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When you pulled into the driveway, you lingered behind the wheel, heart hammering as you tried to figure out how to tell him.

What you didn’t know was that Jiyong was already watching from the living room window, chewing at his nails. Why were you still sitting there? Had the doctor told you? Had he been wrong? Maybe you weren’t pregnant after all. Maybe he’d gotten his hopes up too soon. Or worse—maybe something was wrong.

He forced himself to stay put, to give you your time, even as anxiety brewed in his chest. The second he saw your car door open, he bolted back to the couch, flicked on the TV, and grabbed his phone—trying to look casual, as if he hadn’t been pacing the house all morning.

His leg bounced as he heard the key turn in the lock. When the door opened, he looked up with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Hey, baby. How was the doctor?”

“It was… fine.” You forced a smile. You would tell him. Just not yet.

His face fell just slightly. What weren’t you saying? Was there anything to say?

“Everything okay?” He asked, standing now, needing to be close to you.

“Yeah, everything’s great, Ji. I’m just hungry.”

Relief flickered across his face. “What do you feel like? I’ll start cooking.”

You hesitated, watching him—thinking about how he’d been lately. The late-night foot rubs. The way he cooked dinner without you asking. The way he’d begged to go to the doctor with you. He fucking knew. Somehow, he already knew.

“I want sushi,” you said finally.

Jiyong froze, his expression betraying him for just a split second. “Sushi? A-are you sure?”

“Yeah,” you said breezily. “I’m craving something good. Some raw sushi. Can you make it for me, baby? Pleeeease?” You batted your lashes, exaggerating your pout.

His eyes narrowed. You never begged. Not outside the bedroom, anyway.

“What do you know?” he asked carefully.

You tilted your head, throwing the words back at him. “What do you know?”

The silence stretched, heavy with everything unspoken.

“Y/n…” His voice dropped. “Are you?”

A smile spread across your face as you dug into your bag. With trembling hands, you pulled out the ultrasound photos the doctor had handed you and held them out to Jiyong. “Is this why you were so desperate to come with me today?”

His breath caught. “Oh my God…” he whispered, voice shaky as he carefully took the photos from you, staring at the grainy black-and-white images like they were the most precious thing he’d ever seen. “It’s real… You’re really pregnant?” His eyes shimmered with unshed tears.

“No thanks to you,” you teased, smirking through your own wave of emotions. “So that’s why you’ve been so clingy lately? How the hell did you know before me?”

A soft laugh escaped him, shaky but genuine. “You’ve been complaining about your boobs for weeks. And yeah… they are definitely bigger.” He shot you a cheeky grin. “Plus, you’ve been extra mean to me lately, so I knew something was up.”

You giggled, shaking your head at how well he knew you.

“And,” he added, lifting his brows, “I bought you a box of tampons three months ago, and they’re still sitting unopened under the sink. That’s when I really knew.”

You bit your lip, smiling warmly as you leaned closer. “Well, congratulations, G-Daddy.”

That was all it took. He crossed the space between you in a heartbeat, pulling you into his arms. You gave a half-hearted protest, but melted against him instantly, soaking in the warmth of his embrace.

“I know you hate physical touch,” he murmured against your hair, voice thick with emotion, “but I love you so damn much. Thank you.”

“I love you too, Ji.” You grinned, resting your chin against his chest. “And for the record, I don’t totally hate it. After all, it did get me pregnant, didn’t it?”

That earned a real laugh from both of you, the tension breaking.

“Wanna go do some more of that physical touching then?” he teased, eyes glinting.

You arched a brow. “I’m still hungry. Can we do it in the kitchen?”

His grin widened wickedly. “You bet your ass we can.”

Before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly onto the counter, pressing his mouth hungrily to yours, laughter and heat spilling between you.

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The others groaned, but Jiyong didn’t care. His thoughts had already drifted back to you. The way your voice sounded on late-night calls. The blurry selfies you’d send when you missed him. The scent of your shampoo lingering on his clothes when he unpacked.

Seunghyun rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. Jiyong had been with you for six months, but he talked about you like he’d loved you for years. And maybe he had—just hadn’t met you yet. Seunghyun had seen Jiyong fall hard before, but this was different. You weren’t just some pretty distraction. You grounded him. Balanced out the chaos in his head.

He nudged Jiyong with his knee. “So what’s the plan, lover boy?”

Jiyong looked at them all with the fire of a man on a mission. “Drink with the Irish!”

-

The bar they stumbled into wasn’t the kind of place that catered to tourists. It was tucked on a side street, warm and dim, filled with heavy wooden tables, worn leather stools, and an old jukebox humming in the corner. Locals filled every seat, pints in hand, shouting over traditional music that played on a loop. It smelled like aged wood, beer, and something hearty simmering in the back.

Perfect.

No one recognized them, not really—not the older patrons, anyway. The bartender, a gruff older man with thick hands and a thick accent, didn’t flinch when Jiyong ordered a round of whiskey for the table. If anything, he seemed to appreciate the enthusiasm.

They downed their shots, the Jameson burning pleasantly down their throats, and the laughter came easily. They recounted ridiculous moments from the tour—wardrobe malfunctions, mic failures, Jiyong tripping over a stage monitor in Berlin and somehow turning it into a dance move. Every story spun them further into a haze of warmth and nostalgia.

Seunghyun sat back, watching his best friend with quiet amusement. Jiyong’s cheeks were pink now, and his eyes had gone soft and unfocused—not from the alcohol alone, but from the way he kept slipping your name into every other sentence.

“Y/n would love this bar,” he murmured at one point, twirling his glass by the rim. “She always says divey places have better energy. She’d probably be talking to that old couple over there by now. She just… connects with people like that.”

A fond smile curved his lips as he stared at nothing in particular. “I’ve been counting down the days to see her. She sent me this stupid video this morning—just her brushing her teeth and humming our song. But it made my whole day. Like, fuck the sold-out show. I just want to hear her laugh in person again.”

Daesung chuckled. “You’re so gone, man.”

“I am,” Jiyong said without shame, lifting his glass. “I’m fucking gone for her.”

-

Eventually, the whiskey had found its way into every vein, numbing limbs and loosening tongues. The bar had emptied slightly, the once-rowdy crowd thinning into pockets of quiet laughter and half-empty pint glasses. Youngbae was slumped forward at the table, head resting on folded arms, barely clinging to consciousness. Seunghyun had wandered outside for a smoke, needing air and space. Daesung was lost in animated conversation with an older Irish gentleman who reminded him of someone’s grandpa—laughing heartily and clinking glasses like old friends.

Which meant, of course, no one had been keeping an eye on Jiyong.

Tucked in the far corner of the pub, half-lit by a dim wall sconce, he sat grinning beside a stranger. The man was from London, maybe mid-thirties, rough around the edges, with inked knuckles and a travel-worn bag that doubled as a tattoo kit. He smelled faintly of cigarettes and antiseptic and was currently dragging a needle across the top of Jiyong’s left hand.

“How long ya been with her?” the man asked, his voice low and crackly as he wiped away excess ink.

Jiyong’s eyes didn’t leave his phone screen. Your face smiled up at him from the lock screen—a silly selfie you’d sent the morning after he left for tour. Your cheeks were puffy, hair tangled, eyes barely open. You were brushing your teeth with his sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder. It had made him cry the first time he saw it.

“Six months,” Jiyong murmured, heart softening. “But it feels like forever, man. She’s… fuck, she’s the love of my life.”

There was a raw, aching honesty in his voice—drunken, yes, but completely sincere.

His throat tightened as he blinked down at your photo. The distance between you wasn’t new, but tonight it felt especially unbearable. He missed your warmth, your voice humming in the dark, the way you’d touch his arm just to ground him. He missed your laugh, the way it shook your whole body when something really caught you off guard.

He missed you. All of you.

His eyes welled again.

“Oi, don’t cry now,” the man said, clearly unsure how to handle it. “Here. Have another shot, yeah? You’ll see her tomorrow.”

Jiyong nodded as he accepted the glass, knocking it back and letting the burn distract him from the knot in his chest. “Three weeks,” he whispered. “It’s been three weeks. And I’ve felt her absence every damn second.”

“Well she’ll bloody love this, mate,” the man said with a smirk, finishing the last strokes of the small rose and your name scrawled beneath it in sharp cursive. The ink was rudimentary—far from professional—but it was clear. Personal and permanent.

Jiyong stared at it with glassy eyes. The skin was red, slightly swollen, smeared with blood and ink. But there it was. Your name. On his hand. Close to his pulse. A promise etched into flesh.

“She’s always with me now,” he said softly, smiling.

“Jiyong, what the hell are you doing?” Youngbae’s voice cut through the haze as he stumbled over. Seunghyun followed right behind, a cloud of smoke still clinging to his coat.

“This is the best tattoo I’ve ever gotten!” Jiyong beamed, lifting his hand like a child showing off a finger painting.

“I’m Luke!” the British man offered with a peace sign.

Neither Youngbae nor Seunghyun acknowledged him. They were too focused on the sloppy mess of ink and blood seeping from Jiyong’s hand.

“Dude,” Youngbae hissed, grabbing his wrist carefully. “This is gonna get infected!”

“No it’s not,” Jiyong argued, clutching his hand to his chest.

“Pour some whiskey on it!” Luke slurred proudly, then immediately tilted the nearly empty Jameson bottle over Jiyong’s hand like he was salting a steak.

“Aishh, shibal!” Jiyong hissed, jerking back in pain.

“That’s it. We’re going back to the hotel,” Seunghyun said, not even giving Jiyong the option. He grabbed him by the arm, and Jiyong let himself be hauled up, still waving at Luke.

“Thanks, man! You’re a legend!” he yelled, flinging a crumpled bill over his shoulder.

-

Back at the hotel, the bathroom lights buzzed softly while steam fogged the mirror. Jiyong sat in the empty bathtub, shirtless, soaked with alcohol and happiness, while Youngbae knelt beside him like a tired nurse, scrubbing at his hand with way too much precision for someone who had been nearly unconscious an hour ago.

Seunghyun paced nearby, arms crossed and fuming. “Why the hell would you let some drunk guy in a bar tattoo you?”

Jiyong shrugged, eyes heavy and unfocused. “He offered.”

Seunghyun stared. “You do realize her name is on you. Forever. On your hand, Jiyong.”

Jiyong giggled. “Good.”

Youngbae sighed. “You two haven’t even gone public yet, man. If fans see this—”

“Let them see it.” Jiyong interjected. 

“At least he spelled her name right…” Youngbae muttered, pressing a cloth gently over the skin. “Still, this is gonna need a serious touch-up when it heals.”

Jiyong lifted his hand, his vision swimming slightly, and stared at it. The ink was messy, and the rose wasn’t even symmetrical. But your name stood out clear and proud. It didn’t need to be perfect. It was real.

“She means everything to me,” he murmured. “This… this one means the most. It stays here. For eternity.”

And then, with a dopey smile and one last look at your face on his screen, he let his eyes close and drifted off to sleep, your name resting on his heart—inked in his skin, etched in his soul.

-

Getting Jiyong onto the plane that morning was nothing short of a mission. He was groggy, half-delirious from the hangover, and very much dead weight. Youngbae had ended up tossing him over his shoulder like a sack of rice while Seunghyun coaxed a still-chatty Daesung away from a local woman he’d befriended at the airport bar.

By some miracle, they made it to their first-class seats in one piece. Jiyong immediately slumped back into his seat with a deep groan, pulling the blanket over his head like a sulking child.

Seunghyun rolled his eyes and settled in beside him, just as Jiyong’s phone started buzzing in his lap.

“Y/n’s calling you,” Seunghyun said, glancing down at the screen before nudging him.

Jiyong shot upright like he’d been electrocuted, fumbling clumsily for the phone—only to drop it straight to the floor. “Shit—fuck—wait—”

With a long-suffering sigh, Seunghyun bent down and retrieved it, sliding his thumb across the screen. “Hey, Y/n! Your boyfriend is nursing a world-class hangover,” he said, flipping the camera to reveal Jiyong, who was grinning like a fool beneath a blanket, his cheeks flushed and eyes heavy.

Jiyong struggled to bring up his left hand to wave at you, but Seunghyun caught him quickly, pressing it down discreetly to hide the tattoo.

“Baby! I miss you!” Jiyong cooed, voice still hoarse but full of warmth.

“I miss you too, Oppa,” you said through the screen, your smile melting his exhaustion in an instant. “Please try to sleep on the plane, okay?”

“I’ll make sure he does,” Seunghyun promised, flipping the camera back to himself.

You giggled when Jiyong scooted closer, resting his head on Seunghyun’s shoulder just to get back into the frame. His big, sleepy eyes blinked up at you, and you could see just how much he needed rest—but more than anything, you saw how much he needed you.

“Saranghae, Oppa!” you called, and then hung up before he could say anything else.

-

Two flights and what felt like a lifetime later, they landed in Seoul. Everyone was groggy, sore, and over it—except Jiyong. The moment his feet hit the ground, something inside him lit up.

“Hyung, where is he—?” Daesung began, looking around.

“He ran,” Seunghyun muttered, barely looking up from his phone.

Jiyong didn’t care about his bags, his entourage, or even the airport staff trying to usher him through a private exit. All he cared about was getting to you. His heart thudded in his chest like a war drum, and his legs didn’t stop moving until he was in the car, shouting your address at the startled driver.

The entire ride to your house, his leg bounced uncontrollably. He chewed on his nails. Stared out the window. Clutched his healing hand to his chest. He just needed to see you. Breathe you in. Make sure you were real again.

As soon as the car pulled into your driveway, he was out before it even stopped fully, bolting for your front door and leaving poor Jaeho to deal with your personal security.

“Jagiya! It’s me!” he called, pounding his fist against the door.

Inside, you dropped the ladle you’d been stirring soup with, the clang echoing through the house as you tore off your apron and sprinted for the door.

The moment it opened, the world disappeared.

“Ji!” you screamed, launching into his arms.

He caught you easily, wrapping you up with every ounce of longing he’d carried for the last three weeks. His face immediately buried into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin, pressing desperate kisses into the space where your pulse lived.

“God, baby…” he whispered, voice cracking. “I missed you so fucking much…”

His arms trembled slightly as he held you tighter. It wasn’t just relief—it was a kind of quiet desperation, the ache of missing someone so deeply that you swore your body forgot how to function without them.

You let him carry you to the couch like you weighed nothing, his body pressed flush against yours as he laid you down beneath him. His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your lips, and every sound you let out fueled him like oxygen.

As your hands moved over his body, you noticed something strange—his left hand was wrapped with gauze and medical tape.

“Ji… what happened?” you asked gently.

He paused, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh… that’s actually a surprise.”

“A surprise? You broke your hand?”

“No,” he laughed, kissing your nose. “Worse.”

He sat up a little, cradling your body with one arm as he used the other to gently unravel the bandages. The tape came off slowly, and then the gauze, revealing his tender, still-red skin.

And there it was.

Your name. Inked in bold, crooked lines beneath a simple rose.

“I was drunk,” he confessed sheepishly. “At a bar. Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Some guy had a tattoo gun and… I said fuck it. I wanted your name on me. So you’d always be with me. Even when you’re not.”

You blinked down at the fresh ink, your chest tightening. The lines were imperfect, the skin around them swollen—but it was beautiful. He had carved your name into his skin. Because he missed you that much.

“Jiyong…” you whispered, fingers lightly brushing over it. “You know the whole world’s gonna know now, right?”

A slow, proud smile stretched across his face. “Yeah… and that brings me to my next souvenir.”

He reached into his jacket pocket, digging past his passport and crumpled receipts until he pulled out a small black box.

Your heart stopped.

He flipped it open.

Inside sat a diamond ring, elegant and radiant, the center stone catching the soft light like a promise.

“Will you marry me?”

For a second, the air froze. All you could hear was your heartbeat, and the sound of Jiyong’s breathing. He looked terrified. Hopeful. So stupidly in love.

Tears blurred your vision, but your smile never faltered.

“Yes!” you cried, tackling him back onto the couch, your arms wrapped tight around his neck. You kissed every part of his face you could reach—his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, his nose.

“I love you so much,” you said between kisses.

“I love you more than anything,” he replied, arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go again.

You pulled back just enough to look at his hand again, brushing your thumb over the healing ink. “I still can’t believe you got my name tattooed…”

“Signed and sealed with blood, baby,” he grinned. “Forever.”

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Each name was written in your handwriting—soft, delicate. Final.

His heart slammed against his ribs.

“Ri?” he called out, voice hoarse. “Where did Y/n say she was going?”

Seungri didn’t look up. “Uh… didn’t say. Just that she’d meet us. She was heading toward the elevators, I think.”

“Up?” Seunghyun asked, more to himself than anyone else. His hands were white-knuckling the letter now. Every cell in his body screamed at him to run.

He turned to sprint—but before his foot even hit the ground, a scream tore through the air.

Sharp. Shattering. Blood-curdling.

The entire lobby fell still.

And Seunghyun? He froze. Envelope clutched to his chest. Breath stuck in his throat.

He already knew.

While the others ran toward the door where the scream had come from, Seunghyun couldn’t.

His legs moved, but sluggishly. Too slow. Like he was wading through a nightmare, one that wrapped around his ankles like wet cement.

He didn’t want to see what waited beyond those doors.

Didn’t want to believe that it was real. That you were real in this moment. That the envelope in his hand meant something.

With every shaky step, the dread carved deeper into his chest, eating away at the sliver of denial he was clinging to.

Please let this be a dream.

Please.

When he finally pushed through the glass doors, the scene before him shattered whatever hope he had left.

Daesung was doubled over on the sidewalk, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other shielding his eyes from the sight. His shoulders shook violently, silent sobs ripping through him. Seungri stood beside him, pale, eyes wide and unblinking, as if frozen in time.

Paramedics swarmed the street, voices sharp and urgent. Police were shouting, forming a barrier with their bodies to push back the growing crowd. Red and blue lights painted the building in pulsing waves, but Seunghyun could barely see any of it.

He took one more step—just one—before a pair of arms wrapped around him.

“Hyung…” Youngbae’s voice cracked as he grabbed him, holding tight. “Don’t go out there… please.”

But Seunghyun thrashed in his hold, desperate to break free. His feet scraped against the pavement as he shoved forward.

“No! Let me go! I need to see her—I need to—!”

Daesung and Seungri lunged to help, their arms closing in around him, trying to keep him grounded. But Seunghyun screamed. Loud and raw. The sound wasn’t just from his throat—it came from somewhere deeper, somewhere ancient and breaking and full of grief.

“Y/N!!!”

The name split the air like thunder. Louder than the sirens. Louder than his friends begging him to stop.

“Let me go!” he cried, voice shredded. “Please, let me go—Y/n!”

“You can’t see her like this!” Youngbae sobbed, locking his arms around him as tightly as he could. “You can’t!”

Two officers rushed over, forcing the group back. The paramedics were already moving—already rushing your body toward the hospital entrance, wrapped tightly in white sheets that told Seunghyun more than any doctor ever could.

Daesung saw it first and lunged forward, covering Seunghyun’s eyes with shaking hands. “No—don’t look,” he whispered. “Don’t look, hyung.”

But Seunghyun was still fighting, still kicking and clawing against them, tears spilling like a storm, heart pounding in his ears.

“I have to see her! Let me just see her!”

But you were already gone.

They all knew it.

The way the paramedics moved, the way the cops avoided their eyes—everything about it screamed finality.

And still, he clung to hope. To you.

“She’ll be okay, right?” Seunghyun gasped, voice barely holding together. “She’ll… she’ll be okay…”

None of them could answer.

All they could do was sink to the pavement with him, three friends holding him together as he fell apart.

“She’ll… she’ll be o—”

But the words wouldn’t come. They dissolved into sobs as he collapsed in their arms, letter still clenched in his trembling fists.

-

Seunghyun sat in absolute silence, his back hunched forward, elbows on his knees, your unopened letter still clutched in his hand like a lifeline he wasn’t ready to let go of. His eyes hadn’t moved in over an hour—fixed on the linoleum floor, as if staring hard enough might rewind time.

Daesung hadn’t left his side. Not even once. He sat beside him quietly, offering nothing but silent companionship and the occasional squeeze of the shoulder whenever Seunghyun's breath would hitch or his hand would start to shake.

Youngbae was across the hall, pacing the same five feet of space while making phone calls no one ever wanted to receive. His voice was low, cracking. Apologies layered between each explanation. Between each name spoken through the lump in his throat.

Seungri had been given the worst job of all.

“Don’t tell him,” Seunghyun had whispered, barely audible. It was the only thing he’d managed to say since you were taken away. “Not yet.”

So Seungri stayed in Jiyong’s hospital room, sitting at the small table with a deck of Uno cards scattered between them, pretending—desperately—that the world outside those walls hadn’t just fallen apart.

Thankfully, Jiyong was groggy from his pain meds, his body still recovering, his mind slow and gentle. He’d only asked about you twice. Both times, Seungri had managed to change the subject with a joke or a distraction, but the pressure was building in his chest.

“It’s your turn, hyung,” Seungri mumbled, nodding toward the cards in Jiyong’s hands.

But his voice was far away, his eyes glued to the door like he was silently begging someone—anyone—to walk through and take this responsibility off his shoulders.

Jiyong picked up a red five and glanced down at his hand, smiling faintly.

“Ya know,” he started, voice light, “Y/n and I always fought over everything, but when it came to Uno? We were weirdly peaceful. Like it was some sacred game we agreed not to ruin.”

He laughed softly at the memory. “Where is she anyway?” he asked again, absentmindedly searching the room like he expected you to walk in at any moment.

Seungri froze.

His mouth opened, but no words came. His throat burned. His chest felt too tight.

“I can’t do this,” he blurted, slamming his cards down onto the table as he stood abruptly, hands in his hair, pacing the room like a caged animal. “I can’t fucking do this.”

Jiyong blinked in confusion. “Do what? Lose to me?” he grinned. “You mad that I’m winning?” He gave a smug little smirk, holding up his hand of cards.

Seungri turned toward him, eyes glassy. “Jiyong…”

Something in his tone made Jiyong sit up straighter, wincing as the stitches in his side pulled tight.

“What?” he asked, smile fading. “What is it?”

Seungri’s mouth trembled. His voice cracked. “Something happened.”

Jiyong’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What do you mean something happened? What happened?”

“It’s… it’s bad. It’s really fucking bad, man. I’m so sorry.”

Jiyong’s smile was gone now. His whole body tensed.

“What happened?” he asked again, firmer this time, anxiety starting to seep into his voice. He glanced down at the cast on his arm, the bruises on his chest. “Dude, whatever it is, it can’t be worse than this—”

Seungri broke. “She’s dead.”

The words hit like a gunshot.

Jiyong just… stared.

For a moment, the room was silent. So quiet you could hear the monitor ticking behind him.

“No,” Jiyong said, shaking his head slowly. “No, that’s not—no, that’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking,” Seungri whispered.

“No. Stop.” Jiyong’s voice rose. His hands were trembling now. “Stop lying, where is she?! She’s probably in the hallway or—”

“She’s gone, hyung.”

“NO!” Jiyong roared, the sound raw and broken as he shoved the cards off the table. They scattered like confetti—colorful, meaningless. “You’re lying! She was just here, she said she’d be back—!”

“She’s not coming back…” Seungri choked.

Jiyong’s face crumpled as the pain finally hit him. Not the bruises. Not the fractures. The real pain. The kind that cracks bone from the inside.

He folded in on himself, a wounded animal, a guttural sound tearing from his throat as he broke.

And all Seungri could do was fall to his knees beside him and hold on.

Jiyong’s screams echoed down the sterile hallway like a siren—raw, guttural, unrelenting. It was the kind of sound that made nurses freeze and families in the waiting room go silent.

Seunghyun was on his feet before anyone could blink, heart in his throat, sprinting toward the source of the agony. Youngbae and Daesung followed close behind, their feet slamming against the tile floor in panicked rhythm.

When they reached the room, the door was wide open. Inside, Seungri was struggling to hold Jiyong down against the bed. Jiyong thrashed violently, his body too broken to fight the way he wanted to, but the desperation in him burned hotter than painkillers ever could.

“Let me go!” he cried, voice cracking under the weight of devastation. “She’s not dead! She’s not—you’re lying!”

“Jiyong!” Seunghyun gasped, rushing to his side and pushing Seungri out of the way, taking over.

Youngbae turned on Seungri instantly, fury in his eyes. “You told him?!” he yelled, shoving him back.

“He wouldn’t stop asking about her!” Seungri shouted, tears already streaming down his cheeks. “I couldn’t take it—I didn’t know what else to do!”

But Youngbae wasn’t listening anymore. The grief had taken the wheel. The blame needed somewhere to go. So his fist collided with Seungri’s face.

Chaos erupted in the room. Three nurses burst in, trying to assess the situation as Jiyong continued to scream, his voice ragged and full of anguish.

“She’s not fucking dead!” he roared, eyes wild, body trembling. “Where the fuck is she?!”

Seunghyun clung to him, his own face soaked in tears. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered over and over again, his voice cracking. “I’m so fucking sorry, Ji…”

He tried to hold him, tried to calm him, but it was too late—the nurses moved in swiftly. One nurse restrained Jiyong’s arm while another pressed a syringe to his vein, pushing the sedative in without hesitation.

Jiyong’s eyes fluttered, his head falling back against the pillow, limbs going limp. But just before the sedation fully took hold, his eyes met Seunghyun’s, wide and pleading.

“She’s not gone…” he murmured, barely audible, like a child begging for a bedtime story to end differently.

And then—silence.

His body stilled, breathing slow and shallow.

Seunghyun collapsed beside him, burying his face in the hospital pillow as a sob ripped through his throat. His entire body shook with it, grief flooding every inch of him. He clutched at the blanket like it could anchor him to the earth.

He could hear the machines. The footsteps outside. The quiet beeping that reminded him life was still happening around him.

He hated it.

For a fleeting second, he wondered if his own heart stopped—right there, right then—would the nurses save him too?

The thought made him cry harder.

-

Outside, the rest of the group had taken their pain into the cold night air.

The fight between Seungri and Youngbae hadn’t lasted long—just enough to leave bruises on their faces and guilt in their eyes. Now, they sat on the curb outside the hospital, bloodied knuckles resting on trembling knees.

Daesung was curled in on himself, hugging his legs to his chest. His voice was small, broken. “I just… I don’t understand why she would do this.”

Youngbae sat beside him, a cigarette trembling between his fingers. He passed it to Seungri, who took it without a word.

“She probably had demons,” Youngbae muttered. “More than we ever saw.”

Seungri stayed quiet, inhaling deeply, trying to numb the ache in his lungs. But nothing helped. Not the cigarette. Not the cold air. Not the night sky above them, quiet and indifferent.

“I-I just…” Daesung’s voice broke as he stared at the sidewalk, lips trembling. “I can’t believe this all happened. One second she was just here, and now…” His shoulders shook. “It all happened so fucking fast.”

Youngbae placed a steady hand on his knee, fingers gripping tightly—not for Daesung’s comfort, but for his own. Holding his brothers together felt like the only thing left he could do. Even when everything inside of him wanted to crumble too.

-

It wasn’t until the soft glow of early morning light spilled through the hospital window, casting a golden beam directly across his face, that Seunghyun stirred.

His body ached from sleeping upright. His limbs stiff. His heart heavier than ever.

At some point in the night, someone must’ve helped him into the chair beside Jiyong’s bed—probably a nurse, though he couldn’t remember. Everything after the sedation, after the screaming, after you, had blurred into a gray fog.

Jiyong was still asleep, head turned slightly toward the window, his face twisted in discomfort even in rest. Sweat clung to his temples. His brow was furrowed, like he was still fighting in his dreams.

Seunghyun stared at him, and something in his chest cracked open.

Tears burned behind his eyes.

He wanted to scream. To punch a wall until his knuckles split open. To cry until his throat gave out. To destroy something—anything. But none of it would matter.

It wouldn’t fix what happened.

It wouldn’t untangle the three of you.

And it wouldn’t bring you back.

So instead, he stood quietly, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, and slipped out the door in search of caffeine.

-

The hospital café smelled like burnt beans and overworked baristas. A far cry from the cozy Sunday mornings the two of you used to share at that little corner shop downtown, the one with the mismatched mugs and the vinyl records always playing too loud.

But it would do.

“Coffee. Black, please,” Seunghyun said, eyes fixed on the counter.

He hesitated, the next words already leaving his mouth on instinct.

“And a car—”

His voice broke.

He swallowed hard, pain blooming in his chest as realization slammed into him like a freight train.

You’re not here.

“What was that?” the barista asked gently.

“Nothing,” Seunghyun whispered. “Just the one coffee. Thanks.” He slid a crumpled bill onto the counter with trembling fingers.

His eyes fell to the floor, and a memory swept over him like a tidal wave.

-

“Seunghyun! A black coffee? Really?” you teased, arms crossed as you leaned over the counter.

“I like it the way nature intended,” he grinned, taking a sip of the bitter drink.

“Add some flare, you grump.”

He arched his brow. “Alright, princess. What’ll it be?”

You turned to the barista with a dramatic flip of your hair. “Caramel macchiato. Two pumps vanilla. Extra caramel drizzle. And whipped cream.”

He’d laughed, shaking his head. “That’s not coffee, baby. That’s a dessert.”

“It’s called enjoying my beverage,” you smirked.

You took the first sip with a playful moan, tongue darting out to lick the whipped cream from the rim of the cup. “Mmmm. Try it.”

And without a word, he leaned down and kissed the caramel and cream from your lips, smiling as you giggled against him.

“Delicious,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours.

That smile—your smile—was etched into his soul forever.

-

“Sir?”

Seunghyun blinked, pulled violently back into the present. The barista held out the paper cup.

“Oh… yeah. Thanks.” He took the drink with numb fingers, tossing another bill into the tip jar before walking away.

As he turned the corner, a familiar voice called out to him.

“Hyung!”

Youngbae. He stood near a row of chairs, Daesung close behind him, both of them exhausted, grief lining their faces.

Seunghyun sipped the scalding coffee. It burned his tongue. His throat. But he didn’t care. The pain grounded him.

“Where’s Y/n?” he asked, even though he already knew. He just needed to hear it again.

Youngbae’s expression softened. “She… she was a donor.”

Seunghyun nodded slowly. “They’re harvesting her organs,” he said, his voice hollow.

Youngbae could only nod.

“Is Jiyong awake?” Daesung asked gently.

“Not yet.” Seunghyun glanced at the hallway behind him. “But I’m going to wake him. Tell him everything.”

“Do you want us with you?” Youngbae asked, cautiously.

Seunghyun shook his head. “No. I need to handle this on my own.”

And with that, he turned away, letting the too-hot coffee sear his palm as he walked back toward the room where grief still waited.

-

Jiyong was already awake.

He sat upright in bed, tray of untouched breakfast in front of him, eyes fixed blankly on the skyline. The bruises on his face had darkened, the swelling around his eyes had gone down—but the tears remained. Silent and steady. Tracks of grief painted on his battered skin.

Seunghyun stepped in quietly and sat in the chair beside him once more. Jiyong didn’t turn to look. He didn’t have to. He knew.

Seunghyun studied him—his broken friend, his brother—and the silence sat heavy between them.

Then Jiyong spoke.

“Tell me what happened.”

Seunghyun’s breath caught. “Jiyong…”

“I need to hear it,” Jiyong said, his voice barely holding together. “I need you to say it out loud. I need you to make it real.”

Seunghyun’s heart shattered all over again.

He lowered his gaze. “She jumped.”

Jiyong flinched. A tiny, involuntary reaction that spoke volumes.

“Are you… are you sure?”

“She left us a letter.”

Jiyong nodded, lips trembling as he bit down hard, trying to keep himself from falling apart again. “Let’s read it,” he whispered.

And Seunghyun reached into his coat pocket, the crumpled paper warm from his body heat, heavy with everything you left behind.

-

Seunghyun, Jiyong…

I’m sorry. I don’t know where to begin. I don’t know how you feel right now—maybe you’re angry, maybe you hate me, maybe you’re numb. Maybe you’re relieved, and that’s okay too. I wouldn’t blame you.

But I want to believe… just a little part of you misses me.

I know what I’ve done feels unforgivable. I took the coward’s way out. I left without saying goodbye. And I know I’ve hurt you both more than I ever intended to.

But please, before you throw this letter away or tear it up in rage, just read it all the way through.

Because this one… this letter isn’t just a goodbye.

It’s a love letter.

To the two absolute loves of my life.

Seunghyun,

You were my calm. My safety. My home.

You loved me without asking me to change. You saw me when I didn’t even recognize myself in the mirror. You made the ugly parts of life feel bearable—and somehow, you made me feel beautiful. And I never knew that was possible before you.

When I was unraveling, you never once tried to fix me—you just stayed. Do you know how rare that is?

The long drives with no destination, the late-night art exhibits, the bookstore dates, the lazy Sundays that felt like something out of a movie… I’ll carry those with me. Forever. That was the closest I ever came to peace.

There were so many times I wanted to tell you the truth. To admit how much pain I was in. But I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t trust you—but because I did. Because I knew the moment I told you, you’d try to carry it for me. And I couldn’t let that weight touch your already-brilliant soul.

You gave me something I never thought I’d have in this life—a love that didn’t hurt. And I hope to God that someday, someone gives you the same.

Go to the museums. Lose yourself in brush strokes and empty space. Drink your bitter black coffee and pretend it tastes good. Laugh too loud at indie films. Keep being the man who makes the world gentler just by existing in it.

And if you ever feel me near you—it’s because I am.

I’ll always be watching you. Cheering for you.

Loving you.

Thank you for saving me so many times without even knowing it.

Jiyong,

It started messy, didn’t it? Screaming matches and eye rolls and hate-fueled hookups. But somewhere along the way, between the chaos and the chaos and the chaos—I fell for you.

God, I fell so hard.

You were the wildfire to Seunghyun’s ocean. You didn’t calm me—you lit me up. You pulled something alive out of me when I was already dimming. And even when we were at each other’s throats, I always knew… you cared.

You’re more than the mask you wear, Jiyong. You always have been.

You don’t have to be the leader every second of the day. You don’t always have to be perfect. You don’t always have to pretend you’re okay just to protect everyone else.

I saw you. The real you. The boy who loved too hard and never felt like he was enough. The boy who covered his sadness with charm and talent and glitter and eyeliner.

You were enough, Jiyong. You are enough. Even at your messiest. Even at your weakest.

And I wish I had the strength to stay long enough to prove that to you. To be the softness you tried to hide you needed. To kiss the bruises this world gave you and teach you that you’re worthy of gentleness too.

I’m sorry I didn’t stay.

But I’ll be watching. I’ll make sure this world gives you a break. And when you’re finally smiling again, when you're laughing and feeling like yourself... know I’m there. Cheering you on.

That’s me, loving you from wherever I am.

Thank you for setting me on fire.

Thank you for making me feel alive.

Thank you for being my beautiful disaster.

I hope the two of you take care of each other now.

There’s nothing to fight over. Nothing to prove.

The love I had for both of you was never a competition—it was infinite, in different ways. Two halves of one heart.

Let that bring you together, not tear you apart.

Take care of each other, please.

And when the nights get too heavy and you wonder if you could’ve saved me—just look up. I’ll be there. In the moonlight. In the lyrics. In the silence.

Always.

I love you both. With everything I had.I just ran out of ways to say it out loud.

Forever yours, Y/n ♡

© loveesiren 2025 - do not copy, translate, transfer, or repost my work without my permission. if you find my work on sites other than through links i've provided, please notify me.

TAGLIST

“FUCK YOU, JIYONG!” you screamed, voice cracking from the force of it. Your fingers curled around the nearest thing—an expensive floor lamp—and with a loud shriek, you hurled it to the ground. It shattered with a violent crash, glass splintering across the bedroom floor.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Jiyong shouted, stepping back from the wreckage, his wide eyes flicking between you and the broken pieces on the floor. “Why would you do that?!”

“Because you’re a goddamn liar! A fucking cheater!” Your words were venom, spit from trembling lips.

Jiyong’s face twisted in confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Don’t play stupid! I saw the pictures, Jiyong!” Your voice cracked, heavy with disbelief and betrayal. “I saw them with my own fucking eyes.”

His brows knitted. “What pictures?!”

You snatched your phone from the nightstand, rage and heartbreak warring in your chest. Your hand shook as you opened the message thread, the photos right there—unavoidable, undeniable. “These!” you snapped, launching the phone at him. It narrowly missed his head, hitting the wall with a sickening crack before falling to the floor.

“Goddammit!” he growled, picking it up, now spider-webbed with cracks. His gaze locked on the screen.

There he was. At the club. Surrounded by girls. One of them nearly in his lap, her lips grazing his ear like she owned him. And his smile—his fucking smile.

His eyes flicked up to you. “Babe… they were just fans.”

You let out a bitter laugh, more of a sob than anything. “Fans? You don’t let fans fucking touch you like that.” Your voice trembled, but you didn’t stop. “Do you even love me, Jiyong? Or am I just the girl you come home to after the real fun’s over?”

“Of course I fucking love you!” he yelled, stepping toward you. “I try to show you that every goddamn day!”

Tears blurred your vision, hot trails down your cheeks. You felt like you were drowning. “Don’t lie to me.” You reached for the framed photo of you two on the wall, smiling, happy, in love. You ripped it down and sent it crashing to the floor. The sound of breaking glass seemed to echo forever.

Jiyong flinched. His jaw clenched as he stared at the broken portrait, then at you—like he didn’t even recognize the girl in front of him.

Your chest heaved. “You never loved me. You just loved the way I made you feel.”

“That’s not true,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ve always loved you. But you—” he shook his head, hands flying up in frustration— “you act so fucking crazy sometimes, Y/n! I never know what version of you I’m going to get!”

Blinded by rage and heartbreak, you lunged toward him, hands raised, but he caught you by the arms, holding you in place.

“I hate you!” you spat, twisting in his grip, trying to break free. “I fucking hate you!”

“I love you.” His words came soft, solid. Unshaken.

“Let me go!” you screamed, shoving hard until you stumbled backward, breath catching in your throat as the weight of everything hit you at once. You were breaking. You were broken.

And he just stood there, silent, with tears pooling in his eyes from the sheer frustration and utter exhaustion this relationship forced on him.

You couldn’t stay. Not another second. You turned and ran—shoes barely on, coat in your hands, heart in your throat.

The door slammed behind you with a finality that echoed like a death knell.

And Jiyong dropped to his knees in the middle of the wreckage, fingers tangled in his hair, letting out a ragged scream that sounded like it came from the hollowed-out center of his soul.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Your rage had carried you far—blind, breathless, and shaking—but it could only burn for so long before the bite of midwinter began to sink its teeth into your skin. The adrenaline that had once numbed you was wearing off, and now each gust of icy wind hit like a slap to the face.

Your boots—ones that were once plush and lined with faux fur—had long since given up their battle against the snow. The soles were thin, water soaking through with every step until your socks squelched inside them. You might as well have been walking barefoot.

The coat you’d grabbed in your rush was barely enough for a chilly autumn afternoon, let alone a snowstorm. Flurries were falling now, delicate but relentless, clinging to your bare thighs like tiny icy needles. Your pajama shorts, cute and cozy in bed this morning, now felt like a cruel joke.

Jiyong was right. He’d told you, time and time again, that you needed something warmer. He’d even offered to buy you a new coat. But you always brushed him off, said his were warmer anyway, and stole the thickest one from his closet instead—usually the one that still smelled like his cologne.

You shivered, arms wrapping tightly around yourself, but it did nothing. The cold had already sunk beneath your skin.

The sun had started to slip behind the horizon, casting the sky in muted shades of purple and gray, and with it came a deeper, cutting chill. Your legs ached. Your fingertips stung.

And now, against your will, your thoughts wandered back to him.

Was it him you missed… or just the warmth? The safety? The way he always pulled you into his chest when you were like this—angry, but still breakable? Were you mourning him… or the comfort he always brought, even when you didn’t deserve it?

Were the photos even that bad? Your chest tightened at the thought. Had you overreacted—again? Your emotions always ran too hot, too fast, too loud. You hated how easily you unraveled when it came to him.

And now… would he even want you back? If you knocked on his door, half-frozen and full of regret—would he open it? Would he pull you in and wrap you in his coat you should’ve worn in the first place? Or had this finally been too much?

You reached for your phone instinctively, desperate to call someone, to do something—but your pockets were empty. Your heart sank as the memory hit: the phone was still back at the apartment, shattered on his bedroom floor.

“Fuck…” you muttered under your breath, the word hanging in the frozen air like smoke.

You paused, staring up at the sky, watching as snowflakes drifted silently down. For a second, you didn’t move. You just stood there—alone, freezing, heart bruised and mind reeling.

Then, with a tired, broken breath, you lowered your head and started walking.

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

It had been hours.

The sun had long since vanished, replaced by the still, suffocating dark. Jiyong sat hunched on the edge of the bed, the broken pieces of your argument scattered around him—shards of glass, splintered memories, and a broken home.

He’d tried to reach you, only to be answered by the haunting buzz of your shattered phone on the floor. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Even your silence was loud tonight.

He’d given up pacing after the second cigarette. Now, he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling like it held answers. Smoke curled lazily from the end of yet another cigarette, the room thick with nicotine and regret. The sheets beside him were still messed up from where you’d been. His pillow still smelled like you—faint traces of your shampoo clinging to the cotton like memories refusing to fade.

Where the fuck were you?

You’d left in nothing but those tiny pajama shorts and a thin coat. The stupid coat he always wanted to replace because it wasn’t warm enough. The snow had started falling harder hours ago, thick and unforgiving. He imagined your bare legs against it—those legs he kissed every night, now stung red and raw by winter.

You always came back. Eventually. Even after the screaming, the tears, the chaos—you always found your way home. But the clock on the nightstand now glared back at him: 11:30 PM. And there was still no sign of you.

Jiyong pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing deep into the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t fix. He texted everyone he could think of, hands shaking as he scrolled through his contacts.

No one had seen you.

He hadn’t cheated. God, of course he hadn’t. He’d never even come close. You were the only one. You had always been the only one. But he couldn’t stop the way guilt curled in his throat like smoke, thick and choking. Guilt for letting those girls get close. Guilt for letting the flash of a phone camera ruin everything. Guilt for making you feel like you weren’t enough—when the truth was, he never felt like he was.

But the guilt wasn’t alone.

Anger simmered just beneath it, sharp and restless. He was angry at you. For breaking shit when you got upset. For throwing your phone and his things like they meant nothing. For setting fire to something every time it started to feel safe. For never believing him—even when he swore he’d never touch anyone else.

But despite all of that… your side of the bed was still empty.

And that emptiness gutted him.

Because that space was yours. Always had been. You had carved out a place in his life with chaos and kisses, with the wild unpredictability of your love. And he loved you. So fucking much. For five years, through all your storms, he had loved you. And now the quiet absence of you was louder than any fight you’d ever had.

He lit another cigarette, his fingers trembling slightly as he brought it to his lips. He inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissolve into the shadows overhead. He blinked hard, trying to will away the sting in his eyes.

Then—click.

The front door opened, soft and tentative.

He froze.

Please let it be you.

The door closed gently behind whoever it was, followed by the familiar sound of the lock turning. Then, the delicate pad-pad of slow, cautious footsteps crossing the hardwood floor.

It was you. But you held no anger now.

He hadn’t locked the door after you left. You hadn’t taken anything with you. Not even your phone. Not even your heart.

His breath hitched as your silhouette appeared in the doorway, cast in shadows. You looked small now. Defeated.

“Ji?” you whispered, voice cracked and raw, like you'd been holding back tears for hours.

He exhaled sharply—not annoyed, not angry. Just relieved.

“Yeah…” he replied softly, his voice barely carrying across the room.

You didn’t say anything more. You crossed the room slowly, your boots crunching broken glass beneath them like tiny echoes of your earlier fury. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even look down.

You stopped at the edge of the bed, kicked off your soaked boots, and crawled in beside him like it was the only place you belonged. Because it was.

He put out his cigarette in the ashtray, ash dusting the nightstand, and opened his arms instinctively. A silent invitation. One you didn’t hesitate to accept.

You burrowed into him, trembling. Your skin like ice, your breath coming in short, broken huffs. He pulled the blanket over both of you and tucked you in tight against his chest, trying to thaw you with the heat of his own body.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your damp, icy forehead.

“I didn’t have your coat…” you sniffled, barely audible.

His heart cracked clean in half.

He held you tighter, his hands rubbing along your arms, down your back, over your thighs. “M’sorry,” you mumbled into his chest, the words brittle and full of shame.

“Shhh…” he soothed. “Just rest.”

You went quiet again, your breathing slow but shaky. Then, so quietly it almost didn’t reach him:

“Will you still be here when I wake up?”

He hesitated.

How many more times could he take this? How many more fights? How many more nights like this? How many times could he lose you and still find it in himself to open the door again?

The truth was: the door would always be unlocked.

A life with you was messy. Loud. Dramatic.

But a life without you?

That was unthinkable. Terrifying.

“I promise,” he whispered into your hair, eyes fluttering shut as he felt your body begin to relax against his.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. But tonight, you were home.

And that was enough.

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You stepped into the confessional, the wooden door creaking softly behind you as it clicked shut. The dim light cast long shadows over the worn cushion where you knelt, your trembling fingers laced tightly in front of you. As a woman of faith, a devoted sister of the cloth, you never missed confession. It was your sanctuary. Your surrender. Your reckoning.

You heard the rustle of robes and the quiet creak of the seat on the other side of the partition. But something felt... different. The energy didn’t wrap around you like it usually did. It was heavier. Warmer. Almost electric.

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s been one week since my last confession.”

Silence followed—then a voice. Deep. Low. Velvet wrapped in sin.

“What sins do you carry?” he asked.

Your heart skipped. That wasn’t Father Louis. This voice was new. Richer. Younger. And something about the way he spoke made your skin prickle beneath your habit.

“I…” You hesitated, your cheeks already burning with shame. “I’ve had… impure thoughts.”

He didn’t respond immediately. You could feel the pause—like he was leaning closer, hanging on every word.

“Impure thoughts?” he repeated, slower this time. “What kind of thoughts, sister?”

The word sister on his tongue sent a jolt straight down your spine.

You swallowed hard. “Thoughts I’m not proud of.”

“Be specific,” he said gently, but there was an edge beneath it. A curiosity. A hunger. “Confession must be honest.”

You gripped your rosary tighter.

“I thought about a man,” you admitted, your voice quivering. “About his hands… his mouth… about him touching me.”

The silence stretched again, thicker now. Like the booth itself was holding its breath.

“Did you imagine him undressing you?” he asked, voice softer now—but laced with something that made your thighs clench.

You gasped quietly. “Yes… yes, Father.”

You could hear his breathing now. Slow. Controlled. But strained.

“And did you enjoy it?”

You closed your eyes. “Too much.”

You could hear it—the sharp hitch of his breath, the subtle rustling of fabric, the unmistakable sound of his palm dragging slow strokes over himself on the other side of the curtain.

Your thighs clenched, mouth watering.

You knew it was him. That voice—low, velvety, laced with something far from holy—could only belong to the new priest at your church. Father Seunghyun. Tall, imposing, with dark eyes that held sermons of sin rather than salvation. His hair was always slicked back, his collar always stiff and pristine. But his eyes? They held something feral—something that made your stomach twist and your core ache. Especially when he stared at you during prayer, mouthing scripture while his gaze roamed your body like a man starving. 

You were supposed to bow your head. Close your eyes. Be faithful.

But every time you dared to peek, he was already watching you.

He was the man you had fantasized about. 

“Sister Y/n,” he breathed, voice heavy, rasping through the thin partition.

“Y-yes, Father?”

“You must be punished for your sins.”

A rush of heat bloomed between your thighs. “Punished?” you echoed, breath catching.

“Yes.”

You paused. Swallowing hard as his words settled. 

“I will accept my punishment, Father.”

The curtain between you trembled slightly as his fingers hooked into the edge of it. You knew this was wrong. A priest should never pull the curtain back. But your breath caught as the heavy drape slid aside, revealing him in the dim light of the confessional.

Your eyes widened at the sight of him—his cock already out, thick and veiny, the head flushed and leaking. It was... monstrous. Your lips parted involuntarily, a thin line of drool slipping down your chin.

He smirked, watching you fall apart at the mere sight of him.

“Father Seunghyun?” you whimpered, eyes wide, voice trembling with a blend of shame and desire.

He reached for you, his large hand cradling your jaw as his thumb dragged slowly across your bottom lip. “Open,” he murmured.

You obeyed, lips parting eagerly. You had never done this before—never even thought about doing this—but with him, it didn’t matter. All you could feel was heat. Desperation. Hunger.

He slid the thick tip of his cock past your lips, his breath stuttering at the sensation of your wet mouth wrapping around him. You moaned quietly, your hands moving to brace yourself on his thighs as he began to guide your head gently back and forth.

Each slow thrust coated your tongue in the salty taste of him. Saliva dripped from your lips, stretching between your mouth and his length every time he pulled back. You whined around him, desperate for more.

You rocked your hips subtly, grinding against your own thighs as you sucked him deeper, desperate for relief from the aching between your legs. Your hands slipped under your dress to cup your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh through your bra as you hollowed your cheeks and tried to take more of him.

He groaned, low and guttural. “Such a filthy little angel,” he murmured. “Worshipping with your mouth open and your soul bare.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as he guided himself deeper, his cock nudging the back of your throat. You gagged softly, fingers curling into the fabric of his pants. Tears welled up in your eyes as he pushed further.

“Breathe through your nose,” he said, voice commanding now, a little darker.

You tried, sucking in shallow breaths as he rocked into your throat. Your vision blurred with tears, and your hands scrabbled at his thighs, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t want to.

He pulled out with a slick pop, giving you a moment to catch your breath. You gasped, coughing, drool dripping down your chin in thick, glistening strands.

Then he grabbed your jaw and shoved back in, harder this time. His hips snapped forward with rough, controlled thrusts. The confessional shook with each movement. Your throat burned, eyes rolled back, but you kept going, wanting to prove yourself worthy. Wanting to feel every filthy second of this sin.

“Good girl,” he growled. “You take me so well. You were made for this. For me.”

With a final thrust, he stilled, holding your head firmly as he spilled into your mouth. You felt the heat of him flood your throat, the bitter taste spreading across your tongue. He didn’t move until you’d swallowed every drop.

“Swallow,” he ordered again, quieter now, more intimate.

You did as you were told, your throat working around the thickness of it.

He pulled back, gently tilting your face up to his. His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek, then dragged down to your lips. You looked wrecked—lipstick smeared, cheeks glistening with tears and spit, eyes dazed and dark with lust.

“You’re absolved of your sins this week, Sister…” he whispered, almost tenderly.

Then he stood, adjusted his robe, and left without another word, the curtain falling shut behind him.

You sat there, still trembling, still leaking onto the floor beneath your skirt, trying to process what had just happened.

You felt defiled. Unholy. Sinful.

And you knew you’d be back.

You had to confess again next Sunday.

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Your legs buckled at the sight.

The glare from the ambulance flood lights seared into your eyes, making it hard to focus. Police shouted over radios, trying to push back the growing crowd, and the paparazzi—fucking vultures—had somehow shown up already, shouting questions, snapping photos. It was too much. Your lungs seized. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You wanted to run, to scream, to disappear.

Jiyong's body—so pale, so bloody, his face barely recognizable—was carefully loaded into the back of the ambulance. You couldn’t stop crying. The tears came like a dam breaking, soaking your face, your shirt, your trembling hands. Seunghyun pulled you into his side, one arm wrapping around you tightly as if trying to shield you from the nightmare unfolding. His face was buried in your hair, his own sobs shaking both of you as you stood there, helpless, watching the man you both loved so much disappear behind those white ambulance doors.

-

The hospital waiting area felt like the backrooms.

Too bright. Too sterile. Too quiet — except for the occasional ring of a phone at the reception desk or the rhythmic clacking of keys from someone behind the counter. But even those sounds felt muted, distant, like the world was operating at half-speed while all of you sat frozen in a grief that hadn’t even fully arrived yet.

You sat curled up on the stiff plastic chair, knees drawn to your chest, arms wrapped around your shins like they could somehow keep you from unraveling completely. Seunghyun was beside you, close enough to feel his presence but not touching. Neither of you could. There was too much space between you now, and none of it had to do with physical distance.

Across from you, Daesung stared blankly at the floor, his fingers twitching against his leg. Taeyang kept rubbing his hands together, like he could pray the panic away. Seungri looked like he’d aged ten years in the last hour, chewing on the edge of his thumb, phone clutched tightly in his other hand though he hadn’t looked at it in a while. Not really. 

They were all waiting. Hoping. Dreading.

Jiyong’s manager sat silently in the far corner, head bowed, lips pressed into a tight line. A few YG staffers dotted the waiting room, whispering among themselves, but their presence felt like white noise. No one was really speaking. What could they possibly say?

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at anyone. Your vision swam, not from tears — not yet — but from the pressure of holding them back. You blinked furiously, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them.

Because this was your fault.

Every single agonizing minute that passed, you reminded yourself of that.

He’d been leaving your apartment. After your fight. After you'd shattered him with words you couldn’t take back. You could still hear the slam of the door. You could still feel the weight of his anger, his heartbreak, pressing down on your chest.

You buried your face in your arms. It hurt to breathe.

Beside you, Seunghyun leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were bone white. He hadn’t spoken since arriving at the hospital. Hadn’t moved much either. But his mind was racing.

It was his fault too.

He should’ve taken Jiyong’s keys. He should’ve told him to stay the night. He should’ve been a better friend — his best friend. But instead, he let him walk out of that bar. Walk out of your apartment. Stumbling and furious, still drunk, still hurting.

And now they were all sitting here, waiting to find out if Jiyong would wake up at all.

Seunghyun glanced at you from the corner of his eye — your small, shaking form beside him, silent tears finally sliding down your cheeks.

He wanted to reach for you. Wanted to hold you and tell you everything was going to be okay.

But it wouldn’t have been true.

And the truth was — neither of you knew who you were grieving harder for:

Jiyong…

Or the pieces of yourselves that had broken beyond repair.

The sterile hush of the hospital waiting room shattered as the doors creaked open and the doctor stepped out, clipboard in hand, his expression unreadable.

Jiyong’s manager was on his feet before anyone else could even register the movement.

“What’s going on?” he asked, urgency sharpening his voice.

“We need to speak to his family,” the doctor replied, scanning the room with a professional detachment that made your stomach twist.

“His family is on their way,” his manager said quickly, already stepping forward. “But I’m his manager. I’ve been listed on his emergency contacts. We can speak, let’s go talk.” He said, voice eager.

The doctor hesitated for a moment, then gave a tight nod. Without another word, he turned and let himself be led down the hall, disappearing behind the same doors Jiyong had vanished through over an hour ago.

The silence left in their wake was heavier than anything that came before it.

Taeyang sat forward, rubbing his hands over his face before looking at Seunghyun, eyes narrowed with confusion and fear.

“So… what the hell happened?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Didn’t you guys go out tonight?”

Every nerve in your body lit up like a warning flare.

You couldn’t breathe. Your chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. Your palms were slick with sweat. You could feel the stares of the other boys — of everyone — even if they weren’t looking directly at you. The pressure was suffocating. The truth was crawling its way to the surface, clawing through the cracks like smoke before a fire.

Seunghyun inhaled slowly. His jaw tightened. You felt his hand come to rest on your knee, grounding you for just a second. But it wasn’t comfort. It was confirmation.

“He was drunk,” Seunghyun said quietly, his voice low and rough.

That was it. Just those three words.

Taeyang flinched slightly, and Daesung swore under his breath.

“He was drunk,” Seunghyun repeated, more to himself now, like he was trying to make sense of it, trying to say it enough times to believe it. “And stupid.”

You bit down hard on your lip, hard enough to taste blood. Tears stung the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You couldn’t. Not yet.

Because even if Seunghyun was technically right, it wasn’t the whole story. Jiyong had been drunk, yes. And reckless. But he hadn’t crashed just because of the alcohol in his veins.

He had crashed because of you.

Because he had stormed out of your apartment with your voice still echoing in his head — every bitter word, every rejection, every cruel truth you hadn't meant to come out the way it did. He’d left with a cracked-open heart and nowhere to put the pieces.

You had taken away the one thing he didn’t even realize he wanted until it was already gone.

A child.

A future.

A family.

And that was what had been driving him faster than he should have been. That was what blurred his vision more than the whiskey ever could. That was what made him miss the light. What made him not see the semi barreling through the far too busy intersection outside your apartment.

Yes, Jiyong had been drunk.

But he had also been hurting.

The doctors, the lawyers, the managers — they’d sort it all out. They’d write it up in reports and argue it in meetings. There would be contracts and coverage and headlines. They’d fix it up for the public.

But none of that changed the truth.

He had been speeding away from your front door with a black hole in his chest, crushed beneath the weight of the love he couldn't keep, and the future he didn’t get to fight for.

And now all any of you could do was wait.

Wait for news.

Wait for forgiveness.

Wait for a miracle.

You stood up without saying a word. No one tried to stop you. No one even looked up. Maybe they understood, or maybe they just didn’t know how to speak anymore. Either way, you were grateful. You needed the air. Needed the distance. Needed a break from the guilt pressing down on your chest.

Outside, the night was cool and still, and the moment the sliding ER doors shut behind you, it was like someone turned the volume down on the world. The hospital buzz faded, replaced by the soft hum of passing cars and the gentle breeze rustling the trees nearby.

You lit your cigarette with shaking fingers, bringing it to your lips like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. The smoke filled your lungs, acrid and warm, and for just a second, you could almost pretend none of this was real. Almost.

You were halfway through your cigarette when you heard the doors behind you hiss open again.

You didn’t turn around. Not at first. You just exhaled slowly, hoping—praying—it wasn’t anyone. That you could just be alone with your guilt for a little while longer.

But then you saw him out of the corner of your eye.

Seunghyun.

He looked nothing like the man you knew.

His shoulders were hunched, his expression hollow, like someone had scooped the life out of him and left the shell behind. His hands were in his pockets. His eyes were red-rimmed, though you weren’t sure if it was from crying or just exhaustion. Or maybe both.

You silently held out your cigarette pack and the lighter.

He took one wordlessly, and sat down beside you on the low stone wall near the hospital entrance. The click of the lighter was the only sound between you as he lit up, inhaling deep like he needed it more than air.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment. You just stared up at the night sky, the stars shining far too brightly for how dark the world felt right now.

You wanted to reach for his hand. You wanted to press your palm against his, to offer some kind of comfort, even if you didn’t deserve to give it. But you didn’t move.

“Seunghyun, I—” you started, voice thin and raw.

But he didn’t let you finish.

“You should go home,” he said, cutting you off with a quiet firmness that hurt more than if he’d yelled.

You looked down at your shoes, swallowing hard. “I-I don’t want to go back there…” you muttered, barely audible.

The words carried too much weight.

Your apartment. The place where Jiyong had stood broken and shaking, where the worst things had been said. Where you’d sent him out into the night with a wound he hadn’t been able to outrun.

You couldn’t go back to that.

Seunghyun sighed, and the sound was so heavy it made your chest tighten all over again. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his keys and holding them out to you.

“Here,” he said. “Go to my place.”

You hesitated. “I—”

“I don’t want you here,” he said, voice sharper now. Not yelling. Just... tired. Defeated. Final.

The words sliced through you like glass. You flinched, your hand recoiling from the keys even though you knew he wasn’t wrong.

“I want to make sure—”

“I’ll call if there’s an update,” he said, already turning his gaze away. “Just...go.”

You stared at him, your vision going blurry with tears. But you knew better than to argue. Not now. Not with him. Not with everything so fragile and raw.

You nodded, swallowing the sob threatening to climb your throat.

You called an Uber and didn’t look back.

-

Seunghyun’s apartment welcomed you like a ghost. Everything was familiar — the scent of his cologne still clinging to the air, the soft hum of the fridge, the faint echo of laughter that only existed in your memory now.

You walked slowly through the space, your fingers trailing over the back of the couch, the counter, the hallway wall — like touching these things would somehow bring you back to a time when this place felt like home. When he felt like home.

You reached the bedroom and stripped out of your clothes with a kind of numb autopilot. You opened his drawer and pulled out one of his oversized t-shirts — the one he always wore on lazy Sunday mornings.

You slipped it over your head, the fabric brushing your skin with a familiar comfort, and for a moment, it felt like you could still feel his arms around you.

But it wasn’t real.

You climbed into his bed, curling into his side of the bed, breathing in the remnants of him like they were oxygen.

And then it hit you.

All of it.

The crash.

The guilt.

The fact that Jiyong might never open his eyes again.

The fact that Seunghyun was done with you.

The fact that you may have lost everything.

A choking sob ripped from your throat as you curled into yourself, burying your face into his pillow.

Your body shook with quiet, helpless grief.

Tonight had changed everything.

And there was no going back.

-

The loud slam of the front door jolted you awake. Your entire body tensed, your heart hammering in your chest as your mind scrambled to make sense of where you were.

Then it hit you. Seunghyun’s house.

You sat up slowly, blinking through the haze of sleep. The room was dim, lit only by the morning sun peaking through the blinds, casting pale shadows across the walls. You strained to hear footsteps, movement — anything — but the house had gone quiet again.

It had to be him. He must’ve come home from the hospital.

You waited, every second dragging out painfully as dread curled in your stomach. You counted the minutes in your head, clinging to the silence like it might give you an answer.

After what felt like forever, you heard the soft creak of the bedroom door.

Seunghyun stepped in.

He barely looked at you.

His eyes skimmed over your presence in his bed like you were furniture, like you weren’t someone he had once called “baby,” someone he had once held so carefully. 

Without a word, he walked past you and shut the bathroom door behind him.

You sat frozen, still beneath the blankets, unsure what to do. Your skin pricked with nerves. Did he want you here? Did he even remember that he’d told you to come? Or had that been guilt talking?

The weight of your thoughts crushed you. You laid back down, curling onto your side, arms wrapped tightly around your core. Your heart felt like it might crack open. You whispered a quiet prayer into the silence, not for yourself, but for Jiyong.

Please let him be okay.

Fifteen agonizing minutes passed before the bathroom door opened again. You glanced over your shoulder as Seunghyun walked back into the room, dressed in nothing but his boxers. He climbed into bed beside you wordlessly and grabbed the remote, flicking on the TV. An old sitcom started to play — something bright, cheerful, completely out of place against the oppressive weight in the room.

You chewed your bottom lip, uncertain. The air between you was too thick with unspoken grief and regret. Still, you tried.

“Seunghyun…” you said softly.

No response.

He stared at the screen, his face expressionless.

You tried again, your voice cracking with hesitation. “Is… is there any update? On Ji?”

He took a slow breath through his nose. The pause before he answered made your chest tighten.

“He’s out of surgery,” he finally said. His voice was flat, tired. “Hasn’t woken up yet.”

You felt the sting of tears in your eyes again, but blinked them back quickly. You didn’t deserve to cry. Not after everything.

“Is he going to be okay?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

“I-I don’t know, Y/n,” he said, and for the first time since he got home, there was emotion behind his voice. Sadness. Defeat. “His family’s with him. They told us to go home…rest.”

You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. A long silence passed before you worked up the nerve to ask, “D-Do you want me to leave?”

The question hung in the air like a loaded gun.

He was quiet for a long time, and just when you were sure he wasn’t going to answer, he whispered, “No.”

You were stunned.

You didn’t know what he meant. You didn’t know if it was love, or guilt, or just the unbearable weight of being alone right now. But you didn’t argue. You didn’t say another word.

You sat in silence beside him, the two of you watching the flicker of people laughing on a screen neither of you were really seeing.

Thirty minutes passed like that. Maybe longer.

Then, without warning, his hand moved. Slowly. Deliberately.

It slid across the bed and settled on your thigh. Warm. Heavy. Familiar yet foreign.

His fingers crept higher, brushing the edge of your panties, and your breath caught in your throat. Your body reacted before your brain could catch up — tension coiled in your belly, heat blooming where his fingers hovered.

You turned toward him instinctively, crawling over his hips, straddling him.

Your lips met in a rush of desperation and pain. He didn’t pull back. His hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, deeper. One slid down your back, gripping your ass roughly. His nails dug in. Then came the sharp crack of his palm landing on your cheek.

You whimpered into his mouth.

And that sound — that soft, broken sound — snapped something in him.

He flipped you beneath him with a strength that startled you, not even bothering to undress fully before pushing his boxers down just enough to free himself. He didn’t pause, didn’t ask, didn’t look at you. He pushed your panties to the side.

You didn’t even have time to prepare before he shoved into you.

You cried out, the stretch almost painful. Your nails dug into his shoulders, trying to ground yourself, but he didn’t slow down. Didn’t soften.

He thrust into you hard, fast, his pace punishing. You felt the bed frame creak under the force of it, your breath catching as his hand wrapped around your throat.

“Seunghyun…” you whimpered, your voice strangled.

He leaned close, grunting in your ear, his fingers tightening.

You could feel it now — this wasn’t intimacy. This wasn’t love.

It was anger.

Grief.

Trauma.

“Was he better than me?” he whispered, his voice venomous, hips snapping forward harder.

You gasped at the sting, tears springing to your eyes.

“Who fucks you better, huh?”

“Seunghyun!” you screamed, shoving at his chest. “You’re hurting me!”

He froze for a split second.

You pushed again, harder this time, and he rolled off of you, chest heaving as the realization of what just happened hit him like a freight train.

He stared at you — really saw you now — your eyes red, your body trembling, clutching the sheets tightly around you like a shield.

The darkness in his eyes vanished, replaced by horror.

“Shit,” he whispered, sitting up and dragging both hands through his hair. “Shit, Y/n… I’m—I’m so sorry.”

You couldn’t answer. You couldn’t even look at him.

You choked back a sob, stumbling out of bed and rushing to the bathroom. You locked the door behind you, pressing your back to it, sliding to the cold tile floor.

And there, in the silence…you broke.

“Y/n, please…” Seunghyun’s voice came through the door, broken and muffled. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I swear to god I didn’t…”

You sat on the cold tile floor, your knees hugged to your chest, arms trembling as your fingers dug into your skin. The sobs shook through you violently, unstoppable, as the night played over and over in your head like a film reel you couldn't turn off.

Everything was broken.

Jiyong. Seunghyun.You.

The man you loved had just used you as an outlet for his pain — not a partner, not someone to hold, but someone to unload on. You felt every thrust like an accusation. Every movement screamed at you: You did this. You destroyed us. You ruined everything.

But it wasn’t just anger. It was grief. It was guilt. It was heartbreak on both ends, a tangle of too many things neither of you had the tools to process.

“I’m sorry,” Seunghyun choked out again. You could hear the weight in his voice, the kind of sorrow that buckled you at the knees. “Please, can we just talk? I can’t breathe without knowing you’re okay…”

And still, even with how scared you were… your heart ached for him.

You loved him. So fucking much.

Maybe that was the worst part — that even after what had just happened, a part of you still wanted to comfort him. To reach for him. To fix what was already in ruins.

Maybe you deserved it.

Maybe you didn’t.

You shifted, hands trembling as you unlocked the bathroom door and slowly cracked it open.

He was sitting right outside, legs folded beneath him, arms resting on his knees. He looked… small. Tired. Wrecked. He’d changed into sweats and an old, worn t-shirt, the one he usually slept in when you stayed over. His eyes were red, tear tracks still glistening on his cheeks.

You tugged your borrowed shirt down, trying to cover yourself, suddenly painfully aware of your body. His gaze flicked to you and quickly away, like even he couldn’t look at what he’d done.

Without a word, he grabbed the blanket off the bed and handed it to you. You took it, wrapping it tightly around yourself, grateful for the shield between you.

You sat beside him, leaning back against the wall, your shoulders just barely brushing. The silence was suffocating, but you weren’t ready to break it.

“I’m really sorry, Y/n,” Seunghyun whispered, voice hoarse with emotion. “You didn’t deserve that.”

You swallowed, staring blankly at the floor. “Yeah. I did.”

“No.” His voice snapped sharper now, filled with conviction. “No, you didn’t.”

He turned to you then, really turned, his eyes bloodshot and wide. “I took everything I was feeling and dumped it on you. I used you. That’s not love. That’s not who I want to be. That’s not who I am.”

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a shaky breath.

“I caused all of this,” you finally said, your voice so small it was barely audible.

He sighed and dropped his face into his hands. “I don’t even know how to start this conversation.”

“I don’t think it’s the time to have it,” you whispered.

He nodded slowly. “You’re right.”

The silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was heavy. Wounded.

You stared ahead, unsure if you were waiting for something or if there was simply nothing left to say. Until finally…

“D-Did you tell everyone the whole story?” you asked, heart pounding in your chest.

He shook his head, slow and deliberate. “No. Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I want Jiyong to wake up first,” he said, his voice cracking at the name. “I want him to be okay. I just… I need him to be okay so bad, Y/n. He’s my best friend.”

And then he crumbled.

He collapsed into your lap and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as the sobs came. Violent. Uncontrolled.

You held him without thinking. Your hands tangled in his hair, your lips pressed to the crown of his head. And then you were crying too. The two of you sobbing into each other, curled up on the bedroom floor like children who had just lost their favorite toy.

You cried for Jiyong.

For yourselves.

For the pieces of this mess you didn’t know how to put back together.

-

An hour passed like that. Eventually, the tears dried, leaving nothing but swollen eyes and silent exhaustion.

“Seunghyun,” you whispered, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Have you slept?”

He sniffled and shook his head. “Not really.”

“You need rest,” you said gently.

He nodded, eyes fluttering. “Will you… rub my back?”

His voice cracked again, soft and wounded, like a little boy asking his mother for comfort. It nearly broke you all over again.

You smiled through the ache. Remembering the last few months how you coaxed him to sleep that way. “Yeah. I will.”

You helped him into bed, pulling the blankets over both of you as he curled onto his side. You slid in behind him, your fingers trailing lightly across his bare back. Drawing soft shapes like you used to. Slow, soothing motions to ease him into rest.

His breathing began to slow. His body finally relaxed.

And you stayed there, in the quiet, drawing circles into his skin and wondering if either of you would ever feel whole again.

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Your breath caught in your throat. The words didn’t feel real. They didn’t register. You blinked again. As if somehow they’d change, as if the message would rewrite itself into something less cruel.

Beside you, Seunghyun let out a strangled gasp, his own screen illuminating the sheer terror washing over his face. “No... no, no, no—Y/n, he’s—he’s gonna fucking die! He’s fucking dead!”

His voice cracked violently, each word edged in panic, raw and ragged like a fresh wound. He shoved the blankets off and stood abruptly, pacing around the room. His hands clawed through his hair as if he could rip the fear out of his head. “I should’ve been there—we should’ve—what if this is it?! What if we never—”

“No!” Your voice tore through the room, loud and desperate. You flung the blankets aside and stood, tears already blurring your vision. “He’s not dead! He’s not—” Your voice faltered, chest tightening. “He’s not...”

But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And you weren’t sure if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

Seunghyun collapsed back onto the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders trembling violently. You knelt beside him, grabbing his wrists and pulling them away just enough to see the heartbreak in his eyes.

“I can’t lose him…” he whispered, barely audible. “Not like this. Not without saying goodbye. Not when…” He trailed off.

You wrapped your arms around him, holding on for dear life as sobs shook both of your bodies. The air felt thinner now, the weight of fear and uncertainty pressing into your lungs.

“Let’s go.” Your voice was sharp, no room for argument, as you grabbed your bag and snatched Seunghyun’s car keys from the counter.

Seunghyun blinked, caught off guard. “W–What?”

You didn’t turn around. “Get dressed. We’re going to the hospital.”

He froze for half a second before the panic set in. Without another word, he rushed to his closet, fumbling with the first pair of sweats he could find, tugging on an old t-shirt with trembling hands. His face had gone pale, and you could see the terror setting in behind his eyes.

You didn’t wait. The second he was dressed, the two of you bolted out the door. You didn’t even glance at the elevator—you both flew down the stairwell, heartbeats thudding like war drums in your ears with each floor you passed. The penthouse might’ve been on the top level, but right now, nothing could’ve moved faster than your will to get to Jiyong.

The parking garage felt too quiet when you finally reached it. You slid into the driver’s seat of Seunghyun’s car without a word, yanking the door shut as he scrambled in beside you, hands shaking uncontrollably.

The second the engine roared to life, you peeled out of the garage, tires squealing against the concrete. Seunghyun sat hunched in the passenger seat, gripping his knees, his chest heaving with ragged sobs. You kept your eyes on the road, clutching the steering wheel like it was the only thing holding you together, biting back your own tears that threatened to spill.

Your throat burned. Your hands ached from how tightly you were holding on. But all you could think about was Jiyong. Please let him be okay.

When the hospital finally came into view, you barely slowed down. You pulled into the emergency lot at a crooked angle and flung the door open while the car was still rolling. Both of you were already running before the engine cut off completely.

The sterile brightness of the ER hit you like a train. Beeping monitors. The distant echo of intercoms. The smell of antiseptic and dread. And then—Daesung. Seungri. Standing in the waiting area like statues carved from grief.

“Where is he?!” Seunghyun shouted, his voice cracking from a place deep inside.

Daesung caught him just in time, holding him back with both arms. “He’s in surgery again! They had to take him back in—Youngbae’s with him. We just have to wait!” He said as Seunghyun broke down in his arms.

But your legs were already moving.

You pushed past them, heart racing, lungs burning.

“Y/n!” Seungri stepped forward, catching you around the waist, his grip firm. “You can’t go in there!”

Your vision blurred with tears and rage. Without thinking, you drove your elbow into his stomach, just hard enough to make him stumble. His grip loosened and you broke free.

“Y/n, stop!”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

Because no matter how long it took you to admit it—he might’ve been the love of your life.

And if he didn’t make it through that surgery, you didn’t know how you were supposed to keep breathing.

-

You sobbed into Youngbae’s shoulder, your fingers clutching the fabric of his jacket like a lifeline as the two of you sat outside the operating room. Two hours. Two fucking hours. And with every second that ticked by, it felt like Jiyong was slipping further and further from you—like you were standing at the edge of a cliff, watching the person you love fall and being utterly powerless to stop it.

“What if—” your voice cracked as another sob ripped through your chest. “What if I never get to tell him I love him too…”

Youngbae didn’t speak right away. His hand rubbed soft, unsure circles along your back. You could feel the hesitancy in his touch—this was the first time he was learning the full extent of the mess between you, Jiyong, and Seunghyun. But he didn’t ask. Didn’t pry. Not now. Not when the love of both your lives was fighting to stay alive a few feet away.

“He’s going to be okay,” Youngbae whispered, voice steady but gentle. “We just have to pray…”

Under normal circumstances, you would’ve scoffed at that. Rolled your eyes. Religion had never been your thing—you never believed in some divine plan or higher power. But now? Now you’d kneel on crushed glass if it meant getting one more chance to see Jiyong open his eyes. To hear him call you Jagiya with that crooked little grin that made your heart flutter. To tell him. To fix everything.

So you let Youngbae lead you down the hall, through the too-quiet corridors, and into the hospital chapel. You sat beside him in a pew that smelled of old wood and lemon cleaner, eyes glassy as he began to pray. You didn’t speak his words. You couldn’t. Instead, you silently begged. Please let him wake up. Please let him live. Please give me a second chance to love him the right way. Even if I don’t know what that looks like yet. Even if it’s messy. Just let me try.

—

Three more agonizing hours passed before a doctor finally emerged. You shot to your feet so fast the world tilted.

“He’s stable,” the doctor said. “We expect him to pull through.”

The relief was instantaneous—and yet not. You wanted to collapse with it, to scream, to laugh, to cry all at once. But instead you just nodded, tears spilling down your cheeks as the doctor continued.

“We can only allow one person at a time.”

You turned to Youngbae, your lip trembling, eyes silently pleading. He smiled softly and nodded. “Go,” he said. “He needs you.”

You hugged him tightly before following the doctor through the double doors, your hands shaking as you entered Jiyong’s room.

And then you saw him.

Your knees nearly buckled.

He looked so broken. His face was swollen, bruised beyond recognition. Tubes ran from his mouth and nose. Machines beeped and clicked like a grotesque lullaby. The sound of the heart monitor was steady, but even that didn’t calm you. He looked so small in that bed. So fragile.

“Fuck, Ji…” you whispered, voice cracking. You stumbled toward the chair beside his bed and collapsed into it, your hand reaching out for the only part of him that seemed untouched—his hand.

His skin was cold.

You flinched. A fresh wave of panic gripped your chest.

You stroked your thumb gently over his knuckles, tears dripping onto the hospital sheets. “I’m so sorry,” you choked out. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve been there. I—I was scared and stupid and now you’re here and I don’t know how to fix this. But I swear to god, if you just wake up, I’ll never waste another second.”

—

Day three.

Three fucking days.

You were curled up in the same uncomfortable chair that had practically molded to your body at this point, the sharp ache in your neck a reminder that you hadn’t left his side. He still hadn’t woken up.

Daesung and Youngbae had visited earlier, quietly taking shifts and encouraging you to shower, eat, breathe—but you refused. You wouldn’t leave. Not until he opened his eyes.

“Y/n, come on,” Daesung had urged. “Just go get cleaned up.”

“I don’t want to,” you mumbled, burrowing further into the chair like a petulant child.

But then Seunghyun walked in.

You didn’t even notice him until he was right beside you, grabbing your arm gently. “Y/n, get up.”

You jerked away, venom in your voice. “Fuck off, Seunghyun!”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he pulled you to your feet with unexpected strength and led you into the hallway before you could protest again.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” you screamed, shoving him hard. 

He didn’t yell back. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at you, tired and haunted.

“Let’s go have a cigarette,” he said softly, voice low, steady.

You stared at him, chest heaving. And for some reason, in that moment, something told you to follow him.

So you did.

The door creaked shut behind you as you stepped out onto the top floor of the parking garage, the night air biting and cold despite the heat that clung to your skin from hours of crying. The city glowed dimly below, but up here, it felt like another world—quiet, detached, like time had paused just for the two of you.

Seunghyun didn’t say anything as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. His hands were steady, but his eyes weren’t. He held the pack out wordlessly. You took one.

He lit yours for you, the flame briefly illuminating the hollows beneath your eyes, then lit his own. You both took a drag, and the familiar burn of nicotine settled into your lungs, grounding you in a way nothing else could.

Silence hung between you, thick and heavy, coiling around all the words neither of you wanted to say. You both leaned against the concrete railing, exhaling into the void.

Then, Seunghyun broke the silence.

“Do you love him?”

His voice was calm. Too calm. Like he already knew the answer. Like he just needed to hear you say it out loud to make it real.

“Yes,” you whispered, your breath fogging slightly in the cold. “I do.”

He inhaled sharply, not from the cigarette. From the ache in his chest. He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the skyline. Another drag, another pause.

“Do you love me?” he asked, softer this time. Like it hurt to even ask.

You turned to look at him. Really look at him. His profile was worn—eyes red, jaw clenched like he was holding everything in. 

“Yes,” you said. And your voice cracked this time.

Because that was the truth too.

You loved them both.

And it was breaking you apart.

“So what happens when Jiyong wakes up?” Seunghyun asked, his voice low but sharp, like he was holding back something dangerous.

Your eyes stayed glued to the horizon, refusing to meet his. “I-I don’t know, Seunghyun…” you murmured. “When he wakes up, he’s gonna need rest, and space and—”

He cut you off with a bitter laugh, flicking the butt of his cigarette to the ground and stomping it out with too much force. “Well then I guess we should at least figure our shit out now, huh?”

You bit the inside of your cheek, steeling yourself. “Okay, Seunghyun. Let’s talk.”

He didn’t ease into it. He started pacing, his movements stiff and erratic like his body was barely holding his fury in check.

“So first of all,” he began, voice rising, “you were fucking my best friend.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but he barely gave you the chance.

“It was before—” you started.

“Yeah, before we were dating. I know that,” he snapped. “But that doesn’t change what it was. You were still fucking him, Y/n. And then you started dating me. So what the fuck was I supposed to be?!”

You flinched at the venom in his words.

“I liked you,” you said flatly, but the words sounded pathetic even to your own ears.

“Oh, you liked me?” he repeated mockingly, shaking his head with a humorless laugh. “Tell me something, how many times did you think about him when we fucked?”

Your face twisted, your stomach turning at the question, but you said nothing.

The silence spoke for you. And it gutted him.

He took a shaky breath, his voice dropping to something more broken. “And then I find out I held you while you cried over aborting his baby?”

“Don’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Well too fucking bad!” he roared, stepping toward you like he might break apart if he didn’t move. “You don’t get to not talk about it, Y/n! You lied! You let me sit there, hold you, love you through it—and you never even told me the fucking truth!”

Tears burned your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not yet. “I needed you,” you choked out. “I needed someone, and Jiyong—Jiyong was a fucking prick to me, Seunghyun. He was cruel. He treated me like I was disposable. That’s why I got rid of it. I knew he wouldn’t care. He didn’t care.”

Seunghyun’s mouth opened slightly, his breath hitching like the weight of your words had finally punctured through all his anger. His eyes welled up, and for the first time, he didn’t look mad—he looked destroyed. You just needed someone. Not him, but someone.

“I think you should go,” he whispered, voice almost trembling.

“No,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

He blinked. His expression twisted, like your refusal was something he physically couldn’t comprehend. “What?”

“I said no,” you repeated. “I love him too, Seunghyun. And I’m not going anywhere.”

The pain in his face morphed into something colder, crueler—a shield.

He scoffed, shaking his head with a sharp exhale. “Then at least take a fucking shower. You reek of guilt.”

And before you could even process the jab, he turned and walked off—his footsteps echoing in the hollow space behind him.

The moment he disappeared, everything crumbled. You collapsed where you stood, sobs finally breaking free, echoing across the rooftop like a siren’s wail—loud, raw, and full of everything you never got to say.

-

You had showered. Changed into clean clothes. Even managed to eat a few bites of something bland and forgettable. But none of it touched the hollow ache inside you.

The others had gone down to the cafeteria for some space, some air. Probably to avoid sitting in the same room as Seunghyun while the silence between you all grew more unbearable by the second. The secret was out now. Everyone knew.

And you weren’t sure what stung more—your shame, or the way no one could look at you for too long.

You didn’t know what you were anymore. To any of them. To the group. To your job. To Seunghyun. Not that either of you had said the words it’s over, but you could feel it. In every glance he didn’t give you. In every inch he kept between your bodies. You had lost him.

Still… right now, none of it mattered. You were here for one reason only.

Your fingers were laced with Jiyong’s as you rested your head on the edge of the hospital bed, your eyes fixed on the slow, steady rise of his chest. He looked so fragile beneath the white sheets and wires. Like porcelain that had already cracked once too many times.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking beneath the weight of the confession. “For all of it.”

You weren’t even sure he could hear you. But it didn’t stop you from saying it. Again and again.

And then… you felt it.

A slight twitch—barely anything—but his fingers brushed against yours.

Your head shot up, heart in your throat.

“Ji?” you breathed, eyes scanning his face. His eyelids fluttered faintly, and your body went still. “Ji, are you—are you awake?”

It took a few moments, but his lashes finally lifted, his gaze unfocused as he tried to adjust to the room, the light, the machines, you.

His eyes found yours—groggy, glassy, but aware.

You wanted to throw your arms around him. To cry into his chest. To beg him to forgive you. But you didn’t. You didn’t know if you were still allowed.

“Are you thirsty?” you asked instead, voice too small. “Do you need water?”

He let out a low, gravelly groan and nodded faintly. You rushed to grab the plastic water bottle the hospital had provided, fumbling with the straw before pressing it gently to his lips.

“Take it slow, okay?” you murmured.

He sipped. Your heart thundered in your ears as you watched the most mundane act feel like a fucking miracle. He was alive. He was finally awake.

When he pulled away, you set the bottle aside and stared at him, lips parted, unsure if you should speak or stay silent. You just… needed to hear his voice. Anything.

Finally, he rasped, “You’re here.”

You nodded, offering a half-hearted smile. “Yeah. I’m here…”

He blinked slowly, swallowing hard. “What happened?”

Your chest tightened like a vice. “You were in a car accident,” you said carefully. “It was bad, Ji. I-I didn’t know if you were going to wake up…”

He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant.

“Wish I didn’t,” he mumbled.

Your stomach dropped. “Don’t say that,” you said quickly, your voice cracking. “Please don’t.”

But he didn’t respond to your plea. His eyes moved, searching the room.

“Where’s Seunghyun?”

That one question shattered you.

He remembered. He remembered everything. And you knew it from that one simple question.

The world tilted slightly, your breath catching in your throat. You’d waited days for him to wake up—prayed for it—but now that he was conscious, all you felt was the weight of loss pressing in on you.

“I’ll… I’ll go get him,” you whispered, blinking fast to hold back tears. “But first I should get the nurse.”

“I don’t nee—”

“Shut up, Jiyong.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, brittle with heartbreak. You couldn’t bear to hear another word. Not now.

You left the room in a blur, moving down the hallway with a hollow thud in your chest. You flagged the nearest nurse and told her he was awake, giving only the essentials before heading to the waiting room.

The boys stood the moment they saw you.

“He’s awake,” you said, barely above a whisper.

A collective sigh of relief washed over them—smiles, quiet laughter, even a few tears.

But you didn’t share in their joy. Not really.

You stepped toward Seunghyun, your eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable—guarded, cold.

“He wants you,” you said, your voice bitter and quiet, almost like a final goodbye.

You held his gaze for a second too long—long enough for your chest to ache with everything you weren’t saying—then turned without another word and walked straight out of the building, into the open air, where your tears finally fell freely.

-

Daesung, Youngbae, and Seungri had spent the last twenty minutes gathered around Jiyong’s bed, their relief palpable in every tearful laugh and affectionate jab. They clung to him like gravity, trading stories and cracking stupid jokes, their voices light with joy, even as their eyes stayed glassy with unshed tears. Seeing him awake—alive—had soothed something deep in each of them. Their leader. Their brother. Still breathing.

Meanwhile, Seunghyun stood outside.

A cigarette burned between his fingers, the bitter smoke curling around his face as he leaned heavily against the cold wall of the hospital. He hadn't gone in. Not yet.

He didn’t feel ready.

The emotions inside him were a war zone—guilt, anger, love, betrayal, heartbreak—all colliding so violently he felt like a damn grenade about to go off.

He wanted to hold Jiyong, bury his face in his shoulder, and tell him how scared he was. How fucking lost he’d felt without him. But he also wanted to grab him by the collar, slam him against the wall and scream: Why didn’t you fucking tell me?

Why did you lie?

Why did you both lie?

The hospital doors slid open behind him, breaking through the thick fog of his thoughts.

Youngbae stepped out first, followed closely by Daesung and Seungri. The quiet understanding on their faces said enough—they knew what this moment meant.

“He wants to see you, hyung,” Youngbae said softly, his voice gentle but firm.

Seunghyun nodded once, wordlessly, dropping the cigarette and grinding it out beneath his boot. Then, without another look at the others, he turned and headed back into the hospital.

Each step toward Jiyong’s room felt heavier than the last.

When he reached the door, his hand hovered near the handle, hesitating for just a second. His heart was thudding, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

He knocked lightly, barely more than a tap, then slowly pushed the door open.

There he was.

His best fucking friend. Or so he thought.

Bruised and broken, his skin pale against the hospital sheets, IV lines tangled beside his arm. And in his hand?—a damn juice box.

Like nothing had changed.

Like the world hadn’t fucking shattered.

Jiyong looked up as the door clicked shut behind Seunghyun. His lips curved into a tired smile, eyes softer than they had any right to be.

“Hey, hyung.”

That was all it took.

Seunghyun’s breath caught in his throat, the sound of that familiar voice nearly unraveling him on the spot.

“Hey…” he rasped back, his voice low and tight.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t know whether he wanted to hug him—or hit him.

Maybe both.

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Your gaze drifted out to the ocean, letting the steady rhythm of the waves lull your thoughts into silence. The blue stretched out endlessly, calm and open, and for a second, you could almost forget the storm that had rolled through your body the night before. Almost.

Until Seunghyun’s low voice cut through the hum of conversation, pulling you back to the moment. “I had so much fun with you on this trip, baby,” he murmured, leaning in. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips brushing yours in a kiss that should’ve felt soft and safe.

But it didn’t.

You kissed him back because it was easier than not. You smiled because it was what he wanted. But the smile didn’t quite reach your eyes, and the moment your lips parted, you felt it—that unmistakable pull.

Jiyong was watching you.

His gaze was heavy, burning. When you dared to glance at him, it wasn’t what you expected. No smug smirk. No jealousy disguised as irritation. He looked… ruined. His jaw clenched like he was trying to swallow something sharp, and his eyes—god, his eyes were full of something that shattered you.

Not anger. Not regret. Just pure, aching sadness.

Sad that he betrayed Seunghyun. Sad that he let it happen. Sad that you weren’t his. And maybe worst of all—sad that he still wanted you anyway.

Your stomach twisted, a slow, guilty coil. You couldn’t stop the flash of last night from rising to the surface like a wave threatening to drown you. Jiyong’s lips on yours—hungry, desperate, like he was starving for you. His hands everywhere at once, rough and tender in a way that made you ache. The low, husky sound of your name as he whispered against your skin, sending chills through you, curling your toes and making you forget everything but him.

You looked away from him now, guilt gnawing at your chest. But it wasn’t just guilt. It was longing. Want. Need. Every touch, every glance between you and Jiyong had been leading to that moment, and now that the dam had broken, there was no going back.

-

The rest of the day passed like a dream you couldn’t quite wake from. You went snorkeling, the water warm and clear, wrapping around you like silk. You held Seunghyun’s hand as you dove down to snap pictures of neon-colored fish and curious eels. You posed for selfies, stole underwater glances, and pretended that everything was normal.

But it wasn’t.

Because every time you surfaced, gasping for breath, your eyes searched for Jiyong. And he was always there—hovering at the edges of the group, never too close, but never far. Watching. Watching the way your tan body glided through the water in that too small bikini.

By the time the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting orange and pink streaks across the sky, you all piled into the boat for one last ride across the harbor. The water sparkled like it knew this was goodbye.

Seunghyun wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into him, and you rested your head against his chest out of instinct. It felt… nice. Comfortable. Familiar.

But it didn’t set your skin on fire.

Jiyong sat across from you, elbows on his knees, head turned just slightly to watch the sunset—but he wasn’t looking at the view. He was looking at you. His gaze swept over your profile, the way the sun kissed your cheekbones, the way your hair blew softly in the wind. You looked like a dream to him. Like the girl he’d been running from and chasing all at once. He clenched his fists in his lap, like holding back the urge to reach for you physically hurt.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye, unable to resist. That same sad, silent expression etched into his features, so open and raw it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

So you offered him a small smile. The kind that said, I know. I feel it too. But we can’t.

He blinked, like he was trying not to feel it. Then looked away.

And in that quiet, stolen moment, you felt it more than ever—that impossible question pressing against your ribs like a bruise.

What would it be like… if it were Jiyong’s arm wrapped around you right now? If you were tucked into his side, his scent in your nose, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek? What if you weren’t pretending anymore?

Would it feel like freedom… or would it burn everything to the ground?

-

By the time the sky was shaded in dark blue, the guys had gathered for one last bonfire on the beach. Flames licked at the twilight, sparks crackling upward into the cooling air as laughter echoed along the shoreline. The firelight danced across their faces, casting warm shadows and illuminating the golden remnants of sun-kissed skin.

You sat quietly near the edge of the circle, nursing a drink and watching the stars begin to emerge like soft pinpricks in the darkening sky. There was a kind of magic to the stillness, a bittersweet beauty in knowing the trip was ending. You leaned back, letting your gaze trail upward. Daesung had sidled next to you, launching into a passionate tangent about astrology.

“So Y/S and Scorpio? Great emotionally, but physically? Not the best match,” Daesung explained, his voice animated, eyes sparkling as he sipped his drink. “But Y/S and Leo? That’s some chaotic shit—passionate, unstable, but crazy in love.”

Your heart stuttered.

You stopped listening. The words faded into a haze the moment you remembered—Seunghyun was a Scorpio. Jiyong was a Leo. Daesung had no clue he was even talking about you. He was just going on and on about the compatibility of different signs. 

Your throat tightened. Your drink suddenly tasting too strong. You let your eyes drift toward the fire again, scanning the faces of the boys. None of them seemed to be paying attention to you or Daesung’s wild ramblings, which was a small mercy. But your stomach twisted, the knot from earlier pulling tighter and tighter.

You stood up, heart thudding, and slipped away from the circle like a ghost. The sound of their laughter followed you as you disappeared into the dark. Joints passed from hand to hand. Cocktails clinked. No one called after you. No one noticed.

At least… you hoped no one noticed.

But you should’ve known better. By the time you made it to the far end of the beach, where jagged rocks met untouched sand and the only light came from the moon, Jiyong was already behind you. You had just lit a cigarette, the flame trembling slightly from your unsteady fingers, when his voice cut through the silence.

“Can we talk?”

“Talk about what?” you asked, your voice low, almost wary.

You didn't want to have this conversation. Not here. Not now. Not with the sound of the ocean lapping at the shore behind you, as if nature itself was trying to drown out the truth you both had been avoiding.

“Last night…” he said, hesitant. Like the words physically hurt to say.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” you replied flatly, flicking the ash from your cigarette. “Didn’t happen.”

Jiyong looked at you like you’d just slapped him.

“Y/n…” His voice dropped, softer than you’d ever heard it. Vulnerable. Stripped bare. “I can’t just forget you.”

You inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill your lungs, using it like armor. “Yes. You can,” you said, exhaling slow and sharp. “You didn’t like me before, so why do you like me now?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but hesitated. “I-I did…like you. I… I love you.”

You blinked. The words hung in the air between you. A confession you didn’t ask for. A grenade with the pin already pulled.

Silently, you let the cigarette fall to the sand, crushing it beneath the sole of your sandal.

“You don’t love me, Ji,” you said, not unkindly. Just honest. “You love the idea of me.”

“That’s not true—”

“Isn’t it?” you cut him off. “Then explain it. Why did you treat me like shit? Huh? Why was the only time you ever touched me—really touched me—when you were pissed off or wanted to piss me off? When you needed to prove something?”

He looked away, shoulders tense, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he chewed on the guilt.

“Yeah, you figured out my kink. Congrats,” you said with a bitter smile. “Doesn’t mean you love me.”

“I just…” he trailed off, dragging a hand through his hair. “When I treated you like that, you were so… needy for me. You looked at me like I was the only person in the world. I got used to that.”

You looked at him for a long beat, something in your chest tightening. Pity. Anger. Maybe both.

“Sex is fun, Ji,” you said, your voice calm. Too calm. “But it’s not everything. And needing someone sexually doesn’t mean they’re good for you.”

Jiyong looked pathetic now. A far cry from the cocky, confident idol everyone else saw. He was just a boy tonight. Drawing shapes in the sand with his foot like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, trying to keep himself from reaching for you.

“I could take you nice places, you know…” he said quietly. “I could… treat you better now.”

“Jiyong, stop. Drop it!” you snapped, your composure finally cracking. “I’m with Seunghyun. You can’t just swoop in now that you’ve decided you want me. It doesn’t work like that.”

“How can I drop it, Y/n?” he asked, finally meeting your gaze. His eyes were glassy now, holding onto tears he refused to let fall. “You came to my villa last night—my room—when I was balls deep in another bitch. Do you have any idea what that did to me? Seeing you standing there? Do you not realize how fucking happy I was? How happy I was to watch her run at the sight of you? How happy I was to—to kiss you again?”

The memory punched you in the gut. You hated how your body responded to it. How your mouth ached to taste him again. How your heart clenched at the way he’d held you, even if it was only for a moment.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, grounding yourself in the pain. You couldn’t let yourself go there. Not again.

“You have to drop it, Jiyong,” you said, voice quieter now. “Because Seunghyun is your best friend. And I’m not just some girl anymore. I’m his girl.”

His eyes dropped to the sand again, that familiar guilt settling back over him like a second skin.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “He deserves to be happy.”

You stood slowly, smoothing the fabric of your sundress, needing something—anything—to do with your hands. “I’m going back to my boyfriend now,” you said softly. “Okay?”

He didn’t look up. He just nodded.

“Goodnight.”

You turned and walked away, forcing yourself not to look back. Every step away from him felt heavier than the last.

Behind you, Jiyong remained planted in the sand, eyes fixed on the ocean as it crashed violently against the shore. The wind tousled his hair, but he didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

He wanted to scream after you. Wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked in that little white sundress, how he imagined peeling it off you with his teeth, how he still remembered the way you tasted, the way you sounded when you came undone beneath him.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, kicking himself silently for not being a better man when he had the chance to be yours.

-

The next morning felt like the aftermath of a storm — still and strangely quiet.

You barely slept. Maybe an hour in Seunghyun’s arms, but even then, you were only pretending. Pretending to be relaxed. Pretending to be content. Pretending not to wish you were somewhere else — with someone else.

“Did you have fun, baby?” Seunghyun asked as he zipped up his suitcase, his voice light.

You forced a smile so convincing it almost hurt. “Yeah! It was so nice to relax for a bit.”

Lie.

You couldn’t remember a single moment on this trip where you actually felt at peace. Everything had been a tug-of-war between guilt and longing. Every laugh had been forced. Every smile — borrowed.

The walk to the shuttle was a silent one. Seunghyun insisted on carrying both suitcases, as he always did. A gentleman. Always thoughtful. Always good to you. Too good. It only made the ache in your chest worse.

Jiyong stood off to the side, sunglasses masking his eyes, a cigarette dangling between his fingers as Seungri rambled beside him. But Jiyong wasn’t listening. Not really. His mind was somewhere else — locked on you.

You could feel it. Even without looking. The way his gaze followed the curve of your spine. The way his grip tightened around the cigarette when Seunghyun leaned in to kiss the top of your head, arms wrapped around your waist like you were already slipping away.

He looked calm. Detached. But it was all for show. Underneath those dark lenses, his eyes were strained with tears.

You said nothing on the ride to the airport. Nothing through security. Nothing when you sat down on the plane and the plush comfort of your first class seat enveloped you.

Seunghyun’s hand never left you. His fingers found their place at your waist, your back, your hand. A quiet reassurance that he was there. That he loved you. That he saw you as his.

“You feeling okay, baby?” he asked as he buckled his seatbelt beside you.

You nodded with another fake smile. “Yeah. Just... hate flying.”

More lies.

Across the aisle, Jiyong and Taeyang took their seats. Jiyong looked relieved to be free of Seungri for a few hours — but that small comfort didn’t last. Not when he saw you curl into Seunghyun like that. Like you belonged to him. Like nothing had happened.

It felt like a dagger twisting slowly in his chest.

He closed his eyes, tried to imagine what it would feel like to have you curled into him instead — your breath warm against his neck, the scent of your shampoo lingering on his hoodie. He’d kiss your forehead over and over until you drifted off to sleep. He’d hold you like the world couldn’t touch you. He wanted to be that man. But he wasn’t. Not anymore.

He chose to be the asshole. The one who let you slip through his fingers because he didn’t know how to love you right when it mattered most.

So he did what he always did.

He buried it. Swallowed it. Reached for a distraction.

“Can I get a double whiskey?” he asked the stewardess with a tired smile, eyes still hidden behind those damn sunglasses.

Because if he couldn’t have you...

At least he could numb the part of him that still wanted to try.

-

The next two months slipped by in a haze of quiet tension and routine. On the surface, everything seemed fine. No screaming matches. No confrontations. Just... stillness.

You thought the storm had passed.

After the trip, everyone fell back into their old rhythms like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t kissed Jiyong in the dark with your heart in your throat and guilt already pooling in your chest.

You and Jiyong barely spoke. You did your best to stay out of each other’s orbit, but being in the same building made that hard. The times your eyes met across a room, it was like time froze. He didn’t look at you the way he used to — with mischief or playfulness or barely hidden desire. Now, there was only sadness. A quiet, growing ache that sat heavy behind his eyes, like he was mourning something he never really had.

He didn’t jab at you anymore, no sarcastic remarks or teasing comments to make you roll your eyes and fight the coil building in your abdomen. No, now he just went quiet the moment you entered a room. And it killed you. Because his silence said so much more than his words ever could.

You filled the days with Seunghyun. Romantic dates. Laughter over candlelight. His fingers brushing over your skin with reverence, pulling pleasure from you until you were gasping his name. And you loved him. You loved him.

But still — the guilt haunted you like a shadow. Especially at night. Especially when the lights were off and you were staring up at the ceiling pretending to sleep, pretending not to feel Jiyong’s lips on yours still burned into your memory.

And then... the day came.

You were curled up on the couch in your apartment, your laptop balanced on your thighs, sketches half-finished and fingers smudged with pencil. The pressure of the upcoming fashion show sat on your shoulders as you struggled to get the designs finished on time. But it was a welcome distraction. Designing was the only thing that made you feel like you had some kind of control.

Seunghyun had gone out with Jiyong that evening. It didn’t bother you as much anymore — not like it used to. Jiyong wouldn’t say anything. Not now.

-

Seunghyun tossed back his eighth shot, the sound of glasses clinking and low bar music blending into a warm buzz around them. He leaned into Jiyong, laughing at some dumb joke the bartender had cracked, slapping the counter like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

Jiyong laughed too, but his eyes were distant, his mind elsewhere. Everywhere but here.

“So how’s life?” Seunghyun asked, for what had to be the fifth time that night, his voice thick with alcohol.

Jiyong snorted. “Still great, hyung,” he said, throwing back another shot with a grimace.

“I miss Y/n,” Seunghyun said suddenly, the words slurring slightly as they spilled out.

Jiyong’s smile faltered, his chest tightening. “What’s she doing?”

“She’s designing our fucking outfits,” Seunghyun mumbled, rubbing at his face. “YG works her like a dog.”

“She’s good at what she does,” Jiyong replied, the words soft but sincere.

“She’s amazing,” Seunghyun agreed with a heavy sigh. “But... I feel like the abortion is taking a toll on her.”

Jiyong froze. His shot glass hit the counter with a soft thud, barely missing his fingers. His heart skipped — no, stopped — as he turned to stare at his best friend.

“The... the abortion?” he echoed, voice cracking. “You got her pregnant?”

Seunghyun’s eyes widened for a split second before he groaned and rubbed at his temples. “Shit. I wasn’t supposed to say anything. Fuck.” He dropped his head into his hands, his words muffled. “But you’re my best friend, man. And I need to talk to someone about it. I feel like I’m losing her.”

Jiyong sat frozen. Breathing shallow.

Seunghyun continued, not noticing the shift in Jiyong’s entire body. “She had a doctor’s appointment, like, a month after we started dating,” he explained, motioning sloppily for another drink. “We hadn’t even had sex yet...”

Jiyong’s stomach dropped like a stone. His skin went cold.

“What do you mean?” he whispered. “You hadn’t slept together yet? Then... how was she...?”

He already knew. But hearing it was something else entirely. He needed it out in the open. Needed the blade of the truth to cut clean.

“She was with someone before me. Which is fine, obviously,” Seunghyun said with a shrug, slurring harder now. “I don’t care about the past. I was there for her anyway. Held her all night. She took the pills and bled out in the shower…”

And that was it.

Jiyong stood abruptly, the bar stool screeching back. His hands were shaking.

“Where are you going?” Seunghyun called after him, confused and blinking. “Dude—Jiyong!”

But he didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His lungs felt like they were collapsing. His chest tight. His heart breaking into pieces too small to ever find again.

He stormed out, keys already in hand, shoving them into the ignition with trembling fingers. The engine roared to life, and he peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching.

Tears blurred his vision. His knuckles went white around the wheel as he weaved between cars, the city lights streaking past in a smear of color and rage and heartbreak.

He didn’t even remember parking. Didn’t remember climbing the stairs. Just the sharp sound of his knuckles hitting your door.

The knock startled you, your pencil slipping and dragging a thick, jagged line across your newest sketch. “Shit,” you muttered, setting your notebook aside as you stood.

You assumed it was Seunghyun — maybe drunk, maybe hungry, maybe both.

But when you opened the door and saw Jiyong, red-faced and teetering on the edge of falling apart, your breath hitched.

“Jiyong?” you whispered. “What the hell—where’s Seunghyun?”

His voice was barely audible, but it hit you like a bullet.

“You were pregnant?”

Your knees went weak. The world tilted slightly, like the ground beneath you had just cracked in half.

Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Jiyong stepped inside without waiting. His pacing started immediately, agitated and unsteady.

“You were pregnant,” he said again, louder. “I got you pregnant. Didn’t I?”

Your voice was caught in your throat. Tears burned behind your eyes. You nodded — once. Barely.

He inhaled sharply like the air itself had turned toxic.

“And you got an abortion.”

Another nod. Another tear falling.

“Why didn’t you fucking tell me?!” he roared, voice cracking as it echoed through your apartment.

You flinched, shrinking slightly where you stood. “It was my choice,” you tried to say, but your voice was thin. Broken. “I didn’t—”

“You let my best friend hold you while you killed our baby?” he screamed, chest heaving, eyes glassy with pain that didn’t have words big enough to explain it.

Your sob escaped like a scream caught in your chest. “Jiyong, I-”

But he was already unraveling. And so were you.

“I-I-I—” you stammered, your voice trembling, your lips unable to form words that could even begin to make sense of this.

Jiyong let out a broken, guttural sob as his knees gave out beneath him. His hands flew to his face, like he was trying to physically hold himself together — to stop the grief from spilling out.

You dropped to the floor with him, crawling across the space between you like it was life or death. “I’m sorry!” you cried, voice cracking as your hands reached out to touch him — but you hesitated, afraid to even lay a finger on him now. “Jiyong, we hated each other! It wasn’t supposed to mean anything! It was hate sex! I just wanted to bury it — bury us — in the past.”

His head snapped up, tear-streaked eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

“Are you fucking serious?” he choked. “I love you, Y/n! I have for a long time! And now—now I find out we could’ve had a baby? A family? And you never even gave me the chance to know?”

Your heart shattered.

“We weren’t even dating,” you whispered, as if that somehow justified it. But the words sounded pathetic even to your own ears.

Jiyong let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Yeah? And that made it easier to kill our kid, huh?”

You recoiled like he’d slapped you. “Don’t say that,” you begged, voice barely there. “Don’t you dare say that.”

But before another word could fall between you, another voice sliced through the chaos.

“So he was the guy?”

You both froze. Your heads turned in unison, dread crashing over you like a tidal wave.

Seunghyun stood just inside the doorway. Silent. Still. His eyes were fixed on you — not wide with rage, not twisted in fury. Just... hollow. Empty. As if something inside him had already been broken beyond repair.

He had followed Jiyong, just like he always did — loyal, steady, always showing up. But this? This was the one time he wished he hadn’t.

“Seunghyun,” you whispered, your throat tightening. You scrambled to your feet, tears blurring your vision.

Jiyong stood up too, stumbling slightly as the weight of the moment hit him all over again. He looked between you and his best friend, guilt crashing over him with a wave of nausea. And without saying another word, he turned and bolted out the door.

The silence that followed felt deafening. Like the air had been sucked out of the room.

Seunghyun didn’t move. He didn’t chase after his best friend. He just leaned against the wall, letting it hold him up while his mind tried to catch up with his heart.

You stood there, shaking, watching the man you loved unravel in front of you. “Seunghyun,” you choked out. “Please. I love you. I love you.”

He looked at you slowly, his expression unreadable. “You were fucking my best friend?” he asked, the words falling flat. Lifeless. Like he didn’t even have the strength to be angry.

You winced. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It was a mistake. We weren’t together back then. You and I hadn’t even started dating—”

“But you were with him.”

You had no answer. Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“When was the last time?” he asked, and this time his voice cracked. Not from rage — from heartbreak. From disbelief. From that unbearable moment when trust turns to dust in your hands.

Your mind spiraled, flashes of memories blinding you.

The morning before your first date with Seunghyun — Jiyong’s mouth on your skin, his hands gripping your hips, your breath coming in broken moans as he whispered things you never thought you’d forget. And the time he did it again right after your first date with his best friend.

The kiss in the villa — a moment that felt like the universe trying to remind you of something you'd buried too deep.

And now… everything was coming back up. Ugly. Raw. Real.

You opened your mouth to speak. To tell him the truth. To confess everything and beg him to stay.

And then—

*CRASH*

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