#707xreader

“No, no!” He’s too loud, too enthusiastic. “We’re okay! Saeran is asleep.”

“Saeyoung, it’s almost four in the morning.”

He yelps. “Really? I didn’t even notice! I’m sorry, babe. Ignore me and go back to sleep. Please.”

You sigh, sitting all the way up, propping the pillows behind your head. “Will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“God Seven is bothered by nothing! God Seven was just doing some work and wanted to hear his kitty cat’s cute voice! Ha-hah!”

“Saeyoung…”

“Activate kitty communication mode! Meow! Meow? Meeooow!”

He’s too adorable—his distraction tactics are too good. Once upon a time, you would’ve given it to it, would’ve let him ramble nonsensically until he wore himself out. You know better now.

“Saeyoung, when was the last time you slept?”

You hear him counting to himself. “Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…twenty-six, twenty-seven…” Oh no. “Forty-four hours ago!” he sings triumphantly.

“Saeyoung!”

“Whaaat?”

“Forty-four hours ago was when I last spent the night. You haven’t slept since then?”

“Nooope. But it’s okaaaay! God Seven can work for much longer without sleeping because it’s what he was programmed to do!” He draws out his syllables, speaking in a sing-song.

“Hey. Stop. Listen to me.” You know he hears the frustration in your voice because he shuts up right away. “You do not work for the agency anymore. Even Saeran is sleeping right now, like a normal person. You do not need to work through the night anymore.”

“But I do,” he says. His voice sounds a little more subdued now. “The agency may be done, but there’s still so much cleanup work to do. There’s so many loose ends. If I’m resting, they’re tracking Saeran, tracking Vanderwood, tracking you… I can’t—”

“No,” you say. “Uh-uh.” You’re already slipping out of bed, groping around in the dark for some sweatpants. “I know there’s still work to do and I know you’re worried about keeping us safe. And you can do that work. After you’ve slept for eight hours.”

He laughs and it sounds almost like a sob. “I’ve just found him,” he says, so quietly you can barely hear him. “I’ve just got him back. If anything happens to him…”

“I know,” you say. “I know, babe. But none of that matters if you work yourself to death in the process.”

You’ve got pants, you’ve got shoes. You grab a jacket and the keys to the rental car Saeyoung insisted on paying for so you wouldn’t be reliant on him while he was holed up in his bunker with Saeran.

“Hah,” he says. “It would take a lot more than a few hours of work to kill me.”

You’re outside, the cool air bracing you, waking you the rest of the way up.

“I’d like you one hundred percent alive instead of just barely hanging on,” you tell him.

You throw open the car door with perhaps slightly too much force.

He hesitates. “What was…are you outside?”

“Yes. I’m coming over.”

“You—g-gah, what?!” He sounds frantic. You hear a crash—almost as if he’s sweeping something (realistically, a pile of junk food) off his desk.

“I’m coming over right now and putting you to bed. If you don’t want me to stay, I won’t, but you are going to sleep one way or another,” you say. You start the car and you know he hears it through the phone—you’re not playing around.

“I’m perfectly capable of—” he whines.

“Thirty minutes. Love you,” you say, and hang up before he can respond.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

You get there in no time because the roads are empty. He’s cleverly disabled the car’s built-in GPS so that the rental company can never access any of the data, never pinpoint his address (not that his bunker actually has an address). It doesn’t matter: you know the way by heart.

You give the password that will let you into the garage, park, and peer into the retinal scanner by the door—he’s added this feature for you, only for you. The door welcomes you by name and swings open with a soft click.

The bunker feels bigger and emptier at night; it’s completely dark except for the tiny ray of light coming from his office door, which is cracked open just a hair. You sigh. You’d had hope—just a little—that knowing you were coming would guilt him into just going to bed already. But he is stubborn.

You pad across the huge living room and knock gently on his door. He knows you’re here, of course—he’s probably been watching you on the cameras ever since you pulled into the driveway. But just in case—he’s not someone you want to ever catch off guard.

“Hi,” he says softly—his voice sounds far away. You push open the door.

“Oh, Saeyoung…”

His office is never exactly tidy, but this is a disaster zone.

There are chip bags and other assorted wrappers strewn over the desk and on the floor around it. Several creepy, half-built robots lay at odd angles on the couch and floor, as if he’s been fiddling with them as he works and then tossing them aside—one blinks eerily at you with its single eye. There are clothes thrown over the couch and the backs of his various desk chairs, as though he’s been managing to periodically change outfits without ever setting foot in his bedroom.

And there he is, your precious, anxious, manic boy, sitting in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chest, hunched over his desk, fingers still moving over the keys even as he turns to look at you.

“You didn’t have to come,” he says, his voice hoarse.

“That’s a crappy greeting for your favorite person in the world who just drove here in the middle of the night,” you say, but you’re not not really angry at him—how could you be, when he’s in this state? You cross the room, stepping over the piles of junk. Up close, he looks terrible—there are dark circles under his eyes and he has that pale, hollow look he gets when he goes too long without seeing the sun.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “Bright, wonderful people like you should be asleep at this time of night.”

“Everyone should be asleep at this time of night,” you tell him. You brush the messy, tangled hair off his forehead and kiss him on the cheek. He closes his eyes for a moment, humming contentedly; then he reaches for you, tilting his head up for a proper kiss. 

“Nuh-uh,” you say, and he deflates, pouting. “Find a stopping point—the first possible stopping point. Then you are going to bed.”

“Orrrrr…” he murmurs, nuzzling his head against your waist. One hand trails up your leg, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“Saeyoung.”

“Fiiiine.” He reluctantly spins his chair around, types another line. “You go get in the bed,” he says, eyes on the screen. “I’ll be there soon.”

“Nope.” You cross your arms and sit on the couch, moving aside half of a robot dragon. “I don’t trust you.”

He makes a sound somewhere between a hiss and a groan and starts typing more quickly. Good. If he’s motivated to finish faster because you’re now losing sleep, then so be it. At least he’s stopping.

The sound of his typing soothes you. You fiddle with the little dragon—it will be very cute, once he builds the other side of its head. His typing slows. He hits a few more keys. You recognize the sounds of him finishing up—god knows how much collective time you’ve spent listening to him work.

“Okay,” he says at last, and you look up to see him getting out of his chair, a little clumsily.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

You skip to him and grab his hand. “Bedtime,” you say seriously, tugging him behind you: through the door, down the hall. He laughs, and it’s the most genuine he’s sounded all night. You throw open the door to his room and take a running leap onto the bed. He’s still laughing, watching you from the doorway with warm eyes.

“Come,” you say, wriggling yourself into the blankets, holding out your arms to him. Obediently, he shuts the door and comes to you, falling headfirst onto the messy pile of pillows and blankets and you. He groans quietly, his shoulder muscles finally relaxing. You pull him toward you and he settles his head onto your chest.

“S’feels nice,” he slurs, snuggling into you. You see how hard the exhaustion is hitting him now that he’s closed his eyes; you make a snug nest of blankets around him, tucking them up to his neck.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper. “You can rest now.”

“Mmmmmm but…” His words are hard to make out, his voice already thick with sleep. “But there are soooo many other things we could be doing…in this bed…”

He tries to lift an arm, vaguely brushing his fingertips over your neck. You giggle.

“Shhhh, love. Maybe in the morning,” you tell him. You kiss the top of his head, nuzzling your nose into his messy, sweet-smelling hair. He doesn’t respond. “Babe?”

His head is heavy on your chest. You feel his breath on your neck, slow and steady. You smile to yourself—he’s already asleep.

Saeyoung takes another step toward you and you hold up a hand to stop him. There’s a pained look in his eyes, and you don’t think it’s from the injuries.

“You told me you were going to look at some files,” you say, hearing how cold your voice sounds, seeing the way it wounds him. “Did the files bite you?”

He tries to laugh and winces again and you almost take pity on him. He’s shivering a little—it’s cold in the garage, colder outside, and he’s in a t-shirt. Someone (presumably Vanderwood) has ripped off one of the sleeves to bandage up his shoulder.

Vanderwood has almost disappeared at this point—they’ve made it to the garage door, clearly hoping to dodge your wrath.

“Hey!” You point at them they jump, standing up stick straight. It would be almost comical, if not for the situation. “So what was the plan, then? Bring him along on some stupid half-baked money-grabbing mission and just hope I’d be able to track your bodies down if you got killed?”

Vanderwood’s expression softens, just a little. You realize there are tears in your eyes and you wipe them away furiously.

“I swear to god I thought it was going to be an easy one or I wouldn’t have brought him,” Vanderwood says in their calmest, most placating voice.

“Did you know he lied to me?”

Vanderwood slowly shakes their head. “To be fair, I didn’t ask.”

“Fine.” Clearly taking this as a dismissal, they duck their head and slip into the front seat of the car they’ve left running in the driveway. You hesitate, then: “Vanderwood?” They freeze again, turn to face you. “Are you hurt?”

Again, you see warmth in their eyes—just for a moment, and then it’s gone. They look between you and Saeyoung, who’s still standing stock-still in the middle of the garage as if waiting for instructions.

“I’m fine,” Vanderwood says. 

“And does he need to go to the hospital?” You’re not messing around; if it were up to Saeyoung, he’d try and mend a broken bone himself.

“No,” Vanderwood says firmly. “Flesh wounds.” You raise your eyebrows as if to say really? and they nod. “This is nothing for him. Give him a day, maybe, and he’ll be back to normal.”

Without giving you the chance to ask anything else, Vanderwood gives you a little salute and revs the engine. You look down at the pavement, pushing back your tears by sheer force of will. You wail till their car is out of sight before addressing Saeyoung again.

“If they say you’re fine, then fine,” you say, and you turn on your heel and stalk back to the bunker—you’ve left the door hanging open, and the cold air is getting in.

Saeyoung still doesn’t move.

“A-are you going to let me inside?” he asks in a small voice. For a moment, you want to tell him no. You want to lock yourself up in his huge empty house (Saeran is out, at a doctor’s appointment, so you really would be alone), leave him there, make him wait until you’re ready to forgive him.

But you don’t do this—of course you don’t.

“Come in, then.”

You leave the door open for him and slip out of your shoes, kicking them against the wall with perhaps slightly too much fervor. He follows you, so slowly, so quietly, like he’s afraid to make a sound. Again, you feel a twinge of guilt. You wonder if it’s too late to go back, to forget it all, to wrap him up in your arms and kiss his bruises and reassure him that he’s safe.

Not yet.

He follows you, silently, down the hall and into the living room. You cross your arms again and face him. He looks so pitiful. Don’t give in.

“Saeyoung, tell me why you lied to me.”

He fidgets, like he always does when he’s nervous. He taps out a pattern on his leg with one hand; his injured arm hangs limply at his other side.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, almost inaudibly. There’s a dark, hollow look in his eyes, like he’s receding into himself.

“Hey.” Finally—finally—you move closer, and he flinches when you reach for him. You run a gentle finger along a new cut on his cheek, which intersects with an old scar. “You put me through about eight hours of torture, wondering where you were and if you were even alive, after I finally figured out you weren’t just ‘looking at files’ at Vanderwood’s house. You owe me an explanation.”

He swallows; his throat is dry. “It’s the only thing I know how to do,” he says in that same toneless voice. You sigh loudly. There are a million emotions battling inside you: you want to scold him; you want to check his wounds and re-dress them; you want to scream at him; you want to hold him.

“Sit,” you say. He sits on the couch, a little stiffly, and you go to the kitchen, get him a glass of water. You know enough about the kinds of missions he used to go on for the agency to understand more or less what he’s been doing for the last day. “I thought the agency didn’t exist anymore,” you say, returning to him; he takes the water gratefully and drinks it all, a little too fast.

“It doesn’t,” he says. “This was, um. Somebody Vanderwood owed a favor to. I think they just want…a clean slate.”

“And?” You perch on your knees beside him. You don’t have to forgive him, but you do have to see what’s going on with his shoulder. He flinches, inhaling sharply, as your fingers graze the bandage.

“It’s done,” he says hoarsely. He hesitantly takes your hand off his arm and clutches it tightly in his own. “I’m—I’m really sorry I lied to you,” he stammers. “I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” You slip your hand out of his grasp, return to the bandages. He tries his best to sit still as you unwrap them. Vanderwood was right—the wound is already healing. You’ve seen him with much, much worse. 

You leave him again, gather the supples you need. When you’d first moved into the bunker, it was bare—he had no food to speak of, minimal personal possessions. Even then, though, he had first aid supplies: enough to stock several small hospitals.

You sit cross-legged on the couch, and he’s quiet as you clean the deep cuts in his shoulder and arm, as you wrap them with fresh bandages. You don’t ask how he got these particular injuries, and he doesn’t volunteer the information.

Finally, you stand, eyeing your work. You’ve done a pretty good job.

“Now take off your clothes.”

His eyes, which had been half-lidded as you worked—he’s exhausted, you can see it written in every line on his face—shoot open. Wide open. He laughs nervously.

“Umm, d-does that mean you forgive me?”

He’s blushing. Oh god.

“Of course not,” you say, too loudly. The back of your neck feels hot. “I need to see where else you’re hurt, idiot.”

“R-right.” He looks crestfallen and you almost laugh, almost bend down and press a searing kiss to his cute lips, dry and cracked as they are. But you don’t.

“I’m serious.”

He gulps and tugs off his shirt. It gets stuck on his head due to a combination of his bandaged shoulder and the one roughly torn-off sleeve. He struggles a little and it’s so adorable and sad that you can’t stand it, so you help him.

“Thanks,” he says in a low voice. The shirt is off.

“Shit, Saeyoung…”

His shoulder is the worst of it, but there are little cuts and bruises everywhere. A dark bruise, already purpling, runs up his side. You touch it as gently as you can and he shivers.

“Does it hurt?”

“N-not exactly…”

You feel his eyes boring into you and when you look up you can’t help but shudder—there’s a very familiar dazed, needy look on his face.

“Babe, not right now…!” The pet name slips out before you can stop yourself. You feel yourself melting a little, scorched by his gaze.

“I’m so sorry I lied,” he whispers and he makes his voice sound husky in a way he knows always sends a shiver up your spine. “I won’t do it again.”

Oh god.

Tentatively, he runs one hand down your side, skating over your hip. Fuck.

“Will you promise me never to do that again?” you ask him, trying to keep your voice stern—but it still comes out breathy and desperate. 

“I swear,” he says. He’s getting more confident, bolstered by the yearning you can’t keep out of your voice. God, how you’d missed him. His slips his hand under your shirt, skating up your ribcage. You let him.

“What do you swear?” you ask. He takes your hips in both hands then and tugs you roughly onto his lap. You wriggle, straddling him, and he gasps, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.

“T-to never lie to you again,” he says. His hips are shaking. “To not do stuff that might get me killed anymore.”

“Even if Vanderwood asks you to?” He moans softly as you grind your hips against him; realizing you have all the power, you fumble with the button of his pants—unhook it, undo the zipper.

“No matter who asks m-me—ahhhh.”

You palm him through his boxers and he moans, wriggling beneath you. You take his good hand in yours and guide it to your leg, up your thigh, under your skirt, around your hip. You brush a hand over him again, feeling the way he’s straining against his underwear.

“And you’re really, really, really sorry?” you ask. You grind your hips against his erection and he mumbles something incoherent. He’s got a death grip on your thigh.

“What was that?”

“I-I…yeah, I…d-don’t know what else to say…” he mutters. You flutter your hips back and forth and feel his legs shuddering beneath you.

“Then don’t,” you say firmly. “Just touch me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His hand springs to action, trailing up your inner thigh and ghosting over your already-wet underwear.

“Don’t tease me right now,” you say. He audibly gulps and then moves one calloused finger over your clit, through your underwear. You see sparks and your vision goes blurry. There’s a burning heat inside of you now—you feel swollen and needy.

He flicks his finger over you again, falling into a rhythm. He’s gentle yet persistent. You scrunch your eyes shut and fireworks burst behind your closed eyelids and you have to grab the couch for purchase, avoiding his hurt shoulder. Your toes curl.

“Goddammit, Saeyoung…!” you whimper, and he moves faster, stirring the burning, blinding feeling inside you. You can’t help the way your hips are shaking and you can tell it’s driving him mad, too; he moans, deep and low, as you brush against his trapped erection again, and the sweet sound tears you open.

It’s as if you’re floating just above your body, watching from outside yourself. You feel the warm ocean of sensations cascading around you; you see yourself from above as your eyes fly open, your arms trembling, barely holding you up as you crest into him.

The feeling recedes in bits and pieces, trickling away, and you pant as you come down.

“Th-that was so hot,” he whispers. His eyes are dark, his pupils huge; through both of your underwear, you feel him twitch.

“I’ve never come quite like that before,” you murmur, inches from his lips; and then you kiss him, searing hot like the longing you felt when he was gone, hard like the way you wanted to hit him when you saw he’d gotten himself hurt again.

There’s a moment—a brief, flickering moment—when you think about sliding off his lap and walking away, leaving him trembling and desperate. You could.

But you want to feel him inside you too badly—want to see the look of utter relief and release on his sweet, bruised face.

You slip from his lap and tear your underwear off, not bothering with the rest of your clothes. He gazes up at you, adoringly, as if waiting for confirmation that you’re going to allow him the satisfaction he so desperately craves.

You bend over him and slip his boxers down; he sighs with relief as he springs free of the constraining fabric.

“Stay still.”

You straddle him again and brush against his tip, just barely touching. Another little spark bursts behind your eyes.

“P-please…” he whispers, and you see he’s long gone already; he looks almost drunk, his eyes unfocused.

So you oblige him. You slide onto him, sinking him deep into you, and moans a string of incoherent syllables. You lift up your hips, using the couch for support, avoiding his hurt arm, the cuts on his chest.

He’s unraveling before your eyes and it’s beautiful to watch. You slide your hips up and back, down and forward, slowly and then faster, faster, and he whimpers, and you feel a little shudder deep inside you as he thrusts back against, pushing himself deeper. He’s gasping for air and you clench your thighs around his hips and take control again, moving in a figure-eight, excruciatingly slow. 

He groans and suddenly his arm is around your waist and, in an instant, you’re on your back on the couch, his face hovering over yours. Then he’s inside you again and the thrill of the moment gets to you and you moan along with him, clutching desperately at the fabric of the couch.

“S-Saeyoung, your arm—” you gasp. He holds up his injured arm and wiggles it in the air, showing you that it’s safe, and you laugh, clenching as he thrusts into you, and he’s completely undone.

He closes his eyes as he comes, head thrown back, and you skate your fingers over the exposed skin of his neck.

Eventually, he stills, panting—he lowers himself, collapsing against your chest. You wrap your arms all the way around him and nuzzle your face into his hair.

“So,” you say softly. “Was that your way of distracting me from scolding you?” He opens one golden eye and peers up at you.

“Did it work?”

“Saeyoung!”

“Ahhh! Sorry!”

You playfully bat at him and he rolls off of you, pulling himself up, running a hand through his sweaty, messy hair. His eyes are clear now.

“You can’t use sex to get me to forgive you whenever you do something bad, you know,” you tell him.

He waggles his eyebrows at you. “Can’t I?” 

“No!”

“I know.” He sounds serious now, and he carefully knees beside you, taking your hand. “I am genuinely sorry I lied to you,” he says, his voice soft but firm. “I am sorry I got myself in another dangerous situation and made you worry. I promise not to do it again.”

“Good,” you say. You press little kisses to each of his calloused fingertips. “Now go change and get emotionally prepared because Saeran’s going to be home soon and he’ll be even madder at you than I was.”

Saeyoung yelps, shoots up from the couch, winces, and stumbles to the bedroom, pants still bunched around his thighs.

You notice him self-consciously take his left hand from the wheel and run it through his tousled hair. It’s a nervous habit of his—even after living with him for just a short time, you’ve found yourself particularly well-attuned to all his quirks.

“Is something wrong?” you ask. You sit up straight now, peering through the windshield. The sun is starting to set, but it’s too early to stop for the night.

“Huh? No, that’s not—no.” Finally, he does touch you, letting one hand drift over to brush against your waist. It sends tingles up and down your spine.

You remember the way he kissed you that morning, before starting to drive for the day—his lips soft and earnest, his clumsy kisses growing more desperate as he pressed his body flush against yours. He always touches you this way—hesitant at first, always afraid it will be too much for you, too much for him—then more forcefully, as if he’s battling with his restraint and losing.

You remember the way he looked at you this afternoon when he thought you were sleeping in the passenger seat, the little moan that escaped his throat when you leaned over and nipped at his earlobe…

“We’re just making a, uhh—quick stop,” he stutters, tugging you back to reality.

You bite your lip, willing away the heat that’s begun to build within you.

Right. Get it together.

We’re on a rescue mission, not a sex vacation.

Your own cheeks color at the thought.

Not that we’ve—not that he’d want to—

Saeyoung turns the car abruptly and pulls into a parking lot you hadn’t even seen coming.

“That came out of nowhere!” you say, startled by the sudden intrusion of civilization. It has just been the two of you for so many hours—so many days—that you’ve almost forgotten about the world that has other people in it.

He taps the side of his head, grinning impishly. “A spaceman always knows where to find fuel,” he says. When you roll your eyes, he adds, “Plus, it was on the GPS.”

You laugh, and are relieved to find you can. Somehow, even knowing where you’re going, and what awaits you there—it’s easy to laugh, with Saeyoung beside you.

“Stretch your legs for a bit,” he says, putting the car in park. His red sports car is definitely conspicuous in the empty parking lot, in front of what seems to be a run-down convenience store. “I’ll be right back. He hops out of the car, moving with surprising ease for someone who’s been sitting and driving for hours. But you’re used to it by now—the stark contrast between the hacker who can sit still for days at a time and the agent who can spring into action at a millisecond’s notice. That’s just Saeyoung, you think, not without a touch of pride.

You open your own door, thinking to take him up on his suggestion to stretch and get some fresh air. Luxury car it may be, but it’s still not designed for an entire day of sitting—and you’re not one for sitting still to begin with. You lift your arms above your head, enjoying the way the cool evening air tickles your sides. Saeyoung is already off—you watch his distinctive red head bobbing off in the direction of the convenience store.

A convenience store…

Your curiosity returns. The two of you have enough food packed for several more days, including plenty of snacks. The schedule you’ve been keeping in order to catch up to Saeran and Vanderwood doesn’t generally allow for lots of mid-day breaks. You can’t think of any supplies you need that you don’t already have.

You ponder his blush, his awkwardness. Secrets are right up Saeyoung’s alley, but now—he’s been so honest with you recently, so upfront. He doesn’t have anything left to hide. So why…?

Curiosity getting the better of you, you stride toward the store, keeping your footsteps light. Secret agent he may be, but if anyone can sneak up on him, it’s definitely you—all the times you managed to startle him back at the apartment were proof enough of that.

The convenience store isn’t much to look at: the windows are dirty and adorned with half-peeled posters advertising out-of-date discounts. You press yourself against one of these, peering through the smudged class. You can just make out his messy red hair moving through the aisles, pausing in one. You watch him deliberate, pacing back and forth.

For a moment, you consider following him into the store—but he’d surely hear you then, and it’d be just like him to abandon whatever quest he’s on out of embarrassment. No: snooping from outside is certainly the best way.

After what feels like several minutes of hesitation, he suddenly grabs something from a shelf and makes his way to the register. Your curiosity intensifies. What could he possibly feel so uncomfortable buying…? 

…

Oh.

OH.

Your face flushes bright red. It couldn’t be. And yet… Your toes tingle.

You’re so carried away by your own thoughts that you’re taken totally aback when something warm presses against you from behind, long fingers curling around your waist. 

“Eep!” you squeal, startling and nearly hitting your head on the glass window. His other hand instantly slides to your forehead, protecting you. “S-Saeyoung?”

He spins you around and suddenly you’re nose to nose, your back against the convenience store window, your body feeling feverish in his arms.

There’s a pause in which the expression in his golden eyes is so intense you find yourself speechless. Then he grins.

“Spying, are we?” he teases, lifting a finger to gently tap your nose.

“You were being suspicious!” you counter, glaring into his molten eyes. It’s his turn to flush.

“I’m a hacker. Being suspicious is kind of my whole thing,” he says, and winks. You notice he hasn’t moved a muscle—his arms are still around your waist, one hand on the small of your back, almost grazing your butt. You find yourself frantically wishing he’d lower it, wishing he’d squeeze your butt and then press you harder into the glass, biting your neck and—

Ahhhh.

“Gimme that bag!” you cry, taking even yourself by surprise. You disentangle yourself from him abruptly, reaching for his back pocket where you know he’s stuffed the bag from the store. Once again, a few days of living together has given you enough clues—you know where he puts things so you won’t take them. But you’re bolder now.

“Noooo!” he yelps, taking off across the parking lot. You laugh, sprinting after him.

“Saeyoung Choi! Give me that bag!” You’re pretty fast, but he’s much faster. He darts into the tall grass that surrounds the parking lot. You know you can’t catch him—but you do have a secret weapon. It may not be fair—but all’s fair in love and war, you think stubbornly.

“Ow!” you yell, plopping down on the concrete.

He’s on you in an instant, all pretense of the chase forgotten, on his knees before you can even register what’s happened. His eyes are dark as he scans your body frantically for any sign that you are hurt. You almost feel guilty. Almost.

“What’s wrong?”

He brushes his hand up your leg, searching for an injury that isn’t there.

“Ha!” In one motion, you reach behind him, grazing his butt as you pull the plastic bag from his pocket. “Hahaha!” you sing again as you turn the bag upside down, spilling out the contents before he has a chance to snatch it back.

“Whaaaaat? You—” Saeyoung gasps. His hand shoots out and you tackle him, knowing he won’t resist you as you tumble onto his chest. He wraps his arms around you, nuzzling his face into your hair. You twist sideways and can just make out the box on the ground beside you.

Ah-ha.

Abruptly, Saeyoung sits up and gently lifts you off him—all while trying to sneakily sweep his purchase into the safety of his hoodie.

But it’s too late.

You’re a little embarrassed, a little guilty for tricking him—but most of all, there’s a distinct feeling of satisfaction that settles in your heart.

“Saeyoung, you bought…?”

He turns to you, and his cheeks are as red as you imagine your own to be.

“Did you see?” he mutters, eyes downcast. You nod. “I-it’s not…!” He meets your eyes, and he’s so earnest, so awkward, so delightfully scared, that you can’t help but take pity on him. “I-it’s not that I was assuming anything, o-or even hoping, I mean, I wouldn’t even think to…!”

You have to stop him then, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to his lips. You feel the heat radiating off him, and all his muscles are tense with anxiety. You cup his cheek with one hand and deepen the kiss; he melts into you.

When you pull away, your breath is coming quickly, and you can feel his heart pounding through his hoodie.

“It’s okay if you were assuming,” you say softly.

He splutters for a moment, cheeks hot, pupils blown. 

His hand tightly clutches the box of condoms concealed in his jacket.

“I-I really wasn’t… I didn’t mean to…” He catches his breath. “Just in case,” he whispers.

You feel the grin spreading across your face. You put a hand on his chest, right over his rapidly beating heart. His fingers ghost over your shoulder and neck, tentatively, questioningly. You press another firm kiss to his lips.

“Just in case,” you repeat. 

You know you’ve got to get back in the car, got to drive till after the sun has set, got to watch the little dot on his makeshift tracking devise until your eyes get tired. But eventually, you’ll stop. Eventually, you’ll rest. You’ll spend the night together. And when you do—

“I wanted us to be ready for anything,” he whispers against your lips, more confidently than before.

You laugh quietly. “I don’t think it’s just a me thing. I know other people who like the beach at night.”

He raises his eyebrows.

"Who else are you bringing to the beach at night?” he asks. It’s not an accusation—his tone is playful.

You roll up your pant legs and wiggle your feet into the sand, letting the surf drift over your toes. It’s cold, but not too cold. Saeyoung copies you, yelping as the water hits his ankles.

“Oh, I bring everyone here!” you chirp, splashing a little farther into the water. “Your brother. The whole RFA. Vanderwood. You know.”

Suddenly, a mini wave rushes over your ankles and you spin around. Saeyoung is grinning; he kicks at the sand again and the water splashes around your feet.

“I don’t even wanna think about that!” he says. He moves toward you, leaving a trail of ripples behind him in the water. He’s still only in ankle-deep. “Don’t take other people to the beach at night!”

You laugh, spinning in a circle, loving way the water tugs gently at your ankles. The bottom of your cuffed pants is getting wet now, but you don’t really care.

“I solemnly swear to only have night beach time with Choi Saeyoung from now on,” you say, imitating his tone of voice. You offer him a pinky. He takes it—then lunges forward, pulling you into his arms and squeezing you so tightly that your feet leave the ground.

“You are so cute that I can’t stand it,” he squeals. He wiggles back and forth and the tips of your toes graze the cool water.

“Saeyoung! Put me down!” Your voice comes out breathless. He hoists you up higher in his arms.

“Noooo.”

“Saeyoung!”

He rocks you back and forth, cackling, planting little kisses along your hairline. You see the wave coming before he does—he’s not paying attention, of course, new to the ocean, wrapped up in teasing you. You open your mouth to warn him and he kisses you instead, lips slightly parted. Oh, screw it, you think, and wrap your arms around his neck.

The wave hits you—just as you knew it would—and Saeyoung loses his footing—just as you knew he would. You yelp as you fall; his agent reflexes kick in and he twists, catching himself with an arm so he falls slightly more gracefully. He keeps his other arm around your waist, cushioning you, pulling you on top of him into the frothy shallows.

“We fell!” He sounds almost gleeful. He doesn’t get up, letting the tide wash over him. He’s soaked—the water almost reaches his ears as he lies all the way down.

“I told you,” you gasp into his neck. He cradles you against him and you give in, accepting the water seeping into your clothes. It’s bracing, but not terrible. His chest and arms are warm.

He giggles. “Is this what you do with all those other people on the beach at night?”

You waggle your eyebrows at him, snuggling into his chest (because why not?), feeling the tide lapping at your legs. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Ever-so-gently, he combs a hand through your damp hair and pulls your face down to his. He ghosts his lips over yours, and you kiss him back enthusiastically, darting your tongue out to graze his bottom lip. His lips are salty and a little sandy and you take his bottom lip between your teeth, pushing him deeper into the bubbly water and the cool, wet sand.

This time neither one of you sees the wave coming. It hits suddenly, breaking over your entwined bodies and splashing you in the face.

“Gah!” Saeyoung splutters, trying to shield your face from the spray and sit up at the same time.

“This is your fault!” you cry, gasping for air, torn between annoyance and laughter. 

Saeyoung scoops you up in his arms like a baby and leaps up, sending water cascading in all directions. Laughter wins out, of course.

“Ahhhhhh!” He yells a battle cry as he charges for the dry sand, clutching you to his chest. You can only cling to him and laugh, the seawater dripping from your hair onto your face and off your nose.

He collapses on the beach, panting and laughing, and you try to disentangle your limbs from his.

“Never done that before, have you?” you ask, tossing your soaked hair out of your eyes. He jumps to his feet—there’s seaweed sticking to his forehead.

“You know what else I haven’t done before?!” he sings, abruptly taking off down the beach.

“What?” you call to him. You try and ring out your shirt, but it’s a lost cause. The air is warm, so you decide you don’t mind.

Saeyoung doesn’t answer, but sprints back toward you, a long piece of driftwood in his hand. He takes big, purposeful steps as he starts to draw in the sand—huge, as if he’s trying to be make something that can be seen from space. 

And he is, you think. He always is.

He draws the hangul quickly but neatly and you scramble to your feet to take in his work. His writing is clear, cut deeply into the sand. A grin spreads across your face when you realize what he’s doing.

He’s written “Saeyoung and” already and he’s started on your name. You watch him in silence, your hair and clothes dripping onto the sand. He finishes your name and walks a huge circle around the writing, carving a big, slightly lopsided heart. He looks really focused—adorable, you think.

He pulls back at last, dropping the stick on the ground. He turns to you, eyes shining.

“Do you like it?”

You beam at him, taking it all in: the childlike gesture, the eager expression on his face.

“It’s beautiful, babe,” you tell him. He skips to your side and you take his arm with both hands and wrap it around your shoulders. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Mmm?” he hums into your hair. There’s still seaweed on his face and you’re sure your hair smells like salt and dirt.

“When did you stop going by your name?”

He pulls back a little, looking you in the eye. You watch the expressions dance over his face: he’s puzzled at first, then his eyes harden a little. You feel sort of bad for asking.

“When I was told everyone would be safer if I wasn’t me anymore.”

You know who he means by “everyone," of course. His eyes are dark and you hate yourself for making him remember this time.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, brushing his lips sandy lips with your fingertip. “I should’ve have said it.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay.” And, fixing you with a pointed stare: “Really. I don’t mind.” He brushes your hair back, wipes the salt from your forehead. “I was Luciel because it was best if the people I loved didn’t know Saeyoung. And I was 707 because I was told to become him.”

“I love them all, you know,” you say. The corners of his lips twitch up; the starlight is back in his eyes.

“Ask me when I first thought I wanted to be Saeyoung again,” he says.

“When?” you ask. You turn your body so you’re fully facing him and he wraps his arms around your waist.

“The day I met you,” he says. You raise your eyebrows.

“The day you came to the apartment?” “No. The day you came into the messenger.”

You pull back a little, eyeing him for any indication that he’s teasing you. His face says dead serious.

“You barely knew me! You thought I was an enemy hacker!”

Saeyoung shrugs, his hands traveling over your waist, up your sides. It tickles, but in a good way. “Can’t tell you how I knew,” he says. “I honestly hadn’t thought about my real name in ages. It just…popped into my mind that day. That I might want somebody to know me by my name.”

You launch yourself at him, kissing him fiercely, taking him by surprise.

“Mmph!” he says against your mouth. You laugh and it’s like a gear switches in his brain and he kisses you back just as enthusiastically, his hands roaming up and down your sides.

You pull back a tiny bit, sandy lips just brushing his.

“Maybe it’s obvious, but I’m glad you’re Saeyoung,” you whisper. He giggles as your breath tickles his lips.

He’s keeping it together, more or less. You’re as bright as ever, finding things around the house for him to fix, trying to keep his hands and mind busy. He knows it’s been hard on you, too—knows that the role of caretaker is taking a toll. He’s been thinking of ways he can make it up to you, when it’s all over.

Now, you’ve gone to shower (only after repeated assurances from him that he will be fine being left alone for half an hour or so). He hates himself for relying on you so heavily; he’s weak, he thinks—Saeran has figured out how to cope. Why can’t he?

Alone in his huge living room with only the footage of his father’s trial to keep him company, Saeyoung finds himself frozen on the couch, the robot vacuum cleaner he’d been re-wiring forgotten beside him. His vision is hazy—he’s not sure how long he’s been staring at the TV screen without really seeing it.

And his face is numb. This surprises and frightens him a little. He twitches his nose, wiggles his eyebrows—they’re there, but it feels like his nerve endings have been cut off. It reminds him of the times the agency gave him high doses of narcotics when he was injured so he could keep working without having to take a break. Those time, he’d felt like his head was floating a foot above his throat. This time the numbness seeps down into his neck like frigid fingers tracing his veins.

There’s definitely something wrong with his vision, too. It’s a little like his head’s been wrapped in saran wrap—the rest of the room looks far away. This is a familiar sensation, too: he’s had his airflow cut off or severely limited before, and he knows what happens just before losing consciousness.

But he doesn’t feel like he’s going to pass out. He’s been breathing, he thinks—he has! He wiggles his fingers and toes—which, thankfully, still feel warm and alive—and tries to take a deep breath. The strangest part of all this, he thinks, is that he was actually feeling okay, just a moment ago. The sense of overwhelming doom that’s been enveloping him after since the start of the trial has faded into the distance, along with his ability to feel his ears.

Okay. He knows how to do this. He knows what a near-death situation feels like, and it feels like this. And he knows how to cope with that. He tries stretching out his arms, and is unpleasantly surprised to find that the numbness is spreading over his shoulders. He tries again to take a deep breath, but it gets cut off in his throat.

Somewhere very far away, through the persistent buzzing in his ears, he hears his father’s voice booming out of the TV again. Turn down the volume, he thinks frantically. If it gets any louder it’ll kill me.

He reaches for the remote but finds he can’t remember how to turn the volume down. The buttons are blurring together, a confusing blob of colors and shapes that he can’t figure out.

Huh, he thinks, somewhat calmly. Maybe this has nothing to do with the trial. Maybe I’m just having a heart attack.

Pins and needles shoot up and down his arms, which seem to confirm his theory. He can hear his heart now, and he’s surprised by how fast it’s pounding—he’d had no idea. He tries to swallow and finds he can’t can’t; his head is spinning and he lowers it clumsily into his hands, which is when he discovers that he’s crying.

What? He still feels nothing—no grief, no anxiety. Just the vague certainty that he’s dying. He doesn’t understand why is face is wet, as if tears have been pouring out of his eyes for some time. For how long…?

His head continues to spin, and he finds he can’t sit upright anymore. He curls himself into the couch, feeling nauseous—he wonders if he’s been poisoned. He knows it doesn’t make sense, knows he hasn’t seen anyone but you and his brother for days, but…but…

The cold fingers reach his chest, and he thinks, no, not poison, but it’s as if he’s been possessed, like his soul is trying to claw its way out of his body. He wraps his arms around himself and scrunches his eyes shut against the bursting, popping lights filling his vision. He waits.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

You find him like that: curled into the fetal position on the couch, his arms wrapped around his middle, his eyes shut, tears pouring down his cheeks.

Oh no.

“Babe… Hey. Hey. Can you hear me?”

Wrapped in a bathrobe, your hair dripping onto your shoulders, you kneel beside him. You’ve seen Saeyoung at his most scared and his most desperate. You’ve soothed him when he’s woken up screaming, when he’s forgotten where he is, overwhelmed by flashbacks of his past. This is a new one, though; luckily, this time it’s something you understand.

“Saeyoung…honey. Can you hear my voice?”

Careful not to touch him, you crouch by his side, talking softly into his ear. What you’re saying doesn’t matter—you just need him to focus on something that’s not inside his own head.

“Ya…I hear—but…I feel really sick, I…” His voice is slurred, but trying to talk is good. You have to breathe when you’re talking.

“Baby, can you do something for me? Can you lift up your arm?”

He shakes his head. He’s hugging himself so tightly you couldn’t unwrap his arms if you tried.

“Please, babe. Just give me one arm. Trust me.”

He shakes his head again, but at the same time he lifts up one arm for you. Immediately, you see his face relax a little, some of his tense muscles triggered to release by the oxygen that’s forced into his body as he moves.

Gently, you take his arm, and stretch it up, then out. He doesn’t resist, so you try shaking it a bit. You hear him take a breath.

“Honey, I know you feel like you have to lie down, but I need you to try sitting up,” you say softly, slipping a hand under his head. His face is wet with tears and sweat, and his hair sticks to his forehead.

“Can’t,” he mumbles in that same slurred voice.

“If it makes you feel worse you can lay back down right away, I promise,” you coax. You scoop his head up with your arm and he tries to help you, using his other arm to prop himself up. “Good job, baby,” you murmur, guiding him into a sitting position. He opens his eyes a tiny bit, wincing at the light, and you see that his pupils are huge in his pale face. You take his other hand. “We’re just gonna move your arms around, okay?” You pull his arms toward you, away from his body. Then you shake them. He mutters something incoherent, but you see a little color returning to his cheeks. “How does that feel?” you ask him, now stretching out his hands, rotating his wrists.

“Funny,” he says, his voice a little clearer. “My body feels like rubber.”

“I know, babe. Hey, look at me?” You place your hands on his shoulders and rub them, and he blinks as if he’s trying to get you into focus. “Can you feel your arms?” you ask. He wriggles them on his own this time and you feel him take another breath.

“Kind of,” he says. He blinks frantically and his eyes focus on you. “Were numb, but…”

“Yeah. Can you try to take another breath for me?” He takes a slow, stuttering breath. It catches in his throat, and he coughs. “You had a panic attack,” you tell him softly. “The more you breathe, the better you’ll start to feel.”

“Never had a panic attack before,” he mutters, trying another shaky breath. “Thought I got poisoned.”

You almost laugh, shaking your head. “Leave it to you to have more experience with getting poisoned than dealing with your anxiety. Can you take another breath for me?”

You count for him, making him inhale for four counts and exhale for eight. A few more tears leak out of the corner of his eye.

“Take three more breaths like that for me, baby. I’m going to get you something. I’ll be back before you’re done.”

You rest his hands in his lap and dart into the kitchen. You hear him taking two unsteady breaths before you return. This time, you sit beside him on the couch.

“I’m gonna put an ice cube against your cheek,” you tell him. “It’s going to feel cold, but it will help you.” You twist the ice cube tray with both hands and catch a cube in a dish towel. Gently, you press it against his cheek, and a shiver runs through his body. Good. As you move it over his face, you feel his neck muscles relax, just a little bit. He closes his eyes again. “Babe, can you try to stand up?” you ask.

“My legs are still kinda numb,” he admits. He sounds a bit more like himself. “I’ll try, though.”

He stands, a little wobbly on his feet, and you rise with him.

“We’re gonna do some jumping jacks—no, seriously, trust me. We’ll do it together. We can just do five.”

You start jumping and, though he looks skeptical, he follows suit. After five, you have him do ten more. Then another ten.

He looks at you with clearer eyes. You can hear that his breath has deepened.

“Wow, that—really helped,” he says.

“Is your face still numb?” you ask him. He shakes his head.

“I still feel a little nauseous and dizzy. But I can feel my nose again.”

You smile. “Good. Let’s get you some water.”

You go to the kitchen again and you hear him moving around, jogging back and forth. He takes the cup you offer him with sure hands, and he sips it carefully.

“Babe? Do you think we could turn the TV off for a little while? Or at least mute it?” you suggest.

“Let’s mute it,” he says. “At least for now.”

Relieved, you take the remote and mute the TV. The sound that’s been pervading the house for the past three days is finally cut off. You take a deep breath, and Saeyoung does, too.

He sits on the floor, facing away from the TV, and you sit in front of him, taking his hands.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Apparently I can’t be left alone even for a few minutes.”

You rub his hands, pleased o feel that they are starting to warm up. His blood is flowing again. “You are a very strong and self-sufficient person, Saeyoung,” you tell him firmly. “It’s normal to have anxiety when your father is on trial—even when is is…who he is. Because of all of that. It is normal to need help in this situation.”

He shakes his head. “I wasn’t even feeling bad when it happened,” he says. “I was feeling better and then suddenly—like, my heart stopped working?”

“That’s normal, too,” you say, wiggling his arms again. He relaxes them, letting you.“You’ve been through this with me before. You know it doesn’t always happen when it makes the most sense.”

He takes another long, slow breath. “I thought I was ready to deal with whatever happened,” he says slowly. “Everything’s playing out exactly how I wanted it to, but…I guess I wasn’t as ready to deal with it as I thought.”

You move closer to him and he leans into you, so you wrap up in your arms, cradling his head against your chest.

“Handling it doesn’t have to look like celebrating. Or feeling calm. Or knowing what you’re supposed to feel or think or do. You are handling it.”

“Uggghhhh.” Saeyoung groans and squeezes you tight. “What would I do without you?”

You run a hand up and down his back, along his spine. “You are much stronger than you give yourself credit for,” you tell him. “You would be fine.

He nuzzles his face against your shoulder. “Maybe so,” he says. “But I’m lucky I never have to find out.”

Over his head, on the TV, you see the trial dragging on. The end is inevitable, you think: whether it’s later tonight, or tomorrow, or next week, Saeyoung’s father is going to lose. The twins are going to be safe. They are going to be free.

But right now, that all feels so far away; right now, the figure who has loomed in Saeyoung’s nightmares ever since he learned to recognize him is everywhere, and Saeyoung feels happy and scared and guilty and relieved all at once.

You brush his sweaty hair off his forehead. In the distance, the security system chimes; Saeran is home.

“It’s going to be okay,” you whisper into Saeyoung’s hair, meaning nothing, meaning everything.

He continues to dwell on it throughout the day. He goes back to his new design (it’s a little robot hippo that reminds you to drink water; Yoosung suggested he market it as the “hydration hippo,” which is one of the reasons he loves Yoosung). He’s unfocused, though; he keeps making silly mistakes and eventually he lays the hippo prototype aside.

Saeyoung thinks back to the night before, tries to remember if he did or said anything that could have hurt you. You had cooked dinner together; he’s sure he annoyed you while trying to help, but that’s not out of the ordinary, and you’d reassured him that his “help” was adorable if not actually useful. Then you’d gone out to the garden together; it’s early fall now, and snow-white buckwheat flowers are blooming all over, glittering among the darker pinks and purples of the other blossoms. You’d laid in his lap and read a book and he’d stroked your hair. Later you’d taken a bath and come to his office to kiss his goodnight.

Of course, there were little things—did it bother you that he stayed up so late working? He thought you didn’t mind it so much now that he was doing work he really loved (and that wasn’t likely to get him killed). Were you upset that you hadn’t gone anywhere or done anything particularly exciting that day? No, that wasn’t like you—you liked going out more than he did, but you liked to stay in, too—and you’d been going out so much more than before over the last few months. Was it the way he said goodnight—was there something in his voice that had made you anxious?

Saeran drifts into the office at one point, dirt on his face and gardening tools in his hand.

“Why are you staring into space? You look kind of dumb,” Saeran says.

Saeyoung smiles because, coming from Saeran, this is a term of endearment.

“Do you think she’s mad at me?” he asks, spinning around in his chair to face his brother. Saeran, of course, doesn’t have to ask who “she” is.

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Ask her.”

“Did she seem sad to you this morning?”

Saeran leans against the door frame. “She seemed a little down, I guess. She made her coffee really slowly.”

“Ugghhhh!” Saeyoung groans, spinning himself all the way around in his chair. “I can’t remember what I did to make her upset!”

Saeran chuckles. “Did it ever occur to you that she could just be having a bad day and it might have nothing to do with you?”

Saeyoung has, in fact, never thought of this.

“Really?” Suddenly, he feels a little bit better. Right. The whole world doesn’t revolve around you, Choi Saeyoung.

“Sometimes people just don’t feel good,” Saeran says slowly, as if speaking to a child. “There doesn’t have to be a reason.”

“Right!!” Saeyoung jumps out of his chair. Okay. This is something he can fix.

“Where are you going?” asks Saeran, sighing as Saeyoung sprints past him.

“I have an idea!” Saeyoung yells over his shoulder, running to the garage.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

When you get home from work several hours later, he is waiting for you there.

You roll down the window of your car as you park it in its designated spot. “Saeyoung? What...are you doing?”

Saeyoung, perched on the hood of your favorite of his cars, beams at you. The inside of the car is lit up, glowing rainbow with fairy lights that he seems to have strung up on every available service.

“Babe, why is your car rainbow?” You put your own car in park and jump out, your bag over your shoulder. You still have that empty, weary look on your face that he noticed in the morning.

“You told me your dream car would look like a unicorn threw up in it. Hop in.”

You walk over a little apprehensively.

“Are we going somewhere...? I’m honestly just hungry and thirsty and I kind of want to lay under a blanket...”

“Done, done, and done.” He throws open the passenger door for you, and he’s relieved to hear you giggle when you see the inside. Not only is the car literally pulsing with every possible color of light, he’s also draped every seat and even the floor with fuzzy blankets. There are thermoses in the cup holder and an array of different kinds of snacks stacked up on the passenger seat.

“Did I miss something?” you ask hesitantly, eyeing the inside of the car (even Saeyoung admits that it looks a little insane). “Is it a holiday of some kind?”

“Nope!” Saeyoung chirps elusively. He waits for you to get in, but you just look at him. For a moment, he wonders if he’s gotten it all wrong. What if you do just want to be left alone? He swiftly decides that he knows you better than that.

He sweeps the pile of snacks onto the floor, takes one of the three blankets that are stacked on the seat, and gently drapes it over your shoulders. “Get in, princess.”

Still with some trepidation—but with a softer look in your eyes, too—you clamber into the extra-cushy seat. Saeyoung skips around to the other side and gets in; as he starts the engine, soft music filters out of the car’s (extremely good, if he does say so himself) speakers.

“This is...”

“It is a playlist I made today based on the music you’ve listened to the most in the past month, and no, I didn’t have to hack your phone to do it!”

He pulls out of the garage and feels your eyes on him.

“Is this car even legal?”

“Babe, is my existence even legal?” He winks at you and you roll your eyes—but he also sees your shoulders relax just a little bit. “It’s fine. There’s not going to be anybody out on the roads we’re taking.”

He’s relieved to see you tuck your legs up under you on the seat; he knows that the more comfortable you’re feeling in a situation, the more weirdly you’ll sit.

He passes the turnoff for the highway and pulls onto a dirt road. You sit quietly, but you do tear open one of the bags of chips he’s set out for you.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask again. He rolls down the windows a little and you perk up; he knows you love the feeling of cool night air on your face.

Saeyoung isn’t sure how to explain this part. Because I want to make you happy every minute of every day? Because I can’t bear seeing you sad?

“You seemed down this morning,” he says finally. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me why. I just thought maybe I could help.”

You exhale loudly. “You noticed that?”

“Of course.” He notices everything about you.

“...sorry,” you say, after a moment. “I feel like I was kind of shitty to you this morning. There wasn’t a good reason for it.”

“You weren’t shitty,” he says quietly.

“No, I kinda was! Listen, it’s not like—there’s nothing wrong. I just. Do you ever wake up in the morning and feel like you want to curl up in a hole for the rest of your life?”

Saeyoung hums. “Yeah.”

“I can’t explain it. I just woke up today feeling like a slug.”

So Saeran was right after all. He usually is.

“You are the most beautiful slug in the universe,” he says. You crack a little smile at that.

“I’m a slug in a super weird car, that’s for sure.”

Saeyoung makes a turn onto a long, winding path, leading into the woods that surround the bunker (he picked it, originally, for this very reason.)

“Check the glove compartment,” he says, and you open it up and then burst out laughing for the first time that day.

“You put a bottle of wine in the glove compartment?”

“For you.” He winks. “There is also tea in these thermoses and I think there’s some juice boxes under the seat.

You’re still giggling. “This is so silly,” you say, through your laughter. “This is the lightest I’ve felt all day.”

Saeyoung turns the car onto an unmarked road and then pulls over.

“Hang on, princess.” He runs to the other side and opens the door for you. Between the two of you, you gather up an armful of snacks and drinks, and he drapes a few more blankets over his shoulder.

“I don’t know why I’m even asking, but where are we?” You curiously peer around at what seems to be a dark, deserted road.

“We’re here!” he says, pointlessly. He leads the way through the trees and it’s only a few minutes before you arrive at a little clearing. The trees are thinner here, and you can see the stars.

“Wow,” you gasp. Saeyoung lays out one of the blankets and unceremoniously deposits a pile of snacks on it.

“Sit,” he says. You do, and he wraps another of the blankets around your shoulders.

“This is so beautiful,” you say. “How did I never know this was here?”

Saeyoung stretches, marveling at the way the starlight catches your hair and eyes. He always thinks your eyes are beautiful, but right now they are positively glowing.

“I found this place one time when I was testing out some of the cars’...features,” he admits to you. “I was waiting to bring you here till the right moment.”

You lay down on the blanket and he lays down beside you; you readjust so your head is on his chest, tucked under his chin.

“Thanks,” you murmur. Your hair tickles his face, but he doesn’t mind. “You made my crappy day into a really good night.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” he says. You look at the stars and he watches the rising and falling of your chest as you breathe. “I would quite literally go to the ends of the universe for you. This is just some snacks and a field on the side of the road.”

Saeyoung tenses up beside you. It’s not the first time that you’ve been to V’s apartment since his death, but it’s been months since Saeyoung and Jumin finished their cursory sorting of the things that remained here. Since the apartment was left to Rika, who was—for numerous reasons—unable to make a decision about it, no one knew quite what to do about it. It was left more or less untouched—though Jumin, it seems, has been returning periodically to go through the stacks and stacks of documents filed neatly in and around V’s desk.

Saeyoung doesn’t say anything, and you bump gently against his side; he interlaces his fingers with yours. You can feel his trepidation in the stiff way he’s standing and the tight grip he has on your hand.

Without any further preamble, Jumin hands Saeyoung a folder. It’s plain, with “Luciel” written across the front in a delicate scrawl that you can only assume is V’s.

Saeyoung grits his teeth and opens the folder. Realization seems to dawn on him immediately.

“This is…”

“Yes.”

Saeyoung tilts the folder toward you so you can see better, and he rifles quickly through the pages, as if he doesn’t want to look at anything too closely. There are printed-out emails and grainy photos and old news articles; one name stands out amidst it all: Choi Saejoong.

“It seems V was putting together evidence that would incriminate him,” Jumin says in a quiet voice. There is a surprising and unfamiliar gentleness in the way he’s speaking to Saeyoung. 

Saeyoung shakes his head. You can feel him consciously slowing his breathing, using the techniques he’s been taught to stay calm under pressure. Still, his hand trembles a little in yours. “Why didn’t he—why didn’t he ever…?”

“This is only speculation,” Jumin says, in that same soft tone. “I imagine he was conflicted about taking any action that might go against Rika’s wishes or—”

“—or implicate her in any way,” Saeyoung finishes, his voice rough. He sets the folder aside and runs a hand over his face. Suddenly, he looks exhausted, beaten down—the way you remember him looking so often in the days and weeks following V’s death.

“Yes.” Jumin nods slowly. “This information is meant for you, not for me. But I did look through it to a certain extent and—for what it’s worth, the documents go all the way up to a few weeks before Jihyun died.”

Saeyoung inhales sharply.

“At any rate, I leave it entirely up to you what you wish to you with this information. If you were to choose to hold onto it or throw it away, I would understand.” Jumin hesitates. He looks down, and then he looks up at Saeyoung. You notice a hardened, confident look in Jumin’s eyes, one you’re sure has earned him the respect of important decision-makers around the world. “On the other hand,” he continues, “if you choose to—disclose this information—I, and C&R, would be behind you.”

Saeyoung is looking at Jumin, and Jumin’s gaze doesn’t waver. Their relationship is strange, you think—though you know Saeyoung has a great deal of respect and admiration for Jumin, he’s rarely relied on him, rarely asked anything of him. Saeyoung, you think, still sees Jumin as V’s best friend, above all else—and naturally, that’s complicated.

Slowly, Saeyoung nods. “I have to think about it,” he says, his voice a little raw. “I have to talk to—”

“Of course.” Jumin moves away a little, straightening his coat. He’s back to normal: brisk, formal. But there was genuine care in the way that he spoke to Saeyoung about the documents, and you’re certain that, beneath it all, Jumin has a fierce love for the RFA—for Saeyoung.

“Thank you, Jumin,” you say. He looks at you with surprise.

“Of course,” he says. “This was never my decision to make. And—” He glances at Saeyoung, who is still staring at the folder in his hands. He looks like he’s far away. “No matter what you decide to do, you should know that—” For a moment, uncertainty flashes in Jumin’s dark eyes, and then they are clear again. “Jihyun was always wishing for your freedom,” he finishes.

Saeyoung doesn’t look up, but his grip on the folder tightens. You know that he wouldn’t ever cry in front of Jumin, never in this room, amidst V’s carefully chosen furniture and piled-up old photographs. But he nods.

“Thanks, hyung,” he whispers. You’re not sure if he’s addressing Jumin or the other man, the one whose presence still seems to fill every corner of this apartment. Maybe it’s both.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

The security system activates.

You drop the manual for the expensive espresso machine you’ve finally decided to learn how to use and peer around the corner at the cameras. You catch a glimpse of a familiar disgruntled face before the doors swing open.

“Vanderwood!” You swiftly cross the bunker to meet them at the door. They’re standing at the threshold, an annoyed expression on their face, an Arabic dictionary in one hand.

“You haven’t gotten tired of him yet, huh?” Vanderwood asks by way of greeting. You beam at them.

“Neither have you,” you reply. Vanderwood grunts and kicks off their shoes. You notice they take a moment to line up not only their own but all the shoes that are lying in a jumbled mess by the door.

“Madam!!!” Saeyoung comes barreling around the corner, tries to skid to a stop, catches himself on the coat rack, and somehow manages to stay upright as coats and scarves cascade to the floor around him.

Vanderwood groans. “I can still leave. It’s not too late for me to just go,” they say, shooting Saeyoung what can only be called a death glare.

“Saeyoung!” You pick up one of the coats and he shoots you a grateful look. Then you smack him with it. “Don't act like an ass just because Vanderwood is here.”

Saeyoung collapses dramatically into his pile of coats.

There’s a quiet chuckle behind you, and Saeran crosses the entryway, peering at the scene with a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

“Hey, little Choi,” says Vanderwood, stepping over the pile of coats-and-Saeyoung to shake Saeran’s hand.

“Hey, weird agent guy,” says Saeran.

“Don’t ignore me!” cries Saeyoung. You throw a scarf at him.

Vanderwood follows Saeran into the living room; they are chatting quietly together. You hear Vanderwood’s barking laugh, and you smile to yourself. It’s been a while since you’ve seen them, but they haven’t changed. They can complain about Saeyoung all they want, but you’ve learned to see right through it: when Saeyoung calls, they show up.

You bend over to peer at your fiancé, who has thrown a coat over his eyes and is loudly pretending to sob. You kiss him on the cheek.

“I love you but if you act like a lunatic I’ll let him tase you.”

Saeyoung runs a hand through his already-messy curls. “I’ll be good,” he says, puckering his lips for a kiss. You roll your eyes and offer him a hand instead; he scrambles to his feet and then darts forward to kiss your eyebrow.

“Do your best,” you say, pulling him by the hand. He follows obediently.

In the living room, Vanderwood and Saeran are already peering at something on Saeran’s laptop. Vanderwood has somehow produced three other computers, which are all open and humming, running some mysterious program or other. Over a year ago, this would’ve been a strange sight to you; nowadays, you are unfazed

Vanderwood glances up at Saeyoung, who is trailing behind you like an acquiescent child.

“Glad to see you’ve still got him under control,” they say. You give them a salute.

“Just doing my job,” you reply. “Sit,” you say to Saeyoung, and he obligingly takes a seat on the couch. Vanderwood barks with laughter again.

“Wish I’d had you around years ago,” they say, shaking their head.

“Me too!” Saeyoung sings, pulling you into his lap and nuzzling his head against your neck. 

“I take it back,” Vanderwood groans.

“I swear he’s a little more normal when you’re not here,” Saeran says, his attention on one of the laptops.

“It’s true! I just get extra excited when my favorite maid is here!” Saeyoung bounces, making the couch shake.

“Why me?” Vanderwood mutters, just loud enough for Saeyoung to hear.

You scramble out of Saeyoung’s lap. “Saeyoung, act regular. Vanderwood, do you want coffee?”

“Please.”

You ruffle Saeyoung’s hair (it’s really all over the place today) and make your way to the kitchen. Leaving the three of them to stare at the laptops (now there are, inexplicably, eight), you return to your espresso machine manual.

。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。。

When you return to the living room, the three of them are talking in hushed, serious tones.

“Wow,” Vanderwood says as you hand them the latte you've (finally) figured out how to make. “Seven-Zero-Seven has an espresso machine now?”

Saeyoung shrugs. He’s more subdued now, his eyes on one of the computer screens.

“She wanted it, so I got it,” he says offhandedly. 

“Seriously, spending time here is almost bearable now.” Vanderwood gratefully accepts the drink from you and you slip back onto the couch beside Saeyoung, peering at his screen. You know what they’re doing, in theory, though the numbers on the computer mean nothing to you.

“This feels too easy,” Saeran says. He’s hunched over another computer, sitting cross-legged on the floor. The now-familiar files from V’s apartment are strewn around him on the ground.

“It is easy,” Vanderwood replies. “Taking down bigwig types? This is—was—literally our job.”

Saeyoung vaguely nods. He’s fiddling with the frayed hem of his sweatshirt. “Actually putting it all out there is no problem. If he had any leverage against us, that’d be one thing. But now, with no agency, no Mint Eye…” Saeran flinches. “…he’s got nothing on us. Actually doing the job isn’t the part I’m worried about.”

Vanderwood leans back on the couch, stretching. “If you’re so worried about the whole world knowing about all this, why’re we doing it?” they ask. “Seems like he’s basically given up tracking the two of you down. You could’ve waited it out. You’re safe in this crazy bunker-house.”

For a moment, it’s quiet. The twins look at each other. Saeran looks down.

“I spent a long time under the ‘protection’ of people who said I’d be safe. It didn’t end great,” he spits out bitterly. Saeyoung twitches, as if he almost went to his brother’s side but thought better of it. You nudge him with your shoulder and he leans into you just a little, sighing.

“I do have mixed feelings about this all being in the open,” Saeyoung says. “He deserves whatever he gets, but—”

“—we’re doing exactly what he always said we would do,” Saeran finishes. “I hate that.” His red hair, softer and thinner than Saeyoung’s, hangs over his face, casting his eyes into shadow.

“Listen, we destroyed lives of people who deserved it a whole lot less,” Vanderwood cuts in, looking back and forth between the twins. “This guy is—from what I read, he’s a real monster.”

“I don’t even care about that part anymore,” Saeran mutters. For once, he’s just wearing a t-shirt, and the bottom-half of his tattoo is visible, peeking out from under his sleeve.

“Yeah,” Saeyoung adds, his attention on his twin. “It’s not a vengeance thing. And I mean—you’re right. We could live underground like this forever, and probably be safe from him as long as we don’t try to go out in the world or use our real names or anything.”

Saeran nods slowly. You notice that your shoulders have tensed up, and you try to focus on releasing them. If it were up to you, you’d have made chasing down and punishing the twins’ dad first priority. But—as Jumin said—it’s not up to you.

Saeyoung peeks at you out of the corner of his eye and you know he’s reading your thoughts on your face. He turns back to Vanderwood.

“I still want to do it, though,” he says firmly. “Because…I want to move someplace where we can have windows. And an even bigger garden. I want my fiancé to be able to have friends over without them almost getting bombed by my stupid security system. I want to use my real name when I get married. I want…” He clears his throat a little awkwardly. Vanderwood watches him intensely, unblinking. “I want to live like a human being,” he finishes.

No one says anything. Saeran is still looking down at the carpet. Vanderwood taps a finger thoughtfully on the table. If anybody understands what Saeyoung means, you think, it’s Vanderwood. 

Agents can’t have families, they told you once, when the four of you—the same four of you that are sitting around in your warm and well-lit living room right now, you realize with a jolt—were holed up in the middle of nowhere, hurt, misled, in the midst of a war. Agents don’t get names, or friends, or things they like and dislike. That’s just not part of it.

One of the laptops beeps, breaking the silence. “It’s ready,” Vanderwood says softly. “Just say the word and it’s done.”

You look at Saeyoung, who looks at Saeran. Saeran stares at the floor for a long moment; finally, he looks back at his brother, and his mint eyes are clear and sure.

“Do it,” he says.

Saeyoung grabs your hand and squeezes it and, without hesitation, Vanderwood hits a key. The computer hums.

“There’s no guarantee—“ they say, as if the twins don’t already know.

“Whatever happens, we can handle it,” Saeyoung says decisively. He stands and stretches, and then he puts a hand on Vanderwood’s shoulder; Vanderwood flinches as if expecting an electric shock. “Don’t freak,” Saeyoung says, with a lopsided smile. “I just—um. Thanks.”

Vanderwood doesn’t meet his eyes, but you swear you see the corners of their mouth twitch upward.