#+jun

Yeah, so homebodies you had become. 

Really, who would want to leave the house when the human incarnation of a god, Xu Minghao, your soon-to-be husband, led intense and relaxing meditation sessions for you? In your vast garden, greenery swallowing the senses, the small swish of the coi pond pattering softly to one side, your lean fiancée speaking with ultimate rest dripping off of every word. It was like your own personal heaven! 

But alas, work calls — Minghao had been working tirelessly with Vernon for their new subunit. Slipping in the front door early in the morning, cap pulled low as his feet dragged against the polished wooden floors, fatigue radiating off his body when he quietly pulled your body into his and cocooned himself around you. 

This was no new routine; you’d been with Minghao for years, through comebacks, daesangs, scandals, you name it, you stood by his side, a solid and hushed rock. However, there was once upon a time when you and he enjoyed indulging in the bustling Seoul nightlife, awake until all hours of the night and dancing carelessly under strobe lights. It was an era you both look back at with soppy nostalgia. 

The bass vibrated through the darkened club, the sound of a hyperpop song penetrating your flesh and transforming into sweet endorphins, a buzz of adrenaline and raw energy surging through you. Beside you, your best friends Jun and Mingyu nodded nonchalantly along to the beat — sunglasses securely over their eyes, making them resemble a pair of handsome bodyguards rather than two idols on their night off. 

A mix of tequila and soda zipped through your straw as you leaned on the wall between the two, their chatter rapidly adapting to include you. ‘I mean, I never coined them for the clubbing type,’ Jun shrugged, halfway through a conversation with his bandmate, who had his eyes narrowed at his phone in his hand. 

The three of you had perched on a balcony, watching the dance floor swarm with bodies, arms flailing to the music, heads bobbing to the beat. Dark purple and white lights flashed, illuminating the floor in brief intervals, revealing people intertwined with one another, others busy looking at their keys and some drunken party-goers grinding with lustful gazes. 

‘Well, they’re on their way.’ Mingyu shrugged, pulling your gaze away from your inspection of a particularly messy make-out session in the middle of the crowd – gross. 

‘Who is?’ You question, lifting your drink lazily to your lips. 

‘Remember Vernon and Minghao?’ Mingyu questioned, slinging his arm around your shoulders, his beer almost spilling onto your heels with his clumsy movement. 

‘I know the names.’ You reply, nibbling on your straw and eyeing a broad-shouldered man, leant nonchalantly against the bar. 

This was your routine: Jun and Mingyu would drag you to the club. Most of the time, the three of you partied yourselves out together, strolling home in fits of drunken giggles, Mingyu slung between you and Jun like a human piñata — letting his slackened body flop onto your sofa whilst you and Jun top-and-tailed. But occasionally, one of you would spot someone, get busy and be whisked away into the night. 

‘They’re on their way.’ Mingyu finishes, and you shrug, preoccupied by the muscled man downstairs — Tall, dark and handsome. 

As the music shifted, Jun pulled you eagerly onto the dance floor, ready to rock, twist, point, any drunken dance move that his body could conjure in the moment, a loud laugh escaping your lips when he pokes the person behind him. 

The music was something booming, high-pitched vocals over a speedy tempo, making your hips sway with easy finesse, Jun matching you with a cheeky pout on his face. At some point, Mingyu had disappeared into the crowd to collect his bandmates, leaving you and Jun to continue letting the beat pump through your bodies. 

Bodies slick with sweat stuck to yours, the alcohol-induced euphoria swimming through your system and rendering you careless, as all you thought about was feeling the music travel through your bones. 

Through the crowd, your abnormally tall friend weaselled his way through, two drinks held haphazardly in his hand as he held them above head height, almost spilling the beverages on multiple unassuming party-goers' heads. 

Behind him, two men materialised, both of whom you recognised from Instagram posts, music videos and whatever else your two best friends were involved in. The shorter of the two had a snapback perched backwards over his hair, and he sported a shy grin as he greeted you with a polite nod, ‘Vernon.’ 

Next to him, your gaze hovered, the second man making your breath hold tightly in your throat — He was gorgeous. The sort of gorgeous that is plastered on the front of fashion magazines. The sort that almost made drool slide down your chin. 

Minghao, you can only presume, had a pale face, framed by a sleek black mullet, wisps of hair tickling his sleek cheekbones. The enticing dark chocolate eyes were sharp, and it felt as if Minghao’s gaze was swallowing you whole. Lazily, he dragged his eyes down your body, a small smirk on his plump pink lips as he consumed you with his look alone. 

‘Minghao.’ He leaned forward with subtle ease, his strong hand ghosting your waist as his hot breath tickled your ear.

That was the night that changed your life. 

Messy makeouts in the bathroom corridor, arms desperately pulling each other close, feeling all of your soft skin and lathering in the rosy scent of your perfume. Tugging his fluffy hair closer, dragging him lustfully to bed, arching your back involuntarily as his hot mouth met you. 

You and Minghao were like two magnets, snapping together with force as soon as you met. There was no doubt in your mind that he was your person from the moment you set your eyes on him. And he — he was smitten, absolutely enamoured by you; he practically fell to his knees when you stepped out of your front door for the first date. 

Now, six years later, you were each other’s forevers. The gorgeous engagement band on your finger confirms that. Minghao hunted far and wide for the ring that felt authentically you and him, searching across countries, visiting jewellery stores for hours at a time, researching different materials and styles. 

An unexpected hunt on a work trip to Beijing made him stumble across a delicate twist of silver that was bent into two smooth spirals,  a discrete diamond framed by the curving silver work. It was so perfect that Minghao didn’t hesitate — he signed the papers and strolled out of the store with a bashful grin on his face. 

Then, on that starry evening when he got down on one knee, you felt your heart explode in your chest. Adoration surging through your body as you looked at your boyfriend’s sincere smile, his warm eyes glazed with anticipation as he bared his heart to you in an engagement box. 

As the streetlights strobed softly through the private car's window, your ring glistened against your knee. A symbol of unrequited love that decorated your body every single day. 

The vehicle was a buzz of your best friends, Jun squished in the middle, whilst Mingyu took up way too much space next to him, talking animatedly with Alice in the front seat. Both men were a concoction of shirts and cologne, sunglasses perched in their hair. It had been a long time since you’d been to a club, life moving in a gentle motion away from partying, so you were beyond excited to be indulging in one night of drunken fun with your best friends and fiancée. 

Minghao was already at the bar the company had hired out, without a doubt networking, talking to devoted fans and bantering with his sub-unit counterpart. 

You could already imagine his lean body, glistening in the low lighting, his shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair tickling his cheeks under a nonchalantly placed cap. Ring finger decorated with a shining silver band as he DJ’d. God, the vision practically made your panties wet. 

‘What are you daydreaming about?’ Jun nudged at your side, all heads turning to yours as you rapidly snapped out of your drool-inducing vision of your fiancée. 

‘Nothing,’ You reply, perhaps a bit too fast, the flustered expression on your features refusing to be wiped off. Trying to faux calm, you absentmindedly brush invisible dust off your dress. 

‘You’re disgusting.’ Jun replies with a distinct scrunch to the nose. 

‘What?’ You reply, with widened eyes and a sarcastic look of shock. Jun shakes his head at you, the car slowing as it swerves down a side street in Tokyo, vivid neon lights glowing above your heads. 

Crowds of people hover by a bar and you can only presume that’s your destination. There was an atmosphere of anticipation, the beckoning call of music reverberating out onto the slim street, and the car halted, people ecstatically staring through the glass. 

As soon as the door opened, you smiled and waved with the politeness you’d be forced to adopt the moment the tabloids caught wind of you. Teethy grins, small bows at fans, waves towards the crowd. However, as the audience swarming outside were struck with Jun and Mingyu's presence, you slipped through the entrance, staff easily directing you to the small stage, where the main act was fooling around. 

The bar was packed from wall to wall, bodies crammed in as fans excitedly screamed, hollered and shouted at their idols. The air was thick with smoke that clouded heavily in the corners and dampened the lights. A loud and bass-heavy hyperpop track shook the room as it bounced with a tinny crunch out of the speakers and flowed through the atmosphere. 

This environment felt like travelling back in time, the thumping of dance music and the scent of strong alcohol dripping nostalgia through you. The hum of bodies pressed into the space brought you back to those long and late nights of the past, dancing sweatily with strangers, not having a care in the world. As you rolled your shoulders, the muscles loosening instinctively, you felt the weight of adulthood dissolve as the atmosphere swallowed you.

The staff member broke the crowd, guiding you through the barricade with a polite nod. The blonde locks wisping in the busy air caught your attention — your fiancée, looking devastatingly gorgeous, was perched in front of a set of decks, headphones slung around his neck as his stare zeroed in on the buttons. Minghao’s hair was hanging carelessly along his shoulders, a slouching cap resting on his head. He had a pair of dark sunglasses shielding his eyes from the hundreds of phone flashes shining at him. As he bobbed his head along to the beat with effortless indifference, you decided his nonchalance was perhaps the most attractive thing on the planet. 

There was a cloudy grey tank top hanging loosely off of his toned chest, his tattooed arms revealed to the world as they flexed when he held his hand up in motion. Minghao looked delectable, his body glistening in all the right ways as you watched with your mouth hanging. Even after six years, he still made you speechless daily. 

As if your stare burned through him, his head turned straight towards you, his face softening in recognition as he quirked a sweet smile towards you. With a brief lean into Vernon, he stepped down and sauntered over to you, his tongue poking the inside of his cheek as he inspected you. 

With discretion, he slid his arms around your waist, his smile converting into a smirk as he raked his eyes down your scantily clad body — your dress hugged all the right places, revealing a modest amount of cleavage and displaying your long legs for appreciation. 

‘My love, you look beautiful.’ Minghao mutters in your ear, his hot breath fanning your soft skin, the surface puckering into an array of goosebumps. Your fiancée’s deep, seductive tone sent shivers down your spine, and you allowed your hands to rest on his shoulder, feeling the cotton beneath your fingertips. 

‘Hao, you look-‘ There wasn’t even a word to describe how godly he looked. ‘Fuck, you look so good.’ You let your hand skim his bicep, squeezing the tough muscle lightly as he leaned forward, tilting your jaw to kiss you. His soft, plush lips, which you had the privilege of kissing daily, still sent electricity sparking across your body, the taste of mint gum and Coke infiltrating your mouth with ease. You both knew you could easily be here all night, wrapped up in one another, refusing to falter until you knew exactly how good his mouth tasted. 

However, the hoards of cameras and fans watching closely ignited a consciousness that forced Minghao to apprehensively pull away, his lip caught between his teeth. 

‘Proud of you, baby.’ You say wholeheartedly, sending him a sincere smile before pecking him lightly and running the pad of your thumb over his cheek. 

‘I love you,’ He says back, his eyes practically oozing adoration. ‘Wouldn’t be here without you.’ 

To this, you smile with unrestrained happiness, letting your hands run lightly down his torso before giving his waist a squeeze and ushering him back to the decks. Throwing a quick wave at Vernon, who insisted on a sweaty congratulatory hug, you joined the rest of your friends who’d made their way to the viewing area. 

The crowd was alive, chanting and buzzing at the two boys, who danced and waved happily, both radiating shy nonchalance whilst simultaneously bringing life to the room. 

‘Put your drinks up!’ Your fiancée shouted, jumping excitedly with Vernon, his face radiating as joy rumbled through him — and you couldn’t help but appreciate how breathtaking he looked as euphoric glee zoomed through his skin.

Alongside you, Mingyu had arrived with a bottle of tequila, shot glasses lined up with precision. With a huge laugh, Mingyu poured one out, slinging it back before pouring another, then a line, linking his arm with yours to knock it back with the old trick you shared. 

The sting of the spirit was dulled by the bittersweet flavour of nostalgia it arose on your tongue. It was a twisted sentiment to your early twenties, those party days, the ones that brought you and your friends together — the ones that brought your husband-to-be together, and it bloomed a subtle warmth in your chest. 

Watching the man you cherished, so in his element, moving seamlessly to his own music, smiling wide enough to blind a nation, brought bliss to your heart and you inhaled deeply as if it could pause the moment.

Mingyu and Jun, dancing with drunken silliness next to you, expressions of happiness playing on their features. Roars boomed as Vernon and Minghao stood on the platform the decks sat on, dancing in sync to the songs they’d work tirelessly on. 

And if you’re being honest, you don’t really party, you just sit at home, but tonight you were throwing it back to those long euphoric nights, letting your body sway freely and laughing wholeheartedly with your closest friends. 

As the night stretched on, the bar darkened, the atmosphere still electric even as a different DJ took to the decks. Minghao had eventually shuffled his way over to you, sliding both hands around your waist as he nuzzled his face into your neck. The hair on your body stood up at your fiancée’s skinship, the thumping in your heart intensifying with his hot hands as they lightly massaged your skin. 

‘Hey sweetheart,’ He said with a dipped voice, leaving a light kiss on the crook of your neck. You turn rapidly to face your hot, sweaty and frankly, very sexy fiancée, his cap pulled low as you join your lips with his; alcohol induced lust daring to poke through. 

‘You were amazing up there,’ You breathed, a bashful smile appearing on Minghao’s face as you complimented him. ‘I’m so proud of you.’ 

There’s a glaze over his eyes that is somewhere between adoration and gratitude, the mixture making his chocolate eyes shine with unapologetic happiness. Instead of replying, he simply pulled you in once again, savouring the sweet taste of the plush lips you possessed. 

The whirlwind of friends and colleagues then sweeps him away, people approaching with waves of congratulatory exclamations. You leave him with a tender kiss on the cheek, a reminder of how proud you are, and then disappear off to Alice. 

With drunken confidence, the two of you dance, shaking your hair, swaying your hips, letting big hearty laughs tumble out of you. As the songs beat on, Jun and Mingyu materialise at your sides, moving exactly how they did all those years ago — Jun producing the strangest moves he could conjure, making you almost wet yourself in fits of giggles. 

As Mingyu twirls you effortlessly, your sweet-faced soon-to-be-husband arrives, sliding in close to you, his body moving like liquid against you. The sensation of his hard chest pressed against your back made tingles shoot down your spine, the familiar scent of his musky beechwood aftershave wafting over you.

‘Back already?’ you say with a turned head, only his light curtains visible as he presses tickling kisses along your neck.

‘Forgot how attractive you are when you dance like this,’ He mumbles, nipping on a spot that elicits rather inappropriate sounds from you. The heat of the bar seemed to have settled on your skin as a heavy dew, your pulse racing at a quickened pace. 

‘Hao,’ You exhale with heft, hoping the release would ease the growing heat between your legs. You lean your head into the crook of his shoulder behind you, his lips forced to disconnect with your neck as he grumbles quietly. ‘We’re in public.’ 

The shy and bashful Minghao that presented himself to the public was long gone — his shameless flirtation and risqué-nature penetrating through his persona. You knew this version of Minghao very well. It was the one shielded from his fans, one reserved specifically for you, the one that devoured you on a balcony the night of your engagement. 

And his lusty gaze made the heat pooling between your legs feel more and more bothersome. 

‘I can’t help myself,’ He says quietly, ‘you look too good, it’s driving me insane.’ His arms don’t falter from their secure place on your hips, tugging you impossibly closer. It felt like you were younger again, kissing carelessly in the club, letting the music take you both away as you indulged in one another.

‘Hao,’ A shaky breath leaves your lips, ‘We can’t exactly slip off, this is your party,’ 

With a sigh of frustration, he lands one more nip to the sweet spot on your neck, ‘We’re leaving as soon as it’s socially acceptable.’ 

It, in fact, was not socially acceptable to leave until three in the morning. In those hours, everyone had gotten impossibly drunker. Beside you, Mingyu, almost asleep, stood up, his speech slurred in that hilariously whiny way that was so reminiscent of dragging his tall frame down the dark Seoul streets. 

Minghao had hovered around, often being pulled in every direction by various guests, his gaze hot on your figure as you continued to dance or mingle. You could feel eyes burn into your body when you bent over to pick up a spilt beverage, and he used it as a convenient excuse to practically run to your side — skilfully placing himself to conceal your exposed thighs. 

Like a perfect scapegoat, Mingyu almost toppled over into both of you. The lanky man’s absent gaze was practically begging for bed, and who were you both to make him stay any longer? 

‘We should take him back to the hotel.’ You say with a pout, bidding goodbye to Jun with a tight hug. Minghao had rapidly slipped off to also spout all variations of valedictions to the remaining guests. 

Three slightly long, awkward hugs, around ten polite bows and countless ‘goodbyes’ later, you and Minghao had Mingyu slung over your shoulders, his body borderline slack between you as you both dragged him into the car. 

As much as you could mentally thank Mingyu for always drinking himself into the perfect escape plan, you didn’t want to praise him for the impending spine problems his years of drunken slackness will inevitably cause you.

There were many ways you’d rather be leaving the bar. Through a back door, hands tangled in Minghao’s mullet, tugging when his lips hit that sensitive spot on your neck. Or in a private car, just the two of you, your hand eagerly stroking torturously slowly up his thigh, skimming his crotch with routine obliviousness. 

But alas, Mingyu collapsed onto the seat with a thud, babbling incoherently as he lay his head on your lap. Minghao just tutted as he climbed into the passenger seat,  turning to see you display a shrug, raising your hands in defeat. 

Even through Mingyu's meaningless utterances, the sexual tension was rife — Minghao stayed glued to his phone, his hat low as his teeth nibbled on his lip in frustration. He was vying for a distraction, and his Instagram feed had never been so boring. 

You, on the other hand, leaned on your wrist as you watched the busy, late-night traffic blur past the window. Neon lights and hordes of bodies meshed together in the dark night, the lowlight skimming your fiancées strong jaw, which was very obviously clenched, his plump lips glowing with each passing streetlight. 

God, you were ready to devour him. 

The minutes skidded by almost painfully, Tokyo dragging through your vision with snail-like slowness. Mingyu was fast asleep on your lap, muttering to himself drunkenly — If your head wasn’t spinning with visions of the gorgeous man in the front seat, you might find this heartwarming and so reminiscent of times passed. Mingyu follows his usual routine, getting too drunk and having to be hauled home by you or whichever oblivious friend was roped in to take half of his weight. Stumbling into the hotel elevator with someone hot on his trail, apologising profusely to whichever member of the public he may have embarrassed himself in front of. Then, collapsing onto the closest comfiest surface — the hotel bed, and passing out without a word. 

It made you giggle at how his habits had never changed and how yours remained, too. Popping two painkillers onto his nightstand, filling up a cup with water. All the usual things that came as second nature. Minghao watched you closely with adoration. There wasn’t a day that he didn’t fall deeper in love with you, and today he really felt it. Even through the chaos, the stress, the pressure, your presence was ever-grounding; even if it made his brain scatter when he saw you. 

Your fiancée lingered close behind you as you clicked the door shut slowly, the dim hallway abandoned at this heinous time. The warm glow made your body shine, the expanse of your neck exposed when you swept your hair to the side, your long legs practically glistening for Minghao to ogle. He traced the curve of your waist in your tight dress, biting his lip at the swell of your ass as you twisted to look at him. 

‘Let me get out of the door first,’ You joke, recognising the lust dripping off of his gaze. Without hesitation, his tongue slipped out of his mouth, licking his lips as if you were his favourite meal. 

You were. 

The tether within Minghao had snapped, finally alone after hours of pent-up frustration, and he had you pushed up against the wall with lightning-quick agility. One strong arm wrapped tightly around your waist to pull his hips flush against yours, the other cradling your face with softness, the rough pad of his thumb savouring the feeling of your skin below it.

Without hesitation, he joined his lips to yours with desperation, his body aching to taste the alcohol on you — and now he could taste it, he felt utterly intoxicated. The plush of your lips was so familiar, but it never failed to make him feel like every hair on his body was standing on end. 

‘Hao,’ You breathed out in a quiet whine, your hands lacing through Minghao’s soft hair with an instinctive tug as he let his lips begin their assault on your neck. He knew exactly how to make you fawn, his teeth grazing your sensitive spots as he left discrete marks along your exposed shoulder. 

To be honest, he didn’t care that people were sleeping behind plywood walls; you were too delectable to treat anyone else with regard. A sick part of him wanted them to hear how good he made you feel, he wanted them to know that his fiancée would only moan like this for him for the rest of her life. 

Your nails clawed harshly at his biceps as the feeling of his lips made heat pool pathetically between your legs, his lusted-over gaze burning through you when he pulled back to examine his art. 

This was Minghao’s own personal Picasso. The sight of you, face flushed and screwn in an expression of blissful pleasure, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin as your head leaned on the dark wall behind you, the expanse of your neck exposed and actively developing little bruises. The dress, which was, quite frankly, a method of torture designed specifically to make Minghao suffer, was bunching up and revealing your hot skin to his eyes. 

‘Oh baby,’ Minghao sighs, letting his arms pull your body into his. You took advantage of his moment of weakness and began to pepper kisses up the column of his throat, trailing along his jaw and nibbling his ear gently, smirking as the skin under your fingertips rose in goosebumps. Sometimes you forgot how easily you affected him, the hotness of your breath eliciting his body to react rapidly, his eyes fluttering shut tightly as he groaned loudly and unapologetically. 

The hallway had dissolved into a desire-driven blur around you both, the almost pornographic moans tumbling out of your fiancées mouth floating you away on a cloud of pure sexual need. 

‘Baby, I need you.’ He manages to gasp out, your hand now feeling his toned stomach with daringly slow accuracy whilst your mouth continues to run circles around his brain. 

‘Can’t have me in a corridor, Hao.’ You state between sloppy kisses, not parting from his skin for longer than a few seconds. 

He turned his head and emitted a sound resembling a hiss as your mouth was forced to leave his body, ‘I’ll have you right here, sweetheart, don’t test me.’ 

The tone was icy, the dominance in his voice almost making your knees give way. His hand was resting with a strong presence on the back of your neck, his drooped eyelids penetrating you with so much intensity it was overwhelming. 

Not willing to try your luck with Minghao — Knowing he’d bunch your dress up and tear your underwear off for anyone to see, you take his wrist in your hand, dragging him to the elevator. There’s a cocky smirk that’s landed permanently on his features, his eyes watching the way your ass giggled as you jogged lightly to the end of the hallway, pulling him along. 

The doors slid shut, but before they could ring out a quiet ding! he has you pinned against the mirrored wall, his body heavy against your back. 

It’s embarrassing the way you arch into him, your breath heavy as it already begins to cloud the mirror in small hues. Behind you, he has one of your arms secured to your back, intertwining his fingers with yours in an intimate gesture. Yet, his eyes are darkened as they scan your face in the mirror, the need rife in your hooded gaze as you meet his hungry look. 

Your entire body is squashed against the mirror, making your cleavage bulge out of your skimpy dress, and Minghao can’t help but stare at it as he reattaches his mouth to your neck eagerly. The hardness of his throbbing cock is tough against your ass, and you gasp sharply when he smoothly thrusts himself against you. 

‘Look at you,’ He coos with fake sympathy dripping off every word, his mouth ruthlessly working at your exposed skin. ‘Such a greedy girl, rubbing yourself against me in public.’ 

Your fiancées taunts make you impossibly wetter, and you attempt to stifle a moan that was escaping you. Minghao pauses sharply, squinting at your already fucked out reflection. ‘It’s too late to be quiet now, baby, you’ve already let the whole floor know how good my lips make you feel.’ 

It’s embarrassing. Almost humiliating, how he has you completely at his mercy before you’ve even swiped your room key — in the elevator where anyone could see you, where any innocent passerby could watch as your fiancée ruts his stiff cock into you, when any of his members could walk in to your face flushed and already fucked out before Minghao has even touched you. 

As the elevator begins to halt, he releases his grip on you, taking your hand sweetly and pulling you into his side. It’s mind-boggling how versatile Minghao is, the doors sliding open with torturous pace as a fellow hotel guest nods politely to your fiancée, entering the space that held the ghost of said man, practically dry-humping you against the wall. 

Minghao’s grip around you was tight, his hand absentmindedly tugging your dress to cover your exposed thighs as he smiled awkwardly and bowed to the stranger, keeping your head tucked safely into the crook of his neck. 

You knew this was killing Minghao. Even the redness on your face did not compare to the restraint he was exercising with each passing moment. 

The elevator slowed once again, and Minghao couldn’t pull you out of there faster, his cock painfully hard in his trousers; he was already facing your shared room by the time the door to the elevator slid closed. 

Beep! The hotel door clicks open, and everything becomes a whirlwind. Minghao has you pressed against it with wicked ease, pulling your lips to meet his in a sloppy, needy kiss that radiates heat from him. Your hands are sliding beneath his shirt, letting your nails scratch along the toned muscles as his hand smooths over your ass, grabbing at it harshly as he attempts to pull you closer. 

Minghao’s lips are working on the sweet spot below your collarbone, tasting the skin with unfaltering intensity. You let your hands roam, tangling them in his hair, scratching at his back, squeezing at his waist — you feel every inch of him like you’re learning where everything is. 

With a rough tug, your dress is pooled around your waist, your braless chest bouncing out with the release of the cloth binding it, and Minghao lets out a long groan, his eyes closing as he lets his head slack. He is devilishly handsome, his jaw defined in the low light as it flexes at the sight of you. 

‘Sweetheart,’ He speaks whilst he inspects every inch of you closely, bringing his hot mouth to your chest once again, his tongue drawing patterns against your skin as he brings one of his hands to toy with your nipple, his long fingers working automatically to pinch and caress you. 

Loud throaty moans tumble out of you as he fails to neglect your other nipple, letting his mouth trail hot kisses around it before sucking with perfected ease. If Minghao’s arm wasn’t securely around you, the feeling would’ve made you collapse to the floor — he knew your body like the back of his hand, nipping and sucking on every single sensitive spot, touching every place that set your body on fire. Except where you needed him most. 

‘Hao,’ You moan, and he just grunts against you, not faltering for a second from his heavy assault on your chest, the sight of him devouring you almost enough to have you cumming. ‘Baby, I need-‘ 

He pulls off of your nipple with a dirty pop, his pent-up gaze watching as the pleasure drops off your face with the lack of contact. It was filthy, the arousal that pumped through him when he watched you become absolutely desperate for him. 

‘Need what baby?’ He questions, his movements so slow that they almost cease, making your eyebrows furrow and your lip jut out in a pout. Pathetically, you let your slender hand reach for the waistband of his trousers, but he’s like a hawk, pinning both of your wrists above your head. 

It’s humiliating how turned on you are — completely under his control willingly. His frame is fully clothed, whilst yours is a mess, dress in a rushed bunch around your waist, panties dripping. 

‘What do you need?’ He questions, gaze burning into you as he drags his eyes down your curves. ‘Use your words, baby.’ 

‘Need you,’ You whine, wiggling to attempt to reach for his waistband again, but his grip is steady, keeping you absolutely merciless. 

‘Need what part of me?’ He blinks, big innocent eyes staring at yours like he wasn’t already ruining you without even a touch. 

Your face is utterly flushed as embarrassment and arousal mix into a vicious vision of want, the outline of his hard cock practically pounces at you. Minghao uses this moment to let one of his big hands ghost over your panties, his touch so light that you buck your hips instantly, desperate for him to give your clit any stimulation. 

A taunting laugh escapes his lips before his ruthless mouth is back on your neck, nipping and sucking as your head falls back in pleasure. The sudden attention forces a moan to escape you, and he stops, the brief contact ripped away so savagely that your brain is fuzzy with frustration. 

‘I asked you a question, sweetheart.’ He repeats, letting your restrained hands fall as he tugs you lightly towards the bed, pausing as you near it. Without a word, he slips your bundled dress off of your frame carefully, discarding it as you kiss him, pulling his neck to yours before he even has a chance to appreciate your almost naked body. 

‘Need your cock baby,’ You mumble against his lips, and he groans at your needy answer, his pants feeling uncomfortably tight around him, and you let your nails scrape his lower abdomen in that way that has his body in shivers. 

Minghao is so enticed by you, the way your lips mingle with his effortlessly, the ways in which you know his body, the ways that can almost make him cum in his pants with just a feather-light touch. 

You’ve slyly twisted, pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed, your lips not parting as you masterfully manoeuvre yourself between his solid thighs. 

Minghao thinks this might be a mirage. A vision of ecstasy in a moment of desperation. You, his beautiful fiancée, on your knees in front of him, your lips swollen from his assault on them, tiny marks along your neck from his greediness to mark you. There’s a distinct thirst in your eyes as your hands fumble with his belt, and Minghao thinks it might be the most attractive thing he’s ever seen. 

Like an expert, his belt is unbuckled, and his trousers are tugged down, your light touch carrying the weight of hours of teasing. As you let his cock spring free, he hisses, the scene in front of him so dirty he could cum right now.

Your fiancé's biceps are flexed as he holds himself up, leaning back and watching you with squinted eyes. His cock is so pretty, you sometimes forget, and it shocks you all over again – It’s pale and long, not too girthy but beautifully slender. The sight of it alone makes your pussy clench around nothing, the memories of it kissing your cervix infiltrating your mind. 

Drool pools at the corner of your lips, and without further ado, you stroke your fingertips lightly along his cock, letting your thumb drag over the tip, a string of tangled grunts tumbling out of him as you spread the leaking pre-cum down his shaft. 

After a few eager strokes, you bring your mouth to him, kitten-licking him with precision, his teeth gritted as he lets out a hiss, your warm mouth sending spikes of pleasure up his body. His cock was more than a mouthful, the salty pre-cum lathering your tongue as you gradually make your way down him, gagging as your nose grazes his stomach. 

Your engagement band glints as you grip his thigh, beginning to piston your head, throaty moans slipping out of his mouth as you take him so well. 

‘Fuck baby,’ He groans, and an involuntary sound of pleasure leaves you, your nipples perked in arousal as you speed up. Minghao runs his fingers through your soft hair delicately, the sensation prickling your skin as he gathers your locks and guides your motions with desperation. ‘You look so pretty.’ 

It was so filthy, the squelch of your mouth working against him and his heavy, breathy moans at free flow as the feeling of your tongue around him takes over. Minghao is seeing stars, the sight of you alone pushing him closer, yet alone the stimulation on his cock.

‘Baby, baby.’ He pants, his breathing climbing rapidly as his release nears, and he pulls your head away from him carefully, refusing to come from just your mouth – he needed to be inside you, watching your eyes roll back as he bottoms out. You pout, looking up at him with red cheeks, your lips glistening with his pre-cum and your spit. ‘I want to come inside you.’ 

His words make you ache, your pussy practically begging for something – anything at all. 

Minghao lifts your jaw up to his, rejoining your lips. The salty taste of himself on you infiltrates his mouth as he pulls you onto his lap, his strong arms reaching to squeeze at the expanse of your ass cheeks as his cock is trapped between you both, nudging at your clit in selfish intervals. 

‘Take this off.’ You whisper, hands already pulling at his shirt, and he whips it off, sparing only a second before his tongue is intertwined with yours again, your fingertips feeling his smooth skin and tracing his abs. 

You push his body down, crawling over him to grind your clothed entrance against his hard cock. Pretty moans falling out of you as your clit gets the stimulation it was craving, forcing your eyes to squeeze shut as your body is submerged in pleasure. Your fiancée is breathless below you, your hair dangling down into his face as your expression presents as angelic, all-consumed by pleasure. Minghao always thought you were the most beautiful woman on earth, but god, you glowed in a different way like this. 

Breathing shallowly, you continued dragging yourself against his hardness, your eyes locking with Minghaos as he tilts his head back into the mattress, his gaze lusty yet determined. Those strong arms working their way down to your wetness as you pause your movements, desperate for your fiancée to touch you. 

‘Oh my poor baby, you’re soaked,’ He said, using his middle finger to trace circles over you, the panties ruined and your thighs almost dripping. You couldn't even muster a response, his light teasing pressing all of the right spots, and you drop your head to the crook of his neck as he continues his lazy circles. ‘Do you want me to stop?’ 

You knew it was a baited question. Minghao wanted to see you squirm. 

‘No, please.’ You beg, your mouth hot against his sensitive neck as you speak into it, biting at the skin gently. 

‘Look at me.’ He says sternly. Pressing one finger into your dripping hole, pushing your panties inside you. It was ludicrous and practically a sin to be so hopelessly at his expense, but you couldn't think past how good it felt. 

‘Look at me.’ He repeats with a grit in his teeth, halting his movements to get your full attention. With a rapid snap of the neck up, your faces are inches apart, his hot breath mingling with yours as he scans your gorgeous face, your cheeks reddened, your lips jutted. 

You were so beautiful. 

‘Good girl.’ Before you can even moan, his mouth is back on yours hungrily, his hands gripping your waist tightly as he guides your soaked clit to rub against his painfully hard cock. ‘Stay just like this, baby.’ Then, in a subtle movement, he slides out from underneath you and discards the rest of his clothing, kneeling behind you. 

The heat of his body radiated as he stroked himself whilst inspecting you, wetness dripping down your spread legs, pussy gleaming with arousal. It was one of his favourite sights, and he can’t help himself as he runs his hands up and down your plush thighs, squeezing your ass and letting the cool of his metal engagement band send shivers up your spine. 

‘Hao, please.’ With desperation, you push your hips backwards, his cock brushing you, and you let out a hum of satisfaction. 

Wordlessly, Minghao begins to guide his cock into your dripping hole, the sensation of you so tight and warm around him making a heavy groan fall from his throat. Similarly, tears begin to cloud your vision as sweet relief washes over you, the feeling of him dragging against your walls combined with his throaty sounds making you dig your nails into the soft white covers. 

Slowly, he bullies his way into you, his member hitting every single spot that has you clawing desperately at anything you can. As he bottoms out with a hiss, a loud moan leaves your lips, the overwhelming feeling of his tip mingling with your cervix, making you clench around him. 

It felt insane how well his body slotted into yours. Your pussy was moulded to fit his cock, your walls hugging it in every single place. There was nothing that could compare to the feeling of being conjoined with one another, ecstasy blasting through you both as you thrive in the overwhelming feeling of one another. 

Unable to restrain himself, Minghao begins to fuck into you with a quickened pace, the room becoming a soundtrack of filthy sounds; his hips slapping your thighs, the squelch of your soaked hole, the mixture of grunts and moans the two of you emit. 

Minghao’s eyes stare as your skin jiggles with each thrust, his fingers gripping your hips so tight that bruises will blossom beneath them tomorrow. His breathing is heavy as he relishes the euphoric feeling of you bent over, receiving him so willingly and squeezing him impossibly tighter. 

The wicked thrusting has you seeing stars, the sensations overwhelming, and you start hurtling towards your release, moans running at free flow out of you as your fiancée only quickens his pace. 

‘H-Hao,’ You moan, gripping the mattress below you as if it could receive some of the immense pleasure rippling through you. 

‘Yes, baby?’ He pants out, letting one hand rub up your side in a soothing manner, his hips and arms doing completely contrasting things to your body. 

‘I’m close.’ You sputter out, lathered in his deep strokes that were practically splitting you in half. 

‘Mhm,’ He hums, only speeding up impossibly faster as he wraps a strong arm around your waist to pull you into him, not letting his cock disconnect from the comfort of your slick. 

Your head is slack on Minghao’s shoulder as he holds your back tightly to his chest, letting his hand ghost over your neck. He nips at your ear as he continues to piston into you ruthlessly, your release within an arm's reach. 

‘You’re doing so well, baby,’ Minghao whispers in your ear, tightening his grip on your neck as he chases your high. ‘Such a good girl, my good girl.’ 

That was all it took before you were tightening around him, high-pitched moans tumbling out of you. The coil within you snaps, sending your vision white, heat flushing out of you as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly. 

Minghao keeps fucking you ruthlessly, holding the weight of your body as he chases his own release, small whines escaping your mouth as he overstimulates you. The grip of his hands gets tighter and tighter as he grunts in your ear, muttering incoherently as all he thinks about is how good you feel. 

‘Fuck ____.’ He gasps, his breath taken from him as he spurts inside you, his warm milky release coating your insides, his thrusts becoming sloppy as he slows. 

The room is swamped in the sound of heavy breathing, Minghao pulling out and helping you lie down gently, kissing your shoulders, all the way down your spine and then returning to kiss the crown of your head. 

‘You’re so beautiful.’ He speaks with delicate sincerity, your sleepy gaze watching his naked figure disappear off to the bathroom. 

‘I love you.’ You mumble, grinning shyly and nuzzling your face into the pillow. Your fiancée reappears with a wet towel, wiping you cautiously as he appreciates your gorgeous figure. 

‘I love you more, my love.’ He replies, Your vision became as your body relaxed into the plush mattress. With a light but solid grip, you tug him onto the bed, his musky scent washing over you once again, and you sigh happily.

‘Just cuddle me, baby.’ You murmur, tiredness taking over you as he pulls you into his chest, placing the covers over the two of you. Peppering kisses on your head, he watches you gently doze off, and his heart feels like it could burst with how much he adores you. 

Even submerged in sleep, your hand finds his, engagement rings clicking quietly together, and Minghao closes his eyes in contentment, letting sleep lull him away with you. 

DAY ONE

"AND THIS WILL BE YOUR LIVING QUARTERS. DO YOU HAVE ANY QUESTIONS?"

You stare up at the man, baffled. The stranger who was waiting for you in your living room when you drunkenly stumbled home could not look any less bothered if he tried. He had been seated in the secondhand armchair you bought off Facebook Marketplace, and he looked way too expensive to have his ass touching something you kept telling yourself had no business being resold to you. He was dressed head to toe in black—all impressively the same exact shade of black, a feat you had yet to master—looking like he had stepped right off a runway and into your dingy apartment, which was probably the only reason you hadn't immediately screamed.

His eyes flicked over to you lazily as your door slammed shut behind you and you tripped over your heels, catching yourself on the corner of your kitchen island before realizing you weren't alone. He had one leg crossed over the other and one hand shoved into your last bag of ghost pepper chips as he stared at you like you were intruding on his space. Then, he withdrew his hand, shoved his pepper dusted fingers into his mouth, sucked briefly, wiped his fingers onto your armchair, then snapped. Your bag of chips promptly disappeared and he stood up. It wasn't even his presence or the chips disappearing without an explanation. It was his height that startled you back to your senses.

You weren't short by any means, but the man towered over you anyway, and you came to the sobering realization that being trapped in a space with a man that size would lead to very horrible things. Well, you were correct. Because before you could even finish inhaling to let out the loudest scream you were capable of, he was in front of you, huge hand clamping over your mouth and squeezing your cheeks together. What you were sure was a Guinness World Record-worthy scream became a pathetic squeak.

The sound, infuriatingly, made the man smirk, your eyes coming down to the small mole right above his lip. He raised a single eyebrow at you before stating your full government name. "That you?"

Your wide eyes must have answered the question for you because he didn't wait for verbal confirmation.

"Lovely." And then somehow, you were here. Wherever the fuck here is. Maybe you blacked out on the way. Maybe you're too drunk to remember how you got here. Either way, here is where you are now.

"Do I have any questions?" you shriek, stomping a foot. Your heel clacks against the pretentious black marble flooring, and you have half a mind to kick them off and throw both at the man's head. "You not only kidnapped me, but you kidnapped me while in my clubbing clothes, bro."

You look down at yourself, disheveled from a night out trying desperately to be sober enough to wrangle other, drunker friends to stay together. Your dress is no longer hugging you in places it was at the beginning of the night, your knees are scraped from where you ate shit trying to chase a friend down the street, and you're sure your hair is trying its best to become a suitable bird's nest.

"Jasmine threw up on me tonight," you inform him, mouth twisting in disgust at the small darkened spot on the edge of your dress where the birthday girl had missed the toilet by a mere inch. "You couldn't have let me change first?"

You startle when he snaps and you feel silk against your skin. You look down to find yourself in a black pajama set, perfectly fitted to you, the bottoms falling just shy of the floor and the sleeves just long enough to make sweater paws if you want them but short enough that they aren't a hindrance.

"Ew," you mutter. "I didn't even shower."

"Luckily for you, you have an en suite," he points out, nodding at the door across the massive bedroom.

"I don't have toiletries."

"You'll find it appropriately stocked."

"But what about my skincare?"

"Again. Appropriately stocked."

"You don't even know my skin concerns."

"Oily on the chin and T-zone, dry everywhere else. Terrible hormonal acne during your period or when you're stressed," he recites like he studied this information. Your mouth pops open in either awe or humiliation—you're not even sure. "You struggle with water intake throughout the day so you'll find a litany of moisturizing products in there. Also, maybe you should start using retinoids." His eyes go to your forehead. "You crinkle your eyebrows a lot. You'll get fine lines soon."

You gasp, slapping a hand over your forehead. "You asshole."

"I'm the asshole giving you all the skincare you could possibly ever want."

"You're the asshole kidnapping me!" you scream the last two words, finally losing your patience.

You thought your best bet would be finding a way to escape wherever you are once the man left you alone, but the mere mention of fine lines kicks you into fight or flight. You swing your tiny shoulder purse at his stomach as hard as you can, satisfied when you hear a soft oof from his lips. You shove past him, your new bunny slippers slowing you down considerably as you stumble down the pristine hallway. You only get to the corner before you slam into what feels like a wall, eating shit for the second time tonight.

"Ugh," you grunt as your ass meets the floor and you're laid out flat on your back. "Ow." You groan, hand coming to your ass while the other attempts to prop you up. You open your eyes to find the stranger crouching down in front of you, amused at your weak attempt at freedom. You glower at him as you massage your butt. "I hate you."

"And you're only going to hate me more," he mutters. The words give you pause. "You have free reign in my home." He stands now, tucking his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. "You can try to run but you'll find you can't. So you might as well get comfortable, and when you've finally come to terms with your circumstances… we'll talk."

Without another word, he disappears right before your very eyes.

DAY FOUR

For three days, you tried everything you could to escape.

You found your phone in your purse and tried calling your friends. They answered and you could talk, but as soon as you tried to tell them you'd been kidnapped, your mouth would suddenly be incapable of moving—like your lips had been glued shut. Terrifyingly enough, on your third call, you walked to the vanity in your room and found your mouth just gone any time you tried to say anything that had to do with the stranger and his house of horrors.

The most horrific thing being that it has no windows or exits. Every single door you've found and tried in this laughably huge house has led to a bedroom, a study, a library, a home theater, a gym, or a space that made no sense to you—one with nothing but racks and racks of clothes and shoes from what looked like every, single period of time in history, ever. Another stuffed to the brim with huge stacks of papers that reached the ceiling. Another with A/C blasting hard, presumably to keep the furniture completely crafted from ice inside rock solid.

The house made no sense, but in that way, it made perfect sense that it belonged to the weirdo that kidnapped you. Now, it's day four, you know the house like the back of your hand, and all your phone calls are spent pretending like you're fine while Stella tells you about her piece of shit boyfriend and begs you not to tell Marisol so she won't hate him any more than she already does. Please. If you're going to tell Marisol anything, it's going to be about your piece of shit kidnapper.

But beyond calling for help and finding an escape, you find that you're fresh out of ideas to find your way out. And sensing that, the stranger appears at your bedroom door first thing when you wake up, a small smirk on those pink lips as he leans against the doorframe, long, lean and dressed in a different variation of the same, black outfit. This time, with a winter coat that comes down to his ankles dramatically.

"Good morning. Kind of."

You scoff, pulling your eye mask back down over your eyes. "It's the middle of summer, you psycho."

"Had some business in Australia."

You freeze for a moment before shoving up one side of your eye mask and peeking at him. "Australia."

He nods. "Yup. Heard of it? Odd place with huge spiders and opposite seasons. Quite cold there right now." He pushes himself off the frame and walks to the foot of your massive California king-sized bed, where he sheds his coat and carelessly throws it on the bench.

You'll give it to him. You've been living like a queen while here. You hate to admit that if he had simply asked nicely, you probably would love to live here with him despite knowing nothing about him—you're not known for your logical or sound thinking. You simply survive the day, and surviving here would be nice. But the sheer audacity of forcing you to be here without your consent drives you to unprecedented levels of stubbornness. Levels of stubbornness that convince you it would be much better living in your tiny, sad apartment in your seedy neighborhood than here, in this mansion, with products that have your skin glowing like it never has before.

When you don't respond to his rhetorical question, he asks something more serious. "Are you ready to have a proper conversation now?"

You blow a raspberry and laugh, making a show of pulling your mask back down and snuggling deeper into your 1,000-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

"Perfect, I am too," he says sarcastically, the duvet ripped off you violently within the same breath. You shriek at the sudden cold. The psycho keeps his house freezing at all times, which means when you're not looking for the emergency exit, you're either always buried under several blankets or in the sauna down the hall. You hear the snap of his fingers and your eye mask disappears.

You gasp. "What is wrong with you?"

"Everything here is mine," he reminds you. "Or have you gotten so comfortable, you've forgotten you've been kidnapped?" He snorts at the word like it's a ridiculous thought even though that's literally what he did. He seats himself on the edge of your bed, crossing his legs and holding his hand out. As soon as he does, your bag of ghost pepper chips materialize in it.

"Hey!" you lean over to grab them, unperturbed by the way things just appear and disappear at his whim. He quickly holds them out of your reach, his expression bored as your face stops just shy of his. You glare at him. "Those are mine."

Though his expression doesn't change, his dark eyes suddenly flash a bright, angry red, and you struggle to refrain from flinching.

"Hm," he hums, smirking as you slowly lean away and he brings the bag back down to his lap. He smugly throws a chip into his mouth, crunching slowly before swallowing. Your eyes come down to the insane Adam's apple of his bobbing at the motion. You purse your lips and look back up. "It doesn't surprise me that those heinous parents of yours never taught you how to share."

The words pull all the fight and anger out of you immediately. Your shoulders deflate and you look at him with wide eyes. "My… what? You knew my parents?"

The man nods once. "Unfortunately. Really vile duo, weren't they?"

It's an understatement. Your parents should've never had a child to begin with, but your mother thought doing so would keep your father interested—a fact she never failed to remind you of. She never wanted you, never wanted to be a mother, never wanted someone to raise. All she ever wanted was to keep your father's attention, and you did, for a few years at least. Then, you turned four, and his fascination with being a parent waned, and the two of them deemed you old enough to fend for yourself while they carried on with their lives like they never even had you. You were left at home for hours at a time, teaching yourself to make cheese sandwiches with the microwave, and self-soothing with the TV when it would get dark and you were scared to be alone.

When they were home, you were a pseudo-maid, cleaning up after your mother and bringing your father beer after beer as he demanded them. You knew the brands and how to use a bottle opener before you even knew how to read. Sometimes, you caught yourself enjoying the time they were away more than when they were back, but then the sun would set, and you wouldn't be scared anymore or crying yourself to sleep, and you'd decide it was better than having to be alone.

It wasn't until they hadn't returned for almost a week, leaving you near-starved and dehydrated, that you finally went to the neighbor for help. You were in the foster system the next day, and you never saw your parents ever again. You've been without them far longer than you were ever with them, and still, their fingerprints are all over your life: your stunted education, your desperate need to be around your friends, your avoidance of an empty apartment, apparently this guy. Really, his house of horrors was a reminder of how much you despised being left to your own devices. Maybe that's why you were constantly on the phone even if it meant you couldn't ask for help.

"Um… how?" you ask, dumbfounded.

"They called to me one night," the stranger confides in you between bites of your own chips. Even as he talks with a full mouth, he manages to look just as regal. "Begged for a better life—all the money they could dream of in a land far from where they were, away from everything and everyone they've ever known."

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that he's talking about you.

"They didn't have anything to offer in exchange," he tells you, not bothering to explain why they would be asking him for anything at all. "They wanted to sell their souls, but what the fuck am I supposed to do with something so… ugly…?"

The word comes out of his mouth with a sneer, and you nod like you understand. You kind of do. Everything about the man is very pretty, down to his nail beds and his shined shoes. What would he need from two deadbeats like your parents?

Wait. Their souls?

"So they offered me something more pure," he says, the bag of chips disappearing once more. He plunges his thumb into his mouth to suck the ghost pepper dust off, and you find yourself a little entranced as it pops back out and he does the same with his index finger. You sigh as you turn toward your nightstand and pluck a tissue from the box and hand it to him. He frowns. "Uh, thanks."

"And what was that?" you ask as he wipes his saliva off on the tissue instead of whatever furniture is available to him (in this case, your 1,000-thread-count sheets).

"Their daughter."

You were expecting it. You hadn't been sure what to make of all this; half of you was convinced you were still blackout drunk, passed out somewhere in a bathroom stall while Jasmine puked her guts out. Maybe you were having a very elaborate dream. Or nightmare. But hearing him speak now, you believe it. You wouldn't put those two idiots above summoning some kind of demon to get them out of their gambling debts and make them rich—allow them a life among the elite. And you wouldn't put it past them to trade you for it.

You were expecting it. But still, it feels like another knife through your heart when he confirms it.

"I'm not a fucking monster, though," he says, snorting. You raise an eyebrow at him.

"But… I'm here…"

He nods. "I told them they can't just sell their child to the Devil. So—"

"The Devil?!"

"—I settled on servitude. I would just enslave them at the end of their contract for the rest of eternity."

You balk at him—the Devil. The Devil likes black oxfords and ghost pepper chips.

"But then…" he sighs, inconvenienced. "They died."

"They're dead," you repeat, the words coming out more like a statement than the question you meant for them to be. You find that you don't feel anything about that. You never even got a chance to love your parents. It doesn't feel like you've lost anything. You were always alone; still, the confirmation that you truly are now is odd.

"Mhm," he confirms, the tissue disappearing into thin air as he leans back on his hands. "Can you believe I made those two rich beyond their wildest dreams and they somehow still got into trouble with loan sharks?" His head lolls to the side to look at you. "Unlike you, they were actually kidnapped." He shrugs before adding an important detail. "And murdered."

"Oh," you breathe.

"Yes. Oh. But I still needed to collect payment. And unfortunately…"

He lets you connect the dots on your own. "I'm their only next of kin."

"Precisely," he nods once. "You've inherited their debt."

"So… you're… enslaving me?"

He looks at you with disgust. "What? No. I said I'm not a fucking monster."

"But you kidnapped me."

"I did not."

"You did."

"Let's not get into the semantics of it all," he says, waving a hand dismissively as his eyebrow twitches with irritation. "I am not enslaving you. I am here to offer you a contract."

"A contract."

"A contract." A piece of paper—sheer and made up of glittery red particles—materializes between the two of you, hundreds of lines of red print appearing one by one before you as he speaks. "You may serve your parents' sentence—"

"Enslavement."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine. Yes, enslavement—though I am giving you a choice!"

"Wow, what a gentleman."

"Or," he raises his voice slightly to get you back on track, "you can make your own contract." He nods at the piece of paper. You frown.

"But I didn't ask you for anything."

"Yes, but it will release you from your parents' debt."

"By putting me into my own pile of shit?"

He smirks. "Oh c'mon. I think I deserve more credit than that. Have I not been an incredibly generous host to you thus far?" He spreads one, long arm out to gesture to your bedroom—more like a large apartment in the corner of his mansion.

"A generous host during my stay in your prison?" you ask, snorting. "Sure." His face falls into a flat expression that you ignore as you lean forward to read the beginnings of your contract.

INFERNAL SUCCESSION OF DEBT

Contract ID 666-4 This Agreement is entered into between:

THE DEVIL, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, Keeper of Eternal Contracts, Hereinafter referred to as "Employer," "His Infernal Majesty," or "Boss";

and

Y/N L/N, Sole Living Descendant and Responsible Party, Hereinafter referred to as "Employee".

PREAMBLE

WHEREAS, Employee's parents entered into a legally binding contract with Employer in exchange for wealth, prosperity, favorable stock performance, and several luxury vehicles;

WHEREAS, said parents were obligated to surrender themselves for eternal servitude upon collection;

WHEREAS, said parents have inconveniently perished before collection could be completed;

WHEREAS, Hell's Collections Department has determined Employee to be the sole inheritor of all outstanding debts, obligations, curses, liens, penalties, and miscellaneous infernal paperwork;

THEREFORE, Employer has graciously offered Employee the following alternatives:

OPTION A: In fulfillment of the obligations incurred by Employee's deceased parents, Employee shall enter the service of the Infernal Realm for all eternity.

Duties shall include, but are not limited to:

Processing approximately 4.8 million forms per day

Responding to customer complaints from damned souls

Sharpening ceremonial pitchforks

Serving as a chew toy for baby hellhounds during training exercises

Untangling chains in the Pit of Eternal Knots

Operating the Soul Intake Window during holiday rushes

Rewriting contracts damaged by hellfire

Cleaning the Room of Despair every third Tuesday

Escorting lost souls to the appropriate department

Conducting annual inventories of screams

Working closely with Minghao from Accounting

Employee acknowledges that eternity is a super long time and that the above list is not-at-all exhaustive.

OPTION B: Accept employment under Employer for the duration of Employee's natural mortal lifespan, after which Employee shall receive a permanent position with benefits.

You look back up at the Devil. He watches you with an unreadable expression.

"What's the catch?"

"You'd have to read all 666 pages of your contract to find it."

You narrow your eyes at him. "You don't think I'll do it." He neither confirms or denies. "I will. I will read all 666 pages."

"Fine by me," he says, shrugging one shoulder and standing. "But after you read them and decide on either option A or B, you'll have another contract to sign for terms of your servitude or your employment. I'm sure you can guess how many pages each are."

You feel the ambition leave your soul. You roll your eyes and shake your head. "Sit your ass down."

He smirks and follows directions.

"I assume they went to Hell, no?" He nods. "Why can't you just go find their souls and make them serve their sentence?"

"Debt must be collected before death and the souls are admitted into Hell and sorted into the proper circles of punishment, where they'll be doing something very different for all of eternity." He shakes his head regretfully. "Your parents are currently being fried in vats of oil over and over again. If they had survived until debt collection, they would've remained human for eternity, serving me even as their increasingly brittle bones repeatedly broke under the weight of their chores."

He smiles wistfully at what could have been, and you wince. "Um. Okay... well, what would my duties be for option B?"

The Devil nods to the space next to the contract, where an employment agreement appears, lines appearing one after the other just like the original contract. You groan.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? Why is Hell a corporation?"

His eyebrows rise. "What else would Hell be?"

You pause, ruminating on the thought. "Okay, good point."

You sigh and skim the employment agreement.

POSITION

Employee shall serve as: Executive Assistant to His Infernal Majesty

Responsibilities include, but are not limited to:

Maintaining Employer's schedule

Screening calls

Organizing contracts

Overseeing scheduled plagues, wars, famines, etc.

Managing infernal correspondence

Other duties as assigned

Employee shall reside in Employer's primary estate for the duration of employment. Position will require 30% travel.

COMPENSATION

During mortal employment, Employee shall receive:

Free housing

Free meals

Free skincare

Access to infernal healthcare

Unlimited coffee

Following Employee's natural death, Employee shall receive:

Permanent demon status

Comfortable accommodations

Full retirement benefits

Choice of station

WORKPLACE CONDUCT

Employer shall not:

Steal Employee's soul

Curse Employee without written notice

Sell Employee to rival supernatural entities (or anyone else)

Employee shall not:

Summon competitors

Sign contracts on Employer's behalf

Open portals without supervision

Feed eldritch horrors after midnight

TERMINATION

This Agreement may only be terminated by:

Employee's natural death

The collapse of reality

Mutual agreement

A successful legal challenge upheld by three (3) cosmic authorities and at least one (1) archangel

INHERITED DEBT RESOLUTION

Upon execution of this Agreement:

Employee shall be considered to have satisfied all obligations inherited from their parents

Employer shall permanently cease collection efforts

Employee's parents shall remain classified as "Paid In Full"

The rest of your mortal life is a long time. You know very well that by agreeing to this, you're literally signing a deal with the Devil. It's sad and pathetic to acknowledge, but if this new life is anything like the last three days have been, it's already a huge upgrade from how you were living prior to your home invasion.

You lean away from the contracts and take a deep breath before nodding once. You can make it an even bigger upgrade.

"I want an unlimited budget for interior decorating of my living quarters," you start. His eyebrows rise to meet his hairline.

"You're negotiating with the Devil?" he asks, clarifying that he understands your intentions.

"Sure am," you confirm before shooting off your demands one after the other. "I want my apartment kept and paid for as a place to unwind when needed, and I want unlimited visiting rights to Earth. I want all my bills paid for and the newest Samsung any time I want to upgrade my phone. I want backstage passes to any K-Pop group of my choice at any concert I want. I want an expense account and a black credit card to match."

"We—"

"And I don't care if you don't use credit cards in Hell. I want a black credit card. And I want it to be metal and heavy. The fancy one."

He clamps his mouth back shut and nods for you to keep going.

"I want full autonomy over my soul while mortal and after death," you emphasize. "My employment does not mean you own me."

"How many times do you want me to remind you I am not a monster?"

"You're the literal Devil."

"Yes, exactly!" he agrees. "Not a monster!"

You scoff, unsure of how to even respond to that. "You don't own me!" you repeat.

"Yes! Of course! I do not own you! Obviously!" he says, appeasing you. "Go on."

"I also want protection from… whoever your enemies are."

He raises an eyebrow at you. "My enemies?"

You shrug. "Like… God or whatever."

He grins—a genuinely amused one. It's heart-shaped and wide and it's not befitting for the Devil. He looks like someone you could cuddle, not someone who could eat your soul for dinner after finishing your ghost pepper chips. "You, humans, have a very ill-conceived idea of Heaven and Hell. God is not my enemy. She is my colleague."

The smile that envelopes your face is uncontrollable. "She?! God is a woman?! I fucking knew it!"

"Of course she is," the Devil scoffs. "Why would a man be kept in charge of Heaven? That's absurd."

"Hm. Agreed," you say, a little suspicious of having something you both agree upon. "Okay, so no enemies…"

"None," he says, yawning. "Unless you consider damned souls enemies."

"Well, I want protection from anything that can hurt me."

He looks at you like you're dumb. "You'll be living with the Devil. You will be at my side at almost all times of the day. I am the protection."

"What if you hurt me?" you point out.

He rolls his eyes. "It would be counterproductive to hurt my own employee. If you haven't yet wandered into my contracts room, go find it later and you'll see how badly I need an assistant."

You try not to choke on your own spit as you think about the weird room stuffed full of paper. Does he expect you to do something with that…?

"Anything else?" he asks. "You've been so frugal with your demands. Are you sure you don't want to be a billionaire? The ruler of the free world?"

You ignore his sarcasm and shrug. "Is that possible?" He glares at you. "Okay, then no. I don't want those things. But I do have one more demand."

"Oh, goodie," he sighs. "What?"

"On the point of employment until death…"

The Devil laughs, the sound mocking. "That one is not negotiable, darling. It's either eternal servitude or employment until your mortal death—which is what you would be doing anyway if it weren't for your scumbag parents. One is definitely better than the other."

You glare at him. "I'm not going to play Devil's maid until I'm 100 and you're laughing at me as my bones are turning to dust."

"Per your employee agreement, you will have access to infernal healthcare, a perk that would not have been offered to your parents," he points out. "It might surprise you to know it's much more generous than whatever the hell you humans are offering these days. I assure you, your bones will never turn to dust."

"I want to remain as I am," you inform him, not taking no for an answer. "I will work for you until death, but I will remain as I am. No growing pains, no aches, completely healthy in the body and mind I'm in now until I die."

He fixes you with a hard stare for several moments, but you're determined to get your way. You don't avert your gaze and you don't give in. He sighs deeply through his nose. "Fine. Accepted."

The employment agreement changes before your very eyes, reflecting your negotiations, and you're pleased to see every point you argued written onto the paper in glittery red.

"Oh! And I refuse to call you Your Infernal Majesty."

He shrugs. "Okay."

"Okay…"

"What?"

"What do I call you?"

"Oh. Jun. You can call me Jun."

"Okay. I guess you have yourself an assistant, Jun."

He smirks, raising an open hand to you. You take a breath before you slip your hand into his, his slender fingers closing around you and shaking. On the final shake, he squeezes and you feel a just barely tolerable heat bind the two of you together for several seconds. Bursts of bright red lines glow around your joined hands, frantically circling them before they escape to the pieces of paper between you. Jun releases you just as you realize the lines have become both of your signatures on the contracts.

"It's done," he says, eyes flashing red again. "You, Y/N, have just signed a deal with the Devil."

And because you're not one to let a man intimidate you—Devil or not—you smile right back, lean in, and remind him in a theatrical whisper, "You're as stuck in here with me as I am with you."

When the arrogance painted all over his face falters the tiniest bit, you wink and throw yourself off your bed, finally ready to start your day at a bright and early 2 p.m.

"Don't you go regretting this now, Junnie!"

DAY TEN

Hell is exactly what you expected it to be after seeing Jun's contracts: a corporate abyss. It's an open floor plan with unassigned desks, harsh overhead lighting, and a water cooler where a demon is stationed, their only task to make awkward small talk with the parched, tortured soul that comes up to it hoping for a cup. The demons, of course, have the time of their lives, scheduling meetings that could have been emails, demanding overtime of salaried souls, asking for things that were already given to them several days ago and promptly lost upon receipt.

You don't fully understand it. Before you were taken away from Earth, you were working as a full-time bartender. In fact, the only reason you and your friends hadn't gotten kicked out that night for being belligerently drunk was because you were being belligerently drunk at the club you worked at. Before that, your only foray into corporate life was as a customer service representative answering phones and talking to angry people who had nothing but free time to scream at you. You lasted exactly one week, and that's all you need to at least appreciate why it's the model for Hell.

And for the last few days, you've been following Jun around it, soaking in all the information you need. For example, Jun is in "the office" during most "daylight" hours (Hell doesn't have windows so how are you supposed to know when daylight is?), and usually brings his work back to the home you now share. Unclear if he sleeps at all.

He doesn't spend time around the damned souls—not that they even realize who he is as he walks by. He pays them no mind, letting his demon subordinates take care of tormenting them. Instead, his time in the office is spent attending meetings with high-ranking demons, archangels, and occasionally, God herself. If he's not in the office or at home, he'll be traveling. Unclear what he'll do on his trips, but you assume it's something akin to what he did for your parents. He assures you each trip will only be a few hours and that he'll call if that changes. You assure him you don't care.

Today is the first time you won't be shadowing him. Jun unceremoniously dropped you off at the mail room without so much as a goodbye, muttering something about picking you up at the end of the day. You didn't have time to point out that you have no idea when that is. And hours later, it seems that it still isn't the end of the day.

"So… who are you…?"

You look up from the mountain of envelopes you've been tasked with going through. Apparently, the Devil receives a lot of mail, and apparently, Jun is above simply throwing all of them into an incinerator. It turns out when people can't get a hold of God, they turn to the next best thing. And the next best thing insists that you read every last letter and decide whether it's worth responding to.

The demon talking to you entered the room just a minute or so ago. He's a man who looks to be about your age, though you're under no delusions that he actually is. For all you know, he's millions of years old. His spiky blonde hair is currently pointed to your right as he tilts his head at you curiously. "Actually, what are you…?"

You squint at him. "I'm human…" you gesture down at your lack of black leather, dressed like the pink Care Bear threw up on you as a quiet form of protest against the dreadfully drab aesthetic Hell insists on. "Obviously."

He nods. "Right… but… you're not dead."

"No," you say, using more force than needed to slice through the next envelope with the letter opener you were given—a knife with a handle shaped like a devil's tail. A tail you noticed Jun does not have.

The demon winces and you're glad for it. Just because Jun is convinced you're safe doesn't mean you are; the more of them who believe you'll shank them with a letter opener for breathing funny, the better.

"I am not dead."

"What's your—"

"I'm working," you cut him off icily, making a show of stabbing the letter opener into the wooden table and straightening the paper in front of your face. The man next to him snorts but says nothing, simply grabbing the mail he came in for and leaving.

"So you work in the mail room? Do we hire humans to do that now?"

You roll your eyes behind the piece of paper. You don't answer.

"Do you know whose mail you're going through…? Because it's His—"

"Jun's," you sigh, slamming the piece of paper down and shoving it toward your throw pile. "I am reading Jun's mail." You fold your hands in front of you on the table and lean forward to give him all the attention he obviously wants. The demon's eyes widen, leaning back the tiniest bit.

"Y-you can't just… say his name like that," he whispers to you, eyes sliding back and forth. The mail room is full of demons, and it isn't until he looks around that you realize all of them have frozen in place. You frown as you follow his gaze.

"Jun?" you repeat loudly, resisting the urge to smirk when more of them gasp.

"Stop!"

"Why?" you ask, snickering as you reach for the next envelope and rip it open without the help of the letter opener. Dear Satan, you read. "Is it like Voldemort here? Scared to say your own boss's name?"

"Pfft, no one here is scared to say 'Voldemort,'" he says, rolling his own eyes. "Rowling will be here as soon as God decides it's time for her to retire from Twitter. And life."

You hum in approval. "Good to hear."

"It's just wise to be a little more respectful when referring to His Infernal Majesty."

You smile. "Yeah, I'm not calling him that."

"Your funeral."

"Or yours," you say, pointedly looking at the letter opener stabbed into the surface right now. You look back at him and his eyes are on the tool too. "Think Jun would be happy about you distracting his personal assistant from very important work?"

The demon balks at you, but you return your attention to the letter. Dear Satan. "You're his assistant?" You hum in confirmation. "Oh wow. That's… wow. Um, I'm Soonyoung."

"I didn't ask."

"Are you sure you aren't a demon?"

You look up at him without putting your letter down. "I'm sure, Soonyoung." Your eyes flick back down to the letter. Dear Satan, you read for the third time.

"Well, you would make a really good one," he tells you. Your fingers crinkle the letter, twitching in as they try to keep from completely crumpling it in frustration. "Is that why His Infernal Majesty hired you? How did you two meet?"

"Soonyoung." It seems like the entire room freezes and the demon's eyes widen at something behind you. You look over your shoulder to find Jun standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and his brows pulled down. The other demons not named Soonyoung immediately flee the room. "Are you bothering Y/N?"

You huff. "Sure. You can give him my name."

Your boss smirks but ignores you. "Leave her alone. If I hear my name one more time, I'll make you work a shift in Accounting." You raise your eyebrows. No wonder they're so afraid to say his name. It literally summons him.

Soonyoung pushes himself off where he'd been leaning on the table across from you, immediately leaving the room and bowing to your boss and muttering apologies as he goes. You snort, turning back around and reading your letter in full for the first time.

Dear Satan,

If you're real, prove it.

You nod, taking a piece of paper out to write your response. Just as you finish, you hear Jun's voice—much closer this time—and you startle.

"Interesting."

"Holy shit," you breathe, leaning back to look at him reading over your shoulder. "I thought you left."

He reaches past you, allowing you to get a whiff of his cologne. Something that smells woodsy and spicy. He takes your pile of letters and responses and reads them aloud.

"'Dear Satan, if you're real, prove it,'" he reads. His eyes go to the piece of paper with your response. "'No.'"

He stares at you but reveals no indication of whether or not he approves. He puts the two pieces of paper down on the table next to you and moves on.

"'Dear Devil, did the dinosaurs go to Heaven or Hell?' 'They went to Heaven. What kind of fucking question is this?'" Papers down.

You think the twitch of his lips is a smile threatening to break through. He succeeds in hiding it if it is, and he just keeps going.

Dear Satan, should I text my ex?

I am the #1 advocate of free will. But know that if you do, I will haunt you for the rest of your mortal life and you will never find love. Ever.

Dear Satan, if you help me pass my AP Chem test, I will owe you my life. P.S. For my records, does this count as a legally binding contract?

No, it does not. Go study and never write here ever again.

Dear Satan, does my cat work for you? I love her, but sometimes, she does things that make me wonder. I don't think she sleeps. She just watches me. All the time. I also feel like she can maybe talk and is hiding it. Is she secretly a demon?

Jun pauses, eyes sliding to you, though you're unsure why. You hold his stare, but he just redirects his attention back to your response.

Probably. What's her name?

He seems to decide that's enough, calmly putting the pile of papers down with the others. "Hm." You don't know what it means and he doesn't clarify. Instead, he asks, "Hungry?"

You gasp, your work immediately forgotten. "Yes! Does Hell have sushi?"

"No. We only have the blood and organs of sinners here." You crinkle your nose but he doesn't say that he's joking, and it makes your stomach turn. "But Earth does. And I believe you negotiated unlimited visitation rights." You nod. You did. You absolutely did. "Come on. My treat for a good first day spent on your own."

"It's your treat no matter what," you mutter, standing up and leading the way out of the mail room, trusting your responses will be sent out by someone who isn't busy stuffing their face with sushi. "I literally have free food written into my employment agreement."

"You can never just let me have the last word, can you?"

"Nope. Get used to it."

DAY SIXTEEN

Your adrenaline spikes when the phone on your desk, right outside Jun's corner office (the only place with windows and a killer view of racists burning alive at all hours of the day), rings. You squeak with excitement as you answer it.

This should be nerve-wracking for you; your one week in customer service scarred you enough that the sheer sound of phones ringing sent anxiety crawling up your spine. But here, answering the phone meant all kinds of fun possibilities.

It could be a teenager calling via Ouija Board. It could be someone summoning Jun to sell their soul. It could be a demon needing help as a priest exorcises them from a possession. It could be God.

"You've reached Jun's desk. How may I help you?"

"Wrong." Your joy flatlines at your boss's voice. "I told you, you can't use my name when answering the phone."

"I'm not calling you whatever silly title everyone else here insists on calling you," you grumble.

"That's fine. I don't give a shit. Just don't use my name," he says. "I already hear everyone on Earth muttering about Satan. We don't need to add my Hell-given name to the mix."

You sigh. "Fine. What do you need? I've already taken care of your mail and schedule for the rest of the week, I have your requested reports from Accounting, and the Hellhounds have been caught. They're eating their midday snacks now."

"What snacks? You know that cannibals upset their stomachs. If they throw up, you will be cleaning it up."

"First of all, no. I won't." You've already seen the messes the Hellhounds are capable of, and you'd rather Jun eat your soul than have to clean up after one. "Second of all, I know. I gave them some family annihilators."

"Perfect. Thanks. Tell Soonyoung if he loses them one more time, he'll be fed to them next."

"Got it," you say, taking mental note to threaten the demon next time he comes around to annoy you. "So why are you calling? Did you forget whose debt you're collecting today? It's—"

"I know," he cuts you off. "Just checking to see how it's going since this is your first full day without me in Hell."

You frown at nothing in particular. "The Devil does check-in calls…? Oddly considerate."

You can practically hear Jun's glare through the phone. "No. The Devil is making sure you haven't completely run his empire into the ground."

"I am but a measly human," you sigh dramatically. "If I have the power to run a supernatural empire that predates time itself into the ground, it's probably a really bad empire."

"Hm." He clearly refuses to tell you that you have a good point. "I also called to let you know I'll be late tonight so you don't have to worry about working after you leave the office. I'll see you at breakfast."

You told him you didn't care if his trips made him late or if he even wanted to go out and do his own thing after; you aren't his mother or his wife, and you can probably discern this information from his calendar without him calling. But now that it's actually happening, you realize you care a tiny bit. Mostly because in the last two weeks, the two of you have gotten into a routine of sorts.

You woke up, usually from your duvet being ripped off and your eye mask being sent into whatever other dimension Jun sent things to, and you'd sit down for breakfast, going through everything your boss was doing for the day. Jun didn't need to eat, but he joined you anyway, occasionally having a bowl of cereal since you made it clear you never want to see him eating the blood and organs of sinners in the house. Then, he'd take the both of you to work, where you would do whatever it is the day demanded of you, before heading home and having dinner. If he had a trip that day, he still made it home in time to sit with you, eating whatever it is you made in the generously stocked kitchen.

You'd kind of forgotten to be afraid of being alone because you never were anymore. Jun was always there, and if he wasn't, you were either busy working or asleep. The thought of coming back to the house without him, having to eat dinner by yourself, and not having anyone to talk to gets your heart racing faster than usual.

"Hello?"

"Okay," you say, nodding even though he can't see you. Maybe if you force your body to agree to it, your mind will follow suit. "Have fun collecting those souls."

"Thanks," he says slowly.

"Is that all?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Okay then. Bye."

You don't wait for him to respond, hanging up and immediately standing to make your way back to the house while the clock tells you it's still daytime. Maybe if you fall asleep earlier than usual, you'll bypass the terror you already feel creeping in.

DAY TWENTY-THREE

"Junnie!" you call without turning over your shoulder.

You have to keep working on securing catering for the 1,700 demons who will be gathering for an "Innovation & Disruption: Bringing Medieval-Style Torture to the Modern Age" seminar in a few days. You don't even know how to get blood and organs catered. And never mind having to arrange accommodations for the demons that insist on bringing their eldritch horrors with them.

You hear your boss's usual grunt of acknowledgment. "Time to get going to that cult summoning if you want to make it on time!" You glance at the CCTV feed in the corner of your screen. "They're almost done drawing the pentagram!"

He groans but you hear the unmistakable sound of his chair rolling away from his desk and creaking as he stands anyway. A few moments later, he's standing next to you. You pause your catering research to look up at him.

"I don't assume the demons would want to have Subway or something at this seminar?" you ask.

"No." Jun's mouth curves into a small smile. "No, they probably do not want Subway."

"Shame." You shrug and turn back to your computer. "Well, have fun with the nut jobs! Remember, Risk & Assessment flagged the cult leader for us; his possession score is very high, so if you find him insufferable—and I'm sure that with your patience, you will—feel free to ring me and I'll send you a demon to torment him a bit."

"Noted," he says, chuckling a little. "And just so you know, I'll probably be late again."

You deflate a little. It's been a week since the last time Jun came home late from work, and you're still working out the stress knots it put into your shoulders.

"Oh." You try to think of what you'll do to stave off the panic this time since sleeping early didn't do it for you. When you realize your boss is standing there, scrutinizing you and waiting for a proper response, you say a pathetic "sounds good."

"Hm. I was actually thinking you may be more help coming with me tonight than staying here," he says suddenly. "Or at home."

You straighten up and try not to look too eager at the invitation. "Wait. I can come to the summoning?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"Is that allowed?"

He stares at you blankly. "I'm the King of Hell."

You roll your eyes, your heart rate slowing down as your anxieties subside. "A simple 'yes' would have sufficed."

The second you and Jun make landfall in the middle of the cult's pentagram, there are fanatic screams and people in ridiculous cloaks falling to their knees and sobbing. You don't try to hide the revulsion on your face, flinching away when a follower crawls to you on their hands and knees, wailing and reaching for you. You inadvertently curl into your boss's side. You mutter a quiet apology when you realize you're touching him, but he ignores it, stepping between you and the enthusiastic follower.

"Hands to yourself," Jun hisses at the person, who immediately backs away.

The space becomes significantly warmer at that, and it only dawns on you now why your home is kept so cold. It never occurred to you that of course the Devil will run hot, and you feel that heat radiating from him now with nothing to quell it. The cult members must feel it too because aside from the overenthusiastic one, they give the two of you a wide berth.

Once you acclimate to the audience, you notice you're suddenly in a cloak reminiscent of the grim reaper's.

"What the hell is this?" you ask, lifting an arm and looking at the way the cloth drapes off of it.

"Summoning uniform."

"Then why don't you have one?" you ask, raising an eyebrow at Jun's all-black get-up: a crisp button-down, slim-fit slacks, and a jacket with shoulders adorned with a smattering of crystals, making it look like he's wearing the sky itself.

"I'm the Devil." Which seems to be his answer for everything. Your next complaint is drowned out by the deep and bizarre bellowing of a man on a tiny stage that quakes under his weight.

"Welcome, Our Unholiness!" You assume the man shouting is the cult leader. He wears a goat head that looks so realistic, you sorely hope it's just a mask and that the man is not wearing an animal corpse right now.

"Wrong!" you immediately call, making Jun frown at you as you step back around him, tripping a little when your foot catches on your cloak. "Fuck, ow." You yank at it violently before standing straight and addressing the man. "Accepted titles include King of Hell, King of the Infernal Realms, Lord of Temptation, Prince of Darkness, His Infernal Majesty, or The Big Bad Lord of Doom and Gloom."

"No, nope. Not that last one." You smile at him when he narrows his eyes at you. If you get the cloak, he gets the silly title.

"O-oh. Uh. Everyone, let's welcome… His Maj—"

"Infernal Majesty."

"His Infernal Majesty!" he shouts.

The crowd around you erupts into cheers, and you take the moment to look around. Your boss has been summoned to what looks like a remote compound in the middle of the desert with small concrete buildings scattered around you. The people around you look starved, dehydrated, and unclean. No wonder the Devil has been summoned; this is not a cult leader that leads very well.

"Enough," Jun says, his voice barely rising over the cheers but reverberating through the crowd anyway. It falls silent laughably fast, forcing you to stifle a giggle. "Why have you summoned me?"

"Satan, we—may I call you Satan…?" the goat head tilts toward you like he's asking you for permission. You nod and he turns back to your boss. "Satan, we have summoned you here today in the hopes that you will lend your devoted children a hand."

"I am nothing if not a provider," Jun says in a bored voice. You tilt your head and shrug before nodding as you ponder that statement. You suppose it's true. You have been living a very luxurious life since you moved to Hell.

"Oh, thank you, Satan," he sighs in relief, bowing his head and stumbling a little when the weight of the goat head makes him wobble. "We request a great boon of you."

"A boon," you echo in a whisper, mostly to yourself.

"Our tithes are declining."

"Tithes." Words you will have to Google upon returning home.

Jun's eyes flick down to you briefly before he responds. "Get on with it."

The abruptness throws the leader off, causing him to stutter. You buy him more time by stating, "As you can imagine, Ju—Satan! Satan is incredibly busy. Many summonings to tend to. Many plagues to schedule. Many damned souls to devour whole. Many—"

"He gets it," Jun cuts in.

"Right, of course!" the leader agrees. "Apologies! We would like to request monetary support."

"In exchange for?" the Devil asks, an eyebrow cocked at the man.

"For…?"

Jun glances at you and you nod, frowning when you realize for the first time that you are no longer holding your tablet. You gasp, patting your entire body before you find the needlessly deep inner pocket of your cloak. So deep, your tablet basically rests at your ankle.

"This is deeply humiliating," you mutter at your boss as you bend over to scoop it out. "Who was this made for—Shaquille O'Neal?"

"No," Jun answers, more amused than you've ever heard him. "It's mine."

You pause in your bend, cranking your neck to look at him upside down. "This is your grim reaper cloak?"

He nods, clearly suppressing a laugh. You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you continue digging your device out of the infinite pocket. You straighten back up when it's finally in your grip.

You quickly tap through for the handbook you haven't needed until now.

"Where deals with the Devil are concerned," you read aloud, projecting your voice so everyone can hear clearly, "the Devil accepts servitude of his chosen length, negotiable; a percentage of all future profits no less than 20 percent, negotiable; your luck for an amount of time of his choice, negotiable; the feeling you get when a song gives you chills, non-negotiable; your first-born child to be collected upon their 30th birthday, non—hey!"

You frown at that point and turn to your boss, your back to the cult leader. "What?"

"What the hell do you need a first-born child for?" you hiss in a whisper only he can hear because above all else, you are still very professional. "Your assistant position is already filled. You already have a first-born child that you have collected!"

Your boss's mouth curves into an arrogant smirk that you want to rip off his mouth. "First-born children are a hot commodity in Hell."

"Oh, are they?" you laugh humorlessly. "So where are they?"

"Where are they?"

"Yeah! Where are they?" you ask, unsure what you'll even do when you find out. Now that you've been in your position long enough to really appreciate its perks, the thought of being kicked to the curb fills you with a fight instinct so strong, you could choke on it. "Hiding them in the attic? Basement? In a closet I haven't found yet? Or did you build them a separate house? You have multiple offices? Multiple assistants?"

"Um, can we get back to the—"

"One minute!" you shout without turning back to the cult leader.

"Are you jealous?" Jun asks, his voice equal parts confusion and cocky. When your only answer to that is a glare, he exhales a breathy laugh and shakes his head. "The document you're reading from was last updated decades ago, darling. I assure you I have no other assistants and am not looking for any more—at least not until your contract with me is over."

"I want that added as an amendment to my agreement," you say through gritted teeth, noting to yourself to reach out to Demon Resources when you get back.

"Unnecessary, but we'll—"

"The Devil will not be accepting a first-born child!" you announce, three times as loud as you were before as you spin back around, kicking when your cloak tangles around your legs. "Keep your useless children to yourselves!"

"No children, got it," the cult leader nods. "Well… you see, we were not prepared for a proper offering tonight, as we assumed that as children of the Dark Lord—"

"Lord of Temptation or Prince of Darkness," you correct him, shaking your head.

"Er, yes. As children of the Prince of Darkness… we assumed we would just… um, receive? A gift? As loyal followers?"

Both you and Jun remain still, falling quiet at the assumption—you because you're unsure if your boss wants you to correct him, Jun because you assume he's debating whether he should kill someone or laugh. The leader laughs a little nervously, swaying back and forth and wringing his hands. It's a hilariously silly picture with his goat head still on.

"Correct this idiot before I summon a Hellhound," Jun mutters to you, turning away from the leader and taking a seat. A comically large throne appears under his ass at the perfect moment. He props his head in his hand in immense disinterest.

"You summoned the Devil," you point out the obvious. "If you were looking for handouts based on loyalty, you probably should have thrown your allegiance behind God—which by the way, did you know she's a woman?"

"Oh. Uh, that's… yeah, that makes sense."

"Right? We thought so too," you say, nodding and glancing at Jun briefly over your shoulder. He nods once, blinking slowly in the way he only does when he's finally starting to tire and needs to rest. You turn back to the leader. "If you would like Satan's financial support, he will need more than the promise that you'll continue to live in the desert, starving and unbathed. He will need something he can actually use." You point at his mask. "By the way, the goat head does nothing. He does not like that."

Jun speaks behind you, confirming. "I do not. I hate it."

The leader immediately rips the head off, chucking it away from him with so much force, it bounces several times and disappears into the darkness not lit by the torches that surround the pentagram. He's younger than you assumed he'd be, and he's sweaty and red from staying in the goat head.

"What will you be offering the Devil tonight?" you ask. "Would you like more examples of gifts he will accept?"

"Um, no, I think… I think we can offer, uh, servitude?" his followers groan, but he doesn't change his answer.

"Wonderful," you nod, making note of it in your tablet. One of Jun's famous contracts materializes in front of the sweaty man, the glow of it painting him even redder. "The Devil will award you with just enough money to keep this Burning Man-inspired cult thriving as long as at least one member present here tonight is alive. In exchange, His Infernal Majesty will collect their souls for eternal servitude at the end of their natural-born lives."

There's an uproar of protests as you finish reading the terms.

"Well, wait, hold on! You said this was negotiable."

"Indeed."

"Okay, so let's negotiate!" You watch him expectantly, waiting for said negotiation. "Right, um, yeah. So. Uh. If servitude is eternal… maybe our financial support should also be of unlimited nature?"

"'Maybe'?" you ask, raising an eyebrow.

"It should! It should!" he corrects himself. "Limitless money forever, regardless of whether or not the members here tonight are still alive, in exchange for our eternal servitude upon the end of life."

You watch as Jun's signature starts to scribble on the contract, signaling his acceptance of the agreement. You frown and shake your head. "Denied!"

Jun makes a sound of surprise as his signature stops mid-air.

"Limitless money forever, independent of tonight's members, in exchange for your current and future members' eternal servitude upon end of life—regardless of length of cult membership."

The silence that follows is tense, the cult leader chewing his lower lip as he thinks it through and his followers clearly ruminating on what limitless money can do for them.

"The Big Bad Lord is due for another engagement shortly," you inform him, earning you an annoyed grunt from your boss. "Please make your mind up quickly."

"Deal," he answers, nodding confidently. "Deal!"

You smile as you watch Jun sign on his dotted line. Your boss suddenly appears before the leader, outside the pentagram meant to keep you both contained and the summoners safe from you—obviously a myth. Once summoned, Jun is free to do as he pleases wherever he pleases. Everyone gasps at his reappearance, the leader flinching violently. Your boss extends his hand just as he did to you a month ago. When the man shakes it, the same red lines bind the agreement, and the cult leader's name and signature appear on the contract.

"Enjoy your boon, Lee Seokmin," Jun says, voice low and dangerous. "Don't go dying too soon. I'll be back to collect."

The Devil doesn't waste any more time on the cult, whisking the two of you away and back to your shared home.

"That was fun!" you exclaim, clapping your hands and giggling. "Much more fun than staying at home alone."

Jun snorts but keeps his face carefully blank as he goes to the pantry and grabs a bag of ghost pepper chips. "Yeah?"

"Definitely. Thanks for inviting me."

"I was right."

"Hm?"

"You were a lot more helpful going with me than staying back here," he clarifies, opening the bag and chomping on the snack, which he now keeps an unlimited stock of for both of you. "I should've known you'd be good at negotiating." He throws you a look of fake contempt. You smirk. "I think you should come with me to all my summonings."

You shrug, trying not to reveal how relieved you are about late nights alone not having to be a worry for you anymore. "Sure. I will make myself available."

"So generous…" Jun comments, mouth slanting in amusement. "I'm going to turn in. You good?"

You frown. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

He watches you for a moment more before shaking his head. "No reason." He looks down at your cloak and nods. "Keep it for the next summoning. Night." He turns and lazily stalks off toward his suite on the other side of the house from yours.

DAY TWENTY-SEVEN

You're getting the hang of Jun in a way you never really understood any of your previous bosses. Before, your managers were people who just told you what to do and gave you minuscule raises once in a while, but being the Devil's assistant demanded knowing him on a level more intimate than you were expecting.

Because why do you know that eating too much human food will have him in the bathroom for ungodly amounts of time? It turned out that your restriction of blood in the house was actually ruining his digestive track. You're not totally uncaring, though; you now allow the Devil his blood consumption—strictly from opaque bottles. Organs, on the other hand, will never be negotiable.

You know that his favorite thing to listen to to relax after a long, stressful day is the tortured screams of damned souls drowning in the river of boiling blood. He likes falling asleep to the screams of damned souls being quartered. If he needs to hunker down and really concentrate on work, the screams of the racists burning alive right outside his window are his preferred background noise, which is probably why his office is where it is.

Jun actually hates having to negotiate. It took that first trip and a handful more to realize that he's fairly quick to accept the first offer he's given unless it's a particularly nasty human being. Since you've started accompanying him, though, you've been getting him a lot more promised benefits than before. So far, you're most proud of convincing a human to sign over her whimsy once 10 years passes. You think it will really brighten up the place once Hell receives it.

There are a lot of devilish stereotypes you've also debunked during your time with him. He has no horns or tail or wings that he's hiding. Everything you see seems to be all of it. His skin has never been red or any other color aside from the golden tan it is now. The Devil does not have an advocate, as he finds people who relentlessly challenge ideas simply for the sake of it exhausting (though, as the ruler of Hell, he does have the privilege of everyone being too scared to challenge anything he thinks or says anyway). He doesn't rely on the worship of anybody on Earth, and he doesn't care to lure pure souls to Hell; he only makes deals with the people he knows belong with him. That inspired an hours-long conversation in which you demanded he assure you your deal was the exception and you do not belong here in Hell with him.

Why? Don't you feel like you belong here? he asked, smirking. You fit right in, darling.

That might be true, but I don't belong here, right? Like, I'm not an evil person. I would've gone to Heaven if not for my terrible parents. Right?

Will you leave me alone if I agree?

JUN.

One thing you're learning now is that your boss tends to be perceived very differently by his demon subordinates. Where you see a particular and sometimes bratty individual, others see a man they need to appease lest they get their heads cut off. Where you see a softie who cuddles with his pets upon returning home, others see a king with an army of Hellhounds starving for the chance to tear them to pieces. Where you see someone who has become your own personal barista in the mornings, others see someone they're too afraid to ask even the smallest of favors from.

Exhibit A: Soonyoung.

Who is currently hissing at you to come meet him around the corner, away from your desk and away from your boss's door. You look over your shoulder quickly to find Jun deep in reviewing the piles of contracts you left for him this morning. You roll your eyes as you stand, dragging your feet lazily as you shuffle over to where Soonyoung is practically crouching to keep from being seen.

"What is it, Soonyoung?" you sigh. He waves for you to bend down and you ignore him, not bothering to crouch to match his height. "You have one minute. The purgatory's auditorium was double booked for the new hire orientation and the monthly angel-demon networking mixer, and I have to find a solution that will not only please Jun but God. I'm this close to suggesting we go to Earth and book a Chili's."

The demon doesn't even pretend to listen to your mini rant, practically speaking over your last few words. "Do you think you can ask His Infernal Majesty if I can have the next full moon off?"

You cock an eyebrow at him. "Why would I do that?"

He looks around nervously. "Um. Because you're pure of heart and soul? And you like me?"

"First of all, only one of those two statements is true," you inform him, enjoying the way he frowns as he tries to figure out which it is, "and second of all, I meant why would I need to do that?" He stares blankly at you. "Ask him yourself."

He scoffs. "Are you crazy?"

"Yes. Next question."

The answer clearly catches him off-guard, and he stammers over several syllables before standing straight and shaking his head. "I can't ask him myself."

"Why not?"

He opens and closes his mouth several times but offers you no valid reasons. He shrugs pathetically before finally admitting. "Because he scares me!"

You look at him incredulously. "Jun… scares you."

"Don't say his name!" he shriek-whispers, frantically grabbing your wrist and pulling you even further down the hall and away from your desk. He stops just outside the copy room, where a damned soul is slapping the broken copy machine. "Of course he scares me."

"The man who needs to be reminded to eat lunch and take his vitamins despite being older than the world itself scares you."

"Yes."

"The guy who gets ghost pepper chip dust all over his fingers and wipes them on whatever surface is closest to him scares you."

Soonyoung doesn't seem to find an issue with that the way you do but he still nods. "Yes."

"The dude—"

"Yes!" he nearly shouts. "Yes! No amount of ridiculous things you say right now are going to convince me to not be scared of him! I am scared of him!"

The soul at the copy machine finally gets fed up and walks out of the copy room, screaming and nearly falling over, their papers flying every direction, when Soonyoung instinctively bares his teeth and growls. They run the rest of the way back to their desk, abandoning the papers they dropped.

You bend down to start collecting them and snort when you find meaningless doodles done by one of the executives whose office is on this floor.

"You see a very different, non-scary version of him, okay?" Soonyoung continues like he didn't just scare the shit out of someone himself. "You're not scared because you don't have to see him when Hell is down on damned souls for the quarter, or when I breathe wrong around him."

You raise your eyebrows. "And this is my problem, why…?"

"It's not a problem," he says, grinning mischievously. He squats down to help you pick up the papers. "It's an advantage! You're his favorite employee! If you ask him if I can have the day off, he'll say yes!"

You pause, looking up at him and laughing. "Me. His favorite employee. After one month."

"Yeah, don't rub it in, new kid," the demon grunts, rolling his eyes. "Some of us have been kissing his ass for centuries, and you walk in and suddenly own the place. But worry not. I'm choosing to view this as a beautiful opportunity, rather than something to be jealous of."

"Sure," you follow, nodding as you continue to gather the drawings that never saw the copy machine. "You still haven't given me a good reason why you can't do it, though. Your fear is not a good reason."

He groans. "Yes it is!"

"It isn't."

"Okay, I mean. On top of that, he'll just say no."

"Why do you think that?"

He stares at you blankly. When he realizes it's a sincere question, he licks his lips and sighs. "Dude. It's been a month. You haven't had a single day off and you haven't noticed?"

You frown as you pick up the last piece of paper. You stand and think about it. "Oh my god…"

"I thought about asking God a few centuries ago too," he says, misunderstanding you. He stands and takes the pile of papers from you. "Didn't work out. Turns out they have no say in each other's teams, and His Infernal Majesty doesn't like it when demons go over his head."

"Naturally," you mutter. "Not what I meant, though. I just didn't realize I'd been working so much."

"Yeah, yeah, time flies when you're having fun," he says, waving a hand. "Anyway, I really need the day off to go to Earth."

"And do what?"

His face lights up now. "I was summoned by a hot witch the other day, and I want to pay her a visit during the full moon."

"Ooooh, a date!" You lean in, actually interested in where the conversation is going now. "What are you going to do?"

"I don't know about a date," he says bashfully, cheeks turning pink. "I just want to see—"

"Soonyoung. How many times do you want me to threaten your life for distracting my assistant?"

The demon squeals, all the papers the two of you picked up exploding into confetti as they rain down around you again. You sigh, staring as they fall to the ground, deciding immediately you will not be gathering them a second time. You look to your left to find Jun suddenly standing next to you, hands in his pockets as he stares daggers at the demon. You narrow your eyes at your boss and think, yes. Yes, you would probably be scared to be on the receiving end of that look.

But you're not so you aren't. You smile.

"Hi Junnie," you greet him. His eyes flick down to you and he shoots you a flat expression at your usage of the juvenile nickname in front of his demon. "Soonyoung has a favor to ask you."

The man in question shoots you a panicked and betrayed look before grinning nervously at his boss, who turns his attention to him now. He continues giving him that stupid grin for several seconds, failing to say anything until Jun raises one eyebrow.

"Well?"

"Oh! I, um. I was wondering if—if I could have, uh—"

"Spit it out."

"If I—um, couldhavethenextfullmoonoff." He swallows nothing. "Please."

You roll your eyes at the anxiety-riddled request.

"Absolutely not," Jun says immediately, inspiring a small, stunned gasp from you. You don't think you've ever heard him deny someone of something. But then again, you've never heard anyone ask anything of him. "You know how busy full moons are."

"No, yeah, for sure, I'm so sorry," he rambles, bowing his head a few times before giggling nervously and waving a hand. "That was so silly. Yeah. Dumb of me. I was actually just kidding. Got you! So silly. Ha…"

"Oh, come on!" you whine on behalf of Soonyoung, who looks at you with wide eyes and shakes his head quickly, silently begging you to shut up. Jun looks down at you, turning to face you completely. "That's so mean! He asked nicely!" You pause, shrugging. "Nicely enough. Why can't he have the day off?"

"Because it's the full moon."

"Okay…" you elongate the word. "And there will be many more full moons. This is just one, and you have thousands of demons. When was the last time Soonyoung had a day off?"

Jun suddenly averts his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably. You turn to Soonyoung, who refuses to answer. You frown at your boss.

"He's… he's never had a day off…?" you ask, making it clear how appalled you are at the idea. Your lip curls up in disgust and you look him up and down judgmentally. "What kind of boss are you?"

You gawk at him as his cheeks begin to turn red.

"You don't give your employees days off? Ever? How old are you, Soonyoung? Like a million years old?"

"Okay, relax," he mutters.

"A million years, and no days off? That's really horrible, Junnie. You should be embarrassed. I am very disappoi—"

"Soonyoung, go ahead and take the full moon off ," Jun practically barks at him, taking your arm in his grip at the same time. "Enjoy your day off, and stop talking to my fucking assistant or I'll have you as a midday snack."

The last thing you see before Jun turns you around and guides you back down the hall and away from Soonyoung is the huge, grateful, and excited smile on his face. You giggle, the sound cut off by a startled squeak when you hear the demon bellow at a damned soul.

"What the hell are you looking at?! Pick these papers up and make me a thousand copies!"

When your boss releases you back at your desk, you sit down, already back to figuring out the purgatory auditorium issue. It takes a few seconds for you to realize Jun isn't going anywhere, though. You pause, looking up at him and tilting your head.

"What is it?" you ask.

"I am a great boss."

"Uh," you exhale in a laugh. "Yeah. I know."

"Do you? Because you—"

"Oh, Junnie," you sigh, rolling your eyes as you return your attention to your computer. "Soonyoung just deserves a day off." You're not sure that statement is true, but you'll be damned if anything stops you from getting the first date gossip you're guaranteed now. "I know you're a good boss."

"Hm."

"Hm," you mimic him, smiling a little. When you look back at him, his eyes are narrowed like he's not sure you're telling the truth. "I wouldn't be willingly working seven days a week if you weren't a good boss, okay?"

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Alright."

"Mhm."

"I'm just gonna—" he points at his desk, not bothering to finish his sentence as he disappears back into his office.

DAY THIRTY

You know something is wrong when you wake up on your own naturally, something you haven't done since you accepted the position with Jun. You frown from under your eye mask, hand coming up to rip it off your face. You slowly sit up, finding every single blanket and the duvet still atop you, and your eyes find the clock on the wall, finding that it's almost a full hour after your usual wake-up time.

"My alarm didn't go off," you mutter.

Jun is your alarm. Jun didn't go off. You shove the blankets off you, shivering a little as you slip off the bed and tuck your feet into your bunny slippers. You shuffle out of your bedroom, poking your head into the hall to find it barren and silent.

"Jun?" you call quietly, knowing he'll hear it regardless. He doesn't answer. You walk further out into the hall, going to the kitchen to find it empty. The coffee machine wasn't touched either, even though it's always on and ready in the morning.

Your anxiety spikes as you start to wonder if he left in the middle of the night without letting you know. You scramble back to your room for your tablet, pulling his calendar up and staring at it in confusion when you find nothing different than when you left it last night.

Meeting with Archangel Joshua Marketing Team pitch Block for contracts Block for collection Monthly Satan/God touchbase (leave 30m for travel to Purgatory) Hellhound training check-in Block for contracts 1:1 with Chief Torment Officer

His meeting with Joshua would've started five minutes ago, so maybe he was just running late and needed to go without you? When has he ever run late? You're not even sure he slept. He's had meetings much earlier than that and he never failed to wake you up and sit down for breakfast. You decide the only way you'll find out is if you head to the office and see if he's there. You're one leg into your pants when your phone starts ringing.

"Thanks for calling Hell. You've reached the Devil's office. How can I help you?" you half-grunt with your phone tucked between your ear and shoulder as you pull your pants on.

"Do you have any idea how busy archangels are?"

"Joshua!" you gasp, immediately forgetting your pants and leaving them unbuttoned as you take your phone into your hand. "Is Jun with you?"

"Funny," he says in a way that suggests he doesn't find that funny at all. You get the feeling you won't find what he says next humorous either. "I was about to ask you the same thing. He hasn't shown for our meeting, and while he's the most vexing person I've ever met, he's also never been late. I can only really wait ten more minutes before I have to go appear as a hallucination to some humans and ask them to build a home for the less fortunate."

You groan, free hand applying pressure to your temple and eyes squeezing shut. "You know what, just… go do that. I'm sorry about this. I accidentally double-booked him. Totally my fault. I'll work with your admin to reschedule. Sorry again." You figure you'll take the fall to keep Jun away from scrutiny until you can find out where the fuck he is.

"'Kay. Don't let it happen again," he sighs dramatically.

"Okay, relax, you glorified gnat with feathers," you scoff, continuing to get dressed. "I said sorry. Y'know what? Don't call me for these things in the future! Have Seungkwan do it next time. I don't want to be subjected to your whiny, little rants."

Joshua makes a noise of disbelief before laughing. "Wow, you're the perfect assistant for Satan. For the record, I was totally kidding. I got to sit here and do nothing but doom scroll, so I don't mind. But I will have my assistant call next time. Sorry for bothering you."

"Good. Don't let it happen again." You don't allow him a response, hanging up and gathering your things as you hurry to leave for the office.

But as you exit your room, you hear your name, called so softly, you would have missed it if you hadn't paused to make sure your tablet was on you. You freeze, frowning in the direction of the sound.

"Jun?" you call, mindlessly setting your bag down in the kitchen as you walk toward your boss's suite. You find his door at the end of the hall, a deep, dark blood red, open just a crack. You knock lightly, and when you don't hear anything, you poke your head through.

And there he is, your missing boss, still cocooned in his bed, his favorite Hellcat and Hellhound sleeping at his feet, the former passed out atop the latter.

"Junnie?" you call again. He groans this time.

"Y/N…" he murmurs, not moving an inch or opening his eyes.

You tiptoe into the room, making a kissy face at Key when the hound's tail starts wagging at the sight of you. The movement makes Lock slide off the dog, meowing helplessly as she does. You get to Jun's bedside and wince when you realize how sick he looks.

The Devil is pale, sweating with a sickly sheen, and looking so weak, it's the first time you've thought he could believably pass as human. You reach out to press the back of your hand to his forehead, but he swats it away.

"Hey!"

"Don't," he whispers, voice hoarse with fatigue. "Fever. I'll burn your skin off."

"Oh," you mutter, immediately taking your hand back. "You're sick. I didn't know the Devil could get sick."

"Demon Flu," he says, eyes fluttering open just enough to peek at you. "Soonyoung sneezed in my face the other day."

"Oh!" you blink at him in surprise. "Ew! Good to know! I will make a note to send him to the Hellhounds to serve as a chew toy for the day."

"Week."

"Got it," you say, nodding. You fidget a little, looking down at your boss with pity. He looks so helpless and sad and cute. You fight the urge to run your fingers through his damp hair. "What do you need? What can I do for you?"

"Nothing. I'll be down until 3:33 a.m. tomorrow," he informs you.

"Specific."

"Just… do… assistant things," he says pathetically, fingers twitching when he tries to wave his hand dismissively.

You can do that. Your first order of business is getting him a tall glass of water and force-feeding it to him until he has rivulets of water very distractingly dribbling down his chin, neck, and between his pecs, where it disappears under the covers.

Then, you get him a cold compress, screeching in surprise when the towel crackles and steams upon contact with his forehead. When that warms up within a minute, you try getting him an actual ice block, chipped straight off the furniture of his weird ice room. You take his moan of relief as a good thing and quickly get to work butchering the ice room until you have an endless supply of blocks for Jun's sizzling forehead.

When you're done with that, you make him the hot pot you made yourself one night and noticed he had several helpings of, spoon feeding it to him despite his several protests. After two slurps, though, there isn't much of a fight, with Jun relaxing back into his pillows and happily allowing you to feed him as he lets his eyes close. You pause, wondering if he fell asleep, but he immediately whines for his next spoonful.

"You're a baby when you're sick."

"I could die."

"You literally couldn't."

He slurps his latest spoonful of broth. "Feels like it."

"Mmm," you hum, smiling at how endearing he is when he doesn't have the energy to put up his big, bad act.

"Y'know…" he rasps, "when I said do assistant things, I meant at work."

"My work is making your life easier, no?" you counter, letting go of the spoon to pick up the chopsticks and pluck meat out of the broth for Jun to eat. He practically purrs when his mouth closes around the chopsticks, and you struggle not to watch his Adam's apple as he swallows. "So I am doing assistant things at work."

Jun opens his eyes, able to open them wider than he was when you first found him. "Just work, hm?"

You set the chopsticks down and pick up the spoon to chase his bite down with broth, but his fingers circle around your wrist, stopping before the spoon can touch his lips. His grip is hot but it doesn't hurt—not how you imagine his face would. "You're full?"

"Why are you feeding me?"

You raise your eyebrows at him. "Because you're sick and need to eat…?"

Jun's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but he releases your wrist, allowing you to feed him more broth.

"Not used to being cared for, are you?" you observe, chuckling. "Big, bad Devil has never been spoonfed?" Your boss rolls his eyes but doesn't entertain you by acknowledging your question.

After a few more bites, his long, slender fingers gently push the bowl away, and he shakes his head, muttering a quiet thank you as you set the food aside on his nightstand. You stand, pulling his blankets up even higher when you see him shiver.

"You don't have to do all this," he sighs as you shove your fingers under his back and legs, tucking his blankets in along his entire body until he looks like an oversized, swaddled baby. "It's not in your employment agreement. Go work."

"I will," you say, rolling your eyes at his stubbornness. "And you realize I can help you without being contractually obligated to, right?" you ask, laughing and collecting all the dishes you need to bring back to the kitchen. "You don't need to have me sign my soul away to get me to care, Junnie. I know I don't need to do any of this. Consider it a friend-slash-roommate helping you."

You finish cleaning up and don't allow him the chance to retort or protest, immediately turning away and calling Lock and Key to follow you out of the room.

"Come on, kiddies," you coo as his pets exit. "Your daddy needs to rest." You glance back up at Jun, who stares at you hard with a deep frown on his face. "Call if you need anything. I'll stay nearby and check on you in an hour!"

DAY THIRTY-SIX

Jun has been weird around you for the last week. It's like that dumb flu of his altered his brain chemistry and made him cold and detached.

There was no more going into your room to wake you up; now he has a shrill alarm clock appear to scream in your ear like a demented banshee, disappearing every time you try to smack wherever its snooze button is. He no longer sits for breakfast with you; now, he tells you he needs to be at the office ahead of you and will simply meet you there. Thankfully, he allows you to continue accompanying him to his summonings, but with how weird he's acting, you wonder if it would be better to just face your fears and be alone.

You attempted to talk to him throughout the week, trying not to take it personally when all you got were one-worded responses or grunts or blank stares.

Three days in, you started slacking a little to force him to say more than one word to you. You scheduled meetings so he'd show up ten minutes late. You sent a Hell-wide email promising everyone a four-day work week if quotas were met. You even threatened to release the lower-level sinners from their torture chambers to cause trouble for the archangels. All that got you was a severe glare, and a notice from Demon Resources that one more mistake would get you on a performance improvement plan, which you were informed would involve giving the Hellhounds baths alongside the damned souls in charge of that.

It's clear that Jun is in a mood—probably the aftereffects of the mysterious Demon Flu you can't catch. You've resigned yourself to riding it out, accepting that even the Devil is prone to tantrums and mood swings.

The phone on your desk rings, and you heave a tired sigh before answering.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of The Supreme Lord of Sulkiness," you greet loudly, ignoring the series of choked coughs that erupt from your boss's office behind you. "How may I help you?"

"Oh, uh…" the voice pauses like they're checking something. "This is His Infernal Majesty's desk, correct?"

"Yep, that's what I just saaaaid," you sing-song. "Now how can I help you?"

"This is the front desk. We have an archangel on the line that insists on speaking with His Infernal Majesty."

You roll your eyes. "Who is it?"

"Archangel Brayden…?"

The idiot is the biggest pain in your ass. You're not even sure why he constantly asks after Jun when Joshua is the archangel appointed with all relations having to do with Hell. It's probably a weird power play in Heaven that you're not privy to, but you've been dodging him for days now.

"Tell him he's not available."

"He is threatening to visit for the third time this week."

"Jesus Christ," you mutter.

"You want me to transfer him to Christ?"

You frown deeply at that. "What? We can transfer him to—wait, what?"

"You said—"

"Never mind, just—ugh," you groan in frustration, resting your elbows on the desk and cradling your head in your free hand. "Put him through."

"Will do." The line cuts to the agonized screams of damned souls as you wait for her to transfer him to you.

"Hello?" his dumb voice drifts through the receiver.

"Hi. You've reached the desk of—"

"Who am I speaking to?"

You clamp your mouth shut, rolling your lips between your teeth to keep from immediately snapping at him. When you're sure you won't, you state your name.

He still manages to say it wrong, but you don't bother correcting him. "I need a meeting with Satan."

"And why is that?"

He laughs arrogantly. "That's between me and him."

"Well, he's busy."

"I haven't even given you my availability."

"Don't need yours. I have his, and he's busy." You tack on "for the rest of time" for good measure.

There's a loaded silence long enough that you wonder if you've effectively driven him into hanging up. Of course, that would be too easy. "You really don't want to mouth off with me."

"Excuse me?" You huff a laugh of disbelief. You swear some of these angels are bigger assholes than the demons crawling around here.

"You heard me," he seethes. You feel your self-control dissolving by the second. "Now you can either transfer me to your boss like a good, little demon slave—"

"I am literally none of those four things."

"—or," he near-shouts over you, "you can put me in his books. This is a very important meeting, and I'd hate for you to have your soul ripped apart for failing to schedule it."

"Listen here," you hiss, "you repulsive, pretentious, foul excuse for an—"

"Brayden."

You freeze as Jun's voice cuts into the call. You turn toward his office to find him leaning against his desk, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. His eyes slide over to you and he lazily lifts a hand and beckons you over with two fingers. You quickly hang the phone up and stand, entering Jun's office in time to catch the archangel bumbling nonsensically on speakerphone.

He nods at the seats in front of him and you take one, slowly lowering yourself as he speaks.

"I don't believe we've met," Jun says, interrupting his stuttering.

"Um, no, we haven't! I just wanted to schedule a coffee chat to introduce myself!" You glare at the phone. A coffee chat is his very important meeting?

"What a fucking tool," you murmur.

"A coffee chat," the Devil repeats.

"Yes. I figured Hell is a huge place. Maybe you need two archangels to serve as point. I'd love to put my name in the ring—"

"And you thought threatening my assistant was the best way to do it?" Jun asks, face blank as he stares at you.

"Oh, no," he says, laughing like it's a joke, "No, no, definitely not. I was not threatening her."

"Hm."

You've grown accustomed to Jun's many variations of hm. There's his thoughtful hm. The hm when he's trying not to smile or laugh. His angry hm. The that-is-the-dumbest-thing-I've-ever-fucking-heard hm. A hm reserved especially for when Soonyoung annoys him. This one isn't one you're familiar with.

"What was it you were saying about her soul being torn apart?" Saying the words again makes Jun's eyes turn a deep red. His hands turn into fists, making the veins running up his forearm pop.

"I was joking!" Brayden insists. "I was totally joking. She and I joke like that! We—"

"Lie to me one more time and I'll have God cast you out of Heaven so fast, you won't know how you ended up in my Hellhound's digestive system."

The line falls silent, and your body does interesting things in reaction to the words—the most obvious one being the odd ache between your legs. You fidget a little, finger slipping into your collar and pulling a little as you begin to feel warm.

"How long have you been an archangel, Brayden?"

"Uh, well, heh," he laughs nervously. "So, I'm not quite an archangel yet. I'm—"

Jun cuts him off with a sharp, terrifying laugh. "And now you never will be," he informs him. "I'm sure both Archangel Joshua and God will agree that you aren't fit for that role."

He squeaks in protest. "I—"

"Wow, how productive!" Jun says with feigned glee. "Look at us, we had a great chat and we didn't even need to waste time breathing each other's air or ruining the joys of drinking caffeine."

"Uh, I, um, sir—"

"Have any other demands you'd like to make?"

"No," he answers immediately. "No, I… I don't. I'm sorry. I—"

"Perfect," he says. "Now if you'll apologize to my assistant, we can get on with our lives. And make it good, Brayden. I don't like to repeat orders."

"I'm so sorry," Brayden grovels, sounding like he's on the verge of tears, if not fully crying already. He sniffles and his voice cracks on his next words. "I don't know why I was acting like such an asshole and bothering all of you when I had no business going over Archangel Joshua's head like that. I'm sorry, Satan."

Jun narrows his eyes. "I don't want your apologies."

"I'm sorry, Y/N."

"Hm," he accepts it. "Then I think our business is done. And Brayden?"

"Yes?" his voice trembles.

"If I hear that you called anyone here in Hell again, let alone my assistant," he starts, eyes flashing a bright and violent scarlet now, "I will personally come up there, pluck you right out of the fucking sky, and take my sweet, sweet time flaying you with a dull butter knife—wings and all—before I tear your soul apart, piece by agonizing piece myself."

There's a loud sniffle followed by a whimper on the line, but the ache inside you is so strong now, you can't even enjoy the sound.

"And if you think my friendships with your superiors will stop me, you are so sorely mistaken." His pause is pregnant with tension, his eyes boring into you as he lands his final threat. "I have absolutely no problem with starting a war over you."

The words send a chill down your spine, and you cross your legs tightly to keep from twitching at the sensation. You grip the arms of your chair and avert your eyes from your boss, trying to understand what the fuck is happening to your body right now. You quietly blow a breath out through your mouth when the sensation doesn't let up.

As expected, the angel doesn't have a proper response to that.

"Good talk, Brayden," Jun says sardonically. "Don't let me hear your voice ever again."

He reaches over and presses a button on his phone, ending the call. He looks back to you, his eyes finally fading back to that deep, comforting brown. He sighs, seeming suddenly and significantly less sure of himself than he was on the phone.

"Um," he clears his throat, coughing a little as he grips the edge of his desk with both hands. He looks down at his lap and inhales deeply. His breath is spicy with the smell of your chips on his exhale, blowing strands of your hair away from your face. "Sorry."

"Why?" you laugh in disbelief. The sound must unwind something in him because his posture relaxes and he looks back up at you. "That was amazing!"

He snorts, shaking his head at himself. "Yeah, well. It's going to result in a lot of discussions with God and Joshua, so… please find something on their calendars."

"Got it, boss," you say, standing to return to your own desk.

Before you get far, though, Jun calls your name, the syllables sounding weird from him—much softer and gentler than you've ever heard him be. It almost triggers your fight or flight for some reason.

"Yeah?" you ask slowly, eyes flitting about the room nervously.

"You don't have to stay on calls like that for my sake," he tells you, crossing his arms again, this time like he's almost trying to protect himself from you. "I know you took the blame for me missing all my meetings while sick, and I know you try to deal with all kinds of bullshit because you don't want people to think the Devil hired someone without a backbone."

The words strike a chord with you that you didn't realize even existed. Did you do that? If you think about it, you can see why your boss would think so. Day in and day out, no matter how much attitude you gave to whoever you were talking to, you still stayed and dealt with the problem so that the others would find you reliable—so that they wouldn't have to bring it to Jun.

You also took the blame for the missed meetings because Jun's health wasn't anyone's business, not until he made it clear it was okay to share with others, anyway. No one needed to know he missed a few meetings without notice.

"So… don't do that," Jun says, sighing. "Assholes—whether in Heaven or Hell—they're always going to try and give you a hard time because they're too scared to say it to my face. And I know without a doubt that you can handle it, but… you're not my shield, okay?"

"Okay."

"I know you were about to rip that prick a new asshole," he continues, making you smile, "but I want you to feel like you can do that from the jump if you need to. Next time, just tell him to fuck off. Or hang up. Or bring me in. Whatever. If anyone has an issue with the way you work, they can talk to me. Just… don't sit there and take it."

You nod slowly. "Alright, I won't… thanks."

"Mhm."

"Hey, Junnie," you say suddenly, taking advantage of his sudden willingness to talk to you now. He hums again, nodding for you to go on, his eyes skimming every surface of your face. It isn't until this moment that you realize he hasn't properly looked at you in a week. "Um. Are we good?"

He frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You've just been…" you trail off, shrugging. "I don't know, a little cold lately?" You hate how pathetic and whiny it makes you sound. "And if it's because I did something wrong, well, I would just like to remind you that our agreement can only be terminated by my death, the collapse of reality, or mutual agreement."

The corner of his mouth twitches upward, but his expression stays serious and he keeps taking his time watching you. So much time, you start to wring your hands nervously. Finally, when he seems to be finished with studying every last millimeter of your face, he shakes his head.

"You haven't done anything wrong," he assures you, sounding tired. "I was just feeling weird. I'm okay, though. We're okay. You don't have to worry about termination. You've made it clear I'm stuck with you."

You grin, nodding. "Good. Because I have grown very accustomed to my unlimited interior design budget and my 1,000-thread-count sheets."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure you have. Now go schedule me a coffee chat with God and Joshua for tomorrow, please. Move things around if you must. I'm sure Brayden has gone crying about it to Mommy by now."

You laugh. "Will do."

You leave his office feeling lighter than you have all week.

DAY THIRTY-SEVEN

Jun: where tf r u Me: have a dr appt!!! Jun: what why r u ok Jun: i'll come over Me: no it's ok it's just a check-up Jun: liar we don't do check-ups in hell Me: yeah well i am human and i need a check-up Jun: u sure ur ok? Me: yes! i'll be in the office soon. Jun: fine… if a few hellhounds find u just send them back Me: bruh Me: did you give the dogs my scent to find me??? Jun: u never wake up before me let alone leave the house before me Me: you could have just called Jun: k wtvr noted Me: 23 HELLHOUNDS IS NOT A FEW JUNNIE WTF Jun: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP JUST SEND THEM BACK

"His Infernal Majesty seems to be very… protective over you," the doctor observes, still clearly annoyed with having 23 fire-breathing Hellhounds at her door.

You wave a hand and laugh uncomfortably. "Oh, he's just a very concerned and, uh, considerate person."

The doctor just stares. "The Devil. Considerate. Right."

"Um. So anyway," you clear your throat, desperate to change the subject. "Do you have experience with humans?"

"No, but I will do everything I can to ensure you leave healthy." Her voice is stern and uncompromising, and you suddenly feel like you're in a principal's office rather than a doctor's. She sits down on a rolling stool, scoots closer to the table you're perched on, and mutters, "Wouldn't want more Hellhounds plowing my door down, ready to melt my face off because the Devil's charge was unhappy."

You shift on the table a bit uncomfortably but smile. It's clear that she will not be forgetting about the 23 Hellhounds sent to her office just because a human wasn't in bed when the Devil woke up anytime soon. Not while you're still in her office, at least.

Jun wouldn't do anything to her anyway. You'd probably just go to a doctor on Earth next time if Hell's medical services weren't sufficient.

"So what brings you in today?" she sighs, crossing her legs and folding her hands over her knees.

"Right, so I experienced something weird yesterday," you start. "I had a stressful workplace issue and my body reacted very unexpectedly, and I now require medical attention."

The doctor frowns, rolling closer to you on her stool. "Okay, if you're comfortable, can you describe the stressful event and how your body reacted?"

"Well, an angel was harassing the front desk so they had him talk to me, and then he started saying all this foul shit—"

"Brayden."

Your eyebrows shoot up. "Yes! How did you know?"

"He's called every department of this Devil-forsaken hellscape," she says, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. "How is a demon doctor supposed to get an archangel a meeting with the Devil?"

You scoff. "Well, he's not an archangel, and it was just a coffee chat."

The doctor snorts, and as you watch her terse personality start to melt, you deem it safe to dive into the full story. By the end of it, she's clapping and giggling, a massive difference from when she was forced to face 23 Hellhounds.

"Wow, that's very attractive of His Infernal Majesty."

You frown. "What?"

She raises an eyebrow at you. "You don't think so?"

"Uh…" You're stumped.

It's not that you've never found anyone attractive… actually, it absolutely is that you've never found anyone attractive.

You tried dating but stopped years ago when you recognized that you were doing it because you felt an obligation to. All your friends were dating or in long-term committed relationships—or at the very least, sleeping around. Dating apps seemed like something you were supposed to do. You quickly shut that idea down. Romance wasn't a hole you've felt in your life so it's not one you lingered on or thought about often. Sure, you knew when people were beautiful or handsome or hot or cute—you know without a doubt that Jun is all of the above. But attraction is harder. You're not sure you've ever felt it.

"You've never felt attraction." Your eyes widen at the demon physician.

"Can you read minds?"

She snorts. "No. I can read your face." She narrows her eyes at you and nods. "And I think I know what happened to you."

"But I haven't given you my symptoms."

"Let me guess," she says, crossing her arms and scooting her stool back so she can lean against the counter behind her. "Elevated heart rate, flushing, perspiration… maybe some pain in the abdominal area or… lower."

You stare at her. "Are you sure you can't read my mind?"

She smirks. "I'm sure, human." She sighs. "You're going to be perfectly fine. Though I do recommend you explore options for therapy."

You startle. "What? Why?"

"Because what you felt was arousal," she reveals, "and I'm guessing you might need someone to process those thoughts about your boss with and it will not be me."

You choke on nothing, triggering a coughing attack that lasts embarrassingly long. When you finally stop, your chest is heaving and the doctor is staring at you blankly.

"Are you done?"

"Coughing? Yes. With you? Absolutely not," you inform her, ignoring the way she sighs like this is an inconvenience. "What do you mean arousal?"

"I mean, you found His Infernal Majesty's defense of you attractive and your body responded accordingly. Very strongly—much more strongly than anyone else probably would—but accordingly."

Your face turns Hellfire hot, and you wish the dogs had barbecued you while they were here.

"You have nothing to worry about as far as your health is concerned. These feelings are very natural." She thinks for a moment before adding: "For humans. Demons are better at discretion."

"But… he was just being nice… why would that be attractive?"

She shrugs. "The bar is in Hell, literally."

"Oh god…" you murmur. Is this what happened to your friends when they insisted that a man paying half the bill after ordering several cocktails to their one water was modern day romance?

"I will say…" she starts, looking a little hesitant as she does.

"You can say it," you encourage her. "I won't tell anyone. HIPAA, right?"

"One, that's an American thing, and two, that's meant to protect the patient's privacy, not the other way around."

"Whatever," you sigh. "You get it."

"Between us girls," she says, even though you two aren't even of the same species. It makes you smile. "I understand why your body would react the way it did. It is quite nice to feel protected and safe."

"Protected and safe," you echo quietly.

"Mhm. Has anyone ever made you feel that?"

The answer comes to you fast. No. No one has ever made you feel protected or safe. That has been your own responsibility since you were four. Still, it takes you a moment to answer because you realize that although that would've been the answer a few months ago, it's more complicated now.

Now, the answer is: no. No one has ever made you feel that way. Not until Jun.

"Can I have a referral to that therapist?"

She smiles. "I'll give you a list of recs, but this isn't that putrid Hell hole you call Earth; you don't need a referral to seek healthcare."

"Right."

When you get into the office and Jun apologizes for the Hellhounds and asks if everything was fine at the doctor's (and if he needs to throw anyone into a vat of boiling oil), you feel your symptoms again. And you know Hell's doctor is right.

DAY FORTY-TWO

Hell is closed tomorrow, and it's all thanks to you. You hope that you'll be included in some sort of history book for this. Every demon you've come across has made it clear that you deserve to be anyway. Because after the debacle with Soonyoung's day off and a single complaint you made to Jun about how Hell doesn't have enough paid holidays, the underworld now has Demon Appreciation Day (DAD!), an unprecedented day off for all of Hell's employees as a thank you for their hard work terrorizing humans.

Unfortunately, it also means the damned souls get a break from torment, but Jeonghan, Chief Torment and Innovation Officer, has assured Jun he's already on it, figuring out ways to automate torture for one day so that the worst human beings in history do not get a break ever again.

"What are you going to do for DAD?" Soonyoung asks the current watercooler demon on shift as soon as she's done small talking a damned soul to tears.

"I'm going to abstain from speaking to anyone." You smile at the answer as you get your own cup of water.

"Oh," Soonyoung chirps, nodding slowly. She glares at him and he immediately walks away, beckoning you to hurry. "We don't want to mess with Jeongyeon when her social battery is dead." You wave bye to her and she winks at you. You know very well her social battery is always dead around Soonyoung no matter what. "Anyway, what are you, our amazing Queen of DAD, going to do on your day off?"

"Queen is a little excessive," you say, not very keen on taking a title that would encroach on any of Jun's millions, even as a joke. "Maybe mayor."

Soonyoung clearly doesn't like the suggested edit, scoffing. "No. Queen is fitting."

You roll your eyes. "Sure."

"What? It is! You're the reason we have our first mandated day off ever!" the demon reminds you. His mouth twists into a mischievous smirk now. "Plus, with all the rumors going 'round, 'queen' is perfect for our king."

You stop in your tracks. "What?"

He giggles so obnoxiously, you slap his arm more out of reflex than anything else. He gasps, rubbing the spot dramatically. "What?! I'm just the messenger! Everyone is talking about it."

"About what?"

"About how His Infernal Majesty must be in love with you if he's willing to create an entire day off just for you."

The words make your stomach jump into your throat. Ever since your appointment, you've been paying extra attention to your feelings, and you're convinced you actually have no idea what anything feels like. Have you ever properly known what you were feeling? What is a feeling anyway?

When Jun ripped the blankets off you in the morning, did you feel annoyed, furious, or helpless?

When Jun wordlessly handed you your coffee, did you feel grateful, enamored, or nothing at all because you were still half asleep?

When he wrapped his long ass fingers around your wrist to travel to Earth for summonings, did you feel giddy, excited, or grateful that you wouldn't be alone at home?

When Soonyoung says that there are rumors that Jun is in love with you, do you feel confused, anxious, or endlessly irritated with the demon?

Since you haven't had a chance to see a therapist, you pick the last one.

You scoff. "It isn't for me, you idiot. I just floated the idea by him."

"And any idea you float by him becomes a fully fleshed out thing by the end of the day."

"Okay, so he's a good and receptive boss."

His eyebrows rise at that. "He's the Devil."

Touché. "It's ridiculous."

"That he loves you to the point of invention? No, I d—"

You shove him into the wall, effectively making him spill his water all over himself. "Hey! You can't just go hitting people f—"

"Actually, I can!" you correct him, walking away. "Jun explicitly gave me permission to do whatever the fuck I want! So take it up with him!"

What a ridiculous rumor from an even more ridiculous demon.

Of all the much cooler rumors that could've been made, that one is the one they settled on? If you knew that's the news that would be spreading, you would've started your own rumors about yourself. Like you're actually God's super cool daughter and this is just a nepotism internship before you become the heiress of Heaven. Or that Hell is just a simulation being run by a crazy scientist named Jun and your arrival marks the imminent end of the experiment—an antichrist of sorts. Kind of poetic.

But the Devil being in love with his assistant? Both impossible and cliche and scary to think about because you don't think you'd be able to pick up on it even if it were possible.

When you return home, you're debating telling Jun about this rumor just to watch him stutter and squirm and turn red (and maybe make plans to disembowel a demon or two), but that's all forgotten when you find your boss back early from a meeting with God he took in purgatory. And endearingly enough, he's sprawled across the couch with both Lock and Key on his stomach and leg respectively, all three of them fast asleep.

You grin, taking several photos before you pocket your phone and watch his chest rise and fall, slowly coming to the realization that Jun needed this break too. You've never seen the man nap, and up until the day he got sick, you were still convinced he never even slept at all. If he's taking a nap, you know it's because he badly needs it. You're determined to leave him be, but you hear your name just as you're about to leave the living room.

"Hey," you greet him, smiling at how confused and sleepy he looks as he lifts his head and stares at his pets. "Sorry, did I wake you?"

He shakes his head, letting it plop back onto the couch when it's clear Lock and Key have no intention of moving. "No, I've been napping long enough," he says, his voice deep and gravely with sleep. You shift your weight from foot to foot as he continues speaking, settling for squeezing your thighs together when your sudden discomfort isn't alleviated. Oh god. Is this arousal again? "God cancelled last minute." He yawns, mouth opening comically wide. "Something about a miracle gone wrong."

"Ah," you nod, walking over to the three of them and taking the empty sectional by his head while you try to get yours to shut up. "What are your plans for this rare afternoon off then?" you ask. "And for DAD?"

Jun tilts his head up to look at you. "Stop calling it that," he deadpans.

"No," you say simply. "It's my holiday and I will call it what I want."

You expect him to point out it isn't your holiday; after all, you aren't even a demon. You're just the catalyst behind something that was a long time coming. But the argument doesn't come. Instead, your boss sighs and straightens his head again, staring at the ceiling.

"Fair enough, I suppose."

You raise your eyebrows, smiling. You're about to point out he basically just agreed that it's your holiday when you hear Soonyoung's stupid voice in the back of your mind. He created a holiday for you. Is that not a man who loves you?

You shudder, shaking a little like that will exorcise the demon from your subconscious.

"You okay?" Jun asks, looking back up at you.

"Huh? Yeah." You struggle to wipe the frown off your face before looking down at the Devil. "Want dinner?"

"Hot pot?"

"I've made hot pot several times this month," you groan. "Are you not tired of it?"

He looks at you like you're crazy. "No?" He sits up abruptly without removing Lock from his stomach first, and the cat releases an ear-piercing yowl before jumping off him. Key follows suit as Jun pulls his legs away and plants his feet on the floor. "You humans tire of things so fast. It's why you're all so vulnerable to temptation."

"Pfft. Me? Prone to temptation?" You pause and think of all the material things you've forced Jun to buy you under the guise of it being absolutely necessary for your productivity as his assistant. You shrug. "Okay, yeah. That is true."

Jun smirks and shakes his head. "Come on. Let's eat."

You nod, following him as he gets up ahead of you and walks into the kitchen. You slow at the door when you find him leaning his back against the fridge, his arms crossed and his lips pursed. He's blushing slightly, and he looks like he almost regrets doing this.

"Happy DAD, I guess."

The kitchen is decorated in every possible shade of pink you've ever seen—balloons, streamers, tinsel, confetti, a sign that says Demon Human Appreciation Day! And in the middle of the kitchen island is a cake, and just looking at it, you know it's not like the blood-based desserts that the demons around here like to indulge in.

"I never had a meeting with God," Jun mutters. "I just had you put that in for me. I was actually meeting Joshua to get this. It's angel cake. Actual angel cake. They use stardust sugar, moon milk, morning dew, and cloudberries. Figured you'd prefer this over devil's cake… actual devil's cake."

You stare at it, decorated beautifully with piped frosting and fresh berries. It's a pale pink—so pale, it looks white compared to the other shades that litter the space—and its frosting just barely glitters under the light. The top reads, Best Human Ever.

"Of course, the angels chose the message. To be clear, I would never call you the best."

You're finally snapped out of your daze at the words, which prompt you to roll your eyes. "Yes because you would use something much better. Like Most Perfect Human Ever, right, Junnie?"

His blush deepens and he glares at the wall across from him. "No."

You look around, stunned by the display of appreciation, especially for someone who was technically just fulfilling her part of the contract. You've never even gotten a birthday party thrown for you, and the happiness you're filled with threatens to strangle you. You swallow the knot forming in your throat, thinking that maybe DAD is your favorite holiday.

"Can I hug you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Oh come on!" you whine, already walking to him with open arms. "You can't do something so kind and cute and wonderful and not accept a hug!"

He backs away from you, hands splayed in front of him to keep you away. "The Devil doesn't do hugs."

"The Devil probably also doesn't have a history of showing his assistant appreciation," you point out. "Or securing her an angel cake she's going to eat in one sitting!"

Jun pauses, frowning. "One sitting?! It's meant to serve 10 people!"

"Give me a hug!" you shriek, jumping at him.

He, of course, disappears. You stumble into the space he was just standing in and gasp in mock offense at being evaded. You spin around, pouting, and find him right behind you, glaring. You sigh.

"Okay, if you're really not consenting to a hug, I will not force you into one. But if you're just being an emotionally constipated weirdo, I would ask that you suppress that for DAD and allow just one—" You hold up one finger for emphasis. "—hug. Please."

Jun's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows nothing, his eyes zoning out on something above your head. He shakes his head and sighs. "Fine. One hug, bu—oof."

You don't wait for him to finish his sentence, hugging him so tightly, you immediately start sweating from the heat radiating through his clothes. But you don't care, tightening your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek as far into his chest as it will go. You're on the verge of tears and your boss doesn't need to see it.

When he realizes you fully intend on making your hug last more than a millisecond, a single hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, thumb hesitantly sweeping back and forth in a comforting caress.

For the first time in several days, you don't bother to check in with your feelings and you decide maybe it's time to stop. Because this just feels nice, and if it feels nice, then that's all you want to know. Everything else is noise that threatens to pop this bubble of safety you're in—Jun's arms. You decide then that the nuances of your happiness are none of your business as long as you are happy. Happy. Something you're starting to think you've never fully been now that you've truly experienced it here, in Hell.

"Thank you, Junnie," you mumble against his chest. You know it's easy to tell you've been brought to tears from the way your watery voice trembles, but thankfully, the Devil doesn't point it out. "You don't know how much this means to me."

He sighs, squeezing your shoulder. "I think I do." After a moment, he adds: "Thanks for everything you do for Hell… and for me. You are very…" He clears his throat uncomfortably, "… appreciated here."

You smile, sighing as you finally pull away from him, wiping at your eyes discreetly as you do. "Thank you. Now let me make you hot pot and let's eat this cake."

You turn away fast to hide your glassy eyes, missing the way Jun rests a palm to his chest where you had just been pressed against him.

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🛞 Race Stats: being the engineer who knows too much and the sister who’s had enough means standing at the eye of the storm while two men she cares about tear each other apart. jun’s pride could still cost him everything, and yet he refuses to fight to fix what’s broken; neither will minghao. she’s tired of the fallout, but no one listens. a crash was only the beginning. now, can anything bring them back?

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: open channel by @sknyuz

🏎️ Driver: Wen Junhui x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: open channel follows you: a young radio engineer who joins the haas f1 team as the apprentice to laura müller, the first female engineer in the paddock, now the chief engineer who has you under her wing—and as the unexpected successor to your own father, the long-time race engineer of haas’s most elusive driver: wen junhui. junhui is cold to the media, clinical on the grid, and famously unreadable behind the visor. but when your voice cuts through the static, clear and steady, even he can’t help but lean in—though neither of you knows yet how deeply your pasts are tangled in the echoes of a long-ago memory on the track.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: as seen on screen by @imnotshua

🏎️ Driver: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: Wonwoo doesn’t pay you any attention, not since you were both rookies - him on the track and you in the paddock. You’ve been at Ferrari for years, and now he’s joined the team you’re supposed to be working together, but it seems he still has that same stick up his ass whenever you have something to say.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: behind the lens by @wheeboo

🏎️ Driver: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: Years ago, you and Jeon Wonwoo were inseparable. First loves, reckless hearts, and dreams too big to share—until it all fell apart. He chased after podiums; you stayed behind your lens. Five years later, you’re commissioned in the paddock as a global motorsport photographer for a behind-the-scenes shoot, and he’s back in the centre of your frame as F1’s quiet, unstoppable force. And for the first time in a long time, your photographs begin to feel real again. This time, will your frame capture an ending, or a second chance?

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: playing with fire by @starlightkyeom

🏎️ Driver: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: soonyoung doesn't do relationships. or strings. or repeats all that often, honestly. he's one of the best drivers on the circuit and he doesn't need to. the one exception? you, his biggest rival's on-and-off partner. he's always your first call when your relationship is splashed across the headlines again and he never seems to care.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: heartbreak champion by @straylightdream

🏎️ Driver: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: After being together since you were fifteen, things hit a rough patch as your husband chases his goal of being world champion.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: Under Investigation by @diamonddaze01

🏎️ Driver: Lee Jihoon x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: Lee Jihoon doesn’t break the rules. He bends them. Just enough to get away with it. Just enough to make your job harder, just enough to see if you’ll flinch. He’s testing the boundaries. And the worst part? You kind of want to see what happens if he crosses them.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: heartbreaker by @sailorsoons

🏎️ Driver: Lee Jihoon x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: Jihoon is suffering through a heartbreaker of a season with Ferrari. The car won’t cooperate, his teammate keeps outpacing him, and nothing seems to go right. Worst of all is what’s happening off the track. It seems racing is slipping through his fingers - and so are you.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: Burning Bridges by @bluehoodiewoozi

🏎️ Driver: Lee Seokmin x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: When your fiancé chooses his Formula 1 career over you and makes it everyone’s problem, his teammate Seokmin is not about to just sit back and watch.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: red wine nights by @hannieoftheyear

🏎️ Driver: Lee Seokmin x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: what's the worst time to hook up with your best friend and change your relationship forever? probably the night before he gets on a plane and flies far away to become a world famous star.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: Rumour by @gyuswhore

🏎️ Driver: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, an acknowledgement he risks his modesty for. So when he approaches you with rose tinted glasses, clad in the team kit of his dreams, he’s ready to build a rapport of a lifetime with his brand new race engineer. Until, the brakes screech loud enough for the entire paddock to hear. It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, but you make it look easy.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: perfect strangers by @studioeisa

🏎️ Driver: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and... a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his 'partner', mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: one track mind by @haologram

🏎️ Driver: Xu Minghao x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: after years in the spotlight, you've learned one thing: how to get used to new environments, good and bad. despite the time and the friends you've made along the way, things never really change — and that includes the mentality that winning is the only option.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: victory lap by @minisugakoobies

🏎️ Driver: Xu Minghao x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: minghao's just led his team to another championship - so why can't he enjoy it? he's jaded, having grown disillusioned with his life, and in desperate need of the familiar spark that’s driven him all these years. lucky for him, a chance encounter with the enemy of his rival will set his ignition ablaze with one wild ride.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: bae-watching by @shinysobi

🏎️ Driver: Boo Seungkwan x reader

🛞 Race Stats: boo seungkwan is over it, really. he's been on the sports circuit for years, but covering any f1 championship gets harder every time. on top of that, he's supposed to get a "fresh angle" on a game that has none-until he's staring down the barrel of history, when she appears right beside the ferrari chief engineer. he's looking at you, but you have stopped looking at him a decade ago.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: along the rubble or the dust by @heartepub

🏎️ Driver: Boo Seungkwan x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: in the high-octane world of formula one, boo seungkwan has clawed his way up with a mix of charm, grit, skill, and pure luck. he knows, more than anyone else, how coincidence can be a turning point. when, in an improbable series of events, his childhood friend starts lurking in the paddock as his new performance engineer, he gets the distinct feeling that this is about to be one of them. even if (or especially because) he’d rather trust you with his life than with his heart.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: Podium Pleasers by @shadowkoo

🏎️ Driver: Chwe Hansol x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: F1 driver Vernon is no stranger to stunning women whispering wicked things in his ear during race season, but no voice has stopped his heart quite like yours. The ‘missing’ younger sister of one of his oldest friends. The girl who disappeared two years ago without a word. And now, you’re on his lap with your bare breasts pressed against his chest. He’s horrified to learn that you’re working at an exclusive strip club, tangled in a complicated contract where sex appeal is currency, personal relationships are forbidden, and your freedom is nothing but a twisted illusion. He wants you out, but walking away from a fantasy life built on status and money isn’t that simple. So, in a last-ditch effort, he offers you something else. Something real. A fresh start on the circuit as his assistant, where you can rebuild your future, possibly even a future by his side.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: slow and steady by @haoboutyou

🏎️ Driver: Chwe Hansol x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: Aston Martin— once a top class, championship winning team, has become riddled with bad press. What better way to cover it up than throwing your driver under the bus? In a not-so elaborate scheme, Vernon and rising star Y/n are entrapped in a dating scandal to cover up the company’s ass, subjecting them to the wrath of public scrutiny instead. Will the awkward dates and busy schedules make way for something more? Or will they let their relationship be dictated by greedy corporations?

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: This Town by @wqnwoos

🏎️ Driver: Lee Chan x reader

🛞 Race Stats: Ten years ago, Lee Chan left your hometown without ever looking back. Now, after a crash that loses him the championship, he’s back and asking for your forgiveness — but you’re not sure if you’re ready to risk your best friend leaving you again.

🏁 Paddock Pass

🏁 Race: The Boundary Concept by @kkooongie

🏎️ Driver: Lee Chan x f!reader

🛞 Race Stats: Lee Chan didn't know which was worse: the fact that he still liked you since high school (despite shutting down completely whenever you were around) or the fact that you wanted to meet up with him... for a research paper. But hey, he was willing to take any crumbs as long as he got an opportunity to make you realise he was a super cool racer now. That is, assuming he didn't crash under the intense pressure. Or, in which, you never knew writing a paper on the boundary concept would make you question the boundaries between you and Chan.

Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pas

You opened your mouth, then closed it. The truth sat tangled behind your ribs. You weren’t sure what to call the way he hovered when you were running on fumes, love or pressure or both. Pride lifted your chin. You looked away.

He swallowed, voice rough. “I’m…Look, if worrying makes you feel caged, then fine. I’ll stop. Clearly it’s not worth it.”

The words sliced through the room, cold and exact. He didn’t shout, he didn’t need to.

You set the little silver seasoning packet down like it burned. The air felt tight. His apartment felt too small, too neat, your reflection too stark in the dark window over the sink. You snagged your coat from the chair.

“Where are you going?” he asked, softer, already regretting it.

“Home,” you said without looking at him. “I need air.”

“Y/N…”

You were already at the door. You didn’t slam it. That somehow made it worse.

He stood very still in the kitchen, listening to the hallway swallow your footsteps. The ramen sat cooling, untouched.

He cleaned up the counter because it gave his hands something to do. He typed out three different texts and deleted all of them. He went to bed with the light on.

You walked until your cheeks stung from the wind. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Days stretched, long and quiet. Neither of you reached out.

You told yourself it was for the best, give him space, clear your head, keep your focus. You made coffee that tasted like nothing and forgot it on your desk. You drafted a message twice, “I’m sorry for what I said” and “Can we talk?”, then stared at the blinking cursor until the screen timed out. You shut your laptop and told yourself to be strong.

He lasted one day before he started checking your socials for signs you were eating, sleeping, anything. He picked up your scarf from the back of his chair and put it back, twice. He opened your shared notes app where you’d listed recipes you wanted to try and scrolled through it like it could count as cooking for you. He went to the gym and left after ten minutes.

Stubbornness was a language you both spoke. So was missing each other.

Snow arrived on the fourth night, thick flakes that made the city softer, quieter. You stayed late to close out a deadline, then walked home through the park because the path felt less crowded than the streets.

The crunch of your boots was the only sound. “Y/N.”

You stopped so fast that your bag slipped off your shoulder. You’d know that voice anywhere.

He was a few feet away, a dark coat powdered white, beanie pulled low, cheeks pink from the cold. He had that careful way of standing he used around you when he wasn’t sure how close to come.

“You walk too fast when you’re mad,” he said, breath fogging. “I almost lost you.”

Your throat tightened. “Why are you here?”

He took a small step closer, hands in his pockets like he was holding himself steady. “Because I can’t do this. The not-talking. The pretending we’re not… us.”

“Cheol…”

“I was wrong.” The words tumbled out awkward and true. “I shouldn’t have said I’d stop caring. That was me being defensive and stupid. I don’t know how to love you without worrying. That’s just… who I am. I’d rather be annoying than watch you burn out and do nothing.”

You stared at him, the snow catching on his lashes, dissolving into tiny beads. The sincerity in his voice made something in you loosen.

He swallowed, trying again. “I know I pushed. I know it can feel like I’m hovering. And you’re right, I’m not your father. I don’t want to be. I want to be your partner. Which means I have to ask, not dictate.” He exhaled, a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

A laugh rose in your chest and broke into a sniffle. “You practiced that, didn’t you?”

“In the mirror.” His mouth twitched. “Twice.”

You looked down at your boots. “I was rude. I said the one thing that would hurt. I hate being taken care of because it makes me feel weak. I grew up handling things alone and… it’s hard to let that go.” You lifted your eyes to his. “But I don’t want to do this alone. Not with you.”

He nodded like he’d been waiting to hear that exact sentence. “So we try again. Different.”

“Different,” you echoed. Your fingers were numb, you blew on them. “No more drive-by lectures when I’m holding a cup of ramen.”

“Counter-offer.” His tone went gentle. “If I’m worried, I ask, ‘How can I help?’ And if you need to be left alone, you say so. Clear and simple.”

“And I actually tell you things before I crash.” You shrugged. “Like, ‘This week is brutal, please feed me, I’ll do the dishes.’”

His smile bloomed, soft and relieved. “Deal.”

He reached out like he was approaching a skittish cat, fingertips brushing yours first, waiting, letting you decide. You curled your hand into his, relief spreading like heat.

“Hands are freezing,” he murmured, bringing your joined fingers up to his mouth to blow warm air over your knuckles. The intimacy of it stole your breath.

“You’re dramatic,” you said, voice unsteady.

“I’m in love,” he said simply. “It looks similar.”

He kissed you, cold lips, careful pressure, an apology and a promise in one breath. The pride you’d been clinging to dissolved like snowflakes on skin.

When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I missed you so damn much.”

Your laugh broke, wet around the edges. “I missed you too, idiot.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Come home with me?”

You hesitated, reflexively, then nodded. “Only if we stop for something that isn’t instant noodles.”

He brightened. “There’s a 24-hour place two blocks over. I will personally carry you there and feed you dumplings.”

“Overkill,” you said, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

You started walking, slowly so the ice wouldn’t trip you. He matched your pace without comment. Your shoulder bumped his, he bumped back gently.

After a minute, he glanced down. “Quick logistics meeting?”

You snorted. “Right now?”

“Just a preview.” He smiled when you rolled your eyes. “How about this, on heavy weeks, you text me your schedule on Sunday. I plan dinners on the days you’re slammed. If you need space, say ‘pause.’ If I start lecturing, you’re allowed to say ‘off-duty.’ No feelings hurt.”

You considered. “And if I say ‘I’m fine,’ you get one follow-up question. One,” you stressed.

“Negotiated. I’ll spend it wisely.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “You never spend anything wisely.”

“Except this,” he said, lifting your joined hands and lacing your fingers tighter.

At the corner, you paused under a streetlight that made the snow glow. He reached up to flick a flake from your lashes, his touch light as breath.

“Hey,” you said, more serious again. “Thank you for coming to find me.”

He shrugged, that little shy tilt of his mouth you loved. “I know the routes you take when you want to think. And I don’t want to be brave about missing you.”

You swallowed. “Me either.”

“Good.” He squeezed your hand. “Then let’s go eat something warm and stupidly salty and talk about everything we didn’t say this week.”

“And then,” you said, “we sleep. A full eight hours. Minimum.”

“Bossy,” he teased.

“Partner,” you corrected.

His grin reached his eyes. “Partner,” he echoed, and the word fit, simple and right.

You didn’t need to be saved. You needed to be met. And he was here. 2️⃣ Jeonghan: Fights with Jeonghan were rare. Most evenings, your bickering fizzled into laughter and a kiss on the cheek over takeout. But tonight, your fuse was already short. Work had wrung you dry.

You tossed your bag onto the chair and pulled your hair up with a sigh. “I swear, if my boss asks me to ‘circle back’ one more time, I’m going to combust. I’m rewriting decks, fixing everyone’s mistakes, and somehow I’m the one who ‘needs to be more proactive.’”

Jeonghan looked up from the couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket, a soft grin playing at his mouth. “Babe, breathe. You’re home. Want tea?”

You waved him off, pacing. “He scheduled a 7 a.m. meeting and then showed up thirty minutes late. And when I presented the revised plan, his plan, he said we’d ‘take it under consideration.’”

He leaned back, head tipping against the cushion. “Maybe you’re just being a little dramatic.”

The word froze the room.

You stopped pacing. “Dramatic?”

He blinked, slow, as if he could catch the word and shove it back in his mouth. “I didn’t mean…I just meant sometimes you spiral and…”

“So now I’m overreacting?” Your voice came out tighter than you expected.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands up. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just trying to…”

“To what? Make a joke?” Your laugh cracked, brittle. “Right. Because that’s what you do. You joke. And I’m… what? Entertainment?”

The grin vanished from his lips like you’d blown out a candle. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said, heat rising under your skin, “what’s not fair is you brushing me off when I’m telling you I feel invisible.”

His jaw flexed. “I don’t brush you off.”

“You just did.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, voice sharper. “If that’s really what you think of me, maybe you don’t know me at all.”

It landed like a slam of a door.

Silence ballooned. Your chest felt too small for your ribs. You grabbed your coat from the hook and shoved your arms through, fingers fumbling over the zipper.

“Where are you going?” Jeonghan asked, already standing.

“Out,” you said. “To not be here.”

“Hey, it’s snowing,” he called, following you to the door. “At least take…”

But the door had already clicked behind you.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The city was hushed under fresh snow, the kind that swallowed the sound of tires and dimmed the glow of storefronts. You tugged your scarf up over your mouth and walked. Your anger flickered, then flared, then slowly ran out of places to go, leaving you with a dull ache you recognized as hurt.

He didn’t mean it like that, you told yourself. But he said it. And he always jokes.

By the time you circled back toward your building, your fingers were numb and your lashes had caught a dusting of flakes.

Something thumped your shoulder.

You spun, snow falling from your scarf. “Yah!”

Jeonghan stood under the imposing tree near your entrance, hair dotted white, scarf loose around his neck, a lopsided snowball crumbling in his glove. He tried a smile, small, hopeful. “This is how you talk to me now?”

“Don’t,” you said, but your voice came out softer than you intended. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I know.” He took a step closer, then stopped, gauging your face. “I messed up.”

You folded your arms, half for warmth, half to keep them from reaching for him. “You think?”

“I joke too much,” he went on, eyes flicking to yours and not away. “It’s a reflex. It’s how I deal. But you weren’t asking me to deal. You were asking me to listen.”

A slow breath left you, fogging the air. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re serious about anything. About me.”

He winced, and his breath hitched in the cold. “I hate that you feel that way. I said ‘dramatic.’ That was… crappy. I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, at the earnest slope of his mouth, at the sting of his honesty. “It’s not just the word,” you said, quieter. “It’s the pattern. I tell you I’m drowning, and you toss me a joke like a floaty. I need you to get in the water.”

He nodded, quick. “Okay. Then I will. Tell me how. Do you want me to listen and say nothing? Do you want me to hold you and be quiet? Do you want advice? You can choose.” His gloved hand lifted, hovered, then fell. “I should’ve asked before. ‘Do you want comfort, solutions, or jokes?’ I should’ve asked.”

A reluctant laugh bubbled up. “You made that a multiple choice?”

“Baby steps.” His mouth curved, tentative. “I’m not going to be perfect at this, but I’m going to be deliberate.”

Snow sifted between you, gentle and relentless. He took another step, and another, until he was close enough that the warmth of him reached you.

“I care,” he said. “I care so much it scares me, and sometimes I make everything lighter because a heavy thing feels like it could break if I look at it too long. But I will look. At you. At what hurts. At what’s unfair at your job. At the way your shoulders tense when you talk about that meeting. I see it. I see you.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to be a problem you have to fix.”

“You’re not a problem.” His voice grew fierce in that soft, Jeonghan way. “You’re my person. I want to be the place you come to fall apart. I’ll put the pieces with you, not laugh while you scatter.”

He reached for your hand. His glove was cold and clumsy, he tugged it off with his teeth and slid his bare fingers between yours. They were freezing, but the intent was warm.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Snow clung to his lashes like glitter. His eyes were clear and steady.

“You’re not a joke to me,” he said. “Not now, not ever.”

A small, stubborn part of you held back. “Say it again tomorrow,” you murmured. “And next week. And the next time I’m spiraling.”

“I will.” A hint of mischief sparked, soft, contained. “And I’ll bring tea that time. No snowballs. Or, at least, I’ll ask permission before deploying.”

“Jeonghan,” you warned, but your mouth twitched.

“Sorry,” he whispered, contrite and playful in the same breath. He dipped his head, tugged your scarf down gently, and kissed you. Not his usual teasing brush of lips, not a smile pressed against yours, but something steady and careful. A question and an answer all at once.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours, a small shiver running through him. “I missed you,” he whispered. “I know it was only a few hours, but it felt… loud without you.”

“Loud?” you echoed, a smile cracking open.

“In here.” He tapped his chest. “Too much echo.”

Your eyes stung. “You could’ve texted.”

“I did,” he admitted, sheepish. “And then I stood under your tree because I’m dramatic.”

The word, gentle now, loosened something in you. “You’re dramatic.”

“Only about you.” He squeezed your hand. “I’ll make it right. I’ll listen tonight. I want to hear the whole thing, start to end, the 7 a.m. meeting, the late boss, the stolen credit, the ‘take it under consideration’, which, by the way, is a war crime.”

“An office war crime,” you sniffed, laughing.

“Punishable by me buying you dinner,” he said promptly. “And by me asking, before we even go upstairs, what do you need from me right now? Comfort, solutions, or jokes?”

You pretended to consider. “Comfort first. Advice later. Jokes… we’ll see.”

“Order received.” He lifted your joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, breath warm against your chilled skin. “Can I walk you in?”

You nodded. 3️⃣ Joshua: The first time you and Joshua fought, the room didn’t erupt. It quieted. It was the kind of silence that pressed on the chest, a stillness that made every small sound too loud.

Dinner was almost finished. The lamp over the table hummed softly, casting a warm circle of light. He was telling you about rehearsal, about a new arrangement he was excited to try, and you were half there, thumb dragging across your phone, answering a text you convinced yourself couldn’t wait.

“Do you even want to be here right now?” His voice didn’t rise. It slipped under your guard, soft and direct.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

His eyes flicked to your phone, then back to your face. “I’ve been talking for ten minutes and you haven’t looked at me once.” He set his fork down with careful precision, the way he did everything. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one trying.”

Guilt pricked, quick and hot. Defensiveness sprinted in right after. “Josh, I’m just tired. Can we not do this right now?”

He breathed in through his nose. “That’s the thing, though. ‘Right now’ is the only time I have with you today.”

Your jaw tightened. “Why are you making this a big deal?”

“Because it is a big deal.” His tone stayed even, but the hurt bled through. “I don’t need grand gestures. I just… I need to feel like I matter when we’re in the same room.”

Your chest squeezed. “That’s not fair. Just because I don’t show it the way you do, doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

He looked down at his hands, thumbs rubbing over his knuckles. “Maybe I just need more than what you’re giving.”

The sentence landed like a dropped plate, no crash, just the shock of it. You stared at him, words blurring at the edges. The room went still, even the humming lamp sounded distant.

You pushed your chair back. “Maybe I should go before we say something worse.”

He flinched, so small you almost missed it, but he didn’t stop you. You waited a half second longer than you meant to, hoping he’d reach for you, say anything that would make staying easier. He didn’t. So you left. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Two days stretched wide and thin.

You woke to the hollow shape of him not being around. The mug he liked sat upside down to dry, a little circle of water underneath it because he always forgot to shake it out. You scrolled past his name in your phone more times than you’d admit, thumb hovering over the call button, typing and deleting a dozen versions of “Can we talk?” and “I’m sorry.”

At work, you caught yourself telling a joke to the air because you’d thought of how he’d laugh at it. A song on the radio made your stomach swoop and then drop. That night you ate toast over the sink and stared at the dark screen of your TV like it owed you an answer. Joshua’s absence was loud in your small apartment, loud in a way the fight hadn’t been.

On the second evening, snow began its careful fall, the kind that coats the city in muffled white and makes everything look gentler than it feels. You were wrapped in a blanket you didn’t need, staring at the door like you could will it to knock.

When it finally did, the sound startled you so much you almost thought you were sleeping.

You opened the door and there he was, coat buttoned to his throat, scarf crooked, nose pink from the cold, snow melted into his hair in damp curls. He held a paper bag like a shield and a peace offering.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you echoed, breath fogging the doorway.

He glanced at the hallway, then back to you. “I didn’t know how else to say this, so I thought I should just… say it. The only way I know how.”

You stepped aside. “Come in.”

He took off his shoes carefully, of course he did, and set the bag on your counter. “I brought that lentil soup you like. And those sesame crackers you pretend aren’t your favorite.” A tiny smile flickered and died. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been rehearsing this in my head, and it all sounded better there.”

“Try me anyway,” you said, a little hoarse. You sat on the edge of the couch, he stayed standing for a beat, then sat across from you, knees almost touching.

“I’m sorry,” he started, words measured like he was balancing them in his palms. “I never wanted to make you feel like you weren’t enough. That isn’t true. You are. I just… missed you. Even when you were right there.” He swallowed. “It scared me to feel alone next to you.”

The honesty made your eyes sting. You closed the space between you, sliding beside him. Your hand found his cheek, cold from the walk, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “I’m sorry too. I was there, but not really. I do that when I’m overwhelmed, go quiet and small inside my head. It’s not about you, but I know it feels like it is.”

He leaned into your hand, lashes lowering. “I don’t want to keep score of who looks up first or who reaches out. I just want to know that if I say ‘I need you right now,’ you’ll hear me.”

“I will,” you said, meaning it. “And if I need twenty minutes to land before I can be present, I’ll say that out loud instead of disappearing into my phone.”

He exhaled, a small sound of relief. “Okay. That helps. I think I test people without meaning to. I waited for you to notice I was upset instead of telling you.”

“And I waited for you to tell me, because I was afraid of making it worse,” you admitted. “Which is ridiculous, because look at us. We already missed each other for two days we didn’t have to lose.”

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “I hate those days.”

“Me too.” You nudged his knee with yours. 

His eyes warmed. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath mixing with yours, and then his lips found you, soft, careful, the kind of kiss that felt like an answer. It tasted like snow and lentil and the quiet promise to try again.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, his voice dropping to a whisper that brushed your mouth. “I’ll never doubt us again.”

You searched his face. “We’ll have moments,” you said gently. “But let’s promise to ask instead of assume.”

“Then I’ll never stop asking,” he murmured, smiling into the words.

You tucked yourself against his shoulder, the shape you knew by heart. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed your hairline. “Me neither.” 4️⃣ Jun: Jun wasn’t the type to push. He was patient, careful with his words, in arguments he often let silence do the talking, even when it meant swallowing what he really felt. Maybe that’s why it hit harder when he finally said something.

It started with another last-minute change. He’d been waiting outside your office, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching for you through the glass. The lobby light caught in his hair. Then your message lit up his phone, ‘Can’t tonight. Too tired’. He glanced up at the same moment you stepped out, the screen’s glow fading against the tired apology you didn’t quite have energy to deliver in person.

By the time you made it home, he was already there, seated on your couch like he’d been trying to become small enough not to be a problem.

“You should’ve told me earlier,” he said, not looking up at first.

You set your bag down and toed off your shoes. “I did text you.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His gaze lifted, steady and too honest. “You’ve canceled three times this week. Do you even want to see me?”

The softness of it made the words land heavier. You flinched. “Of course I do. That’s… come on, Jun. Don’t make it sound like I don’t care.”

“I’m not trying to make it sound like anything.” He exhaled through his nose, a small, shaky breath, as if he’d practiced not letting it show. “It just feels like I’m the only one rearranging things. I wait. I keep waiting. And then you choose work, or your friends, or sleep. I know those are important…I really do. But where do I fit?”

You rubbed your temples. The day had left its fingerprints all over you, and here he was asking for the one thing you had none of, more of you. “That’s not fair. I’m busy. You know what this week’s been like.”

“And I’m not part of that life, right?” he said, too quickly, as if the words had been clawing at the back of his throat. As soon as they came out, regret flickered in his eyes. “I didn’t mean…”

You put up a hand. “No, I get it. You’re upset. I just…” Your voice thinned. “I don’t have anything left tonight. I’m trying to keep it together.”

“Me too,” he said quietly.

There was a long, bare pause, the kind that makes you aware of your own breathing. You reached for your coat like it might steady you. “Maybe we should talk when we’re not this… raw.”

He moved as if to step toward you, then stopped. “Okay,” he said. No anger. No plea. Just the soft retreat of a person who was tired of asking.

You left before your throat could betray you. He didn’t follow. The door closed without the usual lingering goodbye. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The silence was what hurt most, its shape, its persistence. Jun, who normally texted good morning without fail, who sent a photo of the sky when it looked like a watercolor because he knew you liked it, said nothing for two days. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard more than once. You typed, ‘I’m sorry’. Deleted it. ‘I miss you’. Deleted it. ‘Can we talk?’ Deleted it. Pride and fear traded places so often you felt motion-sick.

On the second night, as snow stitched itself across the city, the doorbell rang.

When you opened the door, Jun stood on the threshold with snow caught in his hair and on his shoulders, a takeout bag looped around his fingers. He looked exactly like someone who had practiced what to say and forgotten it the moment he saw you.

“Hi,” he said, cautious, as if the word itself might spook you. “I… brought dinner. You always forget to eat properly when you’re stressed.”

Your chest ached with something helpless and fond. “Jun.”

“I didn’t want to text something that sounded wrong,” he rushed on, stepping inside when you moved back. He placed the bag on the tabel, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to tuck them in his pockets or hold onto something. “And I didn’t want to show up and make it worse. I just…can we talk?”

You nodded, then because your hands needed something to do, you opened the containers. The small, familiar things, steam lifting from rice, the clean, citrusy snap of pickled vegetables, bridged the space between you more than anything either of you had said so far.

He watched you, the way he always did, noticing the tiny things. “You’re still biting the inside of your cheek,” he murmured.

“And you’re still terrible at pretending you’re fine,” you said, softer than you meant to.

He huffed out a laugh, nervous and grateful. “I am. I’m really bad at it.”

You leaned on the counter, palms flat against the cool surface. “I’m sorry I keep canceling. Not because you’re mad…because you’re right. I thought being busy explained everything. It doesn’t, not when you’re waiting outside buildings for me to remember you exist.”

He winced. “I don’t want you to feel guilty.”

“I don’t,” you said, honest and a little raw. “I feel… sad. Because I love that you show up for me, and I hate that you don’t know I want to show up for you too.”

He swallowed, the knot in his throat visible. “I never wanted to make you choose between me and your life.”

“You’re not asking me to choose,” you said. “You’re asking me to choose you too. And I didn’t. Not enough.”

Jun’s shoulders dropped, some guarded part of him softening. “I said something I shouldn’t have, about not being part of your life. I was tired. It felt true in the moment. It isn’t. I know it isn’t.”

“It felt true to me, too,” you admitted, and his eyes flickered up, startled. “Not because it is, but because I made it feel that way. I’ve been overwhelmed and I used that as an excuse. You deserve better than my leftovers.”

He let out a shaky breath, relief, grief, both. “I don’t need grand gestures. I just need to know I’m not the only one saving time for us.”

You nodded, wiping your palms on your thighs. “Okay. Then let’s be boring about it for a while. Put us on the calendar like we’re important, because we are.”

He smiled, small and genuine. “Boring sounds perfect.”

“Tuesday nights,” you said, thinking out loud. “No cancellations unless someone is actually on fire.”

“Or contagious,” he offered.

“Or contagious,” you agreed. “And if work explodes, I call. I don’t text a ghostly ‘can’t tonight’ five minutes before.”

“I’ll meet you halfway,” he said. “If you need quiet and soup instead of plans, say so. I can do quiet and soup. I am, in fact, a world-class bringer of soup.”

You nudged the takeout bag with a knuckle. “Evidence accepted.”

His eyes went bright in the way they did when he was overwhelmed and trying not to show it. His fingers brushed yours, hesitant. “Can I…?”

You nodded, and he laced your hands together. Warmth bloomed from the simple contact, quiet and certain. He leaned his forehead to yours, breath fanning your cheek, and everything slowed, your thoughts, the mess of the week, the stupid pride. Just the two of you and the hum of the heater and snow softening the traffic outside.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I missed you more,” you said, because it felt good to say it first for once. “I’ll do better. Not perfect. But better.”

“Same,” he whispered. “I’ll say the hard thing before it turns mean in my mouth. I’ll knock on the door before I decide I’m not wanted.”

You huffed a laugh that caught on a tear. “Look at us making rules like actual adults.”

He smiled into the kiss, which was unhurried and warm, the kind that said we have time and we’re choosing it. When you parted, snowmelt glittered on his shoulders, you brushed it away.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said, the words carrying more than they usually did.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he replied, thumb stroking the back of your hand like he was relearning it. “Also, I may have gotten your favorite dessert. I panicked and bought two.”

“You panicked and bought cake?” you teased. “Truly a crisis.”

He pretended to be offended. “If you don’t want any…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, tugging him toward the couch. “We have a Tuesday to plan.”

“Boring,” he echoed, and his grin was soft and sure.

You ate together, knees touching, the living room smelling like sesame and citrus and new snow. It wasn’t a grand fix. It was better, a choice made out loud, a calendar blocked, a kiss unhurried, a promise given shape. And when his phone buzzed with some distant, forgettable notification, he flipped it facedown without looking.

This time, you noticed, and reached for his hand first. 5️⃣ Hoshi: With Soonyoung, everything ran hot, his laughter, his ideas, his dancing, even your arguments. He didn’t just walk into rooms, he blew in like weather. Most days you loved it. Most days, you were the calm after his storm.

But that night, you were already sitting on the edge of the couch, coat still on, keys in your palm like you couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. He burst through the door twenty-three minutes late, breathless and shining with sweat, the strap of his bag sliding off his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” he said, kicking off his shoes with a clatter and trying on a grin that usually worked. “Traffic, practice ran long, then I…”

“You promised today you’d be on time.” Your arms crossed before you could stop them. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

“I know. I know, I lost track.” He draped his hoodie over a chair, raking a hand through damp hair. “Don’t be mad.”

“You always ‘lose track.’” You stared at the clock, then back at him. “Do you even take me seriously, or do you think I’m just going to forget every time you do this?”

The grin slipped. He blinked, like the room suddenly came into focus. “Of course, I take you seriously. Why would you even say that?”

“Because you keep putting everything else before me.” The words came out sharper than you intended, and once they were loose, there was no calling them back. “Maybe I’m just not a priority.”

A flicker went through his eyes, hurt, quick as a match. He dropped his bag to the floor. “You think I don’t care?” His voice rose, rare for him. “I’m working my ass off every day, early mornings, late nights…and it’s still not enough for you? You think I’m late because it’s fun?”

“No,” you shot back, “I think you’re late because you keep breaking promises.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. The silence stretched. The hum of the fridge suddenly felt loud.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, softer now, but bristling. “Sometimes practice runs over, sometimes the choreo isn’t landing, sometimes I’m just…behind. I’m trying to carry everything.”

“And I’m not asking you to stop carrying it,” you said, throat tight. “I’m just asking to not be the thing you drop.”

He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I said I was sorry.”

“You’ve said it a lot.” You swallowed. “I want different.”

He stared at the floor like the right answer was written there. When he looked up again, something in him had gone still. “Fine,” he said, a hard edge flattening his words. “If that’s how you see me, then maybe I shouldn’t make promises at all.”

The sting was immediate and precise. You felt it under your ribs. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” you said, even though you wanted to say anything else. You wanted to ask him to try again. You wanted to not feel foolish for waiting.

He took a step toward you. “Wait…”

But the hot pressure behind your eyes warned you. You turned before your voice could crack, catching your coat sleeve on the doorknob. His uneven breathing followed you down the hall. You didn’t look back.

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The quiet that came after wasn’t peaceful; it was a drip you couldn’t stop hearing.

By noon the next day, the spot on your phone where his name usually lit up stayed blank. You scrolled through inside jokes and voice notes, typing and deleting messages you couldn’t bear to send.

By the second day, you caught yourself glancing at the studio’s account, at a grainy story of him laughing with the guys, and felt both relieved and petty for feeling relieved.

On the third night, you were halfway through convincing yourself to stop waiting up, when someone knocked. Three urgent knocks. Then two more. Then, “Please,” muffled, like he’d leaned his forehead against the door.

You opened it, and he almost stumbled inside. His cheeks were pink from the cold, breath fogging the air behind him. He looked like he’d run the whole way.

“I can’t do this,” he said, the words tumbling out before the door had even closed. “I can’t not talk to you.”

Your heart did something you didn’t authorize. “Soonyoung…”

“I mess up.” He planted his hands on his knees, catching breath, then straightened and met your eyes. The panic in his face wasn’t dramatic, it was honest. “I lose track of time. I get swallowed by practice. I say I’ll be somewhere and then I’m two blocks away and there’s a last-minute change and…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “But it’s never because I don’t care. It’s never because you’re not a priority.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” Your voice came out small. “Why am I the one who has to understand while you…forget?”

He flinched. “Because I tell myself you understand, and then I use that as permission to push you to the edge of my day.” He shook his head like he hated the truth even as he said it. “I don’t want to be that guy to you. I don’t want to be someone you can’t count on.”

You leaned against the wall, arms loose at your sides now. “I don’t need perfect. I just need…chosen. Even when it’s inconvenient.”

He took a step closer. “You are chosen. Every day. Even when I’m an idiot about showing it.” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you said, and the certainty surprised you. “But I need you to meet me in the middle. Not with another ‘sorry.’ With a plan.”

“A plan,” he repeated, like the word had weight he could carry. He nodded quickly, eyes bright with relief and nerves. “Okay. I can do that. I will do that. Tell me what you need and I’ll…no, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”

He held up his fingers, counting. “One: I’m setting alarms that don’t just say ‘leave’, they say ‘you’re meeting her, get out now.’ Two: if practice runs late, I'll call you the minute I know. Not a text. A call. Even if it’s five minutes. Three: I block time for you on my calendar like I do for rehearsals, non-negotiable. Four: I keep an extra bag here so I don’t have to run home first and be late because I’m changing clothes. Five: if I’m more than ten minutes off, I owe you ramen and a foot massage. Not negotiable.” A weak smile. “Okay, the last one is maybe more for me.”

Despite yourself, you snorted. “Ramen and a foot massage?”

“I’m trying to make this memorable,” he said, hands lifted in surrender. “I want to show you I heard you. I don’t want ‘sorry’ to be the whole story.”

You searched his face. Exhaustion had carved faint shadows under his eyes, there was still a smear of practice chalk along his jaw. He looked like himself, stripped of the performance, open, a little messy, completely there.

“I need you to be where you say you’ll be,” you said, clearer now. “If you can’t be, tell me before I’m already waiting. And…” your throat tightened, but you pushed through “...I need to stop feeling like an afterthought you’ll get to once everything else is done.”

“You’re not an afterthought,” he said immediately. He stepped close enough that you could feel the shake still running through him. “You’re the thought. The one that gets me through the last half hour of practice and…” he exhaled, a ragged, self-conscious laugh “...and the one I write stupid little notes about in my head so I don’t forget to tell you later.”

You looked down at his hands, still fisted at his sides like he was afraid to touch you without permission. So you closed the distance yourself, catching his jacket and tugging him forward.

“Then don’t,” you said, tears spilling before you could stop them. “Don’t forget. Don’t make me guess.”

He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for days. It wasn’t practiced, it was urgent and clumsy, his palm finding your waist like a lifeline. The kiss tasted like cold air and apology and relief. When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, the world felt steady again in that small circle of warmth.

“Just try,” you whispered, your fingers fitting into the spaces between his. “Be there when you say you will. Call if you can’t. That’s all I need.”

He nodded so fast his hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it back, smiling, shaky and real. “I will. I promise.” He paused, winced, then amended, “No…scratch that. I’ll prove it. Starting now.”

“How?”

“I’m early for our next date,” he said, pulling his phone out and tapping like a man on a mission. You watched the screen light his face. “Friday, seven. Calendar block. Two alarms. I’m leaving practice at six-thirty with or without them. And…” He held up the phone, the calendar square a neat little box labelled with your name and a ridiculous heart. “I’m asking you to share your calendar with me too, so I can see you there and not just in my head.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth was already curving. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours,” he shot back, quick and certain, shoulders finally dropping. He tucked his phone away and leaned in, voice softening. “And this time, I’ll keep it.” 6️⃣ Wonwoo: With Wonwoo, arguments didn’t start with shouting. They started with quiet, thin, careful quiet that made you feel like you were whispering into a room with no walls.

It was late. The TV hummed in the background, the remains of dinner going cold on the table. You’d been talking, really talking, about work,  the meeting where your idea got passed around until someone else took credit, the way your boss interrupted you mid-sentence, how small you felt walking out of that room.

You reached for your tea and realized he hadn’t said anything in… a while. His thumbs scrolled absently across his phone, his eyes on the screen, his mouth pulling into that neutral line he wore when he was anywhere but here.

“Are you even hearing me right now?” you asked, voice soft but frayed around the edges.

His head snapped up. “Of course I am.”

“Then what did I just say?”

Wonwoo blinked. The pause stretched, thin and tight. He opened his mouth, closed it. “You were…upset. About work.”

“That’s not an answer.” Your heartbeat climbed. “I needed you to be here with me. Not in your phone.”

He set it face down, as if that could rewind anything. “I was listening. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say yet.”

“Then say that,” you said, fingers knotted in your sweater hem. “Say ‘I don’t know what to say yet.’ Say ‘I need a second.’ Say anything. Because when you go quiet, it feels like I’m talking to a wall.”

His jaw ticked. “Maybe I don’t always know what you need immediately. Did you ever think of that?”

You exhaled, stung but steady. “I don’t need immediate. I need present.”

The air turned brittle. He leaned back, eyes sliding away, the silence widening between you like a crack in glass.

“Wonwoo,” you tried again, gentler this time, “I’m telling you something that matters to me.”

“I heard you,” he said, voice low. “I just… when it gets heavy, my brain feels like static. If I talk too quickly, I say the wrong thing. So I wait. I try to think. And then it’s already too late.”

“It’s too late when I’m already crying in the bathroom at work and you’re here scrolling,” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I don’t want perfect words. I want you not to disappear.”

He flinched at that. Then, like a switch flipped, his expression cooled. “Maybe I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m not cut out for… for you.”

The words landed like a drop through ice. You stared at him, feeling something in your chest fold in on itself. “Okay,” you said, voice small in the big, quiet room. “Maybe you’re right.”

You stood, grabbed your bag from the chair. He didn’t move at first. Then he did, reaching out as if to catch a sleeve he couldn’t quite reach.

“Wait…” he started.

But you had already opened the door. “I can’t keep begging you to show up,” you said, and left.

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Two days of silence. Two days where the apartment felt like a museum and your phone a paperweight. You didn’t call. He didn’t call. Pride and hurt sat side by side in your chest, both loud, both insisting they were protecting you.

Snow came and made the world a little quieter. You were in socks and an old hoodie when the knock sounded, three hesitant knocks, spaced like he was testing the beat of a song he wasn’t sure he remembered.

You almost didn’t answer. You did.

Wonwoo stood there, hair damp with melting flakes, shoulders hunched against the cold. His hands were shoved into his coat pockets the way they were whenever he was bracing for something.

“Hi,” he said, breath clouding in the air between you.

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry.” The words were rough, as if unused. “For the phone. For the silence. For saying…” He swallowed. “For saying I wasn’t cut out for you. That was a terrible thing to put on you.”

You held the door but not wide. “Then why did you say it?”

He met your eyes, and for once, didn’t look away. “Because I was scared. And when I’m scared, I hide. I thought if I kept quiet long enough, I’d think of the right thing to say. Instead I made you feel alone. I hate that I did that.”

The anger in you shifted, softer at the edges. “I don’t need you to fix everything I say. I need you to stand in it with me.”

“I know.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for two days straight. “I grew up learning that quiet meant safety. Don’t speak unless you’re sure. But that’s not fair to you. You don’t need a perfect sentence, you need me. I’m sorry it took me this long to understand that.”

You stepped aside. “Come in. You’re freezing.”

He toed off his shoes like he always did, careful and neat, then hovered near the doorway, unsure where to put his hands, his eyes, himself. You set water to boil out of habit.

He watched you move. “I’ve been rehearsing this for two nights,” he admitted quietly. “It still sounds clumsy in my head.”

“Good,” you said, surprising yourself with a small smile. “Clumsy means you’re not hiding.”

The kettle clicked. You poured two mugs you weren’t sure either of you would drink.

“About what you said that night,” you started, the old bruise throbbing. “That you’re not cut out for me.”

His eyes glassed, sudden and unhidden. “I didn’t mean it,” he said fiercely, the quiet falling away. “I said it because I felt like I was failing you and I wanted out of the feeling. Not out of us.”

Your throat tightened. “It hurt.”

“I know,” he said, voice breaking on the second word. “I’m so sorry.”

You set the mugs down and closed the distance. Up close, the cold was still on his skin. He hesitated, then brushed his knuckles against your hand like he was asking a question.

“Can I…?” he asked.

“Yes.”

His kiss started careful, an apology folded into a promise. You felt the tension leave his shoulders by degrees, felt the way he stayed, present, steady. When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours like he always did when words lingered on his tongue.

“I missed you,” he murmured, breath warm. “More than I can say without messing it up.”

You smiled, watery and real. “Then don’t say it,” you whispered. “Just show me.”

He nodded, a small, relieved sound escaping him. “Okay. I’ll show you. Starting now.”

“Starting now,” you echoed.

He took your hand and, instead of letting go, sat with you on the couch. No TV. No phone. Just the slow, ordinary warmth of two people learning a new language together.

After a minute, he spoke, halting, honest. “Tell me the part about your boss again. The part that made you feel small. I’m listening. And if I mess up, I’ll try again.”

You leaned back, felt your shoulders drop for the first time in days. “Okay,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t tremble. “So, in the meeting…”

And he stayed. 7️⃣ Woozi: With Jihoon, it was never yelling, it was precision. Words that clipped instead of crashed.

You swung by his studio close to midnight, the hallways quiet, the blue glow under his door giving him away. You eased it open and held up a bag. “I brought food. Your favorite.”

He didn’t look away from the monitors. A track looped in the background, a half-built chorus circling the room like a restless thought. “Just leave it there.”

You set it on the couch, hands lingering on the paper handles. “Did you eat yet?”

“No,” he said, fingers moving, “but I’m not hungry.”

“Jihoon, you haven’t eaten all day.”

His jaw tensed. “Can you not start? I’m busy.”

The words were flat, but they landed like a door shut in your face. You swallowed. “I’m not starting anything. I’m worried.”

“Well, don’t.” He finally glanced up, eyes rimmed red, shoulders tight. “I don’t need you babysitting me.”

It came fast. It always did with him, one wrong word, and the air went thin.

You blinked, breath catching. “Babysitting? That’s what you think this is?”

He rubbed his temple like the conversation was another file to drag to the trash. “I didn’t mean…look, I have a deadline. I can’t do this right now.”

“Do what?” Your voice wavered despite you. “Care about you? Show up for you?”

Silence pressed between you, full of the humming equipment and the too-loud loop on repeat. He looked away first. “I need to work.”

You nodded. It was the smallest motion, but it felt like a cliff giving way. “Fine. If that’s how you see me, I’ll stop.”

You grabbed your coat. He didn’t chase you. The door clicked behind you, and in the hallway you realized you’d been holding your breath. You let it go, and something inside you went with it.

You cried in the elevator where no one could hear you over the tired machinery.

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Four days. No late-night texts, no voice notes about a new bridge he hated or loved, no small, stupid memes he usually sent when he didn’t know how to say ‘I miss you’. You typed a dozen messages and deleted all of them. Pride and hurt made a tight braid in your chest.

On the fifth night, the intercom buzzed. You padded to the door in socks, heart kicking despite yourself.

When you opened it, Jihoon stood there with a takeout bag crinkling in his hand. The same order you’d brought. Fresh this time. He looked smaller without the studio around him.

“Hi,” he said, somewhere between sheepish and exhausted. “I, uh… didn’t eat it that night.” He lifted the bag an inch. “I got it again. Thought maybe we could share it now.”

Your eyes fell on him and the way he was bouncing from one leg to the other. “Jihoon.”

“Can I come in?” His voice was careful. So were his eyes.

You stepped back. “Yeah.”

He slipped off his shoes and stood in your kitchen like he it was the first time he has stepped in your apartment. You took the bag and set it on the counter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before you could open a single container. “For that night. For… everything about that night.”

You stared at the takeout for a beat, then at him. “You hurt me.”

“I know.” He nodded like he’d been practicing that admission. “I was in my head. I am in my head a lot, and when I’m there it feels like everything else is noise, even the things that aren’t. Especially the things that matter. That’s not an excuse.” He squeezed the back of his neck. “It’s just what it is.”

“You said I was babysitting you.”

“I know.” He winced. “That was me being defensive because I didn’t want to admit I needed… anything. Anyone.”

You opened the containers, steam rose, filling the space with warmth you hadn’t felt in days. You handed him chopsticks. He took them but didn’t move.

“I wasn’t trying to manage you,” you said quietly. “I was trying to love you. And when you pushed me away like that, it made me feel like I didn’t belong in your life. Like I was intruding.”

His shoulders sank. “You do belong. You do.” He paused, searching. “It scares me how much.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “If you need space when you’re working, tell me you need space. Don’t make me feel stupid for showing up.”

“I won’t.” He swallowed. “I’m still learning how to say the thing before I say the wrong thing.”

You both moved to the floor, your backs to the couch, containers between you. You ate in small bites, the kind that buy time. The quiet felt less brittle.

He spoke first, chopsticks paused midair. “When I’m deep in a track, it’s like I’m underwater. I forget the surface exists. You walk in and you’re… air.” He looked down, then back up. “And sometimes that hurts, because breathing means I feel everything again. Including the fear I’m going to fail, or disappoint you. So I say something stupid to make the feeling go away.”

You set your food down. “I don’t want you to disappear to make it easier. I want to be part of the work and the mess and the stupid. I can handle the fear if you hand it to me, not at me.”

He exhaled, a shaky laugh at the end of it. “You’re better with words than me.”

“You’re good with them,” you said softly. “You just use them on music first.”

He smiled, brief and true. It flickered into something more fragile. “I missed you. I kept almost texting and then I’d hear that loop and think, ‘fix the chorus first, fix yourself first.’ But I don’t fix myself alone very well.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “That’s allowed.”

He set his food aside completely now, turning to face you. “I don’t deserve how much you care. That night, you were right to leave.”

“You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you said. “I do. And I want to be here. But I need you to meet me halfway.”

He nodded, eyes bright. “Okay.” 

His fingers threaded with yours like he’d been holding tension there for days, like the act of touching you released it.

“I’ll try to say it before it’s sharp,” he murmured. “I’ll try to say, ‘I’m scared,’ or ‘I need twenty minutes,’ instead of aiming for the place that will make you leave.”

“Good,” you whispered. “And I’ll try not to turn concern into control. I’ll ask what you need before I assume.”

He huffed a small, grateful sound. “What I need right now is you not leaving.”

“I’m not.”

You kissed him first, soft, testing, and he met you there, careful and sure. The gratitude in it was new, so was the way he relaxed as if something important had finally clicked into place. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like an apology and a promise.

When you parted, he stayed close. “Can we… put on a movie and let the food get cold and then reheat it and pretend that was the plan?” His smile tilted. “And tomorrow, will you come to the studio? I’ll set an alarm to eat. I’ll show you the bridge I’m stuck on. You can tell me it’s terrible or perfect, I’ll accept either.”

You laughed, the sound loosening the last knot. “Deal. But I’m bringing a timer. And snacks.”

“Fine.” He squeezed your hand. “And if I say something sharp…”

“You’ll try again,” you finished for him.

He nodded. “I’ll try again.”

He leaned back against the couch and tugged you with him until your head found his shoulder. The movie you put on five minutes later barely made it past the opening credits, the food did get cold, the apartment felt warm anyway.

Near the end of the second act, his voice slipped out, quiet enough that you almost missed it. “Let me stay,” he said, the word careful and certain at once. “Just… let me stay with you.”

You turned your face toward him. “I will.”

And you did. 8️⃣ DK: Fighting with Seokmin always felt like arguing with the sun. He was warmth and laughter, the kind of person who could turn a grocery run into a bit, who would sing apologies in falsetto when he spilled coffee on your sleeve. But that night, even the brightest parts of him cast a shadow.

It had been a day that chewed you up, missed deadlines, a call with your mom that went sideways, the train breaking down between stations. You were venting, pacing the living room, hands drawing frantic circles in the air, when he tried to do what he always did.

“It sounds like the universe put you on hold,” he said, eyebrow raised. “Press 9 to speak to a manager?”

You stopped dead. “God, Seokmin, can you take anything seriously?”

The room fell quiet. The only sound was the soft hum of the fridge and the rain tapping against the window. His smile flattened like a balloon losing air.

“I was just trying to make you feel better,” he said.

“Well, it doesn’t,” you shot back. “It makes me feel like you don’t care.”

His face fell fully at that, the joke dying before it finished forming. “You really think that?”

You folded your arms across your chest to keep your voice from shaking. “Sometimes it feels like you’d rather make a joke than actually listen.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the way he did when he was buying time. “I…” He swallowed. “I laugh when I don’t know what else to do.”

“That’s convenient,” you said, and winced as the words landed. “It’s like you get to skip the hard parts.”

His jaw worked, a tiny, stubborn movement. When he spoke again, his voice had no bounce, no music. “Maybe I laugh because if I stop, everything feels too big. Because I don’t know how to fix it for you and it scares me. Because if I say the wrong thing…” He took a breath that trembled. “...if I say the wrong thing, I’m afraid you’ll realize I’m not enough and you’ll leave.”

That took the wind out of you. “Seok…”

He was already reaching for his jacket. “Maybe I should give you some space.”

Your anger cracked into panic. “You don’t have to…”

“I don’t want to make it worse,” he said, unable to meet your eyes. “I never want to make it worse.”

The door closed gently, almost apologetically. And just like that, the room cooled by ten degrees.

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Two days stretched like gum, thin, sticky, impossible not to keep pulling. You woke to silence instead of his off-key morning hum. You stared at your phone like it might teach you a spell. You typed and erased a dozen messages.

‘hey

no, that’s stupid’

‘can we talk?

too soon?’

‘i’m sorry for what i said

send, no, wait’

You wore his oversized hoodie around the apartment, telling yourself it was because it was chilly, not because it still smelled faintly like his citrus body wash. At night, you replayed the fight and noticed all the spaces where fear sat between the words.

On the second evening, the rain finally broke. You slipped your shoes on and walked to the park where you both gravitated whenever life felt too loud. The path glistened, lamplight puddling in the wet. The old bench under the big tree stood like an appointment you were late for.

He was there. Head bowed, elbows on his knees, hands twisting his ring in anxious loops. When your shoes scuffed the gravel, he looked up.

“Seokmin…” you said softly.

His eyes were wide and glassy, like he hadn’t slept much. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t,” you admitted, sitting a careful distance away. “I thought if I stayed home, I could pretend we weren’t… this.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. The quiet between you felt heavy but not hostile. Just… fragile.

“I shouldn’t have said you don’t care,” you said, the words warm with breath you’d been holding for forty-eight hours. “You care more than anyone I know. I said it to hurt you because I was hurt.”

He blinked hard and gave a weak chuckle that wasn’t a joke. “I kept replaying it and thinking, ‘this is where I fix it,’ but my brain only knows the one tool.” He tapped his chest. “Clown-in-residence.”

You turned to face him fully. “I don’t want you to stop being you. I love your dumb universe manager joke. I love that you sing to the rice cooker. I just… sometimes I need you to be here with me in the ugliest parts, without reaching for the light switch.”

He nodded quickly, eagerly even, then caught himself and slowed. “Okay. Okay.” He laced his fingers together like he was trying to hold himself in place. “I can listen. I want to. I…sometimes I panic. It’s like, if I don’t make you laugh, I’m failing at loving you.”

“You don’t have to perform to be loved,” you said. “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to not have the answer.”

He breathed out, a shaky, honest sound. “When I was younger, joking always worked. If someone was mad or sad, I could flip the scene, you know? I didn’t learn what to do when the scene didn’t need flipping.” He looked at you, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache. “I’m trying. I want to be what you need.”

“Then… ask me what I need.” You smiled, a small one. “We can make it stupidly simple, like a menu. ‘Do you want me to listen, help, or lighten?’ And I’ll pick.”

His mouth tilted. “A feelings menu?”

“With pictures if you behave,” you said, and he laughed for real this time, soft, relieved.

He scooted closer, the space between you shrinking to a breath. “Can we practice?” he asked, earnest.

“Right now?”

He nodded. “Okay. What do you need… right now?”

You looked down at your hands, damp from the bench, and then back up. “Listen.”

He settled, shoulders lowering. “I’m listening.”

“I was overwhelmed,” you said. “And I wanted to not feel alone in it. When you joked, it felt like you stepped out of the room while I was still in the mess.”

He winced, not theatrically, but like truth stung. “I stepped out because I was scared I’d break something if I stayed.” He took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving. I thought space would keep me from messing up, but it just… made the mess colder.”

You shifted closer, your knees touching his. “I’m sorry I went for your softest part. I know how hard you try. I see it. Even when I’m mad, I see it.”

He blinked, and tears gathered. He laughed once, an embarrassed, watery sound. “You’re going to make me cry in public.”

“It’s the park,” you said. “It’s practically designed for crying.”

He huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob. “I’ll do better,” he said, the words careful and deliberate. “Not as a promise I can’t keep, but as a practice. I’ll ask what you need. I’ll sit with you in the dark. And… if I’m scared, I’ll say that, too.”

You took his hand, fingers threading through his like they had always meant to. “And I’ll tell you when I want the joke. Not every room needs light, but some rooms do. We’ll figure out which is which together.”

His lips trembled, then steadied. “Okay.” He squeezed your hand. He stopped, searching. “Can I be honest without trying to fix anything?”

You nodded. “Please.”

“I missed you so much,” he said simply. “It felt like two days of holding my breath.”

You let the truth meet his. “Me too.”

He leaned in, slow enough to let you choose, and when you did, the kiss was soft and warm and a little salty. It felt like standing in the first patch of sun after a storm, not because the weather changed, but because you had.

When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re my everything,” he whispered, like it wasn’t a line but a quiet fact he’d been carrying for months.

The words didn’t set off alarms this time. They didn’t feel like fireworks, either. They settled into you like a weight that fit, heavy in a good way, anchoring. “I believe you,” you said, and meant it all the way through.

He exhaled, a laugh tangled in relief. “So… what do you need now?”

You pretended to think, eyes flicking up to his. “Walk with me,” you said. “Tell me about the song you’ve been humming under your breath for a week. And maybe… buy me a hot chocolate on the way home.”

He stood, tugging you up by your joined hands. “I can do all of that.” He paused. “And if the universe gives us trouble again, I’ll ask for the feelings menu first.”

You bumped his shoulder. “With pictures.”

“With pictures,” he agreed, grinning as you fell into step together.

9️⃣ Mingyu: Fights with Mingyu didn’t creep in, they hit like summer storms, hot, sudden, and louder than either of you meant them to be. Passion first, sense later. You loved him for the same heart that made the arguments messy. Some nights, though, it felt like you were learning him in the dark and guessing the edges by touch.

It started over something small, which is to say, it started the way most big fights do.

He came in late again, shoes thudding off by the door, keys tossed into the bowl with a clatter. The clock stung, 1:27 a.m. You were curled up on the couch in a hoodie, a cold mug on the table, the TV paused on a frame that had been still for an hour.

“You’re up,” he said, a little surprised, a little guilty.

“You said you’d be back by eleven.”

He winced. “We grabbed food after the game. I didn’t check the time.”

You swallowed, tried to keep your voice even. “Do you ever think about how I feel, waiting for you all the time?”

He blinked like you’d tossed water in his face. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I just lose track of time.”

“That’s the problem, Mingyu. You lose track of me.”

His jaw worked. “So now I’m not allowed to see my friends? You want me glued to you every second?”

“That’s not what I said.” Your breath came sharp. “I’m saying communicate. Tell me if it’s going late. Tell me I’m not an afterthought.”

“God, it’s one night,” he shot back. “Why does it always have to be a fight?”

“Because I keep asking and nothing changes.”

He shifted, defensive heat rising. “So I’m the bad guy for having a life?”

“No,” you said, cheeks burning, “you’re my boyfriend who forgets he has one.”

Something flickered in his eyes, hurt, pride, fear. The mix that always made him reckless.

“Right,” he said, laugh bone-dry. “If I’m such a terrible boyfriend, remind me, why are you even with me?”

The words sucked the air from the room. Your heart stuttered, his face said he already wanted them back, but they were loud and ugly between you.

“Good question,” you whispered.

He stood there, chest heaving, and for a beat neither of you knew how to climb down. You got up slowly, found your coat, found the doorknob before you found your composure.

“Don’t,” he said, reaching out and stopping short of your wrist. “I didn’t mean…”

“You said it,” you managed. “And I heard you.”

You walked out. The hallway was too bright. Your phone buzzed twice. You didn’t look.

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The first night without him was bone-quiet. The second was worse. You made dinner, didn’t finish it, washed the pan like a ritual. Your phone lit up with his name and then with nothing, typing… stopped… typing… stopped. You stared until the screen dimmed.

He sent one message, ‘ I’m sorry. I’m a mess. Please call me.’

You didn’t. Not yet. You needed the part of you that loved him to sit down for a second so the part that loved you could speak.

On the second night, the knocking started like rain and turned into thunder. You opened the door because you knew it was him, because the building had never echoed like that before.

Mingyu looked wrecked, hair flattened on one side like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times, hoodie half-zipped, eyes red and swollen. He held his breath when he saw you, like the sight of you might flee.

“You can hate me if you want,” he blurted, voice already cracking, “but don’t leave me.”

Your throat tightened. “Mingyu, what …”

“I said the worst thing I could say.” He swallowed, words tumbling over each other. “I knew it the moment it left my mouth and I tried to swallow it back and it was just…” He shook his head, desperate. “I’m an idiot. I panic, and I go for the sharpest words because I’m scared, and then they cut you, and then I hate myself.”

He stepped forward like you might push him away. You didn’t. His hands found your arms, gentle even in panic.

“You’re not a burden,” he said, eyes wet. “You’re the best part of my day. Every day. I hate that I made you doubt that.”

Tears stung hot and helpless. “I don’t want perfection, Mingyu. I just want you. But you can’t throw out ‘why are you with me’ like it’s nothing. That lives somewhere when it’s said. It doesn’t vanish.”

“I know.” He nodded, too fast, like he could outrun the shame. “I know. I’ve been rehearsing what to say for two nights and none of it is good enough. I’ll…” He paused, breath shaking. “I’ll do better. I will. Just… don’t walk away from me.”

You held his gaze. “Doing better can’t just be a promise at my door.”

“I know,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me how to not mess this up.”

You didn’t want to be his teacher. You wanted a partner. So you took a breath and spoke like one.

“Text me if you’re going to be late. Not at one a.m, at eleven, when you realize it. Not an essay, just a heads-up. I won’t sit staring at the door if I know you aren’t behind it.”

He nodded, fierce. “Done. I can do that. I should’ve already been doing that.”

“And if I bring something up,” you continued, “don’t go straight to defense like it’s an attack. Ask me what I need.”

He let out a breath with a shaky laugh. “What do you need now?”

“I need to hear that ‘why are you with me’ is never coming out of your mouth again.”

“It’s not,” he said, immediate. “I hate that I made you carry that. I’ll never say it again. If I feel that panic, I’ll take a walk. I’ll call Seungcheol and yell into his voicemail. I’ll do push-ups in the street. I don’t care. I won’t throw you away to make a point.”

A laugh snuck out of you, thin and wet. “Please don’t do push-ups in the street.”

“If that’s what it takes,” he said, a weak smile breaking through, “I’ll do burpees.”

You rolled your eyes, the knot in your chest loosening by a finger-width. “And I’ll… tell you when I’m spiraling instead of letting it pile up until I snap. I’ll take a walk too. I won’t disappear without saying where I’m going.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” He looked at your face like memorizing it. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you said, before he finished. “Come in.”

He stepped over the threshold like it might vanish if he moved too fast. The apartment felt different with him in it again, like sound remembered how to be sound. He hovered, unsure, then cupped your face with both hands, thumbs shaking against your cheeks.

The kiss wasn’t neat. It never was with him. It was clumsy and urgent and honest, the kind that said, ‘Please know what I mean even if I can’t say it right’. He kissed you like an apology and a promise and a thank you all at once.

“I missed you so much it hurt.”

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice rough. “Don’t give me reasons to leave.”

“I won’t,” he said, and it wasn’t a dramatic vow. It was steady, like something you could set a cup on.

He cleared his throat. “Can I say one more thing without sounding dramatic?”

“You, dramatic?” You tilted your head. “Never.”

He grinned, embarrassed. “I’m still learning how to be good at this. At us. I didn’t… grow up seeing people fight well. I’m trying. I want you to see me trying.”

“I do,” you said. “Just don’t make me squint.”

He nodded, earnest as a promise. “Deal.”

There was a pause that felt like the first breath after a sprint.

“Also,” you added, softer, “go see your friends. I don’t want to be your whole world. I just want to know I’m in it.”

“You are,” he said, immediate again. “Front row. Center seat. VIP wristband.”

“Progress,” you said. “Look at us.”

He kissed your forehead. “Look at us.”

You tugged him toward the kitchen. “There’s leftover curry. It’s cold, but so are you, so it matches.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Deserved.”

You put the container in the microwave and leaned on the counter, watching him watch you like he was afraid to blink. The hum of the machine filled the quiet. He stepped closer, slid his hand into yours, laced your fingers together like a habit he wanted to keep.

When the timer beeped, he didn’t let go. You didn’t ask him to.

“Stay,” you said, as easy as breathing.

“Always,” he answered, and for once it wasn’t too much. It was exactly enough. 1️⃣0️⃣ Minghao: Minghao’s patience could stretch for miles, but when it frayed, it didn’t explode, it went quiet first.

It started small. You asked him what he wanted for dinner, and he shrugged without looking up from his book. You laughed at a video and held your phone up, and he smiled but didn’t lean in. The distance didn’t make a sound, but you felt it, like draft slipping under a door.

“Can we talk?” you asked, standing between him and the lamp.

He slid a ribbon into his book and set it on the coffee table. “We’re talking.”

“Not like this,” you said. “You barely text. You barely call. Sometimes I don’t even know if you want to be with me.”

His jaw worked once, a muscle ticking near his ear. “Just because I don’t message you every hour doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“I’m not asking for every hour,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I just want to feel like I matter to you when we’re not in the same room.”

He leaned back, eyes cautious. “If you can’t tell by now, maybe you don’t understand me at all.”

You blinked. The bluntness stole the air from your lungs. “So what, you’re saying this is my fault?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it sounds like.”

He rubbed his temple as if the conversation were a headache he’d been waiting for. “You’re exhausting me right now.”

The words landed clean and cold. “Okay,” you said, breath shaking. “Then maybe I should leave before I ‘exhaust’ you more.”

His gaze flicked to your coat by the door and back to you. He didn’t move. He didn’t stop you.

You laughed without humor. “Right. Message received.”

You shrugged into your coat, fingers clumsy at the zipper, and walked out. The hallway felt colder than it should. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

One week passed in a silence that wasn’t clean. You scrolled to his name, screen lighting your face at 2 a.m., then put the phone facedown like that could quiet your heartbeat. Pride held one hand, missing him held the other. They tugged you in opposite directions until your chest ached from the effort of just standing still.

You noticed the small things more in his absence: the way the radiator clicked before it warmed, the plant leaning toward the window because you forgot to turn it, the extra mug that stayed clean. You caught yourself setting aside a funny story from work, rehearsing how you’d tell it to him, and then remembered there was no call scheduled, no usual check-in. The space where he lived in your day went strangely echoey.

On the 7th evening, you took the long way home because walking felt easier than going back to the quiet. Snow had started, the flakes came down soft and disinterested. You wrapped your scarf tighter and climbed the stairs, keys ready, mind blank the way it gets when you’re tired of replaying the same scene.

He was leaning against your apartment door, a dark figure cut out against the pale hallway light. Snow dusted his hair and shoulders. His hands were tucked into his coat, like he’d been standing there long enough to forget he had fingers.

You stopped two steps away. “Minghao.”

He straightened, eyes searching your face with something that looked like relief and apology tangled together. “Hi.”

The word was so simple it made your throat tighten. “Hi.”

He exhaled, a cloud in the cold air. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice low but steady. “Any of it.”

You swallowed. The key bit into your palm. “Then why say it?”

He looked down at his shoes, then back up. Vulnerability edged his features the way winter edges a window. “Because I got scared,” he said. “I get scared. I feel like I bring some many downsides to the table that it feels scary when I am in the wrong…”

You stared at him, at the snow melting into the collar of his coat. “You haven’t made it worse by loving me,” you said. “You make it worse by shutting me out.”

“I know,” he said, shame softening his voice. “I know. I thought you understood the quiet parts of me. I thought you did, and when you said you didn’t feel like you mattered, I panicked. It felt like failing a test I didn’t know how to study for, and then I…” He broke off, swallowed. “I picked the worst words. I picked distance.”

“‘You’re exhausting me’,” you repeated, the phrase still lodged like a splinter.

He winced. “I hate that I said that. You don’t exhaust me. The fear does. The feeling like I’m always a step behind what you deserve.”

The honesty tilted something loose inside you. You took a breath that felt like it reached the bottom of your lungs. “I don’t need you to be perfect,” you said, softer. “I just need to know you’re with me even when I can’t see you. A message in the morning. A call when you have time. Tell me when you need space so I know it’s not me. Let me in.”

He nodded, quick and earnest. “Okay. Tell me how to show up the way you feel it. I wake up, I think of you, and then I think it’s too early to text. I finish rehearsal, I think of you, and then I tell myself you’re probably busy. I’ll stop telling myself your ‘probablys’ for you.”

A laugh caught in your chest, wet around the edges. “I don’t mind early. I mind not at all.”

“Right.” He stepped closer, careful as if approaching a skittish animal. “Also… when I shut down, I’m not leaving. It’s just how I learned to be when things got loud at home, go quiet, wait it out. It’s not about you. But I want to unlearn it for us.”

You nodded. “And I’ll try not to hear silence as goodbye. But you have to meet me halfway.”

“I will.” His eyes held yours. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop you. I wanted to. I told myself you needed space, and maybe I used that as an excuse because I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could’ve just said ‘Don’t go.’”

“Don’t go,” he said now, immediate, like a correction.

The words landed warm. You stepped forward so the hallway light pooled around both of you. “I won’t,” you said. “But next time, if we’re fighting, say you’re overwhelmed instead of pushing me away. And if I’m spiraling, I’ll tell you I’m scared instead of accusing you. Deal?”

He blew out a breath that fogged between you. “Thank you,” he said. “For still being here.”

You slid your fingers into his, and he closed his hand around yours, gentle, firm, like choosing. The chill of his skin was real and immediate, underneath it, a steadier heat.

“Come inside,” you murmured.

He nodded. Inside, in the doorway light, he paused. “One more thing,” he said. “Even when I push… stay. Or say you’re staying. I need to hear it.”

“I’m staying,” you said. “But you have to meet me halfway.”

“I know.” He touched your cheek, hesitant at first, then sure when you leaned into it. The kiss he gave you was slow, deliberate, a careful spelling-out of an apology he didn’t trust his language to hold. He pulled back just enough to breathe the same air as you.

“I’ll do better,” he murmured. “For us.”

“We’ll do better,” you corrected, and he smiled, small and relieved, the kind that folds at the edges of his eyes.

Later, when your coats were drying by the radiator and the snow stitched the city quieter, he reached for his phone and, without letting go of your hand, set an alarm. “For mornings,” he said. “To say good morning.”

“And for nights,” you said, your mouth curving. “To say good night.”

He nodded. “And for the in-betweens,” he added. “To say I’m still here.”

You squeezed his fingers. “I can work with that.” 1️⃣1️⃣ Seungkwan: Fights with Seungkwan were BIG. You both told the truth like it was a sport, no hedging, no filters. It was your strength because nothing went unsaid. It was your weakness because sometimes the truth landed like a punch.

It started stupidly, the way most big fights do. He was reenacting a story from practice, throwing his whole body into the details, voice climbing, hands flying. You grinned and nudged, “Okay, Broadway. Save some for opening night.”

He laughed, at first. “I know, I know. I’m extra.”

“Extra, dramatic, theatrical,” you added, piling it on. “All synonyms. Want me to get you a spotlight?”

His smile thinned. “Ha-ha.”

You tried to keep it playful. “I’ll stand in the back with cue cards. ‘Cry here. Gasp here.’”

Something in his eyes shuttered. “Why do you always make fun of me?” he blurted, voice sharper than the edge of the counter. “Do you know how it feels to never be taken seriously?”

You blinked. “What? Babe, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just teasing…”

“You always ‘just tease,’” he shot back, pacing now, running a palm over his face. “Everyone does. And maybe I’m tired of being the clown to you.”

The word lodged hard. “The clown?”

“That’s how it feels.” He exhaled, frustrated, but the momentum of anger kept him moving. “If the shoe fits.”

You went still. “So that’s all you think I see when I look at you? A joke?”

Silence dragged. He stared at the floor. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Sometimes it feels that way.”

Your throat burned. “That’s not fair.”

“And ‘Broadway’? ‘Spotlight’?” he mimicked, a flat little laugh. “Real fair.”

“Seungkwan, I tease because you’re big. Because you fill the room. I love that about you.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like love when you say it like a punchline.”

Something inside you gave up on the fight already. “Fine,” you said, voice going thin. “If that’s what you think, maybe I should go before I make another joke you hate.”

He stared, stubbornness flashing like a shield. “Do what you want.”

You grabbed your bag and left. The door clicked behind you, and the apartment swallowed the echo.

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The quiet after was loud in its own way. No lunchtime voice notes. No links to songs he insisted would “change your life for exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds.” No selfies from the practice room mirror. You kept reaching for your phone and setting it back down, the habit of him still alive in your hands.

On the third night, just as you were convincing yourself you should apologize first, your phone buzzed.

‘I’m outside.’

You stood there, staring at the message, then you opened the door.

He was on your front step in a hoodie and sweats, eyes puffy, hair doing its own dramatic monologue. In his hands, a bouquet so chaotic it was almost beautiful, daisies, tulips, baby’s breath, something that looked suspiciously like a supermarket fern, all tied together with a ribbon that didn’t match anything.

“I panicked,” he blurted, thrusting it toward you. “I walked in and grabbed…whatever looked like you.”

You pressed your lips together. A laugh snuck out anyway. “Seungkwan.”

“I know.” He dropped his gaze, then lifted it again, earnest and shiny. “I’m your idiot. Can I talk?”

You stepped back to let him in. “Talk.”

He set the bouquet on the counter like it might shatter. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “For the shoe comment. For making you feel… disposable. I didn’t mean it. I was mad and messy and I said the thing I knew would hurt because I was hurting.”

Your chest tightened. “Don’t do that to me.”

“I won’t.” He tugged at his sleeve, nerves fidgeting through his fingers. “I know I’m a lot. On stage, with the guys, I’m always…on. Jokes, laughs, high energy. People expect it, sometimes I expect it from myself. But with you, I wanted to be off and still be…enough. And when you teased, it felt like…” He swallowed. “Like I was still ‘on’ even here.”

You leaned against the counter, the edge solid at your hip. “I forget,” you said quietly. “I forget you’re sensitive about that. I forget you carry the room so often that you get tired of carrying anything else.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “You just called me sensitive.”

“I called you human.”

He huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s better.”

You reached for him, fingers skimming his wrist. “I’m sorry. I tease because I adore you. But I don’t want my ‘adoring’ to sound like I’m poking holes in you. I’ll be more careful. I’ll…check the room before I make a joke. And if I miss, you tell me. Don’t throw the shoe at my head.”

He cracked, finally smiling for real. “No shoes. Only…notes.”

“Notes?”

“Like, ‘hey, babe, I’m fragile right now, please handle with two hands.’” He mimed a label with his fingers. “I’ll say that. Out loud. I won’t pretend I’m fine and then explode.”

“Deal.” You squeezed his wrist, then slid your hand to his. “And I won’t make you feel like a caricature. Even if you do look like a chaos florist.”

He glanced at the bouquet and groaned. “Don’t roast my taste at a vulnerable time.”

“Is it a roast if it’s accurate?”

“See? This is exactly…” He stopped, eyes warm. “Okay, that one was kind of funny.”

You stepped closer, until you could see the faint tremor in his lashes. “I didn’t like three days without you.”

“I hated it.” His voice dropped. “I kept drafting texts and deleting them because I didn’t want to be dramatic.” A beat. “Which is hilarious, because…me.”

“You can be dramatic,” you murmured. “Just don’t be mean.”

He nodded, serious. “I’m sorry I was. I want to be someone you lean on. Not someone you laugh at from a distance.”

“I don’t want distance,” you said. “I want you. Loud and quiet. On and off. All of it.”

His eyes glossed. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“You already did,” you said, soft. “Hours ago. Your eyes told on you the second I opened the door.”

He laughed, wet and warm. “Come here.”

The kiss was clumsy in the way apologies are, eager, careful, a little desperate. He kept one hand on your cheek like you might evaporate if he let go. When you finally broke for air, your foreheads pressed, breaths tangled.

“You really are dramatic,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

He pouted. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

“I do.” You bumped his nose with yours. “Even when you buy fern.”

“It spoke to me,” he said solemnly. “It said, ‘I am quirky but dependable, like Seungkwan.’”

“It said, ‘please put me back and ask the florist for help,’” you countered, grinning.

He looked at you, all the way at you, no stage lights between. “Do you see me now?”

“I always did,” you said. “But I’ll show it better.”

“Okay.” He threaded your fingers together, exhaling a breath that left his shoulders looser. “Can we…start over? I’ll order takeout, you pick the movie, and if I start doing live commentary, you tap my knee twice.”

“And if I make a joke that bites, you lift the fern in warning.”

He laughed. “The Fern of Boundaries.”

“Perfect.” You squeezed his hand. “Start over.”

As he pulled out his phone to place the order, he glanced up with a shy, sideways smile. “For the record, I don’t mind ‘Broadway.’”

“No?”

“Not if it comes with front-row seats from you.” He leaned in, voice playful again, but gentled. “Just…don’t forget to clap when the curtain falls.”

You kissed his cheek. “I’ll be the one standing first.” 1️⃣2️⃣ Vernon: That night started small, dishwasher humming, rain sliding down the window, your words trying to find a place to land.

“It keeps happening,” you said, palms open on the counter. “I tell you something that bothers me, and you just…disappear while you’re still standing there.”

Vernon leaned back against the sink like he was bracing for a wave. The light over him was soft, turning his hoodie almost silver. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look anywhere. You watched his shoulders go still in that way you’d come to know, the quiet retreat.

“Say something, Hansol.”

He blinked, mouth pressing flat.

“Hansol.”

Silence pooled between you, heavy and shapeless.

Your chest tightened. “Anything. Do you even care that I’m upset?”

The question cracked the stillness. He lifted his eyes, expression blank, voice carefully even. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

The words hit cold and clean. You swallowed. “I want you to say how you feel. Not the correct answer, not what sounds safe. Something real.”

His jaw ticked. “Maybe I don’t know how. Maybe I’m not what you need.”

Air left the room. “If you believe that,” you said, throat raw, “then maybe you’re right.”

You grabbed your jacket before the tears could form, the door heavier than it should’ve been. It thudded shut behind you, and the echo followed you down the stairs.

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Two nights stretched and snapped and stretched again. You made the bed tight, worked late, scrolled, tried not to look at your phone. You told yourself anger was simpler than hurt. It was a lie you almost managed to believe.

On the third night, your key stuck for a second in the downstairs door. You nudged it free and looked up.

He was there on your stoop, knees drawn up, hoodie you knew by smell, studio air and detergent, rolled at the wrists. Headphones sat around his neck like they always do. 

He stood as you approached, then second-guessed it and sat back down, then stood again, awkwardly human in a way that cracked something tender in you.

“I didn’t know if you’d be home,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “I didn’t know if I should text, or call, or just…” He gestured to the step. “...be here.”

You held the rail, steadying yourself. “You could’ve started with ‘I’m sorry.’ That would’ve helped.”

He nodded, fast. “I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry I shut down. I’m sorry I made you feel alone in a room I was in. I’m…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I suck at talking when it matters. The words just jam.”

A laugh scraped out of you, small and pained. “I don’t need you to think five steps ahead all of the time. I need…you. Even if it’s messy.”

“I know.” He slid the headphones off and turned them in his hands. “I tried to make a voice memo so I wouldn’t freeze. I recorded like…six versions. They were all bad.” He took a breath. “But I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how to say this, I am so sorry Y/n.”

Something loosened in your chest. You stared at him, at the honesty sitting uncomfortably in his posture, and felt your anger shift its shape.

“Then say it when it matters,” you said softly. “Not after you’ve gone quiet and left me guessing.”

“I know,” he repeated, like the words hurt his mouth. He stepped closer, slow enough for you to step back if you needed. You didn’t. “I shut down because I’m scared I’ll say it wrong and break something. So I say nothing and break something anyway.”

“So try something different.” Your fingers tightened on the railing. “Tell me when you need a minute, but don’t disappear. Say, ‘I need ten minutes, but I’m not leaving this with you alone.’ Say, ‘I’m here.’” Your voice wobbled and steadied. “When you go quiet without telling me what’s happening, my brain turns it into, ‘I don’t matter.’”

His face changed at that, like the word “matter” hit him behind the ribs. “You matter,” he said immediately, and then again, firmer. “You matter. I’m…” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “I don’t want you guessing. I want to be clear.”

“Then be clear,” you said. “Right now. Tell me what last time was.”

He exhaled, a long, careful breath. “Last time was me panicking. You were telling me something, and I felt like I was failing in real time. I started cataloguing ways to fix it instead of listening, and when I couldn’t fix it in my head, I shut down.” He met your eyes, scared and unsure. “I heard you. I just didn’t know how to show you I did.”

It was the most he’d said in one stretch in a while.

You nodded. “Thank you. Next time, tell me ‘I’m hearing you. I don’t have the words yet, but I’m here.’ Even that is something.”

He nodded back. “Okay. I can do that.” He hesitated. “I can also…ask questions? Like, ‘Do you want comfort or solutions?’ I read that somewhere.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “That would be great. Usually, comfort first. Then we can fix things.”

His shoulders eased a fraction. “Comfort first,” he echoed, almost relieved to have a script. “Okay.”

For a moment you both stood there, held in the fragile warmth of a plan that felt small and monumental at the same time.

“I missed you,” he said suddenly, quiet and honest. “The pillow didn’t smell like you anymore and it made me mad at the pillow, which is stupid.” He looked briefly embarrassed. “I kept thinking of your face when you left. I don’t want to put that look there again.”

Your throat tightened. “I hated leaving.” You gestured at the steps. “I hated coming home and not seeing you. I kept checking the time because every hour without you felt longer than it was.”

He took one more step, close enough that you could see the pale half-moons his nails had left in his palm. “Can I hug you?” he asked, and the question did something kind to your heart.

You nodded. He folded around you, careful at first, then closer, like a held breath finally released. The hoodie was cool against your cheek, his hands were not.

“I will try,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ll mess it up sometimes, but I’ll tell you when I’m overwhelmed instead of disappearing. I’ll say I’m here. I’ll say it out loud.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I’ll try, too. I’ll tell you when I’m spiralling instead of assuming you can read it.”

He leaned back enough to see you, still holding on. “Deal.” A beat. “Also… I’m sorry, again.”

“I know.” You brushed your thumb over the edge of his mouth, where tension always collected. It softened under your touch. “I hear you.”

He dipped his head, paused, giving you room to refuse, and when you didn’t, he kissed you. Not a movie kiss, not a grand gesture, a real one, breath and heartbeat and the tremble of learning. You felt the apology in it, and the promise. You kissed him back like forgiveness didn’t have to be loud to be true.

1️⃣3️⃣ Chan: Fights with Chan usually started in the same place, the quiet, hot center of his need to prove himself. Most nights it simmered beneath the surface. That night, it boiled.

You found him in the practice room long after everyone had gone, the speakers humming with a looped beat, the mirror fogged at the corners. He was already on his third run, shirt clinging, breath coming short, jaw locked. You watched one more eight count, then you reached for the remote and thumbed the volume down.

“Chan,” you said, softer than the bass in the walls. “It’s past midnight.”

He bent at the waist, palms on his knees, refusing to look at you. “I know.”

“You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.” You crossed the room, careful, like you were approaching a skittish animal. “You have already done enough.”

He blinked at your reflection instead of your face. “Easy for you to say.”

You tried to keep your voice level. “It’s not easy. It’s me saying I’m worried.”

He straightened and met your eyes with that stubborn fire you knew too well. “You don’t get it. I need to catch up with this tonight. If I slow down, I fall behind. If I fall behind, I…” he bit the rest off, frustrated with himself for saying so much.

“You won’t,” you said, gentle but certain. “You won’t fall behind because you sleep. You won’t disappear because you rest.”

He grabbed his water bottle without drinking. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“It’s not a lecture,” you said. “It’s me, loving you. It’s me seeing you swaying on your feet and asking you to take a break like everyone else is doing.”

His pride flinched like you’d used the wrong word. “Stop worrying about me, then.”

You blinked, stung. “Stop…worrying?”

His tone sharpened as he doubled down. “I don’t need you hovering and telling me when to breathe. I’ve heard it from coaches, from the other guys, from everyone. I can handle it.”

You felt the floor tilt, the music still pulsing like a heart you weren’t sure was yours or his. “Hovering.” You tasted the word, bitter. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

A flicker of regret flashed across his face, quick as a camera flash, there and gone under the same pride that always made him stay for one more run, one more set. “Maybe.”

Something in you cooled. Not anger so much as a door swinging shut on its own weight. “Okay,” you said, almost to yourself. “If that’s how it feels, then… maybe you should figure things out without me.”

You put the remote down like it was fragile, like the wrong pressure might shatter the room. You turned, walked toward the exit. He didn’t stop you, maybe the worst part. The door gave a clean, decisive slam that echoed down the hallway and back at him.

Behind it, he finally slumped, the beat still looping, an empty victory.

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A few days stretched long and thin. You slept badly, going through the motions with that fight replaying on a relentless loop, your voice too soft, his too sharp, the tiny pause where he could have reached for you and didn’t.

You didn’t block him. You didn’t call. You left the space where an apology might land.

On the following night, you came up the stairs to your building, grocery bag bumping your hip. The hallway light flickered once and steadied. He stood there by your door, hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor like a kid waiting to be called inside. His eyes were rimmed red, either from rehearsals or from the way regret eats sleep.

He straightened when he saw you. “Y/N,” he started, and his voice cracked on your name.

You set the bag down, keys held tight so they wouldn’t rattle. “Hey.”

“I was wrong,” he said quickly, as if he’d rehearsed the words until they would finally come out in the right order. “I didn’t mean, any of that. You weren’t hovering. You were… you were trying to help. And I…” He made a helpless shape with his hands. “I panicked.”

“About what?” Your voice was tired but not unkind.

He swallowed. “I’m scared.” The admission sat between you like a small, shivering thing. “I’m scared I’ll never be enough. That if I don’t push, I’ll be forgotten. That I’m always half a step behind, and the only way to shrink the distance is to grind until there’s nothing left. When you said I didn’t have to keep going, my brain turned it into ‘stop trying.’ I know that’s not what you meant. I know.” His eyes shone. “I took it out on you because you’re the safest person I have.”

The words poked every bruise you’d been nursing. You breathed in through your nose, out through your mouth. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel small, Chan. I was watching the person I love run himself into a wall and… I reached out. That’s all.”

He nodded like the movement itself hurt. “You never make me small.” He took a step forward, then another, hesitant, like you might vanish. “You make me feel like I can breathe. Like there’s a world beyond the next eight count.” His hand found yours, trembled, and stayed. “I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

For a second, the hallway didn’t feel so narrow. The hum of the building, the distant elevator, mundane sounds that grounded you. You squeezed his fingers. “Then let me worry sometimes. Not because I think you’re weak. Because I care. That’s what people do when they’re on the same team.”

He nodded again, faster this time. “Okay. Team.” He wet his lips. “Tell me how to be better at… this. At us.”

“Don’t bite when I touch the sore spot,” you said, managing the smallest smile. “Tell me what the fear is without turning it into a weapon. And if you want me to back off, say ‘I need a minute,’ not ‘stop worrying.’ That one felt like a shove.”

He flinched at the memory. “I’m sorry.” He tugged your hand to his chest, like he was trying to anchor both of you. “I’ll say ‘I need a minute.’ I’ll say ‘I’m scared.’ I’ll say the actual thing instead of… the sharp thing.”

“Good,” you said. “And I’ll ask how you want help instead of deciding for you. You tell me if you want me to listen, or to get your bag, or to drag you home. You get a vote.”

He huffed a damp, self-deprecating laugh. “Drag me home sounds nice. Especially before midnight.”

You tipped your head, teasing just enough to let the air back in. “Oh? Is that an admission?”

“It’s a plea,” he said. “And a promise.” 

The space between you finally closed. He leaned in, and you met him halfway. The kiss was young and messy and a little desperate, the kind that tasted like apology and salt and late nights spent learning the hard way. He kissed you like he was trying to pour every untidy feeling into your mouth and hope it rearranged into something like honesty.

When you broke apart, his breath ghosted your lips. “I’m going to learn,” he whispered, like a vow meant for your ears only. “I’m going to be better at the parts that don’t happen in the mirror. Just… don’t leave me behind while I figure it out.”

You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone, swollen with the beginnings of a smile. “I couldn’t, even if I tried.”

He exhaled, a shaky sound that let some invisible rope unspool. “Can we…” He gestured to your door, sheepish now that the storm had cleared. “Can we go inside? Not to fix everything tonight. Just… to be.”