but for tails. He exhales, almost a sigh, and you can tell he’s somewhere far from the present. Maybe a lab, maybe a mission. You wouldn’t know. Eight years, and you’ve never told him what you do when you “work late.” You’ve never mentioned the sound a man makes when a blade touches his throat, or how steady your hands stay during interrogation.

Little do you know, he’s never told you what he does in those “overnight meetings,” or why there’s always a faint scent of gun oil on his collar. You turn your head toward the window, eyes following the blur of passing lights. Jay’s profile is calm, unreadable, and for a moment, the silence feels like confession. Eight years of marriage. Zero truths. And yet somehow, both of you think you’re winning.

The traffic light flicks green. He doesn’t move right away. Just watches the intersection ahead like he’s waiting for someone to step out of the shadows. When he finally drives, it’s slower, deliberate. “Are you cold?” he asks suddenly, voice quiet enough that it almost startles you. You glance over. His tone is neutral, too neutral. “I’m fine.”

He hums in acknowledgment, eyes still fixed on the road. “You were shaking.” “I wasn’t.” (You were.) His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “You don’t have to lie.”

You smile faintly, the reflection of streetlights catching in your eyes. “That’s rich, coming from you.” He looks at you now, just for a second, long enough for tension to spark across the console like static. The air feels thinner somehow. You can almost hear the beat of his pulse under the hum of the engine.

“Why do you always assume the worst?” he asks softly. “Because I’ve met you,” you say, matching his tone. “And I’ve seen the worst.”

A pause. The car’s interior feels suddenly too small. The smell of leather, the low vibration of the engine, it’s all too intimate for two people so armed. He laughs once, quietly. “Fair.” You don’t say anything. Neither does he. The silence stretches again, elastic and dangerous. You reach the apartment building at the edge of the city. He parks neatly, kills the engine, and unbuckles his seatbelt, but doesn’t get out. Just sits there, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel. You wait. He finally says, “You told her I left the door open.”

You tilt your head. “You did.” “I didn’t.” “Then someone else did.” His eyes narrow, just a fraction. “Who would that be?” You smile, small and sharp. “You tell me. You’re the paranoid one.” “Cautious,” he corrects. “Same thing.”

You both sit in the dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp flickering outside. You can feel his gaze again, heavy, deliberate. Not cruel, but dissecting. “Do you ever wonder,” he says after a moment, “what she’d write down if she knew who we really were?”

A beat, what was that supposed to mean?  You let the question hang, then murmur, “She wouldn’t have time to write.” He looked at you more carefully, studying the way your cold eyes were fixed ahead, the bridge of your nose, the curve of your lips— he chuckles, low, dangerous, and it makes your skin prickle. “That’s what I thought.”

You open the door first, stepping into the cool night air. He follows a moment later, his footsteps matching yours out of habit, synchronized, as always. The elevator ride up is silent, the kind of silence that hums. You both stare straight ahead, watching the floor numbers blink past. At the 14th floor, the doors slide open, and he gestures for you to go first. Always the gentleman. Always the predator. Inside the apartment, everything is too neat. Too sterile. The faint scent of jasmine from the diffuser tries, and fails, to soften the tension. You take off your coat. He doesn’t.

You turn to him. “You hungry?” He shakes his head. “Already ate.” You hum. “Where?” He meets your eyes. “Work.” You nod once. “Long day?” “Always.” You stand there, an arm’s length apart. Married. Civil. Strangers. And under it all, that same question neither of you has ever asked aloud: Who will pull the trigger first?

The morning begins the way it always does, too quiet, too clean, too precise.

The sun filters weakly through the curtains, painting the kitchen in thin bars of gold. It’s the kind of light that should make everything look warm, but somehow, here, it only sharpens the edges.

Jay is already at the table, the newspaper folded into perfect thirds. He doesn’t eat. He never does in the mornings, just sits there, sleeves rolled up, reading headlines that don’t really interest him, coffee cooling untouched by his elbow. The faint sound of the clock fills the silence between you, measured and mechanical. You move around him soundlessly. The choreography is familiar: kettle, mug, filter, grind. Your movements are exact, like a dance you’ve performed too many times to ever forget the steps. You don’t look at him when you pass by. You don’t need to. You can feel him. The shift of air when he turns a page, the subtle creak of the chair when he crosses one leg over the other. Every sound in this apartment is catalogued, memorized, understood.

The smell of roasted beans fills the air, a comfort to anyone else, but not to you. To you, it’s strategy. Distraction. Something to do with your hands. Jay’s voice breaks the quiet, smooth but cool. “You’re up late.” You don’t glance at him. “You’re up early.” He hums, a neutral, noncommittal sound, and returns to the paper. The kettle clicks off, a neat punctuation mark.

You pour the water slowly, deliberately, watching the dark bloom of coffee spread through the filter. The faint hiss of the pour-over fills the silence again. You used to talk, once. There used to be laughter here. The sound of him humming along to some old record while you burned toast and pretended not to care. Now it’s just this, ritual without warmth.

When you finally speak again, it’s because you have to. “You used all the sugar.” Jay doesn’t look up. “I measured it.” “You measured it wrong.” A flicker of a smirk ghosts across his face, there and gone. “I don’t measure wrong.” You place your mug down with a quiet, deliberate clink. “You do when you’re distracted.” That earns you a glance, brief and razor-sharp. “I don’t get distracted.” “Of course not.”

You take a sip, too hot, and let the burn sit on your tongue longer than necessary. You wonder if he’s watching. He is. Always. Jay folds the newspaper with surgical precision, every line crisp, every edge aligned. “You have plans today?” “Work,” you say simply.

He nods, pretending to read again. “Late?” “Probably.” He hums again, and the silence stretches out between you like a tripwire. You used to ask him the same thing. You used to care. Now you both just trade questions like moves on a chessboard, predictable, sterile, practiced.

Your cover story is pristine. You’re the Director of The Firm, a high-end “corporate solutions” company that handles sensitive acquisitions and “problem resolution.” In reality, it’s a global assassination network disguised as a consultancy firm for CEOs with blood on their ledgers. You sit behind smoked glass, dressed in sharp suits, managing death as if it’s logistics. Your business cards say: Precision. Discretion. Permanence.

Jay, for his part, is an IT recruiter for a cybersecurity firm, or so the neighborhood believes. In truth, he runs his own cover operation, a shell company that builds defensive systems for covert agencies and offensive ones for whoever pays more. His world is lines of code and encrypted servers, networks so deep you can drown in them.

Between the two of you, you’ve destabilized governments, erased identities, and orchestrated coups. But here, in this quiet suburb, your greatest operation is keeping the façade of marriage intact. A faint breeze stirs the curtains. Outside, the city is waking up, car horns, dogs, a neighbor’s radio bleeding faintly through the walls. Normal sounds. Civilian sounds. They don’t fit here.

You glance at him over the rim of your mug. His tie is straight. His shirt immaculate. He looks like the picture of control. But you know that stillness, have seen it before, in interrogation rooms, on rooftops, in the moments before someone decides to pull a trigger.

“You’re thinking too loud,” you say, mostly to fill the air. He lowers the newspaper. “And you’re listening too hard.” You smile faintly. “Occupational hazard.” That earns you another silence, but it’s different this time, denser. His eyes linger a second too long, and you can almost feel the air change, heavier, charged. For a heartbeat, the kitchen feels smaller. Then he blinks, the spell breaks, and he stands.

His chair scrapes back quietly, too controlled to be careless. He sets the paper down in its exact place and walks past you, close enough for his sleeve to brush your arm. The touch is brief but electric, leaving a shiver that you hide behind another sip of coffee. “Don’t wait up,” he says, reaching for his jacket. “I wasn’t planning to.” He pauses at the door. You don’t look at him, but you can feel the weight of his gaze. There’s something like amusement in it, cold, knowing. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.” His hand lingers on the doorknob. For a second, you think he might say something else. But he just exhales softly, the kind of breath that carries too many unsaid things, and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him. The sound echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.

The silence after he’s gone feels heavier than his presence ever does. You set the mug down, stare at the faint ring it leaves on the counter. A perfect circle. Unbroken. You rinse the cup, wipe the counter, straighten the chair he moved, because that’s what you do. Maintain order. Keep things clean. Keep the edges sharp and the routine tighter than the lies holding it all together. Your reflection stares back at you from the dark window. Same face. Same calm. Same invisible hairline crack beneath the surface.

You check your watch. 08:03. Plenty of time. You reach under the sink, hand brushing past cleaning supplies until your fingers find the cool metal of the lockbox. A code. A click. The lid opens with a soft hiss. Inside: a gun, two flash drives, a sealed envelope marked in red. You touch none of it. Just look. Inventory. Confirm. Close.

By the time you’re done, the kitchen looks normal again. Domestic. Safe. You take your coat, grab your keys, and step into the hallway. The air smells faintly of detergent and someone else’s perfume. For a moment, you imagine what it might be like to live an ordinary life, to argue about bills, about laundry, about love. Then you lock the door behind you, and the thought dissolves.

Jay takes the elevator down alone. He doesn’t press the ground floor, he presses the basement. The ride hums softly, the mechanical buzz like white noise over the sound of his own heartbeat. When the doors open, the fluorescent light flickers once, twice. He walks through rows of cars, past the one he drives to work, to another parked deeper in the shadows. The trunk opens with a coded click.

Inside: a weapon case, neatly organized. Two suppressors. A map. A folder labeled Asset 42. He doesn’t look at the map long, just enough to memorize. Then he closes it again, adjusts his tie, and checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. Calm. Composed. Civilian. He glances at his watch. 08:11. He’s got two hours before the briefing. Four before the first target moves.

He drives. Back upstairs, the sun has shifted. The kitchen is filled with light now, bright, almost cheerful. The scent of coffee still lingers. The newspaper headline stares up from the table where he left it. Diplomat’s Car Bomb Kills Three – Suspects Unknown.

Your mug sits beside it, lipstick mark smudged at the rim.

Two halves of the same scene. A life that looks ordinary from the outside. And a marriage built on the art of pretending.

— — —

“Morning, Jay! Morning, sweetheart!” You look up from clipping the hedge to see Linda from next door, a hurricane of floral perfume and gossip, waving like you’re her favorite soap opera couple. Her husband mows the lawn behind her, humming to himself, the picture of cheerful obedience.

“Morning, Linda,” Jay says smoothly, lowering his sunglasses. His smile is crisp, calculated, perfect. You can almost hear the click of it being deployed. “Oh, you two are just adorable!” she gushes, leaning over the fence like she’s confiding in an old friend. “Always so composed! I tell Gary all the time, you could teach us a thing or two about marriage.”

You meet Jay’s gaze over the hedge, and the irony almost makes you laugh. Almost. “Well,” you say, voice sweet enough to rot. “Discipline helps.” Linda laughs, oblivious. “Oh, absolutely! By the way, don’t forget the HOA meeting this evening. We’re discussing mailbox uniformity, again!”

Your fingers tighten slightly on the hedge clippers. “Wouldn’t miss it.” When she finally retreats into her pastel house, you exhale, setting the clippers down with surgical precision. Jay’s smirk is small, sharp. “Mailbox uniformity,” he murmurs. “How will we ever survive the chaos?”

“Maybe I’ll volunteer to lead the discussion,” you reply. “You know how I am with problem-solving.” He glances at you, a flicker of amusement, and something darker, passing through his eyes. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

You smile, stepping past him to collect the mail. The sunlight glints off your wedding ring, sterile, reflective, a weapon in its own right. Inside, the house hummed with the practiced life of perfect suburbia: the faint scent of vanilla candles, the distant whir of the washing machine, the immaculate surfaces that hid everything they were meant to hide. On the refrigerator door a grocery list in your handwriting read like an accusation: Milk. Eggs. Lemons. Lies.

Jay’s voice called from the living room, easy, casual. “You’ll be home for dinner?” You paused, sorting the mail, bills, glossy coupons, a charity leaflet, and one unmarked envelope that didn’t belong with the polite clutter of everyday life. It lay there like a promise wrapped in neutral paper. “Depends,” you said, slipping the envelope between your fingers. “Work might run late.”

He made that soft, ambiguous hum again, the sound that meant nothing and everything. “Of course.” Neither of you specified what “work” meant. In this house the word was elastic, an execution in a foreign warehouse, a midnight breach into a fortified server room, a phone call that made people stop breathing. Saying any of it aloud would be dangerous in more ways than one, so you let the sentence remain small and tidy like a lie folded into a napkin. The air in the hallway felt thick with polite deceit, as if the wallpaper itself had learned to keep secrets. You slid the unmarked envelope into your blazer pocket, no ceremony, no examining the edges, and walked up the stairs. Jay watched you go, eyes unreadable above the rim of his coffee mug, the quiet of his stare cataloguing you in ways words never could.

Outside, the street looked exactly as it should: children shrieking in a cluster of summer laughter, sprinklers hissing in tidy arcs, hedges clipped to friendly angles. The neighborhood was a tableau of smiling façades and hollow certainties. You and Jay were its crown jewel, polished, enviable, quietly rotting behind the same clean windows everyone admired.

The meeting takes place in Linda’s living room, beige, symmetrical, aggressively normal. Everything smells faintly of lemon cleaner and desperation. You and Jay arrive exactly on time. Not early enough to seem overeager, not late enough to be rude. The performance begins at the door, his hand on the small of your back, your polite laugh at something you didn’t hear.

The neighborhood royalty is all here: Linda and Gary from next door, Karen and Tom from across the street, a handful of retirees who seem to feed on complaint. A tray of deviled eggs sits untouched in the center of the coffee table, next to a bowl of hummus that’s trying very hard to look artisanal. “Jay! Y/N!” Linda beams, ushering you in. “So glad you could make it!”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you say, smiling like it doesn’t hurt. Jay takes the seat beside you on the couch, close enough that your knees brush, a reminder, maybe, of the part you’re both playing. His cologne lingers, sharp and clean. You can feel the eyes of every neighbor on you two: the perfect pair, the aspirational marriage. Linda claps her hands. “Alright, everyone! Let’s get started. First item on the agenda: mailbox uniformity!”

Jay’s fingers twitch against his knee. You almost smirk. Karen, who runs the neighborhood Facebook group like a dictatorship, raises a manicured hand. “I personally think everyone should have the same model, black, metal, with a lock. It looks more professional.” Tom, her husband, nods obediently. “We don’t want inconsistency. It lowers property value.”

Gary chuckles. “Tell that to the Johnsons and their flamingo mailbox.” The group murmurs, scandalized. You exchange a glance with Jay, your lips parting in a whisper only he can hear. “Riveting, isn’t it?” He doesn’t look at you, but you can see the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Almost as exciting as your last board meeting, I bet.”

You tilt your head slightly, voice soft and dangerous. “The last board meeting ended with someone bleeding out in the restroom. This one’s just… louder.” He covers a smile with his knuckles, and the sight of it, the faint curve of his mouth, the warmth that flickers and dies too fast, makes your stomach twist, traitorous.

Linda’s voice cuts through. “Y/N, you’ve got such a good eye for aesthetics, what do you think?” The room turns to you. Every gaze expectant. You rest your chin on your hand, feigning thoughtfulness. “Uniformity can be… stifling. But structure’s good for discipline.” Jay glances sideways, the ghost of a smirk betraying him. “She’s always been a fan of discipline.”

A few polite chuckles ripple through the group. You turn to him, smiling sweetly, the kind of smile that hides a knife. “And he’s always been a fan of control.” Something electric shifts in the air. Just for a second. Linda, blissfully unaware, scribbles something on her notepad. “Wonderful points! Alright, moving on! The community watch program…”

You tune out the next fifteen minutes, conversations about porch lights, unfamiliar cars, and a mysterious “teenager in a hoodie” sighting. The irony isn’t lost on you. If they knew what kind of surveillance systems you both ran from your basement, the HOA would probably dissolve itself out of existential dread. Jay leans closer, whispering under the hum of small talk. “You could run this whole thing if you wanted.” You hum, still staring at Linda’s notes. “Maybe I already do.” He laughs under his breath, low, quiet, genuine. It almost sounds like affection.

When the meeting finally ends, there’s a flurry of thank-yous and casserole invitations. You and Jay play your roles to perfection: smiling, nodding, engaging in small talk about the weather and recycling schedules. Linda hugs you both at the door, her perfume clinging like static. “You’re such a lovely couple,” she coos. “You remind me that marriage can be so stable when both people work at it.”

Jay’s smile is polite, sharp enough to cut glass. “Oh, we work at it.” The door closes behind you. The night air tastes clean, finally. You walk down the driveway in silence, the sound of your heels echoing on the pavement. Jay unlocks the car, but you don’t get in right away. You look up at the rows of glowing windows, every family inside pretending just as hard as you are.

“Stable,” you repeat, under your breath. Jay glances at you, that faint, assessing squint returning. “What?” You turn toward him, voice smooth. “She called us stable.” He chuckles softly. “We are. Statistically.” You cross your arms. “Statistically, most marriages fail.”

He meets your gaze then, something unspoken tightening between you. “So let’s make sure ours doesn’t.” The words sound like a promise. Or a threat.

Later, back home, the lights are dim. You hang your coat, he loosens his tie. The performance lingers even now, two actors unwilling to break character. On the kitchen counter, your phone buzzes once. A single message flashes across the screen. CLIENT CONFIRMED. NEW TARGET: Evan. Your breath stills. The initials hit like a pulse of static.

You glance toward the living room, Jay, unbuttoning his cuffs, unaware. Or maybe not. He looks up, meets your eyes. His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a weight to it now, like he’s reading more than your face. “Everything alright?” he asks. You smile, sliding the phone face down. “Perfect.” He studies you a second longer, then nods. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence. You pour yourself a glass of water, watching your reflection ripple in it. Jay passes behind you, brushing close enough that his sleeve grazes your arm. It’s nothing. And it’s everything. Domestic bliss. Just another mission, perfectly executed.

The day unravels in silence. By noon, the house has settled into its perfect performance, sterile, still, and utterly convincing. The kind of silence that feels deliberate. You work at the desk in the upstairs office, light slanting in through blinds like prison bars. Files are open on your screen, innocent spreadsheets, dummy emails, HR reports. All camouflage. Beneath the desktop, another monitor hums quietly, encrypted. A hidden window blinks to life every forty seconds, asking for authorization. You don’t answer it yet.

Jay’s absence fills the house like a ghost. You can feel him even when he’s gone, his watch ticking on the dresser, his jacket hanging too neatly, the faint trace of his cologne in the air. Everything he leaves behind is a placeholder for the things he doesn’t say.

You tell yourself the marriage is fine. That silence is safer than honesty. But lately, something in the quiet feels off. Like a wire pulled too tight. You open the window, let in the city hum. And under the sound of traffic, you think, Something’s missing. Not affection. Not even trust. Something else, something you can’t name. A piece of the game you can’t see. Down in the basement of a downtown office tower, Jay sits at his desk, surrounded by monitors that cast his face in pale light. His reflection flickers in the glass, a man who could be anyone. Who is anyone.

He scrolls through lines of code that no civilian should ever have access to, eyes scanning, calculating. The pattern of movement is almost graceful, like a pianist playing a dangerous song only he understands. He should be focused. He should be calm. But a thought keeps needling at him, looping back no matter how many firewalls he builds around it.

Something’s missing. He doesn’t know if it’s her, or him, or whatever used to fill the air between them before it all went quiet. Maybe it’s the sound of truth, and he’s forgotten what that even feels like. The phone rings. Not his personal one. The other one, the matte-black satellite phone buried beneath a stack of meaningless reports.

He stares at it for half a second before answering. “Smith.” A pause. Then a voice, smooth and precise. “You’re being reassigned.” Jay leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “Reassigned?”

“Temporary directive. DIA asset transfer. Codename: Evan. Prisoner extraction. You’ll receive coordinates within the hour.” He’s silent for a beat too long. The voice doesn’t wait for a reply. “High value, high discretion. You know the drill.”

The line clicks dead. Jay exhales slowly, jaw tightening. The name Evan sticks in his head like a shard of glass. He’s heard it before, once, months ago, buried in chatter that never made sense. A rumor about a prisoner too valuable to kill and too dangerous to keep.

He pulls up the encrypted database. The same blinking authorization window appears, the one he’s been ignoring. This time, he types in his code. The screen floods with classified data. Coordinates. Transfer schedules. Escort routes. He scrolls once, twice, and freezes.

Because in the logistics roster, beside the operation ID, there’s a familiar name listed under “Field Operative – Alternate Contractor.”

Yours.

–––

You’re in the kitchen when your phone vibrates against the counter. Not your phone, the other one. The one that doesn’t have a ringtone, only a low, steady pulse. You dry your hands, glance once toward the living room. The clock ticks steadily, the kind of rhythm that hides secrets. Then you swipe to answer. “Report,” a voice says, low, modulated, genderless. Your handler. You stand still, eyes on the window. “Listening.”

“Priority job. DIA prisoner transfer. Codename: Evan. Extraction on transport route Alpha-Nine. Two-day window. You’ll receive the drop point at 0600.” You nod once, even though no one can see you. “Parameters?” “Alive,” the voice says. “For now. Full debrief later.” The call ends with a soft tone, no goodbye, no confirmation. You stand there a moment, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence.

Evan. You’ve heard the name too. Whispered across encrypted lines, pinned on bulletin boards that only exist in the dark. You set the phone down, but your hand lingers on it longer than it should. Upstairs, the faint creak of the bedroom floor makes you look up. Empty. But the air feels wrong, as if the house is holding its breath. You close your eyes and inhale slowly, the way you do before every mission. Focus. Compartmentalize. The lies keep you alive. Still, beneath the precision of your thoughts, the same phantom pulse thrums like an aftershock. Something’s missing.

–––

By evening, Jay and you will sit across from each other again, pretending at normalcy. The distance between you will hum like a live wire, and neither of you will say a word about the missions, the phones, the target. But somewhere between your silence and his restraint, both of you will know, whatever’s missing is about to find you first. And its name is Evan.

— — —

By the time Jay gets home, the light has turned the color of smoke. The street outside hums with the soft sounds of suburbia, sprinklers, car doors, someone’s dog barking like a metronome. Inside, the house smells faintly of lemon soap and silence. You hear the lock turn before you hear his footsteps. It’s always the same rhythm: two steps, pause, another three. He doesn’t call out. Neither do you. The door shuts, the shoes come off, the keys land with a soft clink in the ceramic bowl by the stairs. Precision. Control. Predictability, the same way you both survive.

“Long day?” you ask, voice smooth, neutral. It’s not a question so much as a ritual line in a well-rehearsed play. “Same as usual,” Jay says. His tie’s gone, the collar of his shirt undone just enough to look human. He moves through the kitchen like a man walking through his own dream, touching nothing, seeing everything. “You?”

You hum. “Paperwork. Endless.” He glances at your laptop on the counter. The screen shows only an open spreadsheet, columns of meaningless data. He doesn’t look close enough to notice the faint flicker of the hidden window beneath it. You know, because he never does. He trusts your surface. And you’ve made an art of keeping it polished.

Jay opens the fridge. “We’re out of milk.” You shrug. “I’ll add it to the list.” He leans against the counter, watching you. You can feel the weight of it, not affection, not suspicion, but something quieter. The way a soldier studies the field before a fight. You break eye contact first, reaching for a glass. The water runs clear and cold. He watches the stream hit the rim, the condensation bead and slide down your fingers. “Dinner?” he asks.

“I ordered in,” you say. “Thai.” He nods. It’s the same answer every Thursday, Thai, then silence, then bed. The rhythm holds the illusion together. Predictable marriages don’t draw attention. Predictable marriages don’t raise flags.

You plate the food in silence. The radio hums low in the background, soft jazz, warm and domestic. Jay sits across from you at the dining table, sleeves rolled, wristwatch glinting faintly in the lamplight. The watch you bought him two years ago. He still wears it every day, though you doubt it’s sentiment. More likely habit. Or guilt. You push a grain of rice around your plate. “They called me in for another presentation next week,” you lie.

Jay looks up. “Another one?” “Mhm. New client. Potential merger.” “Anyone I’d know?” You smile. “Doubt it.” He nods, accepting it. You feel something almost cruel twist in your chest. Because you could say it, you could tell him what The Firm really does, how the mergers you lead end in body bags. But you don’t. You won’t. And the worst part is, a small, self-protective part of you wonders if he’d even be surprised.

Jay cuts into his food, slow, deliberate. “Linda mentioned the HOA might raise the community fees again.” “Of course she did,” you murmur, reaching for your glass. “It’s her love language.” That earns a quiet snort from him, an almost laugh. It’s the first sound that feels remotely alive all evening. You both linger in that pause longer than you should. Then the clock ticks again, loud and sharp, and whatever flicker of warmth was there dissolves like sugar in water.

Later, in the living room, you sit beside him on the couch. The TV glows faintly, some nature documentary, muted. On the screen, a lion stalks a herd of gazelles through long grass. The irony isn’t lost on you. Jay scrolls through his phone. You pretend to read a book. Both of you are elsewhere, running coordinates, decoding patterns, mapping exits in your heads. Every quiet second feels like reconnaissance.

At some point, he reaches out, resting a hand lightly on your thigh. Not possessive. Not tender. Just contact, the kind of touch that says, we’re still here. It almost undoes you. You look at him. His profile in the low light, sharp, immaculate, distant. You wonder if he’d still look at you like that if he knew how much blood your hands have seen. “Jay,” you say before you can stop yourself. The sound of his name feels strange, heavy on your tongue.

He turns, eyes softening a fraction. “Yeah?” You open your mouth. Close it. Smile. “Never mind.” He studies you for a moment, then nods, like he knows not to press. You both go back to your respective silences. On screen, the lion strikes. Midnight comes like a held breath. The house is dark. The air conditioner hums, the clock ticks, the world pretends to sleep.

Downstairs, in the quiet glow of the kitchen, your phone vibrates once, the secure one, the one hidden in the breadbox behind the false panel. You move like smoke, bare feet soundless on tile. You lift the lid, thumb brushing the cold glass. TRANSFER ROUTE CONFIRMED. ALPHA-NINE. 0600 HOURS.

Across town, Jay sits in his own office, the blue light of his monitors painting his face in fractured shadows. His satellite phone lies open on the desk beside a map. ASSET EVAN. LOCATION LOCKED. EXTRACT, NOT ELIMINATE. HIGH PRIORITY.

Two different rooms. Two different missions. One collision course. Jay rubs a hand over his jaw, exhaustion setting in behind his eyes. He doesn’t notice the photo frame at the edge of his desk, the two of you on your wedding day, smiling under white light. You look happy. He looks human. Both illusions, perfectly preserved.

In bed, the space between you feels colder than the sheets. He sleeps on his side, one arm beneath the pillow. You lie awake, watching the shadows slide across the ceiling. Every breath you take feels counted. You know how this will go. Two days from now, somewhere along Route Alpha-Nine, your paths will cross. He won’t know it’s you behind the trigger. You won’t know he’s the extraction agent keeping your target alive.The lie has always been your safety net. Now it’s the knife pressed between your ribs.  And as you finally close your eyes, you think: if love is just another form of loyalty, what happens when you’re assigned to betray it?

— — —

Eight years ago.

Florence glows like a dream set on fire. The Palazzo Vecchio blazes with chandeliers, laughter, and the low hum of moneyed indulgence. Gilded masks glint beneath candlelight; the air hums with strings, perfume, and the faintest edge of danger. Gold dust clings to the night like a secret that refuses to fade. You move through it all like smoke, silver gown, dark mask, smile sharpened to perfection. You’ve been here before, though never under this name. Never with this mark. Tonight’s target: a black-market art broker selling information under the guise of a charity auction. Tonight’s mission: simple. Blend, charm, retrieve. And never, ever get caught.

A waiter offers you wine. You take it, the stem cool between your fingers, the glass catching slivers of light as though even it can’t stay still. The ballroom is a maze of mirrors and murmurs. A watch chain flashes. A coded gesture passes between two men by the fountain. Somewhere near the orchestra pit, you hear the unmistakable click of a gun’s safety being released and reset. Every sound, every glint, every careless whisper, you catalogue them all.

And then you see him. At first, it’s nothing, a shimmer in your peripheral. A man leaning against a marble column, mask of black and gold, tuxedo cut sharp enough to wound. He looks impossibly calm, as though the chaos around him is a play he’s already read the ending to. But his gaze moves with purpose, slow and assessing, never idle. You recognize that look. Not from memory, but instinct. Predator. Still, when his eyes find yours, when that slight, knowing smile curves his mouth, you don’t look away. You never do.

He notices you before the orchestra reaches its second crescendo. Red wine, silver silk, the faintest edge of steel beneath your grace. You linger too long on the exits, your attention flicking over the crowd like a scanner. Not a debutante. Not a diplomat’s bored wife. He doesn’t know your name, but he knows the type, careful, calculated, deliberate. The kind who never comes anywhere unarmed, even if the only weapon is a smile. He should leave you alone. He knows better. But curiosity, that old, dangerous thing, has always been his favorite sin.

The auction begins. A Van Gogh replica is unveiled to reverent sighs and polite applause. You raise your glass, play your part, your earpiece crackling softly, a voice confirming your target’s position near the north balcony. Focus, you remind yourself. But his gaze is still on you. You can feel it, that invisible thread pulling tight between your spine and his. The air shifts, charged. A song changes, and something in you does too. You take a step left. So does he. You reach for another glass of champagne, and he’s already there, hand brushing yours as he offers one.

“Looks like we’ve got the same taste,” he says, voice smooth enough to make the room feel smaller. You turn, meeting his eyes through the mask’s dark edge. “In wine or in trouble?” He grins, slow, devastating, the kind of grin that feels like a confession. “Depends which one you’re offering.”

Your heart shouldn’t skip. But it does.  Florence has that effect; it makes even ruin look romantic. You study him for a beat too long. His mask hides half his face, but not the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. Not the flicker of curiosity there, like he’s wondering what kind of storm you’d be if he let you close enough. He tilts his glass toward yours. A quiet toast. No words. Just the soft clink of crystal beneath candlelight, and something unspoken in the air, something dangerous, but almost tender. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says finally. “That’s because we weren’t supposed to.”

He laughs, and you almost forget where you are. The music swells, violins sweeping through the silence between you. His presence feels magnetic, an anchor in a sea of masks and lies. For a fleeting second, you imagine meeting him in another life. One without missions, or aliases, or marks on your wrist. One where Florence isn’t a cover, but a promise.

But then the earpiece hums again, a reminder, sharp and cold. The spell breaks. You smile, polite, distant, perfect. “Enjoy the auction, Mr...?” “Jay,” he offers, after the smallest hesitation. “Jay,” you echo, letting the name linger on your tongue like the last sip of wine. “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

He leans closer, voice low enough to melt into the music. “I was about to tell you the same thing.” And just like that, two strangers in a city made of light and lies, caught in the flicker of something that shouldn’t exist at all, you walk away first. But you can feel his eyes following you, long after the song ends.

— — —

The orchestra shifted into a darker, slower rhythm, a waltz meant for people who liked to play with fire. The kind of melody that made secrets lean closer.

He crossed the marble floor toward you, each step unhurried, deliberate, the kind of confidence that didn’t need to be announced. You could feel him before he reached you, that quiet gravity that some men carried like a weapon. “Would you dance with me?” His voice was low, smooth, perfectly even, too even to be real.

You tilted your head, feigning a kind of lazy curiosity. “That depends. Are you a good dancer?” He smiled, slow, restrained, the kind that didn’t bother showing teeth because it didn’t need to. “I don’t make a habit of disappointing.”

And perhaps that should’ve been your warning. You took his hand. The moment his palm met yours, the air changed. The sound dulled, the light thickened, as though Florence itself had paused to watch. His touch was warm, steady. Too steady. You recognized that composure, the kind of calm people build when they’ve seen blood before and learned how to wash it off.

He led you onto the floor, and the crowd swallowed you both. Masks turned, diamonds gleamed, and violins sighed like confession. You moved together like you’d done it before, step, turn, glide. His hand on your back, your palm against his shoulder, every motion measured and exact. But beneath the elegance was tension, the friction of two people reading each other like code, testing limits without ever breaking character.

His fingers brushed the small of your back, light as breath. The briefest contact, yet it burned. You wondered if he could feel the knife strapped to your thigh, if he knew what kind of woman he was holding. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” he said, tone casual, but his eyes far too observant. “That’s the point of a masquerade,” you replied, voice soft but edged. “Some people come to be seen.”

“And some people come to disappear.” His laugh was quiet, a single note that didn’t reach his eyes. “Which are you?” “Tonight?” you said, spinning under his arm, letting your dress flare like liquid silver before you fell neatly back against him. “Still deciding.” He twirled you again, slower this time, his gaze never breaking from yours. When he caught you, his mouth was dangerously close to your ear.

“Be careful,” he murmured. “Florence has a habit of burning people who don’t pay attention.” You exhaled, pulse thrumming against his palm. “Good thing I like fire.” He studied you like he was committing the line to memory. “You shouldn’t.” The music swelled, lush, decadent, almost too slow for propriety. But you didn’t care. Neither did he. The space between you was too charged, too deliberate. It wasn’t romance, not really. It was recognition. The kind of understanding that only predators share when they see themselves reflected in someone else’s eyes.

“You’re not here for the art auction,” you said softly. He smirked, every inch of arrogance perfectly measured. “And you are?” “Maybe I like pretty things.” His hand flexed against your waist, a silent pressure that said he didn’t believe you. “Then you’re in the wrong room.” You laughedm quiet, bright, disarming. A sound meant to draw attention just long enough to deflect it. “And what do you think I’m here for, then?”

He leaned in, the scent of him sharp and clean, cedar, smoke, and something darker beneath. “The same thing I am.” For a heartbeat, the world narrowed, to the press of his hand, the rhythm of the waltz, and the pull of something reckless inside your chest. You didn’t know who he was, but you knew what he was. You could feel it, that coiled stillness, the awareness of exits, the constant calculation behind his eyes.

“Interesting guess,” you murmured, smile ghosting your lips as your mask brushed his. “But you shouldn’t assume.” “Neither should you.” The song ended in a slow, aching note. Applause broke out, brittle, hollow, meaningless. Couples separated. Champagne glasses chimed. The room exhaled. But not you. Not him. You both stood still, still caught in the invisible pull between you, pretending you hadn’t just recognized something fatal in each other.

He was the first to move, offering his hand again, not as an invitation, but as a dare. “Balcony?” You should’ve declined. You didn’t. You took it. Outside, Florence was quieter, the air cooled by the river, the night spilling over the city in strokes of gold and ink. The Duomo glowed against the horizon, its dome like a candle cupped in the hands of heaven. From below, you could hear laughter drifting up from the streets, muffled by distance, softened by time.

For a moment, it almost looked peaceful. Almost. He leaned against the railing, loosening his tie, half removing his mask. Candlelight from the ballroom pooled over his jaw, catching the sharpness of his cheekbone, the curve of his mouth. “You don’t seem like the type who gets nervous,” he said, voice low and easy. You set your glass down on the stone ledge. “That’s because I don’t.”

“Everyone gets nervous,” he said lightly. “It’s just a matter of what they’re hiding.” You stepped closer, skirts whispering against the marble. “And what are you hiding?” He looked at you then, really looked. And something in his expression changed. The arrogance softened, replaced by something quieter, more dangerous. “If I told you,” he murmured, “you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me.” For a second, he almost did. You saw the hesitation, the flicker of truth just behind his eyes, but then it was gone, replaced by that immaculate calm, the kind built from years of lies and necessity. “You’re dangerous,” he said finally, like it was a compliment. Like he already knew what you could do with a single look. You smiled. “You have no idea.”

The wind stirred, carrying the faint scent of jasmine, the distant hum of the orchestra, the echo of a world that didn’t belong to either of you. Somewhere below, a bell tolled, and for just that instant, Florence felt suspended, breathless, waiting. He moved first, closing the last few inches between you. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the silk, could hear the quiet control in his breathing.

“Do you always walk into danger this willingly?” he asked, voice barely a whisper. “Only when it’s worth the risk.” His lips curved, softer now. “And am I?” You met his gaze, heart hammering. “I haven’t decided yet.” The air between you felt alive, vibrating with the weight of things unsaid. The kind of pull that wasn’t attraction, not at first, something older, more instinctual. Recognition. Challenge. The dangerous thrill of someone who might understand you too well.

Inside, the orchestra began another song, brighter, faster, a reminder that the night wasn’t done. Laughter spilled out from the open doors, glittering and hollow. Neither of you moved.

And in that golden hush of the Florentine night, two assassins stood inches apart, each one a secret the other shouldn’t want to keep, each one about to become the other’s most beautiful mistake. “You shouldn’t stare,” you said, keeping your tone even. He smiled faintly. “Maybe I’m just waiting to see if you’ll run.” “Why would I?” “Because you look like someone who knows when she’s in danger.” You tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. “Maybe I like danger.” That did it, the air shifted, sharp with static. Neither of you moved, yet the space between you seemed to close on its own, drawn by something magnetic and merciless.

He took one step closer. The balcony was narrow; his shadow merged with yours against the stone wall. Candlelight flickered across his mask, gilding the edges of his jaw. You could feel his breath brush your cheek, warm against the cool night air. “You’re not afraid of much, are you?” he asked quietly. “Not usually.”

“What about now?” You laughed, soft and breathless, the sound catching on something deeper. “You’ll have to try harder.” His hand rose, unhurried, fingers grazing the edge of your mask. “May I?” You didn’t answer, not yes, not no, just held his gaze, letting him decide what kind of trouble he wanted to be.

He traced the ribbon at your temple, touch impossibly gentle. The kind of careful that wasn’t restraint but study, like he was learning the map of you with every pass of his fingers. Your breath faltered, betraying you. You caught his wrist before he could untie it, your nails pressing just enough to make his pulse stutter.

“Careful,” you whispered. “You might ruin the mystery.” He leaned closer, the corner of his mouth curving. “Maybe I want to.” And then it happened, no warning, no pause. The distance between you snapped like tensioned wire.

The first kiss wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t the kind that asked for permission; it was collision, heat, breath, surprise. The kind that started like a mistake and felt like gravity. His mouth was warm and sure, the kind of kiss that burned too fast to stop. Your hand fisted in his shirt; his fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head until you had no choice but to fall into it. You tried to pull back. You did. Once, twice. But every time you broke the kiss, breath ragged, his thumb brushed your jaw and you found yourself leaning in again, chasing the taste you shouldn’t want.

“Stop,” you managed between breaths, though your hands were still on him, holding, pulling. “I am,” he murmured against your mouth, though he clearly wasn’t. You laughed, breathless, wrecked, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.

The railing pressed cold against your back. The city stretched below, golden and silent, the Duomo gleaming like a witness. His hand slid up your arm, over your shoulder, fingertips tracing your pulse. Every movement was deliberate, not hungry, but patient, measured, as if he was memorizing the cadence of your restraint.

“This is—” you started, meaning to say wrong. “—inevitable,” he finished, barely audible. His lips found yours again before you could argue. This one slower, deeper. He tasted like red wine and smoke, and something darker, control, maybe. The kind of man who kissed like he was used to having the upper hand and terrified when he didn’t.

Your mask tilted slightly under his touch. You almost let it fall, almost let him see, but instinct flared and you broke the kiss, chest rising, breath catching. His eyes searched yours, still close enough that you could feel the words before he said them. “You keep running from it.”

“I’m not running,” you whispered. “I’m surviving.” His smile was soft this time, almost sad. “Same thing.” He leaned in again, slower, careful, and your resolve cracked. The world blurred into motion and warmth, his mouth on yours, your heartbeat deafening in your ears. The kiss deepened until you forgot the reason you’d come out here at all.

And then, crackle. A sound cut through the night, sharp and surgical, right in your ear. “Target’s on the move. This is your chance.” The words sliced through the haze like a blade. You froze. Lips still inches from his, still wet from his. eyes wide. His expression flickered, too fast to read, too smooth to trust. For a moment, you thought he’d heard something too.

But no. Impossible. You swallowed hard, forcing your pulse to steady, forcing air back into your lungs. You took a step back, fingers trembling as you reached for your glass. Anything to mask the sudden shift.

“I should—” your voice faltered, the taste of him still on your lips. “—get back inside.”

He didn’t stop you, but his gaze followed every move, tracking, assessing, remembering. The mask between you was back in place, but it didn’t feel like enough. “Leaving already?” His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was something beneath it now, something thin and dangerous, like the edge of a knife.

“Duty calls,” you said, and forced a smile that didn’t quite hold. He tilted his head, a mock toast in your direction. “Then I won’t keep you.” You hesitated for a heartbeat, not sure why, then turned, heels sharp against marble. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Inside, the ballroom swallowed you whole. Perfume. Laughter. Gold. The glittering noise of people oblivious to the storm around them. Your pulse hadn’t calmed. You touched your earpiece, voice a whisper of steel.

“Confirmed. Visual acquired. Moving in.”

Across the balcony doors, behind the veil of curtains, Jay exhaled slowly. Almost a laugh, low, disbelieving. He dragged a thumb over his lower lip, smudging the faint trace of your lipstick there. Then his own earpiece hissed to life. “Target’s on the move. This is your chance.”

For half a second, he stilled. Looked toward the door you’d just vanished through. The sound of your heels still echoed faintly, and his mouth curved into something almost fond. “Already on it,” he murmured. He straightened his mask, stepped back into the golden noise of the ballroom, and neither of you noticed just how close your paths were about to cross again. Not as strangers. Not as lovers. But as executioners chasing the same prey, each unknowingly aimed at the other.

Outside, Florence gleams. The city is a fever dream of light and stone, domes glinting under moonlight, rain slicking down the marble saints that watch from cathedral spires. Somewhere far below, the Arno catches the moon and breaks it to silver shards. You move fast. The streets twist like veins beneath your heels, narrow, ancient, full of echoes. A blur of a tuxedo flashes ahead, your target. You don’t hesitate. You sprint.

Your pulse syncs to the city: the slap of your boots against cobblestone, the rasp of breath in your throat, the click of metal in your grip. Right turn, an alley, tight and stinking of wine and smoke. Left, a market stall overturned, oranges rolling like spilled gold. Somewhere close, another rhythm matches yours. Footsteps. Controlled. Trained. Not the target. You don’t look. You can’t.

A shadow drops cleanly from a balcony, lands without a sound. Then: a muted thwip. A silenced round cuts the air; the guard beside you jerks once and collapses. You don’t pause to wonder who fired it. You vault the body and keep going, heartbeat climbing like it’s chasing the end of the world. You don’t think of his mouth. Or the way he’d kissed you like it was a challenge. But the memory cuts through anyway, heat and danger, your pulse tangled with his. Focus. The word hits like an order. You obey it.

The target darts into a narrow lane between shuttered cafés, knocking over crates and glass. You follow. Rain starts, first a shimmer, then a downpour. It slicks your hair to your neck, turns your dress heavy. Somewhere above, thunder mutters across the hills.

Ahead, movement. You raise your weapon.And freeze. Another figure stands at the mouth of the alley, dark suit, wet shoulders, gun already leveled. Both masked. Both steady. Both certain the other shouldn’t be here.

The silence holds, drawn tight as wire. Then, gunfire.

Stone explodes inches from your cheek. You dive behind a pillar, glass raining down, the scent of gunpowder thick and metallic. Return fire. Two rounds. Miss. You curse, roll, reload. The echo of his shots comes sharp and disciplined, military precision. Whoever he is, he’s good. Too good.

Rain hisses down, plastering silk to your skin. You break cover, sprint. Footsteps follow, fast, relentless. The chase twists through Florence’s back arteries: under laundry lines, across empty piazzas glowing gold with lamplight. A bell tolls, slow and ancient. You move faster. Jay cuts through a side street, his jaw set, his breathing even despite the sprint. The voice in his ear crackles: “Suspect’s turning east, toward the river.” Yours says the same. You both turn.

The city splits between you, parallel routes divided by one stone wall, one alley, one heartbeat. You pause under an archway, chest rising and falling. Steam curls from your lips into the rain. You press your back to the wall, eyes scanning corners. On the other side, Jay mirrors you exactly, pistol up, breath controlled, pulse heavy under the thunder.

Neither of you knows how close you are. One step. One corner. One second from recognition. The comm hisses again. “Copy that,” you whisper. At the same time, he whispers it too.

Then the line cuts, dead silence, and the rain swallows everything. For a moment, only the city breathes. Then you move. Both of you. Toward the river. Toward the target. Toward each other. Rain slicks the terracotta rooftops into mirrors. Florence is half-asleep, half-burning, lamplight leaking from shuttered windows, church bells shivering through the mist. You move across the skyline like a whisper, one heel digging into wet clay after another, breath measured, heartbeat locked to the rhythm of the storm.

“Target moving east,” your handler’s voice cuts through the static. “Do not lose visual.”

Copy. You vault a low wall; the slick edge bites into your palms. The world is a blur of rain and stone, wind and distance. Below, the Arno glitters in fractured silver, rippling with the pulse of thunder. You barely feel the cold anymore. You’ve become it, precise, silent, relentless.

But something else moves with you. It starts as a whisper, the faint percussion of steps that match yours too cleanly to be chance. You don’t look back. The rooftops demand all your focus, and the night feels too delicate to trust. One wrong glance, one hesitation, and you’ll vanish into the dark like smoke. Still, the presence clings to you, a pulse in the corner of your awareness. Too close to ignore. Too far to confirm.

Across the river, Jay runs in near-perfect sync. His silhouette cuts through rain, black coat streaming like ink, eyes locked on the faint shape ahead. The same ghost. The same target. The same hunt. “Target’s on the move. Confirm pursuit.” His handler’s voice crackles through the earpiece. He doesn’t reply. The rain drowns everything but breath and metal. He moves faster.

The city below has gone still, Florence folded into itself like a held breath. Only the rooftops are alive, slick with rain and shadows, streaked with the motion of two predators who don’t know they’re circling each other. You catch movement ahead, a glint of metal, a flutter of a coat, the suggestion of someone watching. You push harder, knees burning, lungs tightening. The edge of the roof ends abruptly. You leap, roll, come up hard against scaffolding. Rust flakes beneath your grip; a loose pipe clangs against concrete. A flicker of motion ahead, the target. Gone before you can fire.

“Visual reacquired,” you start to say, but the words falter. The space ahead is empty. Only rain. Only echoes. Jay turns down a side street two blocks away. His shoes slap water, his hand steady on the grip of his gun. For a second, he sees it too, that same half-formed shadow slipping behind glass, swallowed by fog. He stops, scanning rooftops, breathing through his teeth. Just mist. Just the sound of his own heart.

“Visual lost,” you say, your tone clipped, professional, even as your jaw tightens.

At that same instant, Jay murmurs the same words into the same open frequency. Neither of you knows you’ve spoken in unison. Neither knows that the signal is bleeding across both lines, syncing you like reflections. A long pause. Rain patters through static. Then the command: “Return to safe point.”

You lower your weapon. Exhale. The tension leaves you in controlled increments, muscle by muscle, breath by breath, until only the hollow throb of adrenaline remains. You wipe the water from your cheek and glance across the river. There, just for a moment, a movement. A silhouette stepping onto the parallel roof, framed by lightning. Broad shoulders, deliberate stride. A stranger. A shadow. Something in your chest flinches, recognition without reason.

And then he’s gone. Jay pauses in the same heartbeat, head lifting toward the opposite bank. Through the rain, through the fog, he swears he sees someone, small frame, deliberate motion, the glint of a weapon lowered too slowly. Lightning blinks, and she’s gone too. The bells toll the hour, low and distant. The sound drips through the rain like a heartbeat fading.

You disappear down one stairwell. He disappears down another. Two ghosts descending into the arteries of a city that never even saw them. No witnesses. No confirmation. Mission failed.

Just rain.  And the faint, unshakable sense that somewhere out there, in another storm, another night, the chase isn’t over yet. The gala hums when you step back inside, strings swelling, laughter floating, perfume hanging thick in the air. Gold light flickers against the marble; glasses clink like small detonations. The world pretends nothing happened. You don’t. The storm is still in you, heartbeat still ragged, breath still half-missing. The memory of rain and rooftops hasn’t left your skin. You move through the glittering crowd as if surfacing from another world, each step too sharp, too careful.

Then you see him. Jay. By the bar. Hair mussed, collar open, a faint smear of dust near his jaw like evidence of the chaos you both just survived. His suit fits too well to be innocent, his glass of whiskey half-finished, his expression too calm to be real. He looks like sin that dressed itself in a tuxedo, and almost convinced the world it belonged here.

Your pulse betrays you. You shouldn’t look twice. You do anyway. He notices immediately, of course he does. His gaze hooks into yours across the room, slow and deliberate. The smallest flicker of amusement breaks the surface, the kind of smile that says I know something you don’t.

When he moves, the crowd parts for him. Effortless. Predatory. Everyone turns, but he’s already looking at you. “Rough night?” he murmurs when he reaches you, voice threaded with smoke and velvet. You take a sip of champagne you don’t remember picking up. “You could say that.” His eyes drag over you, the faint smear of rain on your shoulder, the damp curl at your temple, the tiny tremor in your fingers you thought you’d hidden. “You look like you ran a marathon.”

“And you look like you started it.” His laugh is low and warm, too human for what he is, too easy for the edge in his posture. “Maybe I did.” You don’t smile. You don’t move. For a breathless moment, there’s no orchestra, no people, no noise. Just the static between you. The kind that feels like something alive.

He tilts his head, eyes catching the light. “Dance with me.” The words shouldn’t sound like an order, but they do. You glance down at his hand, steady, offered, dangerous. “I don’t even know your name.” “Good,” he says softly. “Keeps it interesting.”

Temptation wins. You take it. The music slows into a waltz, sweet and heavy. He pulls you closer, not indecently, but close enough that your perfume mixes with his cologne, sharp and woodsy. His hand rests against your back, the other guiding your palm to his. You follow his lead before you realize you’re doing it.

Every step feels like a secret traded in plain sight, your heartbeat betraying you, his gaze memorizing it. Around you, the ballroom spins in slow gold blur, chandeliers catching light like fire trapped in glass. “You’re trouble,” you whisper, eyes on his collarbone, your mouth brushing the edge of a smile. He leans in until his lips almost touch your ear. “You have no idea.”

The words hum against your skin, low and certain. You feel the pull, familiar, fatal. For a second, it feels like that kiss on the balcony never ended, just rewound itself into something more dangerous.

When the song fades, you step back first. The space between you feels too wide and too narrow all at once. “This was fun,” you say, because it’s easier than saying what it really was. “Just fun?” His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes don’t match. “You’ll live.” You turn, half-grinning, ready to disappear back into the crowd, but his hand catches your wrist, not rough, just enough pressure to stop time for a single breath. His skin is warm, his pulse steady.

He slips something into your hand. Smooth. Small. Quick. A folded napkin. “Emergency contact,” he says, smirk curving back into place. “In case you ever get lost again.” You roll your eyes, but it’s mostly for show. “You’re assuming I’d call.” “Oh, you will,” he says easily, already walking away. “Curiosity always wins.”

You watch him go, the straight line of his back, the confidence that shouldn’t be as compelling as it is. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. You unfold the napkin. A number, written in dark ink. No name. No flourish. Just a number. You stare at it longer than you mean to. Your fingers hover over your phone. You tell yourself not to. You do anyway.

You: You’re insufferable.

The reply comes faster than it should.

Unknown: Tomorrow, 8 p.m.?

You hesitate. One heartbeat. Two. The city hums around you, but all you hear is the echo of his voice.

You: Fine. But I’m picking the place.

A pause. Then:

Unknown: Wouldn’t have it any other way.

You slip the napkin into your clutch, close your phone, and take one last look at the crowd where he disappeared. He’s gone. But the ghost of his hand, his mouth, his voice, all of it lingers like smoke.

You shouldn’t feel this much electricity from a stranger. But then again, he never really felt like one.

The city glows like an open secret, streets slick with rain, lamps flickering gold over cobblestones, the air heavy with the scent of wine and basil. Somewhere in the distance, a Vespa hums past, laughter spilling into the night. Church bells murmur from the Duomo, their echoes carrying like whispers across the Arno. You arrive first. The café is tucked between two narrow alleys, small enough to miss if you weren’t looking. One outdoor table. Two flickering candles. A violin playing softly from an open window upstairs. The sound weaves through the air like silk, mournful, romantic, old.

You sit, order something just to keep your hands busy, and let your eyes trace the crowd, tourists, locals, lovers. You spot reflections in windows, movements in shadows. You can’t quite shake the instinct to scan every corner. Old habits.

Jay arrives late, not enough to annoy you, just enough to make you notice. He moves through the streetlight like he owns it. His shirt is black this time, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair still slightly tousled from the wind. When he smiles, the world sharpens into focus, like someone twisted the lens and suddenly everything else blurred except him.

“You’re punctual,” he says, voice smooth, teasing. “You’re not,” you reply. “Had to make an entrance.” You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. The waiter pours wine, deep red, rich, the kind that burns slow. You watch the reflection of candlelight swirl in your glass as he speaks.

It starts easy. Talk of cities, of art, of music. The kind of small talk that feels like testing fences for weaknesses. Every question sounds casual, but neither of you really believes in coincidence. Then it starts to deepen.

He asks, “Why Florence?” You say, “Why not?” He tilts his head, watching you over the rim of his glass. You can feel him studying the shape of your lies, how smoothly you let them pass. You notice he does the same. Every truth feels half-dressed, every smile too measured. But you don’t stop. You laugh. You lean in. You let the warmth of the wine make you bold. He tells you a story about getting lost in Venice; you tell him one about a painting that made you cry. Somewhere between the laughter and the silences, something clicks, not comfort, not trust, but recognition.

When the bill comes, he pays without asking, sliding enough cash to cover both and a little extra. His fingers brush yours on the table, casual but deliberate. You reach for your coat, but he stops you with a look that feels like an invitation and a dare all at once.

“Walk with me?” You do.

Florence at night is cinematic, streets washed in gold and shadow, bridges glowing like veins of light across the river. The air hums with music and memory. You walk without purpose, trading stories that sound true enough to believe. He gestures when he talks, animated, half-distracting you from the way he keeps glancing at your lips.

And somewhere between a joke and a silence, his hand brushes yours. Once. Twice. Then stays. You look at him, really look, and it hits you how dangerous this feels. Not because of who you are or what you’re hiding, but because it feels too easy. Too real. He’s smiling when you glance up at him, like he knows he shouldn’t, but can’t help it. His thumb grazes your knuckles, a touch soft enough to feel accidental, certain enough to say otherwise.

You’re the one who kisses him first, quick, reckless, testing. He’s the one who deepens it, slow, sure, undoing. It tastes like red wine and rain, and something you can’t name yet. And when you finally pull away, the city keeps glowing like it knows something you don’t. Jay pulls back just an inch, lips still brushing yours, breath warm and uneven. There’s a question in his eyes, not permission, not hesitance, but something quieter. Something like want.

And then he says, voice low enough to scrape against your spine: “Come with me.” You blink once, pulse stuttering. “Where?” His smile curves, slow, deliberate, confident in a way that shouldn’t be legal. “My place. It’s… close.”

He means dangerously close. You mean dangerously tempting. Before you can overthink it, before you can remind yourself that you don’t do this, don’t follow strangers into elevators and penthouses with views of entire cities, your hand is already in his. He leads you through the rain-glossed streets, past shuttered boutiques and glowing trattorias, until the marble lobby of an old Renaissance-restored building rises out of the dark. Inside, the floors gleam. The chandeliers drip light. The concierge greets him by name.

Of course he has a penthouse. Of course he does. The elevator ride is silent, but not empty. You can feel him watching your, not with hunger, but with curiosity. Like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with no corners. When the doors slide open, the city spills in. His penthouse is all glass and shadow, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Arno, dark wood floors reflecting the city lights, a bottle of unopened scotch on the counter, a jacket tossed across the sofa.

It smells faintly like cedar and something clean, expensive. He steps inside first, loosening his collar. You follow, dripping rain onto his immaculate floor. Jay turns to you, and for a second, neither of you speaks. There’s the hum of the city. The faint echo of your pulse in your ears. The knowledge that this is a bad idea wrapped in a perfect one.

Then softly, almost shyly, impossibly, he asks: “Can I take your coat?” You laugh under your breath, handing it over. “You kiss someone like that and then you ask for my coat?” He hangs it up carefully, almost too carefully, then looks back at you with a grin that is anything but careful.  “Trying to be a gentleman,” he says. “It’s not working.”

He takes that step toward you, the one that erases distance. His fingers graze your jaw. Your breath catches. The air tilts. “Then I won’t pretend to be one,” he murmurs. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time. Deeper. The room fades, the world dissolves, and Florence hums beneath your feet like it’s holding its breath. You don’t know his name. You don’t know his secrets. You don’t know the life he leads.

But tonight, in the soft glow of a city that has seen too much love to warn you away, you let yourself want him. And when he leads you through the dim hallway toward his bedroom, you follow. Not because you trust him. Not because you should. But because something about him sets every nerve alight, a match struck in the dark a taste of danger a heartbeat you shouldn’t be hearing this close. And because for the first time in a long time, you’re not thinking about lies or missions or escape routes. Just him. Just tonight. Just the way he looks back at you like he’s already memorizing the moment you walked into his life.

The door closes with a soft click behind you, sealing the room in a hush that feels almost sacred. The only light is the thin strip of gold leaking from the hallway under the door and the faint glow of the bedside lamp, dimmed so low it barely exists. Shadows stretch up the walls, long and trembling, and Jay stands in front of you like he was carved out of one. He doesn’t speak. He just steps closer.

“Sit.” A whisper, low, rough, almost like the command scrapes the air. His fingers brush your hip as he guides you backward, barely there, but enough to make your breath stick. The mattress dips when the backs of your knees hit it, and then you’re sinking down, palms sliding across the sheets, heartbeat pounding through your skin. Jay stands over you, chest rising slow, deliberate. You can’t see his expression clearly, not with the light falling only from the side, but you can feel it, the intent, the heaviness, the focus. His gaze drags over you like a touch.

He steps into your space. Knees brushing yours. Breath ghosting your forehead. His hands rise, but he doesn’t touch you yet. He hovers, knuckles grazing the air just shy of your jaw, your collarbone, the hem of your shirt. You can feel the heat of him without the contact, and something tightens inside you.

“Look at me.” Another whisper. Not soft. Just precise. You raise your eyes, and whatever he sees in yours pulls a slow exhale from him, the kind that sounds like restraint unspooling. His fingers finally touch your skin, first the underside of your jaw, tracing the line of it with the backs of his knuckles, then the column of your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t rush. He maps you with a patience that borders on reverence.

His thumb hooks into the neckline of your top. “I’m taking this off,” he murmurs, voice so close it vibrates against your lips even though he’s not kissing you. “Slowly.” And he does. The fabric peels upward inch by inch, his hands never leaving you. His fingers slide beneath the hem, gliding over your stomach, your ribs, the curve beneath your breasts, not groping, not grabbing, just learning you, marking the shape of you into his palms. He lifts the shirt higher, the soft scrape of cotton passing over your skin making every nerve spark awake.

When the fabric hits your arms, he stops again.

“Arms up.”  Breath against your ear, warm and quiet. You raise them, and he pulls the top off in one smooth, unbroken motion, dropping it beside him without breaking eye contact. His gaze runs over your bare skin like he’s memorizing the moment cell by cell. No smile. No tease. Just heat. Stark and focused.

Then he kneels. Right between your knees. His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, slow enough that your breathing stutters. He doesn’t rush to your waistband; he traces circles into your skin with his thumbs, following the curve of your hips, pressing just enough to ground you. His head is down, dark hair falling into his eyes, breathing steady but deep, like he’s trying not to lose himself too fast.

Your shorts sit low on your hips now, his fingers hooked into each side, waiting. “You want them off?” Barely a whisper. You nod, and he shakes his head slightly. “Say it.” Your voice barely works, but the word comes out, small and trembling: “Take them off.” His fingers tighten. He pulls.

The fabric slides downward, dragging along your thighs, your knees, your calves. He doesn’t look away from your body as he works them off, folding them once, placing them neatly beside your discarded shirt, something about the neatness only making the moment feel more intense, more intentional. When he rises back up, his hands cup your calves, sliding slowly up, over your knees, along the tender inside of your thighs. The higher he goes, the slower he moves, like he’s savoring every inch of skin he uncovers. Your breathing catches halfway through, and he pauses, not pulling back, just holding you there, letting the tension coil tighter.

His thumbs stroke lazily along the inner edges of your thighs, and he leans in, voice just a breath: “Tell me if you want me to stop.” You whisper back, “Don’t stop.” A muscle in his jaw twitches, sharp in the dim light. His hands roam upward again, tracing your hips, your waist, the sides of your ribs, every inch taken with an almost cinematic patience, as though he’s unwrapping someone precious, someone he’s waited too long to touch like this. He stands again, towering over you, shadow falling across your bare skin. His fingertips brush your shoulders, glide down your arms, then return to your torso like he can’t decide which part of you he wants to touch first. Every pass of his hands leaves you warmer.

Then he leans close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours. “Lie back.” A whisper that trembles at the edges. You sink into the pillows, and he follows, palms dragging down your sides one more time, mapping you all over again, slower, deeper, more deliberate.

Like he’s memorizing the moment he finally has you stripped, open, waiting under him. Like he’s worshipping you in silence. Like the room itself is holding its breath for what comes next.

The door closes with a soft click behind you, sealing the room in a hush that feels almost sacred. The only light is the thin strip of gold leaking from the hallway under the door and the faint glow of the bedside lamp, dimmed so low it barely exists. Shadows stretch up the walls, long and trembling, and Jay stands in front of you like he was carved out of one. He doesn’t speak. He just steps closer.

“Sit.” A whisper, low, rough, almost like the command scrapes the air. His fingers brush your hip as he guides you backward, barely there, but enough to make your breath stick. The mattress dips when the backs of your knees hit it, and then you’re sinking down, palms sliding across the sheets, heartbeat pounding through your skin.

Jay stands over you, chest rising slow, deliberate. You can’t see his expression clearly, not with the light falling only from the side, but you can feel it, the intent, the heaviness, the focus. His gaze drags over you like a touch. He steps into your space. Knees brushing yours. Breath ghosting your forehead. His hands rise, but he doesn’t touch you yet. He hovers, knuckles grazing the air just shy of your jaw, your collarbone, the hem of your shirt. You can feel the heat of him without the contact, and something tightens inside you.

“Look at me.” Another whisper. Not soft. Just precise. You raise your eyes, and whatever he sees in yours pulls a slow exhale from him, the kind that sounds like restraint unspooling. His fingers finally touch your skin, first the underside of your jaw, tracing the line of it with the backs of his knuckles, then the column of your throat. He doesn’t squeeze. He doesn’t rush. He maps you with a patience that borders on reverence.

His thumb hooks into the neckline of your top. “I’m taking this off,” he murmurs, voice so close it vibrates against your lips even though he’s not kissing you. “Slowly.” And he does.

The fabric peels upward inch by inch, his hands never leaving you. His fingers slide beneath the hem, gliding over your stomach, your ribs, the curve beneath your breasts, not groping, not grabbing, just learning you, marking the shape of you into his palms. He lifts the shirt higher, the soft scrape of cotton passing over your skin making every nerve spark awake. When the fabric hits your arms, he stops again.

“Arms up.” Breath against your ear, warm and quiet. You raise them, and he pulls the top off in one smooth, unbroken motion, dropping it beside him without breaking eye contact. His gaze runs over your bare skin like he’s memorizing the moment cell by cell. No smile. No tease. Just heat. Stark and focused. Then he kneels. Right between your knees.

His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, slow enough that your breathing stutters. He doesn’t rush to your waistband; he traces circles into your skin with his thumbs, following the curve of your hips, pressing just enough to ground you. His head is down, dark hair falling into his eyes, breathing steady but deep, like he’s trying not to lose himself too fast.

Your shorts sit low on your hips now, his fingers hooked into each side, waiting. “You want them off?”  Barely a whisper. You nod, and he shakes his head slightly. “Say it.” Your voice barely works, but the word comes out, small and trembling: “Take them off.” His fingers tighten.

He pulls. The fabric slides downward, dragging along your thighs, your knees, your calves. He doesn’t look away from your body as he works them off, folding them once, placing them neatly beside your discarded shirt, something about the neatness only making the moment feel more intense, more intentional.

When he rises back up, his hands cup your calves, sliding slowly up, over your knees, along the tender inside of your thighs. The higher he goes, the slower he moves, like he’s savoring every inch of skin he uncovers. Your breathing catches halfway through, and he pauses, not pulling back, just holding you there, letting the tension coil tighter.

His thumbs stroke lazily along the inner edges of your thighs, and he leans in, voice just a breath: “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You whisper back, “Don’t stop.” A muscle in his jaw twitches, sharp in the dim light. His hands roam upward again, tracing your hips, your waist, the sides of your ribs, every inch taken with an almost cinematic patience, as though he’s unwrapping someone precious, someone he’s waited too long to touch like this.

He stands again, towering over you, shadow falling across your bare skin. His fingertips brush your shoulders, glide down your arms, then return to your torso like he can’t decide which part of you he wants to touch first. Every pass of his hands leaves you warmer. Then he leans close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours. “Lie back.” A whisper that trembles at the edges.

You sink into the pillows, and he follows, palms dragging down your sides one more time, mapping you all over again, slower, deeper, more deliberate. Like he’s memorizing the moment he finally has you stripped, open, waiting under him. Like he’s worshipping you in silence. Like the room itself is holding its breath for what comes next.

Jay lowers himself over you without letting his weight touch you yet, just hovering, his breath warm and uneven. The bed dips under his knees, and the shadows shift across his face, cutting him into sharp angles. His eyes drag over you, slow enough to make your chest tighten. His fingers find your waist again. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Just claiming the space. “You’re so still,” he whispers, the words brushing your lips even though he’s not kissing you. “Are you nervous?”

You swallow, but your voice is steady when you breathe out, “A little.” His fingertips slide inward… just under your ribs… tracing the slope down to your stomach. His thumb presses lightly, drawing a line that makes your hips jerk. His gaze flicks down, watching the reaction.

Quietly, with a breath that sounds like he’s already losing control: “Good.” Then his lips touch your skin, right beneath your ribs. A single kiss. Deep, slow, warm. His mouth moves lower, pausing between each kiss just long enough to let the heat build. He doesn’t kiss like a man in a hurry. He kisses like he’s studying you, tasting your reactions, choosing his next move with surgical precision.

Your breath stutters when he reaches the softest part of your stomach. He hears it. His voice is a whisper against your skin, low, restrained, almost pained: “Don’t hide that from me.” One of his hands slides up, cupping the underside of your breast. He doesn’t squeeze, he just holds you there, thumb stroking a slow, almost cruelly gentle rhythm. His mouth trails higher, his hair brushing your skin, his lips tracing the line under your breast with a slowness that makes your whole body arch.

When his mouth finally closes around your nipple, your inhale breaks. He groans, a low, quiet sound, muffled against your skin as his tongue circles you, slow and deliberate. His other hand moves to your thigh, fingers digging in, holding you open as he takes his time sucking, kissing, tasting you like he’s trying to keep himself from devouring you too fast.

He switches sides, lips closing around your other nipple with a deeper pull, and you feel every controlled tremor radiating from him. Then he lifts his head and whispers against your breast: “You’re already shaking. Lie still for me.” You try. But when he moves lower, when his tongue traces a line down the center of your stomach, slow enough that your toes curl, your hips lift on their own.

He catches them with one hand, pressing you flat to the bed. “Don’t.” Just one word. But said so softly, so dangerously, it forces stillness into your bones. His lips are at your waistband now, the last barrier, thin and useless. He looks up at you through the shadows. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just hungry. “Open your legs for me.”

Your thighs fall apart, breath hitching. Jay exhales like he’s been waiting for that moment. Two fingers hook the edge of your last piece of clothing, pulling it down slowly, slower than his patience should allow, dragging the thin fabric over your hips, your thighs, your knees, your ankles. He drops it somewhere behind him without looking.

And then he sees you fully. His jaw tightens. His breath leaves him in a slow, shaky exhale. “Beautiful,” he whispers, not soft, but reverent, like the word forces itself out. He spreads your thighs wider with his hands, thumbs stroking the inside, and lowers himself between them. His face hovers inches from you, his breath warm where you need him most. He looks up again. Voice deeper. Rougher.

“Before I taste you,” he murmurs, “tell me what you want.” Your voice is barely a whisper. “You.” Jay shuts his eyes for half a second, just half, like the word hits him too hard. Then he leans in.  Slow.  Inevitable.  Pinning you with his hands on your thighs. His lips touch you. One slow, deep lick. Your back arches, involuntary, sharp, and he grips your thighs harder, holding you open as he does it again… slower this time… deeper.

A whisper against you: “Good… keep giving me reactions like that.” He starts to eat you out with a quiet, consuming intensity, no loud sounds, just heavy breathing, the wet pull of his mouth, the soft drag of his tongue. Every movement is deliberate, like he’s building you from the inside out, like he wants to memorize every tremor. And when you start to beg, breathless, whispering his name, he just moans into you and murmurs:

“I’m not stopping until you break for me.” Then he licks you. From bottom to top, one slow, devastating stripe of tongue that makes your whole spine curve off the mattress. He stops at the top, tongue flattening against your clit for a second, pressing just hard enough to make your breath crack, then he pulls back with a quiet inhale like he’s savoring your taste.

“Oh, fuck…” he whispers, voice roughened. “You taste better than I imagined.”

He doesn’t give you time to recover. His tongue returns, this time soft and slow, lazily stroking you, mapping you, tasting you like he’s learning your body one wet, trembling flick at a time. His hands grip your thighs harder, holding them open as he settles his mouth deeper against you. He chooses a rhythm, deliberate, focused, steady.

Long, deep licks. Followed by soft circles. Followed by slow, pulsing pressure. Your hips twitch up, and he pins them immediately, fingers tightening. “Stay still,” he murmurs against you, voice vibrating through your core. “Let me do the work.” He slides his tongue lower, dipping inside you with a slow push that makes your legs shake. He groans, actually groans, the sound muffled and sinful, and your body answers it with a pulse he feels immediately.

His fingers dig in. “There it is,” he whispers, breath hot against you. “Give me that again.” Then he gets rougher. His mouth latches onto your clit with a sudden, hungry pressure, and he sucks, deep, slow, controlled, the kind of suction that makes you grab the sheets and gasp his name. He reacts to that.

He growls. Not loud, low, quiet, primal, and the vibration rolls through you. Jay keeps sucking, tongue flicking in perfect, devastating pulses, alternating between gentle strokes and sharper, firmer pressure until your voice breaks into airless sounds you can’t control.

Your thighs try to close around his head. He doesn’t let them. He shoves them open, grip firm, voice so dark it borders on a warning: “Don’t… fucking… run.” He buries his face deeper into you, eating you out with an intensity that’s almost desperate, messy now, wet sounds filling the room as his tongue works you faster, harder, his jaw moving with purpose.

He moans into you again when you tug his hair, the sound sending another sharp wave through your body. “You’re close,” he whispers, his voice shaking with how badly he wants it. “I can feel it, don’t fight it. Come for me. Right here. On my tongue.” He sucks harder, the perfect pressure, tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless movements. Your breath breaks, your hips lift, and he holds you down, forcing you to stay exactly where he wants you.

You fall apart. Your gasp turns into a cry, your thighs trembling, your whole body tightening and unraveling all at once, and Jay doesn’t stop. Not for a second. He keeps licking you through it, slow and hungry, drawing every last shake out of you until you’re limp against the mattress. Only then does he pull back, lips glistening, breath ragged, eyes dark.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, slow, deliberate, and whispers: “Again.” Your pulse is still stuttering from his mouth, your thighs trembling against the sheets, when Jay lifts his head. His lips are swollen, wet from you, his breath sharp and uneven. He climbs up your body with a slow, predatory steadiness, each movement deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment before he finally breaks.

His hands bracket your hips first, fingers digging in just enough to remind you who’s in control. Then he drags them up your sides, over your ribs, up to your wrists, pinning both your hands above your head in one smooth motion. He leans down until his forehead nearly touches yours.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispers, voice low, rough. “Good.” His body settles between your thighs like it was made to fit there, warm, heavy, solid. You feel the hard length of him press against your inner thigh, and the jolt that shoots through you is so sharp your breath catches. He feels it. His jaw clenches. “Look at me.” Your eyes lift to meet his, and he holds your wrists tighter, the weight of his stare heavy, consuming.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he murmurs, voice barely audible. “Slow enough that you feel every inch.” You nod, breathless, but he shakes his head. “Say you want it.” “I want it,” you whisper. He exhales, slow, shaky, like those words hit him deeper than they should. Then he lets go of your wrists just long enough to guide himself, the tip of him brushing your entrance. The contact alone steals your breath. He presses forward just a little, barely parting you, just enough to make you whimper.

A soft, dark whisper at your lips: “Relax… let me in.” And then he pushes. Slow. Deep. Unstoppable. Your breath breaks. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your body tightens around him immediately, involuntarily, and Jay feels it. His head drops to your neck, his breath coming out in a strained, bitten-off groan. “Fuck… you’re tight—”

He stops himself, pulling in a slow, shaking breath like he’s on the edge of losing control already. He presses deeper inch by inch, your body stretching around him, taking him, pulling him in. You gasp his name. His hand shoots to your jaw, tilting your face toward his. “Don’t look away,” he whispers again, voice trembling now. “I want to see everything you feel.”

He sinks deeper. Deeper. Deeper until his hips meet yours and there’s no space left between you. You’re full. Breathless. Pinned under him. Jay’s forehead drops to yours, his hair brushing your cheeks, his breath sharp and uneven. “Shit…” he breathes out, voice cracking at the edges. “You feel—” He cuts off with another shuddering exhale. “You feel too good.”

His hands slide under your thighs, lifting them higher around his hips, opening you wider, pulling you closer, pulling you onto him. He holds still for a moment, letting your body adjust, letting the pressure settle deep and heavy between you. Then he whispers: “Tell me when you’re ready for me to move.” You can’t find your voice, so you pull your hips up into him, small, shaky, desperate.

His breath catches. “Okay…” A whisper that sounds like surrender. “Okay.” He pulls out slowly, every inch a drag that makes your eyes flutter, and then pushes back in with a deep, deliberate thrust that knocks a breathy sound from your chest. Jay groans into your neck, the sound low and ragged, his control slipping. His pace stays slow at first, deep, grinding strokes that make your whole body lift off the mattress each time. His hand slides behind your knee, pushing your thigh up higher, opening you more, letting him sink deeper, hit deeper.

Your breath starts breaking, your voice catching with each thrust. And Jay murmurs against your mouth, breath trembling: “That’s it… take it… take all of it…”

He thrusts again, deeper, harder, the sound of your bodies meeting sharp and wet in the quiet room. Your fingers claw into his back. He groans, low, guttural. His voice drops to a whisper so dark it shakes through you: “I’m going to ruin you for anyone else.” Jay’s thrusts get heavier, deeper, the kind that shake the mattress, the kind that force sound out of your throat no matter how hard you try to hold it back. His breathing is ragged now, brushing hot against your cheek, every exhale trembling like he’s fighting something in himself.

He’s not winning. You can feel it. His hips snap forward again, harder than before, and your gasp breaks into his mouth. His hand slides up your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there, anchoring you, guiding the angle of your head as he kisses you. A deep, messy, open-mouth kiss that tastes like desperation and heat. He pulls back only far enough to whisper against your lips:

“I can’t—” His breath shudders. “I can’t stay gentle anymore.” Your body clenches around him, and the reaction rips something raw from his chest. “That,” he growls softly, forehead pressing to yours, “don’t do that unless you want me completely gone.” You whisper, broken:  “I want you gone. Lose it.”

Jay freezes, only for a heartbeat. That’s all it takes. His control snaps. His hand slides down your thigh, grabbing hard, and he flips you onto your stomach in one fluid, effortless motion. You gasp as the sheets brush your skin, your body still trembling from the shock of being moved so fast. He’s already behind you. Already pulling your hips up to meet his. Already pressing himself back inside you with a deep, brutal thrust that makes your arms collapse.

Your forehead drops to the pillow, your fingers fisting the sheets. Jay groans behind you, long, low, dragged from his chest like he’s been holding it back for too long. “Fuck… this position…” Another thrust, harder. “You’re gripping me like you don’t want to let go.” He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, his hand sliding around your waist, fingers finding the softness just above your hip. He pulls you back onto him, matching his thrusts to the desperate rhythm of your breath.

Your voice breaks into the pillow. Jay hears it. He slides one hand into your hair, gripping at the base of your neck, pulling your head back until your mouth opens on a gasp. His lips find your ear, hot, panting, trembling with feral restraint. “You want it rough?” Another snap of his hips. “Take it.”

He slams into you, deep, precise, punishing in the best way. Your body jolts, back arching, legs shaking. His whisper cuts right into the sound of your breath: “Every… single… drop of me—”  Thrust.  “You’re taking it.”  Thrust. “You hear me?” You try to answer, but it comes out a whimper. He growls, quiet but sharp, and tightens his grip in your hair.

“Use your words.” “Y—yes,” you choke out. “I’m taking it.” He bites your shoulder, hard enough to make your breath stutter, then licks the spot slowly, soothing it with a soft drag of his tongue.

“Good,” he whispers against your skin. “Keep saying yes.” He lifts your hips higher, the new angle letting him sink impossibly deeper. The sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, sharp, wet, rhythmic. You feel him everywhere. His breath on your neck. His chest on your back. His fingers bruising your hips. His cock dragging so deep each thrust feels like it reaches your breath.

Your voice cracks with every movement. And Jay loses the last piece of control he’s holding. His thrusts turn rougher, faster, his pace hungry and relentless. His hand slides between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make your entire body jerk. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice shaking. “Come on my cock. Come for me while I’m inside you.”

Your fingers claw at the sheets. Your knees buckle. Your vision whites out. “Jay—” He snaps his hips into you harder, hand working you with ruthless precision. “Say my name again.” “Jay—fuck—Jay—” “That’s it,” he whispers, breath breaking. “Give it to me. Now.” And when your climax hits, sudden, violent, overwhelming, Jay moans into your shoulder, grabbing your hips, thrusting through your orgasm like he’s trying to lose himself inside the feeling of you coming apart around him. Your body collapses forward.

Jay follows you down, still buried deep, chest pressed to your back, breath hot and shaking against your skin. “Don’t move,” he whispers into your neck. “I’m not done with you yet.”

— — —

It happens fast. Not the falling, that part was slow. Weeks of stolen nights. Rain on penthouse windows. Jay learning the shape of your mouth like it was a map he’d forgotten how to read. You pretending you weren’t already lost in him. Two ghosts who had chased each other without knowing it. But the moment he asks, truly asks, isn’t dramatic. It’s raining again. Same rain.  Same city. Different you.

You’re standing under a stone overhang outside the old courthouse, both of you dripping, both of you laughing because this is ridiculous, utterly, impossibly ridiculous, and yet you’ve never been more certain of anything.

Jay’s hair is plastered to his forehead. His shirt is damp at the collar. He looks at you like the world finally stopped spinning. “Marry me,” he says. Quiet. Breathless. No theatrics. No ring. Just him.

You don’t even pretend to think. “Okay.” That’s how you end up inside the courthouse, rain streaking every window, thunder shaking the old wooden floorboards. The lights buzz faintly. The judge looks half-asleep. Your clothes are still wet. Jay can’t stop staring at you. It’s small. It’s messy. It’s real. You hold each other’s hands, cold fingers, warm palms, and the rain outside becomes the only witness.

Jay steps closer, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s grounding himself. His voice is barely above a whisper: “’Til death do us part.” You lift your chin, eyes locked on his. “You first.” Jay lets out a broken laugh, the kind that sounds like surrender, and kisses you right there, before the judge even finishes the sentence. The world blurs into rain and lips and the taste of something terrifyingly close to forever.

But you don’t end there. Hours later, the storm has quieted into a drizzle as he drives you through narrow streets until the Florence Cathedral rises, luminous, ancient, impossibly beautiful. No crowds tonight. Just candlelight pooling through stained glass, flickering in ruby and sapphire across marble floors. Jay leads you inside, not to marry you again, not for formality, but because he wants this memory carved into something sacred.

He stands with you in the center of the vast nave, rain dripping from your coat onto centuries-old stone. His hand finds yours. Your wedding bands, simple silver, glint under the candles.

The silence feels holy. Jay turns to you, jaw softening, rain still clinging to his lashes. “You know,” he murmurs, voice reverent, “if you ever walk away from me, this place won’t survive it. I won’t survive it.” You lean in until your foreheads touch, breath mingling in the chill of the cathedral. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not going anywhere.” Outside, the bells begin to ring, slow, deep, echoing through every stone archway like a blessing.

Two ghosts who once chased each other across rooftops now stand inside a church older than every name they’ve worn, bound by a rain-soaked vow whispered too quietly for the world, but loud enough to last.A courthouse wedding in a storm. A kiss beneath a vaulted ceiling of angels. And a promise neither of you ever planned to keep, yet couldn’t imagine breaking. Til death do you part. You first.

— — —

The present burns colder than memory. Gone is Florence. Gone is warmth. Gone is the taste of Jay’s mouth on yours, hot and reverent, like he was learning you cell by cell. All that remains is the mission room. An unmarked building. An unlabeled door. A table so cold it might as well be carved from absence. A folder hits the metal with the blunt weight of inevitability. Your handler doesn’t sit. He doesn’t blink. His voice is a monotone blade when he says:

“Target identified.”

You open the file. At the top lies a grainy surveillance still, taped in with a single yellowing strip of medical tape, like the print is alive and might try to run. LEE HEESEUNG. Codename: EVAN. Black hair. A sharp, unsmiling mouth. Eyes that look like they’ve witnessed the wrong side of hell and decided not to come back. Below, in stark block letters:

HIGH-VALUE TARGET.DIA PRISONER – ESCAPED CUSTODY. A HIGHEST PRIORITY FOR ELIMINATION.POTENTIAL RISK: EXTREME.

You keep your expression neutral, professional. Your pulse betrays you anyway, tightening in your wrists, fluttering too fast in your neck. Your handler continues, tone flat: “Intel confirms he resurfaced three days ago. Multiple agencies want him dead. We’re pulling international contractors to lock down the grid. You’ll have first contact. Coordinates on dispatch only when his location stabilizes.”

Stabilizes. A strange word. A stranger implication. You close the folder with a soft, decisive snap. “When do I move?” “Tonight.” You nod, controlled, composed, a ghost wearing your skin. But your stomach twists tight, curling around a feeling you can’t name. Something is wrong. The lights above flicker as if agreeing. You slide the file into your coat and walk out like nothing inside you has shifted at all. Except everything has.

—

Different city. Different agency. Same fluorescent hum of dread. Jay sits across from his director, legs spread loose, posture careless enough to fool anyone who hasn’t watched him kill. But the tight vein in his jaw pulses once, barely there, but real. “Your assignment,” the director says, pushing a folder across the steel table. Jay flips it open with two bored fingers. Then he sees the photo. A small taped polaroid. Same face. Same eyes. Same ghost. LEE HEESEUNG. Codename: EVAN.

Jay goes still. Not visibly. But he forgets to breathe for half a second.

His director doesn’t notice. “Target escaped custody. Too dangerous to leave in circulation. Termination authorized, no retrieval, no arbitration.” Jay turns the page. Dense black text. Red stamps that read like they were carved instead of printed.

HIGH-VALUE. PRIORITY ONE. ELIMINATE ON SIGHT.

His voice comes out low, edged with something he doesn’t let surface often. “Solo contract?” “Yes. Clean. Quiet. No footprint.” Of course. Jay is a ghost maker. “Location?” he asks. “You’ll receive coordinates in transit. Target is migrating.” Jay closes the folder, leans back, tongue pressing once against the inside of his cheek, a tell he never allows. Not unless something feels off. He didn’t expect the sensation clawing through his chest now.He doesn’t like it. Like he’s standing at the mouth of a memory he hasn’t lived yet.  Like the world has tilted one degree and he’s the only one who noticed.  Like fate just cracked its knuckles.

He stands. “When do I depart?” “Now.” Jay leaves without another word.

Your safehouse greets you with silence and stale air. You drop the folder onto the bed. It flips open on impact. Heeseung’s eyes stare up, dark, hollow, too knowing. Something in you recoils. Not in fear. In recognition you can’t justify. A familiarity that feels like a bruise you don’t remember getting.

You press your palm over his image until your skin hides the photo entirely. Your comms vibrate.

MISSION ACTIVE.STANDBY FOR COORDINATES.

The unease slithers deeper, coiling in your ribs. This is just another job.  Just another shadow to neutralize. That’s what you tell yourself. You don’t know Jay is reading the same photo in another part of the city. You don’t know he’s already moving. You don’t know the mission has already tied your fates too tight to pull apart. Outside, the wind picks up. Somewhere, the storm shifts. And the moment the coordinates hit both your phones… everything begins to break.

The desert wind cuts like glass. You stand among the guards, helmet low, visor down, uniform crisp. Breath steady. Pulse measured. The armored convoy crawls across the dirt road in front of you like a beast made of steel and secrets. Engines hum. Radios crackle. Boots crunch.

Evan, Heeseung, is in the third vehicle. Chained. Drugged. Supposed to be harmless. He isn’t. You grip your rifle tighter. Up on the ridge, unseen, Jay lies flat against red stone, rifle braced on a bipod. Sun cutting across his scope in a thin, lethal line. He’s still. Focused. A shadow carved from patience. His handler’s voice whispers in his ear: “Confirmed visual on Evan?”

Jay exhales. “Confirmed.” Your handler whispers the same into your comm, almost word-for-word. Neither of you knows the other is listening to the exact same briefing.

The transport halts. Guards reposition. You blend among them, steps silent, movements practiced. Your disguise holds. No one looks twice. Jay adjusts his aim, tracking the man being escorted out of the armored vehicle. Evan’s hair is longer than the file photo. His face gaunt. But his eyes, sharp and aware, cut through everyone around him.

Jay’s finger settles on the trigger. So does yours. The plan is clean: You draw fire and chaos from the inside. Jay snipes from the ridge. Evan dies between both shots.

Flawless. Mathematically perfect. Zero risk of failure. Until the sun shifts. Until Jay’s scope catches the smallest sliver of reflection, your reflection. Helmets down. Uniform standard. Should’ve been nothing. But he sees the tilt of your chin. The tension in your shoulders. The way you steady your rifle. He knows bodies. He knows yours. Jay’s breath stops.

…No. It can’t be. Not here.

He blinks once, and, you look up. Your eyes meet his through the glint of his scope. Instant. Electric. Catastrophic. Recognition hits you like a punch to the ribs. Your lips part beneath the helmet, shock flooding ice-cold down your spine. Jay. Jay is the sniper. Jay is the second operative. Jay is on the same hit.

What the hell—

“Shooter One, take the shot,” your handler orders. “Shooter Two, green light,” his handler echoes. Neither of you pulls the trigger. That hesitation, one heartbeat, ruins everything. Evan, ever perceptive, looks directly where Jay is hiding. Then directly at you. His mouth twitches. Not into a smile. Into readiness. He moves first. A knee to a guard. A ripped weapon. A shot fired into a fuel tank.

You dive, Jay curses and rolls, and the world explodes. Fire erupts through the convoy. Guards scatter. Bullets rain. Smoke eats the sky. Through the flames, Evan slips free, fast, trained, terrifyingly calm, and vanishes into the burning horizon. Mission blown. Target alive. You and Jay exposed. You scramble behind an overturned truck, helmet half-melted, lungs burning with smoke. Jay slides down the ridge, grabs his gear, and disappears into the canyon. Both of you escape.  Barely. Both of you are shaking. More from the recognition than the blast.

You drive with white-knuckled hands, headlights slicing through dusk, replaying his face in your mind. Jay. At the ridge. Rifle aimed at the same man. Your stomach refuses to settle. Across the city, Jay drives just as hard, jaw tight, music off, mind racing. You. At the convoy. In uniform. Holding a rifle. Too coincidental. Too precise. He isn’t stupid. Neither are you. You both know exactly what this means.

Your apartment is warm. Your clothes are clean. Your pulse is anything but steady. Jay arrives right on time. You don’t hug him. He doesn’t kiss you. The tension is a living thing between you, sharp, metallic, almost visible.

You cook because it gives your hands something to do. He stands behind you, silent, watching the knife move. You speak first. “Traffic?” Your voice doesn’t sound like yours. He shrugs. “Not bad.”

You sit. You both eat too quietly. Then you slip. You don’t realize you’ve said it until the air collapses. “I thought you were in Itaewon today.” You freeze. Jay lifts his gaze slowly. A smirk forms, slow, subtle, cutting. “You always think you know where I am.”

It’s not flirtation. It’s a test. Your pulse spikes. “Where were you?” you ask. He places his chopsticks down, leans back, eyes on yours with unnerving calm. “In the heat,” he says. “In the open.” “Wind was bad. Distance was… manageable.”

Your heart stops. Only a sniper would phrase it that way. He watches your reaction carefully. Then, softly, almost gently: “Funny thing, though. Someone down there hesitated too.”

Your blood turns to ice. He knows. And worse, he knows you know. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s lethal.Two operatives. Two lies. Two truths cracking open all at once. One failed mission. One escaped target. One inevitable collision. Jay’s smile fades. His voice drops to something dangerous and intimate: “Tell me, sweetheart…” His eyes glint. “…were you aiming for Evan today?”

You inhale. Exhale. Lie or tell the truth. Either way, everything changes here.

The morning after the botched prisoner transfer tastes like the inside of a bullet casing, metallic, bitter, and humming with the memory of heat. Your apartment is too still. Too neat. Too unbroken for what you both witnessed yesterday. Jay moves through the kitchen like someone daring it to betray him. His shoulders are loose, relaxed, casual, the exact posture he wears right before he puts a knife through someone’s ribs. You’ve studied that body language in your enemies. In him, it’s worse. Because it isn’t foreign. It’s familiar.

You woke up to him breathing beside you, warm, steady. The kind of breathing only a man who slept well produces. He shouldn’t have slept well. Not after seeing you in that convoy. Not after recognizing your eyes through the sniper glint.

Not after realizing the truth. Neither should you. But assassins adapt. And marriage, even a forged, accidental, courthouse one, teaches you how to lie through breakfast. Jay opens a drawer and pulls out a mug. He doesn’t reach for your favorite one. He reaches for the one he bought, the newer one, the one that doesn’t have your fingerprints memorized. He’s telling you without saying a word:

I’m not predictable today. Don’t assume anything.

Good. You weren’t planning to. “Coffee?” you ask, voice light. Sweet. Dangerous. “Please.” Jay leans a hip against the counter and watches you with eyes that give nothing away. Not fear. Not anger. Not confusion. Just calculation. You grind the beans by hand, slow, methodical. You measure the water temperature. You test the bitterness. You make it perfect.

And then, when you pour it into his mug, your finger taps the hidden capsule against the rim. It dissolves instantl, micro-poison, nearly undetectable, designed to mimic food poisoning for the first nine minutes, then shut down the heart. You stir it once. Twice. Jay’s gaze flicks to your wrist. A single raised brow.

He knows. You slide the mug toward him anyway, like the world’s deadliest waitress. Jay picks it up, inhales the steam, and smiles. “Looks good.” His fingers curl around the ceramic. You watch his pulse.

He takes a sip. Swallows. And smirks. “I love when you make things strong,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to meet yours, deliberate. “It wakes me up.” You keep your face serene, completely still, but your blood chills. Because Jay doesn’t set the mug down. He doesn’t drink it again. He just… holds it. Letting you wonder whether he swallowed anything at all. Letting you imagine him spitting it out behind your back this morning. Or swapping the mug. Or taking the antidote he always keeps in his back pocket.

He’s playing with his life like it’s his wedding ring. The same way you just played with his. He takes another sip. You stop breathing. Then he sets the mug down, pushes it a few centimeters toward the center of the counter, and taps the handle twice with one finger.

Message loud and brutal: Try harder.

Your body warms, adrenaline or arousal, you can’t tell. With Jay it’s always been that fine, lethal line. “Early mission today?” you ask casually, rinsing the spoon you stirred his coffee with. Jay’s eyes follow the spoon’s path. Your wrist. Your stance. He’s mapping where your weapons could be hidden. Where you could run. How fast he could catch you.

“Something like that,” he says lightly. “And you?” “Same.” “Ah.” He stretches, neck cracking slightly as he rolls his shoulders. “Busy couple. Always on the move.” His tone is teasing. His eyes are not. You both move at the same time, him reaching for his phone; you turning for your jacket. Your fingers brush the drawer of the entryway table, where you usually keep your keys.

Only today, your keys aren’t there. Jay took them. Jay knows you noticed. You meet his eyes. He smiles. “Borrowed your car,” he says simply. No apology.  No reason. Just theft. Just war. You school your expression. “When?” “This morning.” “That early?” “Hm.” Jay gives a small shrug. “I had… errands.” Translation:  He was checking everything you own for traps.  He didn’t find the ones you wanted him to. But he found enough.

“Yours is still here,” he adds. “What’s left of it,” you say under your breath, so quiet a regular husband wouldn’t catch it. Jay is not a regular husband. He hears it. His smirk sharpens. “You say something?” You look up through your lashes. “Just wondering why you look so tired.”

That lands. A small, precise hit. He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that your breath shifts. His hand lifts, thumb grazing a strand of hair behind your ear. It would be tender, if it weren’t a threat. “Oh?” Jay murmurs. “I slept like a baby.” You didn’t. He knows. “Didn’t you?”

You tilt your chin. “Lighter sleeper,” you say simply. “You know that.” Jay’s smile is too soft to be safe. “I do.” A beat of silence. Heavy. Charged. Loaded like a chambered bullet. Then he steps back, grabs his jacket, and says: “I’ll see you tonight.”

A normal line. Too normal. You nod once. “Dinner at eight.” “Eight,” he echoes. Neither of you says if we both make it. When he leaves, the air collapses. Your spine straightens. Your pupils narrow. Today is the day. The first strike. The first real attempt. You check the time. Jay will reach the parking garage in seven minutes. You have the detonator in your hand.

You flip open the blinds just a sliver. The view of the street below is clear. Your husband crosses the road, calm, unhurried, unaware (or pretending to be). He reaches the elevator to the garage.

Six minutes. You move through the apartment quickly, silently, retrieving your backup keys, your boots, the bag under the sink with a gun no one but you knows about. You breathe once. Then you press the detonator.

The explosion shakes the city block. Flame ruptures upward, glass shattering, concrete cracking. People scream. Birds scatter. Smoke billows like a beast unleashed. Your pulse spikes.

You scan the wreckage. Burning metal. Twisted doors. Fire licking the hood of your husband’s car. And then, through the smoke, a silhouette steps out. Untouched. Unrushed. Unburned.

Jay walks through the flames like he’s leaving a photoshoot, not a murder attempt. His jaw is sharp, his hair slightly wind-tossed, suit jacket thrown over one shoulder like the explosion was an inconvenience at best. He lifts his gaze straight to your window.

And smiles. Slow.  Infuriating.  Devastatingly amused. He mouths: Cute. You exhale a curse. War has officially begun. Your phone lights up before the smoke even clears.

1 new message — JAY 💍

You open it with a thumb that doesn’t tremble. You won’t give him that. The message contains no text. Just a photo.

Him. Standing in front of the burning remains of his car. Two fingers raised in a peace sign. A heart emoji drawn in smoke behind him. You clench your jaw. Smug bastard.

You’re still staring at the photo when your door unlocks behind you. Not forced. Not picked. Not kicked in. Unlocked. From the inside. Your stomach drops. You reach for your gun, too slow.

Jay presses the muzzle of his gun behind your ribs, so gentle it feels like a greeting. “Good morning again, sweetheart,” he says, voice low, warm, mocking. “Miss me?” You don’t let your spine stiffen. “Doors lock for a reason.” “Oh, I know.” His breath brushes your neck as he steps around you, gun still resting at your side like an affectionate hand. “I just don’t care.”

He doesn’t shoot. He doesn’t need to. He walks in, calm as ever, dropping his jacket on the couch. You watch him move, fluid, confident, unbothered.

He survived your bomb. He broke into your home. And he’s making himself comfortable. “Coffee was good,” he says lightly as he toes off his shoes. “Bold flavor. Slightly poisonous aftertaste, but still smooth.” You grit your teeth. “You drank it.” “Did I?” Jay tilts his head. “Or did I pour it into the pothos plant when you blinked?”

You glance at the plant. It’s wilted. You exhale sharply. “…you asshole.” Jay beams. “I love when you notice.” He walks past you without a care in the world, crossing to your desk. Your laptop sits there. Closed. Untouched. Or so you thought. Jay sits in your chair, spins once, and props his feet on your notebook. “Can I ask you something?” he says casually.

You cross your arms. “No.” He continues anyway. “Why did you think blowing up my car would work?” he asks. “You know I’ve survived worse.” You force your heartbeat to steady. “It was worth a try.” He looks at you for a long, quiet moment. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “It was.” And then he opens your laptop. Your breath catches. “Jay.” Warning. Threat. Plea.

He ignores all three. The screen comes to life, your wallpaper, your folders, your encrypted files, Except it’s not your normal login screen. It’s a new one. White text on a black background:

HELLO, SUNSHINE.ENTER PASSWORD TO SIGN YOUR RESIGNATION LETTER.

Your blood goes ice-cold. Jay glances up sweetly. “You didn’t think I’d let you be the only one to leave surprises today, did you?” “If you touched my files—” “Oh, I touched everything.” He taps a few keys. Windows flicker open—your missions, your photos, your kill records, your handler’s notes. “Your entire professional history is so… intimate. Like reading your diary. Except more murder-y.”

You lunge forward. Jay lifts a finger. One finger. Barely a motion. You stop. Your body responds to him before your mind does. “Baby,” he murmurs. “Do you really want to fight me this early? We haven’t even discussed lunch.” You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You want to strangle him with the charging cable.

He continues typing with lazy, deadly precision. “Your firm thinks you’re resigning effective immediately,” he says. “I drafted a lovely, heartfelt letter. You talk about burnout. Wanting to reconnect with your spouse. Wanting a quiet life.” “I would never write that.” Jay grins. “I know. That’s why it’s funny.” You step closer. “Jay, undo it.”

“Can’t.” “Undo it.” “No.” You slam your palm on the desk beside him. “Now.” His eyes lift to yours with slow, thrilling danger. “You blew up my car.” “You drank poison.” “You tried to stab me in your sleep.” “You dodged. That’s not my fault.” “Oh, please,” he scoffs, fingers flying across the keyboard. “You were aiming for my shoulder.” Your jaw tics. He noticed. Of course he did.

Jay’s tone shifts, softens. “You don’t want to kill me.” You ignore the sting in your chest. “That’s not the point.” “Then what is?” he asks quietly. Silence drapes over you both. Thick. Heavy. Truth-shaped. You break it with steel rather than vulnerability. “You’re compromising my mission.” Jay laughs under his breath. “Sweetheart, you are the mission.” You freeze. He doesn’t. He clicks one last button, and your laptop pings. Your heart stops. On the screen is the confirmation:

RESIGNATION SENT.  

ACCESS TO FIRM FILES LOCKED.

GOOD LUCK IN YOUR FUTURE ENDEAVORS.

You breathe out slowly, deadly calm. “You’re insane.” Jay stands slowly, stepping into your space like he owns it. Like he owns you. “Maybe,” he says. “But I’m your problem now.” You grab his collar, hard. “Undo it.” He dips his head so your noses almost touch. “Make me.” You shove him away. He lets you, only because he wants to see what you’ll do next. “You’ll pay for that,” you say under your breath.

Jay smirks. “Promise?” You turn on your heel. He follows. Every step you take, he mirrors, calm, close, unshakable. Like you’re dancing. Like you’ve always been dancing. Like you were both trained for this moment without knowing it. “Where are you going?” he asks lightly.

“To fix what you broke.” He hums. “Try. I’ll enjoy watching you.” You reach for your weapons bag. Jay reaches the other side of it at the same time. Your hands brush. He freezes. You freeze. Then his smile curls sharp and dark. “Married couple things,” he says softly. “Sharing the murder kit.”

You grab the bag first. Jay lets it go. “This is war,” you tell him. He shrugs. “It’s Tuesday.” You don’t bother responding. You storm toward the door. Jay calls after you: “Dinner at eight!” You flip him off without looking back. “Can’t wait!” he shouts cheerfully.

The smile drops. His eyes narrow. His entire posture shifts from amused husband to operative. He sits back at your desk, pulls out a flash drive, and inserts it quietly. A new screen pops up:

TRANSFER COMPLETE.TARGET: EVAN — LOCATION UNKNOWN.SECONDARY TARGETS: YOU.

Jay stares at the screen. His jaw ticks. He whispers: “…you weren’t supposed to be on this mission.” He closes the laptop gently. Then stands, stoic, tense, deadly. No more jokes. No more flirting. For the first time since the wedding,

Jay looks scared. Not for himself. For you. The moment you hit the street, the cool air cuts through the lingering smoke clinging to your clothes. You breathe once, deep, steady, calculated. Then your phone vibrates.

JAY 💍: Miss you already.

You turn the phone off. No, you slam it off.

You hit your firm’s satellite tech hub in under twenty minutes. Not the front door. Not even the side entrance. You take the maintenance stairs, four levels up, two down, a narrow hall, a biometric scanner you bypass with a thin strip of heated wire and a practiced twist, and you’re in. The room is dark, humming with servers and fluorescent lights that flicker like dying stars. Your handler, Mira, sits at the central monitor wall, boots up on the desk, chewing gum like she’s bored with the world.

She doesn’t look surprised when you appear behind her. “Bad day?” she asks. You toss your locked-out credentials onto her lap. “My login’s dead. Who did it?” Mira leans back, chewing slowing. “Didn’t come from us. It came from you.”

Your blood chills. “Someone hacked it,” you say. “No.” Mira taps her screen. “Someone with physical access logged in as you and sent a resignation letter manually.” You inhale through your teeth. “Jay.” Mira whistles softly. “You got married fast.”

You don’t answer. Her gum pops. “Look, I don’t care about your love life, but if you’re out, you’re out. I can’t reverse this.” “Give me access,” you say. Voice low. Controlled. Deadly. She studies you. Then sighs. Then types. Her gaze flicks up once. “If anyone finds out—” “No one will.” A temporary access tunnel opens on her screen, thirty minutes before it self-erasers.

You pull out your phone to re-route your handler keys, but the phone isn’t in your pocket. Your pulse spikes. Mira raises a brow. “Lose something?” You exhale. “Jay.”

You return home like a shadow, silent, poised, lethal. Your apartment is dark. Too dark. Jay never leaves it dark. He hates the dark. You move slow, every step measured.  The door clicks behind you. And the moment it shuts, a hand covers your mouth. Not rough. Not panicked.

Purposeful. Jay’s body presses yours into the wall, his breath warm against your ear. “You left without saying goodbye,” he murmurs. You sink your teeth into his palm. He hisses, pulling back, hand flexing. “You bite harder at home than on missions,” he says lightly.

You elbow him in the ribs. He dodges, laughs, and spins you, pinning your wrist to the wall with a grip that’s firm, not bruising.

“Are we fighting?” he asks, eyes bright, wild, excited. “Please say yes.” You twist your wrist. He tightens grip. “Let go,” you whisper. “No.” You slam your knee toward his thigh, he blocks, catches your leg, hooks it around his waist. Too close. Too intimate. Too familiar. Your breath stutters. He notices. His voice softens. “Where were you?”  It’s not jealousy. It’s not suspicion. It’s fear. Real fear. “Don’t,” you say. Jay leans in, forehead brushing yours. “Tell me.”

“Why?” Your pulse stings. “So you can report it?” He freezes. Slowly, his hand drops from your wrist. “You think I’d turn you in?” “You hacked my firm.” “You blew up my car.” “You poisoned me.” “You stabbed me.” “You started it.” “You married me.”

You both blink. Everything stops.Jay takes a slow step back. Something flickers in his eyes, hurt, sharp, unguarded for a fraction of a second. “You don’t get to use that,” he says quietly.

“…Jay—” “No.” He shakes his head once. “That was real. Whatever else we are, whatever game we’re playing, that wasn’t the game.” His voice cracks just a little. Barely there. Barely audible.

It hits harder than any weapon. You swallow. Your chest feels too tight. He steps around you, slow, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal. “If you keep treating this like a mission,” Jay says softly, “I’ll start fighting like it is one.” That’s the warning. The last one he’ll give. Your voice is thin. “I didn’t ask you to follow me.” “You never have to ask,” he says. “I just do.”

You turn away, fast. Too fast. It gives him the opening. Jay reaches into his back pocket and tosses something onto the table. Your phone. Completely wiped. Factory reset. SIM ejected. Firmware updated. “Jay.” The word isn't anger. It’s disbelief.

“I told you I was good with tech,” he says. You stare at the dead device. “You wiped my tracking. My contacts.” “Yes.” “My encrypted notes.” “Yes.” “My mission tags.” “Yes.” You take a step toward him, voice lethal. “Why?” Jay stares at you. Not smirking. Not teasing.

Serious. “Because someone else put you on the Evan hit,” he says quietly. “Someone who wasn’t supposed to. And your firm isn’t the one pulling strings.” Your heart stops. “…what?” He walks closer, slowly, the way he always does when the truth is the most dangerous thing in the room. “The target?” Jay says softly. “Everything around him?” “The hit that went wrong?” “The explosion?” “The double assignment?” He exhales. “It wasn’t an accident.” Your breath stutters. “Jay, what the fuck do you know that I don’t?”

He shakes his head. “Not here.” He reaches out, slowly, like a truce. His fingers hover near yours. “If we’re going to survive this,” he murmurs, “you need to trust me.”You stare at his hand. Trust. You haven’t trusted anyone in five years. You don’t know how.

So you do the only thing you can. You don’t take his hand. But you don’t walk away either. Jay’s breath shakes. A tiny, almost imperceptible release of tension. It’s enough. He nods. Steps back. Gives you space. “We’re in this together now,” he says. You swallow. “Not by choice.”

Jay holds your gaze. “Marriage never is.” You almost laugh. Almost. And that’s when both your phones buzz at the same time. You look at each other. Then at the notification.

PRIORITY ALERT — EVAN SIGHTINGLocation: UNKNOWNSender: UNKNOWNMessage: RUN.

Your pulse spikes. Jay’s eyes flick to you, fear, fury, devotion all tangled into one sharp, explosive truth: Someone is hunting you both. And they know exactly where to find you. Your notification blinks twice before the screen goes black. Jay’s does the same. A synchronized kill-switch. An external override.

Someone just shut down your comms. Someone inside your network. Someone inside his. Your pulse spikes. Jay’s jaw tightens. “Back room,” he says. You don’t argue.

The two of you move in perfect sync, terrifyingly perfect, crossing the living room in three strides. You reach for the emergency drawer beneath the bar; Jay grabs the floor-plate latch behind the bookshelf. Your fingers brush cold metal. Glock. Silencer. Knife. Jay pulls up a case you didn’t even know he hid beneath the floorboards.

“Really?” you whisper, motioning to the hidden compartment. “I said I was good at tech, not that I was boring.” He flips the case open. Guns. Ammo. A tracking beacon the size of a grain of rice. You don’t have time to question it. A soft click echoes through the apartment. Then another.

Then—

WHRRR—

The building’s automatic locks engage. Jay’s head snaps up. “Someone triggered the internal seal.” “From outside?” “No.” He cocks his gun. “Someone who has access to both of our profiles.” Meaning: Someone who knows you’re assassins. Someone who knows you’re married. Someone who wants you trapped.

Your breath goes thin. Jay moves first, pushing you behind the kitchen island just as the glass balcony doors SHATTER. Wind. Glass. Gunfire. The first bullet whistles past your ear. The next embeds in the marble countertop. Jay shoves you down with a sharp, “Stay low,” then fires three quick, precise shots through the broken glass.

Two bodies drop. A third retreats behind the balcony railing. You slide across the floor, snagging a spare pistol he’d left under the table (of course he has guns everywhere), and pop off a shot toward the movement. Jay glances at you. Not surprised. Not impressed. Something like relief.

Then an echoing THUNK. A grappling hook hits the floor, metal claws digging into the tile. “They’re coming in from the roof,” you hiss. “No, they’re coming in from everywhere.” As if on cue, the hallway door explodes inward, splintering wood across the floor. Four men enter. Black gear. Custom rifles. Zero insignia.

Not government. Not mercenaries. Something worse. “Down!” Jay barks. You duck behind the overturned chair as Jay fires again, his shots sharp and clean even in chaos. One intruder drops, but the others fan out, forcing you into a crossfire. You roll sideways, sliding behind the dining table, heart hammering. You fire twice, one bullet taking a man’s shoulder, another grazing his thigh.

Jay shouts, “Left!” You spin, knife out, just as another intruder lunges. You bury the blade between his ribs. Jay’s breath catches. Not from fear. From something closer to awe. But there’s no time to acknowledge it. More footsteps thunder down the hall. “Jay,” you breathe, “we need an exit.” “We’re not making it to the stairs.” He reloads. “We take the balcony.”

“That’s a ten-story drop.” “I didn’t say jump.” He hits a switch on the wall, a switch you’ve never noticed, and a thin metal cable unspools toward the balcony like a steel lifeline. You stare. He winks. Of course he has a zipline.But before either of you can reach it—CRACK.

A bullet hits the floor inches from your hand. You dive. Jay turns to cover you, and in that one second, you see it. The sniper on the roof. The glint of a scope. The trajectory aligning perfectly with Jay’s chest. Your breath freezes.

“JAY—!” The gun fires.Jay turns, but not fast enough. THUD. The bullet slams into his shoulder, jerking his body backward. You scream his name, raw, unfiltered, instinctive, and launch forward, catching him before he hits the floor. Blood spreads fast beneath your fingers. “Fuck—Jay—no—stay with me—” He grits his teeth, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut for a second too long.

“I’m fine,” he pants. “You’re bleeding out,” you snap. His grin is shaky, defiant. “You should’ve seen the other guy.” Another bullet smashes into the wall behind you. “Move!” you hiss, dragging him behind the couch. He tries to push you away. Fails. His arm trembles.

Your chest feels like it’s collapsing. Not from panic. From realization. You are not supposed to care this much. You are absolutely caring this much. Jay leans his head back, breath heaving. “You’re… worried about me,” he says weakly. “Shut up.” “You are.”  He smiles again. It’s soft. It’s stupid. It’s killing you.

“Jay, I swear to god—” “Your hands are shaking,” he whispers. You look down. They are. Another blast from the hallway makes the floor tremble. You grab him by the jaw, forcing his eyes open. “Listen to me. If you pass out, I’m killing you myself.” Jay breathes a broken laugh. “I knew you cared.” You press your forehead to his, just for a second, because fear is a physical thing in your throat.

“We’re getting you out,” you whisper. Then you stand.  Gun ready. Heart burning. A shadow moves in the hall. You fire before you think. Two shots. One body drops. Jay watches you through half-lidded eyes, dazed and bleeding but still tracking your every move. “Jesus,” he murmurs, “you’re beautiful.”

“Jay, shut the fuck up—” Another volley of gunfire cuts into your words. Jay forces himself to his feet, pressing a hand to his wound, face going white. You grab his arm. “Don’t you dare—” “I’m not leaving you,” he says hoarsely. “You can barely stand—” “Then you’ll hold me up.”

He raises his gun with his good arm. You stare at him, angry. Terrified. A little in love. Just a little. “On three,” you say. Jay nods, breath stuttering. “Three.”

You don’t even say one or two. You both burst from cover, you firing left, Jay firing right, two bodies drop, and Jay stumbles. You catch him with an arm around the waist, hauling him toward the balcony.

Glass crunches under your boots. The wind screams through the broken doors. Jay gasps, “We zipline.” “You can’t grip it.” “You’re not carrying me.” “Watch me.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but gunfire erupts behind you and he has no time. The cable swings wildly in the wind. Jay sways. You grab the harness, loop his arm through it, cinch it across his chest. “Hold on to me,” you demand. His hand grips your shirt weakly. “Always,” he whispers. You kick off the balcony.

Bullets chase you through the air. Wind tears at your clothes. Jay’s blood smears your arm where he’s clinging to you. You hit the opposite balcony too hard. You nearly fall. Jay groans, collapsing against you. But you’re alive. You’re out. For now. You drag him inside the empty apartment, slam the door shut, and drop to your knees beside him.

Jay looks at you through hazy eyes. Smile faint. Voice faint. “You saved me.” “Don’t.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it like that.” Jay lifts a hand, shaking, bloodied, and touches your cheek.“You’re shaking again,” he whispers.

Your vision blurs for a second. “You took a bullet for me,” you breathe. His lips part. “Of course I did.” The truth of it hangs between you, dangerous, unspoken, blinding. And that’s when you realize:You are not his enemy. You never were. Someone else is. Someone who wants you both dead. Someone who just forced you onto the same side.

Jay’s head lolls forward, barely conscious. “Stay with me,” you whisper, grabbing his face, forcing his eyes open. He breathes a tiny laugh. “As long as you’re here,” he murmurs, “I’m not going anywhere.” And he doesn’t let go of your shirt.

His head lolls forward before you catch it, your hands sliding under his jaw, guiding him back against the wall. His skin is cold. Too cold. “Jay—Jay, stay with me,” you breathe, panic tearing up your throat like barbed wire. Not even when his eyes finally close do you let yourself blink. “No… no, no— Jay.” You shake him, voice breaking. “Wake up! Wake—” Your vision blurs. Hot, stinging tears gather so fast you barely feel them until they fall, hitting his cheek, mixing with the rain and blood.

Jay’s lashes flutter. His eyes open only a sliver, unfocused but stubborn. “Relax, princess…” he murmurs, and the nickname sounds wrong on dying lips. He coughs, hard, body shaking, blood splattering across your wrist. You flinch, but only for a second before cupping his face again. “Don’t talk,” you whisper. It comes out harsher than intended. “Please. Don’t talk.” He tries to laugh, but it breaks in his chest. “Bossy…”

“Shut up.” You press your forehead to his, breathing him in, counting his breaths like you can hold them steady with sheer will. “I’m gonna, I’m gonna fix this, okay? Just— just hold on.” Your hands move before your thoughts do, tearing open the med pack strapped to your thigh. Your fingers shake so violently you drop the gauze twice before slamming it against the wound in his side.

Jay groans, low, guttural, teeth gritted. “I know,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I know, I know— I’m sorry—” You press harder. His blood seeps through instantly, hot and slick against your palms. You’re losing him. If you don’t stop the bleed, he’ll— “I’ve had worse,” he rasps.

You glare at him through your tears. “Stop trying to be charming while you’re dying.” “Worked on you before,” he whispers, mouth twitching. “Jay.” Your voice breaks again. “Please. Let me help you.” He lifts a shaky hand, blood-soaked fingers brushing your cheek, smearing red across your skin like paint. “You’re beautiful when you worry.”

Your breath leaves you in a shudder. “I’m not— I’m not losing you,” you choke out. “Not now. Not like this.” You rip open another roll of gauze, press harder, feel for the bullet. You can’t pull it out here, not without killing him faster, so you stabilize, bind, improvise a pressure pack using your own torn shirt.

Jay watches you through half-lidded eyes, like memorizing you is the only thing keeping him awake. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.“Because you’re bleeding out, you idiot.” He tries for a smile, fails. “Still bossy.” You swallow a sob. “Jay, don’t close your eyes.” “I’m tired.”“No.” Your voice snaps, sharp and terrified. “You don’t get to sleep. Look at me. Keep looking.”

His gaze slips, then steadies. “I’m right here,” you whisper, pressing your lips to his temple. “Stay with me.” He exhales, long and shaky, leaning into you like it’s instinct. “Thought you hated me,” he mumbles. “I do,” you whisper. “But you’re not allowed to die.”

His hand finds your wrist weakly. “Selfish.” “I don’t care.” For a moment, there’s only rain, blood, your breath shaking against his. Then, “Princess…?” His voice breaks. “Don’t… leave.” “I’m not going anywhere,” you swear, gripping his hand so hard your knuckles ache. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” And even as his eyes start to flutter closed again, you keep holding him together with your hands, your voice, your heartbeat pressed to his. You won’t let him go. Not tonight. Not ever.

You press your palm to the wound, breath shaking. “Stay with me, Jay, don’t you dare—” His eyes slip half-shut, lashes wet. “Relax, princess… I’m fine.” He’s not. Blood spreads warm under your fingers.

“Fine?” you snap, voice breaking. “You took a bullet for me. I could’ve—” A sharp clatter echoes from outside the safehouse. Both your heads snap up. Jay inhales sharply, forcing himself upright despite your hands. “We need to move.” You sling his arm over your shoulder, practically dragging him out the back. The moment the door bursts open, the sky greets you with a cold, merciless downpour. Rain soaks through your clothes instantly, mixing with the blood on your hands.

You stop in the alleyway, chest heaving. Everything hits you at once. “You shouldn’t have done that,” you whisper, rain sliding down your face like tears you refuse to let fall. “You shouldn’t… I could’ve taken the damn bullet, Jay.” He opens his mouth, but you step back from him, shaking your head hard.“ You don’t get to make that choice for me.” Your voice is raw, trembling. “Not anymore.” Then you turn, heart pounding, rain drowning out every sound except the shatter of something breaking inside you, and you walk away from him.

You slam the door behind you so hard the frame rattles. Jay’s eyes follow you, bruised from the shrapnel, and still somehow infuriatingly calm. The apartment smells like smoke and adrenaline. You smell like panic. He saved you. You hate that he saved you. You hate even more that he almost died doing it.

You wheel around on him, chest heaving. “What the hell was that?”

Jay pauses, one hand braced on the wall as he toes off his boots, rainwater pooling beneath him. There’s a cut across his cheekbone he hasn’t even bothered to wipe. He glances up at you, slow, measured, knowing exactly how to piss you off. “What was what?” he says lightly.

Your hands curl into fists. “You were reckless.”

His brows lift, just a little. His breath hitches, just a little. And then he laughs under his breath, soft and disbelieving. “That’s what I get for saving your life?” “It’s not—” you start, voice cracking with more emotion than you’d ever allow if you weren’t this wrung out. “It’s not like that, Jay.”

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. “Really? Because from where I was standing, you were about two seconds away from becoming modern art on that wall.” “That was the job.” Your throat burns. “And you— you didn’t have to—” “Didn’t have to what?” he interrupts. “Jump in? Blow my cover? Pick you over the target? Yeah. I’m aware.”

You stare at him, stunned. He says it like it’s nothing. Like it didn’t cost him. Like he didn’t just choose you over a multimillion-dollar bounty. Like he didn’t almost get shot in the throat because he was too busy making sure you stayed alive.

“You can’t do that,” you whisper. He laughs again, but this time it’s not amused. It’s sharp, frayed, ripped out of him. “Can’t do what?” He gestures wildly toward you. “Care if you get killed?” Your nails dig half-moons into your palms. “You’re not supposed to. That’s the point.” “Oh, right,” he snaps. “Because we’re professionals. Cold. Detached. Dead inside. Pick your favorite cliché.”

“This isn’t funny.” “You think I’m laughing?” You shut up. Silence slams into the room like a bullet. Jay inhales deeply, trying, failing, to steady himself. There’s soot on his collar. A bruise blooming over his ribs. He looks wrecked. And somehow, still… looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth keeping track of.

He steps closer. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says quietly. Almost brokenly. His voice is low enough that if the thunder outside were louder, you’d miss it entirely. Your breath catches. Your heart forgets what it’s supposed to do. “Jay…” you say softly. But he’s already shaking his head, pushing past whatever softness was threatening to break him open.

“Don’t twist it,” he mutters. “You’d have done the same for me.” You don’t answer. Because he’s right. And that terrifies you more than anything. His eyes search yours, messy, raw, too honest for two people who signed a marriage certificate under false names and lies.

Then he says, quieter still: “Tell me it didn’t mean anything.” A challenge. A plea. You swallow hard, and say nothing. Because you can’t lie to him anymore. Not in this moment. Jay exhales sharply, stepping back like he’s been hit. “Yeah,” he whispers. “That’s what I thought.” The storm outside cracks open the sky. Inside, the tension is a different kind of thunder. “Jay, wait—” “Don’t,” he says, turning away, jaw clenched. “Just… don’t.”

But you cross the distance before he can escape into the hallway, grabbing his wrist. His pulse jumps beneath your fingers. “Listen to me,” you say, breath shaking. “I wasn’t angry because you saved me. I was angry because you didn’t think about yourself.” He scoffs. But you see the way his shoulders loosen, just barely. “How noble of you,” he mutters. “Concern for the man you tried to poison with his morning coffee.” You wince. “You know why I did that.”

“Do I?” he says, spinning to face you, eyes burning. “Because from my perspective, our marriage turned into a battleground before breakfast.” “Because I thought you were going to kill me first,” you snap. Jay’s jaw flexes. He stares at you, stunned. “No,” he says slowly. “I wasn’t.”

“I knew,” you whisper. “I knew the second you hesitated at the briefing. You were never going to take the hit.” “And you were?” There’s no accusation. Just hurt. You close your eyes. “I don’t know,” you admit. Jay’s breath leaves him in one long, exhausted sigh. “Then what are we doing?” he says. The question isn't rhetorical. It’s the most honest thing he’s ever asked you.

“We’re surviving,” you say. “Together?” he asks. You don’t answer. You can’t answer. Not yet. But you don’t let go of his wrist. And he doesn’t pull away. 

“I think not letting you die is the bare minimum of being your husba—” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing, voice cracking on the word he suddenly seems afraid to say. Husband. The one word neither of you had dared to use since the reveal. Your heart thunders. “You can’t—Jay, you can’t just—” “Just what?” His hand wraps around your wrist and slams it above your head. “Care? Worry? Interfere?”

“Get shot!” you snap. “Better me than you,” he snaps back. And that, that is what breaks something open in you. The fear. The fury. The adrenaline. Everything you’d been holding together with duct tape and denial. Your hand goes to your thigh holster so fast he doesn’t even register the movement, but he does when you jam the barrel of your pistol into the center of his chest.

You feel the jolt run through him. A shiver. A hesitation. He looks down at the gun, then up at you. Slowly. A smile, sharp, crooked, infuriating, crawls onto his lips. “Finally,” he murmurs. “There you are.” You pull the trigger half a millimeter, just enough to make the metal click. He exhales like you’ve kissed him. Then he moves. His hand knocks the gun sideways; the shot fires into the ceiling, plaster raining down. At the same time he sweeps your legs, fast, elegant, brutal, and the two of you crash onto the floor in a snarl of limbs and curses.

You roll, flip, pin him. He twists, grabs your waist, flips you back. Your knee drives into his ribs. His elbow catches the floor beside your head, inches from smashing your skull. A grunt. A gasp. The scrape of skin on hardwood. Your breaths tangling like wire. He manages to get on top of you, thighs bracketing your hips, hands gripping your wrists so tightly you feel the pulse pounding through his palms.

His face is flushed, chest heaving, eyes burning with equal parts fury and want. “You’re out of your mind,” you breathe. Jay leans down, lips brushing your ear. “So are you.”

You buck your hips to throw him off just as he lowers himself onto you, and it backfires. His hips grind into yours, the friction sharp, scorching. A moan breaks in your throat. He hears it. His breath stutters. And then everything changes. His grip on your wrists tightens.  His hips pin yours harder. The fight hums into something darker.

He drags your hands above your head and holds both with one palm, the veins in his forearm rising like tension cables. His other hand slides down your throat, not choking, just feeling your pulse slam against his skin. “You were scared,” he says quietly. The softness of the words clashes with the ferocity of his hold. “No,” you lie. His thumb brushes the hollow of your throat. “You were terrified something would happen to me.”

Your breath shakes. “Jay—” He kisses you. Not gentle. Not careful. A violent, hungry collision of teeth and breath and heat. You bite his lip and he groans into your mouth, his hand sliding down your throat, along your collarbone, under your shirt. His fingers splay across your stomach, dragging the fabric up.

Your legs lock around his waist without your permission. He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down your jaw, biting just hard enough to leave marks. “You wanted to kill me five minutes ago.” “I still might,” you pant. “Do it after.” He grinds down against you, slow and deliberate, and your back arches off the floor. His hand releases your wrists just long enough to rip your shirt open, the buttons snapping, scattering across the hardwood.

You shove him onto his back and straddle him, your hands braced on his chest. He looks up at you like you’re a miracle and a threat. “Fuck,” he whispers, head falling back. “Hit me again.” You punch him in the shoulder so hard it echoes. He groans, long, deep, wrecked.

You drag your hips down against his and his entire body jerks. He grabs your waist, thumbs digging into your skin, guiding your movement with frustrated, desperate precision. “Harder,” he gets out, voice fraying. “Don’t—don’t hold back.” You lean down and bite his neck, the taste of his skin hot and sharp between your teeth. He bucks so violently you have to grab his shoulders to stay balanced.

His hands slide under you, gripping your ass, pulling you against him rhythmically, hungry, demanding, each motion a dare. You kiss him again, even messier this time, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths, tearing at clothing, at control. At sanity. He flips you again, your breath knocks out as your back hits the floor, and then he’s on you, between your legs, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other drags down your stomach, down your hip, down, you gasp when he reaches between your legs through what’s left of your underwear.

His thumb strokes you once, experimentally. Your hips jerk. Jay exhales shakily, forehead pressing to yours. “God, you’re—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re killing me.” “Good,” you breathe. He kisses you again, slow for half a second, then brutal, full of teeth, his fingers sliding against you, stroking harder, deeper, pushing you toward a fall neither of you planned for. Your nails drag down his back. He hisses. He bites your shoulder. You moan.

Every movement is anger and need and unstoppable momentum. He shifts, lining himself up, breath hitching, but then he stills. Completely. His forehead presses to yours. His breathing stumbles. You feel the tremor run through him. “You sure?” he whispers. You grab his jaw, forcing him to look at you.  “Jay. Shut up.” He laughs once, wrecked, breathless, then pushes into you.

Your breath catches, your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in as he thrusts again, harder this time, hips snapping forward with the same precision he fights with. A broken sound leaves your throat. He answers with one of his own. His rhythm is fast, rough, hungry, each thrust driving your back across the floor, your fingers scrambling for purchase, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. He kisses your mouth. Your neck. Your jaw. Whispering curses and confessions against your skin.

“I shouldn’t want you like this,” he growls. “Then stop.” “You know I can’t.” Your bodies snap together in a frantic, violent rhythm, fighting and clinging and devouring each other, the line between combat and desire shredded beyond recognition. Your climax hits like a gunshot, sharp, overwhelming, ripping a cry from you that you try and fail to swallow. Jay feels it. His whole body shudders. “Don’t—stop—” you gasp.

He doesn’t. He can’t. He moves faster, hips slamming into yours, hands gripping your throat and waist like he can’t decide whether he wants to worship you or pin you to the floor forever.

When he finally comes, it’s with a broken, strangled sound, his face buried in your neck, his body shaking through the final thrusts, breath hot and shattered against your skin. For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sounds: your breathing, his breathing, the distant hum of the fridge, the soft clatter of a gun rolling across the floor. Slowly, carefully, Jay lifts his head. His hair falls over his forehead, damp with sweat. His eyes meet yours. And there it is. The truth you’ve been avoiding, fearing, hating.

Neither of you will ever kill the other. Not because you can’t. But because you won’t. He collapses beside you, chest heaving, arm thrown over his face. You stare at the ceiling, heart still racing, your body still trembling with the shock of everything that just happened. After a long silence, Jay speaks, voice quiet, wrecked:“…We’re in so much trouble.”

You laugh, soft, disbelieving, broken.  “Yeah,” you breathe. “We are.” His hand blindly finds yours on the floor. You let him take it. You don’t let go.

Morning breaks through shattered glass like an apology that comes too late. The living room is a battlefield wearing sunlight.  A cracked lamp. A chair on its side. Guns scattered across the floor. Your ripped shirt dangling from the edge of the couch like a white flag no one surrendered.

You’re the first to wake. Your body aches, bruises blooming purple, muscles trembling in ways that have nothing to do with fighting. Jay is asleep on the floor beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising slow and steady despite the deep, angry bruise blooming across his ribs.

Right where your knee hit him. You swallow. Last night had been a war. This morning feels like the ceasefire no one signed. You push yourself up, wincing. Jay stirs at the sound. His voice is rough, sleep-heavy, almost gentle enough to hurt: “…Morning.” He moves to sit up and instantly stiffens, pain flashing across his face. His hand goes to his shoulder. You reach out without thinking. “Hey, stop. You're injured—”

He bats your hand away, offended. “I’m fine.” “You’re literally bleeding, Jay.” He looks down at the dried streak of red along his side, unimpressed. “Occupational hazard.” “You need rest.” He snorts. “I need coffee.”

He pushes himself to his feet anyway, stubborn as hell, favoring his left side. He winces only once, and only because he thinks you’re not looking. You are. You follow him into the kitchen, the air between you still… charged. Last night sits on your skin like phantom fingerprints. Jay grabs the French press. Pauses. Glances at you.

And in a quiet voice that sounds like truce, like surrender, like something you’re not ready to name,“Coffee?” You hesitate.Not because you don’t want it. Because accepting anything from him feels too much like trust. Your silence makes something flicker through his eyes, hurt, maybe, or fear he’d never admit to. He turns away. “It’s not poisoned.” You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. “I know.”

He pours two cups. You take yours. His shoulders drop the smallest amount, as if that simple gesture, coffee accepted, means he can breathe for the first time since last night. You open your mouth to say something, apology, maybe, or warning, but your phone vibrates on the counter. A single alert. Your blood runs cold. Jay’s phone buzzes at the exact same time. You pull yours open. He does the same. Two identical messages. Two identical contract codes. Two identical targets.

TARGETS: – CODENAME: SPECTER – CODENAME: NIGHTSHADE HIGHEST PRIORITY: ELIMINATION STATUS: CONFIRMED STRIKE IMMEDIATELY

Specter. Jay’s codename. Nightshade. Yours. Your firm gave you a kill order. On him. His firm gave him a kill order. On you. Jay’s eyes meet yours, quiet, hollow, stunned. “…They teamed up,” he says. “Yeah.” Your throat feels tight. “They did.” “Because we survived.” “Because we didn’t kill each other.” Silence stretches between you, long, sharp, terrifying. Then, A shadow moves behind the frosted glass of the front door.

Jay reacts first. Gun drawn. Body tense despite the pain ripping through his ribs. You move beside him, back-to-back, mirroring his stance. Your hands tremble just slightly. “…Jay?” you whisper. “I see him.” The doorknob turns. Jay raises his gun. The door opens. A man steps inside, hands lifted, expression calm, but eyes alert, scanning the room in one sweep. Black jacket. Messy brown hair. Sharp, intelligent gaze. Yang Jungwon. Jay’s handler. His closest friend.

Jungwon shuts the door behind him and lets out a soft whistle at the destruction. “Well,” he says lightly, “at least you two finally consummated something.” “Jungwon,” Jay warns through his teeth.

Jungwon ignores him. He looks at you, not as an enemy, not even as competition. As someone whose life is equally hanging by a thread. “They know,” Jungwon says simply. You force your voice steady. “About last night?” “No.” Jungwon steps further inside, lowering his hands. “About the prison transfer. About the botched hit. About Evan.”

Your pulse kicks hard. Lee Heeseung. Codename: Evan. The target both firms wanted dead. The target who escaped because you and Jay were too busy staring each other down to finish the job. Jungwon continues, tone flat: “You’re both liabilities now. Loose ends. They teamed up to erase you.”

Jay tenses beside you. “How long do we have?” “Hours. Maybe less.” Jungwon’s eyes settle on Jay’s side. “You’re hurt.” “He’s fine,” you say automatically. “I didn’t ask you,” Jungwon replies, but not unkindly. Jay straightens despite the clear pain. “What’s the plan?” Jungwon hesitates for the first time. He looks at both of you, at the bruises, the tension, the silent terror beneath your defiance.

Then: “You need leverage. Big leverage.” A beat. “Grab Evan.” You blink. “He escaped. He could be anywhere—” “He’s not.” Jungwon reaches into his jacket, pulls out a tracking photo. Grainy but clear. “He’s wounded. Hiding. He won’t get far without help.” Jay exhales slowly, jaw tightening. “You want us to use a DIA prisoner as a bargaining chip.”

Jungwon nods. “It’s the only thing that stops both firms from wiping you off the map.” You step back, shaking your head. “Jay needs rest. He can’t—” Jungwon raises a brow. “Jay has hours until a kill squad kicks down this door.” You turn to Jay. “We can do it tomorrow. You’re injured—”

Jay laughs once, dry, disbelieving. “Tomorrow?” “Jay—” “Tomorrow?” he repeats, stepping closer, his voice quietly furious. “We don’t have a tomorrow if we sit here.” You grab his arm. “You’re not at full capacity—” “I don’t care.” “You’re bleeding—” “I. Don’t. Care.” His voice cracks on the last word. Not with anger.

With fear. He looks at you, really looks, eyes raw, chest rising too fast, his ribs clearly killing him. “I’m not losing you,” he says. It’s barely louder than a breath. Your heart stumbles in your chest. Jungwon clears his throat. “So… shall we?” Jay grabs his jacket, his gun, the keys to the ruined car you blew up yesterday. You take a breath, steady yourself, and follow him out.

Because even injured, even furious, even hunted, Jay doesn’t hesitate. And neither do you. The plan should’ve waited. You said it three times. Jay ignored it three times. He’s still moving like someone stitched him together with adrenaline and pure spite; his ribs are wrapped, his lip is split, and every few minutes he winces like his body is reminding him what you did to each other last night.

But he still holsters his weapons like nothing hurts. “Jay,” you hiss as you crouch behind the concrete barriers overlooking the transport route. “You’re injured.” He cocks his head, expression maddeningly casual. “And you’re bossy. We all have our burdens.”

“Jay—” “Look,” he murmurs, adjusting his scope despite the tremor in his grip. “We do this now or they move him underground forever. You want to spend the rest of our lives being hunted? Because I would like at least one morning where our coffee isn’t poisoned.”

You smack his shoulder. He smirks. “See? You care.” “Shut up.” The convoy rumbles into view, six armored cars, two decoy vans, the kind of escort pattern reserved for nuclear weapons or very, very important men. Like Evan. Heeseung. The reason your entire world is burning.

Jay gives you a look, a question disguised as a shrug. “Ready?” You exhale. “Don’t die.” His jaw softens, but only for a second. “Not planning to. Not until you say I can.” And then, chaos. You drop smoke onto the road. Jay shoots out the front wheels of the lead truck. The transport jolts, metal screaming as it swerves off the roadside barrier.

Soldiers scatter. Jay moves fast, too fast for someone stitched with bruises, sliding over the hood of a van, taking two guards down with clean, silent precision. You match his rhythm: a blade to a throat, a chokehold, a sweep, a disarm. The two of you could’ve coordinated this in your sleep, and maybe you had, in the old life, the life before rings, before truth.

He catches your eye mid-spin. “You always were sloppy with exits.” You duck a punch, elbow a guard in the temple. “You liked that about me.” He laughs, breathless, wicked. “You’re not wrong.” Together you reach the transport, override the manual lock, and haul the reinforced door open. Inside, cuffed to a steel bench, sits Evan. He looks… calm. Almost forgiving. “You came,” he says softly, like he expected you. Jay points a gun at him. “Move and I’ll put three in your leg.”

Evan tilts his head. “Jay Park. DIA’s worst hire and their biggest headache. You’re looking a little rough.” “Thanks,” Jay says flatly. “We had marital issues.” You shove Jay. “Shut up.” Evan smiles like he knows exactly what that means.You cut his restraints. Jay yanks him out by the collar. “We’re using you as leverage,” Jay says. “Don’t get sentimental.”

Evan’s eyes flick toward you. “You still think I’m the mission?” You stiffen. “What?” Jay narrows his eyes. “Don’t play games.” Evan sighs, rolling his wrists where the cuffs had bitten skin. “You really don’t know.” “Know what?” you demand. He looks between you, slow, almost pitying. “You weren’t sent to kill me.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “I was bait.” Jay stops breathing. “What?” you whisper.

Evan steps out of the truck like a condemned man walking himself to the gallows. His voice is steady, but there’s a tremor beneath it, fear or grief, you can’t tell. “You were meant to kill each other.” The world goes very quiet. Your firms. The double kill order. The impossible mission overlap. The repeated “no survivors” clause.

Everything clicks. Everything shatters. Jay closes his eyes for one heartbeat, then another. “…Fuck,” he breathes. You swallow. Hard. “We walked into a setup.” “You didn’t walk,” Evan says gently. “You ran.” Jay’s fingers twitch toward yours, barely a brush, barely a breath, but you feel it like impact. You’re both shaking. Not from fear. From realization. From betrayal.

From the knowledge that the only person who didn’t try to kill you… is the same person you were ordered to kill. The wind circles the wrecked transport, carrying smoke and dust and the faint metallic bite of blood. Evan waits several paces away, smart enough to give you distance, smart enough to know the real explosion hasn’t happened yet.

It’s between you and Jay. Jay’s breathing is uneven, like his body can’t decide whether to collapse or fight. The morning sun cuts across his cheekbone, highlighting the bruise you gave him, the split lip he earned, the exhaustion he’s hiding badly.

He looks at you. And for the first time since the night you married him… you can’t read him at all. You take a half-step back. “Don’t,” he says quietly. Your throat feels scraped raw. “Jay—” “No.” He runs a hand through his hair, wincing when his ribs protest. “Let me, just, try to say something before this gets worse.” You stay silent. You don’t trust your voice. He breathes in slow, controlled, like he’s defusing a bomb strapped to his own spine. “So that’s what we were,” he says. “A mission. An assignment that went on too long.” Your mouth trembles. You hate that he can see it.

“We were set up to fail,” you say. “Set up to kill each other.” Jay nods, grim, bitter. “Yeah. I guess the joke’s on them.” His eyes meet yours, something breaking underneath. “Because I didn’t.” You swallow hard. He takes one step closer.

“Maybe it started as a mission.” His voice softens in a way that hurts more than any bullet ever could. “But I fell anyway.” The world steadies for one impossible heartbeat. Jay doesn’t look away. He doesn’t lie. He doesn’t hide. He just stands there, bruised, cut, breathing too shallow, offering the one thing that could destroy you more thoroughly than any firm ever has: the truth.

Your fingers curl into fists. You want to scream. You want to kiss him. You want to go back in time and drag your past self by the throat for letting this happen. Instead, your voice comes out barely audible. “That’s the problem.” Jay’s jaw clenches. Not in anger. In pain. He knows exactly what you mean. You fell too. And that, that, is the one variable neither of you were trained to survive.

Smoke drifts from the cracked asphalt. The transport alarms wail faintly in the distance, glitching in and out like a dying heartbeat. You and Jay stand there in the tension of something raw and newly broken,  your confession hanging between you like a live wire. Jay’s chest rises and falls too fast. You can tell he wants to step toward you again. You can tell you’d let him. But before either of you move, a voice slices in: “Romantic,” Evan deadpans. “Touching, even. But unless you both want to be buried here, we should RUN.”

You turn sharply, Evan is limping toward you, a stolen pistol in one hand, blood drying on his collar. He looks pissed, exhausted, and somehow still completely unimpressed. Jay mutters, “You always had terrible timing.” “Yeah?” Evan snaps. “Well, your welcoming committees are two minutes out. Drones, thermal sweeps, and eight agents who don’t miss.” He points at you with his gun. “Especially at you.” You exhale through your nose. “Wonderful.”

He gestures wildly. “You think I wanted to be bait? They framed me just to trap you two idiots. So unless you feel like dying for a failed marriage, MOVE.” Jay flinches at the word marriage. You do too. But Evan isn’t done. He jabs a thumb behind him. “Your firms have teamed up. They know you’re alive. They want a clean slate. And guess what cleans a slate real nice and shiny?”

Jay groans. “…our corpses.” “Ding ding,” Evan says. A distant drone hum rises over the ridge. Jay meets your eyes. The argument. The confession. The truth. All of it collapses into one silent decision.

“Come on,” he murmurs, grabbing your wrist, not rough, but firm. “We’re not dying here.” “For once,” Evan mutters, “I agree with the husband.” You shoot him a glare. “He’s not—” But Jay interrupts. “Later.” The three of you sprint across the dirt, weaving between charred vehicles. The drone’s beam sweeps across the ground, searching. Jay shoves you behind a wrecked armored van just as gunfire sparks against the metal.

Evan dives in beside you, panting. “They brought the elites. Perfect. Fantastic. Love this journey for us.” Jay peeks over the edge. “We can take the valley road. It’s unscannable for at least five kilometers.”

You wipe blood from your cheek. “And after that?” Jay hesitates. Evan answers for him: “We improvise. Badly, based on your track record.” Jay throws him a glare. “You’re welcome for pulling you out of that transport.” “I didn’t ask to be saved!” “Doesn’t mean you weren’t going to die.” “GUYS,” you snap. They shut up. Gunfire hits closer.

Jay reaches out, not grabbing your hand, but hovering near it. Almost asking. Almost touching. “Stay close,” he says softly. And you do. Not because he’s right. Not because he’s wrong. But because everything inside you is already moving toward him. Evan sighs dramatically. “If you 

You all break from cover. Running. Breath burning. Heart pounding. Behind you, the drones rise like angry steel hornets. The valley road is nothing more than a cracked stretch of asphalt carved between cliffs, no lights, no railings, just moonlight and danger. Jay’s SUV fishtails as he guns the engine, gravel spraying behind you in flashes. Evan is half-conscious in the back seat, muttering insults between pained breaths. Jay keeps glancing at you through the reflection in the windshield. Not checking if you’re okay, checking if you’re still here.

Drones rise behind the ridge like a dark swarm, red eyes pulsing. “Tell me that’s not four,” you say. Jay doesn’t blink. “It’s six.” “Perfect.”

You’re already climbing into the back, popping open the trunk compartment. Jay keeps one hand on the wheel, the other reaching blindly to grab a spare mag you slap into his palm. The swarm locks onto the car’s heat signature. Beep—beep—beep. “That’s a missile lock,” Evan groans. “Missile. As in things that blow up. You two love ignoring those.”

Jay’s voice drops into something low, focused, lethal. “You want to complain, or do you want to grab the EMP?” Evan coughs. “Which one’s the EMP?” “The one that looks like it’ll kill you if you sneeze on it,” you say. “Oh,” Evan mutters. “Right.”

The beeping quickens. You vault over the seat, shove the hatch open, and balance yourself against the frame as the wind tears at your clothes. Jay yells, “Are you insane?” “Do you have a better idea?” “Yes! Not dying!” “Then drive faster!” Behind you, the drones tighten formation, sleek, military, unrelenting. You yank the EMP sphere from Evan’s shaking hands and twist the dial. The device warms instantly, humming with unstable power.

Jay swerves hard. The world tilts. Wind howls. The beeping hits a fever pitch. You look over your shoulder, a missile flare ignites. “Jay—” “NOW!” he shouts. You slam the EMP button. A pulse of blue light erupts, rippling through the air like a shockwave. The missile flickers, stutters, then drops dead midair. The drones short-circuit, spiraling into the canyon like dying birds.

Jay lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. You collapse back into your seat, chest heaving. Evan wheezes, “I… hate… you both.” Jay glances sideways, finally letting the relief, and something softer, show for half a second. “You okay?” he asks. You meet his eyes. “You’re reckless.” He smirks. “You knew that when you married me.” Evan coughs loudly. “Oh my god, is this really the time—”

BANG. Gunfire explodes against the rear glass, cracking it like ice. Jay curses. “They sent the ground teams.” “Of course they did,” you mutter. Ahead, headlights bloom, three black armored transports blocking the road. Jay’s grip tightens on the wheel. “Baby,” you say, “don’t you dare—” Jay floors it. Evan screams. The SUV slams through the barricade in a shower of sparks, spinning out onto the main highway. Jay wrestles the wheel, gravel spitting in all directions until the tires grip and the car rockets forward again.

You’re all thrown back in your seats. More headlights appear over the hill. Evan groans, “Please tell me that’s ordinary traffic.” Jay snorts, feral. “At this hour?” You draw your gun and chamber a round. “So what now?” Jay’s jaw flexes. “We lose them.” “How?” He slams the turn signal even though no one is looking. And cuts across lanes into oncoming traffic.

Evan shrieks. Jay grins. You swear under your breath but reach for the dashboard to stabilize yourself. “You’re insane.” “Married me anyway,” he says.

Bullets spray from the pursuing convoy, shattering the side mirror, shredding the back tire. The SUV fishtails again. Jay growls under his breath, correcting. “We need cover!” you shout. Jay nods. “I know a place.” “Is it stable?”

“No.” “Safe?” “Not a chance.” “Jay.” He gives you a reckless, stupidly beautiful half-smile. “You trust me?” The car skids around a blind corner. And you see it. A hotel. Lit up like a beacon. Crowded with civilians. Your stomach drops. “Jay—no—” “We’ll shake them inside.”

“That is a terrible idea—”

“You married me.” “That was BEFORE I realized how insane you are!” Jay slams the brakes, yanks the wheel, and the SUV rockets toward the hotel’s front entrance. Evan screams again. “WE ARE NOT DRIVING INTO A—” CRASH.

Glass explodes. The lobby floods with smoke and gunfire. And the chase becomes a war. The SUV skids to a brutal stop in the middle of the marble lobby, tires smoking, chandeliers trembling from the impact. Guests scream and scatter, champagne flutes smashing across polished floors. You shove the door open first, coughing through the dust cloud. Jay emerges on the driver’s side like he does this for morning cardio, rolling his shoulders, grabbing his gun, unfazed.

Evan limps out behind you both, wheezing. “You two need therapy. Separately.” No time to answer, because the glass front shatters again as three tactical teams charge into the lobby, rifles raised. You duck behind a toppled luggage cart, pulling Evan down with you. Jay rolls across the floor, sliding behind a display of fake plants.

Gunfire erupts in a violent percussion. Marble chips fly. A statue of some Renaissance noble loses its head. Jay shouts over the chaos, “You take left, I’ll take the right!” You grit your teeth. “What about the middle?” Jay’s smile is audible. “Trust me!”

You pop up and fire three quick rounds, two hit body armor, one finds a jaw. The man drops. You pivot, grab a server’s overturned tray, and use the polished steel to catch reflections behind you. Two more. You shoot through the tray like a mirror sight.

Jay mirrors you on the other side, sliding across the lobby floor, grabbing a weapon off a fallen guard, and firing with surgical precision. Evan crawls toward a decorative fountain like he’s seeking baptism. “This is—this is not—this is—holy sh—” A grenade clinks onto the floor.

You and Jay shout in unison:  “DOWN!” It detonates, smoke spilling in thick white plumes. Vision drops to zero. Your ears ring. Boots thunder closer. Through the fog, you hear Jay’s voice, low, controlled: “Two incoming to your right!” You twist on instinct, catching only silhouettes, dark, hulking, moving fast. One lunges.

You grab his wrist, twist, and slam his head into the marble. He goes down but tackles you with him, rolling both of you across the floor. He pins you. You jam your knee upward. He chokes, loosens. You elbow his face and finish him with a point-blank shot. Your chest heaves. Jay’s figure cuts through the smoke, expression sharp with adrenaline. “You good?” he asks.

“I’m busy,” you snap, firing past him to pick off someone aiming at his back. Jay doesn’t even look. “Thank you, sweetheart.” “This is NOT the time!” “Later then?” More gunfire. More bodies. The smoke thins just in time for you both to see the second wave enter through the blown-out glass front, armored, masked, efficient. Jay clicks his tongue. “They brought the expensive ones.”

You reload. “Great. Let’s be cost-effective and kill them fast.” He grins. “God, I love you.” You fire twice. “Shut up.” They move in a tight formation, sweeping through the lobby. Jay tugs your arm. “We need high ground.” “What high ground? It’s a lobby.”

He nods toward the enormous crystal chandelier above. “We jump.” You stare at him. “Jay. That is a terrible—” He grabs your waist. “On three.” “Jay—” “Three!” He launches the two of you upward, one hand on your hip, one on the broken banister of the second-floor balcony, using the momentum to swing both your bodies upward. Your stomach drops. Your hands scramble for purchase, but you make it.

The two of you land hard on the balcony floor, breathless but alive. Below, the squads fire up at you. Jay yells, “Go left!” You sprint, ducking behind decorative pillars. Jay takes the opposite direction. Bullets tear through the railings. The balcony trembles. You fire back, picking off the commanders first. Jay’s shots sync with yours, like choreography forged in war.

A guard climbs up the far stairwell. You see him first. Jay’s busy taking down three at once. “Jay, head’s up!” Jay turns, too late. The guard fires.You leap, tackling Jay behind a bust of Julius Caesar. The bullet hits Caesar’s face. Jay breathes hard. “He ruined history.” You shove him. “Stay focused.” But you’re both smiling. Because this is what you are, two storms that somehow learned to move in orbit.

A rocket launcher beeps. You freeze. Jay freezes. Evan screams from downstairs, “DUCK!” The entire left wall detonates, ripping a hole through the lobby, blasting marble, wood, plaster in a bloom of fire and dust. You shield Jay with your body. He drags you down with him. The world tilts, groans, and finally settles. Silence. Then, Jay coughs. “Okay. New plan.”

You rub the blood from your lip. “Yeah?” “Run.” “Run where?” He points toward the emergency exit sign flickering over a side door. You blink. “You want to escape?” “Temporarily.” “That’s new.” “You’re rubbing off on me.” “Jay—” He grabs your hand. Warm. Steady. Infuriating. “Come on.”

And the two of you sprint through the ruined lobby, through fire, through smoke, through broken marble and gunfire, until you slam into the alley behind the hotel, lungs burning.

And for one tiny, fragile second, you’re alive. Together. Just long enough for Jay to say: “…they’re still tracking us.” You turn. A drone hums overhead. Jay sighs. “Great.” You reload your gun. “Where to next?” Jay jerks his head down the alley. “The one place they’ll never expect.” You raise a brow. “And that is—?”

Jay smirks. “A home décor store.” You skid into the fluorescent-lit entrance like two escaped zoo exhibits, guns out, drenched, bleeding, adrenaline-soaked.

The bell above the door chimes politely. Jay looks at it, offended. “We’re literally being hunted by black-ops kill teams and they give us a cute little ding?” You grab his wrist and yank him inside. “Move.” The place is enormousm a warehouse-style labyrinth of staged living rooms, fake kitchens, throw pillows, and more plants than any single store should legally be allowed to sell. Soft jazz plays over the speakers, which feels personally disrespectful considering the number of bullets you’re both carrying.

Jay’s eyes scan the aisles. “Okay. Everything in here is soft. And useless.” You kick over a wicker basket full of blankets. “We’ll adapt.” “I hate adapting.” “You married me.” “Exactly.” You shoot him a look. He grins, even bleeding from the eyebrow. Somewhere behind you, the front door gets kicked in. Boots pound the ground. Jay grabs your hand. “C’mon.”

You drag him between two couch displays, both the same beige color that speaks of hopelessness, and duck behind the one labeled NORDIC DREAM: Minimalist Elegance.

Jay snorts. “This couch has better marketing than I do.” “Focus.” “I AM focused. I’m focused on how ugly this couch is.” You smack his arm. Hard. Behind you, motors whirr, a drone floats up the aisle, sweeping blue light beams across the furniture. You flatten. Jay pulls you tighter against the back of the couch.

And thenm Jay whispers, “We’re really hiding behind a couch set?” You whisper back, “It’s 30% off.” A beat. Then he shakes with silent laughter. “God, I fell for a menace.” The drone draws closer. You tilt your head just enough to see it. Sleek. Armed. Deadly. Jay meets your eyes. You nod once. Timing. One— Two— THREE— You both pop up. You shoot the drone once — Jay shoots twice, it jerks, sparks, then spirals into a Rustic Autumn Display, setting several decorative pumpkins on fire.

Jay winces. “Seasonal items. Tragic.” You don’t get to scold him, because the next wave of agents storm in, black armor, LED visors, full tactical gear. Six of them. Jay mutters, “They seriously brought the deluxe edition.” You grab his wrist. “Split?” He nods. “Rejoin in… kids’ furniture?” “Deal.” You break off, sprinting behind a row of Scandinavian storage units. Jay peels left toward the lamps.

Gunfire erupts immediately, rounds punching through walls, splintering wood, sending ceramic mugs exploding into shard clouds. One agent rushes your aisle. You duck behind a wardrobe closet. He swings it open. You shoot him point-blank inside the wardrobe. He collapses neatly into the storage space. You mutter, “Narnia’s closed.”

Another agent charges. You grab the nearest object, a coat rack, and swing it like a medieval halberd. He goes down. Jay, on the other side of the store, grabs a lamp off a display and smashes it over someone’s helmet. You hear him shout: “THAT WAS FIFTY EUROS!”

You almost smile. Almost. Two more agents sprint your way, coordinated, fast. You vault over a dining table and land on the other side, grabbing a steak knife from a staged place setting. You fling it, it buries itself in the thigh plate of the first agent. He stumbles. You seize the opportunity, rushing in, tackling him to the ground, slamming his helmet into the floor until the visor cracks.

Gunfire ricochets behind you. Jay yells, “Left side! Two incoming!” You spin, sliding across the floor behind a coffee table. One bullet grazes your arm; the sting burns through you.

Jay sees it, and his voice drops to something lethal. “You okay?” “Keep shooting!”

He does, with unnerving accuracy, even while limping, even while bleeding. You take down the last one together, one shot from you, one from him, the bodies hitting the ground in a synchronized thud. Silence. Smoke wafts between bookshelves and model kitchens. Designer rugs are shredded. Fake fruit is EVERYWHERE. Your chest heaves. Jay’s, too.

He walks toward you through the chaos, brushing debris off his bloodstained shirt, hair a mess, expression fierce. You don’t even realize you’re shaking until he’s right in front of you. Jay gently touches your cheek. “You’re hurt.” You whisper, “You’re worse.”

He huffs a half-laugh. “Yeah. But I’m prettier, so it balances out.” You smack his chest. He catches your wrist. You pull back, he pulls you forward. Your bodies crash together in the ruined remains of Modern Elegance: Cherrywood Collection. His forehead rests against yours. Your breath mingles. Chaos hums around you.

Jay murmurs, “They’re not stopping.” “I know.” “They’ll chase us until one of us is dead.” “I know.” “And you still want to run with me?” You swallow. A nod. He exhales, part relief, part fear. Then someone coughs behind you. You jerk apart, guns drawn, Evan limps out from behind a plant shelf holding two throw pillows, looking traumatized.

“Not to interrupt your, whatever that was, but we should probably MOVE. Like, now.” Jay blinks. “Were you hiding in the plants?” Evan glares. “I have been shot at eighteen times in the last twenty minutes. I will hide in whatever I want.” You grab Jay’s hand again.

“We go out the back,” you say. “Steal a car. Disappear.” Evan waves a pillow. “Yes. Please. Let’s do that.” And as the three of you sprint through the emergency exit, alarms blaring, sprinklers erupting overhead, Jay looks at you sideways. “You know,” he pants, “this could be our thing.” You snort. “Running for our lives?” He grins. “No. Making terrible decisions together.”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah. Same thing.” The wind outside the safehouse screamed like it wanted to skin the walls. Evan limped ahead of you and Jay, muttering curses under his breath as he shoved open the back exit. “Go,” he hissed, eyes wide with a terror you’d never seen on him, not even on missions gone nuclear. “They’re already here.”

Jay tried to steady him, but Evan shoved him off. “No, idiot. I’m slowing you down. And if they catch me, they’ll keep me alive long enough to track you. So run.” Jay opened his mouth, probably to argue, probably to be noble and self-sacrificial and infuriating, but Evan jabbed a finger into his chest. “Don’t make this sentimental,” Evan snapped. “I will punch you.”

The building shuddered. A boom echoed from somewhere above, heavy boots, breaching charges, the entire damn alphabet soup of elite killers descending the stairwells. You grabbed Jay’s wrist. “We need to go. Now.” Evan stepped back into the shadows, lifting the gun you’d stolen from the transport convoy. His stance was shaky. His jaw was set.

“Buy me a beer when you somehow survive this,” he said, already firing toward the stairwell. Jay hesitated for a fraction of a second, the kind that gets people killed, before you yanked him through the emergency door, into the alley’s morning haze. The explosion behind you rattled the street. Jay flinched. You didn’t let go of his hand.

The car was a battered sedan Jay hot-wired in under seven seconds. You climbed in, slamming the door, but before he could pull away, bullets punched through the rear window. “Drive!” you snapped. “I am driving!” He floored it, tires screaming. Black SUVs surged into the intersection behind you, windows dropping. Muzzle flashes lit up the fog.

“Who the hell did they send?” Jay muttered. “Everyone,” you said. “They want us erased.” A bullet grazed the side mirror, exploding it into shards. Jay tilted his head, avoiding the spray. “Still think we could’ve done this tomorrow?” he snapped, throwing the car into a turn so sharp your shoulder slammed into the door. You shot him a glare. “I said you’re injured, genius! Your ribs are barely—” “Oh my god, not this again,” he cut in. “We’re being hunted by two governments and three private intelligence corps, and you’re nagging me about my ribs—”

“That’s because you don’t value your own life—” “That’s what I get for saving yours?” You froze. The words hit you harder than the crash you narrowly avoided when he swerved around a delivery truck. “It’s not—” You gritted your teeth. “It’s not like that.”

Jay’s jaw flexed. But he didn’t push. Not now, not when the streets behind you filled with vehicles, shadows, drones, a whole strike team sent to wipe their hands clean. Ahead of you, the highway unfurled like a silver throat. A perfect kill box. Jay cursed under his breath. “We’re not making it out on wheels.” You checked your mag. “Then we improvise.” “You always did love improvising.” “You always did hate it.” “And yet,” he said, meeting your eyes with a wild, reckless smirk, “You married me.” 

— — —

The counselor’s office hadn’t changed. Same soft beige walls.  Same too-sweet diffuser scent. Same watercolor painting of a boat that made Jay snort every time you came in. The only difference was you. Both of you dressed in black, not intentionally matching, yet somehow perfectly coordinated. Your bruises had turned from deep violet to faint amber-yellow. Jay’s lip still held the slightest cut, healed enough to look rakish rather than dangerous.

You sat on the left side of the couch. Jay sat on the right. Somewhere in the middle, your knees brushed, but neither of you acknowledged it.

The counselor, bless her soul, tried to hide the tremor in her hands as she adjusted her glasses.

“So,” she began, voice bright in that therapist way people use when they’re silently praying, “I… hear things are… better?”

Jay smiled. That slow, clean, lethal smile that made people confess state secrets without realizing it.

“Much,” he said.

You nodded once. “We communicate more now.”

Jay added, “Explosively.”

You elbowed him. He didn’t even flinch. The counselor laughed, the brittle kind that shatters like cheap glass. “That’s wonderful. Can you give me an example of, uh… improved communication?” You and Jay exchanged a glance. Dangerous. Shared. Almost amused.

You shrugged. “We’re more open about our needs.” Jay leaned back, stretching an arm along the couch, behind you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat.

“She tells me when I’m being unreasonable,” he said.

“And he tells me,” you countered, “when I’m being reckless.”

The counselor nodded, scribbling notes frantically. “Good, good. And how do you handle disagreements now?” Jay tilted his head. “Non-violently.” You coughed. He coughed louder. The counselor frowned.

“Mostly non-violently,” you amended. “Emphasis on ‘mostly,’” Jay added, helpful as ever. The counselor blinked rapidly. “And… intimacy?” Jay’s lips twitched. You stared at the wall and prayed.

He answered anyway. “We’re bonding,” Jay said, voice dark silk. “Deepening trust exercises.” You choked. The counselor didn’t understand but blushed anyway.

“That’s… very good to hear.” She cleared her throat. “And your shared activities? Are you spending more quality time together?”

Jay laced his fingers loosely in front of him. “Well, we’ve started a joint workout routine.” You nodded. “And we cook more.” “Travel together.”

“We run.” “Sometimes sprint.” You sighed. “That’s when we’re being shot at.”

The counselor froze. Pen hovering in the air. “Shot… at?” Jay smiled politely.  “We process stress differently.” “And together,” you added. It wasn’t a lie. Not anymore.

The counselor shuffled her papers. “Well,” she said weakly, “despite the… intense phrasing… I’m glad you’re finding ways to reconnect. Marriage can be challenging. It’s wonderful you’re trying.” Jay hummed. You leaned back. Silence fell.

Not awkward. Not sharp. Just… easy. The kind of silence you’d both earned. The counselor exhaled softly, relief creeping into her voice. “I… think we’ve made real progress. If you two keep communicating this well, your marriage will absolutely thrive.” Jay looked at you. You looked at him. A beat. Then, you both laughed. Low, quiet, shared.

A secret. A promise. A survival. You leave the counselor’s office side by side, the hallway glowing with cheap fluorescent lighting. Jay’s hand brushes yours once, twice… then stays. Outside, the sky hangs low with clouds, soft and silver. Rain threatens, it always does around the two of you.

Jay opens the door for you. Not to be polite. To watch your back. You step into the street.

— — —

Waves smashing against jagged cliffs. Vineyards rolling down green hills. A stone house with blue shutters and a terracotta roof. Your laundry clips onto a line in the sun. Jay is terrible at it. He pretends not to hear your laughter. A cat you absolutely did not adopt lounges on your windowsill like it owns the world.

Jay at a sleek laptop, glasses sliding down his nose. Freelance “security consultant.” (He pretends that doesn’t mean occasional assassination.) You, leaning over architectural blueprints at the dining table. Freelance “restoration expert.” (You pretend that doesn’t mean breaking into high-security estates at 3AM.) Your passports line the drawer. Five each. All believable. All dangerous.

He watches you zip a duffel bag. You watch him check a handgun’s magazine. Neither of you tells the other to be careful. You don’t have to.

Gnocchi. Fresh tomatoes. White wine. Jay chopping basil in a way that is objectively illegal. You lean over from behind and correct his knife angle. He complains. You kiss his shoulder. He pretends to complain louder. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth and something that feels frighteningly close to peace. Music plays low, old Italian jazz humming through the small speaker near the window.

You steal pieces of bread off his cutting board. He pretends not to notice. Jay steals kisses. You pretend not to notice. A storm rolls in. Rain taps against the roof. He lights a candle. You open the window anyway, letting in the scent of wet earth. The cat knocks something off the counter. Jay swears. You laugh so hard you snort.

He looks at you like you hung the moon. You ignore the way your chest tightens.

Dinner done. Dishes in the sink. Rain whispering against the glass. The house dim and soft, lit only by candlelight and lightning far off the coast. Jay steps behind you as you wipe the counter. His hands slip around your waist, confident, warm, familiar in a way that still startles you.

He kisses your neck once. Slow. Claiming. Home-making.

You inhale sharply. He murmurs against your skin, voice velvet-dark: “Til death do us part.”

You turn in his arms, tug his shirt, pull him closer, your smile brushing his mouth, dangerous and adoring all at once.

“You first.”

The screen cuts to black.

Fade out. 

The nameplate hung on your door tilts, Mr and Mrs. Park.

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Let’s establish something immediately: this is not a how-to guide for the weak-hearted, the romantically hopeful, or anyone who still believes that “communication” fixes things. This is a social experiment, a field study, and, if we’re being honest, a public service announcement.

For years, we’ve been fed the same recycled advice: Be chill. Don’t text first. Play hard to get. Don’t scare him away.

But what if… hear me out… What if we did the opposite?

What if instead of shrinking ourselves into palatable, low-maintenance versions of human beings, we leaned all the way in? What if we became everything men claim they want, just… all at once?

This article exists for one reason and one reason only: To answer the age-old question: How hard is it, really, to make a man leave?

(Spoiler: not very.)

Consider this your cheat sheet. Your cautionary tale. Your "do not try this at home... unless you're me, and you're petty, and you have a Substack deadline."

THE HYPOTHESIS

Men love the idea of romance.They fear the practice of it.

They adore:

mystery,

independence,

“cool girls who don’t ask for much.”

They panic at:

emotional availability,

expectations,

a woman who remembers what they said last Tuesday and asks follow-up questions.

Thus, the experiment. Over the next ten days, I will attempt to drive one (1) willing male participant away using nothing but socially accepted behaviors that women are constantly told to suppress. No manipulation. No cheating. No cruelty. Just… too much honesty, too much affection, and too much presence.

I'm calling it: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

DISCLAIMERS (PLEASE READ BEFORE YOU GET MAD)

This is satire. If you feel personally attacked, that’s between you and your conscience.

Names will not be used (unless you deserve it).

If this article ends your relationship, that relationship was on life support already.

If you’re a man reading this and thinking “That wouldn’t work on me”— thank you for volunteering as our control group.

WHY THIS MATTERS (UNFORTUNATELY)

Dating culture is obsessed with control. Who cares less. Who texts slower. Who “wins.”

But women are still penalized for wanting:

clarity,

effort,

reassurance.

We’re told to relax, be patient, stop overthinking, while men are praised for doing the bare minimum with a straight face and a podcast microphone.

So instead of asking, “How do I make him stay?”I asked a better question: How fast will he run if I stop pretending I don’t care?

THE STRUCTURE

This is not a step-by-step manual. This is an incomplete guide, updated in real time, because frankly, watching this unfold is more fun than finishing it.

Each day introduces one strategic behavior designed to test a man’s emotional endurance.

Think of it as exposure therapy. For him.

DAY 1: OVERSHARE IMMEDIATELY

Men say they want “emotional depth.” What they mean is: selective vulnerability, delivered slowly, with breaks for football.

On Day 1, we ignore that. Meet cute at a bar/coffee shop/dog park (pro tip: always pick a venue where escape routes are visible). 

Objective: Establish emotional intimacy before he’s decided whether you’re “serious” or “casual.”

Methods may include:

Mentioning childhood trauma on the second date. Not "my parents divorced," but "my dad left when I was seven because he said my mom's emotional unavailability was contagious, and honestly, I've been chasing unavailable men ever since, hey, therapy is expensive, but patterns are free!"

Casually referencing your abandonment issues before the appetizer arrives.

Using the phrase “I’ve never told anyone this before” while maintaining unbroken eye contact.

Expected reaction:

Initial concern.

Followed by quiet panic.

Followed by a sudden, very urgent need to wake up early tomorrow.

Notes from the field:Men claim they want honesty. They just don’t want it unscheduled.

Bonus points: Cry prettily while stirring your iced latte. Mention how you've already named your future cats after your exes (for closure). Watch his eyes glaze over like he's calculating the nearest exit.

DAY 2: BE TOO INVESTED

This is where we separate the boys from the men, and then watch both groups back away slowly.

Objective: Remove the illusion of low stakes.

Recommended tactics:

Ask about long-term goals unironically. Text him good morning at 6:47 a.m. Follow up at 6:52 with "miss u already 🥺." 

Mention baby names “as a joke.” By noon, casually mention you've been thinking about baby names. "If we have a girl, I'm leaning toward Seraphina Moonbeam, it's celestial but grounded, you know?"

Say “when” instead of “if.”

Examples:

“When you meet my parents—”

“When we live together—”

“When this becomes something real—”

Important: Do not laugh after saying these things. Confidence is key.

Expected reaction:

Nervous laughter.

Statements like “Let’s not rush things.”

A sudden interest in “seeing where things go.”

Translator’s note:“Seeing where things go” means hoping you forget you said that.

Pro move: Call him "babe" in front of his friends. Refer to yourself as "your girl" in the third person. "Your girl was thinking we should do couples' yoga this weekend. Namaste, right?"

DAY 3: VIOLATE PERSONAL SPACE (CONSTANTLY)

Men love physical affection. They just want to schedule it.

Show up unannounced at his gym/work/happy hour with "surprise!" energy. Bring homemade cookies shaped like hearts (bonus if they're slightly burnt, shows effort). Hug him from behind while he's mid-conversation with colleagues. Whisper, "I just couldn't wait to see you."

Objective: Remove his sense of autonomy without technically doing anything wrong.

Suggested behaviors:

Sitting too close.

Touching his arm while he’s mid-sentence.

Leaning your head on his shoulder unprompted.

Holding his hand in public for longer than socially necessary.

If questioned, smile and say:

“What? I just like you.”

This phrase is lethal.

Expected reaction:

He will say it’s “cute.”

He will not mean it.

Invade every boundary like it's your birthright. Sit in his lap at a bar stool built for one. Steal his phone to take selfies together ("for the 'gram!"). Text his mom from his phone: "Hey Mrs. [Last Name], [His Name] talks about you all the time. Can't wait to meet the woman who raised such a catch! ❤️"

If he pulls away, pout and say, "I thought we were moving fast. You said you liked spontaneous!"

(He never said that. But gaslighting is just foreplay for the emotionally unavailable.) And that's just the warm-up.

PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS

After only three days, patterns begin to emerge.

Men are remarkably consistent in their responses:

They retreat when confronted with certainty.

They resist when desired openly.

They crumble when expectations are voiced out loud.

And yet, they insist women are “complicated.”

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

Q: Isn’t this manipulative?A: No more than pretending not to care about someone you do.

Q: What if he likes it?A: Then congratulations. You’ve found a statistical anomaly.

Q: What if I accidentally fall for him?A: That is not covered under this study. Seek help.

WHAT COMES NEXT

Days 4 through 10 will explore:

Public embarrassment,

Strategic clinginess,

Jealousy induction,

Emotional availability at inconvenient times,

And the psychological impact of being loved on purpose.

Updates will be posted as the experiment progresses.

Until then, remember:

If a man leaves because you asked for too much,he was never planning to give you anything.

—

Yours truly,Xoxo

The first sign that something has gone terribly, beautifully wrong is the sound.

Not screaming. Not alarms. Not even the frantic slap of shoes against dorm hallways.

It’s the ping. One phone vibrates. Then another. Then a dozen. Then the entire Decelis University network lights up like someone dropped a match into gasoline and stood back to admire the flames.

Screenshots travel faster than facts ever could.

By 9:07 a.m., the Decelis Uni Gossip Site crashes, not once, but twice. Someone screenshots the headline before the servers go down. Someone else screenshots the screenshots. By the time the site limps back online, the comment section has already evolved into a living organism with opinions, grudges, and a frightening amount of self-recognition. ‘IS THIS ABOUT JAKE???’ ‘nah bc why does this feel personal’ ‘men are already crying in the replies’ ‘WHO LET HER COOK’

Someone posts the headline, just the headline, on the Decelis Uni Gossip Site at 12:03 a.m., and by 12:05, it’s everywhere. Group chats with names like ECON101 SURVIVORS, DECELIS WAG CIRCLE, FOOTBALL FAM, DO NOT OPEN AT 3AM, all erupt at once. The article link is shared so aggressively it almost feels personal, like an accusation.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. People don’t even need to open it yet. The title alone does the damage.

By 12:10, screenshots of the opening paragraphs are circulating, highlighted, underlined, annotated with “NAHHHH 💀” and “THIS IS FOUL” and “WHO WROTE THIS???” in increasingly unhinged fonts. Someone zooms in on Spoiler: it’s easier than you thought like it’s a crime scene clue.

By 12:17, the comment section is unusable. Men are arguing with men who are arguing with women who are arguing with men who claim they “don’t even care” but somehow typed six paragraphs anyway. Someone drops a Thinkpiece Thread explaining why the article is “harmful to modern dating,” complete with bullet points and a misuse of the word gaslighting. Someone else responds with a screenshot of Day 1 and the caption: if this applies to you, seek therapy.

It is chaos. Academic, romantic, existential chaos. By morning, it’s no longer contained.

Girls read it out loud in the dining hall, choking on their iced lattes between laughs. A table near the windows reenacts Day 2 verbatim, complete with fake baby name suggestions and dramatic hand gestures. Someone prints it out, actually prints it out, and pins it to a dorm bulletin board like a manifesto.

Guys pretend not to read it. They fail. They scroll in class, phones angled carefully behind laptops. They read it on the treadmill. In bathroom stalls. One of them snorts so loudly during a lecture that the professor stops mid-sentence and asks if everything is alright. He nods too fast, face red, phone face-down like it might bite him.

They react in three predictable stages:

Denial

Rage

“This is satire but also she’s evil actually”

No one can agree on whether it’s funny or dangerous. Which, historically, is how you know you’ve done something right. Professors are worse.

They don’t acknowledge it, officially. They maintain the thin, polite illusion that nothing scandalous has happened on campus, that academia exists in a vacuum untouched by gossip and satire and emotional warfare. But you see it anyway.

A literature professor clears her throat before class and says, “Some of you seem… distracted today,” and then pauses just long enough for the room to vibrate with unspoken understanding. A sociology TA assigns a reading on modern dating dynamics that absolutely was not on the syllabus yesterday. A communications professor changes an entire lecture slide to include the phrase “viral rhetoric” and definitely doesn’t look at the back row when she says it.

The article becomes unavoidable. A shared language. A weapon. A joke. A mirror. The gossip site slaps a red banner on top of the article:

EDITOR’S PICK — TRENDING

And somewhere between outrage and fascination, people start asking the real question: Who wrote this? Not in the curious way. In the reverent way.

The answer spreads slower, but when it hits, it hits clean. The school editor. You.

The same name that’s been quietly sitting at the bottom of editorials, event recaps, exposés, and opinion columns for the past two years suddenly becomes radioactive. People connect the dots backwards, every sharp line, every carefully worded takedown, every reputation that mysteriously didn’t recover after a single article went live.

Oh. Of course it’s you. The realization settles like a chill.

You aren’t just funny. You aren’t just bold. You’re precise. You’re the kind of person who knows exactly how much damage a sentence can do, and writes it anyway. By noon, your name is being said with a mix of admiration and fear. By evening, it’s legend. And the thing is, you have no idea any of this is happening. You’re in the shower.

Steam fogs up the small bathroom mirror, blurring the world down to soft shapes and muted sound. Your phone is abandoned on your bed, vibrating itself into exhaustion, screen lighting up over and over with notifications you can’t hear over the rush of water.

You hum absently, some stupid catchy tune stuck in your head, shampoo dripping down your spine as you tilt your head back. There’s no drama in the moment. No grand awareness. Just warm water, clean skin, and the satisfaction of having finally hit publish on something you’ve been sitting on for weeks.

When you step out, towel wrapped loosely around you, the world is still quiet.

Then you pick up your phone. It’s hot to the touch. You blink at the lock screen, missed calls stacked like a to-do list, messages previewing in fragments.

DECELIS GOSSIP SITE: 99+ mentionsMom: ARE YOU INSANESophia: THIS IS EVERYWHEREVice-editor (DNI!!): PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS A JOKE

fentanyl eyelash extensions (groupchat):MMWICKEDWITCH: I’M SCARED OF YOU (AFFECTIONATE) Sunoobiteme: THE FOOTBALL TEAM IS LOSING IT Keehovirus: THE COMMENTS?????

You scroll. And scroll. And scroll. Your reflection stares back at you from the darkened screen, hair damp, expression unreadable, mouth quirking just slightly at the corners as the reality settles in.

Oh. So it landed. You dry off slowly, deliberately, like you’re not standing in the epicenter of a social earthquake. You pull on clothes with the same unhurried precision you use when editing a sentence for maximum impact. By the time you sit at your desk, towel draped over the chair, laptop opening with a soft click, you look exactly like what everyone has decided you are.

The school editor. Not the title they hand out. The one you earn. You open the gossip site and watch the numbers climb in real time, views ticking up, comments refreshing faster than you can read them. You don’t respond. You never do. Your silence has always been part of the brand, whether you intended it or not.

People think that makes you untouchable. They’re right. You lean back in your chair, scrolling through the chaos you set loose with a calm that borders on dangerous. Somewhere on campus, friendships are being tested, egos bruised, arguments ignited. Somewhere else, men are reading your words and seeing themselves in ways they deeply resent.

And you? You just hum again, softer this time, already thinking about the next update. You have ten days to finish the experiment. And apparently, the entire university has decided to watch.

The hallway is alive in that specific way it only ever is when something has happened.

Not the usual class-change chaos, bodies slamming into each other like pinballs, backpacks swinging wildly, voices overlapping in a desperate bid to be heard before the next bell. Not the end-of-day relief either, when exhaustion settles over everyone like fog and people shuffle toward exits with the slow relief of prisoners released for the afternoon. This is different. This is buzzing, electric, threaded with whispers that slice off the second you pass by. The air feels thinner, pressurized, like everyone is holding their breath and pretending they’re not staring.

You don’t notice at first. You’re laughing, actually laughing, the real kind that starts in your stomach and bubbles up without permission. Head tipped back slightly, strands of hair sticking to your lip gloss from the humidity that always clings to these old university corridors no matter how many windows they crack open. Earbuds in, music loud enough to drown out the world. Something upbeat and stupid and perfect is playing, maybe that one indie track everyone pretends they discovered first, the one with handclaps and a chorus that begs to be screamed in a car at 2 a.m. It makes your steps lighter, shoulders loose, hips swaying just enough that you feel invincible.

Your phone is in your hand, screen lit up with notifications you’re very deliberately not opening. The little red badges stack like accusations: 47, 82, 119 and climbing. You already know what’s in them. You published. It detonated. That part’s done. Right now, you’re just walking. Carefree. Untouchable. Exactly the way people imagine you are when they scroll through your byline and picture someone who never second-guesses, never flinches, never cares.

You turn the corner without looking, why would you? The hallway is muscle memory at this point. Four years of the same route between the media building and the east quad, same chipped paint on the lockers, same faint smell of burnt coffee drifting from the student lounge.

And collide, hard, with something solid. No. Someone. The impact knocks the breath from your chest in a sharp, involuntary thud that echoes louder than it should. Your earbuds slip loose, one dangling against your collarbone like a broken promise, the music cutting out mid-chorus so abruptly the silence feels violent. Your phone nearly flies out of your hand, your heart lurches with it, but a reflexive grip saves it at the last second, knuckles whitening.

“Sh—” you start, already ready to snap, heat rising fast behind your ribs like a match struck, then you look up. And up. And, oh. Park Sunghoon stands in front of you like a brick wall someone sculpted shoulders onto and then forgot to add mercy.

He’s fresh from football practice, and it shows in every infuriating detail. Black hair damp with sweat, pushed back messily with careless fingers like he didn’t bother finding a mirror, or didn’t care to. Strands stick to his forehead in dark, rebellious pieces. A gray duffel bag hangs from one shoulder, heavy enough to pull the fabric of his white practice shirt taut across his chest, outlining muscle that shifts subtly when he breathes. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, forearms corded and glistening faintly. His jaw is set, lips pressed into a thin line that suggests he was already in a bad mood long before you existed in his path.

He smells like effort. Like heat radiating off skin, clean cotton soaked through, the sharp bite of cedarwood body wash undercut by something rawer, adrenaline, maybe, or just the particular scent of someone who’s spent two hours running drills until their lungs burned. You’ve seen him before, obviously. Everyone has. Football captain since sophomore year. Campus golden boy who somehow manages to look bored even when he’s breaking records. Untouchable in the way men who’ve never been told no often are, girls stare, guys want to be him or hate him, professors give him extensions without asking. But seeing him this close is different.

Too close. His gaze flicks down to you, cool and assessing, dark eyes scanning your face like he’s already decided something and is just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. There’s a flicker of irritation there, brief, tightly controlled, before it smooths out into something unreadable. Almost bored. Almost. Silence stretches, thick and deliberate.

You straighten immediately, spine snapping into place, chin lifting on instinct. If he thinks for even a second that you’re going to apologize like you ran into him, “Watch it,” he says flatly, voice low, edged with the kind of exhaustion that comes from pushing your body past its limits and still having to deal with people afterward.

You blink once. Then smile. Not sweet. Not apologetic. Sharp. Polished. The kind of smile you use right before you dismantle someone with words so clean they don’t even bleed until later. “Maybe don’t walk like the hallway owes you space,” you shoot back, slipping your remaining earbud the rest of the way out and letting it dangle from the cord. “It’s a public university, not a runway.”

A couple of people nearby very obviously slow down, phones half-raised like they’re waiting for the next viral moment. Someone whispers your name, your byline, really, like it’s a spell.

Sunghoon’s eyebrow twitches. Just once. The smallest crack in the armor. Like he didn’t expect that. Like he expected contrition, or at least a stammer. His eyes drop briefly, to the phone still clutched in your hand, screen still glowing with unread notifications, to the way you’re standing your ground without even realizing how deliberate it looks, before returning to your face. Something shifts. Not softer. Sharper. Interested, maybe. Curious in the way predators sometimes are when prey doesn’t run.

“Didn’t realize bumping into people was part of your editorial process,” he says coolly, voice carrying just enough to make sure the eavesdroppers catch every syllable. Ah. So he knows. Of course he does. You laugh, not because it’s funny, but because the timing is impeccable, almost cinematic. You glance around exaggeratedly, like you’re searching for hidden cameras, then look back up at him with mock innocence. “Wow,” you say, drawing the word out. “You read it. I’m flattered. Truly.”

“I didn’t say I read it.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your eyes flick to his face pointedly, lingering on the tight set of his mouth, the faint flush high on his cheekbones that could be leftover from practice or something else entirely. “Men who haven’t read it don’t look this personally offended.” That earns you a reaction. Not a smile. God, no. But the corner of his mouth tugs upward, barely there, like a secret he hasn’t decided to share yet. His grip tightens on the strap of the duffel bag; the muscles in his forearm flex under tan skin.

You hate that you notice. Hate that your pulse skips once, traitorously. “Careful,” he says then, voice dipping just enough to make it feel private despite the growing semicircle of onlookers pretending to tie shoelaces or check nonexistent texts. “You’ve got a reputation now.”

“Oh, I had one before,” you reply easily, tilting your head so your hair falls over one shoulder. “People are just paying attention this time.” His gaze holds yours for a long second. Too long. There’s a strange weight to it, like he’s measuring something, testing balance, pressure, the exact distance between insult and invitation.

You feel it then. That tiny, traitorous flutter low in your stomach. Annoying. Inconvenient. Completely unacceptable. He tilts his head slightly, studying you like you’re a puzzle he didn’t expect to enjoy solving. When he speaks again, his tone has changed. Lighter. Almost amused, though the amusement feels edged with something darker.

“Still might want to be careful,” he says.

You arch a brow, slow and deliberate. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” he says, and then, there it is. That shift. That unmistakable change in energy, like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes. His voice drops, smooth as sin, quiet enough that only you can hear the next part. “Advice.” He steps closer. Just one step. Barely anything. But the hallway suddenly feels smaller, like the walls have leaned in to listen, like gravity has tilted toward him. You’re acutely aware of the height difference now, how you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, how his presence eclipses the fluorescent light overhead, casting you in soft shadow. You refuse to move. Refuse to give him even that small victory. He leans down just enough that his breath brushes your temple, warm and faintly mint-scented from whatever gum he chews during cooldowns.

“Who knows,” he murmurs, lips curving into something dangerous, private, devastating. “Maybe yours truly will write another article about me.” He winks. Actually winks, one slow, deliberate drop of those stupidly long lashes. Then he straightens, already moving past you like this interaction was nothing more than a footnote in his day. The duffel bag shifts against his shoulder with the motion. His steps are unhurried. Confident. Untouched. He doesn’t look back.

You stand there, frozen for half a heartbeat longer than you’d ever admit, heart doing something stupid and arrhythmic in your chest. Irritation and adrenaline tangle into something hotter, something that feels suspiciously like excitement. You hate that it worked. Hate that your fingers tighten around your phone until the case creaks.

Hate that your mind is already racing, not with insults or comebacks or the perfect tweet to clap back later, but with possibilities. With the way his voice dropped when he said advice. With the way his eyes lingered on your mouth for one second too many before he walked away. The whispers start up again behind you, louder now, phones clicking as people capture the aftermath like it’s evidence.

You exhale slowly through your nose, force your shoulders down, force your expression back into cool indifference. But your pulse won’t settle. Down the hall, around the next corner where no one can see, Park Sunghoon lets the smallest, most private smile curve his lips. He adjusts the strap of his bag, feels the ache in his quads from sprints, feels something else entirely, a spark, a challenge, a game he didn’t know he wanted to play until right now.

He already knows your next article won’t be the last. And he’s already certain this was never going to be just an article. Sunghoon doesn’t look back when he leaves you in the hallway. He keeps walking like nothing happened, like his pulse didn’t spike the second your shoulder hit his chest, like your voice isn’t still lodged somewhere under his skin, sharp and bright and irritating in a way he can’t quite shake. Like the way you lifted your chin and smiled that razor-edged smile didn’t just rewrite the rest of his afternoon.

The double doors to the athletic complex swing shut behind him with a heavy pneumatic sigh. The corridor noise fades, whispers, footsteps, the faint echo of your laugh still ringing in his ears, replaced by the familiar roar of the locker room. It hits him like a wall of sound and smell the moment he pushes through.

Metal lockers slamming in rapid-fire succession. Laughter ricocheting off the white-tiled walls like loose change. Someone’s blasting a drill playlist from a cracked iPhone propped on a bench, probably Heeseung’s, because only he still thinks 2010s trap is motivational, bass rattling through the benches, vibrating up through Sunghoon’s cleats. The air is thick, humid, heavy with the unmistakable cocktail of fresh sweat, old sweat, Axe body spray someone over-applied, and the sharp chemical bite of disinfectant that never quite wins against the funk.

It’s chaos. Controlled chaos. His territory. He drops his duffel bag onto the floor with a dull, satisfying thud that cuts through the noise for half a second. Rolls his shoulders once, twice, loosening the knots still pulled tight from two hours of sprints, suicides, and Coach screaming about footwork like they’re prepping for the goddamn Super Bowl instead of a mid-season conference game against a team.

Normally, this is where his mind settles. Replays the film in his head: that missed block on third-and-long, the way Ni-ki over-pursued on the edge, how Jay’s route-running looked lazy in the red zone. He catalogs mistakes, files them away, moves on. Captain shit.

Today, it doesn’t settle. His brain keeps rewinding to the hallway. To you. To the way your earbud cord dangled like you couldn’t be bothered to fix it while you dismantled him with six words. To the way your eyes didn’t flicker when he stepped closer. To the way your perfume, something clean and citrusy and annoyingly memorable, cut through the post-practice haze like a blade.

“Yo, Captain’s late,” Jake calls from across the room, grin splitting his face so wide it looks painful. He’s already half-dressed, towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping onto the bench. “Thought you got lost in the media building or some shit.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer. He reaches for his locker, number 17, bottom row because he’s never been one for theatrics, spins the dial with the same precise flick he’s used since freshman year. 14-32-7. Click. Another voice pipes up. Louder. Way too amused. “More like Captain got distracted.” That gets his attention. He glances over his shoulder slowly, expression flat, eyes narrowed just enough to make the room feel ten degrees colder. “Say it,” he says, voice low and even. “Whatever it is you think you’re being subtle about.”

The room erupts. Whistles. Hoots. Someone, probably Jungwon, does an exaggerated wink so dramatic he nearly falls off the bench. Phones are already out, group chat notifications pinging like popcorn. “Hallway,” Jake says, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin. He leans forward, elbows on knees. “You and the school editor. Full rom-com collision. We all saw the stories.”

Sunghoon freezes for half a second. Not outwardly. Not enough for anyone to screenshot and meme later. But inside, something sharp twists, annoyance, mostly. The fact that they noticed. The fact that the entire east wing probably has shaky vertical videos of the moment by now. The fact that he noticed how your lips curved when you fired back. “I didn’t know you were into journalism now,” Jay adds from his locker two down, pulling on a hoodie. His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp, watching. “Thought your type was… quieter. Less likely to write think pieces about your entire personality.”

Sunghoon shuts his locker a little harder than necessary. The metallic bang echoes. “She ran into me,” he says coolly, like that closes the subject. “Sure,” Ni-ki snorts, lobbing a balled-up sock in Sunghoon’s direction. It bounces off his shoulder. “Looked more like you ran into *trouble*. She didn’t even flinch, bro. Just smiled like she was about to drop another article titled ‘Why Football Captains Should Stay in Their Lane.’”

Laughter explodes again, louder, rowdier. Someone mimics your tone perfectly, throwing out a fake sarcastic line that’s uncomfortably close to what you actually said: “Maybe don’t walk like the hallway owes you space.” The room loses it. Sunghoon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. He shouldn’t care. He really shouldn’t. He hates gossip. Hates how fast it spreads on this campus, like wildfire through dry grass. Hates how people take one thirty-second interaction and turn it into campus lore by dinner. He’s spent four years keeping his name clean, his image disciplined. Captain. Leader. Untouchable. The guy who shows up early, leaves late, wins games, and doesn’t give anyone ammunition. And yet.

The article flashes in his mind uninvited. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days: A Campus Guide to Dodging the Golden Boy Trap. He hadn’t planned on reading it. Hadn’t wanted to. But the link was everywhere, pushed into the team group chat at 11:52 a.m., screenshotted in the defensive line’s Snapchat, joked about between sets on the squat rack like it was harmless banter.

He read it anyway. Not all of it. Skimmed. Enough. Enough to recognize the voice behind the words. Sharp. Calculated. Funny in a way that cut without drawing blood right away. The kind of writing that didn’t beg to be liked, it dared you to keep up, and then laughed when you couldn’t. It dissected the archetype, the charming, talented, slightly arrogant athlete who gets everything handed to him, and pinned it to the board like a butterfly.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. But it did. Because it wasn’t stupid. It wasn’t sloppy. It was intentional. Confident. And worse, it assumed something about men like him that hit a little too close to home. That they expect adoration. That they crumble when challenged. That they never see the trap coming.

“You should’ve seen his face when she clapped back,” Heeseung says now, snapping him back to the present. He’s leaning against a locker, arms crossed, smirking. “She didn’t even blink. Just hit him with that editor stare, like she’s already drafting the follow-up in her head.” “That girl’s got teeth,” Jake adds, shaking his head in mock awe. “Campus is eating it up. Twitter’s on fire. Someone already made a thread called ‘Sunghoon vs. The Pen: Round 1.’”

Sunghoon finally turns fully, eyes sweeping the room in one slow arc. The laughter falters, not because he looks angry, exactly, but because he looks… thoughtful. Dangerous. “Everyone’s eating it up,” Jay says carefully, quieter now. He zips his bag. “You good, man?” Sunghoon considers the question. He thinks of the way you didn’t back down an inch. The way your smile was a weapon, not a shield. The way that last exchange felt less like banter and more like the opening move in something bigger. The way your eyes held his for that extra second, like you were daring him to make the next play.

He huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. It’s low, almost private, but the room hears it anyway. Everything goes silent. “That bad?” Ni-ki asks, eyebrows raised. Sunghoon reaches for his water bottle, black Hydro Flask with the team logo scratched off from too many drops—takes a slow drink, eyes fixed somewhere past the wall like he’s seeing something no one else can. When he lowers it, his voice is calm. Steady. Almost conversational. “She thinks she’s in control,” he says. A beat. The room leans in. 

“And?” Jake presses, grin widening like he already knows what’s coming. Sunghoon sets the bottle down with deliberate care. “If she’s trying to lose a guy in ten days,” he says, evenly, like he’s stating tomorrow’s practice schedule instead of lighting a match in a room full of gasoline, “I’ll make her fall for me in five.” Silence crashes into the locker room like someone cut the music. Then, explosion.

 “What?!”

“No fucking way.”

“Captain, you’re insane.”

“That’s the school editor. The one who writes the tea. She’ll bury you.”

“That’s straight-up suicide, bro.”

“Bro said five days like it’s a warm-up drill.”

Sunghoon just shrugs, unbothered, already turning back to his locker. He pulls out a clean black hoodie, movements smooth, unhurried. Like this decision doesn’t feel seismic. Like it isn’t already rearranging something inside his chest, pride, curiosity, a flicker of something hotter he refuses to name yet. “Bet?” Riki asks, half-laughing, half-serious, eyes gleaming with chaos.

Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. “Bet.” The word lands heavy. Not about money. Not about bragging rights. Not even about proving his teammates wrong, though they’ll never let him live it down if he fails. It’s about pride. About someone daring to write a narrative that doesn’t include him as the hero, or even the villain, really. Just a trope to be dissected and discarded. About assuming he’d react the way everyone else does: defensive, loud, predictable.

He won’t. He pulls the hoodie over his head, fabric catching briefly on damp hair. The laughter resumes behind him, louder now, charged with anticipation. Plans are already being made. Timelines guessed. Odds debated in the group that’s blowing up faster than post-game memes. “Day one: eye contact in the quad,” Jake announces like he’s commentating a fight.

“Day two: ‘accidental’ coffee run,” Ni-ki adds.

“Day three: she blocks him on everything,” Jay predicts, laughing. Sunghoon tunes it out. He zips his bag, slings it over one shoulder. All he can see is you in that hallway, chin lifted, eyes sharp, completely unaware that you just painted a target on your own back. Five days. He smiles to himself, just barely, small, private, dangerous.

This is going to be interesting. He pushes out of the locker room, the door swinging shut on the chaos behind him. The hallway is quieter now. Empty. But he can still feel the echo of your voice. Game on. The library is supposed to be quiet. That’s the lie everyone agrees to uphold, the one printed in pastel posters above the turnstiles and whispered by every RA during orientation like gospel. In reality, it’s just a different kind of loud, pages snapping shut like gunshots, chairs scraping tile with the violence of someone who’s failed three midterms, the soft but aggressive machine-gun tapping of keyboards as students pretend they’re annotating Foucault instead of doomscrolling the fallout of your article in real time. 

You sit at one of the long oak tables near the back stacks, the ones nobody claims because the overhead lights flicker like they’re possessed. Posture perfect. Legs crossed beneath the chair like you’re posing for a Vogue spread. Reading glasses perched on your nose, clear frames, slightly oversized, the kind that scream “I could destroy your GPA and your ego in the same breath.” Highlighter uncapped. Notes aligned with military precision. Pen poised like a scalpel.

The picture of composure. If anyone were watching closely,and they are, they might notice the way your jaw tightens every time a group two tables over whispers your name too loudly. Or the way your phone stays face-down on the wood, vibrating intermittently like a trapped hornet begging to be crushed. You ignore all of it. You’re mid-sentence in something dense and academic and blissfully unrelated to modern dating warfare, some Foucault-adjacent drivel about power structures in institutional discourse, when the air changes.

You don’t hear him approach. You feel him. A shadow falls across your open book. Large. Intentional. Blocking the sickly fluorescent light just enough to make the words blur. The scent follows, clean sweat, cedarwood cologne, the faint metallic bite of adrenaline that clings to athletes like second skin. Completely out of place among old paper and recycled HVAC air.

You sigh without looking up, turning a page with exaggerated slowness. “If you’re here to ask me to take it down,” you say calmly, eyes still scanning the text, “the answer is no. Save your breath. And your ego.” Silence. Heavy. Pressed close. The kind that makes the hairs on your neck stand up. Then,“Bold of you to assume I’d ask for anything.” You freeze. You’d recognize that voice in a blackout now. Low. Controlled. Annoyingly steady, like he’s narrating his own highlight reel.

Slowly, deliberately, you lift your gaze. Park Sunghoon stands there like he personally requisitioned the entire fifth floor. Backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. Sleeves of his black compression shirt rolled up just enough to show forearms still corded and veined from whatever sadistic circuit Coach ran today. Expression unreadable, but his eyes, dark, focused, locked on you like you’re the only thing in the building worth seeing.

The football captain in a library feels like a felony. You tilt your head, letting your lips curve just enough to be dangerous. “Ah,” you drawl. “If it isn’t my favorite demographic. Come to mansplain why men aren’t the problem?” A muscle in his jaw ticks, once, sharp.

“You turned dating into a game,” he says flatly. No preamble. No polite buffer. You blink at him through your glasses. Once. Twice. Slow. “And men turned relationships into a joke long before I put pen to paper,” you reply, voice velvet over steel. “Guess we’re even. Or are we keeping score already?” A couple of students at the next table glance over, phones half-raised like they’re waiting for the live-tweet moment. You don’t care. Let them watch.

Sunghoon steps closer. One step. Then another. He stops directly in front of your chair, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep eye contact. He braces one hand on the table beside your notes. The wood creaks under the pressure of his palm. You can see everything now, every ridge of muscle shifting under his shirt, the way his abs tense when he leans in, controlled and deliberate and infuriatingly calculated.

“People are laughing at me,” he says. Quiet. Dangerous. “You like that?” You lean forward just enough to close another inch of space. “I like accuracy,” you shoot back. “If they see themselves in it, if you see yourself in it, that’s not my fault. That’s physics. Cause. Effect. Mirror.” His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. Quick. Intentional.

“Men aren’t lab rats,” he says. Your smile widens. Sharper. Brighter. “Men deserve to be studied,” you counter. “Extensively. With citations.” That does it. Something in his expression finally cracks, not anger, exactly. Not amusement. Something vicious and glittering in between. A smirk ghosts across his lips, slow and knowing, like he’s already three moves ahead.

“Then study me.” Your breath catches, just for a second. You hate that he notices. Before you can fire back, he reaches out. Two fingers. Light. Precise. He hooks them under the bridge of your reading glasses and lifts them off your face like he’s removing a crown he never asked permission to touch. Like this isn’t wildly inappropriate in the middle of a public library. Like you won’t drive your highlighter through his hand for it.

Your breath stutters. Audibly. You hate that even more. The world sharpens without the lenses, his face suddenly closer, too close. You can count every individual eyelash now. See the faint white scar slicing through the tail of his left brow. The steady, infuriating calm in eyes that should be furious but look… hungry. He sets the glasses down on the table beside your notes with deliberate care. Almost gentle. Mocking.

“You don’t get to hide behind words,” he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates against your skin, “when you start a fire like that. Not with me.” You stand abruptly. Chair scraping loud enough to earn three shushes from nearby tables. Now you’re face to face. Chest to chest. Height difference glaring, you have to look up, but you make it look like you’re doing him a favor. You refuse to step back. “Careful,” you say quietly, sweetly. “Libraries are full of witnesses. And I have a very good memory.”

“I’m counting on it,” he replies. No hesitation. His hand moves, fast, gripping the edge of the table beside your hip, caging you in without touching you. The proximity is suffocating. Intimate. You can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, smell the faint mint on his breath. “This whole thing,” he continues, voice dropping to a near-whisper, “you think you’re in control.” You scoff, soft, dangerous. “I am in control.”

“Then prove it.” The challenge hangs between you like a live wire, humming. “What do you want, Sunghoon?” you ask, using his name like a blade for the first time. It feels good. Sharp. His gaze doesn’t waver. Doesn’t blink. “A deal.” Your laugh is breathless, incredulous. “I don’t make deals with men who think intimidation passes for personality.”He leans in, slow, deliberate, until his lips are near your ear, breath warm against the shell. “Good,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you comfortable.”

You swallow. Against every screaming instinct, you say, “Talk.” He straightens just enough to meet your eyes again. “You need a subject for your next piece,” he says. “Someone willing. Someone visible. Someone who won’t fold after day three like the rest of them.” Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. “And you need?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“To prove you wrong.” He pauses. Lets it sink in. “Completely.” The silence stretches. The library seems to hold its breath with you. You consider him. The discipline in every line of his body. The arrogance that’s earned, not assumed. The undeniable, maddening appeal of turning the campus golden boy into your personal experiment, the one variable that thinks he can rewrite the hypothesis.

“Publicly,” you say slowly, testing the words, “we’re dating.” He nods once. Sharp. “Privately,” you continue, leaning in until your lips are a breath from his jaw, “this is a war.” A real smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small, vicious, thrilled. “Deal.” You extend your hand between you. He takes it. The handshake is brutal. Fingers locking. Grip crushing. Both of you refusing to yield even a millimeter. Your knuckles ache white-hot. His doesn’t show it, but his eyes flicker, dark and impressed and something dangerously close to respect.

You lean in closer, close enough that only he can hear the poison wrapped in silk. “I will ruin you,” you whisper sweetly. “I will take you apart piece by piece and publish every shard. And you’ll thank me for it.” He squeezes harder, enough that you feel it in your bones. “I’m counting on it,” he murmurs back. “And when I win, when you’re the one begging, I’ll make sure the whole campus knows exactly how loud you scream my name.”

You release each other at the same time. Palms stinging. Hearts hammering. The overhead lights flicker once, like the building itself just felt the shift. Somewhere in the distance, the end-of-hour bell rings. Students exhale. Books snap shut. The world resumes its pretending. And just like that, the experiment begins. You sit back down. Pick up your glasses. Slide them on slowly, like armor re-donned. Sunghoon doesn’t move. Just watches you with that same unreadable intensity.

“Day one starts now,” he says quietly. You meet his eyes over the rim of your frames. “Try not to cry too early.” He smirks, full, devastating. “Try not to fall too fast.” Then he turns. Walks away. Doesn’t look back. You watch him go. Your pen is still in your hand. But for the first time in weeks, you don’t write anything down. Because some things are better left unwritten. Until they’re screaming.

Ten days. That’s what you agree on. Not because ten is symbolic, or neat, or poetic in some rom-com way that would make you gag. Not because it matches the title of the piece you’re already mentally drafting. But because Sunghoon says it like it’s already written in stone, like anything longer would be indulgent, like anything shorter wouldn’t give him enough time to watch you unravel thread by thread.

You’re standing just outside the lecture hall in the narrow corridor that always smells faintly of stale coffee and desperation, backpacks brushing, bodies angled too close for people who supposedly can’t stand the sight of each other. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like they’re judging you both. A group of freshmen scurries past, eyes wide, already pulling out phones like this is live content.

Sunghoon’s voice drops so low it feels like a private secret being pressed directly into your ear, warm breath ghosting the shell. “Ten days,” he says. “You get your article. I get the truth.” You scoff, sharp, immediate, chin tilting up so you’re looking down your nose at him even though you have to crane your neck. “The truth about what, exactly?” His eyes flick down, deliberately, slowly, tracing the line of your throat, the dip of your collarbone where your shirt gapes just enough, then dragging back up to lock on your face like he’s cataloging every micro-expression. 

“About how much of this—” he gestures between you with a lazy flick of his wrist, “—is an act. And how long it takes before you crack first.” You don’t hesitate. You never do. “Please,” you drawl, letting the word drip with mockery. “Men crack first. Always. It’s practically biological. Testosterone makes you impulsive. You’ll fold by day four, tops. I’ll have receipts.” That’s when he smiles.

Not wide. Not warm. Just sharp enough to be dangerous, the kind of smile that belongs in crime documentaries right before the twist. The handshake that seals it is violent. Not playful. Not teasing. It’s fingers lacing tight, palms grinding together like you’re both trying to assert dominance through bone and pressure alone. You swear he squeezes harder when he feels your grip doesn’t falter, when your nails dig half-moon crescents into the back of his hand and you don’t blink. Your knuckles ache white-hot. Your pulse jumps traitorously against his thumb where it presses over your wrist.

For a split second, neither of you lets go. You’re both breathing a little harder than the moment warrants. Then he releases you first. You make a mental note of it, file it under advantage: you. The rules are simple, laid out like landmines between you while the hallway slowly empties around the two of you. You write the article in real time. Each day, a new “strategy” from the original playbook, updated, weaponized, personalized. Each day, he participates. Fully. No half-assing. Publicly, you’re dating, affectionate in public, disgustingly couple-coded, the kind of PDA that makes people screenshot and send to group chats.  

Privately, nothing is off-limits except actual confession. No “I love you.” No “this feels real.” No drunk 3 a.m. texts that cross the line. No backing out, no matter how vicious it gets. And most importantly, your non-negotiable condition, he doesn’t read the updates until they go live. Sunghoon agrees anyway. Shrugs like it’s nothing. Like he’s not handing you the detonator to his own ego. “Fine,” he says. “I like surprises.”

You hate how much that pisses you off. The day he cornered you in the library, the day you “date,” the campus notices immediately. Because Park Sunghoon does nothing quietly. He shows up after your last class, Media Ethics, third floor, the one that always runs ten minutes over because the professor loves hearing himself talk, like he owns the building. Football jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the locker room shower, dark strands sticking to his forehead in that effortlessly devastating way. Jaw set in that infuriating line that makes people straighten their posture without realizing why.

Your friends, clustered near the stairwell like they’re waiting for the after-lecture debrief, go dead silent the second they clock him. Sunoo’s eyes go comically wide. “Is that—” Keeho gasps, actually gasps, like this is a soap opera reveal. Someone else whispers your name like a warning shot. Sunghoon doesn’t break stride. He walks straight through the scattering crowd like they’re background extras and stops directly in front of you.

“Ready?” he asks, voice casual, like this is something you’ve done a hundred times before. You raise an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. “For?” He doesn’t answer with words. He just steps in, close, too close, hands sliding to your waist with the kind of firm, practiced confidence that screams I’ve done this before and I know exactly how it lands. Then he lifts you.

Not bridal. Not gentle. Not cute. He hoists you up just enough that your feet leave the floor in a clean, controlled motion, your breath stutters out of you in a shocked little sound you immediately hate yourself for making, and suddenly you’re eye-level with him, nose to nose, mouth to mouth if either of you moved a fraction of an inch. The hallway erupts. Wolf whistles slice through the air. Shouts. Laughter. Someone, probably a frat guy two doors down, yells something absolutely obscene about the football captain finally getting ruined by the school editor. Phones are out everywhere, vertical videos already rolling, flash on, no shame.

You feel it all like heat pressing against your skin, but Sunghoon blocks it out effortlessly. His focus never leaves your face. Not once. His mouth doesn’t go for your cheek. Doesn’t go for your lips. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the sharp line of your jaw instead. It lingers. Just long enough to feel obscene. Just close enough to the corner of your mouth that it feels like a threat wrapped in velvet. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket before you can stop them, gripping hard, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his collarbone through the open zipper. Your nails dig in just enough to leave crescent marks he’ll see later in the mirror.

His lips brush skin like a promise he has no intention of keeping, slow drag, faint exhale, the barest graze of teeth. When he finally sets you down, his mouth is right by your ear, voice so low only you can hear it over the chaos. “Smile,” he murmurs. “They’re watching.” You do. God help you, you do. It’s sharp. Polished. The same smile you use when you know you’ve already won the room. But underneath it, your pulse is hammering so hard you’re sure he can feel it where his thumb still rests against your waist.

He steps back, slow, deliberate, gives the crowd a lazy once-over like he’s daring anyone to say something. No one does. Then he walks you out. Hand low on your back. Possessive. Public. Perfect. That night, the article updates. It goes live at 11:47 p.m., the exact time stamp of your original piece, because you’re nothing if not theatrical. People refresh like it’s oxygen.

PING!

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days 

An Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

Spoiler: sometimes, the guy volunteers.

Today’s update is simple. Brutal. Delicious.

Yours truly has found herself a boyfriend!

No details. No names. Just one carefully cropped photo, taken from behind by a very cooperative friend (thank you Manon) who was hiding behind a pillar, showing the unmistakable navy sleeve of a football jacket, broad shoulders filling the frame, and your hand fisted in the fabric like you’re holding on for dear life.

The caption beneath it reads:

Day 0: Acquisition phase complete. Let the games begin.

The comments explode within minutes.

“WAIT IS THIS ABOUT SUNGHOON???”  

“no way she actually bagged him”  

“this is either the best revenge arc or the messiest situationship of the semester”  

“he’s cooked bro”  

“she’s gonna eat him alive and we’re all invited”

Sunghoon doesn’t read it yet. He’s probably in the athletic center weight room or sprawled on his bed scrolling through play breakdowns, completely oblivious to the digital fire you just lit under his name. But you know. You know he’ll see it tomorrow morning, probably over black coffee and pre-practice film, right before the group chat starts blowing up with screenshots and laughing emojis. Tomorrow? Tomorrow is Day One.

And neither of you is planning to lose. You close your laptop. Smile at the dark screen. And whisper to the empty room, “Game on, golden boy.”

Sunghoon doesn’t look back. That’s the first rule. You don’t look back after a move like that. Not when the entire point is dominance, optics, control, narrative. Still, the feeling follows him. It starts at the base of his spine, a heat that doesn’t belong to post-practice adrenaline. It crawls upward, slow and invasive, like something claiming territory. The hallway behind him is chaos, voices overlapping, laughter ricocheting off concrete walls, someone shouting his name like it’s a punchline.

His. Yours. Paired together. He keeps walking. He shouldn’t feel anything. That was the point. A calculated move. Controlled. Clean. He lifted you because he knew the cameras would eat it alive. Kissed your jaw because it was intimate enough to sell the lie, distant enough to keep the upper hand. Not your lips. Never your lips.

Except, you grabbed his jacket. Not reflexively. Not shy. Not surprised. You grabbed it like you expected him to stay. Like the story wasn’t over yet. That’s the part that won’t let go. By the time he reaches the locker room, the rush is gone, burned off too fast, leaving something sharper behind. The door slams shut with a metallic echo, lockers rattling like they felt it too. The noise follows him in, teammates talking over each other, grinning, already spinning it into legend.

“Captain’s got game now?” “School editor? Bro, you’re finished.” “Did you see her face—”

He drops his duffel onto the bench harder than necessary. The sound cuts through them, but only for half a second. “Shut up.” They don’t. Someone makes an exaggerated kissing noise. Someone else laughs too loud, trying to provoke him. Jay leans against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes sharp in a way that says I saw something.

“So,” Jay says casually, too casually. “Is she as scary up close as everyone says?” Sunghoon reaches for his water bottle. His hands are steady, annoyingly so. He twists the cap like this is just another night, another practice, another rumor he’ll outlast. “She’s not scary.” The room quiets just a fraction. He takes a long drink before finishing the thought. “She’s calculated.”

That lands. Because Sunghoon doesn’t talk about people like that unless they matter. Unless they’re a threat. Or an equal. Someone whistles low. Another mutters, “Damn.” His mind betrays him then, replaying the moment with cruel precision. Your chin tilted just enough, not submissive, not defiant. The way your smile didn’t flicker even with a hundred eyes burning into you. The way you didn’t blush or pull away or try to soften it with a laugh. You met him. Worse, you enjoyed it. Sunghoon exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. That’s when the realization hits, sharp and unwelcome. You didn’t lose control. You let him think he had it.

The kiss wasn’t the problem. The lift wasn’t the problem. The whispers, the rumors, the inevitable fallout, that was all manageable. The problem was the moment after. When he pulled away.  When he set you down. When he expected relief, distance, detachment, the clean satisfaction of a move well-played, and felt none of it. Instead, there was the urge. Sudden. Reckless. To do it again. Jake whistles. “Yo, Sunghoon, don’t tell me you’re already whipped.”

The word irritates him more than it should. He bends forward, unlacing his cleats with slow precision, giving himself a second to clamp down on the impulse crawling up his throat. The line leaves him anyway. Not planned. Not rehearsed. Pure instinct, pride snapping into place like armor. “If she’s trying to lose me,” he says calmly, not looking up, “I’ll lose her first.”

Silence. Then absolute chaos. “You’re insane.” “Put money on it, right now—”

Sunghoon finally straightens, tossing one cleat aside. His expression is unreadable, carved into that familiar, untouchable calm that made him captain in the first place. But inside? Something is already shifting. Because somewhere between the hallway and this bench, he’s realized something else too. This isn’t just a bet. This isn’t just reputation management. This isn’t about winning. It’s a challenge. And the way your fingers curled into his jacket, tight, intentional, like you were anchoring him there for half a second longer than necessary? That wasn’t fear. That was interest.

His phone buzzes in his locker. Once. Then again. He doesn’t check it. He already knows. Sunghoon smiles to himself, small, controlled, dangerous. Yeah. He underestimated you. And for the first time in a long time, he’s not just prepared to lose control. He wants to see what happens when he does.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Decelis University.The field is the campus. The crowd is feral. And tonight’s matchup? Park Sunghoon vs. Yours Truly.Ten days on the clock. Egos on the line. Loser falls first. Whistle blown. Live from Decelis University, folks, strap in.

The campus wakes up to a notification like it’s kickoff night. Not a gentle buzz. Not a casual ping. A collective one.

PING!

How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

The group chats explode first. Dorm halls echo with laughter. Someone reads the title out loud in the cafeteria and nearly drops their tray. And then:

DAY 1: CLINGY OVERLOAD

Men love independence. So naturally, today we do the opposite. Text constantly. Appear unannounced. Make his personal space a shared resource. If he survives Day One, congratulations, you’ve found a keeper. Or a fool.

— Yours truly, xoxo

If this were a match, the crowd would already be roaring. You read it once. Twice. Then you lock your phone and grin, slow and satisfied, stretching your arms over your head like you’re warming up before the real work begins. Because this isn’t theory anymore. This is application. Sunghoon said study me. You intend to annotate.

8:03 a.m.

You text him.

You: Good morning :) Did you sleep well?

You don’t wait. Waiting implies doubt.

8:05 a.m.

Sunghoon: Did you dream about me or is that too much for Day One? lol

You picture him reading it, jaw tight, shoulders already braced like he’s about to take a hit. The thought makes you bite back a laugh in the middle of your lecture.

8:07 a.m.

You: I had a dream about you. You were less grumpy.

You stop there. Not because you’re out of ideas, but because restraint is part of the game. You want him checking his phone, wondering when the next one’s coming. Five minutes later, it buzzes.

Sunghoon: Don’t you have class?

You hum quietly to yourself. Deflection. Control attempt. A man pretending this isn’t getting under his skin. You reply instantly.

You: I do. But multitasking is hot.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. Oh, that’s good.

Sunghoon: You’re doing this on purpose.

You don’t even hesitate.

You: Always.

You put your phone away like you haven’t already won the exchange, like your pulse hasn’t picked up just a fraction. Scoreboard in your head updates.

You: 1Sunghoon: 0

By noon, half the campus knows you’re “dating.” By one, people are whispering your name like it’s part of a headline. By three, you’re standing at the edge of the football field with an iced coffee in one hand and your bag slung over your shoulder, casual, comfortable, unmistakably present. Practice is chaos. Whistles slicing through the air. Shouts. Pads colliding. The sharp rhythm of discipline and aggression. You spot him instantly. Park Sunghoon, center of gravity, movements precise, expression locked down like a fortress. He looks untouchable out there. He notices you when he turns to grab his helmet. He freezes.

Not enough for anyone else to see. Just a fraction of a second, shoulders tightening, focus flickering like a bad signal. You lift your hand and wave. Bright. Cheerful. Almost domestic. He groans. You hear it from here. You walk closer, every step deliberate, ignoring the stares, the murmurs, the is she serious? energy crackling around you. His teammates are already clocking it, nudging each other, grinning like they’ve just been handed front-row seats.

You stop at the barrier. “Hi,” you say warmly. “I brought you coffee.”

“I didn’t ask for—”

“You didn’t say no either,” you cut in sweetly, holding it out. “Oat milk. No sugar. You look like you’d judge me if I got it wrong.”

Someone laughs outright. Sunghoon takes the cup. Your fingers brush. It shouldn’t matter. It does. For half a breath, his guard slips. His eyes drop to your hand like he’s registering the contact too late. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice low, careful.

You tilt your head, innocent. “Supporting my boyfriend?” The word lands heavy. Boyfriend. You watch it hit, how something dark flickers behind his eyes, how his mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile he absolutely refuses to give you. “You’re enjoying this,” he says.

You lean in just enough for him to catch your perfume, just enough to make it personal. “Oh,” you murmur, “this is just the warm-up.” Coach shouts his name. Sunghoon steps back, reluctant despite himself, eyes lingering on you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re a distraction…

…or a challenge he’s already losing. You sit on the bleachers anyway. You cheer when he scores. Loud. Unapologetic. You call his name like it belongs to you. His teammates lose their minds, wolf whistles, hoots, someone yelling something about rings and registries. Sunghoon pretends not to hear. He does not pretend not to look. Every time his gaze finds you, you smile, calm, certain, like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

That night, you text him again.

You: You played really well today.

A pause. Then:

Sunghoon: You don’t have to come to every practice.

You reply instantly.

You: Of course I do. That’s what girlfriends do.

Three dots. Gone. Reappear.

Sunghoon: You’re impossible.

You grin, lethal, thumbs flying.

You: And yet, you haven’t told me to stop.

You set your phone down before he can respond, heart thudding a little louder than you’d like to admit. Across campus, Sunghoon stares at his screen longer than necessary. He tells himself it’s irritation. Disruption. Strategy fatigue. He tells himself you’re exactly as advertised, clingy, calculated, relentless.

So why does the locker room feel quieter without your voice? Why does he replay the way you said boyfriend like it wasn’t a joke at all? He locks his phone, exhales, presses his palms briefly to his face. Day One isn’t supposed to matter. Still, somewhere between the coffee, the cheering, and the texts that didn’t stop, the match clock starts ticking. And for the first time…Sunghoon isn’t entirely sure who’s leading.

END OF DAY ONEScorecard:You: 1Sunghoon: 1(He won’t admit it.)

That night, as you’re tossing and turning,plotting your next move, your phone lights up in the dark.

Sunghoon: Are you alive or plotting?

You smile into your pillow despite yourself.

You: Both. Multitasking, remember?

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Sunghoon: You didn’t write what tomorrow’s strategy is.

You roll onto your side, staring up at the ceiling like you’re considering mercy.

You: Where’s the fun in spoilers?

The pause stretches. Longer than last night. Long enough that you imagine him lying there, phone heavy in his hand, jaw clenched. Preferably shirtless.

Sunghoon: I don’t like surprises.

You type carefully. Slowly. Like each word is placed with intent.

You: That’s funny. You looked like you enjoyed yesterday’s.

Silence. Then, another notification. 

Sunghoon: Get some sleep.

It shouldn’t sound gentle. It does.

You: Goodnight, captain.

You wait. He never corrects the pet name.

Sunghoon: Gnight ;) 

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Decelis University, where pride meets pressure, reputations crack under fluorescent lights, and the audience is merciless.

The notification hits at breakfast. Not quietly. Not privately. Phones light up across tables. Someone gasps. Someone laughs too hard. Someone reads it aloud like a prophecy. PING!

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days An Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

DAY 2: PUBLIC EMBARRASSMENT

Privacy is a man’s comfort blanket. So today, we rip it away. Excessive affection. Infantilizing pet names. PDA so loud it echoes. If he blushes, you’re winning. If he smiles through it? Run.

— Yours truly, xoxo

You sip your coffee slowly, watching the campus react in real time. The whispers start immediately. Heads turn. Someone across the hall mouths that’s her like they’ve spotted a celebrity. You don’t correct them. Sunghoon comes prepared. That’s the first thing you clock. He’s crossing the main quad like it’s hostile territory, jacket immaculate, expression cool, posture sharp enough to cut. Jay and Jake flank him, Riki trailing with that dangerous grin like he knows something is about to go wrong. Sunghoon looks… braced. Ready. That should worry you. You tighten your grip on the coffee tray. Three tablespoons of sugar. Measured. Intentional. You step directly into his path.“Sunghoonie!” The name detonates. Jay coughs like he’s choking. Jake straight-up freezes. Riki makes a sound halfway between laughter and disbelief.

You smile sweetly, lashes lowered, eyes razor-sharp beneath it. You hand Sunghoon the cup with both hands like it’s ceremonial. “I got you coffee, baby,” you say brightly. “I know how much you love sweet things.” There’s a ripple through the crowd. Phones come up. Someone gasps like this is reality TV. Sunghoon looks down at the cup. Looks back at you. Then, he drinks. Winces. There it is. You log it instantly.

You: +1

But then, he smiles. Not tight. Not polite. Real. And before you can recalibrate, he bends down and presses a kiss to your cheek. Slow. Intentional. Warm enough that your brain blanks. “Thank you, baby,” he says easily, turning that smile on his friends. “You’re the best.” Your stomach drops. Your cheeks burn. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Jay stares like he’s witnessing betrayal. Jake lets out a low whistle. Riki actually laughs, delighted.

Sunghoon’s arm slides around your shoulders like it belongs there. Like it’s muscle memory. “Walk me to class?” he asks. You nod because speech has temporarily abandoned you. He doesn’t loosen his hold. If anything, he pulls you closer. Your shoulder fits too well against his side. His thumb traces absentminded circles against your arm, small, unconscious, devastating. The quad is silent in that way crowds get when something important is happening.

You retaliate. “That’s my good boy,” you coo softly, patting his chest. “Being so patient with me.”

Jay chokes on air. Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Anything for you,” he replies smoothly. “You know I’m sensitive.” Sensitive. Your lungs forget how to work. He glances down, voice dropping just for you. “You okay?” There it is. Not performative. Not loud. Concern.

You glare up at him, pulse tripping. He smiles back, smug, infuriating, entirely too aware. You lean into him anyway. “Of course I am,” you say sweetly. “I just love how affectionate you are. It’s very… reassuring.” His hand tightens briefly on your shoulder. “You bring it out in me.” That one lands sideways. Too honest. Too close to the bone.

By the time he drops you off outside your building, your head is spinning. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, almost reverent, and murmurs, “See you later, sweetheart.” Sweetheart. He walks away without looking back. You stand there, stunned, heart thundering like you lost track of the rules mid-play. You open your notes app immediately.

Scorecard — Day 2: Public embarrassment: initiated. Subject adaptation speed: alarming. Counteroffensive via authentic affection.

You hesitate. Then add:

Possible vulnerability detected.Response appeared… unguarded.Further testing required.

Across campus, Sunghoon exhales, fingers brushing his lips like he’s grounding himself. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. And the worst part? He didn’t fake it. Did he?

END OF DAY TWOScorecard:You: 2Sunghoon: 2(The crowd can’t tell who’s bluffing anymore.)

Sunghoon reads the update with a towel draped around his neck, hair still damp, water tracing slow lines down his collarbone before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He shouldn’t be reading it like this. He tells himself that as he scrolls. Tells himself it’s reconnaissance. Film review. Pattern recognition. Knowing the enemy has always been his strength, anticipating moves before they happen, identifying pressure points, exploiting hesitation. This is no different.

Except it is. His thumb stills when he reaches the line about unexpected counteroffensive via affection. He exhales through his nose and looks up at his reflection in the locker room mirror like it personally betrayed him. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters. The mirror offers no defense. He looks the same. Calm. Composed. Captain carved out of discipline and routine. Same sharp eyes. Same posture that never slouches, even alone. But his jaw tightens anyway.

Because his body remembers before his pride does. The way you said Sunghoonie like you wanted him to hear it echo. The deliberate sweetness in your voice. The coffee, too sweet on purpose. The way you watched him drink it, already tallying the outcome like a win. And the worst part? He let you. No, worse than that. He enjoyed it.

Sunghoon drags the towel through his hair harder than necessary, the friction grounding and irritating all at once. He tosses it onto the bench and leans forward, bracing his hands on the sink, shoulders tense as he studies his own face like he’s searching for a fault line. This was supposed to be simple. A bet. A challenge. A controlled descent into your own trap. He was supposed to dismantle you slowly, with restraint, with patience. Let you exhaust your own rules. Let you blur the line between performance and reality until you forgot which side you were playing for.

Instead, he’s here. Heart beating faster than it should. Pulse loud in his ears. Actively replaying the way your breath hitched when he kissed your cheek. That part wasn’t strategy. That part was instinct. And that’s new. He straightens abruptly, irritation flaring hot and sharp. “Get it together,” he says aloud. The words echo off tile and metal, too loud in the empty room. And then, because today apparently exists solely to test him, his brain starts planning. Not reflexively. Not defensively. Intentionally. What if he shows up first tomorrow? What if he escalates before you can? What if he stops reacting and starts dictating? The idea settles in his chest with dangerous ease.

He imagines leaning into the clinginess, not mocking it, not resisting it, but weaponizing it. Turning it inside out. Being too attentive. Too present. The kind of affection that stops being funny and starts being… unsettling. Texting first. Waiting outside buildings. Remembering things he shouldn’t care enough to remember. The kind of behavior that makes people whisper he’s down bad instead of she’s doing too much.

His lips press together. Since when the fuck does he think like this? Sunghoon has never been the guy who rearranges his routine for someone else. Football first. Discipline above everything. Emotions filed neatly away where they can’t interfere. And yet, here he is. Standing in front of a mirror with half-dry hair and a restless pulse, wondering what you’ll try next like it’s Christmas Eve.

That realization unsettles him more than anything you’ve done so far. He reaches for his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. Stops. Control. Always control. The phone buzzes anyway. Not you. Jay. 

Jongseong (DNI if you cherish your braincells): didn’t know you’d call a girl sweetheart in front of the entire quad, but okay

Sunghoon scoffs softly, the sound sharp and humorless. His reply is immediate.

Sunghoon: Shush. You literally cried for your girlfriend when she broke up with you over a meme.

Three seconds pass.

Jongseong (DNI if you cherish your braincells): that was a deeply emotional meme

He almost smiles. Almost. Then his phone buzzes again. This time, it’s you. Your name lights up his screen like a provocation.

You: be prepared tomorrow :D

Just that. No context. No strategy reveal. Just a smiley face that feels like a threat wrapped in sugar. Sunghoon stares at it longer than he should. Then he laughs. Quiet. Disbelieving. A single breath of sound that escapes before he can stop it, surprised not by you, but by himself. 

“Oh, I fucking am,” he murmurs. He doesn’t reply. He locks the phone, slips it into his pocket, and lifts his gaze back to the mirror. There’s something different there now. Not panic. Not doubt. Interest. Something sharp. Awake. Almost eager. He tilts his head slightly, studying it, this version of himself that looks like he’s already stepped onto the field. He shakes his head once, slow and resigned. He knows exactly what he’s gotten himself into. And God help him, he’s already anticipating the opening move. Day Three isn’t just another round. It’s escalation. And for the first time since this started… Sunghoon isn’t playing defense. 

You don’t sleep. Not really. You drift in and out of something shallow and restless, sheets twisted around your legs, ceiling fan ticking like a countdown you can’t shut off. Every time you close your eyes, your mind betrays you. Sunghoon’s smile, too easy, too real, pressed warm into your cheek. The casual thank you, baby like it wasn’t supposed to land that hard. The way his arm felt around your shoulders, solid and infuriatingly comfortable. And the text.

be prepared 

It loops until it stops feeling smug and starts feeling personal. So you do what you’ve always done when something threatens to slip past your defenses. You plan. You lie there until the sky lightens, until your pulse slows back into something manageable. By the time morning arrives, your eyes are sharp, your thoughts aligned, your heart tucked neatly back where it belongs, behind your ribs, locked down, under control. Sunghoon Park is not a problem. He’s a variable. And variables can be managed.

Manon clocks it immediately. She doesn’t even look up from her coffee. “You’re awake-scheming,” she says flatly. “What did he do?”

“Nothing,” you reply, too fast. Sunoo snorts from across the table. “That’s never a good sign.”

Keeho leans back in his chair, arms crossing, already suspicious. “Okay. Context. Why do I feel like I’m about to be weaponized?” You smile. Slow. Sweet. Dangerous.

“So,” you begin, folding your hands neatly on the table like a general addressing her officers, “hypothetically, if one were to induce mild psychological distress via jealousy—” Sunoo lights up instantly. “Oh my God. Oh my God. I love where this is going.”

Manon groans, rubbing her temples. “I already don’t.” Keeho blinks. “Why am I in this sentence?” “Because,” you say calmly, “you’re charming, non-threatening, and tragically underutilized.” Keeho stares. “…that’s the nicest insult I’ve ever received.”

You lean in, voice dropping. “The plan is simple.” You lay it out with surgical precision. Laugh a little too loud.  Touch his arm, casual, friendly, linger half a second too long. Stand too close. Tilt your head. Smile like you’re enjoying yourself. “Have I ever flirted like this before?” you ask rhetorically. Sunoo slaps the table. “No.”

“Should I?”

“OH FUCK YEAH!”

Manon levels you with a look. “You realize this is going to provoke him.” “That’s the point.”

Keeho exhales slowly. “I just want it on record that if the football captain murders me with his bare hands—”

“I’ll write a beautiful article about your sacrifice.”

Sunoo grins. “Worth it.” You pinky swear. Dramatic oaths. Over-the-top seriousness like you’re planning a heist instead of social sabotage. Then, just like that, you scatter. Different buildings. Different schedules. Normal expressions. Normal lives. Like nothing happened.

You spot Sunghoon ten minutes later. Of course you do. He’s crossing the quad like he’s entering hostile territory, jacket zipped, posture locked, gaze sharp and scanning. Jay is talking animatedly beside him. Riki laughs too loud. Jake keeps glancing around like he knows something’s coming. You don’t look at Sunghoon. That’s the key. You laugh instead. Too loud. Too bright. Keeho says something stupid, on purpose, bless him, and you throw your head back like it’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. Your hand lands on his arm, fingers curling briefly, familiarly.

Sunghoon’s head turns. You feel it before you see it, the shift in gravity, the air tightening like it’s been pulled taut. You lean closer to Keeho, murmuring something conspiratorial. Your smile softens. Interested. The kind of smile that suggests history, or at least possibility. You’ve never done this before. You’re excellent at it. Keeho plays his part flawlessly. His hand brushes your back. His posture is relaxed, confident. He looks comfortable. Like he belongs there.

That’s what makes it lethal. When you finally glance up, Sunghoon has stopped walking. He’s not smiling. His jaw is tight, eyes dark, unreadable. Jay is mid-sentence, frozen. Jake’s eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline. Riki looks between you and Sunghoon like he’s watching a live match. You hold Sunghoon’s gaze for exactly one second. Then you look away. Checkmate.

Your phone buzzes five minutes later. You don’t open it. Not yet. You finish the conversation. Laugh again, quieter this time. Keeho leans in, whispering, “He looks like he’s deciding whether to murder me and how exactly to do it.”

“Good,” you murmur. “You’re doing amazing.” When you finally check your phone, the message is waiting.

Sunghoon: Who’s your friend?

No emoji. No softness. Just plain directness and blatantness. You smile. Oh. He noticed. You reply slowly, deliberately.

You: Oh, Keeho? He’s just someone I enjoy spending time with.You: Why?

A beat. The response comes immediately. Too immediately.

Sunghoon: Just curious.

You scoff softly. Liar. Across campus, Sunghoon exhales through his nose, hands flexing at his sides. He tells himself it’s nothing. Tells himself this is part of the game. Tells himself he doesn’t care who you laugh with. And yet, that image won’t leave him alone. Your smile, real, unguarded. The one that was not directed at him, one that’ll never be directed at him. Your hand on someone else’s arm. The way you didn’t even look at him. Something ugly coils in his chest.

He hates it. He also recognizes it. Jealousy. The realization hits harder than he expects. He hasn’t felt this in years. You walk into class steady, composed, heart thrumming but controlled. You take notes. You participate. You act like your entire morning wasn’t a carefully staged provocation. Your phone buzzes again. This time, you don’t smile.

Sunghoon: Don’t play dumb.

Oh. You glance around the lecture hall, imagining him somewhere nearby, jaw tight, shoulders tense, control and patience fraying like a thin, overused, old rope. You type back.

You: I’m not playing anything, baby :)

Three dots. Gone. Reappear. His brain probably short circuited.

Sunghoon: You didn’t look at me.

That stops you. You stare at the screen longer than you should. Then:

You: Was I supposed to?

Silence. Long. Heavy. Charged. When his reply finally comes, it’s clipped. He could probably imagine the innocent look on your face, lips curling upwards as you bat your lashes across your face.

Sunghoon: We need to talk.

Your pulse spikes. You refuse to show it.

You: About what?

Another pause.

Sunghoon: Later.

You lock your phone. Exhale. Your fingers tremble just a little. Wondering what it was that he wanted to say. 

That night, you sit at your desk, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keys. You type. Delete. Type again. The article drafts itself like muscle memory.

DAY 3: JEALOUSY PROTOCOL (UNOFFICIAL)Sometimes, the fastest way to lose a guy… is to make him realize he already thinks he owns you.

You stop. Your heart stutters. That wasn’t part of the plan. You stare at the words, then close the laptop without publishing. Not yet. Somewhere two blocks down, Sunghoon lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He tells himself he’s irritated. Disrupted. Strategizing. But his mind keeps drifting back to you, laughing with someone else, deliberately out of his reach. His phone buzzes. Jake.

Jakey: so are we not gonna talk about how feral you looked today

Sunghoon doesn’t reply. Another buzz. Was it really that obvious? God. The last thing he needed was the whole campus thinking he was whipped for the school editor. Which… might not be half a lie.

Jakey: bc you almost dropped a man with your eyes

He exhales, rolls onto his side, stares at his screen. Pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighs and finally types:

Sunghoon: Stay out of it.

Jake responds instantly.

Jakey: too late chat. you’re cooked.

Sunghoon shuts his phone off. He closes his eyes. Fails to sleep.

By the time Day Three officially drops, both of you are already in too deep. And the scariest part? Neither of you wants to stop.

The campus is louder today. Not in sound, in attention. Whispers skim across the quad like static. Phones are out. Eyes linger a beat too long. Ever since Day One, the article’s been circulating faster than class notes, and people have started treating you like a live experiment. Or a ticking bomb. One wrong move and someone’s getting carded.

PING!

Your phone vibrates in your palm.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

DAY 3: JEALOUSY TEST

Men claim they don’t get jealous. They lie. Jealousy doesn’t announce itself. It leaks. Flirt, casually. Laugh, softly. Touch like it’s accidental. Make it look unintentional. Make it look harmless. If he doesn’t react, he doesn’t care. If he does? You’ve hit something tender.

— Yours truly, xoxo

You read it once. Then again. Not because you need to, but because you like the way your pulse stays even. You lock your phone. Your hands are steady. That’s how you know you’re ready. You don’t go looking for Sunghoon. That would be obvious. Instead, you move where he’ll have to see you. The arts building sits at the intersection of three major paths, between dorms, lecture halls, and the café. If someone wants to cross campus, they pass through here. Which makes it perfect.

Sunoo’s already there, leaning against a pillar, thumbs flying over his phone like he’s deep in a text war. Manon pretends to retie her shoe for the third time, eyes flicking up every few seconds. Crowd control. You spot Keeho near the steps, laughing with someone before they peel away. He looks relaxed. Approachable. Safe. You slide in beside him like it’s coincidence.

“Keeho,” you say warmly. “Wow. You look… painfully charming today.” He startles, then laughs. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

“Relax,” you murmur, tilting your head. “Just be yourself.” You don’t overdo it. That’s the key. You laugh, not loud, not showy. Just close. Intimate. You lean in when he speaks, brows furrowing like you care about every word. When you gesture, your fingers brush his wrist and linger, just long enough to feel his pulse jump under your thumb.

Like it doesn’t mean anything. Because the trick is, it always looks like it doesn’t mean anything. Around you, the quad keeps moving. Students slow. Some stop outright. A couple of girls whisper behind their hands. Sunoo glances up from his phone. Then stills. Manon straightens. You feel it before you see it. The air tightens. Like pressure dropping before a storm. You look up. Sunghoon stands across the quad with Jay and Jake, frozen mid-step. Jay’s mouth is halfway open like he was in the middle of a joke. Jake’s brows knit together slowly, eyes tracking the scene like he’s watching something unravel.

Sunghoon doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. His face is calm, too calm, but his eyes are locked on you. Not Keeho. You. You meet his gaze. Hold it. Then you turn back to Keeho and smile. Sunghoon moves. He doesn’t storm over. That would draw attention. Instead, he walks, measured, deliberate. Each step controlled like he’s counting them. Shoulders squared, posture perfect, like he’s heading into a match he refuses to lose. Jay mutters, “Hoon—”

Sunghoon doesn’t slow. Jake stops walking entirely, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon like he’s already calculating damage control. Sunghoon stops in front of you. Keeho straightens instinctively, sensing the shift. “Hey,” Sunghoon says, to you, voice smooth enough to fool anyone who doesn’t know him. You tilt your head, all sweetness. “Hey, baby.” The word lands like a dropped glass.

Keeho goes rigid. Sunghoon’s jaw tightens, just a fraction. “Didn’t know you were busy,” Sunghoon says, gaze flicking to Keeho for half a second before snapping back to you.

“Oh,” you reply lightly, “we just ran into each other.” You slide your hand into Sunghoon’s jacket pocket. Like it belongs there. Like you belong there. The fabric is warm. “So,” you add, looking up at him, lashes batting. “That okay?” Sunghoon covers your hand with his. His grip is firm. Too firm.

“That’s fine,” he says evenly. Then, quieter, so quiet only you hear, “But we need to talk.”

Your smile widens. Hook. Line. Sink. “You said that yesterday too, didn’t you baby?” He doesn’t ask. Sunghoon guides you away with a hand at your lower back, polite enough to pass as affectionate, possessive enough that Keeho lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Behind you, Sunoo exhales softly. Manon mouths holy shit.

The moment you’re out of sight, Sunghoon stops. His hand drops like it burns. “That wasn’t accidental,” he says flatly. You cross your arms. “What wasn’t?” “You flirting with him.” You tilt your head, innocence perfected. “I flirt with everyone.” “No,” he snaps, and there it is. Sharp. Immediate. Unfiltered.

“You don’t.” The silence that follows crackles. Sunghoon drags a hand through his hair once, like he’s trying to reset something that’s already gone wrong. His breathing is heavier than it should be. His eyes don’t leave your face. “Is this part of the article?” he asks.

You meet his gaze, unblinking. “Does it bother you?” A laugh escapes him, short, disbelieving. “You think I care who you talk to?” You step closer. Slow. Deliberate. “Then why are you clenching your jaw like that?” That’s when he steps into your space. Not aggressive. Not loud. Dangerously quiet. “Don’t do that again,” he says. Your heart stutters. “Do what?”

“Pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.” The air between you is too tight. Too charged. Like one wrong breath would set something off. You swallow. “You’re breaking character.” His jaw flexes. “So are you.” For a second, just one,you think he might say more. Instead, he exhales, steps back, and the composure slides back into place like armor snapping shut. “Next time,” he says evenly, “warn me.”

You blink. “About what?” He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at. “About when you’re trying to make me jealous.” Then he turns and walks away. Doesn’t look back. You stand there longer than you mean to. Your chest feels tight. Your phone buzzes. You open your notes app instead.

Scorecard — Day 3:Jealousy confirmed. Subject reacted emotionally. Loss of composure observed in controlled environment. Reaction stronger than predicted.

Sunghoon finally exhales. His hands are shaking. He hates it. Hates that he cared. Hates that he noticed. Hates that the image of you smiling at someone else twisted something hot and ugly in his chest. Hates that he wants to pull you in and kiss you stupid. This was supposed to be a bet. But bets don’t usually feel like this.

END OF DAY THREE

Scorecard:You: 3 Sunghoon: 2 (And now everyone knows who flinched first.)

Oh. This is where the game breaks. The message comes when you least expect it. The son’s bright, you can hear the familiar chitter of people walking and chatting, shoes scuffing the pavement as sunlight streams through your window unfiltered. Today is supposed to be Day 4, and you're halfway through rereading Day Three’s draft, trying to decide if reaction stronger than predicted sounds too clinical, when your phone vibrates.

Mom.

You don’t open it right away. Your stomach sinks before your brain catches up, like it already knows. Like it remembers every other time. You read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, as if maybe the words will rearrange themselves into something kinder if you stare hard enough. They don’t. It’s not loud. It’s not dramatic. It’s worse. Disappointed. Cutting. Familiar. The kind of hurt that doesn’t yell, it erases.

Your smile fades mid-breath. Something hollow opens up in your chest, sudden and deep, like the floor dropped out from under you and forgot to warn the rest of your body. You set your phone down carefully, because your hands are shaking too much to trust them.

Manon’s gone, shopping trip, three unread messages about shoes you never replied to. Keeho’s with her. Sunoo’s out, location shared hours ago with a heart emoji and a miss u you didn’t answer. You’re alone. You sit there for a full minute, staring at the wall, trying to logic your way out of the ache. It doesn’t work. Your throat tightens. Your eyes burn. You swipe angrily at the first tear like it personally offended you, but that just makes it worse.

You stand up. Grab your jacket. And before you can overthink it, before you can remind yourself this is a bad idea, a rule violation, a catastrophic mixing of variables, you’re already on your way. Because there is exactly one person who knows you exist right now. Sunghoon is in the middle of setting his keys down when the knock comes. He frowns, confused, he isn’t expecting anyone. Practice ended early, teammates scattered, apartment quiet in that rare, precious way he usually appreciates. He opens the door. And freezes.

You’re standing there like you ran straight out of a storm, hair slightly tangled, jacket half-zipped, eyes red and glassy like you’re holding yourself together by muscle memory alone.

You don’t even get a word out. Sunghoon drops everything. Keys clatter to the floor. His bag slips from his shoulder. He’s already reaching for you before his brain finishes processing why you’re here. “What happened?” he asks softly. Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. That’s all it takes. His expression changes instantly, guard down, edges gone, that cold composure evaporating like it never existed. He steps forward and pulls you into him without hesitation, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other pressing your head gently against his chest.

You break. The sob rips out of you, ugly and raw and completely unedited. Your hands fist into his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you don’t anchor yourself. Sunghoon holds you tighter. It’s instinctive. Protective. Solid. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, like he’s grounding both of you. “I’ve got you. You’re okay.” You shake your head against him. “I—I didn’t know where else to go.”

“That’s fine,” he says immediately. “You came here.” Like that answers everything. He presses his chin lightly against the top of your head, hand smoothing down your back in slow, reassuring strokes. No teasing. No smugness. No games. Just presence. You breathe him in, clean laundry, faint cologne, something warm and familiar, and the ache in your chest eases just enough to keep you standing. Minutes pass like that. Neither of you moves. Sunghoon doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t push. He just lets you exist there, folded into him, until your breathing evens out and the tears slow to quiet hiccups.

When you finally pull back, embarrassed and exhausted, he cups your face gently, thumbs brushing under your eyes without comment. “You don’t have to explain,” he says. “But you can. Whenever you want.” Your throat tightens again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. This wasn’t part of the article. Or the bet. Or the rules. But standing there, wrapped in his arms, you realize something terrifying and undeniable.

This isn’t a strategy. This is real. And Sunghoon, Park Sunghoon, football captain, emotionally unavailable nightmare, is looking at you like you matter more than the game ever did. Somewhere in the back of your mind, the scorecard flickers. Then it disappears entirely. Because for the first time since Day One, no one is winning. And neither of you wants to be the first to let go.

Ladies and gentlemen… the playbook is on fire.

The article goes live at 12:04 a.m. By morning, it’s everywhere. Screenshots in group chats. Whispers in lecture halls. A few people laugh when they see you pass, like they’re in on something you’re pretending not to notice. Day Four. You don’t reread the rules this time. You already know them by heart.

PING!

How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

DAY 4: EMOTIONAL OVERSHARING

Men fear emotions they can’t fix. So give them everything. Overshare. Unpack trauma like it’s casual conversation. Cry if necessary. Make it messy. Make it real. Make it inconvenient. If he pulls away, success. If he stays? Abort mission.

— Yours truly, xoxo

You stare at the screen longer than usual. Not because you’re nervous. Because something in your chest feels… tender. Exposed. Like the armor you’ve been wearing all week finally has a crack in it. This isn’t flirting. This isn’t strategy. This is you. And that makes it the most dangerous test yet.

You don’t remember how you end up outside Sunghoon’s place. Only that at some point your legs start shaking, and the night air feels too sharp against your skin, and suddenly he’s there, closer than you expected, concern already written across his face. “You don’t look okay,” he says. And for once, you don’t pretend. Sunghoon doesn’t ask before he lifts you.

One second you’re standing there, hollowed out and swaying, and the next his hands are under your thighs, steady and sure, like this decision has already been made somewhere deep inside him. You gasp softly as he hoists you up, instinct taking over, your leg wraps around his waist, fingers clutching at his shoulder for balance. He adjusts immediately. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly how to hold you.

He carries you inside without a word. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the hallway, the noise, the eyes, the game. His apartment greets you with quiet, clean lines, neutral colors, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something unmistakably him. Order. Control. Restraint. He sets you down on the couch gently, like you’re something fragile, something he’s afraid might splinter if he moves too fast. “You okay?” he asks, voice low. You nod. It’s automatic. It’s a lie. Sunghoon sees right through it. He kneels in front of you anyway. Not towering. Not imposing. Just there. And that, more than anything, undoes you. The words don’t come all at once.

They trip over each other. Stumble out half-formed. You start small. Safe. A weak laugh. “My mom used to say I was too sensitive.” You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it’s a punchline. “She’d say it like it was a joke,” you add, glancing away. “But it never felt like one.” Sunghoon doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you. So you keep going. You talk about growing up feeling like affection had fine print. About learning early how to read moods, how to adjust yourself to keep the peace. About the way praise always came with expectations, and how silence, long, heavy silence, felt worse than being yelled at.

Your voice shakes. You laugh at the wrong moments. You hear yourself and think: this is too much. This is exactly how people decide you’re exhausting. This is how you lose them. That’s the tactic. That’s the point. You sneak a glance at Sunghoon, bracing for the moment his expression tightens. For the polite withdrawal. The subtle step back. It never comes. He watches you like he’s listening to something important. Like he’s memorizing it. His jaw is tight, not annoyed, but controlled, like he’s holding something back. His eyes soften every time your voice wavers, and when your hands twist together in your lap, he reaches out without thinking, thumb brushing over your knuckles. Warm. Solid.

Grounding. When your voice finally breaks, it surprises you. You press your lips together, breathing uneven, staring at the floor like it might save you. Sunghoon shifts closer. Doesn’t touch you more than that, just enough to let you know he’s there. When the silence stretches, he doesn’t fill it. He waits. Finally, you let out a weak, breathy laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dump all that on you.” “Don’t,” he says immediately. Not sharp. Not commanding. Gentle.

“You don’t have to apologize for being honest.” Something twists in your chest. You swallow. “Most people get uncomfortable.” He shrugs slightly, eyes never leaving your face. “Most people aren’t worth your time.” The words hit harder than anything you’ve said tonight. You look at him, really look, and for the first time, you see it. The restraint isn’t arrogance. It’s practice. The control isn’t coldness. It’s survival. Someone who learned early how to hold things in until they hardened. Someone who knows exactly how heavy unspoken feelings can get. Sunghoon leans back against the couch, careful, giving you space, but his arm settles around your shoulders anyway. Not possessive. Just… there.

You hesitate. Then you let yourself rest against him. Just this once. No article voice. No scorecard. No audience. Your breathing slowly evens out. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do you. Outside, the world keeps moving, bets, whispers, rules, expectations. Inside, something fragile and unplanned settles into place. Later, much later, you’ll realize this was the moment the game stopped being theoretical. Because Day Four wasn’t about oversharing. It was about staying. And neither of you walked away.

END OF DAY FOUR

Scorecard:You: — Sunghoon: —

(Game suspended due to unforeseen emotional impact.)

It’s too late for the building to still feel alive. The overhead lights are dimmed to that after-hours glow that makes everything look softer, less real, like you’re trespassing in a version of the day that doesn’t belong to you. The kind of lighting that turns study rooms into confessionals. You’re supposed to be reading. Your laptop sits open between you, a paragraph half-highlighted, notes scattered in the disorganized way that pretends to be productivity. You haven’t scrolled in ten minutes. He hasn’t blinked at the screen in longer.

You sit too close. Not intentionally. Not at first. But close enough that when you shift in your chair, your knee brushes his. It’s nothing. It’s everything. “Oh, sorry,” you say too fast, already pulling back like you’ve been burned. “It’s fine,” he replies too quietly, like the words weren’t meant to travel. The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Pressurized. You fill it because you always do. You start talking again, too much, too quickly, about something adjacent to the point you were trying to make. You gesture with your hands like you can carve the feeling out of your chest if you explain it well enough. You laugh in the wrong places. Your voice wobbles and you barrel right through it.

Sunghoon watches you unravel with an expression you can’t read. Not pity. Not discomfort. Focus. When your words start looping, when you hear yourself circling the same fear with different phrasing, his hand moves. Not fast. Not dramatic. His fingers close gently around your wrist mid-gesture, stopping you like a soft wall. “Hey,” he murmurs. The room stills. It’s subtle, but you feel it, the way the air seems to settle, like everything just leaned in to listen. Your breath catches, uneven now that you’re aware of it. His thumb presses once against your pulse, grounding, steady. Are you okay? I’m here. Slow down.

All without words. You nod because it’s easier than speaking. But your eyes give you away. They’re shiny. Too full. You look down before you can stop yourself, throat tight, embarrassment blooming hot and unwelcome. Sunghoon doesn’t let go. Instead, he shifts closer, barely an inch, but it’s enough that you feel the warmth of him at your side. He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks. Like he’s committing something to memory. The tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders are drawn in. The practiced calm cracking at the edges.

When he leans in, it’s slow. Careful. The kiss happens like an accident. Barely there at first, his lips brushing yours as if testing the reality of it, as if he’s giving you time to pull away, to laugh it off, to say this is a bad idea. You don’t. Your lips part on a quiet inhale, and something inside him shifts. The world narrows. No lights. No notes. No rules. Just warmth and quiet and the faint hitch in his breath when your mouth moves against his. His hand tightens around your wrist just a fraction, like he’s losing a battle he didn’t plan to fight.

It’s not rushed. It’s not hungry. It’s reverent. Like he’s afraid to take too much. You pull back first. It costs you more than you expect. “This doesn’t count,” you whisper, forcing a smile that feels brittle the moment it leaves your mouth. “It’s… for the experiment.” The words hang there, thin and unconvincing. Sunghoon doesn’t smile. He studies you, jaw tight, eyes dark with something unsettled, something that looks suspiciously like restraint stretched too far. Like he’s deciding whether to let you have the lie.

You turn to leave before he can answer. Before he can say something that makes it real. Your fingers barely make it an inch away from his hand before he catches you. Not rough. Not desperate. Certain. The second kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Intentional. There’s no hesitation this time. He pulls you back like he’s done pretending this is incidental, like he’s accepted whatever line this crosses. Your breath stutters when he shifts, lifting you onto his lap with an ease that steals the air from your lungs.

You fit there too easily. Like this has always been where you were meant to land. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, unhurried, almost reverent. Not marking. Not claiming. Just there, like he’s grounding himself through you now. Your hands curl into his sweatshirt, knuckles pressing into solid warmth. His hands slide along your sides, steady and warm, thumbs tracing small arcs that feel like questions. His fingertips brush skin as they slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and you shiver, not from the touch itself, but from the care in it. Like he’s checking in with every inch.

Like he’s waiting for you to say stop. You don’t. You breathe his name instead, barely audible, like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. He stills. Just for a second. His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath uneven now, like he’s anchoring himself before this tips into something neither of you can undo. His hands stay where they are, present, warm, restrained. This isn’t losing control.

This is choosing not to run. The room feels impossibly quiet around you, like it’s holding its breath. And somewhere in the back of your mind, the game flickers, rules, scorecards, outcomes, but it’s distant now. Muffled. Less important than the way he’s holding you like something fragile and worth protecting. You know this is the moment everything changes. You also know you’re not ready to name it yet.

So you stay. Just like this. For one more heartbeat. Before anything else begins. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, unhurried, almost reverent. Not marking. Not claiming. Just there, like he’s grounding himself through you now. Your hands curl into his sweatshirt, knuckles pressing into solid warmth. The fabric is soft from too many washes, still carrying the faint cedar-and-fabric-softener scent that’s become stupidly comforting over the last few days. You tug once, small, needy, and he makes a low sound in his throat, not quite a groan, more like permission granted.

His hands slide along your sides, steady and warm, thumbs tracing small arcs that feel like questions. His fingertips brush bare skin as they slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and you shiver, not from the touch itself, but from the care in it. Like he’s checking in with every inch. Like he’s waiting for you to say stop. You don’t. You breathe his name instead, barely audible, like a secret you’re not supposed to keep. He stills. Just for a second.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs against your collarbone. Voice rough. Honest. “Any second. I stop.” You nod once, throat tight. Then you tilt your head back just enough to catch his eyes. “I know,” you whisper. “I trust you.” The words land heavier than you expect. His gaze flickers, something raw flashing through the dark before he swallows it down.

He exhales slowly through his nose. Then his hands move again. Slow. Deliberate. Palms flat against your ribs now, sliding upward under the cotton of your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t grope. Just maps you like he’s memorizing every dip and curve for later. You lift your arms without being asked. He pauses, gives you one last searching look, then peels the shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. Cool air hits your skin. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being half-naked and everything to do with the way he’s looking at you. Not hungry. Not triumphant. Awed.

Like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years. He drops the shirt somewhere behind him without looking. Doesn’t care where it lands. His hands return immediately, cupping your waist again, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your jeans. Then higher. Tracing the line of your bra straps. The dip of your sternum. The soft swell above the lace. Every touch is followed by a kiss. Soft. Open-mouthed. Lingering. First the hollow of your throat. Then the slope of your shoulder. Then the top of one breast, right above the cup, where skin meets fabric. You gasp, quiet, involuntary, and his mouth curves against you in the smallest smile.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice wrecked. You thread your fingers into his hair, damp at the ends from earlier practice, and tug just enough to make him look up. “Keep going,” you say. No sarcasm. No game. Just truth. He does. He kisses lower, slow drag of lips across the swell of your breast, then the other, until he reaches the edge of the lace. His tongue flicks out, just once, teasing the boundary, and your back arches on instinct, pressing yourself closer. A low, appreciative sound rumbles in his chest.

He hooks one finger under the strap of your bra. Pauses. “May I?” You nod, fast, desperate now. He slides the strap down your shoulder. Then the other. Reaches behind you with practiced ease, fingers finding the clasp, and unhooks it in one smooth flick. The bra falls away. He doesn’t stare. Doesn’t leer. He just looks, like he’s seeing something sacred. Then he leans in and kisses the center of your chest, soft, reverent, right over your heart. You feel the beat of it against his lips.

His hands come up to cup you, gentle at first, thumbs brushing over already-hard peaks, and you whimper. The sound surprises you both. He groans against your skin. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re so—” He doesn’t finish the sentence. Instead he takes one nipple into his mouth, slow, warm, tongue circling, and your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud. Pleasure spikes sharp and bright down your spine. He switches sides, same careful attention, while his hand kneads the other, rolling the peak between thumb and forefinger just hard enough to make your hips jerk forward.

You’re suddenly aware of how wet you are. How empty. How badly you want him inside you. “Sunghoon,” you gasp, half plea, half demand. He releases you with a soft pop. Looks up, eyes blown dark, lips shiny. “Tell me what you want,” he says. Voice gravel. “Anything.” You swallow. Drag your nails lightly down his neck, feeling him shiver. “Everything,” you say. “I want everything.” He exhales a shaky laugh against your skin. Then he’s moving.

Hands sliding to your hips, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He carries you the few steps to his bed like you weigh nothing, lays you down like you’re made of glass. He doesn’t climb over you immediately. He stands at the edge of the mattress for a second, just looking. You feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. Then he reaches behind his neck, yanks his sweatshirt off in one fluid motion, tosses it aside.

The sight of him, broad shoulders, carved chest, the faint red lines your nails left earlier on his collarbone, makes your mouth go dry. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. Pauses. “You sure?” he asks one more time. You sit up, reach for him, fingers curling into the elastic. “Very,” you say.

You tug. He lets you. The sweats slide down. Boxers follow. He’s hard, painfully so, and the sight of him makes heat flood your core. He kneels on the mattress. Crawls over you slow, caging you without trapping. Forearms braced on either side of your head. His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time. Hungrier. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, both of you breathing hard through your noses. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, then your underwear, finding you soaked.

He groans into your mouth when he feels how ready you are. “Jesus,” he mutters against your lips. “All this for me?” You bite his bottom lip, sharp enough to sting. “For you,” you confirm. He circles your clit once, slow, testing, then again. And again. Until your hips are rolling up into his hand, chasing the pressure. “Need you,” you gasp. “Inside. Now.”

He doesn’t tease. He pulls your jeans and underwear down in one go, tossing them off the bed, then settles between your thighs. He notches himself at your entrance, slow, gives you time to adjust to the stretch. You both exhale at the same time when he pushes in, inch by careful inch, until he’s buried to the hilt. The fullness is overwhelming.

Perfect. He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. “You okay?” he whispers. You nod, clenching around him on purpose just to hear the choked sound he makes. “Move,” you breathe. He does. Slow at first, long, measured strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. Then faster. Deeper. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, and he pins it beside your head. The other slides between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that match the rhythm of his hips.

You’re climbing fast, too fast, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly. “Sunghoon—” Your voice cracks on his name. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Let go. I’ve got you.” You do. The orgasm hits like a wave, sharp, blinding, your back arching, thighs clamping around his hips, his name spilling from your lips in broken gasps. He fucks you through it, slowing only when your tremors start to ease, then picks up again. Chasing his own.

You feel him thicken inside you, feel the stutter in his rhythm. “Where?” he grits out. “Inside,” you say without hesitation. “Please.” That undoes him. He buries himself deep, one last hard thrust, and comes with a low, guttural groan, pulsing inside you, face pressed to the side of your neck. You hold him there, arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs still locked around his waist, while his breathing slowly evens out. He doesn’t pull out right away.

Just stays, softening inside you, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Soft. Lazy. Like he has nowhere else to be. After a long minute, he lifts his head. Looks at you, really looks. And whatever he sees makes his expression soften in a way you’ve never seen before. “No rules tonight,” he says quietly. You swallow. Nod. “No rules,” you echo.

He kisses you again, slow, sweet, lingering. And for the first time in days, neither of you is keeping score. The quiet afterward settles over you like a shared secret. Not the awkward kind. Not the kind that begs to be filled with noise. The kind that wraps around both of you and stays.

Sunghoon’s thumb traces slow, absentminded patterns along your waist, the motion unthinking, muscle memory more than intention, like his body hasn’t realized yet that the world still exists beyond the room. Each pass of his thumb is lazy, grounding, a silent check-in he doesn’t even know he’s making. Your fingers drift through his hair in return, nails grazing his scalp in slow arcs until his breath stutters, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, chin tipping back against the pillow.

You smile to yourself, all lazy satisfaction, and press your cheek deeper into the hollow of his collarbone. His skin is warm there. Solid. Real. “Wow,” you murmur, voice soft but smug in that way you know gets under his skin. “So this was part of the experiment?” He huffs, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath your ear. “Absolutely not.”

You tilt your head just enough for him to feel your grin against his skin. “Liar.” His head angles down, eyes half-lidded and sleep-heavy when they meet yours, that familiar glint of cocky amusement slowly creeping back in like he’s easing into an old role. “You’re the one who came up with emotional oversharing as a tactic,” he says. “I just… adapted.”

“Oh, you adapted,” you echo, dragging your fingers through his hair again, slower this time, deliberate. “Is that what we’re calling it now?” His hand tightens at your waist for half a second, possessive, reflexive, like his body reacts before his brain can stop it, then relaxes again, thumb resuming its lazy path. “Careful,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna start acting like you ruined me.” You hum, pleased, smug curling warm in your chest. “I did ruin you.” A low laugh escapes him, fond and helpless, like he’s already lost the argument and doesn’t mind. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” you say lightly, words already blurring at the edges as exhaustion creeps in, “you screamed my name like it was a lifeline.” He groans, tipping his head back against the cushion, eyes squeezing shut. “I hate you.” “Mm,” you reply, already drifting, “you love me.” 

Silence stretches again, longer this time. Comfortable. Earned. The kind that doesn’t demand clever comebacks or defenses. His fingers slow, drifting from your waist to your back, tracing the curve of your spine before sliding up to your hair. He strokes gently now, reverently, like he’s handling something fragile. The bravado drains out of him with every second, confidence ebbing away until what’s left is just… him. After a moment, quieter, careful, he asks, “Hey. You okay?”

You nod against him, eyes closed, voice soft with sleep. “Yeah. I’m good.” Something in his chest loosens at that. He smiles to himself, small and private, like he doesn’t want you to see it. “Who knew,” you mumble drowsily, words slurring just slightly, “the guy who hates gossip would end up dealing with the gossip queen.” He chuckles, low and warm, pressing a kiss to the top of your head without thinking about it. “Occupational hazard.” Your breathing evens out, deep and slow, your weight melting fully into him like that’s exactly where you’re meant to be. Like you’ve done this a hundred times before. And that’s when it hits him, the ache, sharp and unwelcome, blooming in his chest without warning.

Because this isn’t just flirting. It isn’t just chemistry. And it definitely isn’t just a stupid bet he can laugh off later. He stares at the far wall, jaw tightening as he watches you sleep against him, trusting, unguarded, completely unaware of the storm in his head. He knows, knows, how this ends. Knows he’s going to hurt you. Knows he’s already halfway to hurting himself.

This is the part he was supposed to avoid. This is the line he swore he wouldn’t cross. And still, when you shift in your sleep, brow furrowing for just a second, he tightens his hold on you instead of pulling away. His arm curls more securely around your back. His chin dips, resting against your hair. No rules tonight, he’d said.And for the first time in days, neither of you is following them.

You go home alone. Not because he asks you to leave, he doesn’t, but because if you stay one more minute, you might forget why this started in the first place. You slip out while he’s half-asleep, fingers still loosely hooked into your sleeve like he expects you to come back, and that alone nearly ruins you. The walk back is quiet. Too quiet. Your phone feels heavier in your hand, like it knows what you’re about to do.

Day 4 waits for you like a confession you weren’t supposed to publish. You shower. You change. You sit at your desk with damp hair and a racing pulse, staring at a blinking cursor that feels accusatory in its patience. For a long moment, you don’t type. You replay instead, his voice, the way he didn’t interrupt, the way his arms had closed around you like it was instinct instead of strategy. Trauma dump as a tactic, you remind yourself, like it’s a spell that might undo the weight in your chest.

Your fingers finally move. You write about showing up unannounced. About expecting resistance and finding quiet instead. About how some men don’t flee when things get heavy, some just sit with you in it. You don’t name him. You don’t have to. Anyone who knows you knows. The words come smoother than you expect. Honest in a way that makes your throat tighten. You frame it like a win, like progress, like a clever maneuver in a game you’re still pretending you control. And then, because this whole thing has rules, you scroll to the bottom.

SCORECARD

You hover for a second longer than necessary. Day 4: Emotional Oversharing Result: Unexpected Loss of Composure

You sigh, sharp and resigned, and type it anyway.

You: 3Sunghoon: 3

Balanced. Tie game. Your finger hesitates over publish. Then you press it. The article goes live with a soft click that feels louder than it should. The screen refreshes. The world doesn’t end. Your heart still thuds like it’s waiting for consequences. You drop your phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, one arm thrown over your eyes. Three to three. A dead heat. Except it doesn’t feel like a game anymore. It feels like standing in the middle of a frozen lake, hearing it creak beneath your feet, realizing a little too late that you’re not sure which direction is safe.

Your phone buzzes. Once. Then again. You don’t check it right away. You already know who it is. You know the tone before you read it, because you know him now in ways you weren’t supposed to. Finally, you look.

Sunghoon: You gave me a point.

You smile despite yourself.

You: Don’t get used to it.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Sunghoon: Too late.

Then, a pause. Another message.

Sunghoon: Sleep. We’re tied. Means tomorrow matters.

You swallow, chest warm and aching all at once. Tomorrow matters. You set your phone down again, this time face down, and let the ceiling blur as your eyes close. Three to three. And somehow, for the first time since this all started, you’re not sure who you want to win.

Because nothing destabilizes a man faster than pretending you already belong in his life.

Ladies and gentlemen, history has been made. For the first time since this experiment began, you don’t knock first. Instead, you wake up to it. Three sharp raps against your door cut through your sleep like a referee’s whistle. The sound slices clean through whatever dream you were half-clinging to, jolting you upright with a groan. You roll over, face buried in your pillow, eyes still closed, fully prepared to ignore it on principle, until the knocking comes again.

Slower this time. Measured. Intentional. Familiar. Your stomach drops before your brain catches up. You drag yourself out of bed, limbs heavy, hair an absolute disaster, mind foggy in that disoriented way that makes everything feel a half-second behind reality. The hallway outside your room is quiet. Too quiet. When you pull the door open, Sunghoon stands there like he owns the hallway. Hands tucked casually into his pockets. Hoodie slung low on his hips like he threw it on without thinking. His hair is still slightly damp, darker at the ends, curling just enough to suggest he showered recently, and not in a rushed way. With intent. With time.

His expression is calm. That’s what sets off every internal alarm you have. Not smug. Not irritated. Not flustered. Just… steady. Eyes sharp, unreadable, mouth set in a line that feels more deliberate than relaxed. “Enough of your surprises,” he says, voice even. Controlled. A pause. Long enough to make your pulse stutter. “Now it’s my turn.”

You blink. Once. Twice. For four days, you’ve been the instigator. The architect of chaos. The one showing up unannounced, rewriting his routines, poking at his composure just to see what gives. This, him here, in your space, uninvited, short-circuits your internal playbook entirely. “Did you just—” you start, then stop, brain catching up too late. “Are you… kidnapping me?” His mouth quirks, barely. “Put on shoes.” And then he turns around and starts walking down the hall like there was never a question you wouldn’t follow. You don’t know why you do. Actually, you do.

And that’s the problem. You grab your shoes, tugging them on without socks, door clicking shut behind you as you trail after him. He doesn’t look back to check if you’re there. He doesn’t need to. That confidence, quiet, assumed, settles under your skin in a way that feels dangerous. The walk is silent. Not awkward. Just… loaded. You keep stealing glances at him, trying to read his posture, his pace, anything that might give away what he’s planning. He keeps his gaze forward, shoulders relaxed, steps unhurried. Whatever this is, he’s already decided how it goes.

The destination reveals itself slowly. Too slowly. You pass the café. The quad. The corner where couples always sit too close on the benches. You expect something calculated. Public. Flashy. A counterattack designed to rattle you the way you’ve rattled him all week. Instead, he pushes open the sliding doors of a grocery store. A regular one. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Soft pop music hums through tinny speakers. Somewhere near produce, someone is arguing quietly over avocados. You stop so abruptly he has to glance back.

“…This is your big move?” you ask, incredulous. Sunghoon reaches for a cart without looking at you. “Relax. It’s research.” You snort. It slips out before you can stop it, real laughter, unguarded, bubbling up from your chest instead of your throat. You don’t remember the last time something caught you this off-balance. Domestic simulation. You hate how fast it works. He walks beside you down the aisles like it’s second nature. Like this is something you’ve done together before. The cart rolls between you, metal clinking softly as he steers it with one hand.

You reach for a familiar cereal at the same time he does. “Absolutely not,” he says immediately. “You don’t even know which one I picked,” you argue. He glances at the box in your hand. “That’s exactly why.” You roll your eyes and toss it into the cart anyway, just to be annoying. He doesn’t take it out. That feels… significant. You wander produce. He inspects fruit like it personally offended him. You steal grapes when he’s not looking. He notices anyway. “You’re supposed to wash those,” he says. “You’re supposed to mind your business.” He hums, clearly unconvinced, and drops a bag of apples into the cart like this argument has happened before. Like it will happen again.

At some point, you stop performing. You forget to angle your body just right. Forget to keep track of how close you’re standing, whose arm brushes whose, who’s watching. You’re laughing too easily now, leaning into him when he mutters something dry under his breath, fingers brushing when you pass items back and forth. He reads labels. You mock him for it. “I don’t trust anything with more than five ingredients,” he says mildly. “That explains so much about your personality,” you shoot back. “You’re insufferable,” he says, fondly. And then freezes. It’s subtle. Just a hitch. A half-second too long of silence after the word leaves his mouth. Like he didn’t mean to say it that way. You pretend not to notice.

That’s the most dangerous part. You check out with shared bags, receipt crumpled and stuffed into his pocket without discussion. Outside, the air feels different. Quieter. Like the world narrowed itself while you weren’t paying attention. Instead of parting ways, he leads you to a small café tucked into the corner of the store. You sit across from each other at a too-small table, notes spread between half-drunk coffee cups. Your knees knock under the table. Neither of you moves them away. You study. Sort of.

He explains something patiently. You interrupt him. He corrects you without condescension. You realize, too late, that you’re not doing this for the article anymore. This isn’t loud. This isn’t messy. This doesn’t feel like a tactic. And that terrifies you more than any of the other days combined. That night, the article updates quietly. No fireworks. No scandal. Just truth wrapped in observation.

PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

DAY 5: DOMESTIC SIMULATION

There is a very specific kind of intimacy in shared mundanity. Grocery lists. Inside jokes. Knowing how someone takes their coffee without asking. Simulate a future. Not the dramatic kind, the boring one. If he runs? You’ve won. If he stays, and laughs like he belongs there? You’re in trouble.

— Yours truly, xoxo

At the bottom, the scorecard stares back at you.

You consider it for a long moment. Then you type:

Result: Mutual Compromise Point: None Score: 3–3

A draw. No winner. Yet again, so who really wins this stupid game? 5 days in. You close your laptop with a quiet click and lean back against your bed, heart thudding for reasons that have nothing to do with strategy. Lying on his bed, Sunghoon is probably doing the same thing, replaying moments that weren’t supposed to matter. The cereal box. The apples. The way you didn’t pull your knees away. And for the first time since this began, neither of you knows exactly how to break the other tomorrow. Which makes Day 6 dangerous. Sunghoon does not journal. He has never needed to. Thoughts are meant to be handled internally, sorted, categorized, dismissed. Writing things down feels like an admission that something can’t be controlled otherwise.

So the fact that he’s staring at a blank document at 1:47 a.m. feels like a personal failure. The cursor blinks at him. Once. Twice. Again. He exhales through his nose and leans back in his chair, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. His room is quiet except for the hum of his laptop fan and the distant sounds of someone laughing outside, too carefree for the hour. His hoodie, the hoodie, is draped over the back of the chair, still faintly smelling like grocery store detergent, cheap coffee, and your pretty scent.

He should wash it. He doesn’t. Instead, his brain does the thing it’s been doing all evening: rewinds. The time he knocked. He hadn’t planned to knock like that. Too sharp. Too deliberate. He’d stood outside your door for a full thirty seconds beforehand, debating whether this was crossing a line or finally drawing one. He’d almost walked away. Almost. The look on your face when you opened the door flashes through him again, sleep-soft, disoriented, hair a mess. No guard up yet. No strategy active. Just you. That had nearly ruined him right there.

He closes his eyes briefly and exhales. Focus. This was supposed to be a countermeasure. A recalibration. You destabilize someone by rewriting their expectations, he knows that. You’d been doing it to him all week. Showing up where you shouldn’t be. Acting like space and boundaries were optional. Dragging him into emotional territory he’d spent years neatly fencing off. So he adapted.

Domesticity is a known psychological trigger. False familiarity. Routine simulation. People get uncomfortable when you skip ahead too fast. When you act like a future already exists. The grocery store had made sense. What hadn’t made sense was how easy it felt. How his hand had reached for the cart automatically. How he’d fallen into step beside you without thinking. How he’d noticed, immediately, when you reached for cereal you always buy, like he’d been mentally cataloging your habits without permission. That’s the part that bothers him.

Not the flirting. Not the banter. Not even the way your laughter had startled something loose in his chest. It’s the noticing. He scrolls back up to the top of the blank page, jaw tight. You didn’t panic, he reminds himself. That’s good. But panic isn’t the only metric. You didn’t pull away when your fingers brushed. You didn’t step back when your knees touched under the café table. You didn’t perform. Neither did he. That’s the mistake. Sunghoon opens his eyes and stares at the far wall of his room, replaying the moment you tossed the cereal into the cart just to irritate him. He remembers thinking, absurdly, that you’d probably do that every time. That you’d always pick the worst option just to see if he’d object.

And worse, he remembers not taking it out. He types a single line before he can stop himself. Day 5 was not a win. He stares at the sentence like it might argue back. By all measurable standards, it should have been. You didn’t score a point. Neither did he. A draw keeps the experiment stable. Predictable.

But his chest had felt too full walking back across campus. Heavy in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with attachment formation. That’s dangerous. He scrolls down and types again. Domestic environments accelerate emotional bonding through repetition and shared low-stakes tasks. Clinical. Detached. Better. But even that feels insufficient.

Because this wasn’t repetition. This was implication. You hadn’t asked if he wanted apples. You’d just assumed. You hadn’t hesitated to sit down with him after. You’d leaned into the quiet like it was yours to claim. Like he was. Sunghoon rubs at his face, frustration creeping in. This was supposed to make you uncomfortable. Instead, it had made him… careful.

He remembers the moment he called you insufferable. The exact second the word slipped out, softened by affection before he could stop it. He remembers freezing, not because you noticed, but because he did. Affection is a tell. He doesn’t do that. He scrolls again, fingers hovering. Observation: Subject responds positively to shared routine. Risk: High.

He snorts quietly despite himself. Subject. Right. You are not a subject. You’re the girl who stole grapes when you thought he wasn’t looking. The girl who mocked his ingredient paranoia and then leaned closer anyway. The girl who didn’t pull her knees away, even when the table was small enough that it would’ve been easy. You’re his girl. His girl that he fell in love with. That’s the part that keeps replaying.

Not the flirting. The comfort. Sunghoon closes the laptop halfway, then opens it again with a frustrated sigh. He knows avoidance when he sees it. He’s lived on it for years. Across campus, your article exists. Public. Polished. Controlled chaos masquerading as insight. His isn’t. His is this, private spirals and late-night realizations and the uncomfortable awareness that he is no longer reacting to you. He’s anticipating you. That’s worse. He types again. There was no exit strategy today.

He hadn’t planned one. That realization hits harder than he expects. Every other day, he’d known how it would end. A goodbye. A retreat. A reset. Today had just… drifted. From aisle to aisle. From coffee to studying. From pretending to something dangerously close to real. He presses his lips together. This is how people get hurt. He knows that. Knows how quickly lines blur when you let yourself believe in mundane futures. Grocery lists turn into shared apartments. Study dates turn into expectations.

And expectations turn into disappointment. Sunghoon leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You don’t know the ending. That’s the worst part. You’re playing to win. To prove a point. To finish the article with clean hands and clever conclusions. He’s playing defense against something he wasn’t supposed to want. He scrolls to the bottom of the page and hesitates.

Then, against his better judgment, he types one last line. If Day 6 escalates, I will need to draw a boundary. The cursor blinks beneath it. He doesn’t believe himself. Sunghoon closes the laptop without saving, the quiet click too loud in the stillness of his room. He stands, crosses to the window, and stares out at the dark campus below. Somewhere out there, your lights are probably still on. Or maybe you’re asleep, blissfully unaware of the damage done by apples and cereal and shared silence. He exhales slowly.

No rules tonight, you’d said yesterday. He hadn’t argued. Tomorrow, he’ll have to be smarter. Sharper. Less… human about it. Because if Day 5 taught him anything, it’s this: He’s not afraid of losing the experiment. He’s afraid of winning, and realizing too late what it cost. You wake up like you’ve been shoved out of a dream. A sharp inhale. Sheets twisted around your legs. Your heart stuttering so hard it almost hurts. For a second, you don’t know where you are, just that your skin feels too warm and the room feels too empty.

Then it hits you. Not all at once. In fragments. Sensations before images. The memory of his hands, steady, impossibly warm, anchoring you when everything inside you had been unraveling. The way his thumbs had moved without thinking, slow and grounding, like he was reminding your body where it existed. The weight of his presence behind you, solid and sure, not crowding, not overwhelming. Just there.

You squeeze your eyes shut. It’s not even the kiss that gets you this time. It’s everything around it. How careful he’d been. How he’d paused like he was giving you space to change your mind, and how you hadn’t. How afterward, when the moment softened instead of exploding, he hadn’t pulled away. He’d stayed. That’s the part that makes your chest ache now. You turn onto your side, staring at the faint glow of your phone screen on the nightstand. 2:31 a.m. The world quiet in that fragile way it only gets when everyone else is asleep and you’re left alone with your thoughts.

You remember his voice, lower than usual, close enough that you’d felt it more than heard it. The way he’d surprised you, showed up first, planned something gentle instead of strategic. The way that alone had knocked you off balance. You’re used to being the one in control. The instigator. The girl with the plan and the punchline and the exit already mapped out. You weren’t supposed to like being caught off guard.

Your fingers curl into the sheets as another memory surfaces, him asking, quietly, if you were okay. Not as part of the experiment. Not as a move. Just… asking. You swallow, throat tight. This is bad. Worse than bad. Because attraction is manageable. Tension can be played with. Even longing can be weaponized if you’re clever enough. But safety? Being seen without having to perform? That’s not something you know how to fake. You sit up, dragging a hand down your face, breath shaky now. Somewhere between Day 1 and Day 5, the rules blurred. Somewhere between teasing and touching and shared silence in a grocery store aisle, something shifted off its axis.

You weren’t counting points tonight. Neither was he. And that realization lands heavy. He’s afraid of winning, and realizing too late what it cost. The thought settles in your chest like it belongs there. Like it’s been waiting. Because if he wins, he loses the distance he’s been hiding behind. And if you win, you lose the version of yourself who could walk away clean.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stare into the dark, pulse finally slowing, but your mind still racing. Tomorrow is Day 6. There will be plans. Counters. Smiles sharpened into strategies. But lying here, alone in the quiet, one truth curls uncomfortably close to your heart: You don’t know how to make this hurt less. And for the first time since the experiment began, you’re not sure you want to. You tell yourself it was a one-time thing. You have to. You cling to the sentence like it’s a life raft, repeating it until it starts to sound less like a lie and more like a hypothesis you could defend if asked. One time. An accident. Contextual.

You swing your legs back onto the bed and sit there, spine curved, elbows on your knees, hands hanging uselessly between them. The room smells faintly like laundry detergent and the vanilla candle you forgot to blow out earlier. Normal things. Safe things. Things that have nothing to do with the way his hands felt, felt, past tense, done, finished, when you were unraveling and didn’t know where to put yourself.

It was pity, you decide. That’s the cleanest explanation. The least dangerous one. He saw you raw and shaking and half-broken by a message you hadn’t meant to show anyone. He’s disciplined. He’s decent. Of course he stayed. Of course he touched you gently. Of course he kissed you like that, slow, careful, like he was trying not to spook something wounded. Pity makes sense. You nod to yourself, like you’ve cracked a code. You’re the gossip queen, after all. The experimenter. The one who studies men like specimens under glass. If anyone could misread compassion as chemistry, it would be you. You were emotional. Vulnerable. Of course you projected.

Of course you did. The thought should settle you. Instead, something tightens under your ribs. Because pity doesn’t explain the way his breath changed when you shifted closer. It doesn’t explain the pause, that infinitesimal second where he could’ve pulled away and didn’t. It doesn’t explain how his hand didn’t hover, uncertain, but stayed, sure and grounding, like he knew exactly where it belonged. You press your lips together.

No. Stop. You’re rewriting the memory. Romanticizing it. That’s what you do. You spin narratives until they sparkle and cut at the same time. He felt sorry for you. That’s all. But even as you think it, there’s a dull, unexpected ache in your chest, sharp enough to make you inhale a little too fast. Because pity means obligation. It means he didn’t want you, he endured you.

The idea shouldn’t matter. You’ve built an entire reputation on not caring what men want. On being untouchable, clever, above it all. So why does the word sit so badly in your mouth? You lie back down, staring at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the paint like constellations. You tell yourself that tomorrow you’ll wake up and this will feel smaller. Manageable. A footnote in the article. A scandalous aside you can laugh about later.

You’ll frame it right. You always do. But your mind betrays you, drifting back, not to the kiss, not to the heat of it, but to what came after. The way he didn’t rush you. The way his thumb traced slow, absent-minded patterns like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. The way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay, like the answer actually mattered.

Pity doesn’t sound like that. You roll onto your side, hugging a pillow to your chest, annoyed at yourself for the small, traitorous sting behind your eyes. Get a grip. This is a bet. A game. A ten-day experiment designed to prove a point about men and control and emotional incompetence. You’re not supposed to feel things. You’re supposed to observe them. And yet. The thought of him touching you out of obligation makes your chest ache in a way that feels suspiciously like disappointment. Which is ridiculous. You don’t want his desire. That would complicate everything. So you cling harder to the lie. It was pity. It was situational. It meant nothing.

You repeat it until your breathing evens out, until the night quiets around you again. But somewhere, beneath the practiced logic and carefully stacked excuses, a softer truth presses back, unwelcome and stubborn and terrifying in its simplicity: If it really had been pity…it wouldn’t hurt like this.

When the audience enters the arena, the game stops belonging to the players.

Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. The article goes live at 7:02 a.m., sharp enough to feel intentional. You don’t even reread it this time. You already know exactly how it sounds.

PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

DAY 6: MEDIA PRESSURE

If one man won’t break, let everyone else do the work. Introduce an audience. Encourage opinions. Frame the narrative so loudly that silence feels like failure. Men don’t fear commitment, they fear humiliation. Let’s test that.

— Yours truly, xoxo

You hit publish and sit back, phone warm in your hand, heartbeat steady in that way it only gets when you’re about to detonate something. The first notification lands before you’ve even locked the screen. Then another. Then five more. By the time you’re brushing your teeth, your phone is vibrating like it’s possessed.

DECELIS UNI GOSSIP — POLL POSTED🗳️ Will Park Sunghoon survive Day 6?▢ Absolutely. He’s built different. ▢ He’s already gone. ▢ I give him 48 hours. ▢ Who cares, I’m invested either way.

You choke on toothpaste. Someone’s already screenshotting the poll and dropping it into group chats with crying emojis and football references. Someone else adds a slow zoom edit of Sunghoon from last night’s practice with dramatic music. A professor you definitely have for media ethics likes the post and then, very obviously, unlikes it. The experiment isn’t just yours anymore. It’s entertainment. By the time you leave your dorm, the campus feels different. Charged. Like you’re walking through the aftermath of something loud and public and slightly illegal.

People glance up when you pass. Some grin. Some whisper. One girl actually salutes you like you’re a general going to war. Someone mutters, “She’s insane,” and it sounds like admiration. You should feel powerful. You mostly feel… aware. You scan the quad automatically. Old habit. You don’t see him. Not by the fountain where he usually waits between classes. Not by the steps where his teammates loiter. Not cutting across the grass with that easy, controlled stride like the world never asks him to rush.

Your stomach tightens, just a little. Get it together. You head inside, weaving through the morning rush. Every other conversation sounds like static until your name slices through it.

“—did you see the poll—” “—I swear he looked pissed yesterday—” “—no because if he folds I’ll lose my mind—”

You take the stairs two at a time, jaw set, pulse ticking faster with every landing. Where are you? You find him by accident. Or maybe instinct. He’s standing in the corner of the hallway outside the lecture wing, half-shadowed by the tall windows. Not leaning. Not scrolling. Not talking to anyone. Waiting. His duffel bag hangs loose from one shoulder. His hoodie is zipped all the way up like armor. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump when someone laughs too loudly nearby. And his eyes, dark. Focused.

Locked straight onto you the second you look up. The air between you goes sharp. Everything else fades: the foot traffic, the murmurs, the stupid buzzing of your phone as another notification rolls in. It’s just the two of you, suspended in a moment that suddenly feels very, very real. You slow without meaning to. He doesn’t move. There’s something different about him today. Not anger, not exactly. It’s restraint. Pressure held too long. Like he’s standing still only because he’s chosen to.

You stop a few feet away. For a second, neither of you speaks. You’re acutely aware of how exposed this is. Of how many eyes could be watching even if none of them seem to be right now. Of the fact that your article is open on half the phones in this building. “You made it public,” he says finally. His voice is low. Even. Dangerous in its calm. You lift your chin. “You knew that was coming.” “I knew you’d write,” he says. “I didn’t know you’d turn it into a spectator sport.”

You bristle. “That’s rich, coming from the campus golden boy.” Something flickers across his face at that. Not offense. Recognition. “You put a poll up,” he continues, stepping closer. Not invading your space, just enough to remind you of the height difference. Of the weight of him. “Do you know what that does?” You do. You just hadn’t wanted to think about it this early. “It pressures the subject,” you say coolly. “That’s the point.” His mouth curves, humorless. “You’re not studying anymore.” “And you are?” you shoot back. “Because last I checked, you agreed.”

“I agreed to an experiment,” he says. “Not a referendum.” The word lands harder than you expect. Around you, someone laughs. A phone camera clicks. The world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that something fragile is stretching thin. You glance past him, just for a second, see two girls pretending not to stare, see a guy very obviously texting with his phone angled your way.

When you look back at Sunghoon, his expression has tightened further. “You like the attention,” he says, not accusing. Observing. You open your mouth, ready with something sharp and clever and dismissive, and stop. Because you don’t. Not like this. You like control. You like authorship. You like knowing where the line is. This feels like the line is moving without asking you.

“You don’t get to rewrite the rules now,” you say instead, quieter than before. “Not because people are watching.” His gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. “That’s the problem,” he says. “They’re not watching you.” Your pulse kicks. “They’re watching me lose.” The words sit between you, heavy and undeniable. For the first time, the scorecard feels irrelevant. For the first time, the experiment feels like it’s outgrown its margins. You straighten. “If you want out—” “I don’t,” he cuts in. Fast. Certain. That should reassure you. It doesn’t. “Then don’t glare at me like that,” you say, forcing lightness back into your tone. “It ruins the brand.”

His lips twitch despite himself. Just barely. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs. “And you’re not the only one who gets hurt when it spirals.” You swallow.

“I can handle it.” He studies you for a long second. Really looks. Like he’s trying to decide whether that’s true, or whether he believes you even if it is.

Then he steps back. Just one pace. Enough to reintroduce space. Enough to remind you that this is still pretend. Still public. Still a performance. “Then don’t disappear on me today,” he says. “If we’re doing this, we do it clean.” You nod, sharper than you mean to. “Fine.” He turns to leave, then pauses. Without looking back, he adds, “And stop pretending you don’t feel the weight of it. You’re better than that.” Then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd, the whispers, the polls and predictions and stupid edits with dramatic music. You stand there longer than necessary, heart thudding, phone buzzing again in your hand.

DECELIS UNI GOSSIP: Poll Update: 62% say Sunghoon’s already emotionally compromised.

You exhale slowly. Day 6 has begun. And for the first time, you’re not sure who the audience is rooting for anymore. He ignores you the entire day. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Not in a way that invites confrontation. Which is worse. He doesn’t look at you in the hallway. Doesn’t slow when you pass. Doesn’t text. Doesn’t send one of those clipped, annoyingly precise messages that always sound like he’s three steps ahead of you. When you sit two rows behind him in lecture, he doesn’t turn, not once. His posture is perfect. His attention fixed forward. Like you don’t exist. By noon, your confidence has started to fray. You tell yourself it’s strategy. A counter. He warned you he’d draw a boundary, this must be it. A withdrawal maneuver. Starve the experiment of reaction and wait for you to crack.

Fine. You can play that game. You laugh louder than usual with Manon at lunch. You let Keeho steal fries off your plate and don’t scold him like you normally would. You post an innocuous story, just coffee, sunlight, a caption that reads working on something dangerous, and watch the views climb.

Nothing. No reaction. No message. No subtle acknowledgment that he’s even seen it. Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with competitiveness and everything to do with dread. By late afternoon, you’re restless enough to go looking. You tell yourself it’s for the article. Continuity. Optics. You can’t write about a subject you haven’t observed all day.

That’s the excuse you use as you walk toward the athletic building, heart ticking too fast, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides. You hear it before you see it. Laughter. Low. Female. You slow, instinct screaming. And then you see him. Sunghoon is backed against the brick wall near the side entrance, the quiet one, the one no one uses unless they’re trying not to be seen. His duffel is on the ground at his feet. His hands are on someone else’s waist. She’s pretty. Of course she is. Soft hair, short skirt, fingers threaded into his hoodie like she belongs there. She’s on her toes, pressed close, like she knows exactly what she’s doing.

And he’s kissing her. Not hesitant. Not distant. Mouth moving against hers like it’s muscle memory. Like it’s easy. Like it means nothing. The world tilts. You stop short, breath punching out of you as if someone’s landed a blow you didn’t see coming. There’s a sharp, cracking sensation in your chest, too sudden to be dramatic, too deep to be ignored.

Oh. So that’s what that feels like. Your mind scrambles, grasping for footing. Logic. Narrative control. Anything to explain this away before it finishes breaking something important. It’s strategy, you think wildly. Media pressure. Optics. He’s reminding the audience he’s unattached. Proving the poll wrong. Reasserting dominance. You almost laugh.

Because none of that stops the way your throat tightens when his hand slides up her back. Or the way your stomach drops when she smiles against his mouth, pleased, chosen. He pulls back just enough to murmur something you can’t hear. She laughs. Your vision blurs at the edges. You take a step back before you even realize you’re moving. Then another. Your heel scuffs against the concrete, loud in the sudden silence of your head.

Sunghoon looks up. For half a second, nothing happens. Then his eyes meet yours. Whatever expression he was wearing, easy, casual, detached, vanishes. It’s replaced by something sharp and unreadable. A flicker of… something. Surprise? Guilt? Calculation? You don’t wait to find out. You turn and walk away. Not run. You refuse to give him that. You keep your spine straight, your pace even, like your heart isn’t splintering with every step. Like the sound you just heard wasn’t something inside you cracking open. You don’t check your phone. You don’t look back.

You make it halfway down the block before the first tear slips free, hot and humiliating. You swipe it away angrily, jaw clenched. Stupid. This is stupid. You did this. You invited this. You turned intimacy into an experiment and then forgot that experiments have variables you can’t control. He doesn’t owe you anything. The thought is rational. Clean. Correct.

It also hurts like hell. By the time you get back to your dorm, the campus noise feels distant, muffled, like you’re underwater. You shut the door behind you and slide down it, breath finally breaking as you press your forehead to your knees. Your phone buzzes in your hand. A notification. You don’t have to look to know what it is.

DECELIS UNI GOSSIP: SPOTTED: Sunghoon looking VERY alive on Day 6.

Your chest caves in. So this is how he wins, you think dully. Not by breaking. But by reminding you that he never needed you in the first place. You laugh once, softly, the sound edged with something dangerously close to a sob. Fine. Game on. Even as your heart lies in pieces at your feet, one brutal truth settles in, clear and unavoidable: This wouldn’t hurt this much if you weren’t already losing.

You don’t go to your next class. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. You sit on your bed with your phone face-down like it personally betrayed you, legs pulled up to your chest, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. The world outside your door keeps going, footsteps, laughter, someone arguing loudly on the phone, but you opt out. For once, you don’t feel like being observed.

Your phone buzzes anyway. Once. Twice. Again. You don’t look. You already know it’s him. You imagine the texts without opening them, measured, probably. Annoyingly calm. Something like We should talk or This isn’t what it looked like or, worse, Are you okay?

That one would ruin you. So you don’t give it the chance. You flip the phone over and slide it under your pillow like that might muffle the existence of Park Sunghoon entirely. It doesn’t. Five minutes later, there’s a knock. Then a familiar voice through the door. “Okay, before you say no, we brought snacks.” Manon.

You sigh, defeated. “Come in.” The door opens like a storm. Manon barrels in first, dramatic as ever, carrying two iced coffees and a paper bag like she’s delivering emergency supplies. Keeho follows, already mid-sentence about how he knew athletes were a disease, and Sunoo trails behind them, shutting the door softly, eyes scanning your face in one quick, devastating sweep.

“Oh,” Sunoo says quietly. “Yeah. That’s bad.” You scoff weakly. “Hello to you too.” Keeho drops onto the floor cross-legged like he’s settling in for a war council. “I just want you to know,” he says seriously, “that if violence were legal, I would already be in jail for you.” Manon shoves a coffee into your hands. “Drink. You look like you’ve been personally victimized by a man with good bone structure.” That does it.

You laugh. It comes out broken and surprised, but it’s a laugh, and suddenly your chest loosens just enough to breathe again. Sunoo sits beside you on the bed, close but not crowding, knees tucked up neatly. “Okay,” he says gently. “Start talking. Before Keeho starts hexing people.” Too late. Keeho is already pacing. “I’m just saying, hypothetically, if all his teeth fell out tomorrow—” “—hypothetically,” Manon cuts in, deadpan, “I would thank the universe.” “—and then he tripped,” Keeho continues, warming up, “and fell into, say, a pool of battery acid—” You snort. “Keeho.” “I’m not saying I’d push him,” he says quickly. “I’m just saying I’d hold the ladder.”

Sunoo pats your arm. “We’re workshopping curses. It’s therapeutic.” You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and finally, finally, your eyes sting. “I saw him,” you admit. “With someone else.” The room stills. Manon’s expression sharpens instantly. “Where.” “Kissing,” you add, before anyone can ask. “Like it was nothing.” Keeho’s jaw drops. “Oh, absolutely not.” Sunoo frowns. “That’s… wow.” You stare at your coffee. “I know he doesn’t owe me anything. I know this is technically part of the game. But it still—” You gesture vaguely at your chest. “It still sucked.”

“That’s because,” Manon says, sitting on the arm of the chair like a queen about to pass judgment, “you’re a human being with feelings. Tragic flaw, I know.” Keeho points at you. “You are allowed to be upset. You are encouraged to be upset. I, personally, am upset on your behalf.” Sunoo nudges your shoulder lightly. “You didn’t imagine it. It mattered.” That’s the one that lands.

You swallow hard. “I feel stupid,” you confess. “I built this whole thing. I made it public. I turned it into content. And now I’m acting like I didn’t know this could happen.” “That doesn’t make you stupid,” Sunoo says softly. “It makes you honest.” Manon nods. “And brave, honestly. Messy, sure. But brave.” Keeho flops back dramatically onto the floor. “Also, for the record, he’s an idiot.”

You huff. “You were literally praising his jawline last week.” “That was before he emotionally compromised you,” Keeho replies. “Now he’s dead to me.” You sit there with them, coffee cooling in your hands, snacks forgotten on the desk, wrapped in the strange comfort of chaos and loyalty and people who don’t need you to be sharp right now. Your phone buzzes again under the pillow. You ignore it.

Manon notices anyway and grins. “Good. Let him sweat.” Sunoo leans his head against your shoulder. “You don’t have to decide anything today.” Keeho lifts his head from the floor. “But if you do decide to ruin him, I have ideas.” You laugh again, this time steadier, even as the ache lingers beneath it. Heavy and light at the same time. For now, you let yourself be held up by caffeine, bad jokes, and the knowledge that even if the experiment is spiraling, you’re not alone in the fallout.

Sunghoon realizes he fucked up about three seconds after it happens. Not when her mouth is on his. Not when her hands slide up his chest like they’ve done it before. Not even when he kisses her back. It’s when his brain supplies the wrong face. Yours. The kiss is warm, familiar in the way all meaningless things are. Easy. Automatic. He knows exactly what he’s supposed to do, where to put his hands, how long to linger, when to pull back just enough to make it look real.

That’s the problem. It looks real. But the only thing he can think about is the way you look when you’re trying not to cry. The way your mouth quirks when you’re pretending you’re not affected. The way you’d gone still when he touched you, not startled, not unsure, just present.

He breaks the kiss first. Too fast. The girl blinks up at him, confused, lips parted like she’s waiting for a line he doesn’t have. He gives her something polite. Vague. Safe. A smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. She says something, he doesn’t catch it. He nods anyway. She leaves.

And the silence that follows is brutal. Sunghoon drags a hand down his face and stares at the brick wall like it personally betrayed him. His heart is beating too fast for something that was supposed to be nothing. His chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with panic. He doesn’t know her name.

That realization hits harder than it should. He replays the last ten minutes in his head, searching for it, something, anything, but comes up blank. No name. No detail. No imprint. Just a placeholder where a person should be. That’s when it clicks. He didn’t kiss her because he wanted to. He kissed her because he wanted you, and thought denying that would make it go away.

It doesn’t. It makes it worse. He thinks of your face when you saw him. The way you stopped like you’d hit a wall. The way your eyes went distant before you turned away, pride intact even as something fragile shattered behind it. His stomach drops. Fuck. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t optics. This wasn’t media pressure management or some calculated move to reassert control. This was cowardice.

He’d told himself you were a bet. Clean. Contained. Ten days, a winner, an ending he could live with. He’d framed you as a variable he could manipulate because that was safer than admitting you were a person who got under his skin in ways he didn’t have language for. And he knows, knows, that to you, he’s a game too. A challenge. A headline. Something to win and walk away from with a clever conclusion and clean hands.

You’re both pretending. The difference is, he’s losing control of the pretense. He leans his forehead against the wall and exhales slowly, trying to steady the chaos in his chest. He thinks about the way you’d laughed in the grocery store. About how easy it felt to stand beside you. About how unnatural it now seems to imagine not doing that again. He thinks about your silence today. The way you didn’t answer. Didn’t show. Didn’t perform.

That scares him more than the poll ever did. Because silence means you’re hurt. And hurt means this isn’t just an experiment anymore. Sunghoon straightens, jaw tight, heart heavy with a truth he didn’t plan for and doesn’t know how to undo. You are a bet to him. He is a game to you. And somehow, against his better judgment, against every rule he’s ever lived by, he’s falling for you anyway.

The article goes live late. Not because you hesitate. But because cleverness feels dangerous right now, and you don’t trust yourself not to bleed through the margins.

You reread it three times before posting. Not to polish. To make sure it still sounds like you. Detached. Observant. Sharp enough to cut without revealing where the blade came from. It does. That’s the problem.

PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

DAY 7: THE WITHDRAWAL

When a man no longer responds to provocation, remove yourself entirely. No confrontation. No explanation. No spectacle. Nothing destabilizes control like the absence of reaction. If he notices, you mattered. If he doesn’t, you already have your answer.

— Yours truly, xoxo

You stare at the screen for a long moment after it posts. The scorecard sits below it, blank and waiting. You don’t look. You close your laptop instead, the quiet click sounding louder than it should, and lie back on your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. Your chest feels tight. Not panicked. Just… bruised. Like something’s been pressed on for too long and hasn’t been released yet.

Withdrawal is strategy, you tell yourself. Distance is control. Silence is power. You sleep badly anyway. The next morning, campus feels… watchful. Not loud like yesterday. There are no polls shoved in your face, no notifications popping up every five seconds, no one loudly reading excerpts out of context. It’s quieter than that. Thinner. Taut. Like the air itself is waiting for something to snap.

People look at you longer than usual. People look past you, too, toward wherever Sunghoon might be. Manon links her arm through yours the second you step outside, like she’s anchoring you to something solid. “I swear to God,” she’s already saying, voice sharp with righteous fury, “if one more man tells me he’s ‘emotionally unavailable’ like that’s a personality trait and not a warning label—” You hum noncommittally, eyes scanning the quad without meaning to. “You’re dating men who think liking one sad playlist counts as depth.”

“EXACTLY,” she snaps, vindicated. “They’re just… not enough. None of them are. I’m bored. I’m spiritually underwhelmed. I want someone who ruins my life a little.” You snort despite yourself. “That’s a dangerous desire.” “Worth it,” she says immediately. “Men are either too much or not enough. There’s no in-between.” You’re smiling when you see him. Not because you’re happy. Because your body recognizes him before your mind catches up.

He’s across the quad, duffel slung over his shoulder, walking with his head slightly bowed like he’s arguing with himself. He looks tired. Not rumpled, Sunghoon is never that, but worn around the edges. Like sleep didn’t stick. Like something’s been gnawing at him since yesterday. Your chest tightens. Instinct screams at you to slow down. To look again. To confirm he’s really there. You don’t. You keep walking. Keep talking. Keep nodding at Manon’s story about a disastrous date involving a man who thought negging was a personality.

“And then he said, get this,‘You’re intimidating, but in a hot way,’” she scoffs. “Immediate ick.” “Immediate,” you agree, voice steady enough to fool even yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sunghoon stop. Not hesitate. Stop. His gaze snaps up, sharp and searching, finding you too late. You’re already passing him. Already mid-laugh. Already moving on like he’s not the gravitational center of your week.

You don’t turn. You don’t acknowledge the shift in the atmosphere. And everyone clocks it. Whispers ripple like a wave. Phones tilt subtly. Someone actually gasps, hand flying to their mouth like they’re watching live television. “Wait,” Manon mutters under her breath, finally clocking it. “Are we… are we ignoring him?” “Yes,” you say lightly. “We’re discussing your love life.” “Oh,” she says, delighted. Then, louder, “ANYWAY, I just think men need to try harder. Like, if you can’t emotionally devastate me a little, what’s the point?”

You hear it then, the soft scuff of footsteps behind you. Sunghoon catches up easily. Too easily. “Hey,” he says. Your name follows, quieter. Careful. Like he’s afraid it might break if he says it too loudly. You don’t respond. Manon does, though. She beams like she’s just been handed front-row seats. “Hi! Oh my God, you’re the football guy.” Sunghoon doesn’t look at her.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks. You keep walking. “About what?” you ask, not looking at him. The tone is polite. Distant. Impeccably controlled. He falters. Just for a second. “About yesterday,” he says. “There’s nothing to talk about,” you reply smoothly, still angled toward Manon. “Did I tell you about the part where he split the bill?” Manon clutches her chest. “Oh, don’t get me started.” Sunghoon reaches out, then stops himself inches from your arm. “I messed up,” he says, low enough that only you can hear.

That’s the first crack. Your steps slow despite yourself. Manon feels it instantly. She squeezes your arm once. “I’ll… go terrorize someone else,” she murmurs, already backing away. The look she gives Sunghoon is lethal. “Try not to traumatize her.” And then you’re alone with him. The quad suddenly feels too open. Too exposed. Like the world has zoomed out just to watch this happen. Sunghoon steps in front of you, not aggressive, not blocking, just enough that you have to stop. Up close, the signs are impossible to miss. The tension in his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes. The way his hands keep flexing like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“I didn’t do it to hurt you,” he says. You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “Congratulations.” “I mean it,” he insists. “I wasn’t thinking.” “That much is obvious.” He exhales, frustration bleeding through his control. “You didn’t even let me explain.” “You kissed someone else,” you say, finally looking at him. Your eyes don’t soften. “What explanation could possibly improve that?” His throat bobs. “I thought I was doing what you wanted.”

The words hang there. “What I wanted,” you repeat quietly. “Yes,” he says. “Distance. Detachment. Proof that I’m not—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” you agree. “It doesn’t.” Something breaks across his face. “That’s not true,” he says softly. You step closer before you can stop yourself. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough that the noise of campus fades again, like it always does when it’s just the two of you. “For days,” you say, voice low and shaking despite your best efforts, “you let me believe this was… something. And the second it got hard, you proved exactly why I wrote the article in the first place.”

“That’s not fair.” “Neither was watching you kiss someone else.” Silence crashes down between you. His gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly. Instinctive. Uncontrolled. Your heart stutters. For one terrifying second, it feels like he might say it. Like he might close the distance and ruin both of you completely. “I think about you,” he says instead. Quiet. Barely there. “More than I should.”

Your breath catches. This is it. This is the almost. Footsteps cut through the moment, loud, rushed. “HOON! COACH IS LOOKING FOR YOU.”

The spell shatters. Sunghoon blinks like he’s waking from something dangerous. His shoulders square. His mask slams back into place. “I—” He stops. Swallows. “I’ll see you.” You snort once, the sound is bitter and ripples straight from your chest. “Yeah,” you say. “Maybe.”

He hesitates, then turns away, disappearing into the crowd like something monumental didn’t just fail to happen. You stand there long after he’s gone, hands trembling slightly at your sides. Almost confessed. Almost kissed. Almost honest. You pull your phone out, not to text, not to spiral, but to open the article draft. Not to write. Just to remind yourself this is still an experiment. That you’re still in control. But your chest still aches. You’re not sure what you’d do if he actually said the words out loud.

You don’t hear him call your name at first. The hallway outside the gym is chaos, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against tile, someone laughing too loudly like they’re trying to prove they’re not exhausted. The air smells like sweat and cheap deodorant and floor cleaner. It’s all noise, all movement, all distraction. You’re tuned out.

Walking shoulder to shoulder with Manon, your brain is still stuck somewhere between the quad and that moment where Sunghoon’s mouth hovered too close to yours and then didn’t cross the line. Your body feels wrong, too aware, too tight, like it never got the memo that you’re supposed to be detached now.

“I’m serious,” Manon is saying, waving her water bottle like she’s making a point in court. “Men are just… disappointing. Like, why do they all think bare minimum deserves applause?” You hum in agreement, eyes straight ahead. “Manon, baby, you’ve been talking about this since the morning.” She groans and mutters something incomprehensible under her breath. Probably cursing your bloodline for being right. You do not look to the left. But you feel him.

It’s not subtle. It never is with him. There’s a shift, like the air itself tightens, like conversations falter half a beat too late. From the corner of your eye, you catch movement: Sunghoon peeling away from Jay, Jake, and Ni-ki mid-conversation. He doesn’t explain himself. Doesn’t slow. His duffel hangs loose on one shoulder, practice jacket unzipped, hair still damp at the nape of his neck. He’s coming straight for you. Manon clocks it instantly. Her grip tightens just a little around your arm. She keeps talking, louder now, deliberate. “I mean, if I wanted emotional whiplash, I’d go to an amusement park—” “Hey,” Sunghoon says. He sounds breathless. Not like he just finished practice, like he’s been holding something in for too long. “Can we talk? We didn’t finish earlier.”

You don’t answer. You don’t even turn your head. You keep walking. The hallway notices. There’s a very specific kind of silence that follows, not total, not dramatic, just… attentive. Curious. Hungry. Like a dozen people have decided, collectively, to pretend they’re not watching.

Manon glances at you, eyebrows lifting in a silent oh. But she keeps pace, loyal to the bit. Sunghoon’s jaw tightens. You can see it without looking at him. “I just need a minute.” Nothing. You pass the science wing. The vending machines hum. You’re almost at the stairs when suddenly, your wrist is warm. He grabs you. Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to stop you. Enough to say please without using the word. “Sunghoon—” Manon starts.

“I’ll bring her back,” he says quickly, already steering you sideways, his hand still firm around your wrist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. Manon doesn’t fight it. She just tilts her head and calls after you, sweet and venomous, “Don’t commit crimes!” The janitor’s closet door opens and closes in one sharp motion.

Click. The sound echoes. The space is small. Too small for two people who are already wound this tight. Cleaning supplies line the walls, mops, buckets, bottles with half-peeled labels. The air smells faintly like soap and dust and something industrial. The light hums overhead. Sunghoon is right there. Too close. Breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like he ran here instead of walking. His eyes are dark, not angry, not gentle, just overwhelmed, like he’s been holding himself together with sheer force of will.

“What is your problem?” he snaps. The words are sharp, but his hands are shaking. You laugh, short and breathless. “Wow. Straight to that?” “You won’t answer me,” he says, frustration bleeding through now. “You won’t even look at me.” “Good observation,” you reply lightly. “You’re learning.” He swears under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “You can’t just ignore me like this.”

“Watch me.” That’s when something in him breaks. He steps forward, crowding you back against the shelves. The bottles rattle softly behind you. His hands come up automatically, bracketing your waist, not rough, not gentle, just desperate, like he needs to anchor himself to something solid. And then he kisses you. It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s frustration and longing and restraint snapping under pressure. His mouth is warm and insistent, like he’s trying to say everything he never did without using words. Like he’s been waiting for permission he finally decided to take.

You gasp against his lips, fingers curling into the fabric of his practice jacket. “Sunghoon—” He kisses you again. Shorter. Slower. Like he realizes what he’s doing even as he does it. “You don’t get to do that,” you whisper, voice unsteady. Another kiss, lighter now. Almost reverent. “You don’t get to act like nothing happened.”

A kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your jaw. Everywhere except where you’re trying to speak, like he’s avoiding the argument and the truth all at once. “I hate you,” you breathe. He stills. Forehead resting against yours, eyes closed, his hands remain at your waist, thumbs moving without thinking. When he speaks, his voice is wrecked.

“No,” he says quietly. “You don’t.” Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. You’re sure he feels it. “This is a game,” you say, forcing the words out. “For both of us.” His breath stutters. “I know,” he admits. “And I’m losing.” The door rattles suddenly, someone passing by too close, and reality slams back into place like cold water. Sunghoon pulls away just enough to really look at you. To take you in like this, flushed, breathing hard, eyes bright with something neither of you wants to name. His expression is wrecked. Guilty. Wanting. Terrified. “I meant what I almost said earlier,” he murmurs. “I—”

Footsteps stop outside. Someone clears their throat. Sunghoon lets out a shaky, bitter breath. “Of course.” You don’t let him finish. You slip past him before he can reach for you again, fingers brushing the door handle. Before you leave, you glance back, just once. He’s standing there, surrounded by mops and cleaning supplies and the consequences of his own hesitation. “Figure out what you want,” you say softly. “Then come find me.” And then you’re gone. The door clicks shut.

Sunghoon stays there long after the hallway noise fades back in, staring at the spot where you stood, chest aching with the realization settling deep and unwelcome in his bones, this was never just a point on a scoreboard. The door clicks shut behind you. That’s all it takes. Sunghoon exhales a laugh that sounds wrong even to his own ears, too sharp, too breathless and then he’s sliding down the wood like his bones forgot how to hold him upright. His shoulder hits first. Then his spine. Then he’s sitting on the floor with his knees pulled in, fist buried in his hair like if he grips hard enough he can rip the thought of you out by the root.

He laughs again. Bitter. Broken. Almost hysterical. “Unbelievable,” he mutters to no one, staring at the opposite wall like it personally betrayed him. He told you. He actually told you.

Seven days, a week, of pretending this was a game. Four days of rules and schedules and sarcasm and controlled distance, and then tonight, one stupid crack in his armor, one look at you standing there too close, and suddenly his mouth was spilling confessions like they’d been waiting for permission. The way he watches you when you’re not looking. The way your laugh sticks to him hours after it fades. The way this fake thing stopped feeling fake sometime around Day Two. You hadn’t said anything. That’s the part that hurts most.

He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, breathing through it, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Somewhere down the hall, he hears voices, yours, shaky and distant, and Manon’s sharp disbelief. “What the fuck was that?” she asks. Sunghoon doesn’t hear your answer.

He doesn’t need to. Because he knows the sound of you when you’re unraveling. He’s memorized it without meaning to. The way your steps drag. The way your voice goes thin, like you’re holding something fragile together with bare hands.

His head tips back against the door. “Idiot,” he whispers. To himself. Always to himself.

You don’t remember getting to your room. You remember your hand on the wall, steadying yourself.  You remember Manon saying your name twice before giving up. You remember the click of your door, softer than it should’ve been. Now you’re on your bed. Still in your clothes. Still breathing like you ran a mile. The bottle on your nightstand is tipped just slightly on its side, amber catching the light, half-drunk and forgotten until now. You don’t remember opening it, but the burn in your throat says you did. Your eyes sting. Not crying. Not yet. Just… glassy. Red-rimmed. Empty in that too-full way.

You stare at the ceiling, replaying his voice over and over like your brain doesn’t know how to stop. I don’t know when it stopped being a joke. I don’t know why it’s you. I tried not to feel this. Your fingers curl into the sheets. You hadn’t been ready for honesty. Not his. Not like that. Outside your door, the hallway is quiet again. Somewhere else in the apartment, Sunghoon is probably still sitting on the floor, head in his hands, laughing at himself for breaking the rules first. And here you are, wide awake, half-drunk, heart pounding too loud for a fake relationship,  thinking about the way his voice shook when he said your name.

Thinking about how real it sounded. Thinking about how neither of you knows how to undo it now. You don’t let yourself think. If you do, you’ll talk yourself out of it, convince yourself it’s the alcohol, the exhaustion, the humiliation of being seen too clearly. So you don’t think. You move.

Coat over pajama shorts. No bra. Flipflops slapped on with shaking hands. Phone left behind. Dignity already gone, so why bother packing it. The hallway is too bright. The elevator takes too long. Every step toward Sunghoon’s dorm feels like treason against the version of you who promised to keep this fake. By the time you get there, your heart is trying to claw its way out of your throat. You knock.

Sharp. Loud. Once. Inside, Sunghoon is standing in the middle of his room with a half-folded hoodie in his hands. The bed is a mess of clean laundry. His eyes burn. He swiped at them not even a second ago, annoyed at himself for being like this, for letting it get to him. The knock makes him flinch.

“Jake,” he calls, voice hoarse, not even bothering to hide the irritation, “please fuck off, I already told you—” He opens the door. And freezes. You’re standing there in pajama shorts and flipflops like you forgot how to be a sensible human being. Hair messy. Coat too big. Eyes still red, still glossy, still ruined in a way that makes something inside his chest snap.

“…oh,” he breathes. That’s all he gets out. Because you grab him by the collar of his t-shirt and yank him forward, hard, like you’re afraid if you hesitate for even half a second you’ll lose your nerve. Your mouth crashes into his. It’s not gentle. It’s not clean. It’s heat and frustration and four days of restraint going up in flames. Your lips are chapped, tasting faintly of alcohol, and Sunghoon makes a sound low in his throat that surprises both of you. For a split second, his hands hover uselessly at his sides. Shock. Disbelief. Fear.

Then instinct takes over. He grabs you back, one hand fisting in your coat, the other cradling your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t anchor you. He kisses you like he’s been starving, like this is something he’s rehearsed in his head and never thought he’d get. You gasp against his mouth, breath hitching, forehead knocking against his as you pull back just enough to breathe. “I couldn’t—” you start, then stop, shaking. “I couldn’t sit there anymore.”

Sunghoon’s forehead drops to yours. “You shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, like a confession. Like a plea. “I know.” Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into fabric, grounding yourself in the solid proof of him. You look wrecked. He knows it. He looks wrecked too, eyes red, lashes wet, lips swollen already from kissing you like that. “Say it again,” you whisper. “What you said earlier.”

His jaw tightens. “This isn’t fair,” he says. “I don’t care.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and trembling. Sunghoon exhales, shaky, defeated. “I meant it,” he says finally. “All of it. And if you walk out after this, I don’t know if I can pretend again.” You swallow. “Then don’t.” That’s all it takes. He kisses you again, but this time it’s slower, desperate in a different way, like he’s trying to memorize you. Like this is no longer about impulse, but choice.

Outside, the hallway stays quiet. Inside, the rules are officially dead. He doesn’t break the kiss when he moves. The door gets kicked shut behind you with his heel, hard enough to rattle the frame, and that sound is what finally makes this real. Not a mistake. Not a drunk spiral. A decision with weight.

Sunghoon’s hand stays firm at your jaw as he backs you up, guiding without asking, like he already knows where this is going. You stumble once, breath hitching, fingers clutching at his shirt, and he steadies you instantly. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice low, wrecked. The room blurs past you. Desk. Chair. The stupid folded laundry on the bed he never finished because he couldn’t stop thinking about you. And then, the bed. The same one. The realization hits you both at the same time. You feel it in the way he stills, the way his grip tightens just slightly, like he’s bracing for something heavier than desire. “This is—” you start.

“I know,” he cuts in, quietly. He doesn’t let you finish because if you do, you might both stop. He turns you, guiding you down, following you without hesitation, like muscle memory pulls him forward. The mattress dips beneath your weight, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. This bed has already seen you stripped bare once, seen the lie of just for the bet, just for the experiment. Sunghoon hovers over you, hands planted on either side of your head, breathing hard.

“This is where it happened,” you whisper, not accusing. Just stating the truth. His eyes search your face like he’s looking for permission, absolution, damnation, anything. “Yeah,” he says. “And that’s why you should tell me to stop.” You don’t.

Instead, you reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where your kiss left him swollen and red. “I came here,” you say softly, voice shaking but sure, “because I don’t want to pretend this didn’t matter.” Something breaks in his expression. He closes his eyes for half a second, forehead dropping to yours, breath shuddering out of him. “Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re going to ruin me.”

You smile sadly. “Too late.” He kisses you again, slower than before, deeper, like he’s sealing something sacred and doomed all at once. His hand slips into yours, fingers lacing tight, grounding, intimate in a way that feels worse than anything reckless. The room goes quiet around you. No audience. No rules. No experiment. Just the two of you, back where it started, this time knowing exactly what you’re risking. And neither of you pulls away. 

He doesn’t rush. He never does when it’s like this, when the pretense has cracked open and there’s nothing left to hide behind. His free hand finds the hem of your shirt again, knuckles brushing your stomach in a slow, deliberate sweep. He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, eyes dark and searching. “Can I?” he asks, voice low, wrecked.

You nod. Lift your arms. He peels the shirt off you like it’s something fragile, something he’s afraid to tear. Folds it once, habit, stupidly tender, before setting it on the nightstand. Then his hands are back on you, palms sliding up your bare sides, thumbs tracing the underside of your ribs like he’s counting every breath. Your bra follows next. He reaches behind you, fingers deft but careful, unhooks it without looking away from your face. The straps slide down your arms. He catches the lace before it falls, sets it aside with the same quiet reverence.

When you’re bare from the waist up, he exhales like the sight of you hurts him. “God,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at you.” He leans in, kisses the center of your chest, soft, open-mouthed, then trails lower. Slow kisses across the swell of one breast, then the other. Tongue flicking once over a nipple, gentle, testing, until it pebbles under his mouth. You arch, small, involuntary, and he groans against your skin. “Fuck, baby,” he breathes. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

He kisses his way back up, jaw, cheek, temple, then finds your mouth again. Deeper this time. Tongues sliding lazy and hot, like he’s trying to taste every corner of you. His hands move to your jeans. Button. Zipper. He hooks his fingers into the waistband, pauses. “Still with me?” he murmurs against your lips. “Always,” you whisper back. He pulls them down, jeans, underwear together, slow enough that you feel every inch of fabric dragging over your thighs, your calves. He kneels to tug them off your ankles, presses a kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other. Worshipful. Unhurried.

When he rises again, he’s still fully dressed, sweatshirt, sweats, everything, but the outline of him is unmistakable. Hard. Straining. You reach for the hem of his sweatshirt. He lets you pull it off. The sight of him shirtless still steals your breath, broad shoulders, carved collarbones, the tight, ridged planes of his abs flexing with every breath. You drag your nails lightly down the center of his stomach, watching the muscles jump under your touch. “Jesus,” you breathe.

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s strained. “Keep looking at me like that and this ends before it starts.” You smile, small, wicked, and pull him down on top of you. He settles between your thighs, weight braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. Kisses you again, slow, filthy, tongues curling, while one hand skates down your body. Over your breast, your waist, the soft curve of your hip. Then lower.

He cups you, palm warm, possessive, then slides two fingers through your folds. Finds you already slick, swollen, aching. “Fuck,” he swears softly. “You’re soaked.” “For you,” you gasp when he circles your clit once, light, teasing. He groans. Kisses you harder. Slips one finger inside, slow, careful, then another. Crooks them just right, pressing against that spot that makes your hips jerk. “Like that?” he murmurs against your mouth.

You nod, frantic, nails digging into his shoulders. He works you open like that, slow, steady pumps, thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit. Kissing you the whole time, lips, jaw, throat, like he can’t bear to stop tasting you. “You feel so good,” he whispers. “So fucking tight around my fingers. Can’t wait to feel you on my cock.” You whimper, high, desperate. He kisses the sound away.

When your thighs start trembling, when your breath hitches every time he curls his fingers, he pulls them out, slow, brings them to his mouth and licks them clean while holding your gaze. The sight of it, his tongue dragging over his own fingers, tasting you, makes heat flood your core all over again. He reaches between you, shoves his sweats down just enough. His cock springs free, heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance. Pauses.

“Look at me,” he says, voice rough, pleading. You do. He pushes in, slow. Inch by torturous inch. You both exhale at the same time when he bottoms out, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. “Fuck,” he chokes out. “You’re—shit, you’re perfect.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays buried deep, letting you adjust, letting you feel every thick inch of him stretching you open. Then, slowly, he rolls his hips. Long, languid thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. He swears under his breath, low, broken, every time you clench around him. “God, baby,” he groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He kisses you through it, messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every gasp and moan you make. One hand finds yours again, fingers lacing tight, while the other slides up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek. He fucks you like he’s making love. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. Every thrust deliberate, measured, like he’s trying to imprint himself into every part of you. You feel the coil tightening again, hot, bright, overwhelming.

“Sunghoon—” Your voice cracks. “I know,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Come for me, pretty girl. Let me feel it.” He angles his hips just right, grinding against your clit with every roll, and you shatter.

The orgasm rolls through you slow and shattering, waves of pleasure that make your toes curl, your back arch, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He fucks you through it, slow, steady, drawing it out until you’re trembling, oversensitive, clinging to him. Only then does he let himself go. A few more deep thrusts, harder now, chasing, until he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a low, guttural groan. Pulsing inside you, hot and endless, face pressed to the side of your neck. He doesn’t pull out.

Just collapses over you, careful not to crush, arms wrapping around your back, holding you close. You stay like that, sweaty, tangled, breathing hard. He presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “Stay,” he whispers against your skin. “Just… stay.”

You thread your fingers through his damp hair. Nod. “I’m not going anywhere.” He exhales, shaky, relieved. And for the first time since the hallway collision, since the bet he still hasn’t told you about, he lets himself believe, maybe, just maybe, this could be real. Even if the truth is still waiting to burn everything down. The room feels different once it’s over.

Not quiet, just… rearranged. Like the air itself has shifted and hasn’t decided what it wants to be yet. Sunghoon is the first to move. He sits up, dragging a hand down his face, breath evening out, the familiar armor already clicking back into place piece by piece. When he speaks, his voice is lighter. Easier. Almost practiced. “We should probably,” he says, exhaling a short laugh, “get back on track.”

You don’t respond right away. He glances at you, catching the way you’re staring at the ceiling instead of him, lashes clumped, mouth parted like you’re still somewhere else. “I mean,” he adds, softer but still careful, “we agreed. Going soft now won’t exactly help. Someone’s gotta finish the article, right?”

There it is. The word article lands between you like something dropped and sharp. You turn your head slowly to look at him. He’s already halfway back to being Sunghoon. The confident one. The one who knows how to compartmentalize. Who knows how to survive by pretending things don’t touch him as deeply as they do. Your chest tightens. “So,” you say quietly, “that’s what this is now?”

He frowns, just slightly. “That’s not what I—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in, sitting up. The sheet slides down your shoulder, but you don’t bother pulling it back. “No, seriously. You’re right.” That seems to throw him off more than anger would’ve. You swing your legs off the bed and stand, ignoring the way your knees feel weak, the way your body still hums with something unresolved. You cross the room and start gathering your clothes, slowly, deliberately, like each piece is another choice being made.

Sunghoon watches you, confusion creeping in. “Hey. What are you doing?” You don’t look at him as you tug on your shirt. “Going back to normal,” you say. “Isn’t that what you want?” “That’s not—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “You’re twisting this.”

You finally face him then, fingers curling around your jacket. “Am I?” you ask, not loud, not dramatic. Just honest. “Because five minutes ago you were telling me things you don’t say to anyone. You kissed me like you were scared I’d disappear. And now you’re talking about optics.”

Silence. He opens his mouth. Closes it. You laugh, but it’s brittle. “Wow. That answers it.” You pull on your coat, shove your feet into your shoes without bothering to sit. Your hands shake, and you hate that he can see it. “I came here because I thought—” You stop yourself, swallowing. “Doesn’t matter.” He stands abruptly. “You’re overreacting.”

That’s the wrong thing to say. You straighten, something cold settling into place. Familiar. Protective. “Right,” you nod. “My mistake.” You walk past him toward the door. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. “Don’t do this,” he says quietly.

You pull your hand back. “Fine,” you say, voice flat. “If that’s what you want.” The door opens. Before you leave, you glance over your shoulder one last time. He’s standing in the middle of the room, bare feet on the floor, expression torn between frustration and something dangerously close to panic.

“You don’t get to have it both ways,” you tell him. “Not with me.” Then you’re gone. The door shuts behind you with a soft, final click. And Sunghoon stands there, staring at the empty space you left behind, realizing, too late, that pretending this was just part of the game might be the one move he can’t recover from.

Because emotional whiplash is still a strategy.

You go home. You shower. You don’t cry, that would imply softness. Instead, you change. Something short. Something low-cut. Something that says I’m fine in a way that’s obviously a lie. Lip gloss instead of balm. Jewelry you don’t need. You look at yourself in the mirror and practice the expression until it sticks: bored. Untouchable. Dangerous.

By the time you step onto campus, you’re already back in character. Sunghoon sees you before you see him. You know because his stride falters. Because his eyes drop, then snap back up like he’s been burned. You give him nothing, no pause, no glance, not even the satisfaction of pretending you didn’t notice.

You walk past him like he’s furniture. By mid-morning, you’re unbearable on purpose. You interrupt him in class just to correct something trivial. You lean back in your chair when he talks, arms crossed, mouth tilted like you’re amused by how seriously he takes himself. You laugh a second too late at things Jay says, make eye contact with Jake for half a beat longer than necessary.

Sunoo clocks it immediately. You’re walking to class together when he bumps your shoulder lightly. “Wow,” he says, grinning. “Who hurt you?” You smile sweetly. “No one.” He snorts. “Liar. You’re radioactive.” Good. Lunch rolls around. You sit alone. You don’t invite anyone. You don’t look at Sunghoon even when you feel him hovering three tables away, tense, watching. At exactly 12:43 p.m., you publish. No hesitation. No edits. Just a quiet click and a rush that feels like stepping off a ledge.

PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

DAY 8: MOOD SWINGS

If intimacy makes him comfortable, unpredictability will keep him awake. Today’s lesson is simple: Pull back. Dress sharper. Smile colder. Be everything he can’t categorize. Men love to believe they understand the women they’re involved with. Disrupt that narrative. Remind him that access is temporary, affection is conditional, and attention is a privilege, not a promise. If he asks what changed? Say nothing. If he looks unsettled? Perfect. Distance isn’t disinterest. It’s control.

— Yours truly, xoxo

You don’t add a score. You don’t need to. He already knows who’s winning. Across the cafeteria, Sunghoon reads it on his phone. You see the exact moment his jaw tightens. The way his thumb stills. The way something dark and wounded flickers across his face before he schools it back into indifference. He looks up.

You’re already standing. You grab your bag, toss your hair over your shoulder, and walk out like you don’t feel the way your heart is trying to claw out of your chest. Behind you, the game keeps pretending it’s still a game. And you keep pretending that doesn’t hurt. By afternoon, it’s not subtle anymore. You don’t just ignore him, you provoke. You brush past his shoulder in the hallway like he’s in your way. You answer his questions in class with lazy, amused indifference. When his friends talk, you laugh at the wrong moments. You look incredible doing it.

Jake notices first. “Damn,” he says, not quietly. “She’s on demon time today.” Riki snickers. “Hoon, what did you do?” Sunghoon doesn’t laugh. He hasn’t all day. By the time practice ends, his patience is shredded. His friends are still joking about it, about you, about the article, about how whipped he looks, and something in him finally snaps.

You’re at your locker when a shadow falls over you. “Hey,” he says, low. “Move.” You don’t. You just glance at him lazily. “Didn’t know you were waiting for your turn.” That’s when he does it. He steps in close, too close, one arm braced against the lockers by your head. The metal rattles softly. The hallway noise fades, replaced by the sound of your own breathing.

“You think this is funny,” he murmurs near your ear. His voice is calm. Too calm. “You’ve been poking me all day like you want to see how far I’ll go.” Your smile sharpens. “Am I wrong?” “You think you’re funny,” he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges. “Parading around like you didn’t leave claw marks on my back last night.”

You arch a brow. “Public image, remember?” His laugh is quiet. Not amused. He leans in further, lips almost brushing your ear now. “You’re gonna make me forget myself,” he says, softer still, threaded with something dangerous. “Keep acting like this and I swear I’ll lose my grip completely.”

There’s an ache, fast, traitorous, pooling heat low in your stomach. You press in anyway, just enough that he feels it. His jaw tightens. He leans in even closer, breath warm, words meant only for you, dark, dangerous, deliberately obscene in implication if not detail. It’s not about what he says as much as how he says it: slow, controlled, like he’s painting the picture just to watch it wreck you.

“You’re gonna make me drag you behind the arts building right now,” he says, quieter still, almost a growl. “Pin you against the wall. Shove that little top up and suck those pretty nipples until you’re begging. Then fuck you stupid against the bricks while everyone walks by.” 

Your pulse betrays you anyway. Heat curls low in your stomach. Your thighs press together under the skirt despite yourself, already feeling the slick forming there. You don’t back down. You step closer.

“So scary,” you whisper, sweet as poison, stepping even closer so your chest almost brushes his. “Because your boys are right there. And you’re too chicken to actually do it in daylight.” For half a second, you think he might grab you. His hand twitches, then curls into a fist. “Keep pushing me,” he says, eyes locked on yours, voice rough now. “See what happens the next time we’re alone.”

You hold his gaze. Smile wider. “Looking forward to it.” You duck out from under his arm and walk away like your knees aren’t shaking. Behind you, his friends are still laughing. And Sunghoon is standing there realizing, you didn’t just get under his skin.

You lit a match. You don’t follow him. That’s the mistake. You turn the corner, heart still buzzing from the lockers, pulse loud in your ears, telling yourself you won that exchange, told yourself you meant every sharp word. You’re almost gone when voices drift down the hall. Familiar ones. Laughter first. Loud. A little too loud. Then Sunghoon. He’s angry. You can hear it immediately, the edge in his voice, the way it’s pitched lower than usual, clipped and reckless.

“God, she’s impossible,” he snaps. You stop. Your body freezes before your brain catches up. “What’d she do now?” someone asks, Jake, maybe. It doesn’t matter. Sunghoon exhales hard. “Plays me in front of everyone. Acts like I’m just some headline she hasn’t finished exploiting yet.”

A pause. Someone whistles. “That bad?” “She knows exactly what she’s doing,” he says. “Every look, every outfit, it’s all calculated. It’s literally a bet to her.” The word hits wrong. Your stomach drops. “A bet?” another voice repeats. “Yeah,” Sunghoon scoffs. “Whole thing started as an experiment. How fast she could get me invested. How much she could mess with my head.”

You feel it then, your shoulders locking, breath stuttering like your lungs forgot the rhythm. “That’s brutal,” someone mutters.

“Don’t act surprised,” Sunghoon says, bitter. “She never cared. I’m just content.” There’s more. You know there’s more. Context. Something you’re missing. But your ears start ringing. “She’s not even subtle about it anymore,” he continues, voice sharp with humiliation. “Wakes up, chooses violence, writes another article about how men are stupid for falling for it. Guess I’m today’s cautionary tale.” A laugh, uneasy. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Sunghoon says quickly. Too quickly. “I’m fine. I knew what this was.” That’s the line that ruins you. Because you know he’s lying. Your vision blurs at the edges. You swallow hard, but it doesn’t help. Your chest tightens like someone cinched a wire around it. You step back before anyone can see you. Before he can turn around. Before your face gives you away. You walk. Not fast. Not slow. Mechanical. Like if you stop moving, you’ll fall apart in the hallway. It’s a bet to her. She never cared. I knew what this was.

Your room feels too quiet when you finally get there. You shut the door. Lock it. Slide down against it until you’re sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, breath uneven and embarrassing. You stare at nothing. Maybe you didn’t hear everything. Maybe you weren’t supposed to. But the damage is done anyway.

You wipe at your eyes angrily, like that’ll erase it. Like you’re not shaking. Fine. If that’s how he wants to frame it, if that’s the story he’s telling now, you wipe your face, stand up, and open your laptop. The cursor blinks in the draft like it’s waiting. You straighten your shoulders. You harden. You double down. If this is just a game to him now, then you’ll make sure you win it.

And this time, you won’t hesitate. The worst tactic yet. You expect him to walk away. That’s the whole point of today, burn it down so thoroughly that there’s nothing left to stand on. No tension. No longing. No almosts. Just scorched earth and an exit wound.

So you make it ugly. You don’t avoid him this time, you perform. You laugh too loud in class. Sit too close to someone else. Let your hand linger on a forearm that isn’t his. You publish the article mid-morning, sharp and venomous and dripping with implication, the kind that turns private moments into public speculation without naming names. You feel it working immediately.

The looks. The whispers. The way people glance between you and him like they’re watching a slow-motion collision. By afternoon, your phone is buzzing nonstop. You ignore all of it. You don’t ignore him. Because he doesn’t leave. He finds you outside the library just before sunset, when the sky is bruised purple and gold and everything feels like it’s holding its breath.

“Are you done yet?” he asks. No greeting. No restraint. You turn slowly. Smile like a blade. “With what?” “This,” he says, gesturing between you and the world. “Whatever the hell this is.” “Oh,” you say lightly. “You mean the experiment?” His jaw tightens. “Don’t.” “You hate when I call it that in public, right?” you press. “Ruins the illusion?”

“That’s not what this is,” he snaps. You laugh, short, sharp. “Funny. Because it’s exactly what you called it.” Silence. It stretches. Tightens. “What are you talking about?” he asks, but there’s something wrong in his voice already. Something wary. You step closer. Close enough that the air between you hums.

“I heard you,” you say quietly. “The other day. With your friends.” His face drains of color. “You were talking,” you continue, calm and deadly. “About how this was a bet. A game. Content. How I never cared. How you ‘knew what this was.’”

“That’s not—” He stops himself, drags a hand through his hair. “You don’t know the full—” “I don’t need the full truth,” you cut in. “I heard enough.” He exhales, sharp and frustrated. “I was angry.” “So was I,” you fire back. “Funny how only one of us gets forgiven for that.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” “But you said it like that,” you say. “And that’s what matters.” People are staring now. You don’t care. “You think I didn’t know?” you go on, voice shaking despite yourself. “You think I didn’t clock what this was from the start?”

His brow furrows. “Then why—” “Because I thought,” you interrupt, heat flooding your chest, “that maybe if I played along long enough, you’d stop treating me like a fucking case study.” That lands. Hard. “You don’t get to act betrayed,” he says, voice rising now. “You started this. You wrote the rules.”

“And you volunteered,” you shoot back. “You leaned in. You let me believe—” “What?” he snaps. “That I was falling for you?” “Yes,” you shout, finally breaking. “That you were choosing me anyway.” The word choosing hangs there, raw and dangerous. For a second, he looks stunned. Then angry.

“You think this hasn’t been destroying me?” he demands. “You think I don’t wake up every day wondering which version of you I’m getting, the girl who laughs with me in a grocery store or the one who turns my life into a headline?”

“Then why didn’t you walk away?” you cry. “Why are you still here?” Because that’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the one neither of you can outrun. “I don’t know,” he admits, voice rough. “But I tried.” “You kissed someone else,” you say bitterly. “You called me a bet.”

“I fucked up,” he says. “I know that.” “You don’t get to ‘fuck up’ when you’re playing with someone’s heart,” you spit. “Neither do you,” he throws back. “You’re not innocent here.” “I never said I was,” you whisper.

Your chest hurts now. Your throat burns. You’re shaking, hands clenched at your sides like if you let go you’ll collapse. “I knew,” you say suddenly. The words rip out of you before you can stop them. “I knew the whole time.” He freezes. “I knew I was a game to you,” you continue, voice breaking despite your efforts. “I just thought,  if I won, maybe it would stop being one.”

The silence after that is deafening. His anger falters. Cracks. “You… thought I was playing you?” he asks slowly. “You said it yourself,” you snap. “To your friends.”

He stares at you like the ground just shifted. “That wasn’t the truth,” he says hoarsely. “Then what was it?” you challenge. “Because from where I’m standing, you only ever defended yourself. Never me.” He opens his mouth. Closes it. You laugh, hollow. “There it is.” You turn to leave. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Desperate. “Don’t,” he says. “You don’t get to end this like that.”

“Oh, but I do,” you reply, yanking free. “That’s the only control I have left.” “You’re wrong,” he says, voice breaking now too. “I didn’t stay because it was a bet.” “Then why?” you demand, tears finally spilling. “Why are you still here?” He steps closer, voice shaking. “Because I couldn’t stop wanting you.”

The confession hits like a punch. Your breath stutters. “That doesn’t erase what you said,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “But walking away won’t either.” You stare at each other, wrecked, exposed, furious, aching. This is the moment everything could end. Or explode. And for the first time since Day One, neither of you knows which outcome would hurt less. Truth, vulnerability, choice. You don’t sleep. Not really. You lie on your bed staring at the ceiling, the dark slowly paling at the edges, your thoughts looping back to the same moments like bruises you keep pressing to see if they still hurt. The grocery store aisle. The lockers. His voice, angry, breaking, honest in all the wrong moments. The way he didn’t walk away when you gave him every reason to.

Your laptop sits closed on the desk. It’s been closed for hours. The draft is already written. It’s been written for days, actually, hovering, unfinished, changing every time you reread it. Every time you remember something that doesn’t fit the narrative you built so carefully at the beginning. At 7:42 a.m., you sit up.

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet hit the floor. Cold. Grounding. This is it. You open the laptop. The title blinks at you, familiar and foreign all at once.

How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days: Final Results!

Your fingers hover over the keys. You don’t rewrite the whole thing. You just… stop lying.

PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment

DAY 10: FINAL RESULTS

This experiment was supposed to be simple. Create emotional instability. Trigger attachment. Force retreat. The hypothesis was that men fear commitment when confronted with intensity, that given enough vulnerability, they will choose distance over discomfort. I believed that. I built a framework around it. Rules. Days. Tactics. A scoreboard. I told myself control was the same thing as clarity.

It isn’t. Somewhere between provocation and pretending, something went wrong. Or maybe something went right.

Because instead of leaving when it got complicated, he stayed. He argued. He got angry. He made mistakes. So did I. And somewhere along the way, the experiment stopped being an experiment and started being… real. I can’t tell you when exactly that happened. Only that by the time I noticed, it was already too late to undo. So here are the results, honestly reported: The experiment failed. Or maybe I did.

Because it turns out you can’t quantify chemistry. You can’t score genuine care. And you definitely can’t “win” when feelings get involved, only decide whether you’re brave enough to keep choosing the same person after the rules fall apart.

This was never about losing a guy. It was about discovering what happens when you stop protecting yourself with irony and start telling the truth.

And the truth is, I don’t know how this ends. But for the first time in ten days, I’m not trying to control it.

— Yours truly, xoxo

You stare at the screen after you post it. No edits. No qualifiers. No scorecard. Your chest feels raw. Exposed. Lighter in a way that scares you. Your phone buzzes immediately. Notifications stacking. Messages you don’t open. Opinions you don’t read.

You close the laptop. Outside, the campus is waking up. Somewhere out there, he’s going to see it. Read it. Realize there’s no punchline waiting at the end. This time, there’s no tactic left. Only choice. And for once, you’re willing to let him make his. It happens at night. Of course it does.

He texts you once, Can we talk? and for the first time in ten days, there’s no edge to it. No anger. No bait. Just exhaustion. You meet him outside his dorm. No crowd. No witnesses. The air is cool, sharp enough to keep you awake. He doesn’t waste time. “There was a bet,” Sunghoon says. Just like that. No easing into it. No defense mechanism. His voice is flat, stripped bare. Your stomach still drops anyway. 

“How much?” you ask quietly. He swallows. “That I wouldn’t last the ten days without falling for you. That I’d either walk away, or ruin myself trying not to.” You laugh once, hollow. “And?” “And I lost,” he says. “Almost immediately.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and aching.

“So you admit it,” you say. “It started as a game.” “Yes.” That word lands harder than any insult he ever threw. You nod slowly. Your hands are steady now. That scares you more than shaking would. “I figured,” you say. “I just didn’t know when you’d be brave enough to say it out loud.” His head snaps up. “You knew?” “I suspected,” you reply. “Then I overheard enough to stop giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

He winces. “I said things I didn’t mean.” “I know,” you say. And that’s the worst part, you do know. “But I also know when I stopped pretending.” His breath catches. “When?” “Days ago,” you admit. “Before the grocery store. Before the almost-confession. Before the night I couldn’t write without thinking about you.” He looks at you like that confession hurts worse than his own.

“You should’ve walked away,” he whispers. “So should you.” Neither of you did. The fight doesn’t explode this time. It collapses. You argue anyway, quietly, viciously, with truths instead of accusations. You talk about control. About fear. About how you both hid behind games because honesty felt like free-falling. At some point, you both go silent. There’s nothing left to say that wouldn’t break something. He doesn’t reach for you. You don’t ask him to stay. Eventually, you turn and walk away. And this time, he lets you.

You don’t cry when you get home. You don’t drink. You open your laptop. The article is still live. The comments are still coming. People still think this was entertainment. You stare at the title for a long time. Then you do the thing no one expects. You open a new draft. And you tell the truth again, louder this time.

PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days

FINAL ADDENDUM

How I Lost the Bet, and Fell Anyway

I said the experiment failed. That wasn’t the full truth. The truth is, there was more than one bet being placed. One of them wasn’t mine. Yes, this started as an experiment. Yes, there were rules. Yes, someone underestimated what would happen when feelings got involved.

But somewhere along the way, the score stopped mattering. I stopped pretending first. I stopped writing for shock value. Stopped provoking for reaction. Stopped wanting to “win.” I stayed because I wanted him. He stayed because he couldn’t leave.

That doesn’t excuse the hurt. It doesn’t erase the mistakes. It doesn’t magically turn this into a fairytale. But it does mean this wasn’t fake. So here’s the final result, no irony, no performance:

I lost the bet. And I fell anyway. Whether that makes me foolish or brave… I’ll let you decide.

— xoxo

You publish it. Then, because this part is just for you, you delete the entire series. Every tactic. Every scorecard. Every headline that tried to make love into something measurable. The site goes quiet. Your phone buzzes once. Not notifications, none that matter anyway. Just him.

Sunghoon: I read it.

You don’t reply right away. You close the laptop. You breathe. For the first time, there is no experiment left to hide behind. Only two people. Two choices. And whatever comes next, honestly. He doesn’t even knock.

Your phone buzzes once, Where are you, and then there’s pounding on your door so frantic it rattles the frame. You barely have time to stand before it swings open. Sunghoon looks wrecked. Hair a mess. Eyes red. Breathing hard like he ran the whole way. He takes one look at you and whatever he was holding together completely gives out. He drops. Actually drops, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud, hands bracing on your carpet like he can’t stay upright anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, voice breaking on the first word. “I’m so fucking sorry.” Your chest tightens painfully.

“Sunghoon—”

“No,” he cuts in, shaking his head hard. “Let me say it. Please.” He looks up at you, eyes glassy, jaw trembling in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I turned you into something small when you were never that,” he says. “I talked about you like you were disposable because I was embarrassed that I wasn’t.”

You don’t move. You can’t.

“I started it as a bet,” he continues. “I did. I won’t lie about that ever again. But I swear to you, by the time I realized I was losing, I was already in too deep to know how to stop without getting hurt.”

Tears spill over now, uncontained. “And instead of choosing you out loud, I hid behind my pride. I let you think you were just… entertainment.” Your throat burns. “I hated myself for it,” he whispers. “Every day.” Silence fills the room, thick and shaking. Finally, you sink down in front of him too. Not above him. With him.

“I’m sorry too,” you say quietly. His head snaps up.

“I was so obsessed with control,” you admit, voice trembling. “With winning. With proving I could walk away first. I didn’t realize how cruel that made me.”

You swallow hard. “I used irony like armor. I kept hurting you just to feel like I still had the upper hand.” His face crumples. “I stopped pretending days ago,” you confess. “But I didn’t know how to stop performing. I didn’t know how to just… be honest without feeling like I was losing myself.”

You both sit there, two people kneeling on the floor, stripped of every strategy you ever used to survive. “I don’t want to win anymore,” you whisper. “I don’t either,” he says instantly. “I just want… a chance to do this without games. Without bets. Without spectators.”

You exhale shakily. “I don’t know how this ends.”

He nods. “Me neither.” A beat. “But I know I don’t want to walk away,” he says. “Not now. Not like this.” You reach out then, slow, careful, and cup his face. He leans into your touch like it’s instinct, like he’s been waiting for permission. “Then we choose,” you say softly. “Not because it’s safe. Not because it’s clean.”

“Because it’s real,” he finishes. You rest your forehead against his. No headlines. No scoreboards. No experiments left to hide behind. Just two people, finally, terrifyingly honest, deciding to stay. And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like losing at all.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe it’s you leaning in. Maybe it’s him rising from his knees just enough that your breaths collide. It’s clumsy at first, foreheads knocking, noses brushing, like neither of you remembers how to do this without defenses in the way. Then his hands find your waist. Not gripping. Not claiming. Just there, thumbs warm through the fabric, like he needs the contact to stay upright.

“Can I—” he starts. You don’t let him finish. You kiss him. It’s not sharp or demanding. It’s slow, almost reverent, like you’re relearning his mouth now that there’s no audience, no script. His breath stutters against your lips, a sound halfway between relief and disbelief. He kisses back like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t.

One hand slides up your back, hesitant at first, then more certain when you melt into him. He sighs into your mouth, a broken sound, like weeks of tension finally giving way. “I’m here,” you murmur against his lips. That’s all it takes. His composure fractures. The kiss deepens, not frantic, not rough, but heavy with everything unsaid. His thumb brushes your jaw, your cheek, like he’s memorizing you. Like he’s afraid this is the last time he’s allowed to touch you.

You pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, both of you shaking a little. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers. You don’t. You kiss him again, longer this time, pouring every apology, every confession, every stay into the way your mouth moves against his. This isn’t about winning. It’s about choosing. And when his arms finally wrap fully around you, pulling you close like he’s done running, you let yourself believe him. He doesn’t speak for a long minute.

Just holds you, face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like you’re oxygen after drowning. Then he pulls back, only far enough to look at you. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says again, quieter this time. Raw. “I never should’ve, God, the bet was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I didn’t think it would… become this. Become you.” You cup his face, thumbs stroking the sharp line of his cheekbones.

“I know,” you whisper. “I read between the lines a long time ago. But I stayed anyway.” His eyes flutter shut like the words physically hurt. Then he kisses you again, soft, grateful, and starts walking you backward toward the bed. Clothes come off slowly. No rush. Your shirt first—lifted over your head, his lips following the path of exposed skin. Your bra, unhooked with trembling fingers, set aside like something precious. Jeans next, yours, then his, until you’re both bare, skin to skin, heat bleeding between you.

He lays you down gently. Covers you with his body like a shield. Kisses trail from your mouth to your throat, down the center of your chest. He pauses at your breasts, takes one nipple into his mouth, slow swirl of tongue, gentle suction, while his hand cups the other, thumb rolling the peak until you arch beneath him.

“Sunghoon,” you breathe. He hums against your skin, vibration straight to your core. Then he moves lower. Kisses your stomach, soft, open-mouthed, tracing the faint line where your abs tense. Lower still. He settles between your thighs, shoulders spreading you open. Looks up at you, eyes dark, reverent. “Gonna take my time with you,” he murmurs. “Wanna taste every second of this.”

He doesn’t dive in. He starts slow, long, flat licks up your slit, savoring. Tongue circling your clit without direct pressure, teasing until your hips lift, seeking more. When you whimper, he finally gives it, lips closing around the swollen bud, sucking gently while two fingers slide inside you, curling just right. You moan, loud, broken, hands fisting the sheets.

He groans against you when you clench. “Fuck, you’re so sweet,” he mutters between licks. “Could do this forever.” He eats you out like he’s worshipping, slow, thorough, unrelenting. Fingers pumping steady while his tongue works lazy circles, then flicks, then sucks again. Building you higher without ever rushing. When your thighs start trembling, when your breath turns ragged, he doesn’t let up.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your clit. “Let me feel it.” You do, hard, shuddering, back arching off the mattress, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He works you through it, soft licks, gentle fingers, until you’re boneless, panting. Only then does he crawl back up. Kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You reach between you, wrap your hand around him. He’s thick, hot, leaking against your palm. He hisses, hips jerking forward. “Need you,” he breathes. “Please.” You guide him to your entrance. He pushes in, slow. You both moan when he bottoms out, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling. He stills for a second, just feeling you around him, warm and tight and perfect.

Then he starts moving. Slow rolls of his hips, deep, measured thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him closer. He groans, low, wrecked, every time you clench. “Fuck, baby,” he pants against your mouth. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

His abs flex with every thrust, hard ridges pressing against your stomach, creating that delicious pressure, that faint bulge you can feel every time he bottoms out. You drag your nails down his back, light enough to leave faint red lines. He shudders. “You see that?” he murmurs, voice rough. “See how deep I am? How perfectly you take me?”

You look down, see the outline of him moving inside you, and whimper. He kisses you again, messy, desperate, while one hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. He rubs slow circles, matching the rhythm of his hips. You’re climbing again, fast.

“Sunghoon—”

“I know,” he breathes. “I’ve got you. Always got you.”

He kisses your neck, your jaw, your mouth, soft, endless. “You’re the best thing in my life,” he whispers against your skin. “The absolute best. Nothing comes close.” You smile through the haze, breath hitching.

“Better than football?” you tease, voice shaky. He groans, deep, guttural, thrusts slowing to a torturous grind. “Ten folds,” he says without hesitation. “Better than football. Better than my friends. Better than anything I’ve ever had.”

Another deep thrust. “Better than winning,” he continues, voice cracking. “Better than every trophy, every cheer, every fucking thing.” You clench around him, hard, at the words. He swears, low, broken.

“Fuck! Gonna come,” he warns. “Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna—” You nod, frantic, nails digging into his shoulders. “Inside,” you gasp. “Please.”

That undoes him. A few more deep, stuttering thrusts, then he buries himself to the hilt, groaning your name as he spills inside you, hot, endless pulses that make you feel claimed in the best way. The sensation tips you over. You throw your head back, moaning loud and shameless, as you cream around his cock, walls fluttering, milking him through every aftershock. He collapses over you, careful not to crush, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing ragged. You hold him there, arms wrapped tight, legs still locked around him, while the world slowly rights itself.

He presses soft kisses to your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your mouth. “I love you,” he whispers, quiet, like a confession he’s been holding too long. You thread your fingers through his hair. Smile against his temple. “I know,” you murmur. “I love you too.”

He exhales, shaky, relieved, like he’s finally home. And this time, when he kisses you again, it’s not goodbye. It’s beginning. He doesn’t pull out right away. He never does when it’s this raw, this real. Instead he stays buried deep, softening inside you, hips still pressed flush to yours like he’s afraid the space between you will swallow everything you just rebuilt. His chest rises and falls against yours, slow, heavy breaths that match the lazy thrum of your pulse where your bodies connect.

One arm snakes under your back, cradling you closer; the other hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek in slow, absent circles. He presses his lips to your temple, soft, lingering, then your forehead, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your eye where a stray tear escaped earlier without you noticing.

“You okay?” he murmurs, voice gravelly and wrecked in the best way. You hum, too blissed-out to form full sentences yet, and nod against his shoulder. He exhales a shaky laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not letting you go for at least the next hour.”

You smile into his neck. “Promise?”

“Swear on every championship ring I don’t even wear.”

He finally eases out,slow, careful, so you don’t feel empty all at once. You both hiss softly at the loss. He presses one last kiss to your mouth, gentle, apologetic, before rolling to the side and pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his chest, legs tangled, his heartbeat steady under your ear. For a minute it’s just quiet breathing and the faint hum of the city outside his dorm window. His fingers trace idle patterns on your bare back, lazy figure-eights, then little hearts he probably doesn’t even realize he’s drawing.

“Stay right here,” he says quietly. “Don’t move.”

You feel him shift, careful not to jostle you too much, then the mattress dips as he reaches for the nightstand. A moment later he’s back, warm washcloth in hand. He sits up just enough to kneel between your thighs again. His touch is impossibly tender as he cleans you, slow swipes, gentle pressure, checking your expression every few seconds like he’s terrified of hurting you even a little.

“Too much?” he asks when you flinch slightly at a sensitive spot. You shake your head. “Feels nice.” He smiles, small, relieved, and keeps going until you’re both clean. When he’s done he tosses the cloth toward the hamper (misses, doesn’t care), then grabs the soft throw blanket from the foot of the bed and drapes it over you both. He lies back down, pulls you half on top of him so your cheek rests over his heart. One hand cards through your hair, fingers gentle at your scalp, while the other settles low on your back, palm flat and warm, grounding you.

“You’re shaking a little,” he notices after a while. “Aftershocks,” you mumble. “And maybe… everything else.” He tightens his hold. Kisses the top of your head. “I’ve got you,” he says again, like it’s the only promise he’s ever sure he can keep. “All night. All tomorrow. However long you need.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. His eyes are soft in the low light, none of the sharp edges he used to wear like armor. Just him. Open. Yours. “Water?” he asks. You nod. He reaches again, this time for the half-full bottle on his desk. Unscrews the cap one-handed, brings it to your lips. You drink slowly; he watches like it’s the most important thing in the world. When you’re done he takes a sip too, then sets it aside.

“Better?”

“Mm-hmm.” He pulls you back down, tucking your head under his chin. His fingers resume their slow path through your hair.

“Tell me if you get cold,” he murmurs. “Or if you want food. Or if you just want me to shut up and hold you.” You laugh softly, muffled against his skin. “I want all of it,” you say. “But mostly this.” He exhales, long, contented. “Then you’ve got it.” Minutes stretch into comfortable silence. His heartbeat slows under your cheek. His breathing evens out, but his arms never loosen.

Eventually you feel him press another kiss to your hair. “I love you,” he whispers, like he’s still getting used to saying it out loud. “So fucking much.” You turn your face up, brush your lips against the underside of his jaw. “Love you more,” you reply. He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not possible.” You settle back against him, limbs heavy, heart full.

He keeps stroking your hair. Keeps you close. Keeps whispering little things against your temple when he thinks you’re drifting off, how beautiful you are, how sorry he still is, how he’s never letting go again. And when sleep finally pulls at you, it’s with his heartbeat in your ear, his arms around you like home, and the certain knowledge that this time, neither of you is running.

Time doesn’t erase the mess. It teaches you how to live with it, how to step around the sharp parts without flinching. The newsroom still smells like burnt coffee and ambition, like toner and old arguments that never quite leave the walls. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, constant, familiar. There’s a comfort in it now. Once, it used to feel like a battlefield.

Some things never change. You have. You’re perched on the edge of your desk, one heel hooked lazily around the chair leg, scrolling through a shared folder of freshman submissions. The cursor blinks at the top of a document titled, of course:

Situationships Are Modern Tragedies (And I Am Hamlet).

You close it without opening. Across from you, Keeho lets out a long, theatrical sigh, slumping dramatically against the filing cabinet like he’s about to pass away from emotional exhaustion. “I’m just saying,” he announces, waving his pen like a conductor’s baton, “if one more freshman submits a thinkpiece about how eye contact is a binding contract, I’m filing a formal complaint. With God.”

“You say that every semester,” you reply, not bothering to look up. “And yet, here you are. Still alive.”

“Barely,” he mutters. “I blame you.”

You hum noncommittally. Manon is sprawled across the couch, boots kicked up on the armrest, legs draped unapologetically over Sunoo’s lap as she flips through the latest issue. She pauses, squints, then clicks her tongue. “This one’s good,” she says, clearly annoyed by it. “Annoyingly good.”

You finally glance up, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “I’ll take that as praise.”

“It is,” she sighs. Then, sharply, “But I hate that you’re good at this and happy now. Pick a struggle.”

Keeho snaps his fingers. “Yes! Exactly! Where’s the suffering? Where’s the chaos?”

You lean back against the desk, folding your arms. “Oh, I have struggles,” you say lightly. “I just don’t publish them anymore.” There’s a beat. Sunoo looks at you, head tilted, expression thoughtful instead of teasing. “That’s… actually huge.”

That’s the difference. The office still buzzes. Deadlines still loom. Headlines still matter. But the desperation, the need to perform pain, to provoke reaction, to win at all costs, has eased into something steadier. Quieter. Something that doesn’t demand blood for proof. You’re still editor-in-chief. And your subordinate still hates you. Definitely, thinks you’re the worst thing that’s happened since the office coffee machine broke and no one took responsibility. You’re just not bleeding onto the page anymore. Your phone lights up on the desk. You don’t have to look to know.

Sunghoon: Practice just started. You coming or what? 

Your thumb hovers for half a second, out of habit, not hesitation, before you type back one-handed. 

You: Only if you don’t pretend you’re cool about it. 

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Sunghoon: No promises.

Keeho watches your face soften and makes a loud, offended gagging noise. “I hate this era for us.” Sunoo grins. “I love it. Character development.” Manon finally looks up from the magazine, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Hold on.” She points at you accusingly. “This is also your fault.”

You blink. “What is?” She gestures vaguely at the pile of submissions, the inbox notifications, the collective emotional oversharing of an entire incoming class. “All of this.” Keeho gasps. “She’s right.” Sunoo nods solemnly. “It’s the butterfly effect.”

You frown. “Explain.” Manon smirks. “Your stupidly famous ‘How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days’ article?” Keeho groans. “The manifesto.” “The emotional terrorism,” Manon continues, delighted, “you unleashed on campus? You made freshmen think self-sabotage was a personality trait.” You open your mouth. Close it. “…Okay,” you admit. “Maybe I influenced the discourse.”

“Influenced?” Keeho laughs. “You ruined it. People cite you like scripture.” Sunoo pats your knee. “Legacy is complicated.” You groan, grabbing your bag. “I’m leaving before you revoke my tenure.”

The field is loud when you arrive. Whistles cut through the air. Shouts echo from one end to the other. Cleats hit turf in dull, rhythmic thuds. The late afternoon sun hangs low, washing everything in gold like it’s trying very hard to romanticize football practice.

Manon immediately kicks your foot. “There,” she mutters. “Your menace.” You look up, eyes sparkling, ignoring the three ambiguous groans beside you. Sunghoon is mid-drill, barking instructions, posture, all command and confidence. Captain through and through. The same presence that once made your chest tight with frustration, longing, and everything you refused to name back then.

He spots you instantly. Of course he does. His face lights up, grin wide and unguarded, and he blows you an exaggerated kiss across the field like he’s thirteen and trying to embarrass you on purpose. You groan, rolling your eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t fall out.

Your heart does backflips anyway. From the sidelines, Jay sighs like a man who has seen too much. Jake shakes his head. Riki squints, then mutters, “I’ve seen this movie. It’s sickening.”

Manon groans dramatically. “UGH. GODDAMN COUPLES, MAN.” Keeho smirks. “You’re just jealous, darling.” Sunoo’s eyes sparkle. “I mean, Keeho is offering, Manon. If I were you, I’d take it.”

“I will end you,” Manon says flatly, glaring daggers at the back of Sunoo’s head. The four of you dissolve into laughter. Sunghoon watches from the field, smile softening as he takes it all in. The chaos. The comfort. The fact that this, you, exists in his life without conditions now. It still amazes him. When practice finally wraps up and the sun dips low enough to stain the sky pink, he jogs over, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and pushed back. He looks tired. Grounded. Real.

“You came,” he says unnecessarily. “You summoned me,” you reply. “Very imperiously.” He grins. “Occupational hazard.” You tilt your head. “Captain complex?” “Editor attitude.”

You bump his shoulder as he walks you toward the bleachers. It’s easy now. Casual. Still charged, but no longer sharp enough to cut. “How was the meeting?” he asks. “Productive,” you say. “No emotional devastation. A personal best.” He laughs, warm and unforced. “Proud of you.” You glance at him. He means it. That still gets you.

The article pings later that night. You’re curled up on his bed, laptop balanced on your knees, the room dim and quiet. Sunghoon is half-dozing beside you, one arm slung lazily around your waist, thumb tracing absent-minded circles like it’s muscle memory. “You posting something?” he mumbles.

“Mm. Just a brief.” Your finger hovers over publish. Old habits whisper. Old versions of you wait, curious. Then you do it anyway.

PING!Breaking News

Park Sunghoon Survived.

There were many predictions made this year. Some were statistical. Some were emotional. Some were very loudly wrong.

Despite early speculation, public scrutiny, and one ill-advised experiment that spiraled wildly out of control, Park Sunghoon remains:

– Captain of the team – Annoyingly resilient – Still here

No bets were won. No scorecards kept. Just two people who learned, loudly, that pretending not to care is much harder than telling the truth.

More updates soon. (Probably.)

— Editor’s Note

You close the laptop. Sunghoon squints at you. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” you say innocently. He reaches for your phone. You yank it away, laughing. “Absolutely not.”

“Editor privilege?” he asks.

“Exactly.” He studies you for a moment, then presses a kiss to your temple. Soft. Unshowy. Just for you. “Hey,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for not turning me into a cautionary tale.”

You smile. “You survived. That’s headline enough.” He exhales, content. Outside, the campus hums on. Inside, everything is still. No experiments. No bets. No pretending. Just choice, made daily, imperfectly, honestly, somehow, that’s enough. And as you finally stretch out beside him, letting the quiet sink in, letting the mess exist without needing a punchline… you think, not for the first time, that maybe surviving is its own art form.

Against all logic, you still remember exactly how to do it. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.

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you’ve been bleeding this discord mod dry for exactly seven days now, and the rush hasn’t dimmed. if anything, it’s gotten sharper. more intoxicating. there’s something delicious about the way he hangs on your every word, the way his messages light up with barely contained excitement whenever you deign to respond.

you’d started this as a simple cash grab—find some lonely loser, play girlfriend for a few weeks, disappear with whatever you could get—but satoru gojo is turning out to be so much more entertaining than anticipated.

satoru: good morning beautiful ♡ i hope you slept well 

satoru: i got us matching keycaps for our keyboards, yours should arrive today 

satoru: also transferred money for that graphics card you wanted

the messages come in rapid succession, each one making your lips curl upward in something that isn’t quite a smile. you let them sit for a few minutes—never respond immediately, that’s amateur hour—while you examine your nails and bask in the knowledge that somewhere across the city, he’s probably staring at his phone waiting for those three dots to appear.

pathetic. beautiful, profitable pathetic.

why_en: aww satoru you’re so sweet 🥺 you really don’t have to keep spending money on me

the lie tastes like honey on your tongue. you absolutely want him to keep spending money on you. the thrill isn’t even about the cash anymore—it’s about the power. the way he throws his apparently endless bank account at you like he’s trying to buy your affection, not knowing he already has it in the most twisted way possible. not love, never love, but something hungrier and more selfish. 

you wonder what he looks like when he reads your messages. does he smile that dopey, grateful smile you can hear in his voice? does he screenshot them like the lovesick fool he’s proven himself to be? the mental image makes warmth pool low in your stomach, not arousal but something more intoxicating—pure, undiluted control.

satoru: i want to!! seeing you happy makes everything worth it 

satoru: you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me

there it is. that desperate, clinging gratitude that makes your pulse quicken with something that definitely isn’t guilt. you screenshot his message, adding it to the collection you’ve been building—a gallery of his devotion that you scroll through when you need a reminder of your own power. each declaration of love, each promise of eternal devotion, each pathetic attempt to prove his worth to someone who sees him as nothing more than a particularly generous wallet with feelings.

the gaming setup around you is a shrine to his devotion. the monitor he bought you—curved, 4k, some ridiculous size that takes up half your desk. the headset with noise cancellation so good you feel isolated from the world. the chair that cost more than your rent, ergonomic and perfect because you’d complained once about your back hurting. he’s building you a temple to worship in, and you’re the cruel goddess who accepts his offerings without giving anything real in return.

why_en: wanna hop on the game? i miss you

another lie wrapped in enough truth to taste sweet. you don’t miss him exactly, but you miss the way he makes you feel. like you’re the center of someone’s universe. like you matter more than anything else in existence. it’s addictive in the way that power always is—once you’ve tasted being someone’s everything, settling for being anyone’s something feels like starvation.

within seconds, your discord pings with an incoming call. you let it ring twice—can’t seem too eager—before accepting.

“hey gorgeous.” his voice comes through your headset, soft and warm and tinged with that barely contained excitement that makes your pulse quicken. there’s something about his voice that doesn’t match the image you have in your head—too smooth, too rich. you’ve been picturing some stereotypical basement dweller, but he sounds like he could be reading poetry or ordering wine at expensive restaurants.

not that it matters. attractive or not, wealthy or not, he’s still just another mark. just one who’s proving to be more generous and entertaining than most.

“hi satoru,” you let your voice go soft and affectionate, the way you know drives him crazy. “how was your day?”

“better now that i’m talking to you.” the sincerity in his tone makes your chest tighten—not with emotion, but with satisfaction. he means it completely, and that level of devotion should be frightening but instead it’s intoxicating. “did your package arrive?”

you glance at the unopened box on your desk, designer keycaps that probably cost more than most people’s cars. you’ve been letting it sit there, unopened, because there’s something delicious about making him wait for your gratitude. about knowing he’s probably been checking his phone all day for a thank you message that you haven’t sent.

“you spoil me too much,” you say instead of answering directly, voice pitched to sound guilty and grateful rather than calculating.

“impossible.” there’s a smile in his voice, genuine and warm. “nothing’s too much for you.”

nothing’s too much. the words settle into your chest like warm poison, feeding something hungry and dark that’s been growing stronger every day. you’ve had men spend money on you before, but never like this. never with this level of worship, this certainty that you deserve everything he can give and more.

the game loads and you fall into your routine—comfortable banter, shared objectives, him carrying you through content while you provide commentary and attention. he’s good at this, stupidly good, and you find yourself actually enjoying the gameplay instead of just enduring it. 

“you’re incredible at this,” you breathe out after he pulls off some complicated combo that saves your virtual life. the praise isn’t entirely fake—he is skilled, precise in a way that speaks to countless hours of practice. but you layer your voice with breathless admiration that you know will make him melt.

“i’ve been playing since beta,” he says, and there’s pride there but also something else. something that sounds almost vulnerable. “most people think it’s a waste of time.”

“most people are idiots.” the response comes out more vehement than you intended, protective in a way that surprises you. where did that come from? you’re not protective of him—you’re protective of the source of your entertainment, your income, your daily dose of worship. “they’re just jealous they don’t have your talent.”

silence stretches between you for a moment, and you can hear his breathing through the headset. when he speaks again, his voice is rougher around the edges.

“you always know exactly what to say.”

do you? or have you just gotten good at reading the hunger in his responses, learned to feed the need you can hear lurking beneath every word he speaks? you’ve turned manipulation into an art form, and he’s your willing canvas.

“maybe i just really believe in you,” you say softly, and listen to the sharp intake of breath on the other end. hook, line, sinker. every. single. time.

the session stretches longer than usual—three hours of shared gameplay punctuated by increasingly intimate conversation. he tells you about his day, his work (something with coding that pays obscenely well), his thoughts on everything from philosophy to his favorite foods. you file away every detail, building a psychological profile that you’ll use to maximize your impact on his wallet and his heart.

but somewhere in the third hour, something shifts. his voice goes quieter, more vulnerable, and you find yourself leaning closer to the headset despite yourself.

“can i tell you something?” he asks.

“always.”

“i’ve never... i mean, i don’t usually connect with people like this.” there’s a pause, and you can hear him adjusting what sounds like glasses. “you’re different. special.”

special. the word hits different than all his other praise, settles deeper. you are special, aren’t you? special enough to have ensnared someone who sounds like he doesn’t fall easily, someone who’s probably had plenty of options but chose to fixate on you.

“you’re special too,” you say, and for the first time in seven days, you’re not entirely sure if you’re lying.

the thought should disturb you. instead, it sends heat rushing through your veins like recognition, like coming home to something dark and familiar.

by the time you log off, it’s past midnight and your head is swimming with more than just the late hour. there’s something happening here, something beyond the simple con you’d planned. satoru gojo is getting under your skin in ways you hadn’t anticipated, and the smart thing would be to extract whatever you can and disappear before it gets complicated.

but you’ve never been particularly smart about walking away from things that make you feel powerful.

your phone buzzes.

satoru: thank you for tonight 

satoru: talking to you is the best part of my day 

satoru: sweet dreams, beautiful

you stare at the messages until your vision blurs, that hungry warmth in your chest growing stronger. tomorrow you’ll push a little harder, ask for a little more, see just how far his devotion extends. tomorrow you’ll test the boundaries of his worship and bask in the results.

tonight, you fall asleep to the sound of notification after notification, each one a small prayer offered at the altar of your manufactured perfection.

the second week is when you truly hit your stride.

you’ve learned his patterns now—when he wakes up (6 AM sharp), when he takes lunch (12:30, always at his desk), when he’s most vulnerable to suggestion (late evening, after he’s been working all day and craving human connection). you time your messages accordingly, each one calculated for maximum impact.

why_en: i had the weirdest dream about you last night...

sent at 6:15 AM, just late enough that he’s had time to check his phone and early enough to derail his entire morning routine.

satoru: tell me everything

the response comes within thirty seconds, and you can practically feel his desperation bleeding through the screen. you let him wait fifteen minutes before responding.

why_en: it’s kind of embarrassing... 

why_en: we were together, like really together 

why_en: you made me feel so safe

three messages, perfectly spaced to build anticipation and plant ideas. you’re not just selling him fantasy anymore—you’re selling him dreams, literal dreams where he’s your protector and lover and everything he wants to be.

his response is immediate and exactly what you expected.

satoru: i want to make you feel safe 

satoru: i want to be everything you need 

satoru: god, i wish i could hold you right now

perfect. absolutely perfect. you screenshot the conversation and add it to your collection, your gallery of psychological victories. there’s something deeply satisfying about watching someone unravel themselves for you, about knowing exactly which strings to pull to get the response you want.

why_en: maybe someday we can make that dream real

the maybe is crucial—never promise anything concrete, always leave room for interpretation. let him build the fantasy himself while you provide just enough encouragement to keep him invested.

satoru: someday soon, i hope 

satoru: i’m falling for you 

satoru: is that crazy?

is that crazy? you almost laugh out loud at the question. of course it’s crazy. he’s falling for someone who doesn’t exist, someone you’ve constructed specifically to exploit his weaknesses and extract his resources. but crazy is profitable, and his particular brand of crazy is more entertaining than anything you’ve experienced in years.

why_en: not crazy at all 

why_en: i’m falling too

another lie that tastes suspiciously like truth. not falling in love—you’re not capable of that kind of clean emotion—but falling into something. falling into the rhythm of his worship, the daily hit of being someone’s everything, the intoxicating knowledge that you’ve become necessary to his happiness.

the week continues like this, each day bringing new messages, new gifts, new declarations of devotion. your bank account swells like a tumor, fed by his desperate need to prove his worth through material offerings. but it’s not just about the money anymore, hasn’t been for days.

it’s about the control. the way he asks permission before making plans, the way he checks in constantly to make sure you’re happy, the way his entire emotional state seems to revolve around your approval. you’ve become the sun in his solar system, and the gravitational pull of that much influence is addictive.

satoru: i’ve been thinking 

satoru: we should meet

the message arrives on a wednesday afternoon, and you stare at it for a full minute before responding. you’d known this was coming—it always comes—but you’ve been living in this perfect bubble where he existed only as a voice in your headset and numbers in your bank account.

meeting means risk. means maintaining the facade in real time, with no delete button, no time to craft the perfect response. means looking into the eyes of someone whose life you’ve systematically infiltrated and pretending to care about what you see there.

but it also means seeing the devotion made flesh. means watching his face light up when he sees you, means being the physical manifestation of his digital goddess made real. the thought sends heat coursing through your veins, anticipation mixed with something darker.

why_en: meet?

play dumb. make him work for it, explain why he needs this, needs you. make him convince you even though you’ve already decided.

satoru: i know we said we’d take it slow but i can’t stop thinking about you 

satoru: i need to see you

need. not want, need. the desperation in that word choice makes your pulse spike with satisfaction. you’ve done this to him, created this need, built yourself into something essential to his existence.

why_en: i want to see you too 

why_en: but what if...

satoru: what if what, beautiful?

why_en: what if i’m not what you’re expecting? 

why_en: what if you’re disappointed?

it’s a calculated vulnerability, designed to make him rush to reassure you, to pile on more worship and devotion. but underneath the calculation, there’s a tiny seed of something that might be genuine anxiety. not about your appearance—you know you’re attractive enough to maintain the illusion—but about everything else. about keeping up the performance, about being worthy of the pedestal he’s built for you.

satoru: impossible 

satoru: you’re perfect 

satoru: nothing could disappoint me about you

perfect. there’s that word again, the one that sits heavy in your chest like a promise and a threat. he’s built you up so high that the only direction left is down, and some twisted part of you is curious to see what happens when the inevitable fall comes.

satoru: tomorrow? i’ll pick you up

and because the alternative is admitting that this has all been an elaborate lie, because you’re in too deep to back out now, because some twisted part of you wants to see the devotion in his eyes when he looks at you—

why_en: okay 

why_en: i can’t wait

you spend the night in a state of restless energy. trying on outfits, practicing expressions in the mirror, rehearsing conversations. you need to be the girl from the game tomorrow, the one who thinks his jokes are hilarious and his interests are fascinating. the one who’s falling just as hard as he is.

but more than that, you need to be perfect. need to live up to the impossible standard you’ve set, need to be worth every dollar he’s spent and every prayer he’s offered at the altar of your digital presence.

your phone buzzes at exactly 2 PM.

satoru: here

you check your reflection one more time—carefully applied makeup that looks effortless, outfit chosen to hit the sweet spot between approachable and untouchable, smile practiced until it looks natural—and head downstairs.

the car waiting outside is not what you expected. sleek, expensive, the kind of vehicle that whispers wealth instead of shouting it. and behind the wheel—

oh.

oh fuck.

satoru gojo is not the basement dweller of your imagination. he’s tall, unfairly tall, unfolding from the driver’s seat like he’s been poured into existence by some artist with a preference for impossible proportions. white hair that catches the sunlight and holds it, pale skin that should look sickly but instead looks ethereal, and—

glasses. wire-rimmed and slightly askew, like he’s pushed them up his nose a thousand times while concentrating on code or game mechanics or whatever it is that’s made him wealthy enough to treat you like a luxury purchase.

but it’s his eyes that stop your breath. blue like winter sky, like deep water, like something beautiful and dangerous. and the way he’s looking at you—

like you’re a miracle he’s not quite sure he deserves.

for a moment, just a moment, your carefully constructed confidence wavers. he’s beautiful in a way that makes your chest tight, beautiful enough that you understand why he has options, why he could choose anyone. and he’s chosen to fixate on you, chosen to pour his attention and resources into someone who’s been systematically deceiving him for two weeks.

the thought should make you feel guilty. instead, it makes you feel powerful.

“you’re—” his voice catches, and he pushes his glasses up with one long finger. “you’re so beautiful.”

the reverence in his tone makes your chest constrict with satisfaction. you’ve been complimented before, but never like this. never like you’re something precious and fragile and worth protecting. never by someone who looks like a fallen angel asking for permission to worship at your feet.

“hi satoru.” you duck your head, letting manufactured shyness bleed into your expression because you can see how it affects him. the way his breath hitches, the way his fingers tighten on the car keys. he’s even more responsive in person, every micro-expression a testament to your power over him.

“hi.” he’s smiling now, soft and genuine and so different from what you’d imagined. “ready?”

the date—because that’s what this is, even though neither of you have called it that—unfolds like a fever dream. he takes you to places that exist in a different tax bracket than your usual haunts. art galleries where the price tags make your eyes water, restaurants where the waiters treat him like royalty and you like his precious companion.

and he’s... charming. actually charming, not just wealthy enough to fake it. he tells stories that make you laugh despite yourself, asks questions that suggest he actually listens to your answers, touches your hand across restaurant tables with a reverence that makes your skin burn.

but more than charming, he’s generous. not just financially—though the black card that appears every time a check arrives is certainly impressive—but emotionally. he gives you his complete attention, hangs on your every word like you’re delivering divine revelation, treats every opinion you offer like it’s the most insightful thing he’s ever heard.

it’s intoxicating. addictive in a way you hadn’t anticipated. you’ve had men try to impress you before, but this feels different. this feels like worship, and you’re discovering that being worshipped is a high unlike anything you’ve ever experienced.

“tell me about your childhood,” he says over appetizers that cost more than your weekly groceries, chin propped on his hand as he gazes at you with those impossible blue eyes.

the question should panic you—you haven’t prepared a backstory, haven’t thought about how to make your real life sound interesting enough to hold his attention. instead, you find yourself telling him the truth. or at least, a version of it.

“not much to tell,” you say, twirling expensive pasta around your fork. “grew up middle class, normal family, normal problems. nothing as interesting as your life, i’m sure.”

“everything about you is interesting to me.” the response is immediate and sincere, and you have to hide your smile behind your wine glass. he means it completely, and that level of fascination is better than any drug you’ve ever tried.

“what about you?” you turn the conversation back to him, partly because you’re genuinely curious and partly because you know he’ll love having your undivided attention. “what made you so successful so young?”

his smile turns self-deprecating, and he pushes his glasses up again. “luck, mostly. right place, right time, right skill set for what the market needed. nothing special.”

but the way he talks about his work—the passion in his voice when he describes complex problems and elegant solutions—suggests otherwise. he’s brilliant, genuinely brilliant, and probably used to being the smartest person in any room. the fact that he’s choosing to spend his time and attention on you feels like a victory worth savoring.

“i think you’re being modest,” you say, reaching across the table to touch his hand. his fingers are long and elegant, surprisingly soft for someone who spends his days typing code. “success like yours doesn’t happen by accident.”

the touch is calculated—skin contact always is, with men like him—but the warmth that spreads up your arm when he turns his hand to capture your fingers is entirely unexpected. his thumb traces across your knuckles, and you have to fight the urge to shiver.

“you give me too much credit.” but he’s looking at your joined hands like they’re something precious, something worth protecting. “honestly, work used to be everything. before you.”

before you. two words that carry the weight of complete life reorganization, of someone who’s restructured their priorities around your existence. the power of it is dizzying.

“before me?” you pitch your voice to sound curious rather than satisfied.

“before you, i worked sixteen hour days because i didn’t have anything else worth coming home to. now...” he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles that makes your breath catch. “now i leave the office at five because i can’t stand being away from you any longer than necessary.”

the gesture should feel possessive, controlling. instead, it feels like devotion made flesh, like being precious enough to reorganize someone’s entire world around. you’re drunk on it, higher than you’ve ever been on any substance.

“satoru,” you whisper, and watch his pupils dilate at the sound of his name from your lips.

“i know it’s crazy,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “i know it’s too much too fast, but i can’t help it. you do something to me.”

you do something to him. the admission sends heat racing through your veins, confirms what you’ve suspected for days—that your power over him goes beyond simple attraction or even infatuation. you’ve gotten into his head, rewired his brain chemistry, made yourself essential to his happiness.

it’s the most intoxicating feeling in the world.

“you do something to me too,” you admit, and it’s not entirely a lie. he does do something to you—makes you feel powerful and desired and important in ways you’ve never experienced before. makes you want to be worthy of the pedestal he’s built, even as you’re consciously manipulating your way to the top of it.

the rest of dinner passes in a haze of intimate conversation and lingering touches. he tells you things that feel like secrets—about his loneliness before you, his fears about not being good enough, his dreams for the future that all seem to center around making you happy. you file away every confession, every vulnerability, adding them to your arsenal for future use.

but somewhere between the main course and dessert, something shifts. maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the way he keeps looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, maybe it’s the sheer overwhelming force of his attention—but you start to lose track of what’s performance and what’s real.

when he reaches across the table to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, your breath catches without any conscious decision to make it do so. when he smiles at something you say, warmth blooms in your chest that has nothing to do with strategy. when he asks about your dreams for the future, you find yourself giving answers you hadn’t planned, hadn’t practiced.

“what do you want most in the world?” he asks over dessert that’s more art than food.

the question hangs between you like a challenge. what do you want most in the world? money? security? power? all of those things seemed like complete answers a few weeks ago, but sitting across from someone who’s offering them all freely, they feel insufficient.

“to matter,” you say finally, the words escaping before you can stop them. “to be important to someone.”

it’s more honest than you meant to be, more vulnerable than your carefully constructed persona allows. but the way his eyes soften, the way he reaches for your hand again like it’s instinctive—

“you matter to me,” he says simply. “you’re the most important thing in my world.”

and god help you, you believe him. more than that, you want it to be true. want to be his most important thing, want to be worthy of the devotion he’s offering, want to deserve the life he’s clearly planning to build around you.

the realization should terrify you. instead, it feels like coming home.

he drives you back to your apartment as the sun sets, expensive car purring through streets that look different when viewed through the lens of his attention. everything seems prettier, more significant, like you’re seeing your own life through the eyes of someone who thinks you’re worth this level of effort.

“can i see you again?” he asks as he walks you to your door, and there’s vulnerability in the question that sits strangely on someone who looks like he’s never been denied anything in his life.

“try to stop me,” you say, and watch his face light up like sunrise.

he kisses your forehead before he leaves—chaste and sweet and completely at odds with the heat in his eyes—and you spend the evening replaying every moment, every touch, every look. your phone buzzes constantly with messages from him, each one a small prayer of gratitude for your existence.

satoru: thank you for today 

satoru: you’re even more incredible in person 

satoru: i can’t stop thinking about you 

satoru: sweet dreams, beautiful

you stare at the messages until your vision blurs, some emotion you can’t name clawing at your chest. tomorrow you’ll go back to the performance, back to being the perfect girlfriend he’s constructed in his mind. but tonight—

tonight you let yourself wonder what it would be like if this was real. if you were really the person he thinks you are, really worthy of the life he’s offering to build around you.

your reflection stares back at you from your darkened phone screen, and for a moment you don’t recognize the face looking back. there’s something soft there, something vulnerable that has no place in your carefully constructed armor.

you push the feeling down, bury it beneath layers of calculation and strategy. this is a job, a con, a means to an end. the fact that your mark happens to be beautiful and generous and completely devoted doesn’t change what this is.

but as you fall asleep to the sound of your phone buzzing with message after message, each one a small offering at the altar of your manufactured perfection, you can’t quite shake the feeling that you’re lying to yourself about more than just your feelings for him.

the second date becomes a third, then a fourth. he integrates himself into your life with the persistence of water finding cracks, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. your gaming sessions become longer, more intimate. your days start to revolve around his messages, his calls, his presence.

and the gifts keep coming. not just expensive things anymore, but thoughtful ones. a book by an author you mentioned liking, tea from a shop you walked past together, a playlist of songs that remind him of you. he’s building a detailed map of your preferences, real and performed, and using it to craft a reality where you’re the center of everything.

it should be suffocating. it should trigger every alarm bell you have about controlling men and possessive behavior. instead, it’s intoxicating in ways you never anticipated.

“you don’t have to keep buying me things,” you tell him one evening, though you make no move to return the designer bracelet he’s just fastened around your wrist. the weight of it feels like ownership, like being marked as his in the most luxurious way possible.

“i want to.” his fingers linger on your pulse point, and you wonder if he can feel how your heartbeat spikes at his touch. “you deserve beautiful things.”

you deserve. not you want, not you like—you deserve. like your worth is something objective and measurable, like spoiling you is a moral imperative rather than a choice.

“what if i don’t?” the question slips out before you can stop it, vulnerability bleeding through your carefully maintained facade.

he goes still, fingers pausing in their gentle exploration of your wrist. when you look up at him, his expression is soft and serious and utterly convinced.

“impossible,” he says, and there’s no doubt in his voice whatsoever. “you’re perfect.”

perfect. that word again, the one that sits in your chest like a weight and a promise and a threat all at once. you want to be perfect for him, want to deserve the faith he’s placing in you, want to be worthy of the life he’s offering to build around your happiness.

but you also know, with crystal clarity, that you’re not. that everything he loves about you is a carefully constructed lie, that the person he’s falling for exists only in the digital space between truth and deception.

the contradiction should bother you more than it does.

instead, you lean into his touch and let him believe in your perfection a little longer.

you’re three weeks deep when the first crack appears.

it happens during a gaming session—some pvp match that’s going badly despite his usual skill. you can hear his frustration through the headset, sharp intakes of breath and muttered curses that sound nothing like the patient, adoring man you’ve come to know.

“look at this pathetic excuse for a human being,” he snarls after another failed engagement, and there’s venom in his voice that makes your stomach drop like a stone. “CurseGuzzlerSG—probably some mouth-breathing basement dweller who peaked in middle school and thinks button mashing counts as skill. bet his parents are ashamed they wasted eighteen years feeding this waste of oxygen.”

the transformation is jarring, like watching a mask slip off to reveal something predatory underneath. gone is the soft-spoken man who calls you beautiful every morning, replaced by someone whose voice drips with surgical cruelty.

you can hear the mechanical keyboard—the one he bought to match with you—being punished under his fingers, each keystroke sharp and violent. then there’s a crash, the sound of something being swept off his desk, followed by his ragged breathing.

“and this fucking reject with the anime profile picture,” he continues, his voice getting more unhinged with each word. “probably jerks off to cartoon children and wonders why he’s never felt a woman’s touch. look at his gear, look at his rotation—his brain must be smoother than a marble, absolutely no higher cognitive function happening in that empty skull—”

the specific, personal nature of his attacks makes ice form in your veins. these aren’t just frustrated gamer insults. this is calculated character assassination of people he’s never met, detailed psychological profiles built from usernames and gameplay footage.

“hey,” you say softly, trying to recapture the gentle dynamic you’ve built, trying to ignore the way your fight-or-flight response is screaming at you to hang up, to run. “it’s just a game—”

“don’t.” 

the word cuts through your platitude like a blade, so sharp and cold you actually flinch away from your headset. the silence that follows is suffocating—you can hear him breathing heavily, each exhale controlled but violent, like he’s physically restraining himself from something worse.

ten seconds of silence. twenty. thirty.

when he speaks again, his voice has that careful control that’s somehow more terrifying than his rage.

“don’t diminish this. you know how much time i’ve put into perfecting my builds, my rotations, my team compositions. these... people... are ruining something i care about.”

people. the way he says it makes it clear they’re barely that in his mind.

there’s another stretch of silence, punctuated only by his measured breathing. you can picture him behind his setup—probably pushing his glasses up, running his hands through his white hair, recalibrating his mask.

“satoru—”

“i would never talk to you like that.” his voice is soft now, gentle, but there’s something underneath it that makes your skin crawl. “you’re different. you’re special. you understand quality, you appreciate effort, you have standards. unlike these degenerates who probably can’t even tie their own shoes without their mothers helping them.”

the implication hangs in the air like smoke: this is how he talks about people who aren’t special to him. this is the venom he reserves for anyone who doesn’t meet his standards, who doesn’t earn his carefully rationed respect.

“you’re the only person worth my patience,” he continues, and you can hear his smile through the words. “the only person who deserves my best self.”

your hands are shaking. you realize you’ve been holding your breath.

“i could be raid leading for a world-first guild,” he continues, and you can hear him pacing now, his breathing heavy through the microphone. “i could be making guides that actually matter, teaching people who deserve to learn. instead i’m stuck carrying these worthless—”

“satoru.” you interrupt, your voice firm enough to cut through his spiral. “breathe.”

silence stretches between you, heavy and uncomfortable. when he speaks again, his voice is different—smaller, almost frightened.

“sorry. i didn’t mean to... you’re the only good thing in my life, i shouldn’t take my frustration out on—”

“it’s okay,” you say quickly, but something cold has settled in your stomach. the only good thing in his life. not one of the good things, the only thing. the weight of that responsibility sits on your chest like lead, and you’re starting to understand why he treats you like something that might disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

the session ends early, with him apologizing repeatedly—too much, too frantically—and you reassuring him that everything’s fine. but after you hang up, you sit in the darkness of your room and wonder what you’ve built here. what kind of devotion requires this level of emotional maintenance. what kind of man puts all his happiness in one person and then expects that person to carry it gracefully.

your phone buzzes immediately.

satoru: i’m sorry for earlier 

satoru: you bring out the best in me and i never want to be anything less than perfect for you 

satoru: let me make it up to you 

satoru: please don’t be upset with me 

satoru: i can’t stand the thought of disappointing you 

satoru: you’re everything to me

the messages come in rapid succession, each one more desperate than the last. you can picture him on the other end, probably pacing his apartment, pushing his glasses up his nose over and over while anxiety eats him alive. the image should make you feel powerful—and part of it does—but mostly it just makes you tired.

why_en: it’s really okay satoru, we all have bad days

satoru: not around you 

satoru: never around you 

satoru: you deserve perfect

the next morning, there’s a package at your door. jewelry this time, delicate and expensive and exactly your taste. the note attached is written in his careful handwriting, and you can see places where he pressed too hard with the pen, where his hand probably shook: for the most perfect woman in the world. i’m sorry i’m not worthy of you yet.

not worthy yet. like his worthiness is something he can achieve through enough gifts, enough attention, enough complete subsumation of his identity into the idea of pleasing you.

you should feel guilty. you should feel something approaching shame for the way you’ve constructed this relationship on a foundation of performance and manipulation. instead, you feel hungry. greedy. more addicted than ever to the way he sees you as something precious and irreplaceable.

but the cracks keep appearing, spreading like spider webs through the perfect facade he’s built.

it happens at a coffee shop two days later. you’re waiting in line together, his hand possessive on the small of your back, when the barista—young, pretty, probably a college student—smiles at him while taking his order.

“what can i get started for you?” she asks, all customer service brightness and innocent friendliness.

you feel satoru’s hand tighten against your back. when he speaks, his voice is clipped, cold in a way you’ve never heard directed at a stranger.

“large americano. black.” no please, no thank you, just barely controlled hostility toward someone whose only crime was existing while female in his presence.

the girl’s smile falters slightly. “and for you?” she asks, turning to you with visible relief.

“i’ll have a—”

“she’ll have a vanilla latte with oat milk,” satoru interrupts, his voice still sharp. “and make sure the temperature is exactly 140 degrees. she has a sensitive palate.”

you stare at him. you’ve never mentioned having a sensitive palate. you don’t even particularly like vanilla lattes, but you’d ordered one once weeks ago and he’d apparently catalogued it as your permanent preference.

“uh, actually—” you start.

“that’s what you always get,” he says, looking at you with those too-blue eyes. there’s something desperate in his gaze, like your coffee order is a test of his devotion and getting it wrong would shatter something fundamental in his worldview.

“right,” you say weakly, watching the barista’s expression grow more uncomfortable by the second.

“anything else?” she asks, clearly wanting this interaction to end.

satoru’s eyes narrow, scanning her name tag. “no, suzuru. just make sure you get it right. my girlfriend deserves the best service.”

the way he says ‘girlfriend’ makes your skin crawl—possessive, territorial, like he’s marking territory. suzuru nods quickly and moves to start the drinks, probably counting the minutes until her shift ends.

“you didn’t have to be rude to her,” you say quietly as you move to wait for your order.

“rude?” satoru looks genuinely confused. “i was protecting your experience. did you see the way she was looking at me? completely inappropriate when i’m obviously with someone.”

you glance back at suzuru, who’s focused intently on the espresso machine and definitely not looking at anyone. “she was just doing her job, satoru.”

“was she?” his voice drops to a whisper, but there’s venom in it. “or was she trying to get my attention? women like that are always testing boundaries, seeing if they can break up happy couples.”

women like that. you want to ask what he means exactly—college students? service workers? people who dare to exist in his vicinity while female?—but something in his expression warns you off. there’s a paranoid intensity in his eyes that makes you think of conspiracy theorists and reddit manifestos.

“maybe you’re reading too much into—”

“i notice things other people miss,” he interrupts, straightening his glasses with sharp, jerky movements. “i see patterns. the way she tilted her head, the way she leaned forward when she talked to me, the way her voice got softer. classic manipulation tactics.”

your blood runs cold. classic manipulation tactics. you wonder if he’s catalogued your own behavior the same way, if he has mental files on every smile, every laugh, every carefully crafted moment of vulnerability you’ve shown him.

“large americano and vanilla latte!” suzuru calls, setting the cups on the counter with obvious relief.

satoru inspects both drinks before accepting them, checking the foam art on your latte with the intensity of a forensic investigator. “temperature?” he asks.

“140 degrees,” suzuru confirms, already turning away to help the next customer.

as you leave the coffee shop, satoru’s demeanor transforms back to the devoted boyfriend you know. he opens the door for you, asks if your drink is perfect, tells you how beautiful you look in the morning sunlight. but you can’t stop thinking about the way he looked at that barista, like she was a threat to be neutralized.

“you’re quiet,” he observes as you walk to his car.

“just thinking.”

“about what?” there’s an edge of anxiety in the question, like he’s afraid you might be thinking about something—or someone—other than him.

“nothing important,” you lie, and watch his shoulders relax slightly.

but it is important. the more time you spend with him, the more you realize that his devotion comes with a price: the complete elimination of any other people from your life. friends who text you less because you’re always busy with satoru. coworkers who’ve stopped inviting you to after-work drinks because you always decline. family members who’ve started asking if you’re okay because you only talk about your boyfriend now.

the isolation happened so gradually you barely noticed it. satoru never explicitly told you to stop seeing other people—he’s too smart for that. instead, he made himself irresistible.

why go out for mediocre drinks with friends when you could stay in with someone who treats you like a goddess? why maintain friendships that require effort when you have someone who gives you everything you want without asking for anything in return?

except he is asking for something in return. he’s asking for everything. your time, your attention, your entire existence reorganized around the maintenance of his happiness.

the revelation should horrify you. instead, as you settle into the passenger seat of his expensive car and let him fuss over your seatbelt, your comfort, your everything, you find yourself wondering why it feels so much like coming home.

a week later, you’re having dinner at another expensive restaurant, the kind of place where the waiters know his name and treat you like visiting royalty. you’ve learned to navigate these spaces now, learned to let him order wine that costs more than your monthly rent, learned to smile graciously when he explains the menu items like you’re a child who needs guidance.

the conversation flows easily—it always does now, you’ve learned to navigate his interests and opinions like a native speaker—until he mentions something that makes your blood freeze.

“i’ve been thinking about taking a vacation,” he says, cutting into his steak with precise, almost surgical movements. “somewhere tropical, just the two of us. i found this perfect resort in the maldives—private villa, completely isolated from everything. just paradise.”

isolated. the word echoes in your head like a warning bell. 

“that sounds amazing,” you say automatically, but your voice sounds hollow even to your own ears.

“i already booked it,” he continues, and there’s excitement in his voice, genuine happiness that makes your stomach twist with guilt and terror in equal measure. “two weeks, starting next month. i know you’ll have to request time off work, but i figured we could say it’s a family emergency or something. i don’t want your boss asking too many questions about where we’re going.”

the casual suggestion of lying to your employer sits wrong in your chest, but it’s the other part that makes your pulse quicken with alarm.

“you booked it?” the words come out sharper than intended, and you see his expression shift slightly, like a mask slipping. “without asking me?”

for just a moment, something flickers across his face—surprise, irritation, the look of someone who’s been questioned when they expected gratitude. but it’s gone so quickly you almost think you imagined it.

“i wanted to surprise you.” his tone is still gentle, but there’s something underneath it now. something watchful, calculating. “you mentioned wanting to travel, and i thought... i wanted to give you something special. something no one else has ever given you.”

he’s right, of course. you had mentioned wanting to travel, weeks ago, back when you were still thinking of him as a mark instead of... whatever he is now. but the way he’s twisted that casual comment into justification for making major decisions about your life without consulting you feels like a trap closing around your throat.

“i can’t just disappear for two weeks, satoru. i have responsibilities, commitments—”

“what commitments?” the question is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes your pulse quicken. his blue eyes are studying you with uncomfortable intensity, like he’s dissecting your objections in real time. “your job that makes you miserable? friends who barely text you anymore? family who only call when they need something?”

the accuracy of the statement hits like cold water. when was the last time you made plans that didn’t involve him? when did your world become so small that he fills every corner of it? and more importantly—when did he become so intimately familiar with the deterioration of all your other relationships?

“that’s not the point,” you say, but your voice lacks conviction and you both know it. “you can’t just... decide things for me.”

his hand reaches across the table to cover yours, warm and possessive, and you notice the way his fingers completely engulf your smaller ones. “i’m not deciding for you, beautiful. i’m trying to give you everything you deserve. when was the last time you did something just because it made you happy?”

the question lodges in your throat like a stone. when was the last time? before him, certainly. before this performance became so consuming that you forgot what happiness felt like when it wasn’t reflected in his adoring gaze.

“this is making me happy,” you whisper, and it’s not entirely a lie. this—his attention, his devotion, the way he treats you like something precious—does make you happy. but it’s a hollow kind of happiness, built on a foundation that’s starting to crack under its own weight.

“then what’s the problem?” his thumb traces across your knuckles, a gesture that should be comforting but feels like a shackle. there’s something in his voice now, a careful patience that reminds you of someone talking to a frightened animal. “let me take care of you. let me give you the life you deserve.”

the life you deserve. not the life you want, not the life you choose, but the life he’s decided you deserve based on his careful observation of your preferences and weaknesses. the distinction sits heavy in your chest as you look at him across the table—beautiful, devoted, dangerous in his certainty that he knows what’s best for you.

“two weeks is a long time,” you say weakly, grasping for some kind of compromise that won’t shatter the careful dynamic you’ve built.

“exactly.” his smile could power cities, bright and genuine and full of love that feels more like ownership with each passing day. “two weeks where you don’t have to think about anything except being happy. no work stress, no social obligations, no one else’s needs to consider. just you and me and paradise.”

just you and me. the phrase echoes in your head with the weight of inevitability. no one else to perform for, no escape routes, no witnesses to whatever he becomes when he has you completely to himself.

“okay,” you say finally, because the alternative is a confrontation you’re not ready for, because part of you wants to see what happens when you stop running from this thing you’ve created. “okay, we can go.”

his smile could power cities, bright and genuine and full of love. “you’re incredible,” he says, lifting your hand to his lips. his kiss is soft, reverent, and completely at odds with the triumph gleaming in his eyes. “i can’t wait to have you all to myself.”

all to himself. the phrase echoes in your head as he pays the check without looking at the total, as he drives you home through streets that feel increasingly like a maze with no exit, as he kisses you goodnight with reverent tenderness that feels more like a brand than affection.

that night, alone in your apartment, you sit on your bathroom floor with your back against the locked door, trying to process what just happened.

the fear sits in your stomach like ice water, sharp and immediate. you’ve seen behind his mask now, witnessed the calculating precision with which he’s been mapping your life. every conversation you thought was casual bonding was actually reconnaissance. every detail you thought you were sharing naturally was being filed away, catalogued, weaponized.

but underneath the fear is something else, something that makes you feel sick with self-recognition. you’re impressed. 

the thoroughness of it, the dedication, the sheer amount of effort he’s put into knowing every facet of your existence—it’s horrifying and flattering in equal measure. when was the last time someone paid attention to you with this level of intensity? when was the last time you felt this important to another person?

he knows your coworkers’ names, your salary, your daily frustrations. he’s been building a detailed psychological profile while you thought you were playing him. the realization that you’ve been outmaneuvered by someone you considered a mark should terrify you.

instead, it makes you feel... special.

not just the object of desire, but the subject of obsession. worthy of this level of investigation, this depth of surveillance. he doesn’t just want to possess you—he wants to understand you completely, to anticipate your needs before you voice them, to become essential to your happiness.

your phone buzzes with a text, and you don’t even need to look to know who it’s from.

satoru: thank you for saying yes to the trip 

satoru: i know it’s a big decision 

satoru: i promise i’ll make it perfect for you 

satoru: everything i do is for you 

satoru: you’re my whole world

his whole world. not part of his world, not an important piece of it, but the entire thing. the weight of being someone’s everything sits on your chest like lead, but underneath the pressure is something that feels suspiciously like pride.

you type and delete a dozen responses before settling on something that feels true enough to pass for honesty:

why_en: i trust you

and you do trust him, in a way that’s probably more dangerous than fear. you trust him to worship you, to structure his entire existence around your comfort and happiness. you trust him to protect what he sees as his with the same vicious intensity he showed that night gaming, the same paranoid vigilance he demonstrated with the coffee shop barista.

you trust him to love you the way a collector loves their most precious acquisition—completely, obsessively, possessively.

the maldives trip looms like a beautiful nightmare on the horizon. two weeks alone with him, no escape routes, no distractions, no witnesses to whatever you become when you stop pretending this isn’t exactly what you want.

tomorrow you’ll put on the mask again. tomorrow you’ll be his perfect girlfriend, grateful for his attention and excited about your romantic getaway. tomorrow you’ll feed the monster you’ve created and pretend you don’t see your own reflection in his hungry eyes.

but tonight, in the darkness of your apartment, you let yourself grieve for the person you used to be before you learned to love the feeling of being devoured.

your phone lights up again.

satoru: goodnight, beautiful 

satoru: sweet dreams 

satoru: i love you more than anything in this world

the words sit on your screen like a confession and a threat and a promise all at once. more than anything in this world—not anyone, anything. like you’re not a person to him but a concept, an ideal, a perfect thing to be protected and possessed and worshipped from a distance that’s growing smaller every day.

why_en: i love you too

and in the silence that follows, you finally understand that some hungers can only be satisfied by being consumed completely. the question isn’t whether you’re ready for that consumption—it’s whether you’re brave enough to admit how much you want it.

the villa is perfect, of course it is. satoru doesn’t do anything halfway, especially when it comes to you. glass walls that dissolve the boundary between inside and outside, infinity pool that bleeds into the ocean horizon, bed the size of your entire apartment back home draped in white silk that catches the tropical breeze.

the air hums with salt and jasmine, the scent clinging to your skin, curling into your senses like a lover’s breath. the teak furniture, carved with razor-sharp precision, glows under the low light, each piece a silent testament to his control, his need to make this space an extension of his will—and of you.

you’ve been here a week and you can feel yourself dissolving.

his presence is relentless: mornings with breakfast on a tray—mangoes sliced so thin they’re translucent, their juice dripping down his fingers as he presses a piece to your lips, watching your tongue dart out to taste it, coffee brewed to the exact temperature you mentioned once, its bitter warmth coating your throat as he studies your reaction with narrowed eyes and a faint smirk.

afternoons on the deck with the sun searing your skin, his fingers tracing slow circles on your thigh, each touch pulling a hitch in your breath, a flush across your chest. nights where he watches you pretend to sleep, his gaze heavy, peeling back your defenses until you’re raw, exposed, your pulse quickening under the weight of his scrutiny.

“you’re so beautiful when you think no one’s watching,” he murmurs now, and you realize your pretense has failed again. his voice comes from too close, and when you open your eyes he’s propped on his elbow beside you, studying your face with those winter-blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that have become as familiar as your own reflection. 

the sun has set while you dozed, painting the water in shades of amber and rose. the villa’s lighting system has activated automatically, casting everything in a warm glow that makes his white hair look spun from gold, makes his pale skin seem to glow from within. the light catches his glasses, glinting like a predator’s eyes, and the ocean outside hums, a low murmur that fades against the pulse hammering in your ears.

“i wasn’t sleeping,” you lie, stretching like a cat under his gaze. the movement makes the silk camisole—another gift, chosen perfectly for the climate and your coloring—ride up, exposing the soft curve of your hip, and you watch his eyes darken as they track the exposed skin with predatory focus. the fabric clings to your breasts, outlining your nipples as they harden under his stare, and his jaw tightens, a muscle flickering as his pupils dilate.

“i know.” his fingers ghost over your hip bone, light as butterfly wings but searing, tracing a slow arc that sends a shiver through you. “you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re really asleep. right here.” he touches the spot with his index finger, gentle but possessive, lingering just long enough to make your breath hitch, your lips part in a soft gasp. “and your breathing changes. gets deeper. more trusting.” 

the casual observation makes your stomach flip. he’s catalogued even your unconscious expressions, studied you with the dedication of a scientist documenting a new species. seven days of constant observation, constant attention, and he’s mapped every detail of your existence with the precision of a cartographer claiming new territory.

“you’re staring too hard,” you whisper, but there’s no real complaint in it. you’ve grown addicted to the weight of his attention, the way he looks at you like you’re art in a museum—something precious and irreplaceable that he can’t quite believe he’s allowed to possess. 

“can’t help it.” his hand slides higher, palm flat against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through silk so thin it might as well not exist. the contact is deliberate, his thumb circling slowly, coaxing your nipple to peak harder, sending a jolt straight to your core. “especially in that. it’s like you were designed specifically to drive me insane.” 

the camisole was waiting on the bed when you arrived, along with an entire wardrobe he’d selected with meticulous care. sundresses that tie at the shoulder with single ribbons that beg to be pulled, bikinis that somehow stay on despite being mostly string and wishful thinking, lingerie that makes you feel like something wrapped for his consumption. everything easy access, everything designed to come off at the slightest provocation. 

“you have good taste,” you manage, voice catching as his thumb traces the curve of your breast, feeling your nipple harden through the silk. the sound makes him smile, sharp and satisfied, his eyes glinting with triumph, his jaw tightening as he watches your lips part.

“i have you,” he says simply, leaning down to press his lips to your collarbone, tongue flicking out to taste your skin. his tongue is warm, wet, tracing a slow path along your collarbone, and the contact burns, soft yet laced with something feral, his teeth grazing lightly. “that’s all the good taste i need.”

his breath is hot against your skin, his lips parting slightly as he lingers, savoring the salt of your sweat, the faint pulse under your skin. the kiss burns, soft and reverent but there’s something darker lurking beneath the surface. something that’s been growing stronger the longer you’re isolated together, the longer he has you completely to himself with no interruptions, no witnesses, no escape routes.

his mouth moves lower, teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you can’t suppress the small gasp that escapes. the sound flips something in him—his grip tightens on your ribs, fingers digging in just shy of painful, his nails biting into your skin, leaving faint crescents. his eyes flicker with dark satisfaction, his lips curling into a faint smirk as he feels you tremble.

“satoru,” you breathe, and his name comes out needier than intended, almost broken, your voice trembling as your core aches with want.

“what do you want, beautiful?” his lips move against your throat, voice gone rough around the edges, a low growl that vibrates against your skin, his teeth grazing your pulse point again. “tell me exactly what you want and maybe i’ll give it to you.” 

it’s a loaded question wrapped in silk, isn’t it? what you want versus what you think you should want versus what he wants you to want. the lines have blurred beyond recognition, especially here in this paradise where the outside world feels like a half-remembered dream. the villa is a cage of glass and silk, the air thick with heat and desire, and every touch of his lips, every scrape of his teeth, pulls you deeper into his orbit.

“you,” you say, and it’s the truest thing you’ve said in weeks. not the performance version of want, not the careful calculation of what will keep him devoted, just pure need that’s been building like pressure behind glass. “i want you.” 

something shifts in his expression, the careful mask of gentle devotion cracking to show the ravenous hunger underneath. his hand moves higher, cupping your breast properly now, thumb circling your nipple through silk with enough pressure to make you arch against him.

his fingers knead the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, slow and deliberate, sending jolts straight to your core. his eyes darken, pupils dilating as he watches your face contort, your lips part in a soft moan, a flush spreading across your chest.

“how much of me?” his voice is lower, darker, a growl vibrating in his chest as he leans closer, his lips hovering over yours, his breath hot against your skin. “because i want to give you everything, but i need to know you can handle it. need to know you won’t break.” 

the question makes your pulse stutter because there’s something in his tone you’ve caught glimpses of before—in game chats when other players frustrate him, in the way his jaw tightens when men look at you too long, in the casual possessiveness that’s grown stronger each day—but never this concentrated, never this focused entirely on you.

“everything,” you whisper, because retreat isn’t an option anymore. you’ve come too far, fallen too deep, let yourself get too addicted to the way he makes you feel like the center of the universe. “i can handle everything.” 

his lips curl, sharp and beautiful and completely unlike the gentle adoration you’re used to. it’s hungry, satisfied, like you’ve just given him permission for something he’s been craving.

“careful what you promise,” he murmurs, but his hands are already moving, fingers finding the silk ribbons at your shoulders. he unties them slowly, reverently, like he’s unwrapping the most precious gift he’s ever received, his fingers steady but his eyes flickering with hunger, his jaw tight as he watches the fabric fall.

the camisole falls away and you’re bare to his gaze, nipples hardening in the warm air as he looks at you like he’s seeing something that belongs entirely to him. the silk pools at your waist, and his eyes rake over your breasts, your nipples peaking harder under his stare, a flush spreading across your chest.

“perfect,” he breathes, and there’s something almost clinical in how thoroughly he studies you, his eyes narrowing slightly, cataloguing every curve, every freckle, every flush. his palms cup your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples with maddening lightness, just enough pressure to make you squirm but not enough to satisfy. his fingers knead the soft flesh, rolling your nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, slow and deliberate, sending jolts straight to your core. “do you know what you do to me? walking around in those little outfits i picked out, looking at me like you trust me completely?” 

there’s something almost cruel in his tone, a darkness you’ve sensed but never seen fully unleashed, and it shouldn’t make you wetter but it does. the careful, worshipful lover is dissolving into something hungrier, more possessive, and your body is responding like it’s been waiting for this version of him all along, your core aching with want, slickness forming as your thighs shift.

“i do trust you,” you manage, even as his hands move lower, skimming over your ribs with deliberate slowness, fingertips trailing fire across your skin, each touch precise, his nails grazing lightly, leaving faint red lines that burn in the humid air.

“you shouldn’t.” his fingers hook in the waistband of your silk shorts, and he pauses, looking up at you with eyes that have gone dark behind his glasses, his lips curling into a faint, predatory smirk. “but god, i’m so fucking glad you do.”

the profanity sounds foreign in his mouth, rougher than his usual careful language, and it sends heat shooting straight to your core, making you clench with need. he pulls the fabric away with agonizing slowness, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed, and when you’re completely bare beneath him he just looks for a long moment.

his eyes rake over your body, lingering on the flush across your chest, the way your thighs quiver, the glistening slickness at your center, his jaw tightening, a muscle flickering as his pupils dilate. the intensity of his gaze makes you want to cover yourself and spread wider at the same time, your core aching with need.

he’s cataloguing every detail—the flush spreading across your chest, the way your breathing has gone shallow, how your thighs press together unconsciously, only to part again as your core clenches.

“beautiful,” he murmurs, hands sliding up your legs with reverent touches that feel possessive, his fingers digging into your thighs, leaving faint marks. “so fucking beautiful it makes me crazy. makes me want to do terrible things to you.” 

his thumbs brush the sensitive skin where your thighs meet your hips, not quite touching your center, just close enough to make you squirm, your hips lifting instinctively, seeking contact. “satoru, please—” your voice is raw, desperate, breaking on his name, your hips lifting again, your core aching with want.

“please what?” his voice has gone silky, dangerous, a purr that makes your core clench with need. his thumbs circle closer, grazing the edges of your slick folds, teasing your clit without touching it, and his eyes narrow, watching your face contort, your lips part in a soft moan. “use your words, beautiful. tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.” 

the command in his tone makes you clench around nothing, and you see him notice it, see the satisfied smile that curves his lips as he watches your body betray your need. “touch me,” you breathe, hips lifting unconsciously, seeking contact he’s deliberately withholding. “please, i need you to touch me.” 

“where?” he asks, and there’s something almost sadistic in how he’s drawing this out, like he’s savoring your desperation, his lips curling into a faint smirk, his eyes glinting with dark amusement. “here?” his fingers ghost over your hipbones, barely making contact, his nails grazing lightly, leaving faint red lines. “or here?” 

“you know where,” you gasp, frustration making your voice crack, your core aching with need, your thighs trembling. your eyes flutter, tears pricking at the corners, and your lips tremble, a soft whimper escaping as his fingers hover so close but refuse to touch.

“but i want to hear you say it.” he leans down, lips brushing your ear, and his voice drops to something dark and possessive, his breath hot against your skin, his teeth grazing your earlobe. “want to hear you beg for it like the needy little thing you really are. bet you’ve begged other men like this too, haven’t you?”

the question hits like a slap, unexpected and cruel, and you feel heat flood your cheeks. “satoru—” your voice trembles, raw with a mix of shame and arousal, your eyes wide with desperation, tears pricking at the corners.

“have you?” his fingers stop moving entirely, hovering just above your center, so close you can feel the warmth of them but not the relief you’re dying for, your clit throbbing with need. “answer me. how many others have seen you like this? how many others have you spread your legs for?” 

“that’s—that’s not fair,” you whisper, voice breaking on the words, tears spilling over as your core clenches with need, your lips trembling, your eyes wide with desperation.

“not fair?” he laughs, and the sound is sharp and mean, a blade slicing through the humid air, his eyes glinting with dark amusement, his jaw tightening as he watches your face contort. “what’s not fair is how you probably let them touch you, let them think they meant something. but they didn’t, did they? they were just practice for me.” 

his thumb finally brushes over your clit, just once, and the contact makes you cry out—a broken, desperate sound that echoes off the glass walls, your hips jerking upward, chasing more. he pulls back, watching you squirm with a smile that’s all teeth, his eyes glinting with satisfaction, his jaw tight as he savors your desperation.

“my clit,” you sob, beyond caring about dignity, tears spilling freely, your lips trembling, your eyes wide with need. “please touch my clit, please, i’ll tell you whatever you want—” your voice is raw, trembling, and your core clenches with need.

“good girl,” he purrs, but there’s something twisted in the praise, his eyes narrowing, a faint smirk curling his lips as he watches your face contort. “see how easy it is when you’re honest? when you stop pretending to be something you’re not?”

finally, finally his thumb presses against your clit properly, and the sensation makes you keen—a high, desperate sound that you don’t recognize as coming from your own throat. he starts with slow, deliberate circles, his thumb grinding against your swollen clit with cruel precision, dragging across the sensitive nerves, each motion sending jagged bolts of pleasure through your core.

his fingers tease your dripping pussy, sliding through your slick folds with a taunting drag, collecting your arousal as your hips jerk, desperate for more of his merciless touch.

“oh god,” you gasp, hips bucking against his hand involuntarily. the sound of your wetness is obscene in the quiet villa, slick and desperate, echoing off the glass walls. your cunt clenches, aching for him to fill it, as his thumb shifts to sharp, rapid taps, then slow, punishing drags that make your thighs quiver, your clit pulsing under his cruel attention.

“louder,” he commands, pressing harder on your clit, his thumb scraping across it with a vicious flick, sending a white-hot jolt through your body that makes you whimper, your breath catching in your throat. “want to hear every sound you make. want to memorize exactly how you break apart for me.”

but the touch is gone almost immediately, leaving you gasping and clenching around nothing. he’s back to those maddening almost-touches, fingertips trailing through your soaked folds with clinical fascination, teasing your entrance with featherlight strokes that make your cunt ache for more, his movements slow and deliberately cruel.

“so wet already,” he observes, his voice a low, clinical murmur. “soaking my fingers and we’ve barely started. your body just gives you away, doesn’t it? doesn’t even wait for you to be awake to do what it’s made for. it knows who it belongs to, even when you don’t.”

before you can answer, he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with an obscene thoroughness that makes you whimper. his eyes never leave yours as his tongue laps at your slickness, swirling over each digit, savoring the taste of your pussy, and the sight is so filthy and intimate that your cunt clenches, a fresh wave of slickness dripping down your thighs.

“sweet,” he says after he’s licked them clean. “everything about you tastes perfect.”

his hand returns between your legs, fingers sliding through your drenched folds with devastating precision, parting your pussy lips with slow, deliberate drags. the wet sound fills the air, obscene and desperate. he finds your clit and circles it slowly, then switches to quick, vicious taps, building a rhythm that has you writhing beneath him, spine arching off the silk sheets as broken whimpers spill from your lips, your thighs trembling with the intensity of it.

your vision blurs at the edges, the room spinning as pleasure builds like pressure in your skull. you hear yourself making sounds you don’t recognize—breathless gasps, broken moans, words that might be his name or pleas. but every time you get close to the edge he backs off, switching to lighter, teasing strokes, his fingers grazing your cunt with cruel restraint, leaving you suspended in a limbo of need that feels like drowning.

“please,” you sob after the third time he brings you to the brink only to pull back, and your voice cracks on the word, raw and desperate. tears stream down your cheeks—when did you start crying? “please, satoru, i can’t take this, i can’t—”

“you can,” he says firmly, and there’s steel in his voice now, authority that brooks no argument. “you can take whatever i give you, can’t you? my perfect, patient girl.”

he slides one finger inside your aching cunt as he says it, and the intrusion makes you arch with a sharp gasp that echoes off the walls. your body clenches around him involuntarily, desperate for more, as he twists his finger with a vicious grind, dragging against your sensitive inner walls with a cruel, deliberate stroke that sends fire through your core.

the sensation is overwhelming—his finger twisting inside your pussy, grinding against that sensitive spot, while his thumb torments your clit with sharp flicks and slow, scraping drags, the dual stimulation shattering your thoughts. you can feel yourself dissolving, the careful walls you’ve built around who you’re supposed to be crumbling with each merciless movement of his hand.

“look at you,” he murmurs, adding a second finger, stretching your cunt with a slow, forceful thrust, then pulling back to stroke shallowly at your entrance before plunging deeper, making you keen—a sound you’ve never made before, high and broken and completely involuntary. “falling apart so beautifully. is this what you wanted when you started your little game? to end up spread out for me, begging?”

the question cuts through the haze of pleasure like a blade. your little game. he knows. of course he knows. but instead of stopping, instead of feeling shame, you just clench tighter around his fingers, chasing the sensation that’s making everything else fade to static.

“that’s what I thought,” he says, and there’s dark satisfaction in his voice as he works you methodically, building toward something that feels bigger than pleasure, something that feels like complete dissolution. “my perfect little schemer, so good at manipulating everyone else. but you can’t manipulate this, can you? can’t control how your body responds to me. so loud for me. what would people think if they heard my perfect little schemer now?”

the thought should mortify you—the villa is isolated but not soundproof—but instead it makes you moan louder, the idea of being heard, of being claimed so thoroughly that even strangers would know you belong to him.

“you like that idea,” he observes, and there’s dark satisfaction in his voice. “like the thought of people knowing you’re mine.”

he adds a third finger and you keen, back arching off the bed as he stretches your pussy wider than you’ve ever been, the sensation teetering between pleasure and pain, your body trembling as it struggles to take him.

he slides his fingers in deep, then pulls back to stroke shallowly, teasing your entrance with quick, brutal thrusts before plunging back in, grinding against your inner walls with a cruel twist.

“god, you’re so tight,” he says, a note of sharp amusement in his voice. “all those other cocks, and you still feel brand new. did they even count?” the wet sounds are obscene as he works his fingers deeper. “don’t worry. i’ll open you up properly. i’ll make sure you can take all of me, because you’ll have to. this is what you really are when you stop all that clever scheming, isn't it? just a perfect, greedy cunt made for me.”

tears stream down your cheeks freely now, but you can’t tell if they’re from the physical intensity or from something deeper—the way he’s seeing right through you, stripping away every pretense until there’s nothing left but raw need and the terrifying realization that you want this, you want him to see you like this.

your body feels hypersensitive, every nerve crackling with electricity, the silk beneath you damp with sweat, your skin flushed and burning despite the ocean breeze. when you try to close your legs instinctively he forces them apart with his free hand, grip firm and possessive, his nails biting into your thigh.

“ah, ah, ah,” he chides softly, cruel amusement in his tone. “don’t you dare hide from me. look at you—clenching around my fingers like you’re starving, and you think i’d let you shut those pretty thighs and keep your slutty cunt all to yourself?”

he presses you wider, spreading you obscenely open, his gaze devouring the sight of your soaked cunt wrapped tight around his hand. “be a good girl and let me see it. every twitch, every little spasm. i want to watch you disgrace yourself.”

the shame floods your chest hot and heavy, but the words only make your walls flutter tighter around him. his breath catches, a low, hungry laugh breaking from his throat. he’s still fully clothed while you’re splayed naked beneath him, and the imbalance feels deliberate—like a scientist dissecting his favorite specimen, like a god pulling apart something that belongs only to him.

“eyes on me,” he commands when your eyes start to flutter closed, overwhelmed by sensation. “don’t hide it. i want to see every filthy little expression you make.”

you force your eyes open, meeting his gaze as he works you closer to the edge with surgical precision. his glasses have slipped down his nose, eyes dark with hunger behind the lenses, and there’s something almost clinical in how he watches you—like he’s cataloguing every micro-expression, every broken sound that spills from your lips.

your thoughts feel scattered, fragmented. the careful persona you’ve built crumbles with each vicious twist and stroke of his fingers, each brutal tap and drag of his thumb. you can feel yourself breaking apart, but instead of fear there’s only relief—relief at finally being seen, at having someone strip away all your defenses and want what they find underneath.

"are you about to come?" he asks, his voice losing its heat and taking on a cooler, almost clinical curiosity. his head tilts slightly, glasses slipping just a fraction down his nose as he studies your face like a fascinating experiment.

you can only nod frantically, a pathetic gesture because words have abandoned you entirely. your body is wound so tight you feel like you might shatter, pleasure building like a storm in your core that threatens to sweep away everything you thought you were.

but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he stops completely. he doesn't just pull his fingers out—he draws them back with agonizing slowness, leaving your cunt empty and desperately clenching around nothing as a sob tears from your throat. he holds his slick fingers up in the low light, examining them, and you, for a long moment, a faint, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

“no,” you cry, reaching for him with shaking hands. “please, don’t stop, i was so close—”

“i know,” he says, and the smirk widens into a smile that’s all sharp, beautiful teeth. there is no mercy in his eyes, only a bright, terrible amusement. “but you don’t get to come until i say you can. until i want to watch it happen. understand?”

you nod frantically, tears blurring his triumphant face, desperate to be good for him, to prove you can follow his rules. when his fingers return, they don’t plunge back in. they slide through your soaked pussy, tracing lazy, shallow circles at your entrance, a cruel tease that makes you bite your lip so hard you taste copper, trying to hold back the whimper that threatens to escape.

“good girl,” he murmurs, and the praise is a cold, condescending thing. he begins working you slowly again, building that familiar pressure, his thumb pressing lightly on your clit just to feel it pulse. “see how pretty you are when you listen?”

but his fingers are so skilled, grinding against that perfect spot inside your cunt with a vicious, practiced twist, and your body betrays you despite your best efforts. you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, muscles tensing, breathing growing ragged as he works you with relentless precision, his own breathing staying perfectly even. he’s not even close to losing control.

“not yet,” he warns, the words a low murmur, but his fingers don’t stop their devastating rhythm. his other hand comes up to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “hold it. i want to see you try.”

you try—god, you try so hard to be perfect for him, clenching your jaw and fists, your whole body a taut wire of resistance against the rising tide of sensation. but he feels you failing. he knows your body better than you do. he shifts his angle just slightly, grinding his fingers with a cruel, knowing precision against that spot that makes you see stars, and your control shatters completely.

the orgasm crashes over you without permission, a violent, tearing wave that rips a raw scream from your throat. you feel yourself gush around his fingers, a hot, shameful flood of wetness soaking his hand, the silk sheets, your thighs, as your body convulses with a pleasure so intense it feels like a punishment. your cunt pulses wildly, desperately, trying to pull him impossibly deeper.

for a moment you can’t even think, only ride it out, mouth falling open on a strangled, broken cry as your body betrays you completely. your vision whites out, your thighs tremble and knock together, every nerve lit with an unbearable, agonizing release.

then, when it finally ebbs, the horror rushes in—icy, sharp, slicing through the haze. you see the mess, a dark stain on the pristine sheets, feel the way his fingers are still buried inside you, unmoving, and the shame is so thick it clogs your throat.

“oh,” you gasp, voice raw, trembling with a pathetic, panicked energy. “oh no, i—i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to—”

when you finally force yourself to look up at his face, the expression there makes your blood freeze. there’s no anger. it’s worse. it’s a mask of cold, theatrical disappointment, but underneath it, his eyes are glittering with a bright, terrible satisfaction. a tiny muscle is twitching in his jaw, not with rage, but with the effort of holding back a triumphant smile. he is enjoying this. he is feeding on it.

“what did i just tell you?” his voice is quiet, a deadly calm that feels louder than a shout. he doesn't move his fingers, just lets them rest inside you, a heavy, damning presence. “i gave you one, simple rule. what was it?”

“i tried,” you whisper, fresh tears of humiliation spilling over, hot against your skin. “i tried so hard, i promise—”

“clearly not hard enough.” he pulls his fingers out abruptly, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room. he leaves your cunt clenching around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs onto the ruined silk. the sudden emptiness, the cold air on your wet skin, rips a whine from your throat before you can stop it, high and needy, shameful in its desperation.

he clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and deliberately condescending. “listen to you,” he drawls, his gaze dropping to the mess between your legs, then back to your face. “whining like a desperate slut the moment i stop touching you. you’ve gotten too comfortable, haven’t you? too used to me giving you everything you want, following your every whim like some pathetic puppy.”

the words cut deep because there’s truth in them—you have gotten used to his devotion, his willingness to spoil you, to treat you like something precious.

“that’s not—” you start, but he cuts you off with a look so cold it silences you.

“no?” his hand comes up to cup your face, his grip a little too tight, his thumb brushing away your tears with a mock tenderness that makes your skin crawl. “then why did you just disobey me? why did you take what i told you to wait for? you took it from me.”

you can’t answer because he’s right—you did take it, couldn’t stop yourself from falling over the edge he told you to avoid. your body feels hypersensitive, every nerve raw and exposed, the shame of your failure burning almost as hot as the lingering pleasure.

“spoiled little thing,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soft, almost gentle whisper that’s somehow more terrifying. he leans in close, his breath warm against your ear. “always so used to getting your way. but that’s my fault, isn’t it? i’ve been too lenient with you.”

his other hand returns between your legs, fingers sliding slowly, deliberately through the slickness you’ve made, spreading it over your throbbing flesh. you gasp at the sensitivity, your thighs trembling, trying to close them, but his grip on your jaw tightens. everything feels too much, too intense, but when you try to pull away his body just pins you more firmly.

“shh, no running,” he murmurs, his voice deceptively gentle, as if calming a frightened animal. “your body is just confused. it wants this, remember? you cried when i took it away from you.” he presses a soft kiss to your temple, a gesture completely at odds with the cruelty of his intentions. “you made a mess by losing control. the consequence is that i have to be in control for you now. just let me.”

he slides two fingers back inside your cunt and you cry out—a sharp, wounded sound. it’s too much too soon after your orgasm, pleasure bordering on a raw, abraded pain as he works you with a cold, clinical precision, grinding against your sensitive inner walls with cruel, deliberate strokes.

but even as you whimper and squirm, he leans down to capture your lips in a kiss that isn’t gentle at all. it’s a bruising, possessive claiming of your mouth, his teeth scraping your lip as he forces your head back into the pillows, his tongue sweeping inside to tangle with yours. he is kissing you to silence you, to own you from both ends at once.

“shh,” he murmurs against your mouth, his fingers twisting inside you with a particularly vicious grind. he feels you flinch. “i know it’s intense, baby. i know it hurts. but you need to learn.”

the contrast is dizzying—his fingers punishing and relentless, twisting inside your pussy until you see spots, while his mouth moves with a soft, sweet thoroughness against yours, tasting your tears and your panic. it’s cruel and loving and completely confusing, making your already fractured thoughts scatter further.

“please,” you sob against his lips, the word muffled and broken, not even sure what you’re begging for anymore.

“please what?” he asks, pulling his mouth away just enough to watch your face as he adds a third finger, stretching your cunt so painfully you keen, your back arching off the bed. his eyes are dark, hungry, fascinated by the tears welling up again. “please stop? please more? you need to be clearer, sweetheart.”

but you can’t be clearer because you don’t know what you want except for this feeling to never end, for him to keep kissing you while he takes you apart, for the terrible sweet contradiction of pain and pleasure and love all tangled together.

“you want to come?” he growls, his voice gone completely dark, the mask of disappointment replaced with raw, unveiled hunger. “then fucking take it. show me how completely you can lose yourself for me. let’s see you break.”

the orgasm slams into you like lightning, so intense that you actually scream, a high, thin sound of pure overwhelm. your body convulses around his fingers, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over you, your cunt pulsing wildly, soaking his hand again and again. you’re dimly aware of sobbing, not quietly, but in huge, ugly, gulping breaths, tears streaming down your cheeks from the sheer intensity of it all.

but he doesn’t stop. his fingers keep moving, grinding that spot inside your pussy while your body tries to recover, the overstimulation so intense it borders on a sharp, burning pain, each new spasm a fresh agony of pleasure.

“too much,” you gasp, pushing at his wrist. he answers by bringing your own hand to his mouth, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles even as his fingers inside you twist with a cruel, deliberate pressure.

“oh, but there is,” he whispers against your skin, his smile predatory and pleased. “there’s so much more to give you. i love it when you sound like this. you’re so pretty when you cry for me.”

and that one word—pretty—is the final, beautiful nail in the coffin. it takes the shame of your tears, the humiliation of your broken sobs, and transforms it into an offering.

it’s not a sign of your failure to control yourself—it’s a sign of your success at finally pleasing him in the purest way possible. the realization lands not with a crash, but with a quiet, devastating click of acceptance. and the worst part, the most damning truth of it all, is how much you like it. how right it feels to not just be seen in this state of utter ruin, but to be praised for it. to be completely, utterly undone, and to finally be called beautiful for it.

“one more for me,” he tells you, his voice a soft, instructional murmur as his hand shifts, adding a fourth finger that stretches your cunt so wide you can barely breathe, a sharp, burning tear of sensation that makes you gasp. “let’s see if we can get you past thinking. that’s where you’ll be prettiest, i know it. when it’s just pure feeling, and all of it is for me.”

the stretch is intense, almost painful, but your body adapts with a shocking, humiliating ease, your pussy gripping him tightly, slick and needy. like you really were made for this, made to take whatever he wants to give you.

“that’s it,” he praises, but the sound is less a compliment and more a satisfied confirmation as you adjust to the intrusion. he starts moving his fingers again, a slow, deep rhythm. “see how easy it is when you stop fighting your nature? you just needed someone to show you what you were really for. to be taken like this. to be mine.”

his thumb, slick with your wetness, finds your clit again and you’re already spiraling toward another orgasm, body wound so tight you can barely stand it, the sensation spreading through you like molten gold, your thighs trembling, your breath ragged.

“please,” you sob, the word a constant, broken refrain, not even sure what you’re begging for anymore. release, more pressure, for him to stop, for him to never stop—everything blurs together in a haze of sensation.

“please what?” he asks, his voice gone soft again, but it's a terrifying softness, a gentle tone despite the relentless, punishing grind of his fingers. he leans down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “what do you need, beautiful?”

“you,” you gasp, the admission ripped from the deepest part of you. “need you inside me, need all of you, please—”

his groan is a physical thing, a crack in the careful facade he wears, and the sound vibrates right through you, a low, guttural note of surrender that feels like your victory. he pulls his fingers from your cunt and the loss is immediate, a sudden, shocking hollowness that makes you whimper, a small, pathetic sound in the quiet opulence of the villa.

your body, slick and oversensitive, clenches on nothing, a desperate, silent plea that feels humiliating in its intensity. your hips twitch, an involuntary motion, chasing the memory of his touch, of the pressure that was grounding you.

he sheds his clothes with a brutal efficiency that’s almost frightening, each movement precise and devoid of any wasted energy. it’s not seductive—it’s a preparation. he doesn’t look at you as he unbuttons his shirt, his eyes fixed on some point in the middle distance, as if unwrapping a tool for a specific, delicate job. you can only watch, transfixed, as he reveals himself.

his body is an exercise in contradictions—beautiful and terrible, all hard, lean lines and the kind of latent power that hums under the surface. and his cock… it’s a heavy, arrogant thing, jutting from his body with a slight upward curve, thicker than you’d let yourself imagine, the veins a stark roadmap across its length, a single, clear bead of precum glistening at the tip.

the sight of it, the sheer, solid fact of it, steals the air from your lungs and makes the ache between your legs sharpen into a painful throb.

he is finally, completely naked, and he turns his full attention to you. he looks at you, and it’s not with affection, not with the soft glow of romance.

it’s with the hungry, consuming patience of a collector who has finally acquired a priceless, one-of-a-kind piece and is now deciding exactly how to display it for maximum impact. your stomach twists, a nauseating, thrilling knot of want and a deep, primal fear. this is the point of no return.

“scared?” he asks, settling between your thighs. the mattress dips significantly under his weight, caging you, the movement slow and deliberate. his cock nudges against your slick folds, a heavy, promising pressure that makes a fresh wave of wetness leak from you, shamefully visible on the dark silk of the sheets.

“no,” you lie, but the word is a breathy, broken thing, lost in the space between you.

“liar,” he says, and the fondness in his voice is sharp, almost cruel, the indulgent tone one might use for a favorite, slightly stupid pet that has just performed a predictable trick. he positions himself, just the thick, crowned head of his cock, pressing into your entrance.

it’s a torturous hint of pressure, a question and a threat all at once, and you find yourself arching into him, a silent, desperate plea your body makes without your permission. “it’s okay to be scared,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration that seems to travel from his chest to yours. “it’s okay to want it anyway.”

he pushes in. not with a thrust, but with a slow, inexorable pressure, a deliberate invasion. it’s an agonizingly slow claiming of territory. the initial stretch is a searing, electric burn that makes you gasp, your nails digging into the silk sheets beside you, twisting the expensive fabric in your fists.

he pauses, letting you feel it, letting your body adjust to the first shocking inch of him, his eyes locked on yours, watching the flicker of pain and pleasure in your expression. then he moves again, another slow, grinding inch, stretching you wider. you can feel your inner walls resisting, then yielding, a slow, hot melting around his impossible width.

it’s a process, a complete remaking of your insides to accommodate him, and by the time he sinks himself to the hilt, your breath is coming in ragged, sobbing gasps.

the feeling of him fully inside you is dizzying. a deep, stretching fullness that has finally settled past pain into a profound, grounding pleasure. he’s buried so deep you can feel the solid weight of him against your cervix, a constant, blunt pressure that seems to root you to the bed.

he shifts his hips, a small, grinding motion, and watches, fascinated, as his length creates a slight mound on your lower belly, a visible testament to his possession. his palm comes down to press on it, not hard, but with a firm, proprietary pressure that makes you keen, a high, broken sound. the feeling isn't just fullness anymore—it’s him, a tangible brand on your body, inside and out.

“fuck,” he breathes, the word a rough vibration against your skin as he lowers his weight onto you. “so tight. like you were designed just for me.” his hands find your hips, his grip bruisingly tight, pinning you to the mattress, anchoring you under him.

you can’t answer, can’t think. he starts to move, and the rhythm is a slow, grinding punishment—and with every deliberate, dragging thrust, his other hand grinds against that little mound on your belly.

the sensation is dizzying. you can feel every inch of him, every ridge, every pulse, amplified by that relentless, focused pressure from the outside. he’s fucking you from both sides at once, and it’s too much. he’s not just in your cunt—

he’s in your head, making you hyper-aware of your own body, of how he fills it, of how he is physically altering its shape.

“weren’t you?” he demands, his voice a low growl that seems to echo inside your bones. his thrusts get a fraction deeper, a fraction harder, his cockhead bumping insistently against your cervix.

“yes,” you gasp, the word torn from you on a sob that is equal parts pleasure and surrender. “made for you.”

that’s all it takes. something in him snaps. the slow, controlled rhythm is gone, replaced by a frantic, punishing pace that steals your breath and rattles your teeth. he fucks you like he’s trying to erase everything that isn’t him, his hand a constant, grounding pressure on your belly, a focal point in the beautiful, chaotic storm he’s creating.

a hot wire of sensation is pulled taut in your gut, and you feel yourself unraveling. his free hand slides down between your slick, colliding bodies, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. he doesn't caress it—he grinds his thumb into it with the same brutal rhythm as his thrusts, and the world dissolves into white static.

you come with a scream that feels ripped from your soul, your body convulsing around him, a hot gush of release soaking his cock and the sheets beneath you. he doesn't stop, doesn't even slow, just fucks you through the aftershocks with a relentless, punishing rhythm before finally pulling out.

your cunt is dripping, leaving you aching and empty, a ruin of sensation. but he gives you no time to recover. he grabs your arm, flipping you over with an efficient brutality that leaves your head spinning.

“there you go, beautiful. up on your hands and knees for me,” he coos, his voice soft and hypnotic. “you fell apart so perfectly just now… i think i need to watch it happen from behind. show me how good you can be for me.”

you scramble to obey, your body clumsy and boneless, limbs trembling. you push yourself up, ass high in the air, cunt leaking a mixture of your slickness and his seed onto the pristine silk sheets. the position is inherently degrading, a silent admission of submission.

he doesn't make you wait. he slams back into you from behind, and the angle is so much deeper, so much more raw. it feels like he’s trying to split you in two. your head hits the mattress with a soft thud, a cry of shock and pleasure torn from your throat. one hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back and to the side, forcing you to look at nothing, to feel everything.

his other hand slides down the curve of your spine, over your ass, and then his thumb presses deliberately against the tight, untouched pucker of your anus.

you flinch, your whole body going rigid. the touch is so alien, so invasive, it’s a jolt of pure shock to your system. it’s not sexual, not at first. it’s clinical. an assessment.

he leans in, his breath hot against your ear, his voice a low, filthy caress. “oh?” he murmurs, his tone laced with a dark, mocking amusement that makes your skin crawl as he notices the untouched pucker of your anus. “what’s this?”

his other hand, still slick with your cunt's juices from moments ago, slides from your hip and deliberately smears that wetness over your ass, making it easy for his thumb to glide over the sensitive skin. “a little bit of unexplored territory?” 

the feeling of your own juices being used to lubricate a place you've never associated with pleasure is a deeply humiliating, confusing thrill. “don't worry," he whispers, his thumb pressing lightly, insistently, against the tight ring of muscle, making you flinch. "at least you saved this little ass-pussy for me. we'll get to it later. i like knowing there's still a part of you i get to be the first to ruin."

the shame is a hot flush that floods your entire body, from your scalp to your toes. but it’s twisted with a sick, thrilling arousal that makes your cunt clench violently around his cock. he feels it, and his laugh becomes a low, cruel rumble against your back as he starts to fuck you in earnest.

his thumb doesn’t try to enter, just circles the sensitive opening, a constant, humiliating reminder of a boundary he could cross at any moment, of a part of you he has now seen and catalogued and commented on. it makes every thrust feel dirtier, more illicit. the sheer wrongness of the sensation, the slick glide of his thumb over a place you’ve never associated with pleasure, sends a confusing, short-circuiting signal to your brain.

your eyes well up with tears of humiliation and overstimulation. a single, hot tear escapes and traces a path down your temple into your hairline. he sees it. you feel the rhythm of his fucking change, becoming harder, faster, more desperate.

“oh, look at that,” he breathes, his voice thick with a strange, new excitement. his hand leaves your hair and comes around to cup your jaw, his thumb roughly wiping at the wet track on your skin. “a different kind of tear. this one’s from shame, isn’t it? it’s even prettier than the others. does it upset you, being treated like this? does it make you feel like the little slut you are? show me how much.”

he fucks you harder with each question, a brutal, punishing rhythm that drives the air from your lungs. the head of his cock slams into your cervix again and again, making you see spots, a dizzying, painful pleasure that’s already pushing you toward an edge you don’t want.

and all the while, his thumb continues its own separate, maddening torment at your rear. it’s no longer just circling—it presses, nudges, a deliberate, insistent question against the tight, untouched pucker of your asshole that sends confusing sparks of sensation through your overstimulated body.

a choked sob breaks from your lips, a sound of pure protest, your body trying to recoil from the sheer sensory overload. “satoru, please—”

“shh, i know,” he murmurs, his voice going deceptively soft, even as his hips continue their punishing rhythm. “it’s new, isn’t it? you’re not protesting the feeling, beautiful, you’re just scared of how much you’re going to like it. is that it? are you scared of the slut i’m about to make you?”

the raw angle, the punishing depth, and that strange, insistent pressure is too much. you come again, and it’s not a release; it’s a rupture. a messy, sobbing orgasm that feels dirtier, more debased than the last. your face is pressed into the silk sheets, the sound muffled to a pathetic, wet keening as your body convulses around his relentless invasion.

you feel him shudder behind you, a deep, guttural groan vibrating through his body into yours, his own pleasure clearly peaking in direct, parasitic response to your distress. he feeds on this.

he doesn’t stop. he doesn't even try to acknowledge your climax. he just keeps going, his pace never slowing, fucking you through the lingering, hypersensitive spasms and beyond. he’s pushing you past pleasure now, into something else, something raw and overstimulated where every nerve ending is screaming in a language you don’t understand. he refuses you any reprieve.

he pulls back just enough for his thumb to slide down, deliberately gathering the slickness that has gushed from you. you feel the wet, humiliating glide as he smears it over your ass, and your breath hitches on a fresh wave of shame. he's using your own arousal to prepare you for a new violation.

“so wet for me,” he murmurs, his thumb now circling the slick, sensitive ring of your asshole. “let’s put it to good use.”

he teases you, the tip of his thumb pressing against the tight entrance, then retreating, again and again. you squirm, a broken whimper escaping your lips. “no, please, don’t—”

“don’t what?” he whispers, his voice dropping into a silky, dangerous purr. “don’t make you feel good? don’t show you what you really want?”

he ignores your pleas. his thumb presses forward, insistent and slow. the shock of it is a white-hot flash behind your eyes. the tight, resisting muscle gives way to his invasion, a slick, intrusive pressure that feels utterly alien. he’s inside you in two places at once, stretching you, filling you, claiming you in a way that feels absolute and irreversible. a strangled gasp tears from your throat, your nails digging into the sheets.

he doesn’t just leave it there. he begins to move it, a slow, grinding rotation inside you that mirrors the relentless pumping of his cock. it’s a dual assault that makes your mind white out. you are nothing but a collection of violated holes, filled and used and stretched for his pleasure.

“god, you’re so perfect like this,” he whispers, his voice a raw, desperate plea against your ear, his breath hot against your tear-soaked skin. “so open for me, so completely broken. don’t you dare hold anything back now. let me have every last beautiful, shattered piece of you.”

and that’s when he pulls your head back again by a fistful of your hair, yanking you up from the sheets and forcing you to look at him over your shoulder.

his face is flushed a dark, mottled red, his pupils blown so wide and black behind his glasses that there’s no blue left at all. it’s an expression of ravenous, almost painful need, his jaw tight, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a faint snarl. he looks like he’s starving, and your tears, your pain, your complete and utter violation—this is the only thing that can feed him.

the sight is terrifying and deeply, addictively flattering. he wants your pain. he wants your surrender. he wants to ruin you.

and seeing that, seeing the raw, desperate hunger on his face that you, and only you, have caused… it flips a switch deep inside you. the fear doesn’t vanish—it alchemizes into a dark, roaring wave of excitement. this is power. making him look like this. a hot, coiling pressure builds low in your belly, sharp and urgent, a pleasure so intense it’s almost unbearable. you can feel a different kind of climax building, something deeper and more catastrophic.

your sob changes, the note of protest gone, replaced by a raw, hungry need that matches his. “satoru…”

he sees it in your eyes. he sees the shift. a slow, triumphant, predatory smile spreads across his face. “that’s it,” he growls, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. “beg for it.”

he watches your eyes as he grinds his thumb deeper inside you, twisting it with a vicious skill that makes you cry out, a high, thin sound of pure overwhelm. he fucks into you with a new ferocity, chasing the feeling, chasing your breakdown. and as he hits you just right, your eyes locked with his triumphant, hungry gaze, your body unravels completely.

your orgasm is a deluge—a hot, uncontrollable gush of fluid bursts from you, soaking the sheets, his hand, his cock, the sound of it a shocking, obscene splash in the quiet room. your body convulses violently, a pure, physical capitulation that has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with surrender.

he finally pulls out, and before you can fully collapse onto the bed, he’s hauling you up by your arms. you’re pliant, boneless in his grip, a doll for him to position. he drags you, stumbling, toward the wall of glass that overlooks the dark, endless ocean.

“turn around,” he orders, his voice flat, devoid of the passion of a moment ago. it’s a command.

you obey, your legs shaking so hard you can barely stand. you press your hands and forehead against the cool, smooth glass. the immediate chill is a shock against your overheated skin. the room behind you is warmly lit, turning the glass into a near-perfect, one-way mirror reflecting the debauched scene, while also offering a terrifyingly clear view into the vast, empty darkness outside.

it feels like being on a stage, lit for an audience that may or may not be there.

he enters you again from behind, one smooth, brutal thrust that has you crying out, your voice muffled against the glass, your palms slapping against the cool surface. he grabs your hips, pulling you back hard against him, and begins to fuck you against the wall. your breath fogs the surface in front of your face, obscuring your own reflection for a moment before it clears.

he leans in close, his voice a low growl by your ear, his words designed to dismantle you further. “anyone could be out there. a boat. someone on the beach of the next island. they’d see this perfect little picture. they’d see the lights of this pretty glass box, and they’d see you, bent over, taking my cock like a good girl.”

your face twists in the reflection, shame and heat colliding—eyes wet, brows drawn tight, your lips trembling around a broken moan you can’t hold back. your thighs clench, betraying the way your body seizes on his words, the humiliating pulse of pleasure sparking even harder at the thought of being seen.

behind you, his form is a powerful shadow, his expression unreadable, his movements relentless and efficient. he’s railing you, the motion hard, almost impersonal, using your body against the wall, the rhythmic, wet thud of your flesh a crude counterpoint to the gentle, indifferent sound of the waves outside. the sound is obscene, a wet, slapping noise that echoes slightly in the cavernous room.

“you love it,” he states, not a question. his hands leave your hips and slide up your stomach, his fingers spreading out possessively over your skin, a brief, almost tender touch before one hand moves down, his fingers dipping into the slickness between your legs. “love being my filthy little slut on display for the whole world.”

he’s not wrong. the thought of being seen, the sheer, terrifying exposure of it, is the most potent aphrodisiac yet. his fingers find your clit, and the touch is no longer teasing. it’s a harsh, demanding friction, a punishment and a reward all at once, perfectly synced to his ruthless thrusts.

“tell me,” he commands, his voice rough in your ear as he fucks you harder, faster, your reflection a chaotic blur of motion. “tell me what you are.”

“yours,” you sob, the word ripped from a place deep inside you, a place that has finally given up fighting. “i’m yours, i’m your slut, i love it, i love—”

you can’t finish. your final climax is upon you, a tidal wave that promises to drag you under for good. your entire world narrows to the feeling of his cock filling you, his fingers on your clit, your own debased reflection in the glass, and the vast, indifferent darkness beyond.

your orgasm feels like a dissolution, a complete coming apart at the seams. you scream into the glass as you come, a long, ragged sound of pure surrender that fogs the glass one last time.

you feel him follow you over the edge, his own guttural roar lost against your back as he floods you with his release, his body shuddering violently against yours, his fingers still tangled in your hair, keeping you pinned against the glass.

you collapse against the wall, boneless and shaking, held up only by his arms still wrapped around you, his cock still buried deep inside. for a long time, there’s only the sound of your ragged breaths, the distant wash of the ocean, and the slick, cooling feel of sweat and glass against your skin.

you try to remember who you were before this night, before him, but that person is a ghost, a stranger you barely recognize. the woman in the reflection, marked and claimed and utterly, irrevocably debauched, is the only real thing left.

“beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice soft now, almost reverent, as if observing a piece of art he has just finished creating. “utterly fucking perfect. look at you. finally looking like what you are. mine.”

he carries you back to the bed, settling you against the silk sheets with gentle hands that are completely at odds with how thoroughly he just took you apart. when he disappears into the bathroom you expect relief, a moment to collect yourself.

instead you feel hollow, incomplete without him inside you, filling you, claiming you. the emptiness where he used to be throbs like phantom pain, your body already mourning the loss of his possession.

he returns with a warm cloth, and the sight of him makes something desperate and pathetic unfurl in your chest. beautiful and terrible in the dim light, moving with the confident grace of someone who knows he owns everything he surveys—including you. his touch is reverent now as he cleans you, worshipful, but there’s ownership in every stroke of the cloth against your oversensitive skin.

“how do you feel?” he asks, settling beside you with that careful precision that never looks calculated but always is. his fingers find your pulse point, and you wonder if he’s measuring your heartbeat like he measures everything else about you—cataloguing, analyzing, filing away for future use.

“broken,” you whisper, and the word tastes like bitter recognition. broken because you built this trap yourself, baited it with lies and manipulation, then walked right into it. you created the monster that’s now devouring you, fed it exactly what it needed to grow strong enough to consume you completely.

the girl who started this con three weeks ago feels like a stranger now—someone so arrogant she thought she could control a man like satoru gojo and walk away unchanged. someone who deserved exactly what she got.

the tears start without warning, hot and shameful as they track down your cheeks. you’re crying for the person you used to be, the one who thought she was clever enough to play this game and win. crying for every choice that brought you here, every moment you chose the drug of his devotion over your own freedom. crying because you know, with crystal clarity, that given the chance to do it over, you’d make the same choices again.

“good broken or bad broken?” his fingers trace patterns on your skin, soothing and possessive, each touch a reminder that he’s mapped every inch of you now. claimed it all. there’s genuine curiosity in his voice, but underneath it something hungrier—the need to know he’s succeeded in rewriting you completely.

“i don’t know yet,” you admit through the tears, voice barely audible. and you don’t, because the person who would have known the difference—the person who started this con—feels like someone you murdered with your own greed.

his expression shifts as he watches you cry, and there’s something almost fond in the way he observes your breakdown. like a parent watching their child finally learn a difficult lesson.

“oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, thumb catching your tears with genuine tenderness that somehow makes it worse. “shh, it’s okay. let it all out.” his voice is pure comfort, warm honey that soothes even as it suffocates. “my beautiful girl, crying because you finally see how perfect this all is.”

the loving condescension makes you sob harder, ugly broken sounds that he seems to find endearing. he coos softly, gathering you closer against his chest like you’re something precious and fragile.

“there we go,” he whispers, pressing gentle kisses to your hairline. “just feel it, baby. feel how good it is to finally stop fighting what you were always meant to be.” his fingers stroke through your hair with infinite patience, like he has all the time in the world to wait for you to break completely.

“you’re so pretty when you cry for me,” he continues, voice thick with adoration that makes your chest ache. “so honest. this is the real you, isn’t it? not the calculating little actress, just my sweet girl who needs to be taken care of.”

his words are a lullaby designed to lull you into surrender, each one wrapped in such genuine affection that you can’t help but lean into the comfort he’s offering.

he pulls you against his chest, arms wrapping around you like he’s trying to hold you together, and for a moment you just exist in the warm aftermath of your own destruction. but your mind feels scattered, thoughts fragmenting every time you try to focus on anything other than the feeling of being held, claimed, owned so completely by someone who saw through you from day one.

“you know,” he says after a while, voice casual but with an undertone that makes your pulse quicken, “we don’t have to go back.”

the words take a moment to penetrate the haze clouding your thoughts, your brain still drunk on the lingering echoes of pleasure and shame. when they do register, they hit like ice water, shocking you into something resembling alertness.

“what?” your voice comes out smaller than intended, already shrinking from the possibility of disappointing him with the wrong response.

“to the real world,” he clarifies, fingers still tracing those hypnotic patterns that make it so hard to think clearly. “we could stay here. in paradise. just you and me, no distractions, no responsibilities. wouldn’t that be perfect?”

there it is again—that word that’s become both promise and threat. perfect. the standard you’re expected to maintain, the role you’re required to perform for someone who’s been directing this entire play from the beginning.

the idea should terrify you—giving up everything, everyone, your entire life—but instead it sounds like relief. like finally stopping the exhausting performance of being a whole person when all you want is to be his perfect thing.

“stay here?” you repeat, the words feeling foreign on your tongue. as if speaking them makes them real, makes the possibility concrete rather than just another move in his elaborate chess game.

“forever,” he confirms, and there’s something dark and satisfied in his voice that makes your stomach clench with equal parts fear and arousal. “let me take care of you completely. let me give you everything you deserve. you’d never have to think about anything else again.”

never have to think. the offer is tempting in ways that terrify you, because thinking has become so difficult lately. every thought has to be weighed against his preferences, measured against his expectations, filtered through the lens of what will make him happy. it would be so much easier to just... stop.

“i...” you start, then stop, struggling to form coherent thoughts when his fingers are doing that thing again, tracing patterns that short-circuit your ability to focus on anything but him. “but i can’t just disappear. people will worry, my job—”

something flickers across his face, fast as lightning but unmistakable. the warmth drains from his expression like someone switching off a light, leaving his features cold and sharp. his hand stills against your skin completely, the loss of that gentle touch feeling like abandonment.

“people will worry?” he repeats, voice flat and emotionless in a way that makes your blood freeze. he’s not looking at you with love anymore—he’s looking at you like you’re a problem that needs solving. “what people? name one person who’s called you in the past two weeks. one person who’s actually noticed you’ve been busy.”

the silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, because you both know you can’t. the realization hits like a physical blow—you are completely alone, completely dependent on him, and he knows it.

“that’s what i thought,” he says, and there’s something cruel in his smile now. not the loving indulgence you’ve grown addicted to, but something sharp and dismissive. “you’re worried about a job that underpays you? an apartment that’s falling apart? a life so meaningless you had to create elaborate fantasies just to feel important?”

each word is designed to cut, delivered without the gentle cushioning of affection you’ve come to expect. you’re just another disappointment now, another person who’s failed to appreciate what he’s offering. the shift is so sudden, so complete, that you feel like you’re drowning.

“no,” you whisper, the word escaping before you can stop it. there’s still some tiny spark of defiance left, some piece of who you used to be that refuses to be completely erased. “no, i... i had a life. i had things that mattered—”

his laugh is soft and utterly without warmth. “did you? because from where i’m sitting, you spent your whole pathetic existence desperate for someone to notice you. to make you feel special. and the moment someone finally did, you clung to it like a drowning person clings to driftwood.”

the words hit like physical blows because they’re true, every devastating syllable. but that small flame of resistance flickers stubbornly in your chest, making you lift your chin even as tears stream down your face.

“maybe that’s true,” you manage, voice shaking but determined. “but it was still mine. my choice, my life, my—”

“yours?” he interrupts, and now there’s genuine amusement in his voice, the kind reserved for children saying foolish things. “sweetheart, nothing about you has been yours for weeks. your thoughts, your preferences, your daily routine—i’ve been shaping all of it. you just didn’t notice because i made you feel good about it.”

the casual dismissal, the complete absence of the devotion you’ve grown dependent on, sends panic racing through your system. this is what happens when you disappoint him—you stop being special, stop being precious, become just another annoyance to be managed.

“please,” the word falls from your lips like a prayer, desperate and broken. “i didn’t mean—i just—”

and just like that, the warmth returns to his eyes like sunrise after the longest night. his hand finds your cheek again, thumb brushing away tears with infinite gentleness, and the relief is so overwhelming you nearly sob with it.

“oh, my beautiful girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with love and understanding. “i know you’re scared. change is frightening, even when it’s good for you.” his touch is reverent now, worshipful, everything you’ve been craving. “but fighting me only makes it harder. you know that, don’t you?”

“i mean,” you nod quickly, voice getting smaller, more desperate to fix whatever you’ve broken, “maybe... maybe you’re right. maybe there’s nothing really worth going back to.”

“that’s my perfect girl,” he murmurs, his voice overflowing with genuine pride and adoration that makes warmth bloom in your chest despite everything. he’s looking at you like you’ve just given him the most precious gift in the world. “see? a beautiful thing isn’t meant to struggle so hard. you were made to be cherished, to be taken care of. it’s so much easier this way, isn’t it?”

“it is easy,” you whisper, the words feeling both foreign and terribly true at the same time. you lean into his touch, a silent plea for more of that warmth. “it’s so much easier than fighting.”

his breath hitches, and he gathers you closer, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your temple. “of course it is, beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “i’ll always make it easy for you. that’s my only job now.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. “we could extend our stay,” he continues, the idea sounding less like a question and more like a foregone conclusion. “just a few more weeks at first. see how it feels. and if it’s everything i know it will be…” he trails off, letting the implication hang in the air like smoke.

a small, panicked thought about your job, your apartment, your entire life, flickers and dies in your mind. it doesn't matter. nothing matters as much as keeping that coldness out of his eyes.

“if it would make you happy,” you hear yourself say, the words a perfect echo of the person he wants you to be. “then i want to stay.”

the effect is immediate and overwhelming. his entire expression softens into one of pure, unadulterated adoration. he looks completely undone by you. “oh, baby,” he breathes, his fingers tangling in your hair with a devotion that feels like worship. “you have no idea. hearing you say that… it’s all i’ve ever wanted.” he presses his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “my sweet, perfect girl. you always know exactly what i need to hear.”

he pulls back, his fingers now carding through your hair with such tender devotion that you feel yourself melting into his touch, your body going pliant against his. “no more worrying about anything except being happy with me. doesn’t that sound wonderful, sweetheart?”

he’s asking for the final nail. the last little bit of surrender. he wants to hear you say that this gilded cage he’s offering is a paradise.

“yes,” you breathe, turning your face to press a kiss into the palm of his hand, a gesture of pure, instinctual submission. “it sounds wonderful.”

he closes his hand gently, as if capturing the kiss, and brings your knuckles to his lips. his smile is radiant, beautiful, and completely, utterly triumphant. “and i’ll make it perfect for you,” he promises, his voice a low, final vow against your skin. “always. i’ll take care of everything—canceling your flight, extending the villa, handling anything back home that needs handling. you don’t have to worry about any of it.”

handling anything back home. the phrase sends a chill down your spine even as relief floods through you. what exactly will he be handling? how much of your old life will still exist when you finally decide to return to it? but the questions feel distant, unimportant when weighed against the overwhelming comfort of not having to think, not having to make decisions, not having to be responsible for anything except existing in his orbit.

“just rest now,” he says, pulling the silk sheets up around you both with practiced ease. his movements are sure, confident, like he’s done this before—guided someone through the transition from person to possession with the patience of someone who genuinely loves the process. “tomorrow we’ll start planning our forever.”

forever. the word should sound romantic, should make your heart flutter with excitement. instead, it sounds like a life sentence, beautiful and inescapable. but even that thought feels distant, muffled by the warmth of his arms and the lingering understanding that you brought this on yourself.

as you drift toward sleep in his embrace, you can’t escape the recognition of what’s happening—that you’re disappearing, dissolving into his want until there’s nothing left of who you used to be. the girl who thought she could manipulate satoru gojo is gone, replaced by something smaller and more manageable, something that exists purely for his pleasure and entertainment.

you’re becoming his perfect thing, his ideal woman, his masterpiece. and the most terrifying part isn’t that it’s happening—it’s that you want it to. that the slow erasure of your identity feels like coming home rather than dying, like finally accepting what you were always meant to become.

outside, the ocean whispers its endless song, and you let it carry you deeper into paradise, deeper into the beautiful cage he’s built around your heart with such loving patience. somewhere in the distance, you can hear the sound of doors closing, bridges burning, escape routes disappearing one by one.

but you’re too tired to care, too drunk on his devotion to fight against the current pulling you under. tomorrow you’ll wake up a little less yourself and a little more his, and the day after that even more so, until there’s nothing left but the shape he’s carved out for you to fill.

you’re exactly where you belong, and the thought no longer terrifies you. it feels like accepting a truth you’ve been running from your entire life—that you were always meant to be owned, cherished, completely possessed by someone strong enough to see through your games and patient enough to let you destroy yourself.

you close your eyes and let yourself sink into his embrace, no longer pretending you don’t notice how the tide keeps pulling you further from shore. you built this prison yourself, brick by brick, lie by lie, and now you get to live in it forever.

tomorrow he’ll want you again, and you’ll give yourself over just as completely. the day after that too, and the day after that, until there’s nothing left of who you used to be except the vague memory of someone who thought she could play games with a god and win.

but tonight, in the darkness of paradise, you let yourself admit the truth you’ve been avoiding: you don’t want to escape.

you want to drown in the beautiful inevitability of what you’ve become.

the girl who started this con is dead, and you killed her yourself. what’s left is not a grifter or a goddess but a bird who forgot the sky. a creature born to fly, wings sharp and restless, who chose instead to fold herself neatly into the cage she built herself. because the cage is warm. because the cage is soft. because in spite of your nature, you will stay here forever, perfect and broken, as long as he keeps it comfortable enough.

It’d sounded like a good idea at the time.

But now, as you watch Park Sunghoon–campus golden boy and the boy you’ve been (secretly) in love with for three years–literally drink your experiment, you’re starting to think you might have messed up somewhere.

Let's start at the beginning, shall we?

“Okay, but, like, what are the odds a person could make a real life potion? Or something like it?” Jungwon asks, eyes racing back and forth on the screen as Harry Potter brings back Cedric's dead body.

Yunjin shoots him a glare, her eyes brimming with tears. “Are you seriously asking that right now? Cedric just died!”

He blinks, eyebrows knitting in confusion. "We’ve seen this movie, like, a hundred times.”

“That doesn’t make it any less sad!” She scoffs, reaching for the throw pillow behind her head and tossing it at him.

It hits him square in the chest, but he barely reacts. Just lets it fall into his lap like it'd always been there. “I’m being serious, though!”

Beomgyu hums, popping another pretzel in his mouth. “I’m pretty sure you’re just thinking of chemistry.” 

Jungwon rolls his eyes, shifting in his seat so he can better face the three of you. “I mean like an actual potion. Like ones that make you fall in love or something dumb like that.”

You finally decide to speak up, tucking your feet under yourself and pulling your gaze away from the glowing screen. “You want to know if it’s possible to make a love potion?” You ask, voice laced with disbelief.

But Jungwon doesn’t laugh. If anything, he just looks ten times more serious. “Exactly.”

The three of you go silent, glancing between eachother like Jungwon might reveal he’s joking and he knows something like that isn’t possible. 

Right?

See, there's a lot of issues with being a Biochemistry major. Some of the more obvious being that you’re a woman in a male-dominated field–which is a problem in and of itself–and the other being that it’s extremely difficult.

But the one people don’t talk about is your extreme crave for knowledge. Even if that knowledge has to do with finding out whether or not it’s possible to make a fucking love potion.

And you should shoot the idea down as soon as it comes to your head, really, you should. But there’s that little flicker in the back of your mind, the one that usually gets you into trouble, that has you saying: “It wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

(Newsflash: it really, really would.)

Three weeks. That’s how long it takes the four of you to work out numerous formulas, some which nearly exploded in your face, others that did nothing at all. It wasn’t until you suggested using a bit less magnesium does the whole thing seem to be less far-fetched.

Despite her initial scepticism, Yunjin was insistent on finishing it as soon as possible so that she could make Jay–her second situationship of the month–realize he was in love with her and finally ask her on a proper date. You couldn’t help but feel like maybe that was a little unethical.

Besides, you’d already agreed you weren’t actually going to use the substance on real people. You’d test it on rats, see if it worked, and then go to sleep feeling completely and utterly satisfied.

That was the plan, anyway.

You crossed your legs, pencil tapping against your chin as you read over the equations in your notebook. The experiment was nearly completed–but you just couldn’t figure out how to make sure its effects wore off. Beomgyu had suggested maybe substituting the sodium for something else, but you just weren’t sure what.

Jungwon groans next to you, letting his forehead rest against the desk. “Remind me again why electives insist on giving more work than necessary? Like, why do I have to write a 15,000 word essay on the history of the internet?”

You snort, shaking your head slightly as the eraser of your pencil rubs furiously against your paper. “Remind me again why you chose to take a class on the internet?”

He lifts his head up, glaring at you the entire time. “I wasn’t aware the curriculum included 15 page long think pieces on the significance of Damn Daniel.”

You really laugh at that, lips curling up in a cheeky smile. 

You and Jungwon usually had nightly study sessions at the campus library. It was a good way to unwind while also getting some work done. Well, more like you were getting work done and he was decoding Vine’s cultural significance. 

It’s hard for you to focus though.

Park Sunghoon is considerably the most beautiful man you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing, with raven hair and a smile that stops girls in their tracks, he has officially claimed the title of Campus Golden Boy and local heartthrob.

So how can you be expected to focus when he’s sitting in front of you, looking like that? 

He’s wearing glasses, something you weren’t even aware he needed, slightly hunched over his glowing computer screen with an adorable knit in his brow. The sight should be illegal, honestly. 

You don’t even notice you’re staring until Jungwon nudges your foot with his, a knowing smirk on his face. “If you keep staring at him like that he might think there’s something wrong with you.”

You immediately flush, forcing your gaze back onto your notebook and trying to ignore the fact that your ears have begun to burn something mean.

“I hate you.” You mumble, fully expecting Jungwon to reply with something witty, but it never comes. Instead, when you lift your gaze up, Sunghoon has left his table and begun to make a beeline for you.

Your eyes widen, throat already closing up and panic swelling deep in your chest. You’d definitely been caught and now he was going to confront you about your stalker-like behavior. You briefly wonder how long it takes for the police to arrive when they’re called, because he was definitely coming over to inform you that he’d done just that.

“Stop looking like your five seconds away from combusting.” Jungwon whispers, tone strangely serious.

You do your best to straighten your posture and make it look like there weren’t three-week-old eye bags under your eyes or a mysterious stain on your sweats, but it’s all futile when he flashes you that smile. The one he gave everyone when he was being friendly, something you’d been on the receiving end of before. But, for some reason, this time it feels different.

This time it feels like the start of something new.

He stops at the other end of your table, hand shooting up in a brief wave. “Hi,” He breathes out, “We have chemistry together.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Jungwon kicks your shin and you remember that you should probably reply. ‘Uh–Yeah!” Your voice cracks, tone pitching up higher than you meant it too. You clear your throat with a slight wince, doing your best to give him a smile. “Yes. Yeah. We do.”

He chuckles, bringing a hand up to run through his hair. And, wow, maybe Jungwon was right–you really are about to explode.

“I was having trouble with this last assignment,” He sighs, clearly exasperated, pointing a thumb back at his computer. “What are the chances you might be able to help me?”

Okay. This is fine. Amazing, actually. You’d finished that assignment the other night and you understood it pretty well, so helping him should be a piece of cake.

At least it would be if you didn’t seem to forget everything in his presence. Because you can definitely smell a bit of his cologne right now, sharp and clean, and you think you’re going to die. Yep. You’re going to pass away from cologne.

“Yes,” Jungwon answers for you, already ushering you out of your chair. “She can help you. Trust me, she’s crazy smart.”

Your eyes widen, staring at your friend in horror as he practically pushes you out of your chair and closer to Sunghoon.

“I know.” Sunghoon replies easily, tone light. Two words, but they’re enough to nearly send you melting into the floor.

You do your best to stay composed as Sunghoon leads you back to his table, but you aren’t entirely sure you’re even going to be able to think next to him. Which is definitely a little pathetic when you think about it, but seriously, look at the man. You are not ashamed in the least.

Jungwon shoots you two thumbs up, dimples showing as he smiles like he’s just won the fucking lottery. You don’t return the sentiment, instead shooting him a harsh glare. 

Sunghoon pulls out the chair next to his computer for you, and you sit down shakily. Your nerves feel completely shot, face on fire and your palms becoming uncomfortably moist.

He gestures to the problem on his screen, murmuring something about how he’d been stuck on it for the last hour.

You nod along, chewing on your bottom lip. The equation he was stuck on was thankfully something you knew how to do, so after taking a breath and reminding yourself that he is simply a boy and you are a very smart woman, you manage to explain it to him.

“You put a negative there, but the equations actually positive,” You explain, voice still shaking the tiniest bit, but stronger than it was earlier as you gain back some confidence. “You also wrote the wrong unit over here.”

Sunghoon listens as you explain everything to him, your hands gesturing wildly and words going a mile-a-minute. It’s obvious to anyone watching you that you’re passionate about the subject.

By the time you finish, he’s already fixing his mistakes and taking the steps needed to get the right answer.

He shifts closer to you, finger dragging over the paper with a light touch, “Is this right?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper. He says it loud enough that only you hear, eyes flickering over the side of your face.

You feel that familiar flush building when his knee brushes yours under the table, but do your best to swallow it down. “Uh, yeah. All you have to do now is figure out the correct configuration, which you’re pretty close to doing, and you’ll be good to go.”

He hums, leaning back in his seat and flexing his palms. “How are you so good at this stuff?” He asks with a laugh, eyes raking over yours like he’s trying to fully understand you.

You swallow, playing with your fingers in your lap. “It’s just always interested me, I guess. Like, the fact that we breathe in air and breathe out carbon? And the earth needs carbon to survive, so really we’re helping power the world. It’s all just so fascinating to me!” You’re smiling now, talking animatedly, “It’s difficult, yeah, but it’s also rewarding. Like, watching your experiment work is such a rush and I–”

You cut yourself off, realizing you’re rambling about fucking chemistry like you’re in love with it. He must seriously regret even asking.

“Sorry,” You mumble, nervous laughter bubbling out of you like a defense mechanism.

He shifts, leaning forward onto the table now, face turned so he’s still looking at you. “Don’t be sorry,” He reassures, eyebrows lifting slightly. “I was listening.”

Okay, wow. You are seriously either about to throw up and die or…yeah that’s it. There aren’t any other options.

By the time you make your way back to your table you’re practically shaking, breaths coming in shallow and rushed, your entire body on fire. You feel like you’re in some weird kind of fight or flight.

Jungwons bouncing in his seat, bottom lip sucked into his teeth. He practically pulls you down next to him, beginning to ask you a million questions, but you can’t see him.

All you can focus on is the subtle glance Sunghoon gives you when he leaves.

You should’ve known something was going to go wrong the moment Beomgyu called you. 

“I swear I’ve almost figured it out,” He sighs into the phone. You can’t see him, but you can tell his nose is scrunched up the way it always is when he’s thinking too hard about something. “I think we got the units wrong, but if we can figure out the correct ones it should work.”

You kiss your teeth, bumping your silverware drawer with your hip and letting it slide shut. Your phone rests snugly between your shoulder and ear, your head tilted uncomfortably to accommodate it. “Are you in the lab right now?” You ask.

Beomgyu hums, “Jungwon and Yunjin are here too, but I don’t really know why considering neither of them are doing anything to help.” He says sharply, and you can hear the subtle cries of retaliation from your two friends in the background.

You snort, rolling your eyes slightly. “Okay, well,” You sit on your couch, attempting to get comfortable and placing your plate of food in your lap. “I’m gonna eat this and then I’ll be over, okay? Try not to blow anything up before I get there.”

“No promises.” He groans, tone laced with annoyance, but you know it’s all out of love.

You get there twenty minutes later, hair thrown up and sweats hanging off your body. Very professional, you know.

When you push the metal doors open the first sight that greets you is one you’re quite familiar with. Jungwon and Yunjin fighting with each other over something stupid, and Beomgyu ignoring them like they're his children. Nothing says friendship quite like that.

Yunjin immediately shoots up when you enter, her eyes narrowed with anger. “Can you please tell him that Jay is in love with me before I kill him?”

Jungwon’s quick to follow her, knocking his shoulder with hers so that his frame blocks her from your view. “Can you please tell her she’s known him for a week?"

You roll your eyes and scoot past them, making your way over to Beomgyu. He’s diligently writing down formulas; bottom lip sucked between his teeth. He's giving off a mad scientist vibe right now. Or maybe just a stressed-out university student vibe. Both are interchangeable.

You nudge his shoulder to get his attention, but he barely even glances at you. Just continues mumbling out questions like he's expecting the universe to answer him.

“What can I help with?” You ask, throwing on your lab coat and snapping on a pair of medical gloves.

He groans, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. He gestures lazily to the counter top, where a small gatorade bottle is sitting where the glass test tubes usually do. “Those two idiots broke the glass tubes I was holding the liquid in so now I have to use this janky bottle,” He mutters, throwing a glare at Yunjin and Jungwon.

Your experiment was currently sitting in a Blue Crush Gatorade bottle, floating around the bottom unsuspectingly. You snort at the sight, rolling your eyes slightly. “I think they have some extra next door,” You sigh, turning on your heel to go grab them.

But before you can even think about pushing the door open, Sunghoon reveals himself on the other side.

He’s still in his hockey uniform, helmet hanging from his hand and cheeks flushed a lively pink. You both stand there for a moment, blinking like you’re waiting for each other to make the first move. Jungwon and Yunjin even stop bickering, the both of them staring at you with wide eyes and cunning smiles.

Sunghoon clears his throat, gripping his helmet just the tiniest bit tighter. “Sorry for bothering you,” He murmurs, “I, uh, forgot something in here. Just stopping by to grab it.”

You’re silent for a moment too long, trying to string together a sentence without sounding it’s your first day on earth. It turns out, it’s a bit difficult to do that when Sunghoon is staring at you like that.

Like he’s trying just as hard as you are to not burst at the seams. 

“Can I scoot past?” he asks, tone small and light, a shy smile playing on his lips.

You swallow, managing a small nod and moving to the side weakly. His fingers brush yours when he scoots past, sending a cool shiver down your spine, one that shouldn’t feel as electric as it does.

He waves at Jungwon and Yunjin, who both give him polite smiles, but you can see the way their eyes shine at him. Like they know something he doesn’t–which they do–but still.

Yunjin hurries over to your side as soon as his back is to you, giving you the brightest smile you think you’ve ever seen. She grabs your bicep with her manicured hand, squeezing it so tightly you have half the mind to think it’ll bruise.

“Oh my God,” She whispers, eyes flickering between you and Sunghoon, whose eyebrows seem to be narrowed in confusion as he looks for whatever it is he left. “Did you see the way he looked at you?”

You immediately flush, smacking her lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up.” You grumble.

“I’m being serious!” She defends, wiggling her eyebrows. “Even I got butterflies.”

You run a hand over your face, head shaking slightly. “Yunjin, seriously, stop talking.”

She laughs, but you can’t find it in yourself to laugh with her. Even if Sunghoon was looking at you a certain way, it didn’t mean anything. Not when Sophia was still around.

Sophia was the complete opposite of Sunghoon. A rude party girl who assumed the world revolved around her and her perfectly blown-out hair. And somehow, someway, she’d gotten the dark-haired man wrapped around her perfectly manicured finger.

Their relationship was constantly off and on, mostly because Sophia could never seem to make up her mind on what man she was interested in that week. And Sunghoon, poor, beautiful Sunghoon, always went back to her. Sometimes you wondered if she had some kind of blackmail on him. Or maybe he was just a secret masochist. Both answers were equally concerning.

They seemed to be on one of their breaks right now, but everyone knows it's only a matter of time before she's showing up at his games again. You hate that the thought of it fills your chest with green smoke.

You turn around on your heel to continue your walk to the classroom next door, but the sound of Beomgyu shrieking stops you.

You whip around, half expecting something to have exploded, but instead the sight you’re met with is worlds more alarming. 

Sunghoon, the campus golden boy and secret love of your life, is drinking your experiment. Literally. Lid to mouth, chugging it like it's water.

Beomgyu rips it from him, but it’s too late. Almost all of the liquid, aside from a few measly drops in the bottom, is gone.

The four of you freeze, watching Sunghoon like he’s grown three heads. But the boy in question just blinks at you with confusion. His tongue flicks out to lick a drop off his bottom lip, eyes flickering between the three of you. “What?

Beomgyu takes a cautious step towards him, arm held out like he’s worried Sunghoon might go rabid and lunge at him. “Do you feel anything…strange?”

Sunghoon swallows awkwardly, lips curving into a concerned smile. “Um,” he murmurs, letting out a nervous laugh. “Should I?”

You share a glance with Jungwon, who just shrugs his shoulders. The four of you are in different stages of shock, because why would somebody drink a mysterious liquid in a lab? What is the thought process behind that?

Yunjin looks like she's holding back a laugh, which isn't that shocking since she always laughs at the most inappropriate times. Meanwhile Jungwon looks nearly amused, like he'd known this would happen, and Beomgyu just looks pissed.

“Sunghoon,” Jungwon murmurs, circling the ravenette like he’s studying him, a hand on his chin. “Why did you drink out of that bottle?”

Sunghoon watches him, head twisting around his shoulder every time Jungwon makes his way out of his line of sight. “Because it’s mine? I left it here last night.” He answers casually.

Your eyes snap to Beomgyu, watching as his eyes trail down to the bottle in his hand. 

“You guys alright?” Sunghoon asks, tone laced with suspicion. Not that you can really blame him.

Yunjin’s the first to answer, a honey-sweet smile on her face. “Oh, yeah, we’re good! Just…deadlines. You know how people get.” 

Sunghoon nods, eyebrows knit together. “Right,” He mumbles, pursing his lips slightly. His eyes flicker between all of you once more, like if he stares at you long enough one of you might break. 

When his eyes land on you, he pauses. It’s just a moment, something you wouldn’t have caught if you weren’t paying attention, but something you aren’t quite sure how to place flashes in his gaze. Something far too real and confusing.

“I should, uh,” He swallows, gesturing lazily towards the door. “I should go.”

You nod, lips parted slightly as he slips past you. 

Beomgyu clearly wants to stop him and ask more questions, maybe try and keep him for observation, but you shoot him a look that tells him to let it go. Your experiment being gone sucks, yes, but if he seems fine then there isn’t any reason to scare him. And if he isn’t fine later then you can deal with it then.

Sunghoon glances back at you before he leaves, lips parting like he wants to say something more, but he decides against it. Instead, he pushes the door open and steps back outside, leaving the four of you to try and come to terms with what happened.

Theres a pregnant pause, mostly because you think nobody really knows how to approach the situation. How do you move on with your day after your personal campus celebrity drank your fucking experiment? It's seriously a valid question.

Yunjin clears her throat, arms crossing over her chest. “So... does this mean I can’t use it on Joshua?" She asks, expression completley serious.

Beomgyu lets out a large sigh, fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose like it might ground him. “Yunjin,” He murmurs, “Shut up.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "It was a genuine question."

Your lips tighten, hand reaching out to give her a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You weren't going to be able to use it on him anyway."

"You don't know that!"

You can’t help but feel on edge when you walk into your Chemistry lecture the next day, hands gripping your computer tighter than necessary.

Would Sunghoon be here? Would he be okay? Did he die sometime in the night and the campus just wasn’t aware? What if the police were waiting for you so they could question you?

What would you even say? Well, you see officer, he kind of drank my experiment. So sorry it killed him! Yeah, no. That wasn’t gonna work.

To your relief, there aren’t any police officers waiting for you in the lecture hall, and Sunghoon seems to be perfectly fine.

Except, he’s sitting in Yunjin’s usual seat right next to yours.

You immediately pause, heart dropping to your stomach. This has never happened, ever, and you already know it must mean bad news.

He’s writing something in his notebook casually, hair curling over his forehead in a way that makes him look hand-sculpted by the Gods themselves. Your mouth goes dry, eyes flickering across the room until they land on a sly looking Yunjin. She curls her fingers at you in a sultry wave, like she knows exactly what she’s done–which you’re sure she does.

And, conveniently, every other seat in the room is full. Which means you have no other choice than to sit by Sunghoon.

Which is perfectly fine. Yep. It’s fine.

You force yourself to make your way to your seat, feet dragging the entire way, head hanging so that your hair covers your face. Is it a little pathetic? Yeah, definitely. But you’re way past caring.

You try to sit down as incredulously as possible, making sure your body is conveniently facing away from him. And for the first few minutes it works! Sunghoon doesn’t glance at you when you open your computer and pull up the assignment, doesn’t even blink when you sneeze right next to his ear.

And when you think you’re finally in the safe–finally feel like you can let yourself relax–it happens.

Sunghoon turns to you, his cheeks flushed a strange shade of pink, eyes strangely bright and pupils blown, and says in a scarily serious tone, “How are you, beautiful?”

You don’t even register it at first. It feels so absurd, so out of reach that he could even be thinking about saying that to you, that you completely ignore him. You assume he must be on the phone with Sophia, because there is absolutely no way Park Sunghoon just called you beautiful. It just wasn’t possible.

But then his foot finds yours under the table, and he starts trying to play fucking footsie with you. You freeze momentarily, brain trying it’s very hardest to catch up with whatever the hell it is that’s going on right now.

You swallow, finally forcing yourself to look at him. For a moment you really wish you hadn’t, because he’s got this cheeky smile going on, like he’s content just being in your presence.

You clear your throat, looking around once more for confirmation that he isn’t talking to anyone else. Your pointer finger comes up to point at yourself hesitantly, voice coming out in a small whisper when you say, “Are you talking to me?”

His foot stops nudging against yours now that you’ve finally answered him, and his smile widens. “Who else would I be calling beautiful?”

You nearly choke on your own spit, hand flying up to your mouth as you fall into a coughing fit. Sunghoons hand comes up to rub soothingly on your back like he’s done it a million times.

“What are you talking about?” You manage between coughs, eyes wide like you’ve just seen a bomb go off. 

Well, this certainly feels like one has.

Your mind can't even make sense of what he's saying. It almost feels like he's speaking another language and you're using google translate to try and communicate with him.

Sunghoon laughs, head shaking as his hand travels up to ruffle your hair. “You’re so funny sometimes, really. Did you know that? Honestly, I’ve always thought you were the funniest girl I’d ever met. And the prettiest.” His eyelashes flutter, leaning his cheek onto his hand like he’s got some type of school-girl crush. “I want the whole world to know just how perfect you are.”

You’re too shocked to even respond, lips opening and closing while you rack your brain for anything to say. This is so out of character for Sunghoon. Not just because his admiration is aimed at you, but because you’ve gone to university with him long enough to know he doesn’t act like this.

And then it hits you.

The fucking experiment.

You are so screwed.

You clear your throat, glancing around warily. Your professor started lecturing a few minutes ago, but you were so busy with Sunghoon you had no idea what it was he was even talking about.

You suck in a shaky breath, “Okay, listen, I know you’re probably confused right now." You attempt, voice quiet as to not draw any attention to what’s going on. “But you drank something you shouldn’t have yesterday, which isn’t your fault! Me and Beomgyu just have to figure out how to reverse its effects! Unless, of course, it wears off by itself. That would definitely be ideal.” You mumble the last part, bottom lip finding its way between your teeth just like it always does when you’re thinking too hard.

Sunghoon watches you with a dopey smile on his face, clearly not caring about anything that you’re saying. The sight makes your heart stutter, which you know shouldn’t happen. Personal feelings about Sunghoon aside, he doesn’t actually feel anything for you. He just thinks he does.

“You’re so cute when you’re focused.” He murmurs, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

Your breath catches when the tips of his fingers brush against your cheek, the touch soft and intentional. He's gazing at you with so much love, so much genuine feeling, it breaks your heart the tiniest bit.

And you wonder for the briefest moment what would happen if you let yourself indulge in this. Even if just for a day. Would it be so bad?

He pulls away from you slowly, the tips of his ears pink and his lips curled into a shy smile. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs again.

You sigh, letting your head fall into your hands. “Sunghoon–”

He stands from his seat abruptly, his chair scratching against the floor obnoxiously. You wince, head whipping up to figure out what the hell it is he’s doing.

“Everyone!” He announces, voice booming through the lecture hall. You immediately scramble to stop him, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt to try and pull him back down. He just ignores you, instead choosing to continue to address the whole class like he’s giving some big speech.

“I’m in love–!”

Yeah, no.

You practically wrestle him into his chair, pulling on his arm so hard he nearly collapses into your lap. You push him into his chair, a shaky smile on your face.

The class stares at you with unamused frowns, all clearly annoyed at having the lecture interrupted by Sunghoons near-declaration.

You clear your throat, hands waving in front of you. “He’s just not feeling well,” You attempt nervously, a humorless laugh bubbling out of your lips like it might save you from embarrassment. It doesn’t.

Your professor fixes you with a stern look, one that you’d never been on the receiving end of until this moment. Now, you’re starting to understand why people say she’s so icy.

You murmur out apologies to the room, hoping to ease at least some ofthe growing tension between you and your peers. Yunjins looking at you with genuine shock, her hand covering her mouth like she’s hoping to spare you any kind of embarrassment. It doesn’t work.

You turn your attention back to Sunghoon, who’s giggling in his chair like he’d just witnessed the funniest thing ever.

“What is wrong with you?” You hiss, beginning to pack your stuff as well as his. You’d thought you’d wait until class was over to go find Beomgyu, but after that stunt you’re starting to think your social life might go down if you don’t figureout how to fix this ASAP.

Sunghoon shrugs, fingertips tapping against his thigh. “Is it a crime to tell people about the girl I love?”

You tense for a moment, but don’t stop gathering the rest of your things. “You don’t love me.” You manage out, voice cracking slightly. “You’re just confused.”

Sunghoon grabs your wrist and stops you from closing his notebook, his thumb hovering over your pulse point. “I’m not confused.” He insists, and, God, for a second you almost believe him. It’d definitely be easier to.

But you know he doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s confusing his emotions for you with something else—something that isn’t there.

Something that will never be there.

You pull your wrist out of his grip, a sad smile on your face. “C’mon,” You manage, throwing your bag over your shoulder. “Let's go talk to Beomgyu.”

The walk to Beomgyu’s apartment is filled with endless yapping from Sunghoon and mostly silence from you. You aren’t sure how you should reply to his advances considering he doesn’t actually know what he’s saying. You keep telling yourself to imagine he’s on some weird drug that makes him more open than normal. And ten times more flirty.

Beomgyus apartment is just on the cusp of campus, close enough that it wasn’t a long walk, but far enough to get some sense of individualism. You’d been there a thousand times, whether it was for a casual hangout or to catch up on homework, but never in a million years did you imagine you’d be knocking on the door with Park Sunghoon staring at you like you’d hung the moon and the stars.

“Stop,” You mumble, fist rapping onto the door again. You know Beomgyu’s home right now.

Sunghoon raises a brow, arms crossed as he leans against the wall next to you. “Stop what?” He asks, maintaining his false facade of innocence.

You shoot him a glare, hands gesturing at him wildly. “Stop looking at me like that!”

He just hums, like he’s amused at your reaction. And you know none of this is technically his fault–well, it is but it isn’t–but there’s a growing annoyance in your chest that you can’t seem to get rid of. If you were going to be subjected to another public embarrassment like what he’d pulled in your lecture you think you’ll die.

You huff, fist tapping against the door again. “I know you’re in there, Beomgyu! Stop trying to pretend you aren’t there so I’ll leave!”

There’s a momentary silence, and then the door clicks open and an unamused Beomgyu stares at you from the other side. He’s wearing a white stained shirt, hair sticking up in numerous places. 

He’s a sight for sore eyes, honestly.

“What?” He sighs, staring at you like you’ve interrupted his very busy schedule.

You point over at Sunghoon with your thumb, “We’ve got a massive issue.”

Beomgyu’s eyes trail towards where you’re pointing lazily, like you’re somehow inconveniencing him. He looks Sunghoon up and down, lips twisting into a frown. “I don’t see the problem.” He mumbles.

You sigh, running a hand over your face and letting it slap back down to your thigh. “It worked.” 

Beomgyu raises a brow. “What worked?”

You groan, “The experiment worked.” You hiss, nodding towards Sunghoon slightly. “And now he’s convinced he’s in love with me.”

Beomgyu blinks, and you can practically see the gears turning in his head as he processes what you said. He’s been your closest friend for long enough to know that under different circumstances, Sunghoon confessing his love to you would’ve had you over the moon. He knows you would’ve had a much different reaction to the one you’re giving now, at least.

He licks his lips, glancing around the hallway like he’s expecting someone to jump out at you, and then ushers the both of you into your apartment. Sunghoon tries to grab your hand when you go inside, but you pull away and shoot him a sharp glare. He just smiles back, like your annoyance is the most amusing thing in the world to him.

Beomgyu gestures to the couch, mumbling out a hasty sit before disappearing into his room. You sigh when you plop down onto it, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursued. 

You know it’s not Sunghoons fault. This whole thing was a complete accident. But…some part of you couldn’t help but feel like this entire thing was only going to end one way–with you getting hurt. Sunghoon doesn’t love you like he seems to think. The issue is, you aren’t sure just how long you’ll be able to resist him before you finally start believing him.

That’s why you need to figure out how to reverse this before it gets to that point.

And what about the effects it must be having on Sunghoon? Sure, you were taking emotional hits, but what if you had accidentally seriously messed him up mentally or physically? What if he never recovered and then you’d have to live with the fact that you’d indirectly messed him up for life?

Sunghoon sits down next to you wordlessly, hands shoved in his pockets. His eyes trail over the living room, eyes pausing on a framed picture of you and Beomgyu from highschool. In it, the both of you are laughing at something on the other side of the camera, your hands clenching your stomachs and wide smiles on your faces. You don’t remember what exactly had been so funny at the time, but your heart still melts all the same every time you look at it.

Sunghoon hums, nodding towards the picture. “You look happy.”

Even though you don’t mean to, and there's definitely no reason to do so right now, you crack a small smile. “Yeah,” You mumble, “That was a good day.”

The space between you isn’t uncomfortable, it never really has been despite everything, but it’s tense. Like there’s some sort of gravitational force pushing you towards him, and the harder you resist, the more it wants to persist. 

Sunghoon must feel it to, because his tongue darts out to wet his lips, his adams apple bobbing slightly. For the first time since this entire fiasco started, he looks almost unsure, like there’s something he wants to do or say, but he can’t.

You frown, hand instinctively coming up to rest on his bicep, “Sunghoon,” You murmur, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Are you alright–”

“Okay, here's the plan,” Beomgyu interrupts, finally emerging from his room. He looks much more put together now and not like he’d just rolled out of bed. He points to himself, “I’m going to figure out how to fix…” He gestures to Sunghoon warily, “This as soon as possible. You,” He points to you next, “Are going to watch him while I do.”

Immediately, alarms go off in your head. You can’t watch over Sunghoon. You just can’t.

You sit up straighter, arms crossing in an X over your chest. “I can’t,” You blurt, heat rising to your cheeks. You slowly lean back again, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I have…plans.”

It’s a lame excuse, you know. And you know neither of them believe you. (Honestly, does Sunghoon even understand what’s going on?)

Beomgyu rolls his eyes, “Okay, first off, no you don’t. And if this is like, a one in a million time in which you actually do have something going on, cancel it.” He lowers his voice slightly, hand covering his mouth so Sunghoon can’t see what he’s saying. “He can’t be alone right now, and I’m guessing you’re the only person he’ll willingly go with. So, either take him or deal with the repercussions.”

You hate that he’s right. 

Maybe, if you had any energy left in you you’d fight with him on it. Or maybe you’d just deal with the consequences of sending Sunghoon out there on his own. But one glance at the man in question, and you immediately cave.

He’s gazing at you with hopeful eyes, his head tilted slightly to the side, like he’s hanging onto every word you say. It really shouldn’t tug at your heart strings like it does. It shouldn’t make you want to say yes until the word doesn’t sound like a word anymore.

You sigh, forcing your gaze to the ground. “Fine,” You huff, “I’ll watch him. Whatever that means.”

Beomgyu grins, glancing between you and Sunghoon cheekily, like he knows something you don’t. “Great,” He rolls his neck, letting it pop once. “Now get out so I can get to work.”

Campus is never busy on Mondays. You think it’s because most people don’t like the idea of morning classes on the first day of the week, which you can’t really blame them for. But that also means that it’s just you and Sunghoon on the street, and while it feels completely awkward for you—he looks like he just won a million bucks.

He’s smiling, as if the harsh winds blowing across your faces is anything to smile about. As if anything about this situation is something to smile about. 

And you know you shouldn’t be upset. Anyone in your situation right now would probably be ecstatic. The man you’ve been secretly in love with for the past three years is finally returning your feelings, even if they aren’t completely genuine.

But that’s the issue, isn’t it? He doesn’t really feel this way towards you, he just thinks he does. And it would be so easy to let yourself indulge in it–to let yourself forget that none of this is actually real.

But you can’t. You know you can’t.

Sunghoons arm brushes against yours, a complete accident, but you still flinch and pull away like he’s burned you.

He glances at you, eyebrows furrowing. His breaths coming out in uneven puffs of white fog. “Everything okay?”

You clear your throat, trying to act like the shiver that goes down your spine is from the frosted air and not because his smooth voice makes your body flush with heat. “I’m fine,” You murmur, “Just…hungry. Tired.”

He hums, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. “You know,” He drawls, trying to keep up a nonchalant front. “We could go eat. Together. Just me and you.”

You blink, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. Is he asking you on a date right now? If the past two hours hadn't happened, you probably would've been more surprised.

You sigh, shaking your head slightly, “I’m not going on a date with you Sunghoon.” The words nearly don't make it out of your throat, feeling more artificial and practiced than anything else. If you would've told yourself a week ago you'd be rejecting Sunghoon, you probably would've slapped yourself for even thinking about it.

He shrugs, eyes glinting with mischief. “Who said anything about a date?” He asks, looking at you like you've just uggested the craziest thing he's ever heard. “We're just two friends eating lunch together, right? Even if I am irrevocably in love with you.”

He throws the word love out like he's saying hello, not like he's pulling at the strings of your heart every time it leaves his lips. It almost sounds fucking natural, like he'd been saying it to you for years, which makes it even worse.

You pause in the street, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Okay, I get that your brain isn’t in the right place right now, but stop saying things like that.”

His head tilts slightly to the side, eyebrows raising in amusement. “Why?” He asks, tone innocent, but you know better. You know he’s finding this funny. It’s frustrating and annoying and your heart fucking stutters every time he looks at you like he knows exactly what makes you tick.

You stumble over your words, hands gesturing wildly in front of you. “Because It’s annoying! And weird! How would Sophia feel if she knew you were saying all of this?”

The air goes still at the mention of Sophia, like the thought of her is enough to push away the sun. Sunghoons expression hardens, his jaw tightening for a moment before he releases it. It’s almost like the sound of her name has sucked all of the joy out of him. “Why would I care what she thinks?” He mutters.

You blank, unsure of how to respond to that. You know the two have always had a more than toxic relationship, but you’ve never seen him have so much distaste towards her before. You’ve never seen him have so much distaste towards anyone before.

“I don't know, maybe because she’s your girlfriend?” You attempt.

His eyes harden as he looks away from you, like he doesn't want to point his annoyance towards you. “She’s not my girlfriend.” He mumbles.

Your neck cranes up so you can look at him, arms crossing over your chest in a silent defense. “Besides,” He continues, taking a small step closer. “Why would I care about her when you’re right in front of me?”

You feel that familiar heat rush up your neck, the one you know you have no right to feel. And it’s strange how something good on the surface can cut you so deeply. How something you hoped to hear from him for years can suddenly feel like the biggest insult.

But, you are hungry–you weren’t lying about that, and Beomgyu has already assigned you to practically be his babysitter anyway, so might as well get something out of it, right?

You let out a breath, kissing your teeth as you do. This is a very bad idea, and you know it. “We can go to lunch as friends, but that’s it, okay? And no more flirting.”

His lips curl into a grin, eyes flashing like he’s just won a prize. “Perfect, because I already made a reservation for us off campus.”

Of course he did. 

You open your mouth to argue, or really say anything, but his hand makes its way onto your lower back so he can lead you away and you suddenly forget how to speak. Because, yes, you’re still a strong woman who would rather die than ever be rendered speechless by a man–but Park Sunghoon is an exception. One that you know you shouldn’t indulge, but doesn’t it feel oh, so good when you do?

That’s how you find yourself thirty minutes later in the nicest restaurant in a fifteen mile radius, wearing jeans and an old ratty t-shirt. You cross your legs, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in your stomach at being so underdressed.

Sunghoon doesn’t look the least bothered by it though, reading over the menu with sharp eyes and a slight furrow to his brows. He asks you your opinion occasionally, mumbles about calories and his protein intake. All things you’d never really felt the need to look at yourself before. Maybe hockey people have to worry about that stuff? You’d always assumed it was just wrestlers and weightlifters.

“Do you like Alfredo sauce or marinara? I like both, but I want you to be able to pick off my plate.” He mutters, saying it so casually. Like ordering his own food based on what you like is just common sense. If any of this was real, he would make the perfect boyfriend.

It makes you wonder again how Sophia could just let him go so easily.

Your eyes flicker up from your own menu, heart stuttering in your chest. “Just get whatever you want,” You sigh, “You don’t need to ask me.”

He’s silent for a moment, the gears in his head turning. He slowly sets his menu down, and then plucks your own from your fingers.

Your eyebrows furrow as you go to reach for it, “Sunghoon—“

“Why are you so set on rejecting me?” He asks, keeping his eyes on yours. The eye-contact nearly makes your throat close up from how intense it is. “I know you think none of this is real or whatever—“

"Because it isn’t.” You interrupt. You wish you understood how this experiment worked, because then maybe you'd know how to get it through his thick skull that none of this was real. You run a hand through your hair before continuing, “You drank an experiment, Sunghoon. Everything you’re feeling—everything you think you’re feeling—it isn’t real.” Your voice cracks slightly, like it’s a manifestation of your own hurt. 

Sunghoon, for the first time since this entire thing started, goes silent. His jaw ticks, breathing going slightly uneven. The air crackles between you, tension that neither of you really want to admit is there.

And then, without even so much as a stutter, he says, “I’ll prove it then.”

You falter, lips parting as a laugh bubbles out of your throat. You don’t mean to laugh, really, you don’t, but Sunghoon's insistence is almost admirable. And, unfortunately for you, his stubbornness only makes you fall for him the tiniest bit more.

“Why are you so set on this?” You ask, mimicking his question from earlier. 

He shrugs, leaning forward and placing his chin in his hand. “Does it matter?”

Yes, it does matter. But you know there’s no way you’re going to get an actual answer from him, so you won’t push anymore. So, instead you just shrug, fingers tapping against the table. “I guess not.”

Sunghoon grins, his tongue poking against his cheek slightly. “Atta girl.”

You should drag him out of the restaurant and back to Beomgyu’s apartment after that. Should refuse to even speak to him until Beomgyu figures out how to reverse this whole thing. Should protect your heart from the hurt that you know is coming.

But you don’t do any of that. Instead, you laugh along to his jokes. You don’t protest when he pays for your food. You let him walk you home like he’s your boyfriend and try to ignore the deep ache beginning to bloom in your chest every time he looks at you like he loves you.

And when you lay in bed that night, sheets tucked to your chin and green glowing stars shining on your ceiling, you let yourself believe that all of it was real. That all of it meant something.

Even if that was only true for one of you.

You aren’t sure what you’re expecting the next morning, but it certainly isn’t sunghoon at your door with a jersey in one hand and hockey stick in the other.

You blink at him, still in your pajamas with leftover mascara flakes covering your cheeks. You’re sure you look the picture of attractiveness right now. You sigh, rubbing your eyes with your knuckles. “What are you doing here?”

Sunghoon holds the jersey out to you, and it’s then that you realize it’s his. Or, at least, one with his number and name on it. “This is for tonight.” He says casually, like you’re supposed to know what that means.

Your eyebrows furrow as you cautiously take it from him, inspecting it like it was a bomb and not a piece of fabric. “Uh,” You chuckle humorlessly, “What’s tonight?”

The jersey is your size, but the only other people you can think of who wear these are family members, die-hard fans, and…girlfriends. 

But there’s no way that’s why he’s giving this to you. Besides, you’d seen Sophia wear the same exact thing enough times to know what wearing it would mean--to know what it would make you, as well as everyone else on the campus, aware of. 

That you were Sunghoons.

That is not happening.

He leans against your doorframe, arms crossed against his chest. His hockey stick pokes out from under his armpit awkwardly, and the sight nearly makes you crack a smile.

“For the game,” He says, “You’re coming.”

You immediately shake your head and attempt to shove the jersey back into his arms. “Yeah, no, I’m not going to that. Thanks for the offer though.”

You turn on your heel after forcing him to take back the shirt, and while you know you should tell him to leave, you let him follow you into your apartment.

He trails behind you like a lost puppy, a slight pout twisted onto his features. “You have to go,” He insists, “You’re my girlfriend–”

You whip around and glare at him, “I am not your girlfriend.”

His lips curl up into a shy smile, a hand coming up to brace the back of his neck. “That’s a technicality.”

You give him a look before finally turning back around and continuing your walk to your bathroom. He tries to follow you in, but you quickly shut the door in his face. You half expect that to finally be the hint he needs, but of course it isn't. Instead, he just keeps talking to you through the door. “Okay, fine, you’re not my girlfriend.” He sighs, voice slightly muffled. You just roll your eyes and throw your hair up, grabbing your toothbrush from its place in the barbie cup on your sink.

“But you said I could prove to you how serious I was,” He continues. You can hear his body slide down to the floor, and you assume he’s sitting with his back against the door. He’s silent for a moment, before mumbling out so quietly you nearly don’t hear him, “Let me do what I said I would. Please.”

You are a weak, weak woman. You’ve always known this. When it comes to school and things of that nature you’d always known you excelled. But, people? That was something that was way out of your league.

Your mom used to call you a people-pleaser. Said it’d end up in you getting hurt if you didn’t learn how to step away from things before they got out of hand. And you thought you had.

But maybe you hadn’t.

You sigh, finishing up brushing your teeth and washing your face. By the time you're finished the ends of your hair and the sleeves of your shirt are soaked, but you don’t care. He wouldn’t care what you looked like right now anyway. His brain is all jumbled up and you doubt you looking like a hot mess is the thing that'll fix it.

You open the door cautiously, and just as you’d expected he’s sat on the other side with his knees tucked into his chest. He looks so small here, so boyish. Not like the Park Sunghoon you’d seen from the spotlight, not like the school's star player and pride and joy. From here, he looks like a boy trying to find himself in a world too big for him.

You tug your bottom lip into your teeth, eyes choosing to look everywhere but at him. “I’ll go,” You finally mumble, voice smaller than you wanted it to be. “But I’m not wearing the jersey.”

He smiles, shoulders sagging in relief. He tilts his head up so he can see you. “Jersey?” He smirks, crumbling up the fabric and shoving it behind his back. “What jersey?”

You grin despite yourself and nudge your foot into his lower back. “Whatever. Go home so I can get ready.”

He stands, knees popping as he does. He grabs his hockey stick from where it leans against your wall, fingers wrapping around it and giving it a firm squeeze. “Six pm, alright? I’ll get you and your friends a spot up front.”

You shake your head, “You don’t have to do that–”

He grins, and before you can even think about swerving him, leans in and places a gentle kiss at the crown of your head. You freeze, body flushing and eyes going wide.

His lips are softer than you thought they’d be, coated with a scentless chapstick that you’d seen him carry around with him for years. He pauses for a moment, his spare hand lingering at your waist. He never touches you directly, doesn’t even attempt to. But you can still feel the slight heat emitting from his hand, and it almost feels more intimate than if he'd just taken that final leap.

He swallows, taking a step away from you. There’s a slight pink blush dusting his cheeks, like he’s shocked by his own actions, but he’s quick to clear his throat and pretend like there was nothing out of the ordinary about what he’d just done. Like the entire thing was a regular occasion for the both of you.

“I’ll see you there, okay?” He mutters, raising a brow. Like he needs more reassurance that you’ll stick to your word and show up.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips for a moment, eyes searching for any indication that maybe he understands what he did. That maybe the experiment's effects are starting to wear off. But when you look at him, you see the same exact thing you’ve been seeing since yesterday morning.

Pure, unbridled, love.

You suck in a breath, nodding your head slightly. “Yeah,” You manage, though your voice comes out low and breathless. “I’ll be there.”

He smiles, mumbles out a soft goodbye, and then leaves you in the middle of your hallway, body flushed and mind jumbled.

Yunjin, to your dismay, comes over as soon as you ask her too.

She looks ecstatic. You’d called her last night and explained the entire situation, but she, of course, couldn’t see how it was a very bad thing.

“Why are you so upset?” She’d asked over the phone. You didn’t have to see her face to know she was practically beaming. “The guy you’ve been secreltey obsessing over like some kind of stalker is in love with you! That sounds like a complete win to me!”

You’d winced, bottom lip tugged between your teeth. “Yeah, It sounds great! But he doesn’t…” You swallowed uncomfortably, “He doesn’t actually feel that way for me. He just thinks he does.”

You heard her take a drink of something before she sighed out, “How do you know that?”

You went silent, unsure of how to answer. What did she mean how did you know? It was obvious. Sunghoon accidentally drinks a love potion and now thinks he’s in love with you. That’s what had happened.

You tucked your legs under you and adjusted your phone against your ear. “I think that’s obvious, Yunjin.” You murmured.

She hummed, “I don’t know, [Y/N].” She said, tone strangely teasing. “Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

So, when you’d called her and asked her to help you get ready for tonight’s match, she was ecstatic. And you appreciated her support, of course, but you weren’t sure she really understood what was happening here.

You and Sunghoon are nothing. When all of this was over, you’d go back to being two strangers who sometimes smiled awkwardly at each other out of obligation. And you needed to be able to be okay with that. You had to be.

“Okay, I think you should wear something super sexy so that Sunghoon’s knocked on his ass.” Yunjin quips, scouring through your closet and inspecting everything you own like it owes her something.

You sigh from where you lay on your bed, staring up at the stars on your ceiling like maybe they’ll save you. “We’re going to his game, Yun. I don’t want him to fall on his ass.” You chuckle, throwing up air quotes around the end of your sentence.

Yunjin rolls her eyes and throws another pair of jeans onto your desk chair. “I don’t mean literally. I just mean maybe it wouldn’t hurt to wear something different."

You sit up, bracing yourself against your elbows. “What's wrong with my usual clothes?” You ask, eyebrows raising teasingly.

Yunjin pauses, cautiously turning around so you’re face to face. “There’s nothing wrong with it," She attempts, lips twisting thoughtfully as she tries to come up with the softest way to say it. “But I don’t think a pair of sweatpants and some random shirt you got in middle school is quite the look we’re going for.”

You scoff, flopping back down onto your bed and pushing the palm of your hands into your eyes until white dots fill your vision. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with what you usually wear, even if it isn’t the nicest clothes ever.

But you can’t lie and say there isn’t a part of you that wonders how Sunghoon would react. Would he even care? If he did, would it even be real?

“I think that you’re blowing this way out of proportion.” You mutter, letting your arms wrap around yourself.

Yunjin snorts and tosses a shirt at you. You cautiously inspect the fabric–a blue long sleeved top with a deep neckline that you’d bought to make your ex-boyfriend jealous and then never wore. You scrunch your nose slightly at it and then toss it back at her. 

“There’s no way I’m wearing that.” You snort.

Yunjin nods, grabbing a pair of dark jeans from your closet. “That’s what you think.”

The hockey arena, to no one's surprise, is full to the brim with die hard fans and half-way drunk college students. You, personally, have never been to a game before. Mostly because you know what they consist of, and you’d rather skip watching men fight over a puck on ice when you could be doing much more important things. Like rewatching New Girl.

But, alas, you, Yunjin, and Jungwon all find your seats right at the barricade. Beomgyu had chosen to skip so that he could keep working on some kind of fix for your current situation, but you had half the mind to believe it was because he simply didn’t want to come.

Jungwon takes a sip of his fountain drink, letting the red straw rest on his lip. “So, you’re telling me that Sunghoon drank the experiment, thinks he’s in love with you, and invited you here because he wants to prove to you that it’s real?”

You nod, shrugging your jacket off and laying it across the back of your seat. The players are warming up in front of you, their skates scratching against the ice as they yell instructions at each other. You can see Sunghoon talking to another boy with a serious expression, his hands moving admittedly as he does. You can tell he’s being stern with him, but the boy doesn’t look upset or scared in the least. If anything, he’s taking his lecture with pride–like getting told off by Park Sunghoon is a privilege.

And you think that goes into show just the kind of person that he is. He's kind, and funny, and defientley doesn't deserve what you're putting him through.

"Um," You sniff, adjusting yourself in your seat. “That’s pretty much it, yeah.”

Jungwon hums, shoving his hands in his coat pockets. “Is it weird that that isn’t the strangest thing that’s happened to us?” He asks.

You furrow your brows, “What could possibly be weirder then that?”

“Remember freshman year?” Yunjin chimes in, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. “There was that full two weeks where Beomgyu was stained pink.”

“Oh,” You draw out, chuckling at the memory. “I do remember that.”

You giggle at the memory. Beomgyu had had a rouge experiment blow up in his face--literally--and spent two weeks looking like he'd just stepped out of the Barbie movie.

Jungwon shrugs, “I would argue that seeing Beomgyu walk around campus like a real-life monster high doll was definitely weirder than this.”

You don’t respond, instead turning your attention back towards Sunghoon. He still hasn’t noticed you–which you’re mostly grateful for, but it also makes you anxious for when he does.

While you’ve never been to one of the matches in person, you have seen them online. You know that they can get heated and violent. You’ve seen Sunghoon walk into class with the occasional black eye or scabbed over knuckles.

It makes worry build in your stomach, thick and strong and nearly overwhelming. And you know you shouldn’t care. Sunghoon isn’t your boyfriend, even if he seems to think he is. But, still, the thought of him getting hurt makes you want to throw up.

You lean back in your chair, leg bouncing anxiously, and then you see it. It’s a subtle movement from the corner of your eye, but you catch it nonetheless.

Two seats down from you, Sophia sits down with her friends, all of them looking like they just stepped out of fucking vogue. And Sophia, with her perfectly blown-out hair and sickly sweet smile, is wearing Sunghoons jersey.

Your heart drops, stomach becoming an endless pit as you stare at her. You’d assumed they broke up, but what if they hadn’t? That was the only explanation you could think of for why she was here wearing that. What if you had accidentally ruined her relationship with Sunghoon?

Not to say that their relationship wasn’t already on the brink of disaster, but still.

You nudge Jungwon with your elbow, forcing your gaze onto the rink. The other team has come onto the ice now, and you can see Sunghoon's jaw tick. But he isn’t watching the other team, no, he’s searching the stands.

Searching them for you.

You suddenly feel a wave of guilt at what you’ve done, even if it was an accident. You’ve inadvertently forced yourself into the middle of a relationship that was never any of your business. Does this make you a homewrecker?

“Jungwon,” You mumble, “Tell Yunjin we’re leaving.”

“What?” He asks, eyebrows knitting together. “The game hasn’t even started.”

You sink into your seat as you watch Sunghoons gaze get closer and closer to you. “Sophia’s here.” You say through your teeth, “And she’s wearing his jersey.”

Jungwons gaze shifts past you, lips parting when he spots her. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” You murmur, “Oh.”

Jungwon turns and tells Yunjin, and you watch as her head pops out from behind him, her lips pulled into a frown. “Oh, this is so fucked.”

You cover your face with your hands and groan, “I’m a homewrecker!”

“Okay, no,” Yunjin scoffs, still eyeing Sophia like maybe if she stares at her long enough she’ll disappear, “This is all just a really small misunderstanding.”

You groan again, dropping your hands to your lap and looking back onto the rink. Sunghoon finally spots you then, a smile curling onto his lips as he skates over. Your stomach churns, letting yourself steal a glance to Sophia, who is also smiling at Sunghoon. 

You sink further into your seat.

“Y/N!” He calls once he approaches, placing a hand in the glass separating you. You can practically feel Sophia’s gaze burning into your skull, and for once, you can’t even be mad that you’re on the other side of her icy glare.

“Um,” You manage, clearing your throat and cocking your head as subtly as possible towards Sophia. “Sunghoon, you should probably go say hi to your girlfriend before you say hi to me.”

You can feel Jungwon and Yunjin holding their breaths, like they’re scared any sudden movement will set off some kind of bomb. But Sunghoon either doesn't notice the tension, or he’s actively choosing to ignore it.

He cocks his head to the side, smile faltering a bit. “What are you talking about—”

“Hoonie!”

There’s something very distinct about Sophia’s voice—just the right amount of feminine to be cutsey, but still bordering on the edge of nails on a chalkboard. Normally, the sound of it would make you roll your eyes and resist the urge to pull your hair out, but now it just makes you feel sick with guilt.

Sunghoons expression immediately shifts, his smile curling downwards, eyes narrowing slightly. When he spots Sophia, he almost looks bored. Like the sight of her is nothing special.

She climbs over the people next to you, a mom and her toddler, both of whom she doesn’t apologize to when she steps on the tips of their shoes.

“Hoon,” She sighs, adjusting her skirt. “I missed you.”

She doesn’t even spare you a glance, which you’re partially thankful for. But, you also can’t help but wonder if it’s because she doesn’t even see you as a threat.

Which, you’re not—but still. It’d at least be nice to be considered one.

Sunghoons jaw ripples, gaze icy and nearly angry. “What’re you doing here Sophia?” He asks. His gaze falls downwards, onto the blue jersey she wears proudly across her chest, and scoffs. “And why are you wearing that?”

Sophia doesn’t even flinch at his tone, if anything she seems to revel in it. “Why wouldn’t I be here, silly?” She giggles, “I’m supporting my boyfriend!”

Jungwon glances over at you, but your eyes stay on the floor. What are you supposed to say? Actually, you’re boyfriend thinks he’s in love with me, so sorry! You’d just sound crazy.

Sunghoon leans closer, voice lowering an octave. “Are you forgetting that I caught you fucking my roomate last weekend?” He spits, gripping his hockey stick so hard you’re convinced it’ll break. “Or am I supposed to just get over that like everything else?”

You can’t help the gasp that leaves you. A small sound, but it’s enough to catch her attention. She whips her head around, dark eyes catch yours, nose scrunched like she’s staring at the trash on the side of the sidewalk and not a person.

You half expect her to apologize for having such a private conversation in front of you, but she doesn’t do that. Why would she? Instead, she barks, “Can’t you see we’re having a conversation? Go somewhere else.”

You blink, lips parting as you try to come up with something to say. But, Sunghoon beats you to it.

“Don’t talk to her like that.” He defends, eyes blazing something nearly protective. It makes your heart flutter and heat fill your stomach for all the wrong reasons.

Sophia takes a moment to process, but when she does, you would’ve thought Sunghoon had just told her he’d made out with her mom.

“Why are you defending her?” She asks, letting out a humorless laugh. She really takes you in then, eyeing you up and down. You sink into yourself instinctually, arms wrapping around your stomach like a shield. “Don’t tell me this is my replacement?” She chuckles, like the thought of you even being near Sunghoon is amusing.

You shake your head, hands shooting out in front of you. Even though she doesn't deserve it, you don't want to be the other woman. “No, no, that’s not—”

But Sunghoon doesn't let you finish. “She can’t be a replacement when there’s nothing to replace.” He mutters, tongue leaking venom.

Sophia, for what you’re sure is the first time in her life, is rendered speechless. Her glossy lips part, eyes widening a fraction. “Sunghoon—”

He turns to you then, completely ignoring her like her prescense isn’t even a blip on his radar. His eyes soften, cheeks flushing the lightest shade of pink. “Meet me after the game, okay?” He mumbles.

A buzzer sounds, and both teams on the ice skate over to their respective coaches to get ready for the game. Your lips part as you wrack your brain for a response, but it’s hard when Sophia is sneering at you like you’d just said the dumbest thing she’d ever heard.

Sunghoon sighs, throwing you a final glance before pushing off the glass and beginning to skate towards the rest of his teammates.

His jaw ticks once, throwing Sophia an icy look over his shoulder. “Go home, Sophia.” He mumbles.

Sophia doesn’t say anything else, just shoots you a glare and then stomps back to her waiting friends. They all look sympathetic when she tells them what happened, shooting you not-so-subtle death glares. As if you did something. Well, you did—you unintentionally home wrecked her relationship, but still, it was all accidental!

Yunjin lets out a low whistle, crossing her leg over her knee and clasping her hands around it. “Can we make more of those love potion things?” She asks with a chuckle. “This is reality tv kind of entertainment.”

Jungwon nods, “Rivals love island, honestly.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and squeeze your eyes shut, “This isn’t a reality tv show.” You mumble.

Yunjin shrugs, popping a piece of candy into her mouth. “We know, but it might as well be. Or maybe the plot of some super bad fanfiction.”

And, well, you can’t really argue with that.

But you’d never been good at confrontation, and Sophia keeps looking at you like you’d owe her something. Her lips pulled tightly together, friend whispering in her ear like she knows your deepest darkest secrets.

And somewhere in the back of your mind, there’s a subtle prick of insecurity. One that forces you deeper into your seat and into your own head.

The game goes by in a blur, one that you barely pay attention to. It’s not that you don’t want to, but it’s a little difficult when Sophia keeps glancing over at you and laughing with her friends.

You aren’t stupid. You’ve been laughed at before--been the victim of bullies who thought they had the upper hand for whatever reason. But that had been in high school, never in college. And even though you try to push it away—try to block it out—those awful thoughts still crawl their way from the depths of your mind. Thoughts that you hadn’t had since you’d sat alone in a chemistry classroom in tenth grade, back before you’d met Beomgyu.

So, when the game is over (Sunghoon led the team to victory of course, because why wouldn’t he?), you don’t hesitate shrugging your jacket back on and climbing your way over people to get to the exit.

Yunjin and Jungwon stumble behind you, calling your name in an attempt to get you to slow down, but you don’t. Can’t, really.

You didn’t sign up for any of this. Didn’t sign up to be the target of Sophia’s stares, didn’t sign up to be the girl Sunghoons convinced he’s in love with.

You just wanted to go back to your life before. When you were still just in the background with your select circle. You wanted to go back to watching Sunghoon from afar—to being the girl he’d never look twice at.

Because this? This was too much for you.

And you know none of it is his fault, but that almost just makes it worse. He has no idea how much all of this is really hurting you. How much it breaks your heart every time he looks at you like you mean something to him.

The wind hits your face when you step outside, neon lights of the stadium lighting up the parking lot around you. You finally let out a breath, eyes glassy and lips chapped. Maybe you’re being dramatic, but you really don’t care.

“[Y/N]!” Yunjin calls, jogging slightly to catch up with you. Her jackets hanging off her arms awkwardly, purse dangling from her elbow. “Where are you going?” She presses, grabbing your bicep gently and forcing you to a stop. “What’s going on?”

You force your gaze to the ground, shoving your hands in your pockets. “I’m going home,” You tell her, voice raw. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come. If I had known he was still with Sophia—”

“Woah, hold on,” Yunjin interrupts you. Jungwon approaches then, his blonde hair blowing over his forehead awkwardly. “Did you not hear Sunghoon? They’re broken up.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “They’re always broken up.”

Yunjins lips pull in tight, annoyance flashing in her eyes. “Is this because she was here?” She asks you, tone serious and deadly. "You know you don't need to care about whatever it is her and her friends think."

It’s rare for her to speak to you so seriously, always the one looking towards humor to lighten up situations. So when she does, you tend to listen.

“Sophia is a bitch, plain and simple. Sunghoon is not. And he’s actively trying to prove to you that he wants you, and you’re not letting him.” She insists.

You pull your arm from her grip at that, eyebrows knitting together. Does she seriously think anything Sunghoon is doing he actually means? If that were the case, you wouldn't even be in this situation.

“Yunjin, he doesn’t know what he’s doing!” You spit, tone harsher then you mean it. You don’t mean to aim your anger towards her, but she just keeps pushing and pushing until you finally explode. “Don’t you get it? He doesn’t feel like that towards me.” Your voice breaks, eyes brimming with tears. “He doesn’t feel anything towards me.”

Jungwon swallows, his eyes downcast. He was usually good in situations like this, usually the one to take the lead and get you laughing again, but now he can’t even meet your eyes.

Yunjin reaches for you again, sympathy written all over her face, but you pull away. You don’t want her comfort right now, even though you know it comes from a place of love.

You suck in a shaky breath, forcing your gaze onto the sidewalk in front of you. The pavement is wet from rain earlier in the day, collecting in small puddles below your feet. “I’m just going to go home, okay? Tell Sunghoon I’m sorry.”

“[Y/N]…” Yunjin mumbles, but you’re already walking away, arms wrapped around yourself and bottom lip trembling.

Is it pathetic to be crying over a stupid boy and a mean girl? Maybe. But you also know that having feelings is human, and sometimes, when the time is right, it’s okay to cry.

And you think right now is one of those times.

You don’t cry hard. Not full, chest-heaving sobs, just occasional hiccups—a steady stream of tears flowing down your cheeks that you stain your sleeves with every time you wipe at them.

Your apartment is cold when you enter, the air brushing harshly against your face. You shrug your jacket off and toss it onto the couch, padding over to your room with exhaustion sinking into your bones.

You peel off your clothes–the top Yunjin had insisted you wear for Sunghoon suddenly feeling suffocating and tight. It isn’t often you let yourself wallow in self-pity like this, but tonight was going to have to be an exception.

You change into a stained t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a rip in the knees and collapse onto your couch. You wonder if Sunghoon said anything when he noticed you weren’t there. Was he disappointed? Or had he finally realized it wasn’t you he should be chasing after?

Your heart hurts at the thought, aching and heavy in your chest.

It isn't fair to him that you feel like this. It isn't fair to you that he's unknowingly playing with your heart. The entire thing is a bad dream you wish you could just wake up from.

You barely register the knock at your door at first, too stuck in your head while trying to pretend you’re paying attention to whatever sitcom’s playing on the TV.

But then it comes again, not harsh, just louder. More insistent. Like whoever’s on the other side is desperate to see you.

You roll your eyes, wrapping your blanket around your shoulders and forcing yourself to pad over. “Yunjin,” You sigh, clicking the lock and swinging the door open. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

But it isn’t Yunjin standing on the other side. It’s Sunghoon.

His black hair is a mess, bangs covering his eyes in a way you know can’t be comfortable, a pair of black-rimmed glasses resting against his nose. He’s not wearing his jersey anymore, but the black compression shirt he wears under it is still there, a pair of gray sweatpants laying dangerously low on his hips.

He looks dangerously handsome without even trying.

Your breath catches before you can stop it, gaze falling down his body like you’re commiting it to memory. You’re both silent, just staring at eachother, waiting for the other to cut through the tension first.

It shouldn’t hurt seeing him right now as much as it does. You don’t have any claim on him. He loves Sophia, you’ve known that from the start.

So why does it feel like tonight was just one big slap in the face? Like the universe was reminding you of exactly what your place with him really is?

Sunghoon swallows, eyes shaky as they try to search your own. You don’t let him though. You know if you look him in the eye right now, you’ll break, and that’s the last thing you want him to see.

“You left,” He whispers, tone low. You can hear the hurt seeping through his voice, but it’s masked by a weird kind of warmth. Like even though you hurt him, he can’t physically be mad at you.

You think that’s probably a side effect.

You shift your weight uncomfortably, twiddling your thumbs in front of you. You can’t look at him—too scared of what you’ll find if you do.

“Sunghoon,” You start, voice trembling. “You don’t want me.” You don't say it like a question, instead it's a statement.

His fingers tighten into fists at his sides, knuckles going pale. “Why do you keep assuming you know what I want?” He asks.

You shake your head, “You’re just confused—”

“Stop,” He interrupts, taking a small step towards you. “Stop saying that when I know I've never been more clear headed in my life.”

You stiffen, unsure of how to respond. You know for a fact he has no idea what he’s doing or talking about. And that’s what makes it hurt the most. He genuinely believes he loves you, and fuck, you’d give anything for it to be real.

His hand reaches out, but he hesitates and drops it back to his side. "Let me prove it to you, okay? Just like I said I would. No games. No Sophia. Just me and you.”

You force your gaze up then, eyes narrowed. You shouldn’t say yes, not when your heart is already on the brink of collapse. But Sunghoons staring at you like he’ll break into pieces if you say no—like the thought of you rejecting him is too much to handle.

You lean against the doorframe, lips twisting slightly. “I don't know,” You attempt, “it’s already so late and I look a mess—”

“Please,” he breathes out, voice wrecked. “Stop thinking so hard and let me show you how much you mean to me.”

Your knuckles tighten until your fingernails dig into your palms, forming little crescent-shaped marks into the soft skin. Everything inside of you is telling you to say no. To tell him to go home and lock himself in his room until Beomgyu figures out how to fix this.

But there’s still that small part of you—the part that wonders if maybe he really did mean every sweet word that fell from his perfect lips. If maybe, just maybe, all of this was real.

And that part of you wins.

Sunghoon doesn’t let you change—just ushers you into your jacket and leads you with a hand on your lower back out of your apartment and back towards the rink.

You don’t notice that’s where you’re heading at first, not until the lights outside the parking lot come into view. Your stomach twists at the memory of your last conversation with Yunjin and Jungwon, but you push it away. You’d fix things tomorrow.

“Why are we here?” You ask, glancing up at the raven-haired boy. His palm hasn’t left your back since you started walking, almost like he was staking his claim there. Imprinting the shape of him into your skin like it’s second nature.

He shrugs, mischief flashing in his smile. “You’ll see.”

You’ve never seen the stadium empty before, but now that you are, it makes you realize just how daunting it really is. The lights pointed at the rink are still on, reflecting off of the ice and glinting across its surface. You can see the slight scuff marks and dents from numerous skates, small puddles forming in their wake.

Sunghoon jogs in front of you, pulling out a set of keys and opening the gate that the hockey players use to get onto the rink. He holds an arm out to you, gesturing for you to come over to him.

You do so cautiously, arms wrapped around yourself. The ice from the rink makes the air frigid, crawling up your spine like a garden snake. Menacing, but not dangerous.

“I don’t have any skates.” You mumble.

Sunghoon smiles, reaching out and wiggling your hand out from where it rests under your arm, “That’s okay,” He says softly, intertwining your fingers. His hands are large, this is something you’ve always known. It’s hard not to notice when he makes his pencil look like a fucking mini-brand every time he writes down his notes—but now you realize just how much they dwarf your own. “We don't need them.”

He pulls you onto the rink then, and feet immediately slip on the slick ice. You yelp when you feel your foot begin to slide from beneath you, back arching and spare arm flinging to your side, but Sunghoon grips your hand and pulls you to his chest like he’d been expecting it.

You huff when your face meets his chest, heat crawling viciously up your neck from embarrassment. Sunghoons chest vibrates with laughter against your cheek, his other hand coming up to cup the back of your head and pull you closer to him.

“Finally falling for me?” He teases.

If only he knew.

You scoff and cautiously step away from him, tightening the muscles in your legs so you don’t slip again. “You wish.” You say, meaning for it to come out harsh, but instead it sounds soft. Playful. Everything it shouldn’t be.

He rolls his eyes and drags you to the middle of the ice, careful not to tug too hard or walk too fast, instead matching his pace with yours.

You look around at the thousands of seats surrounding you, the blinding lights on the ice. There isn’t even anyone here, and you still feel slightly intimidated. It makes you wonder how he’s able to deal with all of it so efficiently.

He stops suddenly, forcing you to as well. For a split second, you think he almost looks nervous. 

He sucks in a breath, brown eyes finding your own. You just raise your brows, staring at him expectantly. You assume he must’ve brought you here for something—it’s just whatever that is that puts you slightly on edge.

“Do you remember that glass duck you carried around at the beginning of the year? The one with the weird monocle and pink jacket?” He asks, releasing your hand and shoving it into his coat pocket. You can see something round in there, you just have no idea what it is.

You frown. You do remember that duck. You’d found it on your trip with Yunjin to Europe over the summer in some rundown antique shop. It was stupidly overpriced and honestly kind of ugly, but you’d fallen in love with it for whatever reason. Maybe because it was a little different then the other ducks, with a weirdly shaped beak and slightly bigger beady eyes. But it was perfect to you.

At least, it was until Jungwon accidently broke it on Halloween weekend. He’d drunkenly slammed into you and knocked it loose from its place on your bag, and it ultimately shattered as soon as it hit the floor. You remember you’d been devastated and refused to talk to Jungwon for a week after, but that was it. You hadn't really thought twice about it for a while now.

But, how did Sunghoon know about it? Why was he asking you? You’d never talked about it with him—hell, you barely said two words to him back then.

Your chin lowers slightly in suspicion, “I do, yes. Why?”

He swallows, and you can see his free hand twitch. “Well, I saw it break at that party on Halloween. And you looked so sad. And…I really hated it. So,” He takes a breath, finally revealing whatever it was he had in his pocket. “I fixed it.”

You blink. Once. Twice. He’s holding out the duck to you, cracks from where it'd shattered all over its little glass body but ultimately put back together.

It takes you a second to fully process what’s going on, but once you do your lips part in a gasp and you take it from him. You hold it up to your face, cradling it in your hands. “How did you—what? Why? I-I don’t understand—” You’re talking so fast you barely even understand yourself, but Sunghoon just laughs, and you notice the way his shoulders slowly relax in relief.

He shrugs, like this is any other day and he didn’t just reveal to you he’d fixed your most prized possession. “I didn't want you to lose it,” He admits, taking a careful step towards you. “You don’t deserve to lose things you love.”

You glance up at him then, and you realize just how close he really is. The last time you’d been in this position he’d placed a soft kiss on your hairline, and although your heart feels like it’s skipping a beat, it’s not out of fear this time.

It’s something more dangerous, something you shouldn’t be allowing yourself to feel. Not with his condition. You glance back down to the glass duck, hesitation gnawing at your stomach. 

Ultimately, you know that what you feel for Sunghoon is not returned. But this... this changes things. He’d taken the time all those months ago, before the experiment was even thought of, and fixed something you’d deemed unfixable simply because he didn’t want you to be sad. Usually, you’d think that meant something.

But isn’t that also just the kind of boy he is? Kind, golden-hearted Park Sunghoon. Campus golden boy. Star hockey player. Everything you could never have.

“Sunghoon,” You breathe out shakily, still holding the duck in your palm. “Thank you.”

Although you're feeling conflicted about where he really stands with you, you know you're overall grateful. You've never had someone do something so kind for you simply because they can.

He doesn’t respond, just gives you a shy smile. It’s the first time you’ve seen him look so bashful. It’s cute. “It wasn’t any problem.”

You hum, tapping your nails against the duck's glass tail. “Can I ask why you needed to bring me here to give me this?” You question, a teasing lilt to your voice.

He shrugs, “It’s more romantic here then in the middle of your living room.”

You laugh aloud at that. For once, the mention of romance with him doesn’t make you want to throw up and die all at the same time. Instead, it leaves you feeling warm and fuzzy and all the things you know are going to hurt you in the end.

Because while this entire illusion is going to be over at some point, right now, in this moment, Sunghoon is in love with you. And you’re starting to wonder just how wrong it’d be to let him.

Your heart is heavy in the morning as you fidget with the duck. It’s hanging off your purse again, safely locked into place with a keychain. You’d asked Jungwon and Yunjin to meet you for coffee so you could talk, and both had agreed easily.

You guys never really did well with bad blood. Any arguments you had were always resolved fairly quickly, because otherwise it would simmer until you thought too hard about it and ended up doing something you regretted.

And you know you owe them an apology–Yunjin, especially. She’d only been trying to help, and you’d spat venom at her like she’d done something wrong. You didn’t want to be like that, and it was important to you that she knew how sorry you were. That they both knew.

They arrive together, steps slow as they approach the table you’d saved. You shoot them a sad smile, unsure of just how angry they were.

They sit next to each other across from you, sharing a glance that makes your stomach churn. You suck in a breath, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m sorry,” You start, choosing to skip the awkward pleasantries and getting straight to the point. “You guys didn’t deserve that. At all. And I–”

“Stop,” Yunjin sighs, not letting you finish. Your heart drops, immediately assuming she's about to end your friendship. But she doesn't--instead, she points between herself and Jungwon and says with a quiet finality, “We should be the ones apologizing.”

You raise a brow at that, spine straightening in your seat. “What? No–”

“Yes,” Jungwon interrupts now, his eyes full of concern. “You were rightfully upset with everything going on, and we pushed it aside simply because we didn’t understand how you were feeling.” He sniffs, head tilting to the side slightly. “I didn’t realize how hard this must all be for you. Having the guy you like constantly telling you he’s in love with you, and then not even know if he means it? It’s unfair to you.”

You’re silent, a wave of relief and guilt crashing over you at once. You’re relieved that your emotions are being validated, but you also feel guilty that they think they need to apologize to you when you yourself are struggling with what you should feel. Before last night, you would've agreed with them wholeheartedly, but now you weren’t sure. You glance down at the figurine hanging from your bag once, heart filling with so much warmth you think it may burst. 

“You’re right,” You murmur, leaning back in your chair. “It is unfair, but I’m starting to wonder if maybe…maybe I was wrong.”

Yunjin’s eyes widen, confusion written all over her face. “What?”

You smile softly, reaching for your purse and spinning it around so they can see the once-broken glass duck. They both study it for a moment, and you watch as recognition flashes in their eyes.

Jungwon frowns and looks back at you. “I thought I broke that ugly thing?”

“It’s not ugly,” You scoff, snatching your bag back and carefully unclipping the little duck from where it hangs. You place it in the middle of the table with a small shrug. “He fixed it.”

The three of you stare at it, studying the cracks the run along it’s surface.

“What do you mean he fixed it?” Yunjin asks.

“I mean,” You sigh, “He saw it break on Halloweekend, and took it upon himself to fucking glue it back together.”

A beat. And then, “Are you serious?”

You don’t laugh, even though you want to. It is entirely ridiculous, but it happened. You’ve spent the last twelve hours mulling it over in your mind, and you can only come to one conclusion. 

Maybe Sunghoon noticed you more than you thought.

And if that were true, what did it mean now?

You manage a soft smile, picking at the skin around your fingers mindlessly. “Yep,” You hum, popping the P. “Gave it to me last night.”

Yunjin squeals, gripping Jungwon's bicep and shaking him. He huffs and rips his arm from her grip. “Quit!” He hisses.

Yunjin just ignores him, her full attention on you. “I know I shouldn’t be feeding into this anymore, but that,” She gestures towards the duck, “That is more than some stupid experiment.”

You sigh, voice small when you say, “I know. I just…I don’t know what the right thing to do is anymore.” 

And for the first time, you’re starting to feel like you’re finally being honest with yourself.

“Well,” Jungwon shrugs, leaning back in the booth. The waitress comes around and drops off three milkshakes, vanilla for yourself, and chocolate for Jungwon and Yunjin. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try it out.”

Your eyebrows furrow, “Test it out?” You repeat, taking a small spoonful of whipped cream and stuffing it into your mouth. You'd always been a sucker for ice cream.

Jungwon nods, “There’s a party tomorrow night to celebrate the hockey team's win last night. Sunghoon will obviously be there, and maybe you can test out what he does when it’s not just the two of you.”

Yunjin sucks in a sharp breath, “But,” She draws, “Sophia will be there too.”

Jungwon snaps his fingers, “My point exactly.”

You aren’t really understanding where he’s trying to go with this. “So what?”

Jungwon continues, “We don’t really know if he’s still under the influence of the experiment,” He explains, nodding towards the duck, “that changes things. So, I think we should see if his feelings are real or not at the party.”

Your lips twist in thought, “How do you plan to do that?” You push. It's not that you don't understand what he's trying to say, it's just hard for your head to fully wrap around it.

He smiles then, that same mischievous smile he’d given you all those weeks ago when he’d initially suggested this whole disaster, and it’s then that you know you shouldn’t listen to anything that comes out of his mouth. 

“Simple,” He shrugs, taking a sip of his milkshake. “We ask.”

Your lips part to respond, but your phone ringing in your pocket interrupts you. Beomgyu’s name flashes across the screen, bold white letters that usually bring you comfort, but strangely are now doing the opposite.

You clear your throat, “Hello?”

Beomgyu’s voice sounds from the other side, exhausted and groggy, but he’s got that spark he always does when he says, “I did it.”

You glance up at Yunjin and Jungwon, stomach twisting low. “Did what?”

“I figured it out,” He swallows, “I’ve got the cure or whatever we’re calling it.”

And while it should be relief that floods your chest, instead what you’re met with is a cold pinch of disappointment.

You’d never been one for parties. Even now, dressed in some slim black dress Yunjin picked for you, a vial of something you aren’t even sure works in your purse, you’re reminded just why you don’t like them.

They’re overcrowded, filled with college students all looking to either pass out drunk or find someone to fuck until they forget why they were even there in the first place. It wasn’t your crowd, and you’d found peace with that a long time ago.

And yet, you're still here.

Beomgyu nudges your shoulder, eyes searching around the crowd of sweaty bodies. He wasn’t one for parties either, but when you explained to him just why you were coming, he insisted on joining. Of course, Yunjin and Jungwon had been ecstatic and you had to explain to them that you were not coming just to have a good time.

You were coming to find out the truth, and that was it. 

“Are you sure he’s here?” Beomgyu asks.

You nod, “He texted me earlier and invited me. Said he’d meet us here.”

Sunghoon had been slightly surprised but happy when you confirmed you already planned to come. He’d told you he might get a little busy with people trying to talk to him, but he’d make sure to try and come find you at some point. You'd scoffed, in disbelief that you seemed to have to schedule a time to talk to him. You knew he was popular, but people here seriously treated him like some celebrity and not a normal college student.

Yunjin smiles next to you, plucking a drink from the countertop. She tips it back against her mouth and chugs it, wiping off the small droplet that spills from her lips.

Beomgyu makes a disgusted face, “You don’t even know where that came from.”

“Does it matter?” She asks, grabbing another one and shoving it towards you, “It all ends up in someone's stomach.”

You push her hand away and take a cautious step back. “I’m good, thanks.”

She just shrugs like she’d been expecting that and hands it to Jungwon, who happily accepts it. “Suit yourself.”

You don’t respond, instead unknowingly floating closer to Beomgyu. Your eyes rake along the crowd, hoping to catch a glimpse of a familiar head of black hair, but instead you’re met with the one person you didn’t want to see.

Sophia is wearing a soft baby pink skirt and a white top that make her look like the picture of innocence, lips red and tempting. The guy she’s flirting with clearly isn’t immune to her strategy, because his eyes keep falling down to her soft neckline like he’s hoping he’ll suddenly develop x-ray vision.

Normally, the sight of her wouldn’t bother you. It really shouldn’t considering you haven’t interacted with her at all outside of the hockey incident. But, for some reason, all you can see when you look at her is Sunghoon.

Sunghoon looking at her like she’d hung the moon and stars. Sunghoon dragging her to his games. Sunghoon fixing things for her simply because he didn’t want her to be sad. Sunghoon telling her he loves her.

You have no right to feel it, but jealousy curls deep in your stomach.