“Girls and their stupid mood swings,” he scoffs, kicking another pebble with more force this time.

His fingers fumble inside his pocket until they find the crumpled cash he’d shoved there days ago—the same money he’d been saving to buy you a small gift for your birthday. Now, even touching it feels wrong. The notes feel heavier somehow, like a reminder of something he wanted to give but couldn’t anymore.

Because how could he spend it on anything else, knowing it was meant for you?

“It’s not like I even like her,” he says out loud, as if speaking the words will make them more believable. His breath comes out in a tired sigh, his chest tightening slightly when his own thoughts whisper back—liar.

He slows down, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets, eyes trained on the ground. “Okay… maybe I do like her,” he admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid someone might hear him confess to himself. “But—”

He trails off mid-sentence, attention snapping toward a strange sound coming from the end of the street.

A small commotion.

He can’t quite tell what it is, but curiosity flickers in his chest.

It’s almost ironic—how even when he’s seething with frustration, his attention can still shift so easily to something else.

Maybe it’s just who he is, or maybe, deep down, he’s looking for something—anything—to distract himself from you.

“Hey—give them to us.”

“You little piece of—”

Riki knows those voices. Too well. They belong to the neighborhood idiots who get off on hassling female students—boys who are still students themselves but act like cowards on the street.

He’s caught them before.

Today, midday, after the stupid fight with you that’s been gnawing at him, hearing that exact commotion lights a new kind of fire under him.

He turns on his heel, hands coming out of his pockets into fists at his sides. He’s too tired for this—too tired to be patient with anyone who thinks it’s funny to corner someone.

“Hey, you two!” he barks, spotting them at the far end, pressing a girl against the wall. She clutches two tiny kittens to her chest; the boys are trying to wrench the kittens free, grinning like it’s a game.

Something inside Riki snaps red.

He doesn’t even look to see who the girl is.

Adrenaline takes over.

He strides forward, grabs each kid by the collar, yanks them aside with enough force to stumble them a few steps, then shoves them down to the pavement. He towers over them—six feet something, a glare that makes the air colder—frustration etched into every line of his face.

“What the fu—” one of them sputters, but Riki doesn’t give him the chance. He clamps his hands onto the kid’s cheeks, fingers rough and unforgiving, squeezing until the boy stumbles back, eyes wide.

Riki’s voice is low, sharp as a blade. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t joke. He means it.

“If I see you two harassing another female again— I won’t hesitate to beat you up.”

His finger jabs at them like punctuation, the warning ringing in the little street. The girl behind him stays still, clutching the kittens, watching everything as if she can’t decide whether to thank him or run. The boys on the ground look small and stupid and suddenly very, very ashamed.

“We won’t, we won’t!!” one of them blurts, voice suddenly pleading. His eyes flick to the kitten squirming in the girl’s arms, and Riki feels his jaw tighten; the kid winces as Riki pulls at his hair and looks away as if the street itself just scolded him.

“I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY!! LET GO!!” he begs, tiny tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

“I promise I’ll beat his ass up myself if he ever brings this shit up again,” the other boy adds, voice shaky, eyes desperate to be released. He makes sure not to meet the girl’s gaze.

“Fine. But if I ever see you doing this again…” Riki lets the sentence hang, his stare a hard, silent threat. “I won’t mind serving a sentence.”

They gulp, glance at each other, and swallow whatever pride they have left.

Their apology isn’t sincere so much as survival instinct—no one wants to be on the receiving end of ‘THE RIKI’ especially with the ridiculous rumours that he eats humans for lunch. It’s easier to play scared.

Riki steps back from towering over them. It feels wrong to just leave them without making sure the girl’s okay, and the kittens’ distressed mews tug at him. He scans for the source of the sound, then lifts his gaze—and freezes.

Because it’s you.

You’re standing there, hood pushed back just enough for him to see your face, and for a second he can’t process anything but the sight of you, right there in front of him. Everything else blurs out—the dirt on the pavement, the two boys clutching their bruised egos, even the little kittens curling into your arms.

You look at him, the kittens wriggling in your arms. He’s frozen for a beat, his eyes wide, heart pounding and then his mouth flies open in a curse.

“YOU BASTARDS!”

Your eyes go wide as Riki spins back toward the boys, his voice raw with rage. You set the kittens down on the sidewalk without thinking, then hurry over as he looms over the two guys who are trying to get to their feet. His fist connects with the first one’s face.

“YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY HARASSING GIRLS?!” Another punch lands on the other kid’s jaw—there’s a sick crack you can almost hear, and you wouldn’t be shocked if one of them needed a dentist after this.

You hover behind him, hand reaching out before you halt, stunned by how fierce he is.

“HOW DARE YOU TOUCH HER?!” he roars, another blow nearly thrown until you grab him from behind. Your arms wrap around his torso just in time; his fist freezes midair. He takes a sharp breath, shoulders heaving, glare burning into the two boys who are already trembling.

“Oh my god!! Please calm down, Riki!” you plead, squeezing him tighter. He shoves your hands away once, still glaring at them before turning to face you, sweat beading on his forehead from the adrenaline.

“Are you okay?” he asks finally, voice rough as he scratches the back of his neck, trying to step out of the haze. Seeing you—the girl he’s liked since childhood—cornered like that flips a switch inside him.

“I’m okay. I just heard kittens and stopped…” you trail off, letting him fuel his anger for a moment longer.

“And those scumbags decided it was funny to mess with you?” he finishes for you, eyes hot with fury, ready to turn back and teach them another lesson if you didn’t hold on to him so tight.

“Riki, stop it!” you scold, punching his chest lightly as the two boys finally scramble away, breaths ragged and panicked. Your thumb rubs circles on his knuckles softly, fingers digging in, not letting him go after them.

“I really need to teach them a lesson—” he begins, jaw tight.

“I need to teach you a lesson, boy. How dare you walk off in the middle of an argument?” you snap, letting go of his hand and stalking to the curb. Your feet move before your brain does; adrenaline makes you feel oddly detached.

“Are you seriously bringing this up again?” Riki groans, rolling his eyes despite the shaking in his voice. His knuckles are bruised, a faint trickle of blood seeping through in a few places, but he hides it by tucking his hands into his pockets.

You kneel, scoop the kittens into your arms, and stand, looking up at him. He gives you a sheepish smile you can’t help but scold with a sharp, “tchh” and then you walk ahead, still buzzing with anger.

Riki can’t help the small, disbelieving smile tugging at his lips as he stares down at his bruised knuckles.

The sting should’ve hurt, but instead, it makes something inside him twist—a quiet, undeniable realisation that he’s completely, stupidly, irreversibly in love with the girl he calls his best friend. Even if he keeps denying it, even if he’s tried convincing himself otherwise a hundred times, it’s obvious now. Painfully obvious.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling a shaky laugh before glancing up at you walking a few steps ahead. The sight alone makes his chest feel lighter. So he jogs to catch up, voice breaking the silence.

“Are you mad?” he whines, pretending not to know the answer.

“You bet I am,” you shoot back without looking at him, the faintest pout tugging at your lips.

“Okay, stay pissed then.” Riki shrugs, slipping past you with mock nonchalance, as if he doesn’t care—but he completely misses the small smile curling at your mouth.

Because no matter how much you try to stay annoyed, you can’t erase the image of him—your Riki—losing his mind the moment he realised the girl in trouble was you.

© shortonwon | tumblr | 2025 ! took this from my cortis blog, so if you've seen this before—it's me only.

Your fingers tighten around the folds of your long skirt, knuckles pressing white as you nod, forcing out a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your cheeks burn, and you can feel every gaze at the table shift toward you—curious, expectant.

“Is it not great?” he pushes again, tone light but probing, and you swear you could strangle him for being so nosy. His words hang in the air, drawing full attention from your in-laws and your own parents alike.

“It… is great,” you manage, voice a little too soft, a little too unsure.

The table quiets for just a moment, and you feel your heart hammer in your chest. You keep your eyes low, fists still gripping your skirt like an anchor.

Across the table, Jay remains calm—expression unreadable, posture perfect. He doesn’t jump in to save you, doesn’t say a word, as if nothing is wrong. As if your discomfort isn’t laid bare for everyone to see.

“Really though? Son, is my daughter being a menace?” your father asks, his tone not quite teasing but taunting—that same sharp edge you’ve grown up hearing for the nineteen years before you were married off.

Married not out of choice, but because both sets of parents knew exactly how to twist your emotions until you couldn’t say no.

(But it wasn’t like you could’ve ever rejected him anyway.)

You finally lift your gaze, eyes meeting your husband’s across the table.

For a second, you hope he’ll say something—anything—to shift the attention.

But he only looks away, a soft, polite smile tugging at his lips as he replies, “If anything, I’m the one being a menace.”

Your mother lets out a delighted laugh, clearly charmed, her eyes gleaming as if they’ve truly hit the jackpot with their son-in-law.

“You’re just being humble,” your father waves it off with a smirk, turning his gaze toward you.

The look he gives you is painfully familiar—the same one that’s always warned you he’s about to embarrass you just because he can.

“My daughter’s really bad at taking care of a home, you know? Can’t even boil water properly,” he says, chuckling to himself. “It’s sad you can’t refund her now.”

The table bursts into laughter—light, easy, unbothered—as if it’s all harmless fun.

But the sound feels like static in your ears. You keep your eyes lowered, your fists tightening in your lap, quietly focusing on steadying your breath.

Jay only manages an awkward smile, clearly unsure what to do or say, his fingers nervously tracing the rim of his glass.

The others continue eating, chatting between bites of the elaborate meal your family prepared—every dish an effort to impress your in-laws. At least they get along, you think bitterly, exhaling a quiet sigh that no one seems to notice.

You take one last bite of the tteokbokki before sliding the plate away, the sauce faintly sweet on your tongue.

It’s the same dish your mother has been bragging to your in-laws about all evening—how she used to make it for you and your brother when you were growing up, how it was always your favorite. But the truth is, even getting an extra plate of rice back then had been a luxury.

Poverty had its quiet ways of humbling you.

You’re still living somewhere in the lower range of it—not starving, but not comfortable either.

This life is just… a slightly better version of what it used to be.

You can’t help but notice the subtle imbalance around the table. Your father-in-law, your father, and your brother dominate the conversation—voices confident, steady. Your mother and mother-in-law only speak when spoken to, their smiles polite but restrained.

It’s not surprising; it’s just how things are. Society still teaches women their boundaries, even here, even now—in the 20th century.

In that small, fleeting moment, you miss the way your husband’s gaze softens as he tips back a glass of water.

He watches you quietly from across the table, eyes lingering on your face while everyone else carries on. He’s not listening to their chatter—not really. His mind seems somewhere between guilt and something unspoken.

It’s only been a month since the wedding. The ring on your finger still glimmers like it’s new—because it is. And yet, as you sit there surrounded by family, the noise of laughter and conversation blending into a blur, you feel nothing but a hollow ache in your chest.

Your eyelids grow heavy before you even realize it. You rest your head lightly on the edge of the table—it’s spotless, thankfully. You’ve always eaten cleanly, a habit burned into you since childhood, when even the smallest mess could summon your mother’s wrath.

The voices around you fade, becoming distant and dull. Just like everything else in your marriage.

⪩⪨

“Oppa!!” You giggle, your tiny arms wrapping tightly around the older boy’s waist as he pedals down the narrow village road.

The wind rushes past your face, carrying the faint scent of blooming marigolds from nearby fields.

Jay laughs, steadying the bicycle with surprising ease for an nine-year-old, while you—barely four—cling to him from the backseat, your feet not even reaching the pedals.

He’s your brother’s best friend, five years older than you, and the only person who ever lets you ride with him. There’s no hesitation in his movements, no awkwardness—just the soft, protective kind of affection an older boy has for a little girl he’s known forever.

Jay turns his head slightly, flashing a grin toward your brother, Jake, who stands sulking on the dirt path, arms crossed and face scrunched up with jealousy.

“You’ll get your turn!” Jay calls out, his laughter echoing through the quiet afternoon.

Even then, you can’t help but admire him.

The way he talks, the way he smiles, the warmth in his voice—everything about him feels safe, gentle, and kind. To your tiny heart, it all feels like love. Pure, innocent, childish love that blooms without reason.

But as time passes, the sweetness sours. You grow older, and so does he, and you start to understand the quiet ache that comes with knowing the truth—that to him, you’re just a little girl he once looked after. Someone to protect, not someone to love.

And somehow, that realization hurts more than anything your nine-year-old heart has ever known.

⪩⪨

And now.

Sitting in your little hiding spot by the lake—the one nestled deep within the forest where no one ever dared to go—you can’t help but sob quietly, your small shoulders trembling with each hiccup.

The night air is damp, the scent of moss and still water filling your nose as you wipe at your tears with the back of your palm.

It happened again today.

Something so small, yet it broke you all over again—your brother getting the larger piece of fish while you were left scraping the thin curry for flavor.

“I hate everyone,” you whisper between choked sobs, voice cracking.

The darkness does nothing to comfort you; it only feels heavier, pressing against your little body as you rock back and forth, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. It’s the only way you’ve ever learned to stop the hurt—to hold yourself because no one else will.

“Hey?!”

You freeze at the sudden sound, breath catching.

“Please don’t kill me!” you blurt out, voice trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut.

Sure, you’ve wished to disappear before, but not like this—not at nine years old, not here, not tonight.

A familiar voice cuts through the rustling of the trees. “What are you even doing here at this hour?”

You slowly peek through your fingers, your vision still blurry from the tears—and there he is. Jay. Completely soaked, water dripping from his hair as he steps out from the lake. For a moment, he looks unreal—like an angel pulled straight from the water, moonlight glinting off his damp skin. Your heart pounds faster, too fast, and you forget how to breathe.

“I asked you a question, girl,” he calls again, shaking his head roughly to dry his hair. The droplets scatter, landing on your face and hands. You flinch but secretly, it feels special—like being blessed somehow, as ridiculous as it sounds.

You’re just so hopelessly down bad, even at nine.

“...I ran away.” You murmur, voice soft and shaky, not really expecting him to say anything back.

But Jay tilts his head slightly, confusion flickering across his face as he asks again, “Something to do with your family?”

That’s all it takes for your younger self to spill everything.

“Yes… they gave fish to my brother but not me,” you complain, words tumbling out like they’ve been waiting too long. You glance up at him as he quietly sits beside you on the large rock, his presence grounding in the still night air.

“You want fish?” he questions suddenly, cutting through your silence.

Before you can even form a reply, he gets up, walking over to where a small stick rests by a dying campfire.

You blink in surprise as he blows over a piece of grilled fish, the faint smoke curling between you, and holds it out toward you.

You just stare, a little dumbfounded—why is he doing this? Especially when you’d just been ranting about your family, about his best friend’s family.

“Why were you cooking fish in the middle of a forest anyway?” you finally voice out, hesitant, not yet taking the food.

He shrugs lightly, settling back down beside you. “I just like the peace. Home’s… too chaotic for me,” he admits, tone calm but honest. Then, with a small frown of focus, he carefully tears off a piece of the fish, checking for small bones. Once satisfied, he holds it out to you again.

“Here… ahh.”

You hesitate, eyes glimmering with fresh tears, before finally opening your mouth.

The taste isn’t great—a little burnt, a little bland—but somehow, eating from his hands makes it perfect. It’s the kind of warmth you’d been starving for.

The moonlight catches his skin as he moves—his bare chest still glistening from the water, muscles shifting with every motion—and your eyes betray you, darting down before you can stop yourself.

He looks older, stronger, impossibly beautiful under the pale glow, and it makes your heart ache in a way you don’t quite understand yet.

“Oppa… thank you so much,” you whisper, testing the word on your tongue, watching his small smile in response.

You open your mouth for another bite, and he obliges easily, pulling apart another piece and removing the sharper bones before gently bringing it near your lips.

You can’t help but smile, cheeks flushed, the warmth in your chest spreading.

It’s been months since you last had fish—real food, something warm—but it isn’t just that.

Somehow, sitting here beside him, under the quiet blanket of night, feels more like home than home ever did.

⪩⪨

And even as time passed.

What did not stop was the admiration and love you still harboured for him during your teen years. That affection also spilled into a bit of teenage exploration, and it always circled back to him.

Your hands cupped the soft weight of your still-forming breasts, the shower water pouring over you as you shut your eyes, picturing him—right behind you, pressing his firm body against yours.

Would he be all muscle? He looked strong under his clothes every time you saw him—god. You craved it all, the way he would grip your waist from behind, palm flat on your stomach, sliding up to cradle the gentle curve beneath your breasts. Your own hands followed the fantasy, tracing what you wished he would do.

“Jay…” you breathed, squeezing your breasts together, thumbs brushing the stiff peaks while water streamed down, plastering your hair to your cheeks. A hot pulse stirred deep in your pussy.

A soft whine escaped you, the feeling too good to ignore, even if you did not yet grasp why—even if you did not realize your secret thoughts about your brother’s best friend were the spark.

Your hand drifted lower, pushing aside the damp curls as your fingers met slick warmth. You inhaled sharply at the strange, slippery heat, then spread it over your folds. A needy moan slipped out, half-whimper.

“Jay… please…”

In your mind, his fingers worked you, but with him absent, yours took over. You circled the tender swell at the top, your clit or so you thought, pleasure flaring bright, hips rocking into your touch.

Water rushed over your shaking thighs, mingling with the slickness gathering between them. You pressed firmer, chasing the ache that buckled your knees.

You never slipped inside—the idea felt too bold, too unknown back then.

“HOW MUCH LONGER ARE YOU GOING TO SHOWER?” came the shout, followed by a sharp knock on the door.

You flinched visibly, eyes snapping open, hands freezing mid-motion. You pulled them away; the one that had been between your legs glistened with your own slick warmth. Your nipples stayed peaked, but now the chill of sudden exposure bit harder than any lingering heat.

“ARE YOU DEAD IN THERE?”

The shout jolted you fully awake. Your voice trembled as you called back, “Almost done!” The words thinned under the steady drum of the shower.

You twisted the faucet off at once, water dying to drips. Towel in hand, you scrubbed your skin dry, slipped into the clothes hanging on the hook, then wound the damp towel around your hair. Each knock and raised syllable from your mother made you shrink.

“THIS GIRL. GODDAMN. YOU ALONE WASTE HALF THE WATER IN THIS HOUSE.”

Another flinch rippled through you. The door clicked open. Your pulse hammered; you stepped out fast, shoulders hunched, praying her palm stayed at her side today and didn't ache to be on your cheek. You brushed past her in the narrow hall, eyes fixed on the floorboards.

She kept yelling—five full minutes about bills, about waste, about how useless you were—until she finally pushed into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

Only then, in the sudden hush, did your mind drift back to the shower.

That strange, slippery heat still coated your fingers; you could almost feel it again.

You pressed your thighs together, remembering the ache he sparked without even being there. His imagined hands—bigger than yours, sure—gliding over your wet skin, cupping, stroking, claiming.

Your mother’s voice faded into dull noise behind the bathroom door, and all you heard was the echo of your own quiet plea. “Jay…”

⪩⪨

And then, almost like magic—or maybe a cruel twist of fate—you were suddenly arranged to marry him. You were just eighteen, barely stepping out of the kitchen after spending the afternoon trying to follow one of your mother’s recipes.

“Mom, what do I do with the rest of the flour?” you shout, loud enough for the whole house to hear, brushing a streak of flour off your cheek as you step out. You don’t realize there’s company in the living room—not until the words hang in the air and silence greets you instead of your mother’s usual grumpy reply.

Your eyes lift, and there he is. Jay.

You freeze.

For a moment, the world narrows down to the sight of him sitting there, composed as ever beside both sets of parents. Your heart stutters; your face burns. You can feel the flour still smudged across your apron and skin, and it makes your embarrassment worse.

“M–mom..?” you manage weakly, your voice barely more than a whisper as you look toward her.

She stands by Jay’s mother, both smiling in that overly polite, knowing way adults do when they’re discussing something life-changing for everyone but themselves.

“Oh, there she is—our daughter” your father announces proudly, gesturing toward you as if presenting you to an audience.

You can only stare, wide-eyed, trying to make sense of it.

Your brother, Jake, looks equally bewildered, his brows furrowing as his gaze darts between you, Jay, and the parents.

“What’s going on..?” he finally interrupts, his tone sharp as his arm instinctively slips around your shoulder—protective, firm, a rare show of care from someone who’d literally tackled you for a stolen chip that same morning.

Then the realization seems to hit him like a storm. “Don’t tell me you guys are…” he points from Jay to you, then to the parents again, voice rising in disbelief. “You’re not seriously—”

“I don’t agree,” Jake cuts in before anyone can answer, his glare fierce as it lands on Jay. The tension is thick, his grip on your shoulder tightening.

“Let’s go,” he says under his breath, jaw tight, his hand guiding you firmly down the hallway. “No point staying here.”

Before you can even look back, he shuts the door behind you, locking it with a sharp click.

You stand there, heart pounding, staring at the closed door—the muffled sounds of conversation fading outside—and you realize you’re still holding the bowl of flour.

It all feels surreal. One moment, you were learning to cook. The next, they’d decided your entire future.

You still can’t wrap your head around it—any of it.

Your pulse is loud in your ears, the faint smell of flour clinging to your clothes, your hands trembling slightly as you stare at Jake.

He kneels a little so your eyes meet, his expression surprisingly serious, a contrast to his usual teasing self.

“I might be an ass to you,” he starts, voice low but steady, “but I’m not letting my sister get married off to someone she doesn’t want to.”

You blink at him, the words not sinking in immediately.

Then your breath catches.

“Married?” you echo, your voice cracking.

Jake sighs, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration. “Yes, marriage. They are here to talk about a proposal.”

Your stomach flips. Marriage. The word feels unreal—too heavy, too sudden—and yet, before you can even think twice, the words spill out of you.

“But I do want to marry him!!” you blurt, almost desperately, spinning toward the door. But before you can reach the handle, Jake’s hand shoots out, holding it firmly shut.

He stares at you in disbelief. “You’ve never even had a proper conversation with him, and you’re saying you want to marry him?” he scoffs, shaking his head.

To him, you’re still the kid who cried over broken crayons and burnt toast—the same little sister he’s spent half his life protecting and yelling at.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of this, situation” he adds, his voice softer now but still laced with frustration. “That boy’s twenty-three, and you’re just eighteen—”

“But I’ll be nineteen by the time we actually marry!” you cut in quickly, trying to sound logical, like you’ve already thought this through.

Jake’s brows knit together, but you keep going, using the same sweet tone your mother always used to get her way.

“Oppa,” you say, cupping his face between your flour-dusted hands, the bowl placed away, looking up at him with pleading eyes, “he has a good job. He can take care of your little sister easily.”

Jake just sighs, clearly torn between amusement and disbelief.

You can see the corners of his mouth twitch, the way they always do when he’s seconds away from giving up on arguing with you.

The two of you stand there—a chaotic pair, the room smelling faintly of flour—and for a brief second, it almost feels like any other sibling fight. Except this time, what’s at stake isn’t a bag of chips or a TV remote. It’s your future.

“But you gotta promise me that you’ll break this off if you feel anything suspicious or off” Jake pleaded, his tone laced with genuine worry.

Something about this whole situation had him unusually protective, almost tense. Meanwhile, you couldn’t help the tiny burst of happiness that bubbled up inside you at his concern.

“I promise,” you added with a grin, your voice light but full of certainty. You could barely contain the excitement at the thought of it—finally getting married to him. The boy had owned your soul ever since the day you met him. As indecent as it sounded, you wanted no one else. You knew that even if you ended up with another man, your heart would still yearn for him—for Jay.

Jake sighed heavily before finally opening the door, stepping out first.

You followed, your movements shy and hesitant, your fingers gripping the fabric of your dress as you lingered by the entrance. You could hear Jake’s voice as he spoke to both sets of parents, the polite greetings mixing with the hum of casual conversation.

But your eyes weren’t on them.

They were on him.

Jay sat across the room, elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on his lap. His expression unreadable—almost too calm for what this moment meant to you. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, he lifted his gaze. His eyes met yours.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering so violently that it hurt. You quickly looked away, stepping back behind the doorway, your pulse still drumming in your ears. You prayed he hadn’t noticed you staring—though deep down, a part of you wished he had.

But even if he did, it wouldn’t matter.

Because soon enough, he was going to be yours. In a year, you’d belong to him—far from this place, somewhere only the two of you existed.

Somewhere peace awaited you—in the arms of someone you loved, and someone who, you hoped with everything in you, might someday learn to love you back.

⪩⪨

“Tchh.”

You let out a small sound of frustration, the memory of your old excitement now feeling like a cruel joke.

Sitting in the train that carried you both back to the city, exhaustion weighed on your body after the long family dinner.

Dinner—if you could even call it that.

It had felt more like torture, a silent interrogation wrapped in politeness. And what irked you the most was how Jay hadn’t spoken up for you even once.

You sat quietly, eyes fixed on the window, watching the blur of stars scatter across the night sky. They glimmered faintly—as if they’d stolen the light you’d once had inside you.

Your fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and hold his hand. Your throat itched to finally tell him how much it hurt—how much his silence had cut you open when you needed him most.

“Jay—” you began softly, but the word barely left your lips before you stopped.

His head had fallen gently against your shoulder, eyes closed, lips parted slightly as sleep overtook him. You turned your head slightly, just enough to see him. Your husband—asleep on your shoulder like a weary child.

A shiver ran down your spine, not from discomfort but from the quiet intimacy of it all. Warmth bloomed in your chest, melting away some of the heaviness you carried.

You shifted a little, straightening your posture and raising your shoulder slightly so he could rest more comfortably.

Despite the ache, despite the resentment—seeing him like this softened you.

So what if he didn’t care? You cared. And maybe that was enough… for now.

Still, the bitterness lingered.

You hesitated, then slowly reached out, gathering what little courage you had left, and took his hand in yours. The cool metal of his wedding ring glinted faintly in the dim train light—mocking, somehow, in how brightly it shone while the bond between you both had dulled.

“Jay…” you breathed, your voice no louder than a sigh as your thumb brushed over the ring. Resting your head gently against his, you let yourself linger in that fragile moment—the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the soft hum of the moving train, the illusion of closeness that almost felt real.

It had been a month since the wedding.

A month of trying.

A month of hoping.

And still, he didn’t care.

Or maybe he did—just not in the way you wanted him to.

He would sleep with you, yes—but he would never reach out to hold you, never wrap his arms around you, never pull you close in the way you had always dreamed a husband would.

It wasn’t like the soft, honey-colored fantasies you’d painted for yourself when you imagined marriage. It was cold. It was quiet. It was lonely.

You remembered the little things, the moments that confused your heart more than they should have.

Like the way he helped you cook because you couldn’t get through a recipe without either burning the vegetables or leaving them half-raw.

He never complained, never sighed in frustration, just silently stepped in to help—even when he came home after a long, draining day at work.

That was sweet, yes.

It made your chest flutter in the smallest way.

But then he’d go right back to that distant tone, treating you like the same girl he’d known for years, never like a woman who now shared his home, his bed, his name.

It was maddening.

You remembered asking him once over dinner, your voice trembling but steady enough to carry your heart’s weight. “Would you still treat me this way if I was some other girl you married?”

He didn’t answer. He just sat there in silence—the clink of his chopsticks against the bowl louder than any words he could’ve said. And somehow, you knew the answer already. He wouldn’t.

What you didn’t know, however, was that he would never agree to marry anyone else in the first place—not if it wasn’t you.

You were young, naive maybe, but the thought of you being handed off to some stranger, a man who might use you and discard you without a second thought, had terrified him more than anything ever had.

Jay could live with guilt. He could live with exhaustion. But he couldn’t live with the image of you being hurt.

Love?

He wasn’t sure if that was what it was.

But care—deep, instinctive care—that he knew too well.

He understood how marriage worked in this era, how women were treated as property, traded off to men twice their age with nothing but silence for protest. The thought of you in that position made his stomach twist until he could hardly breathe.

So he did what he thought was right—even if it meant building walls between you both after.

Because losing you, in any form, would’ve been far worse than the quiet misery he chose instead.

But to you, all of this felt like being treated like a child—always assuming you couldn’t do something, always stepping in before you even had the chance to try.

It wasn’t protection anymore; it was pity disguised as care.

You wiped at your tear-streaked cheek with the back of your hand, eyes drifting back to the window where the stars hung faintly above the blur of trees.

They seemed duller now, as if even they had grown tired—reflecting your life a little too perfectly.

All you could do was hope—hope that once you reached the city, you could crawl into bed, bury yourself in the sheets, and cry without worrying about anyone hearing.

You wiped another tear that threatened to fall, forcing your breathing to steady.

Because no matter what this was—the awkward silences, the quiet ache, the way love felt half-formed between you—it was still better than what you had endured before. The shattered dishes, the shouting, the hands that struck before words ever could. You had been the one on the receiving end of that chaos, and even the thought of it still made your chest tighten.

So even if life now meant living in a cramped apartment with a husband who barely looked your way, it was still peace. It was safety. And that was something.

Jay’s fingers twitched in his sleep, tightening slightly around yours.

“Mm…” he hummed lowly, half-conscious, as if even in sleep he refused to let go.

You stilled, watching the way his hand fit so easily against yours, and tried not to feel too guilty about the warmth that bloomed from it.

Because how could you complain? He was your dream. The same boy you had adored since childhood, the one you had prayed for, whispered about, wished on stars for—and now he was here. You were holding his hand. Sharing a bed. Living under the same roof. Even if it wasn’t the way you had imagined, it was still something, and you clung to that.

You couldn’t cook without burning something, couldn’t finish chores properly, couldn’t even contribute a penny to the rent—and still, he never once raised his voice or made you feel small. That alone, you told yourself, was enough reason to be grateful. So you were.

Even as his hand tightened around yours again, and the train slowed near your stop, you already knew. You wouldn’t bring it up. Not the neglect, not the ache, not the longing. Not when he was trying, in his own quiet way, to take care of you.

⪩⪨

The next few days pass just… okay-ish. Nothing new, nothing different—just the same quiet routine, the same silence that fills the gaps between you two. Because really, nothing has changed.

By the time you finally get back home from errands, your body feels unbearably heavy. Your head throbs, your skin burns, and every bone in you aches.

Fever—that’s what it is, but even that doesn’t stop you.

You still manage to drag yourself to the kitchen, fumbling through the recipe you had written down on a crumpled piece of paper. It’s your one-month anniversary today—your first month as his wife—and even if it might not mean much to him, it means something to you.

So you bake. A small, uneven cake. The top’s a little burnt, the frosting’s a little too sweet, but it’s yours. It’s love, in the only way you know how to give it.

When you finally collapse on the bed, the smell of sugar and vanilla still lingers on your fingers. You close your eyes, exhausted, hoping just a short nap will help before he comes home.

But when your eyes flutter open again, the room feels different—chaotic. The air feels sharp, heavy with tension. Jay’s standing near the sink, shoulders stiff, eyes dark with disappointment as he glares at you.

Your heart sinks immediately. You can’t even piece together what could’ve gone wrong.

“Jay?” you call out softly, voice still hoarse from sleep. But before you can say more, his voice cuts through the air—louder, sharper than you’ve ever heard it before.

“Do you seriously not understand that the water taps should be closed after use?” His tone is pure frustration, the kind that burns more than it should. “Do you have any idea how much water—how much money—went down the drain because you forgot? God, it must’ve been running for at least an hour!”

You blink at him, stunned, feeling your throat close up as guilt rises like bile.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, tears already pricking your eyes. You can tell—this isn’t the usual quiet annoyance, this is anger. Real anger. And it terrifies you.

He shakes his head, rubbing his temples as if trying to control himself, but his voice still carries the same edge. “You’re sorry? If you really were, you’d have known better than to keep the tap running! Do you know how hard I work? And to come home to this—” He gestures around at the mess, the damp floor, the unwashed dishes, and it’s too much.

You close your eyes tight, pressing your lips together to stop the trembling. Because this moment—his voice, his words, his frustration—feels too familiar.

It’s like being back there again. In that house. The one filled with yelling and broken dishes. The one you promised yourself you’d never relive.

And yet, somehow, you’re right back in it.

“Why are you so quiet now? No acknowledgement, no… nothing?” he trails off, his voice softer now, confusion edging out the anger.

Finally, for the first time that evening, he really looks at you—and his entire expression shifts. He moves closer, kneeling down hesitantly in front of you, one hand reaching out before it stops midair as if he’s not sure whether he even deserves to touch you. Then, slowly, he presses his palm against your forehead.

The heat under his skin tells him everything.

His eyes widen in alarm, the pieces of the puzzle falling together in an instant—the exhaustion, the paleness, your trembling voice.

Regret floods him all at once, and his chest tightens painfully.

“Are you…” he starts, voice cracking as he exhales deeply. “I didn’t realise…” He runs a trembling hand through his hair, his thumb brushing away the tear that escapes down your cheek—a tear that burns more than any words could have.

He feels sick.

Absolutely sick at himself.

“I’ll… I’ll get you something to eat,” he finally says under his breath, guilt heavy in his tone.

He stands up abruptly, almost tripping over the edge of the rug as he walks toward the small kitchen area—still in his outside clothes, still too frantic to even remove his socks.

But as soon as he reaches the counter, he stops dead in his tracks.

A small cake sits there—uneven, slightly tilted, the frosting messy but filled with color. There’s a heart on top, carefully made from chocolate gems, the kind you always saved to eat last. His breath catches in his throat.

He feels the air leave his lungs as his mind races—what is this? And then, a sinking realisation hits.

He grabs his phone, scrolling through the calendar, and the date stares back at him like a cruel reminder—the one-month wedding anniversary.

And you remembered.

He stands there for a long moment, silent, his hand tightening around the counter edge as guilt swallows him whole.

You’d been sick… and still baked him a cake.

You’d put your heart into something that was supposed to be sweet, a tiny celebration of love, and he had crushed it under anger.

“What did I just do…” he breathes out shakily, running a hand through his hair, eyes glassy with shame. He takes a plate, his movements careful now, almost reverent, and slices a small piece of the cake—one for you, one for himself.

It couldn’t go to waste. Not after how much it must’ve taken you to make it.

Not when you both were already running low on everything—time, money, and maybe… a little bit of love too.

With slow, uncertain steps, he walks back into the room. You’re sitting up now, your face pale, a faint frown tugging at your lips—the kind that twists something deep in his chest. He lowers himself down to the floor, kneeling in front of you, eyes searching yours as he carefully places the plate on your lap. His voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“I’m so sorry…”

You just stare at him, the weight of everything sitting heavy between you.

There’s sincerity in his eyes—raw, trembling, almost boyish—but it doesn’t erase the ache still lodged in your heart.

You shake your head slowly, pushing the plate back toward him.

“You were right,” you murmur, the words fragile.

“You don’t work hard just to come back to a home that looks like… this.” You gesture vaguely around the room—the cluttered dishes, the undone laundry, the exhaustion that’s started to live in every corner of his tiny apartment.

He exhales, guilt twisting through his expression. “It’s okay… it really is,” he manages quietly, his gaze falling to the plate before flicking back to you. “But… please. Eat it. It’s our anniversary, after all…” His voice trails off, the guilt pressing deeper into him.

The word anniversary tastes like regret on his tongue—knowing he forgot, knowing he brought you nothing but disappointment.

“Yeah…” you whisper, your tone fragile and faintly bitter. “Happy anniversary.”

You finally lift the small slice of cake to your lips, taking a slow bite before hesitating—then, wordlessly, you offer him the rest.

He freezes, the air thick between you.

You let out a soft, broken laugh.

“Of course. Why would you eat something that—”

Your words die in your throat when his hand catches your wrist. Without breaking eye contact, he leans forward and takes the piece from your fingers, his lips brushing your skin. You go utterly still as he draws your fingers between his, tongue sweeping lightly over the tips to clean away the crumbs. His eyes never leave yours while doing so.

The room feels heavier, hotter, your pulse stuttering against your wrist where his hand still holds you captive. He chews slowly, his jaw tightening, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

“Jay…” you breathe, barely audible.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, the words more desperate this time, laced with something that sounds like self-hatred.

You blink back the sting in your eyes, the frustration, the ache. “Like you said,” you begin, voice trembling but steady enough to cut through the silence, “Sorry doesn’t make up for it. You treat me like that same little girl you met all those years ago… not like someone who’s supposed to be your wife. Why?”

The question falls between you, heavy and bare, leaving him wordless.

He slowly stands, taking the empty plate from your lap, and sets it on the table beside the bed. Then he looks back at you—his eyes dark, conflicted, full of everything he doesn’t know how to say.

“Then what does…?” he asks quietly, the words low but sharp enough to cut through the thick air between you.

He leans in a little too close, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, and your heart stutters in response—loud, uncontrollable, trembling.

“Jay…” you whisper, swallowing hard before the words tumble out.

“You just… never treat me like your wife. We don’t—we haven’t even kissed or… I—” You stop, the fever pulsing through you making everything heavier, hotter. You shouldn’t be saying all this, but you’ve finally managed to get him to listen, to actually see you.

“Can I kiss you?” Jay interrupts softly.

Your mind blanks for a second. “What?” you blink, startled. That easily?

“You said you wanted to—”

“No.” The word leaves your mouth before he can finish.

“Don’t kiss me. Not when you’re doing it just to fulfill your husband duties.” You stare up at him, your tone steady but your chest aching.

He studies you for a moment—then straightens, pulling away.

You think that’s the end of it, that he’s withdrawing again like he always does, but instead his hand slides beneath your knees, the other pressing gently against your back. You gasp softly as he lifts you, effortlessly, his movements careful and quiet as he carries you across the small room.

He places you down on the narrow bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. You stare up at him, eyes wide, utterly lost. He looks down at you, and for once, you can’t read him. His expression isn’t cold or distant—there’s something unreadable, a tension that pulls at your chest.

“Why would you—”

Before you can finish, he presses a finger to your lips, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because if I kiss you on the couch,” he pauses, the words deliberate, “I won’t be able to stop myself. So better yet… start here.”

He leans in closer, and you instinctively fall back against the pillow, breath catching in your throat.

For a fleeting moment, you can’t believe this is him—the same man who used to avoid even brushing his fingers against yours, now looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Can I kiss you now?” he whispers, his lips hovering so close to yours that every word brushes your mouth like a touch.

You nod, the smallest dip of your chin, and his lips seal over yours in the same breath. He lowers you fully; your back sinks into the mattress of the narrow bed you have shared on restless nights. His body follows, pinning you gently beneath him.

The kiss ignites something sharp and sweet. His tongue traces the edge of your lips, coaxing them apart, then slips inside to tangle with yours.

Your hands fist the front of his shirt, knuckles whitening as the familiar slick heat gathers between your thighs, growing with every slow stroke of his mouth.

“Jay,” you whine against him, the fever still burning under your skin.

He shifts, the hard line of his body presses flush to yours, thigh nudging between your legs, and you feel the throb of him even through the layers of cloth.

“So sorry…” he breathes, the apology lost as his tongue finds yours again.

Your eyes flutter shut, his taste floods you—warm, faintly salted, everything you once imagined in secret. The little girl inside you sighs in quiet triumph.

“It’s okay…” you whisper when he draws back just enough to speak.

Your lips shine. His do too.

A thin thread of saliva stretches between you, glinting, then snaps.

His gaze is dark, pupils blown wide. A low groan rumbles in his chest, and he dives back in.

He kisses like he is starving, lips molding, tongue stroking, teeth grazing your lower lip until it stings. One large hand gathers both your wrists, pinning them above your head against the pillow. His other hand slides beneath the hem of your dress—the soft cotton gifted for the marriage, still crisp with newness.

His palm meets fever-hot skin along your ribs. He traces upward, thumb brushing the soft underside of your breast, then hesitates at the tied strings of your dress.

You arch into him, hips rolling, lips seeking his again, guiding his fingers back inside with a soft nudge.

There is no chance you will let him stop now, not after years of wanting this.

You—wrapped in his arms, his mouth devouring yours. The only thing left is to feel him deeper—inside you, filling the ache that pulses low in your belly. The fever, the need—whatever name it carries—promises you will have it soon, if the kiss never ends.

You nearly cursed yourself for guiding his hand back under your dress; women who made moves were judged harshly.

But Jay only kissed you harder, hips rolling forward. Through his pants and the thin cotton of your dress, you could feel the hardness of his dragging against your walls. Your eyes rolled back, you were so close now. It did not matter that it started from an argument.

“Jay…” A fresh rush of wetness soaked your folds. You felt it slick the inside of your thighs, and he had not even touched you there. Your walls clenched around nothing.

“Is the fever—”

“Not about it… just… I…” You clamped your lips shut. If he wanted this, he would take it. Speaking too much was unladylike, you had been taught that since you were small. Be obedient. Listen to your husband. Keep quiet.

His mouth left yours and drifted to your neck. You swallowed a moan, afraid of waking anyone up. He sucked gently at the tender skin below your ear, just like every secret dream you had ever had, only better.

“…I…” He started, voice rough, then slid both hands beneath your dress. His palms cupped your breasts fully, thumbs sweeping over the stiff peaks. The soft weight filled his hands, you had ached for this touch for years.

It’s happening. It’s happening. It’s happening.

Your mind lit up like festival lanterns. You arched into him, pressing your chest forward, but you did not grab or pull. You stayed still, letting him lead, heart hammering with equal parts joy and fear.

He untied the knots at the front of your dress, fingers quick and sure. The fabric loosened, slid down your shoulders, over your breasts, past your hips, until it pooled on the floor beside the bed.

The air in the small room pressed thick and warm against your bare skin. You looked up at him, cheeks burning, struck silent by the sight of your own husband seeing you like this for the first time.

His one hand still pinned both of yours above your head. With the other he unhooked your bra, tugged your panties down your thighs, all without letting go. You heard his sharp inhale, felt it shudder through him, and the sound snapped you out of your haze. You pushed at his chest.

“What—” Jay blinked, confused, staring down at you naked beneath him, suddenly shoving him away.

Your nipples were tight peaks, skin flushed crimson, pussy clenching around emptiness, and still you managed to whisper, “You don’t have to do this just to make me happy…”

“Who said I’m doing this to make you…” He paused, cock twitching hard in his pants as he finished, “…happy?”

“Huh?” you breathed, lost, before he surged forward, tackling you back onto the mattress.

He yanked his zipper down, shoved his work shirt off his shoulders, let it drop. Bare chest met yours, hot skin on hot skin. His mouth crashed into yours again while the thick length of him, freed from his open zip, dragged along your soaked folds.

You felt like you were floating inside a dream.

Him wanting this—not just for you—made everything burn brighter.

Without warning he notched the head of his cock at your entrance and pushed in an inch, then pulled back. You fisted the sheets, eyes rolling, a broken sound catching in your throat. He did it again, shallow dips, the rough fabric of his pants and the cool bite of the zipper grazing your inner thighs each time. He hadn’t bothered to strip fully. You weren’t about to ask why and break the spell.

“Jay…” you whined, arching. His hands left your wrists to cup your breasts, thumbs circling the stiff nipples, squeezing gently. Then his fingers slid up your arms, lacing with yours, pinning your hands beside your head as he braced above you. His eyes locked on yours, dark and fierce, and he kissed you again—wet, open-mouthed, the slick sounds of lips and tongues filling the quiet room. It was enough to make you gush, fresh wetness spilling over his cock.

In that frantic rush, every insecurity melted away.

“Aghhh…” The groan tore from his throat, low and ragged. Heat spilled across your lower stomach, your slick folds, thick ropes of his release painting your damp skin before he had even truly begun.

“What was that—” you started, voice small, but he swallowed the question with his mouth.

“Don’t ask,” he muttered against your lips, a shy edge threading through the words. You caught it, the faint flush creeping up his neck, and you let it go. It was not your place to press.

“Okay, I won’t…” you whispered back, fingers flexing in his grip. He squeezed tighter, steadying himself, then nudged forward again, the slick head of his cock sliding through his own mess to find your entrance once more. Embarrassment still clung to him, he had spilled too soon, undone by nothing more than friction and want.

He pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaky. The blunt crown breached you, pushing past the tight ring of muscle that had never known another. You sucked in a sharp breath, a sting flaring bright as he sank deeper, stretching your walls around his thickness. He froze the instant he felt the resistance give, buried halfway, every inch of him pulsing inside you.

A single tear slipped free, he kissed it away without hesitation, lips soft at the corner of your eye.

“Should I move…?” His hips jerked involuntarily, a helpless twitch that dragged him a fraction deeper. You could feel how close he was to losing control again, muscles locked to keep from thrusting wildly.

You blinked through the haze, pain and pleasure tangling until you could not tell where one ended and the other began. You nodded, small, desperate.

“Please,” you breathed.

“You don’t have to say please…” he stated, voice rough silk. Only your mingled breathing filled the small, quiet apartment.

He drove forward in one slow, relentless glide until he bottomed out, cock seated fully inside you.

Your eyes rolled back, legs snapping around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. The coarse fabric of his half-open pants scraped your inner thighs. The cold bite of the zipper kissed your skin with every tiny shift, sending sparks up your spine.

He drew back an inch and pushed in again, the drag of his length stroking your walls, thick and hot and perfect. A broken cry spilled from your lips.

“Oppa!” The childhood nickname tumbled out raw, instinctive, laced with need now that he filled you completely.

He groaned at the sound, hips rolling deeper, the rhythm building, steady and hungry.

He kept moving, slow drags of his cock along your walls, and the sharp ache faded into something warm and electric. You could not believe this was real—him inside you, joined so completely.

A strange coil tightened low in your belly. You squeezed his hands, eyes shut tight as he scattered kisses over your cheeks, your jaw, anywhere his mouth could reach without breaking the rhythm of his cock.

“You… you gonna cum?” he asked, voice shy, almost unsure.

You nodded, pussy fluttering around him. Your fingers trembled as you lifted one hand to thread through his damp hair. “Jay…” The word broke on a gasp, your walls clamped down hard.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hips stuttering. He buried himself deep and stilled, cock pulsing as he spilled hot inside you. Your own release crashed through, body shaking in his arms, thighs locked around his waist.

He stayed there, breathing hard, afraid to move.

Pull out and pretend nothing happened?

The thought tangled in his chest.

Instead he rolled you both, settling you atop him. Your cheek pressed to his thudding heart, his cock still nestled inside, softening slowly, leaking the last drops. The narrow bed creaked, but you fit together perfectly, skin to slick skin.

“Does it still hurt?” he asks softly, his voice low enough to blend with the quiet hum of the night. His hand moves slowly up and down your bare back, tracing lazy, soothing lines against your skin. Each drag of his fingers sends a faint shiver running down your spine.

“Not so much…” you whisper, your voice barely audible, as if afraid the walls might hear and spill your secret. You rest your head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear—a sound that’s both comforting and painfully intimate.

“I’m sorry…” he murmurs after a long pause. “I never wanted to—”

“You didn’t want to do… this?” you interrupt quietly, your breath catching as the question slips out, terrified of what his answer might mean.

“Not… not this,” he clarifies quickly, his hand pausing for a second before moving again. “I never wanted to scold you. The work’s just been… too much. And the bills—”

“I understand,” you cut him off gently, pressing a soft kiss to his chest where your cheek had just been. He exhales shakily, his chest rising and falling under you as he looks around the small, dimly lit room—the single bed, the cracked wall, the faint smell of detergent from the clothes drying near the window.

It’s smaller than what you lived in before, maybe too small for two people who barely know how to talk without hurting each other. But you never once complained. You never said a word. And somehow, that silent acceptance makes the guilt in his chest feel even heavier, settling there like a weight he can’t lift.

“You work so hard for both of us… I should have remembered to close the tab…” you voice out, voice thick with sleep, your palm flat on his chest. Beneath it, his heartbeat steadies, but lower, you feel him twitch inside you, thickening again, slow and deliberate.

“Do you still see me just as that little girl…?” The question slips out before you can stop it. You shift your hips the tiniest bit, testing, and a soft groan rumbles from his throat.

“Well… not after this.” His arms tighten around your waist. “You are my wife now, and I should have… God, I missed out on so much.” He lifts his hips, driving himself deeper, the sudden stretch pulling a gasp from your lips. Your eyes roll back, pleasure sparking sharp and sweet.

“I always dreamt of this…” you breathe against his skin.

“About what?” he asks, hips stilling, cock buried to the hilt, pulsing.

“About us.” The words hang in the quiet room.

For a long moment, there’s only silence. The air between you feels thick with unspoken things—memories, apologies, hopes that neither of you has ever dared to voice. He looks down at you, confused yet tender, his thumb brushing faintly against your arm. You don’t explain, you don’t have to—you just tuck your face against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall beneath your cheek.

The night settles quietly around you both, wrapping you in a stillness that feels unfamiliar yet safe. It’s not obligation anymore—it’s something fragile, something real. You listen to his low grunts, swallow your own moans, guarding every sound like a secret meant only for the two of you.

⪩⪨

The next few days are a blur of quiet confusion. Neither of you brings up that night—not once—but something shifts in the way you exist around each other. You both start sleeping in the same bed, no longer pretending that the couch is more comfortable. The bed is too small to fit you properly, so you end up tangled together anyway, your legs brushing, breaths mixing in the dim light that seeps through the thin curtains.

Some nights, you find yourself massaging his back, tracing the tension from his shoulders until he finally breathes out and softens against your touch. On others, it’s him who gently presses his palm to your forehead, massaging slow circles until your headache fades away. Those small gestures—silent, unspoken—begin to fill the spaces that once felt unbearably distant.

And in those quiet moments, you realize something simple yet certain. The little girl you once were had chosen right. You had chosen a man who, even in his flaws, never let you feel like you were back in that house—the one filled with yelling, broken dishes, and bruised echoes of love. Jay, despite the cracked walls and the peeling paint of your tiny apartment, somehow made it feel like home.

“Did you really just pull up, Jay?” one of the older women laughs, nudging you with a teasing smile as she gestures toward your husband.

You’re at a small reunion with Jay’s college classmates—something he insisted you come to since a few were bringing their partners too.

You had agreed easily, wanting to support him, to stand by his side. But what you hadn’t expected was how out of place you’d feel once you got there. They were older, sharper, dressed in confidence that came with years you hadn’t yet lived.

And some of them, clearly, enjoyed poking at the quiet unease that already sat heavy in your chest.

“Are you sure he really married you?” one of them jokes, half-laughing as she sips her drink.

You try to smile, but it feels stiff, your fingers tightening around the hem of your dress as your heart sinks just a little deeper.

“Have a good time,” Jay had said earlier, smiling as he clinked glasses of soju with his male classmates. You’d smiled back then too, not realizing that ‘good time’ meant sitting across from two of his female classmates—both of whom seemed far too eager to remind you how well they knew your husband.

“Did you know he liked the perfume I wore?” one of them said, her tone light but edged, like a knife hidden behind sugar. “He used to compliment me every single day.”

You shouldn’t have cared. You shouldn’t have even believed her. But your lips parted before you could stop yourself, your expression faltering into a quiet frown.

“The way he used to say he liked girls like me,” the other one chimed in, crossing her legs with a click of her heel, “and then he goes and marries you?” She scoffed softly, exchanging a knowing look with her friend.

They both looked polished—manicured nails, glossy hair, flawless skin, and confidence that came from being exactly the kind of woman you thought he would’ve liked. You could feel their eyes scan you, from your plain dress to your small gold earrings, until their gaze landed on your sandals—worn out from months of use.

“Do you even know how to cook?” one of them asked, smiling as if it were a genuine question.

You inhaled quietly, afraid to answer but still nodding, your hands tightening around the cup in your lap.

“Boiling water doesn’t count as cooking,” the other one added, laughing. Her friend joined in, the sound sharp and grating, echoing in your ears louder than the music playing in the background.

You tried to smile, to brush it off, but your throat felt tight. Your gaze fell to the floor, to your feet—your sandals with the edges scuffed and the straps a little loose. Next to theirs, bright and fashionable, yours looked tired.

Just like you felt.

“I just know it’s not going to work out,” one of them said, tone dripping with certainty.

You looked up from your lap, eyes instinctively finding Jay across the room. He was laughing at something one of his friends said, his face flushed from the soju. When his gaze caught yours, he smiled—warm and unaware of the storm brewing quietly inside you.

You tried to return it, but it faltered. He raised a brow, sensing something was off. Even from a distance, he could read you. You saw him murmur something to his classmates, setting down his glass before standing up. Without even glancing at the women beside you, he simply said, “We’ll leave, sorry.”

His hand found yours—firm, certain—and you let him lead you out, even if the food hadn’t been served yet. You felt guilty for ruining what was supposed to be a rare, easy night.

The air outside was cooler, the streets quiet except for the faint hum of passing cars and the laughter spilling from open restaurant doors.

“What’s wrong?” he finally questioned, his tone gentler now. The two of you walked side by side, steps slow, every sound of your sandals scraping the pavement louder than it should be.

“They… I… Did you like her perfume?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, shaky and unsure.

Jay blinked, startled, before a small chuckle escaped his lips. “What are you talking about?”

You hesitated, but the way his laughter met your insecurity only made your chest tighten. “She said you used to like her perfume,” you mumbled, staring at the road ahead, “and that you liked girls like her.”

Jay stopped walking, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and amusement. “That’s complete nonsense,” he stated simply. “Why would I ever like someone like her?”

His fingers tightened around yours, reassuring in a way that made your heart ache even more. The only sound that followed was the buzz of restaurant chatter nearby—until suddenly, he tugged your hand, pulling you toward one of the open doors.

Your eyes widened. “What are you doing—oh my god, Jay!”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?” he let out, as if that explained everything.

“There’s food at home,” you protested, tugging his hand back. “We can’t just—this place looks expensive—”

“And it’ll take forever to cook dinner now,” he reasoned, still pulling you gently but firmly.

“Jay, please…” you pleaded softly, your voice barely above the street noise. You could already imagine him regretting this later, his shoulders slumped from the guilt of spending what little you both had.

Still, he didn’t listen. He just gave you a small, boyish smile before walking in, your hand still in his. You followed, heart pounding, the two of you immediately out of place among the polished tables and people dressed in clothes far more expensive than yours.

You could feel eyes on you—their stares lingering on your simple dress, your frayed sandals, the way your fingers clung tightly to Jay’s hand like it was your only anchor in the room.

He sat down first, sliding into an empty chair across from you, the soft hum of restaurant chatter surrounding the both of you. You hesitated before sitting, your brows furrowing as you tried to understand what exactly pushed him to make such a reckless decision. Jay wasn’t the type to spend unnecessarily—so what was this?

“Why are we eating here?” you finally addressed the issue, lowering your voice. There was still time to leave, to make up some excuse and run home before the waiter came by.

“Because I want to treat my pretty wife to something nice,” he said simply, his tone gentle but firm.

Your breath caught for a moment, and warmth spread across your cheeks. You looked down quickly, afraid he might notice how red your face was.

“But this place… it’s expensive,” you whispered, the words barely audible, your eyes darting nervously around. The last thing you wanted was for anyone to overhear, to pity the couple counting coins while eating in a place meant for polished shoes and glossy handbags.

Jay didn’t answer right away. He just gave you a small smile—the kind that disarmed you every time—and waved the waiter over, ordering a simple fish curry for both of you.

Your hand reached out instinctively, fingers brushing his sleeve in protest. Your eyes pleaded with him. You could already feel the heaviness in your stomach—not from hunger, but from guilt. The thought of this meal costing him more than it should made it impossible to enjoy.

“It’s really okay,” he reassured, his voice soft but final, cutting through your worry like a calm wave.

You sighed, sitting back, trying your best to eat without looking at the menu again, without calculating how many bills this would add up to. All you did that evening was stress over the price—each bite feeling like a luxury you hadn’t earned.

Meanwhile, Jay couldn’t stop watching you. A small smile tugged at his lips as he rested his chin in his hand, just observing—the way you carefully took the tiniest bites, pretending not to enjoy the meal so he wouldn’t think you wanted more. But he could see it in your eyes, the flicker of delight you couldn’t quite hide. He knew you well enough to see through every small act, every effort to make things easier for him.

For him, it wasn’t about the food or the bill. It was about the way your eyes widened when you tasted something you liked, or the way you looked around shyly as if afraid you didn’t belong there. That alone made it worth every penny.

And when you later found out the reason behind the sudden dinner—that he had just gotten a promotion and had chosen to treat you instead of celebrating with his friends—you could only stare at him in disbelief.

He had earned something he’d worked so hard for… and the first thing he wanted was to share it with you.

⪩⪨

“Just stop wasting my son’s money. You don’t do anything after all—just sitting at home, not even capable of taking care of it. We need his money more than you do, but you—” blah blah blah.

You pull the phone slightly away from your ear, rolling your eyes as her voice grows sharper on the other end. Before she can finish her usual speech, you end the call with a soft sigh. Another one of those days when your mother-in-law decides to remind you how ‘useless’ you are in your husband’s life.

If she had said this four months ago—back when you had just married him—you might’ve believed her. But now? You couldn’t bring yourself to.

Not when Jay had started being gentle. Not when he put in effort—teaching you little things, helping you learn how to cook, praising you whenever you did something right. Everything between you two had begun to feel… steady. Real.

The doorbell rings, followed by the sound of the front door opening. You turn your head just in time to see him—your husband—stepping inside, sleeves rolled up, grocery bags in both arms. He sets them down beside the counter, slips off his shoes, and immediately walks toward you.

He notices the phone in your hand, the faint frown on your face. His brows knit. “Was it mom asking for money again?” His voice is low, controlled, but you can sense the irritation simmering beneath it.

“It wasn’t her…” you trail off, fiddling with the hem of your shirt.

He stops right in front of you, arms crossing. “Then who was it?” The tone isn’t demanding—it’s protective. He hates when you hide things, especially when it comes to her.

You hesitate, glancing away. “I—”

“I know it’s Mom,” he cuts in, already reaching for his phone. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Jay, don’t.” Your voice softens, concern edging every word. Before he can dial, you gently take his hand and guide it to your belly. His entire posture changes the moment his palm meets the small, growing curve of your stomach.

And just like that, the tension in his eyes melts away. He sets the phone aside without a second thought, both hands now cradling your belly with a tenderness that never fails to make your heart ache.

“My babies,” he coos, kneeling down as he presses a soft kiss there. His voice turns light, warm. “You’re growing fast, huh?”

Jay likes to believe there are two of them—two little lives making your belly look fuller than it should at just three months. You let him believe it, because the way his eyes soften when he talks to your stomach… it’s the kind of love that makes all the noise from outside fade into nothing.

He immediately scooped you up into his arms, the suddenness of it stealing your breath. In just a few seconds, he had you laid gently on the bed—his movements quick yet careful, like he’d done this a thousand times before. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, softer and wider than the one you two used to share.

It took you a moment to process, your heart still racing from how effortlessly he handled you. The bed was new—Jay had insisted on getting a bigger one, saying something about ‘needing more space for you and the babies.’ But deep down, you knew it wasn’t just that. He simply wanted you comfortable… surrounded by softness, by warmth—by him.

As he spoons you from behind, his bare legs tangle with yours, you do not remember when his pants came off, only that they are gone. Rain taps the window in steady rhythm, pulling you back to those teenage nights when you could only dream of this closeness.

“My babies…” he whispers against your neck, lips brushing the sensitive skin before he presses a kiss there.

One hand slides over the gentle swell of your belly, caressing in slow circles. The other eases your panties down your thighs, the fabric catching briefly before slipping free. He gathers your top higher, bunching it beneath your chin, and rolls your already hard nipples between his gentle fingers. The touch shoots sparks straight to your pussy, you try to hold back the soft moan that escapes.

“Jay…” you breathe, shy and trembling. His free hand slips between your bodies, finding you slick and ready. Two fingers ease inside, curling just right, drawing another quiet cry from your lips. His other palm keeps kneading your tender breasts, soothing the ache while stoking your dripping wet folds.

“I can’t help thinking how much I’ll love our babies when they arrive,” he voices out his thoughts, voice low and sweet against your ear. The words wrap around you like the rain outside, familiar and cherished.

To you, it still feels unreal—his fingers moving inside you, his body molded to yours, the life growing beneath his hand.

For Jay, the moment is pure joy.

The papers for the new house sit folded in the drawer, the year nineteen ninety seven stamped across the top—his surprise he meant to share tonight.

Instead, he is here, buried in the warmth of your pussy, making love like time itself can wait.

Your moans and his hushed whispers fill the small room, blending with the rain until nothing else exists.

© shortonwon | tumblr | 2025 — thank you so much for reading!