#cheol

Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.

Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.

His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.

“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”

He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.

“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”

His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”

You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.

You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.

“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.

“What happened?” he asks, voice low.

“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”

He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.

“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.

You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”

A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”

The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.

“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”

He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.

“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.

“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.

Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.

“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.

He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”

“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”

“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”

“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”

Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.

His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.

Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.

“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”

“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.

Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.

“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”

“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”

You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.

“I said hold still.”

“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.

“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”

You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.

“I love you,” you whisper.

His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.

“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”

“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”

“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”

“Ooh, would you—”

“No.”

You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”

“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.

“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”

Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.

“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”

“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”

“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”

“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”

His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”

“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”

He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.

“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”

You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.

“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.

“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”

The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.

“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”

“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”

“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”

“No promises.”

He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.

“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”

“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.

“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”

“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”

Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.

“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”

“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”

“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”

He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”

“Really?” you sniffle.

“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”

You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”

A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”

“But am I prettier?”

“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”

Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”

“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”

“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”

“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”

“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”

“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”

“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”

“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”

You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”

“That’s not how marriage works.”

“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”

Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”

“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”

“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”

“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”

You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.

“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.

“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”

“We’re literally married.”

“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”

“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”

“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”

He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”

“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”

“I’m begging you to stop.”

“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”

He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”

“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”

“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”

He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.

“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.

You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”

“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.

You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.

“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.

“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Cheol?” you whisper.

“Mm?”

“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”

His lips twitch. “Good to know.”

“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”

“Woman, I swear to—”

“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.

“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”

You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.

“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”

You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.

“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”

Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.

Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.

“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”

“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.

“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.

“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.

“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”

“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”

“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”

His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.

“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”

“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.

“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”

“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”

“Third date,” he repeats faintly.

“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”

Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.

“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.

“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”

But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.

Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”

“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.

“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.

“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”

His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”

“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”

There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”

You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”

He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”

“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”

“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”

“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”

“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”

“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”

“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.” 

But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.

“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.

But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.

But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.

Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.

He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.

You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.

“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.

Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—

Your eyes fly open.

“Oh no.”

The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.

“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.

“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”

You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.

He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.

“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.

“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”

“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”

His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”

“Cheol.”

“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”

You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”

“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”

“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”

“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”

“I was a disaster.”

“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”

“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.

“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”

“Seungcheol.”

He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”

“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”

“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”

Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.

“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.

“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”

“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”

“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”

Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”

“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”

“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…

“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”

The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,

“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”

“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”

Your breath catches.

“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”

“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”

“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”

“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.

Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.

You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.

“Cheol?”

“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”

You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.

“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.

His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”

“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.

“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”

Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.

“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”

“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”

It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.

You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”

His grip tightens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”

He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”

You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,

“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.

“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.

“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”

“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”

He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”

You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.

“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”

When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.

“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.

“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”

You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”

“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”

This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.

His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”

“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”

You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”

“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”

His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.

“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”

“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”

You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.

“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”

“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”

“You’re evil.”

“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.

“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”

“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”

Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”

“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”

“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.

“What’s not fair?”

“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”

“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”

Your breath catches. “Are we?”

“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”

“Seungcheol—”

“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”

You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.

“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”

“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”

“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.

You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.

“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”

“Yes, god, yes—”

His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”

“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…

“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”

His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.

“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.

“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”

You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”

“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”

“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”

“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”

You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”

So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.

About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.

“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.

“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”

“You’re a fein.”

“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”

“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”

“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”

“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.

“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.

“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”

You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.

“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.

“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”

One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.

“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”

“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.

“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”

“Need what, baby? Use your words.”

“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”

He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.

“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.

“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”

“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.

“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”

“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.

“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”

“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”

His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”

The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.

“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.

“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.

“You really did research.”

“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”

Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”

“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”

“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”

His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”

“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.

“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”

“You’re insatiable.”

“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”

And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.

Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.

Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.

“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.

“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”

And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.

“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”

Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.

“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”

“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”

“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.

“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”

“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”

“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”

The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.

“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.

He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.

“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.

“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”

“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”

“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”

“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”

“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”

“You’re terrible.”

“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”

“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”

“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.

You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“And if not?”

“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”

His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”

“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”

“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”

Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”

“And then?”

“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”

“Again?!”

“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”

You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.

“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”

“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.

After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.

The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”

“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”

“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”

“That’s not—oh—”

His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”

“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”

“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”

“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.

This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.

“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”

“Cheol, baby please—”

“Please what?”

“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”

“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”

You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.

The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.

You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.

You made it halfway through your sandwich.

“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.

“I’m eating—”

“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”

“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.

“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”

“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.

The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.

“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, god, anywhere—”

“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”

The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.

“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”

You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.

“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.

“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.

When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.

“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”

“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.

“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”

The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.

“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”

You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.

When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.

You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.

“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.

“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”

“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”

He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”

“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”

“Into what?”

“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”

He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”

“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”

“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”

“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”

“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”

“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”

You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”

“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”

And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?

Well.

You’d had worse problems.

“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”

“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.

Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.

You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.

“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”

“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.

What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.

You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.

The office after hours? Check.

The car in the parking garage? Check.

The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.

But this—this was a new level, even for him.

“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”

“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”

“That’s not the point—”

“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”

“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”

“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”

You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”

The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.

It was romantic. Just also obscene.

“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”

There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.

“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”

“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”

“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.

“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”

His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”

The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.

“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.

“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.

“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”

You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”

“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”

“You’re counting?”

“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”

His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.

“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”

“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.

“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”

“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”

His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”

“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”

He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”

“We literally just finished—”

“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”

It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.

“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.

“Anything.”

“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”

His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”

“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”

He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”

“That’s all I ask.”

As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.

This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.

“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”

He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”

“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”

“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”

“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”

But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.

Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.

You didn’t make it to dinner.

Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.

“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”

“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”

He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”

“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”

“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”

You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”

“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”

“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”

His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”

“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”

“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”

“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”

“You’ve been planning this.”

“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”

And he did.

You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.

Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.

“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”

“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”

“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”

Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.

“Cheol, this is going to tip—”

“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.

“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.

“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.

His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.

“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”

“Cheol! You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”

“Someone could see—”

“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”

“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”

His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.

“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”

You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.

“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”

You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.

“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”

You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.

The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.

“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”

“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.

“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”

“Kids, plural?”

“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”

“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”

“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”

“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”

“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”

You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.

“Morning,” you murmured.

“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”

“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”

“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”

“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”

“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”

The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”

“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”

“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.

You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.

“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.

You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”

“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love it.”

And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.

“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”

His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”

He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?

Totally worth it.

The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.

You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.

“Did I forget something?”

You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.

“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”

“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”

“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”

“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”

His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”

“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”

Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”

“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”

His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”

“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”

“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.

“You’ve been counting?”

“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”

“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”

“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”

“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”

“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”

“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”

“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”

“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”

“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”

Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.

Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.

“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”

“To seduce me before dinner?”

“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”

His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”

“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”

He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”

“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”

“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”

“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.

“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”

“We haven’t even finished dinner.”

“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”

You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.

“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

“About the baby thing.”

That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”

He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”

Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”

“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”

“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”

You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”

“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”

“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”

“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”

“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”

He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”

“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”

“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”

“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”

“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.

You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.

Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.

“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” you repeat.

And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.

Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.

Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.

“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.

“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”

The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”

“Que?”

You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.

“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”

Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”

“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…

“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”

Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.

“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”

Your own heart seems to stop entirely.

“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”

“How early were you testing?”

“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”

“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”

The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.

Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.

“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”

“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”

Your baby.

“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”

“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.

“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”

“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”

“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”

“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”

Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.

“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”

“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”

Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.

By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.

“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”

“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”

“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”

“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”

“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”

“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”

“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”

“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”

“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”

The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.

“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”

Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”

“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”

“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”

“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”

“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.

“Little bit. You?”

“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.

“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.

“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”

“So spoiled.”

“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”

“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”

“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”

“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”

“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.

“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”

“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”

“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”

“Planning what?”

“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”

You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.

“Let’s go home,” you say softly.

Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.

“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”

“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.

All those months of trying.

All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.

Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.

Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.

You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.

Pure, overwhelming joy.

You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.

Best surprise ever.

You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.

Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.

“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.

“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”

You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”

“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”

“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”

“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”

“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”

“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”

You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.

“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”

Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.

His baby. The thought still makes him feral.

“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”

And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.

“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.

“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.

“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”

“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”

You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.

“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.

“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”

“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”

“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.

“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”

“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”

“You just…we literally just—”

“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.

Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.

He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.

You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.

He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”

His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.

“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”

“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.

He does.

“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.

“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”

“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.

“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”

“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.

“I look pregnant.”

“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”

You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”

“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”

“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”

“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”

Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”

“Cheol.”

“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”

“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”

You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”

“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”

“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”

“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”

“Exactly, very responsible.”

“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”

“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.

“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.

The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.

This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.

This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.

Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.

Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.

You slip into the water, the quiet slosh a welcome sound after hours cooped up in your air-conditioned room. The resort pool glitters under the moonlight, cool and inviting against the lingering heat of the day. It’s late, the usual splashing families long gone, leaving just you, a few other residents and the gentle hum of the pool filter. You float on your back, staring up at the star-dusted sky which is dimmed by the lights of the resort, letting the water cradle you. Peace.

Then you feel it. That prickle on the back of your neck, the unmistakable weight of someone’s gaze. You roll onto your stomach, treading water, and scan the poolside lounge chairs. There, half-hidden in the shadow of a potted palm, is him. The guy from breakfast yesterday, the one with the intense dark eyes that seemed to follow you as you piled fruit onto your plate. And the day before that, lingering near the pool bar while you sunbathed. Tall, broad-shouldered beneath a simple t-shirt, with that gorgeous face—big, soulful eyes framed by long dark lashes and thick brows, surprisingly plush lips set in a strong jaw. Handsome in a way that feels solid, capable. Like he could easily lift you, pin you, whatever he wanted. The thought sends a warm shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the water.

He doesn’t look away when you catch him. Just holds your gaze, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt to his head. Not creepy. You find it intriguing. A little thrilling. You hold his look for a beat, letting a small, knowing smile touch your lips before deliberately turning away, diving under the surface. The cool water rushes over your heated skin. Yeah, his attention strokes the ego. Especially when you resurface a few meters away, glance back and he’s still watching, a lazy, appreciative curve now playing on those lips.

You see him everywhere after that. Catching his eye over coffee cups at the bustling breakfast buffet, his gaze lingering a fraction too long. Passing him on the path to the beach, a shared, fleeting look that crackles in the humid air. He’s always there, a quiet, attractive presence you’ve started unconsciously searching for. The attention is a constant, low thrum under the surface of your holiday relaxation.

The heat of the afternoon sun gives way to the softer warmth of early evening. Seeking something more soothing than the cool pool, you head towards the secluded hot tub tucked away near a screen of lush tropical plants. Steam rises invitingly from the bubbling water. Perfectly empty. You shed your light cover-up, leaving just your swimsuit, and slip into the deliciously hot water with a sigh. Bliss. The jets massage your tired muscles, the steam curling around your face.

You’ve barely closed your eyes when you hear the soft splash of someone else entering the water. Already preparing to feel the disappointment of disturbed solitude you open your eyes again just to see if whoever joined you is tolerable enough to stay. But it’s him. Of course. He settles on the opposite bench, the hot tub suddenly feeling much smaller. Water laps around his broad chest. His dark hair is slightly damp, clinging to his forehead. Those big eyes fix on you again, but this time, there’s no pretense of looking away.

“Seems like we have similar taste in relaxation spots,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that resonates pleasantly in the steamy air. It’s smooth, confident.

“Looks like,” you reply, your own voice sounding slightly breathless even to you. You adjust your position, sending ripples across the surface between you. “It’s the best one. Always quiet.”

“Quiet is nice,” he agrees, a slow smile spreading across his face. It lights up his features, making him even more disarmingly handsome. “Especially for unwinding. Or... getting acquainted.” He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the tiled edge. “I’m Seungcheol.”

You offer him a smile and your own name in return. The space between you feels silently charged, thick with the steam and something else entirely.

The conversation flows easily, surprisingly natural despite the simmering tension. You talk about the resort, the food, the awful humidity, your lives back at your hometowns. His eyes never really leave yours, or sometimes drift lower, appreciative, unhurried. The heat of the water sinks into your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth spreading through you under his unwavering attention. He laughs at something you say, a rich, genuine sound, and shifts closer, ostensibly to hear you better over the bubbling jets. His knee brushes yours underwater. Neither of you pulls away.

His gaze drops to your mouth. “You have a really nice smile.”

The compliment, however basic, delivered in that low voice, feels like a physical touch. “Thanks,” you murmur, your heart pounding against your ribs. The air crackles. The few inches of bubbling water between you might as well be a mile. “You're not so bad yourself, Seungcheol.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He moves, closing the distance smoothly. One large hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. His skin is hot, damp and this sensation sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. “Not so bad, huh?” he repeats, a playful challenge in his eyes that’s quickly overtaken by pure heat. “Let’s see about that.”

His lips meet yours. It’s not exactly tentative, he only searches your eyes for half a second to see that you want it. The kiss is confident, searching, immediately deep. A jolt of pure electricity shoots straight through you and your lungs refuse to cooperate at first. You take a choked breath against his mouth, your hands flying up, one tangling in the damp hair at his nape, the other gripping his solid shoulder. He tastes faintly of chlorine and mint, and something that you can only describe as him. The kiss deepens, turning hungry. His other arm wraps around your waist, hauling you effortlessly off your seat and onto his lap, straddling him. The jets churn violently around you.

The hot water sloshes as you grind against him. The thin barrier of your swimwear does nothing to hide the hard ridge of his growing erection pressing against your core, or the way your own body pulses in response. His hands are everywhere—sliding up your back beneath the water, fingers tracing the edge of your swimsuit top, palming the curve of your ass, pulling you harder against him. Your own hands explore the expanse of his chest, his shoulders, the damp skin of his neck. Soft moans escape you, muffled against his mouth, lost in the sound of the bubbling water. He groans, low and guttural, when you roll your hips, seeking more friction. His lips leave yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, sucking gently at the sensitive skin just above your collarbone. You arch into him, gasping, your fingers tightening in his hair.

You whimper, burying your face in his neck, breathing in the clean, masculine scent of him mixed with steam. His hands slide lower, under the edge of your bikini bottoms, fingers brushing against the slick heat there. You gasp, pushing yourself harder against his touch, against the hard length of him. It’s frantic, messy, the water making everything extra challenging but impossibly erotic. You’re teetering on the edge though it keeps, ironically, slipping away from you, the world narrowed down to the feel of him, the sounds you’re both making, the churning water…

“Hey, is this thing on? Looks steamy over there!” A loud, cheerful male voice, startlingly close, cuts through the haze of pleasure like a bucket of ice water.

You freeze. Seungcheol goes rigid against you. His hand stills instantly beneath the water, but he doesn’t pull it away completely. His head whips around towards the path leading to the hot tub. You follow his gaze, your heart hammering against your ribs. Two figures are silhouetted against the resort lights, approaching.

“Shit,” mutters under his breath, low and urgent. His eyes snap back to yours, dark and dilated with arousal and sudden frustration. The spell is shattered, replaced by a jarring wave of exposure. He pulls his hand from your swimsuit, his touch lingering for a fraction of a second, a silent apology and promise. He shifts his body subtly, creating a sliver of space between you, trying to make the scene look less like what it was: two strangers moments away from combusting in a public hot tub. You hastily remove yourself from his lap.

The newcomers—a couple laughing together—reach the edge. “Mind if we join?” the man asks, already stepping in, oblivious to the crackling tension he just interrupted.

“Not at all,” Seungcheol manages, his voice rough but surprisingly calm. He throws you a look—intense, frustrated, simmering with the heat that hasn't dissipated, only been banked. He leans close, lips brushing your ear, breath hot and sending a new shiver down your spine despite the warm water. “Room 312,” he murmurs, the words barely audible over the renewed bubbling and the newcomers’ chatter. “Top floor, west wing. In an hour. Don’t make me wait. Please.”

He doesn’t wait for your answer, just gives your thigh a final, firm squeeze under the water, a silent anchor point, then smoothly pulls himself out of the tub in one fluid motion. Water streams down his body as he grabs his towel, not even bothering to dry off, just wrapping it loosely around his hips. He throws one last searing glance your way before turning and walking swiftly down the path, disappearing into the shadowy foliage without a backward glance at the oblivious newcomers now settling into the water.

You’re left sitting in the suddenly too-crowded tub, your body humming with unmet need, the ghost of his hands and lips imprinted on your skin. The water feels tepid now. The laughter of the other couple jars your nerves. An hour. Room 312. Top floor, west wing. Your heart kicks against your ribs again, a frantic, exhilarating rhythm. The decision feels inevitable. You take a deep, shaky breath, the scent of chlorine and tropical blooms suddenly sharp in your nostrils, and start counting down the seconds.

The steam from the hot tub still clings to your skin like a phantom caress as you stumble back towards your own resort room, the gravel path crunching unnaturally loud under your sandals. Every nerve ending feels electrified, raw, and hyper-aware. The taste of him lingers on your lips. The imprint of his large hands on your hips burns beneath the thin fabric of your bikini. And his words, low and desperate in your ear, echo like a strangely pleading command you have no intention of disobeying: Room 312. Top floor, west wing. In an hour. Don’t make me wait. Please.

An hour. It stretches before you like a lifetime and a blink simultaneously.

Inside your cool, impersonal room, the silence is jarring. You lock the door, leaning your forehead against the smooth wood, trying to catch your breath that keeps hitching in your chest. Your reflection in the full-length mirror startles you—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, eyes wide and dark with a mixture of lingering arousal and dawning panic. What are you thinking? He’s a stranger! The thought crashes through the haze of desire, sharp and cold. You barely know his last name, let alone anything substantial. This is reckless, potentially dangerous, the kind of thing you read about in cautionary tales.

But then the memory floods back: the confident pressure of his lips, the possessive squeeze of his hand, the pure, unadulterated heat in his eyes that promised oblivion. The way your body responded instantly, arching into his touch, grinding against him with a desperation that shocked you. The ache between your legs, momentarily soothed by the churning water but now throbbing back to life, persistent and undeniable. It wasn’t just lust, though that was a roaring fire. It was a connection, intense and immediate, crackling in the humid air between you since that first locked gaze by the moonlit pool.

You pace the small room, the plush carpet muffling your frantic steps. Stranger danger wars with stranger sex fantasy. Your sensible side screams retreat. Your body, humming with anticipation, screams go. You glance at the clock. Forty five minutes.

Shower. You need a shower. To wash off the chlorine, the steam, the feeling of his skin against yours. Or maybe just to stall. The water is lukewarm, a feeble attempt to cool the internal furnace. You scrub mechanically, your mind racing. What if he’s not what he seems? What if it’s awkward? What if you change your mind halfway through? What if you don’t change your mind and it’s incredible? The last thought sends another jolt of heat straight to your core.

Drying off, you face the mirror again, the panic subsiding slightly, replaced by a fluttery, nervous excitement. You’re going. The decision settles, warm and heavy in your stomach. You want this. You want him. The reckless abandon of it thrills you almost as much as the memory of his touch.

Now, what to wear? The simple sundress you packed—light blue cotton, spaghetti straps, falling just above the knee. It’s innocent enough for walking through the resort corridors, easy to slip off. But is it too innocent? Too try-hard? You rifle through your suitcase. A silky camisole? Too obvious. Jeans? Absolutely not. The sundress it is. Underneath... You hesitate, holding a simple cotton brief. No. You reach for the one piece of lingerie you brought on a whim, delicate black lace bikini bottoms, barely there. Too much? The critical voice pipes up again. He’ll just take it off anyway. But the thought of him seeing it, his big hands peeling it down your legs... You pull them on. The lace feels foreign and exciting against your skin. No bra. The dress is forgiving enough, and the thought of his hands, his mouth, finding you bare beneath the thin cotton sends another shiver through you. Definitely too much. But you leave it. This is your secret, your small rebellion against your own inner voice.

You check the mirror once more. Hair slightly damp, falling loose around your shoulders. Minimal makeup reapplied—just a touch of gloss on your still-sensitive lips. The flush on your cheeks is genuine. You look... eager. Vulnerable. Ready. Your heart hammers against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Five minutes. You grab your keycard, take a deep, shaky breath, and step out into the softly lit hallway. The walk to the west wing elevator feels endless. Every guest you pass seems to look at you knowingly. The elevator ride to the top floor is agonizingly slow, the mirrored walls reflecting your nervous fidgeting. The plush carpet of the top-floor corridor swallows the sound of your footsteps. Room 312. It looms at the end of the hall. You pause, hand raised to knock, your pulse roaring in your ears. Last chance to turn back.

Before your knuckles can connect, the door swings open.

He fills the doorway, backlit by the warm lamplight inside. Changed out of his swim trunks into low-slung grey sweatpants that cling to the powerful lines of his hips and thighs, and nothing else. Your breath catches. The poolside glimpses, the hot tub proximity—none of it prepared you for the sheer impact of him like this, half-dressed and waiting. His torso is a sculpted landscape of muscle—broad, defined shoulders tapering to a narrower, incredibly taut waist. The planes of his chest are smooth, his lower abdomen dusted with just the faintest hint of dark hair leading down under the waistband of his pants. His arms are thick with muscle, veins subtly tracing his forearms. His dark hair is towel-dried, slightly tousled. And his eyes... those big, dark eyes lock onto yours, intense, searching, simmering with the same heat from the tub, but tempered now with a watchful stillness.

“Hey,” he says, short greeting a low rumble in his chest. His gaze sweeps over you, taking in the sundress, the bare shoulders, the nervous energy vibrating off you. A slow, appreciative smile touches his lips, but his eyes remain serious, focused. “You came.”

“Told you I would,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. You never told him that, what are you even saying? You try very hard not to fiddle with your hands and leave them unmoving at your sides to hide the anxiety that’s been festering in you for the past hour. The proximity, the sheer maleness of him, is overwhelming. The nervous flutters intensify, mixed with a fresh wave of pure desire.

He doesn’t point out your words, just steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in.”

The room is spacious, a luxury suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the moonlit ocean. A large bed dominates the space, neatly made but looking suddenly, profoundly significant. The air carries a faint, clean scent—soap, maybe cedar—mixed with the undeniable, warm scent of him.

He closes the door softly behind you, the click of the lock echoing in the sudden quiet. You stand awkwardly just inside, the confident woman from the hot tub replaced by this jittery version. He doesn't immediately move towards you. Instead, he leans back against the door, studying you, his gaze traveling over your face, down your neck, lingering on the thin straps of your dress. The silence stretches, thick with anticipation and your own racing thoughts.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer now, deeper with concern. The question is simple, but the weight behind it is immense. It’s not perfunctory. He’s genuinely checking. His intense gaze holds yours, waiting, giving you space. “Being here? After the tub... things got intense fast. I need to know you're still good. That this,” he gestures loosely between you, “is what you want. Right now. No pressure. None at all.” His eyes are unwavering, open. “You can say no. You can leave. Right now. Just tell me.”

His directness, the absolute seriousness with which he asks, cuts through your nervous haze. It’s the opposite of the demanding stranger persona your anxiety had conjured. And it loosens the knot of tension in your chest.

You take a shaky breath, meeting his gaze. The desire is still there, a live wire, but the fear is receding, replaced by a growing certainty. “I’m... nervous,” you admit, the honesty surprising you. “But I’m good. I want to be here. I want…” You trail off, heat flooding your cheeks again. I want you. The words hang unspoken but felt.

He pushes off the door, closing the small distance between you in two slow strides. He stops just before touching you, his presence enveloping. “Nervous is okay,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration you feel in your bones. “Tell me if anything feels not okay. At any point. Promise me.” It's not a request; it's a non-negotiable term.

“I promise,” you whisper.

His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, giving you time to pull away. His knuckles brush your cheek, a feather-light touch that sends sparks skittering across your skin. “You look beautiful,” he says, his eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck exposed by the sundress. “This dress…” His thumb strokes your cheekbone, mirroring his touch in the hot tub, but gentler now. “Can I take it off you?”

The question, so blunt yet so considerate, steals your breath. You nod, unable to speak. His fingers find the thin straps of your sundress. He eases them down your shoulders with agonizing slowness, his gaze fixed on the revealed skin. The soft cotton pools at your waist, then falls completely, puddling around your ankles on the plush carpet. You stand before him in just the delicate black lace bikini bottoms, suddenly exposed under the warm lamplight.

His breath hitches, a soft, audible intake. His gaze roams over you, hungry, appreciative, but still controlled. “Fuck,” he breathes, the word thick with awe. “Look at you.” His eyes linger on the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the lace hugging your hips. “Perfect.” His hand returns to your cheek, then slides slowly down your neck, over your collarbone, coming to rest lightly on the curve of your breast. His touch is warm, possessive, yet infinitely patient. “Still good?”

“More than good,” you breathe, the nervousness melting under the heat of his admiration and his touch. Your hands lift almost of their own accord, drawn to the solid wall of his chest. Your palms flatten against warm, smooth skin, feeling the powerful beat of his heart beneath. The contrast between his hard muscle and the softness of his skin is intoxicating.

He leans down, his lips finding yours again. This kiss is different from the hungry clash in the tub. It’s slower, deeper, a rediscovery. His tongue slides against yours, tasting, exploring. His hand cups your breast fully, his thumb circling your nipple, teasing it into a hard peak. A soft moan escapes you, swallowed by his mouth. Your fingers curl against his chest, nails scraping lightly.

He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, your neck, returning to the sensitive spot just above your collarbone he’d discovered earlier. He sucks gently, then soothes it with his tongue, sending shivers down your spine. One arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hard ridge of his erection presses insistently against your lower belly, even through the fabric of his sweatpants. The evidence of his desire is thrilling.

His free hand drifts lower, fingertips tracing the top edge of your lace panties, dipping just beneath. “These are a surprise,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice husky. “A very fucking good one.” His fingers slide lower, tracing the seam of you through the damp lace, finding the heat and slickness waiting there. You gasp, pushing your hips forward against his hand, seeking more pressure. “So wet already, princess,” he groans, his fingers applying delicious friction. “Just for me?”

The sudden endearment sends a jolt through you. “Yes,” you whimper, your head falling back as he adds a second finger, rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. “Just for you.”

He eases his hand away, eliciting a soft sound of protest from you. Before you can process it, his hands are on your hips, turning you gently. You face the large bed now. His hands slide down to your waistband. “Lift your foot,” he instructs softly. You comply, and he carefully peels the lace down one leg, then the other, letting them fall. He guides you back until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. “Sit.”

You turn and sink onto the cool duvet. He stands before you, his eyes dark pools of desire as he drinks in the sight of you completely bare. The intensity is almost too much. Then, without breaking eye contact, he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants and pushes them down, along with his boxer briefs, in one smooth motion.

Your breath stops.

He is magnificent. Powerfully built everywhere—thick thighs corded with muscle, a firm, sculpted ass, the defined V-cut leading down from his hips. And his cock... thick, long, already fully erect, curving slightly upwards from a neat nest of dark, coarse hair. The contrast is striking—the smooth expanse of his chest and stomach giving way to this thatch of dark curls framing his impressive erection. You usually prefer smooth, but the raw masculinity of it, the primal contrast, sends a jolt of pure, unexpected desire straight through you. You can’t tear your eyes away.

He sees your stare, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “See something you like?” His voice is thick with amusement and pride.

“You're... yes,” you breathe, the honesty raw in your voice despite the fact that words are miserably failing you at the moment. The sheer size is intimidating and thrilling all at once. “You’re… incredible.”

He steps closer, his cock bobbing slightly. He places one knee on the bed between your legs, then the other, kneeling over you, caging you in. His hands frame your face. “You’re the incredible one,” he counters, his thumb brushing your bottom lip and your gaze darts up to meet his. “You sure you’re ready for this?” His eyes search yours again, the question layered. Ready for him? Ready for the intensity he promises?

Your answer is to lean forward and press a kiss to his abdomen, just above his navel. Then lower, tracing a short path with your lips towards the dark trail. You feel him tense, a sharp intake of breath. You look up at him, meeting his heated gaze. “Show me what you can do,” you whisper.

A groan rumbles deep in his chest. He shifts back slightly, giving you space. “Fuck yes. But first…” He guides you gently to lie back on the bed. “Let me taste you.”

He moves down your body with deliberate slowness, kissing his way down your sternum, over the swell of your stomach. He nips gently at your hip bone, then spreads your thighs apart with firm hands. He pauses, looking up at you from between your legs, his eyes holding yours, asking permission one final time. You nod, biting your lip. His gaze drops, focusing on you with an intensity that makes you tremble. Then he lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a revelation. Slow, broad strokes from bottom to top, savoring you. He groans, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh. “So sweet,” he murmurs, his breath hot. Then he zeroes in, his tongue circling your clit with firm, focused pressure, flicking over the swollen bud, trying different methods until he finds the one that works best for you. Your back arches off the bed, a mewl tearing from your throat. His hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he devours you. He alternates between broad, lapping strokes and pinpoint flicks, building the pressure relentlessly. One hand slides down, his thumb pressing rhythmically against your entrance while his tongue works your clit. Then, a thick finger slides inside you, curling upwards, finding that sweet spot instantly.

“Oh god! Seungcheol!” You writhe, your fingers tangling in his damp hair, holding him to you. He adds a second finger, stretching you gently, his tongue circling your clit. The combination is overwhelming—the wet heat of his mouth, the skilled thrust and curl of his fingers, the pressure building like a tidal wave. He's relentless, attuned to every gasp, every twitch of your body. “Yes! Right there! Don’t stop!”

“Come for me, princess,” he rasps against you, his voice thick and muffled. “Let go. I've got you.” His tongue lashes your clit faster, his fingers pump harder, curling perfectly. The coil snaps. Pleasure explodes through you, white-hot and shattering, radiating out from your core in pulsing waves. Your thighs clamp around his head as you cry out, body bowing off the bed, lost in the sheer, blinding ecstasy he wrings from you.

He gentles his touch as the tremors subside, lapping softly, easing you down. He presses a final, lingering kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. His cock, rock-hard and leaking, presses against your stomach. “Fuck, that was beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with satisfaction and renewed hunger. “You’re so fucking responsive. Looks like no one fucked you properly in a while.”

You’re still trembling, floating on the aftershocks, but the sight of him above you, the feel of his hard length against you, reignites the fire. “I need you,” you gasp, reaching between you to wrap your hand around him. He hisses, his hips jerking forward into your touch. He’s impossibly hard, velvety smooth skin over the hot girth of him. “Inside. Now.”

He kisses you again, hard and promising. “Condom,” he breathes against your mouth. He leans over to the nightstand, fumbling slightly, ripping open a packet with his teeth. You watch, mesmerized, as he rolls it on with efficient, slightly shaky hands. The sight of him sheathing that thick length is intensely erotic.

He settles back between your thighs, his weight braced on his forearms on either side of your head. The broad head of his cock nudges against your slick entrance. He holds your gaze, his eyes burning into yours. “Ready?” he asks, the word strained. “Tell me.”

“Ready,” you breathe, lifting your hips to meet him. “Please.”

He pushes forward slowly, inexorably. There’s a moment of intense pressure, a delicious stretch as your body yields to accommodate his size. You gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. He pauses, fully seated but not moving, letting you adjust. “You okay?” His voice is tight with the effort of holding still.

“Okay,” you gasp, the fullness incredible, overwhelming. “Move. Please, Seungcheol.”

He begins to move, slow, deep thrusts at first, withdrawing almost completely before sinking back in. The friction is exquisite, the stretch perfect. He keeps his eyes locked on yours, watching your reactions. “Feel so good,” he groans, his breath coming faster. “So tight. Fucking perfect.” He drops his head, his lips finding yours, his tongue licking into your mouth with wet sounds mixed with your breathing. His pace gradually increases, his thrusts becoming deeper, more powerful. Your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into the firm muscles of his ass, pulling him deeper still. The slap of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with your gasps and his guttural groans.

His hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again, rubbing firm circles in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation is almost too much. “Look at you,” he rasps, his voice rough. “Taking me so well. My perfect little fuckdoll.” The slight degradation, the possessiveness in his tone, sends a fresh jolt of heat through you, coiling your muscles tighter.

“Harder,” you beg, arching your back. “Don't stop!”

He growls, a purely animal sound, and obliges. His thrusts become harder, faster, pistoning into you with a force that steals your breath. The bed creaks in protest. He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he's hitting that deep, sweet spot with every plunge. Stars burst behind your eyelids. "There! Oh god, Seungcheol, right there!" you scream, your body tightening around him like a vise.

"Come on, princess," he commands, his voice ragged. "Come on my cock. Now." His thumb presses harder, his thrusts become brutal, perfectly angled. The command, the relentless stimulation, tips you over the edge again. Your orgasm crashes over you, even more intense than the first, a wave of pure, mindless pleasure that rips a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clench rhythmically around him, milking him.

He curses, a low, drawn-out groan. "Fuck! That's it. Squeeze me just like that." He drives into you a few more times, hard and deep, then buries himself to the hilt with a final, shuddering thrust. His body tenses, a guttural cry tearing from his throat as he finds his own release, pulsing deep inside you. He collapses onto his forearms, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping, trembling, slick with sweat.

He stays buried inside you for long moments, catching his breath, pressing soft, almost reverent kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your forehead. “Jesus,” he finally breathes, his voice wrecked. “You’re... fucking unreal.”

He eases out of you carefully, disposing of the condom. Then he gathers you against him, pulling you onto your sides facing each other, your bodies still humming. His arms wrap around you, strong and secure. One big hand strokes your hair, the other rests on your hip. “Alright?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your temple. “That was... intense.”

“Intense is an understatement,” you manage, snuggling closer into the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the rapid thud of his heart slowing down. “But yeah. Alright. More than alright.” You trace the smooth skin over his pectoral muscle. “You’re... you’re really good at that.”

Seungcheol chuckles, a low, satisfied rumble, then kisses the top of your head. His hand drifts down, cupping your ass, pulling you tighter against his softening cock and you can feel the warm wetness of your release between your thighs even more like that.

The tremors from your climax are still rippling through you, a sweet, fading echo that leaves your muscles liquid and weak. A profound, sated exhaustion is already seeping into your bones, a heavy warmth that makes your limbs feel like they are filled with sand. When his lips find yours again, the kiss is different—slower, hungrier, but tinged with the same shared fatigue. It tastes of salt of sweat and him, already a familiar, intoxicating flavor. His hands move over your body with possessiveness that is both thrilling and daunting, mapping your spent form as if assessing its limits for what comes next.

“Round two,” he murmurs against your mouth, the words a dark, thrilling promise, though his voice is even more ragged now, stripped raw and breathless. He rolls off you, the loss of his weight and heat a sudden chill. He sits up on the edge of the bed, his broad back to you, and you see the muscles there tremble faintly with the aftermath of his own release. He takes a deep, shuddering breath before turning to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes are black with intent, but the lids are heavy. “Turn over. On your knees.”

The command is direct, but it lands differently now. A fresh wave of heat, liquid and urgent, pools low in your belly, but it’s followed immediately by a deep, internal tremor of fatigue. Already? your body seems to cry out. You feel fucked out, overstimulated after just two orgasms, every nerve ending raw and singing. Pushing yourself up is an effort. Your arms shake, your core muscles protesting as you awkwardly get onto your hands and knees, presenting yourself to him. The position is profoundly vulnerable, and the awareness of his gaze burning into you, taking in the sight of your well-used, sensitive flesh, makes you shudder and clench with a mixture of anticipation and sheer, overwhelming sensitivity.

“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, his voice thick with awe and a lust that seems to override his own tiredness. His hand comes down, not in a slap, but in a firm, possessive grip on one cheek, squeezing, kneading the flesh. You flinch, the sensation almost too much on your sensitized skin. “All mine for the night.” He leans forward, and you feel the hot, wet stroke of his tongue, lapping up the evidence of your release from your inner thighs. The obscene, sloppy sound he makes vibrates through your oversensitive core, and you drawl a throaty moan, a jolt of pleasure-pain shooting through you. “So fucking sweet.”

You gasp, your arms trembling violently now, struggling to hold yourself up. The mix of reverence and filth in his act is dizzying. He’s worshiping and defiling you all at once, and your body, though exhausted, responds to his filthy devotion with a fresh, aching throb of need.

You hear the tear of another foil packet, his movements slightly slower, less efficient this time. The rustle as he sheathes himself again seems louder in the heavy, post-coital silence. Then his hands are on your hips, his grip firm, almost bruising, holding you in place. The broad, sheathed head of his cock nudges against your tender entrance, teasing, circling, smearing your wetness. The contact is electric, almost too intense.

“Tell me you want it,” he demands, his voice a low, evidently tired growl against your ear as he leans over you, covering your body with his. His chest is slick with sweat as it presses against your back.

“I want it,” you pant, the words a breathless struggle. You push your hips back against him, the movement feeling sluggish in your exhaustion, but the need is still there, persistent and insatiable. “Please, Seungcheol. I need it.”

“Beg for it,” he insists, nipping at the shell of your ear. “Tell me how much you need this cock.”

The vulgarity, the sheer nastiness of his words, sends a final, desperate jolt straight to your core. “I need it,” you whimper, your voice breaking with fatigue and want. “I need your cock. Please, fuck me. I need you to fuck me hard.”

With a grunt of approval that seems to come from the depths of his being, he pushes forward. There’s no slow easing this time, but the thrust is not as brutally swift as before. He drives into you in one long, steady motion, burying himself to the hilt in the deep, claiming angle only this position allows. The force of it is breathtaking, a choked cry ripped from your throat at the overwhelming fullness, the delicious stretch around him. You are so full, so thoroughly possessed.

“God, yes,” you moan, your head dropping between your shoulders, your spine arching.

He sets a punishing pace, but it is a tired pace still, the rhythm of it born of muscle memory and stubborn will rather than boundless energy. He pulls out almost completely before slamming back into you, each thrust a profound jolt that shakes your entire weary body. The sound is obscenely loud—the wet, sloppy slap of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings, his guttural, breathless groans, your high-pitched, overstimulated mewls. He leans back, his hands locked on your hips, using them as leverage to piston into you with a relentless, driving force that you feel is costing him as much as it is you.

“You take me so fucking good,” he rasps, his voice strained and hoarse with the effort. “So deep like this. Can you feel it? Can you feel how deep I am inside you?” Every word is pushed out on a labored breath.

“Y-yes!” you cry out, your fingers clutching weakly at the rumpled sheets, your body rocking helplessly with his movements. Each thrust hits a spot so deep and sensitive it borders on painful, a blinding pleasure that your exhausted system can barely process. “Right there! Oh god, don't stop!”

He doesn’t. His pace is unwavering, a testament to his stamina, but you can feel the fine tremor in his thighs where they press against yours with every slap of flesh against flesh, the sheen of new sweat on his skin. One hand leaves your hip and slides around your front, fingers finding your oversensitive, swollen clit. The touch is almost too much, and you jolt, arms giving out, a sob catching in your throat. He rubs rough, frantic circles that match the rhythm of his thrusts, the dual assault pushing your screaming nerves towards another shattering peak.

“You gonna come again?” he grunts, the question a breathless challenge. “Gonna come all over my cock while I fuck you like this? Do it. Cum for me. Now.”

The command, the relentless stimulation amidst the crushing fatigue—it’s too much. Your orgasm crashes over you, a violent, convulsing wave that is as much a release from tension as it is pleasure. You scream his name into the mattress, the sound muffled, your body bowing and shaking as your inner muscles clamp down on him, milking his length for what it’s worth. You feel him pulse inside you in response, a hard, sharp throb.

But he doesn’t stop. He rides out your climax, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic, chasing his own. The room is a cacophony of spent sex—your sobbing, exhausted breaths, his animalistic, tired grunts, the sopping sound of your cunt taking the pounding, the wet, rhythmic slapping that seems to grow louder and louder as you both lose the strength to care.

Bang. Bang. BANG.

A sudden, furious pounding on the wall from the adjacent room cuts through the noise. A muffled, angry shout follows. “Keep it down in there, for Christ’s sake! Some of us are trying to sleep!”

Seungcheol freezes, buried deep inside you. For a second, there is silence, save for both of you panting, chests heaving. You heave a breath of relief thinking you can finally put your frying nerve endings to rest. Then, a slow, wicked, breathless chuckle rumbles in his chest. He leans over you again, his lips at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

“Oops,” he whispers, his voice dripping with dark amusement. He gives a slow, deliberate, utterly exhausting roll of his hips, making you whimper. “We’re being too loud, princess.” He does it again, a lazy, deep thrust that feels like it reaches your soul because the moan that leaves you comes exactly from there. “Think we should be quieter?”

Before you can answer, he slams into you again, hard, a direct contradiction to his question. A broken, tired cry escapes you. He does it again. And again, and again, each thrust a monumental effort.

“Answer me, pretty,” he demands, punctuating each word with a sharp, deep, weary thrust. “Should we be quieter?”

“N-no!” you manage to sob, the last of your energy going into pushing back against him. “Don’t stop! Fuck me, please!”

He laughs, a low, vicious sound of pure, exhausted delight. “That’s my girl.” He covers your mouth with his hand, muffling your sounds. “Then I’ll do exactly what my sweet princess is asking of me. But you’ll have to be quiet for me. We don’t want anyone banging on our door next time, do we? So can you be quiet?” He sets a final, brutal, fast pace, his thrusts becoming shorter, harder, more focused, fueled by a last reserve of strength. The only sounds are the wet slap of flesh, the bed hammering against the wall, and his ragged, stifled breathing. You try to stifle your cries against his palm, your body trembling with the struggle of staying quiet under such an intense, final assault.

He’s relentless, driving into you with a single-minded focus. You feel the tension coiling in him, the telltale tightening of his fingers on your hip, the way his whole body strains. With a final, gut-deep groan that he stifles against your shoulder, he pours himself into you, his body shuddering violently with the force of his release, a complete and total expenditure.

Seungcheol collapses over you, both of you spent, slick with sweat, and utterly demolished. His weight is a crushing, comforting pressure. He is heavy, boneless, and so are you. He removes his hand from your mouth, replacing it with his lips as soon as you turn your head to the side, kissing your shoulder blade softly, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your skin.

After a long moment, he carefully, slowly, with obvious effort, pulls out and disposes of the condom. He returns a moment later with a damp, cool towel, moving with a weary tenderness. He gently cleans between your thighs, the act starkly contrasting the animalistic way he just fucked you. He helps you turn over onto your back. Your legs feel like they don't belong to you, your entire body humming with a deep, sated, absolute exhaustion.

But the look in his eyes, as he kneels on the bed between your legs, is still dark with hunger, though it’s now blurred by fatigue. His cock is already half-hard again, a testament to his insane stamina, thick and heavy against his thigh. The sight sends a fresh, aching throb through your oversensitive core, a pulse of pure need that feels separate from your body’s desperate plea for rest. It is daunting. The thought of moving, of taking control of your body once again, feels like an impossible task.

“Your turn on top,” he says, his voice a hoarse, broken scrape. He lies back against the pillows with a heavy sigh, his hands going behind his head, putting himself on display for you. He is a magnificent feast for the eyes—all hard muscle, dark trail of hair leading and bushing around his cock, and rampant, male hunger—but you can see the weariness in the lines of his face, the slow rise and fall of his chest. “Ride me. I want to watch your pretty tits while you bounce on my cock, wanna see you come undone.”

The command is irresistible, but your body screams in protest. A soft, pathetic whimper escapes you. “Seungcheol... I’m so tired,” you breathe, the admission feeling both vulnerable and necessary. When you made a decision to follow your little stranger sex fantasy you didn’t think it would turn into this multiple round thing of your pussy getting absolutely destroyed. You thought that you’d get one decent round at best and go back to your room. And now here you are, your muscles feel like water, your core aches with a pleasant but deep soreness. “I don’t know if I can.”

His expression softens a fraction, the intense hunger in his eyes shifting into something more patient, more coaxing. He reaches out, his hand finding yours, lacing your fingers together. His grip is strong, but his skin is warm, comforting. “I know, baby. I know you are. I am too.” The pet name makes something in your chest squeeze tightly. He brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles. “But just for a little while. Just show me. Let me see you. You don’t have to do all the work.” His thumb strokes your palm. “Come here.”

His gentleness undoes you. It coaxes a second wind from somewhere deep within your spent reserves. You nod, a slow, hesitant movement. Crawling over him is a monumental effort. Every muscle protests. You straddle his hips, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his powerful thighs. Your hands splay across the hard, sweaty planes of his chest for balance, and you feel the frantic, tired beat of his heart beneath your palm. He guides himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, dark and demanding but also incredibly patient.

You sink down onto him slowly, achingly slowly, taking him inch by exquisite, overwhelming inch. A low, mutual moan of effort and pleasure escapes you both at the feeling of being filled and enveloped so completely this way. Once he’s fully sheathed, you pause, your body trembling from the strain of holding the position, adjusting to the deep, stretching fullness that is now a familiar, welcome ache. If this is going to be just a resort fling, you think, it’s going to be the one you’ll remember for the rest of your life and brag about to all of your friends until they are sick of hearing the story.

His hands come to rest on your hips, his thumbs drawing slow, soothing circles on your skin. “Move,” he commands, but his voice is now a rough, encouraging whisper. “Just a little. Show me how much you like it.”

You begin to move, a slow, hesitant, rolling grind of your hips. It’s not the energetic bounce of fantasy; it’s a tired, sensual undulation. The angle is different, allowing you to control the depth, the friction. You rise up with a shaky, trembling effort until just the tip remains inside you, then sink back down, taking him all the way with a heavy, satisfying sigh. His eyes flutter closed for a second, a low, appreciative groan rumbling in his chest. Then his hands come up to fondle with your breasts, massaging the undersides, rolling and lightly tugging on your pebbled nipples, and making you moan louder than you should. You throw your head back, eyes rolling into your skull from pleasure.

“Eyes on me, pretty,” he grits out when he notices you’re not looking at him. It makes you snap your head back and meet his gaze only to find it burning with intensity that belies his exhaustion. “I want to see your face when you cum.”

You try to increase your pace, but it’s a feeble, bouncing motion, your thighs burning with the effort. Your hands brace on his chest, your nails digging into his skin for purchase. The sounds are different now—softer, wetter, the slick, tired sound of your bodies joining over and over, mixed with your breathy, exhausted moans and his gruff, whispered encouragements.

“Yeah, just like that,” he groans, his own hips lifting slightly to meet your downward strokes, taking some of the burden from your weary muscles. His hands tighten on your hips, helping you move, guiding you onto him. “Fuck, you look so good on my cock. So fucking perfect.”

You feel another orgasm building, a slow, deep coiling in your belly, different from the sharp, frantic peaks before. This one is a slow, rising tide, built on exhaustion and overstimulation and the profound intimacy of his unwavering gaze. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of something vast and warm. He sees it on your face, in the way your movements become even more languid, more focused.

“Play with your clit,” he orders, his voice tight but soft. “Make yourself cum. I want to watch you fall apart.”

You obey, one hand sliding between your bodies with a tired sigh, your fingers finding your swollen, hypersensitive bud. The touch is almost too much, but it’s the final key. With a soft, broken cry, you shatter, a slow, deep, rolling orgasm that feels like it drains the very last dregs of your energy. Your inner muscles clench around him in slow, rhythmic pulses, your body slumping forward onto his chest as you ride out the long, gentle waves of pleasure that draws an orgasm from him as well and you feel his cum fill you in rapid bursts. But you’re too fucked out to care that he just came inside you without a condom. You’re on a pill anyways.

He holds you through it, his arms wrapping around you, his hips still moving in tiny, gentle circles, prolonging the sensation. When the last tremor subsides, leaving you completely boneless, he gently rolls you over onto your side, slipping out of you. He spoons behind you, pulling you tight against his chest, both of you slick and trembling and utterly spent. He nuzzles into your hair, his breathing slowly evening out.

“You're incredible,” he breathes, the words slurred with impending sleep. He holds you tighter, a full-body embrace that feels like both a claim and a shelter. One hand rests possessively on your hip. “Round three... after a nap,” he mumbles, his voice fading.

You don’t know how long you sleep. It’s a deep, black, dreamless void, a complete systems shutdown for your utterly spent body and mind. Consciousness returns not with a jolt, but as a slow, warm tide. The first thing you’re aware of is the weight. A heavy, solid arm draped across your waist, anchoring you to the bed. The second is the heat. The press of a powerful, sweat-damp chest against your back, the solid line of his body curled around yours, fitting against you like a second skin. The third is the soft, even puff of his breath against the nape of your neck.

You are still exhausted, a deep, cellular weariness that makes the idea of moving seem impossible. But beneath that, something else is stirring. A low, familiar hum of awareness. The scent of him—sex, sweat, skin—is everywhere, intoxicating even in your semi-conscious state. The memory of what you did, what he did to you, plays in a hazy loop behind your eyelids.

You shift slightly, a tiny, experimental movement, and a soft, contented sound rumbles in his chest behind you, much like a purr. His arm tightens around you, pulling you infinitesimally closer. His hips press forward, and you feel him, thick and already half-hard again, nestled against the curve of your backside. A fresh, aching throb answers deep in your own core, a pulse of pure need that feels separate from your body’s fatigue. It’s a stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished.

He stirs, his lips brushing your shoulder blade. “You awake?” His voice is gravelly with sleep, deeper and even more rough than before.

“Barely,” you murmur, your own voice a sleep-rasped whisper. You turn in his arms, a slow, languid movement that feels like swimming through honey. Facing him, you see his eyes are half-lidded, dark pools in the dim room. The intensity is still there, but it’s softened by sleep, by unguarded tenderness. He looks younger and gentler like this, and the sight makes your chest ache. Not that he looks particularly rough any other time you can recall seeing him around the resort. But there’s something special about the fact that he’s so comfortable with showing his softer, vulnerable side to a practical stranger. And that it happened to be you.

His hand comes up, his knuckles brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The touch is infinitely gentle. “Feel okay?”

You nod, nuzzling into his touch. “Sore,” you admit quietly. “In the best way.”

A slow, sleepy smirk touches his lips. “Good.” His thumb traces the line of your bottom lip. His gaze drops to your mouth, and the air in the room shifts, thickening once more. The tenderness is still there, but it’s being rapidly overtaken by a renewed, hungry focus. The sight of his eyes darkening, the feel of him hardening fully against your thigh, banishes the last vestiges of your sleepiness, replacing it with a different kind of heaviness—a liquid, anticipatory warmth.

The idea, the want, forms fully in your mind. You want to taste him. You want to swallow his sleep-rough groans. You want to prove your own hunger can match his, even now.

Without breaking eye contact, you slowly push against his chest. He lets himself be guided onto his back, his head sinking into the pillow, his eyes watching you with curious, dark intensity. The sheet pools around his hips, putting his magnificent body on display once more—the hard planes of his stomach, the thatch of dark curls, his cock standing thick and eager against his belly.

You move down the bed, positioning yourself between his powerful, spread thighs. The perspective is new, intimidating. He is so much larger than you like this, all muscle and male power laid out before you. You can see the faint tremors of fatigue still in his quadriceps, the slow, deep rise and fall of his chest.

You look up at him, meeting his heated gaze. His expression is a mix of awe and stark, ravenous hunger. He has given so much, taken so much. Now, you will take this.

“My turn,” you whisper, your voice stronger now, laced with a newfound, brazen intent.

A sharp, approving groan escapes him. “Fuck yes,” he breathes, his hands coming up to rest behind his head again, surrendering to your control, his biceps flexing with the movement.

You don’t start slow. You’re both past slow. You lean forward and take the broad, velvety head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the flared crown, tasting the distinct, musky, sleep-warm flavor of him. He jerks beneath you, a guttural, broken “Fuck!” bursting from his lips, the sound raw and startled.

Emboldened, you sink down, taking as much of him as you can. He’s big, stretching your jaw, the thick length hitting the back of your throat. You gag instantly, a reflexive, convulsive choke, tears springing to your eyes. You pull back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting your lips to him.

“Easy, princess,” he rasps, his voice strained with concern, though his hands remain fisted behind his head, not on you, giving you control. His entire body is tensed, a statue of held-back need.

You shake your head, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, your eyes burning. “Don’t be easy,” you gasp, your voice hoarse with the effort, with desire. You look him dead in the eye, your own vision blurred with unshed tears. “Use me. Use my mouth. I want you to fuck my throat. Use me to your heart’s content.”

Your words are the final key to his restraint. A raw, animalistic sound tears from him, something between a groan and a growl. His hands leave his hair and gently, but with undeniable firmness, tangle in yours. “You’re sure?” he grunts, every muscle in his body taut and quivering with the Herculean effort of holding back. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

The concern, amidst the filth of what you’re asking for, unravels you. “Please,” you beg, holding his shaft with one hand and trailing kisses and broad licks along the underside of him. “I want it. I want to feel you lose control. I want all of it.”

That’s all the permission he needs. His control shatters. He guides you back onto his cock, not forcing, but leading, feeding himself into your willing mouth. This time, when you gag, he doesn’t pull back. He holds you there, his hands a steady, gentle pressure in your hair, letting you adjust to the overwhelming feeling of him stretching your throat, the primal panic of choking on it. Tears stream freely down your cheeks, dripping onto his thighs. The sensation is a dizzying mix of slight suffocation and intense, dirty arousal, a complete surrender. You think you can cum from just that.

He begins to move, a slow, shallow, experimental thrust of his hips. The sounds are obscene—wet, gagging, choked breaths from you, his ragged, praise-filled groans from above. “God, your mouth,” he chokes out, his voice wrecked, awe-struck. "So warm, so good. So fucking good for me. Taking me so deep.”

He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming deeper, more rhythmic, building a filthy, wet cadence. You relax your throat, giving yourself over to him completely, letting him use you for his pleasure. Your own hands move between your own legs, fingers frantically circling your oversensitive, swollen clit, the degradation and the sheer intimacy of the act pushing you towards another shocking, dry peak. Your body bows, a silent scream caught in your throat around his length as your muscles clench around him.

He’s lost in it, his head thrown back against the pillows, the cords of his neck standing out in stark relief. His abs are clenched, his hips moving with a piston-like rhythm that is both brutal and perfectly controlled. “I’m close,” he warns, his voice a strangled, broken thing. “So close. Gonna cum down that pretty throat. Gonna fill you up.”

You redouble your efforts, taking him all the way, your nose pressed into the coarse curls at his base. You hum around him, the vibration wringing a shattered shout from him.

With a final, powerful thrust, he holds himself deep, and you feel his release pulsing hot and bitter down your constricted throat. You swallow convulsively, again and again, taking everything he gives you, until he’s utterly spent, his body going completely limp, a profound shudder wracking his frame.

He gently, carefully, pulls you off, his cock slipping from your bruised lips with a soft, wet pop. You collapse forward, your forehead resting on his muscular thigh, gasping for ragged, grateful lungfuls of air. Your face is a mess of tears, saliva, and him. You are wrecked.

In an instant he is moving. He gathers you into his arms immediately, pulling you against his heaving, sweat-slick chest. He doesn't seem to care about the mess. He presses kisses to your hair, your forehead, your tear-stained, salty cheeks, murmuring soft, incoherent praises into your skin. His own voice trembling, his heart hammering a wild, slowing rhythm against your ear. He holds you tighter, his embrace fierce and protective. “You okay? Talk to me. Was that too much?” The vulnerability in his question is stark.

You shake your head, nuzzling into the warm skin of his neck, your arms wrapping around his broad back. You feel hollowed out, purified, and completely his. “It was perfect,” you murmur, your voice raw and abraded. “You’re perfect.”

He laughs softly, a sound of pure, sated, astonished wonder. “You’re crazy,” he states and it’s filled with so much affection your heart squeezes tightly. He scoops you up effortlessly, manhandling you to stay tucked to his side and pulls the tangled sheets over both of you. He spoons around you again, his body a solid, warm fortress against your back. His hand rests over your heart, feeling its slowing beat.

“Sleep,” he commands, his lips whispering against your shoulder, then briefly reaches out to turn off the nightstand light. This time, it is a gentle order. “I’ve got you.”

You smile in the darkness, your body humming with a deep, sated, absolute contentment. You are already halfway to oblivion, safe in the circle of his arms. “Sure, try and stop me,” you whisper, but the words are a dream, lost to the deep and well-earned peace that claims you both.

The peace of sleep is a shallow pool this time, and you both drift in and out of its warm edges. True, deep rest feels like a distant country, unreachable from the heightened, sex-saturated plane you now inhabit. His arm is still a heavy, welcome weight across your waist, his body a furnace at your back. You float in a hazy limbo, aware of the dull, pleasant ache between your legs, the salt-and-sex scent on the sheets, the steady, strong beat of his heart against your spine.

You shift, a minute adjustment, and his hold tightens instinctively. A low, sleep-blurred sound vibrates against your back. His hips press forward, and the hard, insistent girth of him, already half-ready again, nestles more firmly against the curve of your backside. A soft, answering throb of need pulses deep within you, a quiet but persistent echo of the chaos that came before. It’s a want that doesn’t require acrobatics or screaming passion. It’s a simple, profound need for closeness, for the feeling of him inside you, even if you’re both too wrecked to move.

You press back against him, a slow, languid roll of your hips that is more suggestion than motion. It’s all the language either of you has energy for

He understands. A hum of approval rumbles in his chest. His hand, which had been splayed possessively on your stomach, drifts down. His fingers are warm and slightly rough as they slide down to your entrance, finding you still slick, still swollen and impossibly sensitive from earlier. You gasp softly at the contact, your body arching back into his.

“Still so wet,” he murmurs, his voice thick and blurred with sleep, the words mumbled into the nape of your neck. “Even now. Even after all that.” His touch is not seeking to incite a frenzy, but to confirm a connection. One thick finger slides into you with an effortless ease that makes you whimper. It’s not a thrust, but a presence, a gentle claiming. “This still mine?”

“Yours,” you breathe out, the word a sigh.

He withdraws his finger, and you hear the soft, fumbling rustle of another foil packet. His movements are slow, clumsy with exhaustion. The tear of the packet is loud in the quiet room. He sheathes himself with a tired, unrushed motion. Then his arm is back around you, pulling you tight against him. He guides himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging against you, and with a single, slow, rolling thrust of his hips, he sinks into you from behind.

You both let out a simultaneous, shuddering groan. It’s not a sound of frantic passion anymore, but of deep, profound relief. The feeling of him filling you this way, in the spooning position, is incredibly intimate. It’s lazy and deep, a connection that requires almost no effort. He doesn’t move immediately, just stays buried to the hilt, his body molded to yours, his breath warm on your shoulder.

“Okay?” he slurs, his lips moving against your skin.

“More than okay,” you whisper, pushing back against him, wanting to feel him even deeper.

He begins to move, but it’s nothing like before. There is no pounding rhythm, no frantic slapping of skin. His thrusts are slow, deep, and languid, a gentle rocking of his hips that rocks your entire body with it. It’s a lazy, luxurious fuck, all about the sensation of fullness and connection rather than the frantic race towards a finish line. The sounds are soft: the wet, slick slide of your joined bodies, his deep, quiet groans, your breathy sighs. His hand slides up to cup your breast, his thumb idly circling your nipple, not to tease it to a peak, but simply to hold you, to feel you.

It’s nasty in its own way—the sheer familiarity and repetitiveness of it by now, the way he can be buried inside you with such casual, sleepy possessiveness after just several rounds spent together. It’s filthy in its tenderness. You feel yourself coiling slowly, a warm, lazy build of pleasure that spreads through your exhausted limbs like honey. There are no screams, no commands. Just the slow, inexorable climb, fed by each deep, rolling stroke.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, his voice a sleep-rough vibration against your back. “Let go. Just let it happen.”

His words, so soft and encouraging, are your undoing. Your orgasm washes over you not as a crashing wave, but as a warm, rising tide. It’s a full-body shudder, a series of soft, internal flutters that milk his length, drawing a long, low groan from him. He follows you over, his own release a quiet, pulsing warmth deep inside you, his hips stuttering to a halt as he buries himself as deep as he can go.

For long minutes, you both lie there, still joined, breathing in ragged unison. The world has narrowed to this bed, to the feel of his chest rising and falling against your back, to the weight of his arm around you.

Eventually, with a soft sigh, he pulls out and deals with the condom yet again. You expect him to collapse back into sleep, but instead, you feel him shift and leave the bed. You make a small sound of protest at the loss of his heat, but he murmurs, “Shhh, baby, I’ve got you.”

He returns a moment later with a fresh, warm, damp towel. This, somehow, feels more intimate than anything else that has happened. Gently, with a tenderness that makes your throat tight, he cleans you. He wipes your mixed releases between your thighs, over your stomach, the care in his touch so profound it borders on reverence. He is meticulous, wiping away the evidence of your shared pleasure with a focus that speaks to you of deep, inherent respect for the partner, be it one night stand or something committed. You just watch him and know it’s true.

Once he’s done, he drops the cloth aside and pulls the duvet over both of you. He gathers you back into his arms, facing him this time. His eyes are heavy-lidded with exhaustion, but they search yours in the dim light coming through the window. His hand comes up to cradle your cheek.

“You’re staying,” he says. It’s not a question, but there’s a vulnerability in his tone that asks for confirmation anyway.

“Yes,” you whisper, nuzzling into his palm. “If you’ll have me.”

A slow, tired, but genuine smile touches his lips. “Try and leave,” he jokes softly, but his eyes are serious. He takes a deep breath, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “And… all of that. Everything we did. It was… it was still good? For you? You tell me if anything ever isn’t. Even now. Even after.”

The question, coming after such raw, animalistic intimacy, after such tender aftercare, unravels you completely. A sob catches in your throat, not of sadness, but of overwhelming emotion. He’s checking in. After he’s owned every part of you, after you’ve begged him to use your throat, he is still ensuring your consent, your comfort. It is the most heartwarming, devastatingly caring thing anyone has ever done.

“Seungcheol,” you breathe, your eyes welling up. “It was perfect. Everything was perfect. You’re perfect.”

He lets out a breath, as if he’d been holding it—and you suppose he was,—and pulls you tightly against him, tucking your head under his chin. He holds you like that for a long time, just breathing you in, his hands making slow, soothing circles on your back.

“Get some sleep,” he murmurs finally, his own voice already getting heavier with drowsiness. “Proper sleep this time.”

You nod against his chest, snuggling into his solid warmth. Just as you’re drifting off, on the very edge of consciousness, his voice rumbles again, a low, sleep-slurred promise.

“Gonna make you cum over breakfast,” he mumbles, his words barely intelligible. “While you eat your fruit. My fingers inside you… gonna be so lazy and good… and then take you on a proper date.”

The filthy, tender promise hangs in the air, a final gift before sleep claims him entirely. A slow smile spreads across your face in the dark. You are staying the night. Of course you are. And the morning, you know with absolute certainty, will be just as perfect.

*.(๓•͙ ˕ •͙๓).* like + reblog + comment if you enjoyed your time reading this!

A/N2: this fucking text took me ALL FKING DAY to read through and edit and I’m tired and it’s late where I am and I hope to go to bed asap. My brain is officially fried and frayed and everything else, I can’t comprehend words anymore to save my life or whatever they say in this case. Even with the volume of it I don’t think it’s the filthiest thing I could’ve produced but I think it’s nasty enough for the first huge thirst trap that this is. Also I can’t write Seungcheol without attaching strings in the end, I just can’t. It’s unfathomable to imagine letting go of such man after THIS! Anyways hope you liked reading this monstrosity ᐢ ᴗ . ᴗ ᐢ

But he finds it endearing all the same, enjoying it, even.

He loves it even more when you start doing it more often in public. He’s able to see the hunger in your eyes from a mile away and it sends a chill down his spine each and every time he catches you.

He’s posing with nonchalance for their concept photos when you first arrive, eyes darting over his form and caging your bottom lip between your teeth. He had acknowledged you with a curt smile and a nod of his head before continuing with the shoot, his own body wanting nothing more than to greet you fully in a warm embrace and kiss to your already swollen lips.

Though, as soon as the opportunity reveals itself, you’re beating him to it. You cross the set with a few quick strides in his direction before melting against him, ducking your head beneath his chin to press an innocent peck to his jaw.

He welcomes you with a tight squeeze around the hips and continues to rock you back and forth while you breathe in his scent.

“Missed you so much,” you admit with a pathetic whine. You weren't normally this needy, much less in public, but today felt different. It felt.. wrong, for once, waking up to an empty bed and a phone full of updates from his weverse, yet not a single message from him directly to you.

You knew he was busy. Hell, your relationship had been built off of his grueling schedule, back when he was promoting his second album with his group and you becoming a staff member of a sister company. He was beyond unavailable and yet you found it difficult to keep your eyes off of him. Unbeknownst to you, he was equally as desperate when it came to your attention. The few instances where your schedules would align left the both of you scrambling against the clock to further familiarize yourselves with one another, and eventually build a connection from a few fleeting glances and brief conversations.

Fast forward to now, things had only progressed in both of your careers, your lives busier than ever. You’ve been officially dating for three years and whilst primarily kept under wraps, your heart longed more and more for the opportunity to remind him of your devotion to him.

Much to your embarrassment, your loyalty presented itself with an unexplainable urge to swallow him whole and take every inch of his skin between your teeth without an ounce of shame.

Hence your current predicament; Seuncheol had his arms thrown lazily around your frame as you swayed, ever so blind to the scheming smile gracing your features. You leaned back, arching yourself against him as he questioned you with pinched brows.

To his surprise, you’d managed all the strength you had and utilized his obliviousness to your advantage, yanking him by the back of his neck and crashing your lips together with haste.

His hitched breath encourages you to move impossibly closer, your chests beating against one another with every jolt of your racing hearts.

The sheer intensity of the kiss is short lived when you detach from him with one last smack of your lips. Drunk on the high you’ve fed him, Seungcheol attempts to chase your lips, urging you to continue.

His silent pleas amuse you, enticing you to lean in towards his ear and whisper,

“Be good for me, Cheol. Go do your job and make me proud.”

You send him off with a playful nip to his cheek, your canines grazing the skin gently, cautious of the hours worth of effort his makeup artists have put in. His eyes follow your retreating form as you find your place behind the cameras.

He’s an hour and a half into taking naturally candid photos around the rented estate, and it’s driving you nuts.

The setting does little to ease your eagerness to claim him right then and there, offering a much more domestic and personal light to his preexisting bachelor aura.

He’s a fucking housewife, your mind offers you to no particular request. Your grip on your jacket’s strings falters when a deep, raspy voice presents itself near the cusp of your ear.

“Did he mention the next shoot to you?”

“Hm?” You respond, sparing Mingyu a passive glance before settling back on your deity of a man leaning over the terrace.

“We’re going swimming, if you wanted to join afterwards.”

“Why would I join?” You reply coolly.

“Well considering how much you’re drooling right now from him just standing there, I figured you’d want to indulge in having him in less layers for a few hours once we wrap up.” He grins.

Your skin burns from where he perches his chin on your shoulder, striking your body in flames as you try your best to shove your thoughts away. You can’t just indulge in your boyfriend’s near nudity just for a few hours. You know you don’t have that kind of self restraint when it comes to seeing him topless and unblemished.

“Mingyu, respectfully,” you turn to him slowly. “Get lost.”

His laugh reverberates against your arm as he tosses his top half against you, bracing himself as he catches his breath. Your sneer recoils into a smile as you catch Seungcheol’s curious glance from across the room.

His posture tenses while raking his eyes over you and mingyu, taking a moment to readjust before continuing his scene. The photographer calls for a break just a few moments later, satisfied with the outcome.

Your body is moving before you register it, slipping out of Mingyu’s reach with one last glare before you’re crashing into Seungcheol’s rigid chest.

“Baby,” he says softly, taking your arms and wrapping them around his waist before placing a gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “Are you staying for the whole shoot?”

“Do you want me to?” You ask coyly, having preemptively cleared your own schedule in favor of following his.

“I always love having you here, you know that.” He smiles.

“Then I’ll stay.” You say and rise on your tip toes to plant a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Aren’t you two tired of being this clingy?” Mingyu invades your bubble in just a few seconds, separating your bodies with a sudden jut of his hip to yours.

You scowl at him as you’re rudely tossed to the side. His shit eating grin grazes his stupidly handsome features while returning your attention to him.

You two had always been at each other’s throats, both playfully and unwittingly at times. He was your best friend, nonetheless, but it sent Seungcheol’s mind reeling with how kittenish you became when he was around.

Something in his chest twinged with envy and had jealousy rearing its ugly head every once in a while when you two stood too close together, shared a meal during his turns to film or pose for photos, or even as you bantered and bickered in front of him.

He knew it was nothing. Knew you loved him too much to replace him so easily, nevertheless with his own friend and group mate.

“You’re just jealous, Gyu.” You huffed while snaking your arms around Seungcheol’s middle again.

“Me? Jealous?” He gasped, feigning an appalled expression while placing a hand to his chest.

“Yah,” Seungcheol growled. “Get lost before I call Heejoo and tell her you’re moping around on set.”

Mingyu’s eyes wander to the ground at that, rubbing anxiously at the back of his neck as he begins backing away solemnly. The mention of his current situation-ship seems to strike him a lot harder than you’d both expected, and you smirk at his crumbling confidence.

“You’re a dick for that.” He grumbles toward your boyfriend, unable to hide the sudden flush peeking out from under the collar of his shirt.

Seungcheol grunts at him once more, sending the younger man away with another dismissive threat before finally turning his attention to you.

“Will you help me put some sunscreen on before the next set?”

The following hour of camerawork concludes with a brief discussion about tomorrow’s expected schedule, all the more exhausting and seemingly endless as the last. You can see the fatigue draped over Seungcheol's features from where you stand, plummeting your heart into your stomach as you continue to watch him, mingyu and the team wearily deliberate future activities and propositions for upcoming promotions.

With a supportive clap to their backs, the team dissipates around them to end their workdays.

You take the remaining opportunity after the last staff member's departure to approach your boyfriend, your hands instinctually attached to his neck and puling him toward you. He moves pliantly, allowing his head to fall into the crook of your shoulder and neck as he exhales tiredly.

"Long day, bunny?" you remark quietly, raking your nails across the nape of his neck.

"Too long," he grumbles, ignoring the nickname you know normally grinds his gears any other day. You feel his muscles returning to their tense state as he removes himself from you begrudgingly.

"Can you stay the night?" The light in his eyes flicker with something akin to hope before clouding with uncertainty at the sound of your defeated sigh.

"I have a meeting early in the morning. Have to meet with the company to discuss some upcoming solo works." Your words fall on deaf ears as he's already groaning and pouting, choosing to disregard your excuse in favor of throwing a short-lived fit.

"I can have someone drive you early in the morning?" His offer hangs heavily in the space between you, an offer you really want to take him up on.

To your misfortune, calling out for today was enough of a reason for your company to dismiss you of your duties permanently should you choose to do it again.

The short notice had thrown your team for a whirlwind, a mini crisis plaguing the workplace and blowing up your phone for the entirety of your time spent watching Seungcheol. You were ashamed to admit it out loud, but you'd give anything to quit and replace your priorities with becoming a stay at home simp for your boyfriend. You'd give anything to watch him all day long, cling to him at every beck and call, and devote yourself to being the best version of yourself you could be for him.

Were you insane for thinking that far? yes.

Were you that serious about him? also yes.

You couldn't help the pained complaint that escaped your throat upon seeing his face fall. It shredded every single piece of you to know you couldn't stay, and even more so when he began to beg for you to.

"Please? at least for a few hours? 'Till I fall asleep?" His eyes drift between yours, searching for any bit of redemption, consideration, confirmation.

Removing your hands, you smooth over your features to look at your watch, noting the late hour and the dread pestering your mind. Your notifications peer back at your for a second, reminding you of the dedication you had to your work for the following morning.

It would only be a few hours, you consider.

A beat of silence passes by before you inevitably agree with a nod of your head. "Okay."

To say he's elated would be an understatement. He's over the moon at your response, immediately linking your fingers and dragging you inside the airbnb, shifting his direction towards the bedroom as you enter.

"I'll take a shower and then we can watch a movie!" He suggests after leading you to the bed where you sit patiently, smiling as he trips over his own two feet while dashing toward the bathroom.

God, you can't believe he's yours.

"Did you know you had a mole here?"

Seungcheol meets your eyes through the reflection of the mirror, watching you trail your nails down his spine as he finishes his skin routine at the bathroom sink. You've since changed into a spare set of his clothes, a simple t-shirt that drapes over your dips and curves and ends just past the apex of your thighs.

His gaze lingers for a moment longer than it normally does, mouth subconsciously watering at the sight of you.

"I don't think so." He chuckles softly while returning to his process of unfolding a face mask and spreading it across his features carefully.

"Your back is so..." your voice drawls with a pensive hum, considering your words intently before continuing. "boring."

"Huh?" He turns in your grasp, catching the faint smirk pulling at the corner of your lips.

"It's just missing something." You utter.

"Like what?" he murmurs, his lips pursed in effort to keep his mask from slipping.

Your grin spreads along your face, head cocking to the side as you maneuver your hands over the expanse of his bare chest, raising goosebumps in their wake.

"Could use a little more me on it."

You spot the shift in his demeanor, shoulders tensing slowly, eyes sharpening, and the veins in his neck straining as he swallows dryly. You don't give him a chance to act on his desire, gracefully pinning his wrists against the counter and slipping your tongue out to lap at the flushed skin of his neck.

His groan rumbles from between your pressed chests, audibly forfeiting all control as you continue to press open mouthed kisses to his throat. His hips buck desperately when he feels your teeth graze just past his jugular, sinking deeper into his flesh with every breath he gasps.

"Baby," he whimpers against your persistence. You pull back, relishing in the subtle chase of his lips toward yours, halting just out of his reach with an arched brow.

"Bunny?" you counter, urging him to proceed with what he needs to say.

"Can't." He whines, overwhelming mortified with displeasure for having to restrain himself.

"Can't what?" You probe innocently, inching closer once more, guiding him back to you by the draw strings of his shorts. He lulls forward without resistance, drawn to your lips with nothing except a mere inch between them.

"Can't be marked. Not now." He says petulantly, eyes downcast as he drops his head, dejected.

Your heart thuds against your rib cage at that, growing restless as fondness ebbs away at your brain, turning it into mush. He knows you so well, knows that you need to mark him up, leave your presence on his skin for everyone to see how taken he is.

Love smothers your senses, your head cloudy and full of him. Your everything. Your person.

You reach to curl your fingers through his blonde, wet strands, tugging with enough force to lift his head once more. He moans quietly at that, his own hands finding purchase on your hips as he stares at you through his dark lashes.

You smile and tap his bicep with your free hand. You notice his eyes trailing your features hungrily before placing a gentle kiss to his muscle, right below his shoulder.

"'S okay, Bunny." You coo.

His arm flexes under the warmth of your fanning breath, fidgeting at every peck of your lips you lead up his arm and toward his chest.

You freeze once you've reached his collar bone, slowing your breathing and blowing a long, heavy exhale that mists over his already clammy skin. You smirk triumphantly at his muted mewl, watching his chest rise and fall erratically.

"I won't mark your pretty skin just yet," you reassure calmly, your hand still twisted in his hair as you pull it experimentally once more, lavishing his skin in praises when he moans.

"Stay still for me, m'kay?"

You don't wait for his response before sinking your teeth near his clavicle with pressure, not enough to break skin but plenty to stimulate both him and you when he ruts against you.

"Gentle," He reminds you through brief, measured breaths.

"I know, I know." you chide and release your grip on his hair briefly to instead hold his throat between your hands.

His eyes peer down at you for a short moment before flashing you a playful grin. You mirror it with your own before squeezing lightly at his neck, reveling in the meek sound he coughs out.

"So pretty," you murmur lovingly. "All mine to play with however I want. Whenever I want."

To his dismay, his nod is restrained and dismissed by you when you apply just a bit more pressure, your gaze darkening as he wraps a hand around one of your wrists, wordlessly pleading for more. You oblige and wedge your knee between his thighs, now aware of how engrossed he truly was upon feeling his pulsing erection against your bare skin.

"Is this why you wanted me to stay so bad? So you could be manhandled by your pretty girlfriend? Hm?"

Your hands release him, dropping to your sides as he heaves a few labored breaths, his eyes never once leaving your retreating form as you saunter toward the bed, patting the space beside you once you're perched at the edge.

He carries himself on wobbly legs to where you sit, landing ungracefully onto the bed with a soft "oof" before reaching a hand out toward you. You link your hands together momentarily, allowing yourself to soak in the appearance of his current state; dazed, spent, and utterly beautiful with every inch of his skin painted a bright red by an angry flush.

"Roll onto your belly for me, Cheolie." you direct.

He does so without complaint, damningly compliant to your every command. You absentmindedly trace shapes into his spine, your lips curling into a smile each time he flinches against the brush of your nails.

He rests his head against his folded arms, unintentionally flexing his muscles at the broadness of his shoulder blades. You chuckle, quietly shifting your attention to the taut skin, lowering yourself to place lingering kisses.

A sigh creeps out of his deflating body, audibly enjoying your attention. You proceed to kiss your way up, pausing to nip at the fat of his arms playfully and releasing a giggle of your own when he claims he's ticklish with a laugh.

You bite back the quip on your tongue, choosing to focus more on his twitching hips by running your hand over the smooth skin of his arched lower back. He hums, satisfied, and groans when your begin to pull his shorts down his thighs, allowing them to fall aimlessly to the ground.

He jolts upright when your hand collides with a loud smack against his ass, immediately coiling into himself with a yelp.

"What, you can do it by I can't?" You joke when he replies with a harmless glare.

"I'm not letting you peg me, if that's what you're leading up to." He chastises with narrowed eyes.

You feign a look of betrayal, simultaneously guiding him onto his back once more as you move to straddle his hips.

"Tough, I really wanted to see your cute little ass all perked up for me." You can't hold back the devious giggle that threatens to escape you, fully leaning against his chest to stabilize yourself.

"You're insane." He huffs with an eye roll.

"Yeah, but it's kind of cute." Your smile lingers a moment longer as he presses his lips to your forehead, soft and everlasting.

It's then that you lift your head and laugh once more, your fingers reaching to remove his face mask he'd long forgotten.

"I was really trying to keep a straight face!" You giggled. He levels you with a bashful scowl, turning away from your gaze as you settle down with a quiet sigh.

In the blink of an eye, your playful character is gone, replaced by your previous deviant nature.

"You're gonna be the death of me." He murmurs against your skin when you begin grinding your clothed pussy onto his exposed cock.

"I better act quick then," You retort while reaching down and clutching onto your panties to pull them side, angling your sopping folds to trail over the head of his cock.

"Fuck, Bunny. You're so fucking perfect." You groan into the dip of his shoulder, pressing yourself harder against him. His grip on your waist returns, clambering against your ministrations.

"Just— just take me already." He grits out through a particularly sharp inhale. "And don't call me bunny— shit —while we're fucking, jesus."

"You got it, Bunny." Your voice cracks ever so slightly as you begin your descent down his length, abdomen flexing with every ragged breath you take as he breaches your entrance. The stretch is painful, tearing you apart no matter how many times you've taken it. Tears spring to your eyes, threatening to spill before you finally settle, flush to his groin with a shaky breath.

"Oh fucking hell," He moans deeply. He recovers with a sudden shift of his hips, stripping you of all power you previously obtained.

You lurch forward with a startled mewl, your face falling between the crevice of his jaw and throat. Your mouth latches on helplessly, teeth grazing the stubble of his chin and biting down impishly.

He returns the favor, pausing to rip your (his) shirt off and tossing it aside hurriedly, attaching his mouth to the mound of your breast, nibbling at the supple flesh and grinding up into you when you elicit a borderline pornographic moan.

"Please, Cheol, please." You moan against his ear, grinding against him feverishly. Your begging fuels him further, ripping every ounce of self restraint out of him, replaced with an insatiable appetite only you can satisfy.

"You're so beautiful, baby. I'm gonna let you mark me as soon as all of this is over. Soon, my love. So soon." His attempts to soothe your desires warm your insides, your knees near gelatinous as he rams into your pulsating heat without a second regard or worry.

You feel his pace quickening with every plunge, your own movements futile in contrast with his. Your back hits the mattress in a flash, your legs forcefully pinned to your sides as he impales you over and over.

Your moans melt into short, wispish screams when you feel his mouth latch onto your breasts again, leaving deep, bruising indents from his teeth.

The mere idea of him biting you, the same way you've done with every given opportunity in the past, has your legs clenching against his waist, your teeth clamping around your lips as you feel yourself release into the euphoria of your climax.

"More, Cheol, please more—I want—I need more." Your cries fill his chest with pleasure and vanity, thrusting him head-first into the deep end of your satisfaction. He comes with a choked out cry, muffling the sound into your chest as he curls inwards, pumping himself dry into your tightening core.

"Baby," his hand leaves your waist to settle on your sweaty cheek, caressing the crimson skin as he adores your spent features. "You did so good, my love. so good for me."

You groan softly in reply, motioning for him to lay beside you with a limp wrist. He chuckles softly and gently pries himself free of your tight cunt with a groan.

“One more round?” You mumble into the pillows, peeking an eye in his direction to catch the faint grin on his dewy face.

“Give me ten minutes.”

“Shit,” he hisses. “Slow down.”

Your tongue slips between the slit of his cock, catching every last drop of his seed from his second release.

If there’s anything you’ve learned about your boyfriend in the past three years of dating him, it’s that he’s prone to over sensitivity after his second high. While you can recover relatively quickly after an orgasm, his stamina is overmatched by the mere pain of reaching another climax so short apart.

It’s something you both teetered the line with, not knowing whether it was right or even possible to milk him for as many rounds as he could. But, much like the rest of your ideas and suggestions, he couldn’t say no to you.

So you pumped his cock even faster, watching his jaw slack and chin quiver with a cry as he came down from his third match.

“You’re doing great, bunny.” You encourage, slowing your pace down to run a stripe along the side of his length with your tongue.

His brows dip and another moan escapes him. “You’re— you’re killing me.”

“Mh,” you hum. With a final tug to his half hard cock, you trail your lips over the smooth surface of his inner thigh, relishing in his breathy exhales.

“You’re always so good for me.” You say.

The tip of your tongue traces the faint stretch marks of his upper thigh, nearing the edge of his hip where you still.

The pads of your fingers skim over the flesh before you’re leaning forward and clamping your mouth down full force, undoubtedly leaving a mark this time.

You hear his choked shriek of pleasure and pain, the sudden grip on your hair paired with it.

“Fuck! ‘M gonna come again.” His voice lilts, pitched higher than usual.

You continue to pepper kisses along his waistline before meeting his opposite thigh with another skin-breaking bite. Your moan pulsates against the irritated skin, soothing the burn and easing the mark against the fat of his thigh to an eventual bruise with the flat of your tongue.

“Can’t take anymore.” He cries desperately, loosening his fingers wrapped around your disheveled locks as he comes down from his final release.

You give in to his whining after another brief moment of caressing the enflamed skin. You carefully ascend up his hiccuping body, tiny pecks littering his bareness before you connect your mouth with his with the upmost tenderness you could possibly muster.

“I love you so much.” You speak quietly against his lips.

His eyes remain shut, fluttering in and out of consciousness as he nods his head in response.

“Love you too.” He murmurs.

Laying your head on his chest, your entire being laxes against him, fully satiated and enraptured in his presence. A hand creeps up your waist, squeezing your side carefully as his body deflates beneath you with a deep exhale.

You could never truly thank him enough for indulging in your antics. You’re aware your love languages are drastically different; yours being entirely unhinged and bordering aggressive, where as his is prevalent in his gentle mannerisms, gift giving and pure compliance when it comes to you.

Nevertheless, the love you both have for one another surpasses all expectations and continues to surprise you day after day, year after year.

Even if you have to hide your love bites from the public eye.

< A/N: fin! this took a lot less time to write than i anticipated, despite the fact that smut tends to discourage my creativity. but! after getting all of my thoughts out and returning to the storyline with fresh ideas and inspiration, i was able to pump out a pretty decent chunk of raunch to satisfy my expectations for my first time writing smut.

that being said, i hope this flows well and encourages you to leave a comment or repost! feedback and suggestions are always appreciated. :) thanks!!!

Your phone pings. It's late but you know exactly who it was. Cheoli. He was on tour, just a few hours ahead of where you were. You had stayed awake on purpose just so you could hear from him because you knew you would. He always messaged you after every schedule regardless but shows were a certainty. All the adrenaline from performing lingered and you could always expect a string of messages afterwards. Which is why you were kind of surprised your phone only pinged once. You curiously open your phone and sure enough, there's his name on your screen. Your stomach flutters as you click on his thread to find a video. And you click it without a second thought. Seeing his face and hearing his voice was far better than texting. The excitement fluttering in your stomach rolls down to your core as you immediately hear that soft, muffled moan you love so much. The one where he's trying to be quiet, trying to not moan at all

He was pure fucking evil because he had set the phone up perfectly. A full view from his head down to his lap where his hand was currently working overtime on his cock. It glistened, precum decorating the tip like little diamonds. His other hand was under the table or desk he was at, no doubt kneading and squeezing and tugging his balls like you know he likes, thinking about your hands doing it instead no doubt. His sighs filled the silence for what felt like not long enough before his words did.

“Fuck I miss you” he lets out in a gaspy breath. “The way your skin feels under my fingers, the way you wrap around me..” he's panting harder, hand moving faster. And you know the signs all too well. “Can't stop thinking about how perfect you are, how beautiful you look on top of me.” He groans this time and the sound is like a spark to a flame for you. “That’s it baby” you whisper to yourself, thighs clenching as you watch him slowly start to tip over the edge, like you were going to talk him through it.

He calls your name. One time. Two times. Three times. His opposite hand slides up his stomach to push his shirt up, revealing the soft but defined muscles underneath. He whimpers. He fucking whimpers, pouty as it radiates from behind his closed mouth, long and drawn out. Then his eyes flutter before the roll back, his head lolling backwards as well as your name drips from his lips like a prayer. His hand works overtime at this point as he twitches, strings of white shooting from his tip and landing on his skin.

You don't even know where the fuck to look at this point. His face twisted in obvious pleasure, his lap where his hips buck slightly into his as he fucks into his fist, or his exposed stomach where he's spilling rope after rope across it. He doesn't give you a choice when he finishes. You watch as he slowly strokes his hand up one last time, making sure to get out every last drop. You get three seconds of his fucked out, lust hazed face before his arm moves over the lens and then the camera zooms in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Y/N…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightened. “Why are you here?”

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

“Cheol…”

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

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

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

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

“In the mirror.” His mouth twitched. “Twice.”

You looked down at your boots. “I was rude. I said the one thing that would hurt. I hate being taken care of because it makes me feel weak. I grew up handling things alone and… it’s hard to let that go.” You lifted your eyes to his. “But I don’t want to do this alone. Not with you.”

He nodded like he’d been waiting to hear that exact sentence. “So we try again. Different.”

“Different,” you echoed. Your fingers were numb, you blew on them. “No more drive-by lectures when I’m holding a cup of ramen.”

“Counter-offer.” His tone went gentle. “If I’m worried, I ask, ‘How can I help?’ And if you need to be left alone, you say so. Clear and simple.”

“And I actually tell you things before I crash.” You shrugged. “Like, ‘This week is brutal, please feed me, I’ll do the dishes.’”

His smile bloomed, soft and relieved. “Deal.”

He reached out like he was approaching a skittish cat, fingertips brushing yours first, waiting, letting you decide. You curled your hand into his, relief spreading like heat.

“Hands are freezing,” he murmured, bringing your joined fingers up to his mouth to blow warm air over your knuckles. The intimacy of it stole your breath.

“You’re dramatic,” you said, voice unsteady.

“I’m in love,” he said simply. “It looks similar.”

He kissed you, cold lips, careful pressure, an apology and a promise in one breath. The pride you’d been clinging to dissolved like snowflakes on skin.

When he pulled back, his voice was hoarse. “I missed you so damn much.”

Your laugh broke, wet around the edges. “I missed you too, idiot.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. “Come home with me?”

You hesitated, reflexively, then nodded. “Only if we stop for something that isn’t instant noodles.”

He brightened. “There’s a 24-hour place two blocks over. I will personally carry you there and feed you dumplings.”

“Overkill,” you said, but you didn’t let go of his hand.

You started walking, slowly so the ice wouldn’t trip you. He matched your pace without comment. Your shoulder bumped his, he bumped back gently.

After a minute, he glanced down. “Quick logistics meeting?”

You snorted. “Right now?”

“Just a preview.” He smiled when you rolled your eyes. “How about this, on heavy weeks, you text me your schedule on Sunday. I plan dinners on the days you’re slammed. If you need space, say ‘pause.’ If I start lecturing, you’re allowed to say ‘off-duty.’ No feelings hurt.”

You considered. “And if I say ‘I’m fine,’ you get one follow-up question. One,” you stressed.

“Negotiated. I’ll spend it wisely.”

You nudged him with your elbow. “You never spend anything wisely.”

“Except this,” he said, lifting your joined hands and lacing your fingers tighter.

At the corner, you paused under a streetlight that made the snow glow. He reached up to flick a flake from your lashes, his touch light as breath.

“Hey,” you said, more serious again. “Thank you for coming to find me.”

He shrugged, that little shy tilt of his mouth you loved. “I know the routes you take when you want to think. And I don’t want to be brave about missing you.”

You swallowed. “Me either.”

“Good.” He squeezed your hand. “Then let’s go eat something warm and stupidly salty and talk about everything we didn’t say this week.”

“And then,” you said, “we sleep. A full eight hours. Minimum.”

“Bossy,” he teased.

“Partner,” you corrected.

His grin reached his eyes. “Partner,” he echoed, and the word fit, simple and right.

You didn’t need to be saved. You needed to be met. And he was here. 2️⃣ Jeonghan: Fights with Jeonghan were rare. Most evenings, your bickering fizzled into laughter and a kiss on the cheek over takeout. But tonight, your fuse was already short. Work had wrung you dry.

You tossed your bag onto the chair and pulled your hair up with a sigh. “I swear, if my boss asks me to ‘circle back’ one more time, I’m going to combust. I’m rewriting decks, fixing everyone’s mistakes, and somehow I’m the one who ‘needs to be more proactive.’”

Jeonghan looked up from the couch, legs tucked beneath a blanket, a soft grin playing at his mouth. “Babe, breathe. You’re home. Want tea?”

You waved him off, pacing. “He scheduled a 7 a.m. meeting and then showed up thirty minutes late. And when I presented the revised plan, his plan, he said we’d ‘take it under consideration.’”

He leaned back, head tipping against the cushion. “Maybe you’re just being a little dramatic.”

The word froze the room.

You stopped pacing. “Dramatic?”

He blinked, slow, as if he could catch the word and shove it back in his mouth. “I didn’t mean…I just meant sometimes you spiral and…”

“So now I’m overreacting?” Your voice came out tighter than you expected.

“Hey,” he said softly, hands up. “I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m just trying to…”

“To what? Make a joke?” Your laugh cracked, brittle. “Right. Because that’s what you do. You joke. And I’m… what? Entertainment?”

The grin vanished from his lips like you’d blown out a candle. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you said, heat rising under your skin, “what’s not fair is you brushing me off when I’m telling you I feel invisible.”

His jaw flexed. “I don’t brush you off.”

“You just did.”

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, voice sharper. “If that’s really what you think of me, maybe you don’t know me at all.”

It landed like a slam of a door.

Silence ballooned. Your chest felt too small for your ribs. You grabbed your coat from the hook and shoved your arms through, fingers fumbling over the zipper.

“Where are you going?” Jeonghan asked, already standing.

“Out,” you said. “To not be here.”

“Hey, it’s snowing,” he called, following you to the door. “At least take…”

But the door had already clicked behind you.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The city was hushed under fresh snow, the kind that swallowed the sound of tires and dimmed the glow of storefronts. You tugged your scarf up over your mouth and walked. Your anger flickered, then flared, then slowly ran out of places to go, leaving you with a dull ache you recognized as hurt.

He didn’t mean it like that, you told yourself. But he said it. And he always jokes.

By the time you circled back toward your building, your fingers were numb and your lashes had caught a dusting of flakes.

Something thumped your shoulder.

You spun, snow falling from your scarf. “Yah!”

Jeonghan stood under the imposing tree near your entrance, hair dotted white, scarf loose around his neck, a lopsided snowball crumbling in his glove. He tried a smile, small, hopeful. “This is how you talk to me now?”

“Don’t,” you said, but your voice came out softer than you intended. “I’m not in the mood.”

“I know.” He took a step closer, then stopped, gauging your face. “I messed up.”

You folded your arms, half for warmth, half to keep them from reaching for him. “You think?”

“I joke too much,” he went on, eyes flicking to yours and not away. “It’s a reflex. It’s how I deal. But you weren’t asking me to deal. You were asking me to listen.”

A slow breath left you, fogging the air. “Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re serious about anything. About me.”

He winced, and his breath hitched in the cold. “I hate that you feel that way. I said ‘dramatic.’ That was… crappy. I’m sorry.”

You stared at him, at the earnest slope of his mouth, at the sting of his honesty. “It’s not just the word,” you said, quieter. “It’s the pattern. I tell you I’m drowning, and you toss me a joke like a floaty. I need you to get in the water.”

He nodded, quick. “Okay. Then I will. Tell me how. Do you want me to listen and say nothing? Do you want me to hold you and be quiet? Do you want advice? You can choose.” His gloved hand lifted, hovered, then fell. “I should’ve asked before. ‘Do you want comfort, solutions, or jokes?’ I should’ve asked.”

A reluctant laugh bubbled up. “You made that a multiple choice?”

“Baby steps.” His mouth curved, tentative. “I’m not going to be perfect at this, but I’m going to be deliberate.”

Snow sifted between you, gentle and relentless. He took another step, and another, until he was close enough that the warmth of him reached you.

“I care,” he said. “I care so much it scares me, and sometimes I make everything lighter because a heavy thing feels like it could break if I look at it too long. But I will look. At you. At what hurts. At what’s unfair at your job. At the way your shoulders tense when you talk about that meeting. I see it. I see you.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t want to be a problem you have to fix.”

“You’re not a problem.” His voice grew fierce in that soft, Jeonghan way. “You’re my person. I want to be the place you come to fall apart. I’ll put the pieces with you, not laugh while you scatter.”

He reached for your hand. His glove was cold and clumsy, he tugged it off with his teeth and slid his bare fingers between yours. They were freezing, but the intent was warm.

“Look at me,” he said.

You did. Snow clung to his lashes like glitter. His eyes were clear and steady.

“You’re not a joke to me,” he said. “Not now, not ever.”

A small, stubborn part of you held back. “Say it again tomorrow,” you murmured. “And next week. And the next time I’m spiraling.”

“I will.” A hint of mischief sparked, soft, contained. “And I’ll bring tea that time. No snowballs. Or, at least, I’ll ask permission before deploying.”

“Jeonghan,” you warned, but your mouth twitched.

“Sorry,” he whispered, contrite and playful in the same breath. He dipped his head, tugged your scarf down gently, and kissed you. Not his usual teasing brush of lips, not a smile pressed against yours, but something steady and careful. A question and an answer all at once.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead to yours, a small shiver running through him. “I missed you,” he whispered. “I know it was only a few hours, but it felt… loud without you.”

“Loud?” you echoed, a smile cracking open.

“In here.” He tapped his chest. “Too much echo.”

Your eyes stung. “You could’ve texted.”

“I did,” he admitted, sheepish. “And then I stood under your tree because I’m dramatic.”

The word, gentle now, loosened something in you. “You’re dramatic.”

“Only about you.” He squeezed your hand. “I’ll make it right. I’ll listen tonight. I want to hear the whole thing, start to end, the 7 a.m. meeting, the late boss, the stolen credit, the ‘take it under consideration’, which, by the way, is a war crime.”

“An office war crime,” you sniffed, laughing.

“Punishable by me buying you dinner,” he said promptly. “And by me asking, before we even go upstairs, what do you need from me right now? Comfort, solutions, or jokes?”

You pretended to consider. “Comfort first. Advice later. Jokes… we’ll see.”

“Order received.” He lifted your joined hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles, breath warm against your chilled skin. “Can I walk you in?”

You nodded. 3️⃣ Joshua: The first time you and Joshua fought, the room didn’t erupt. It quieted. It was the kind of silence that pressed on the chest, a stillness that made every small sound too loud.

Dinner was almost finished. The lamp over the table hummed softly, casting a warm circle of light. He was telling you about rehearsal, about a new arrangement he was excited to try, and you were half there, thumb dragging across your phone, answering a text you convinced yourself couldn’t wait.

“Do you even want to be here right now?” His voice didn’t rise. It slipped under your guard, soft and direct.

Your head snapped up. “What?”

His eyes flicked to your phone, then back to your face. “I’ve been talking for ten minutes and you haven’t looked at me once.” He set his fork down with careful precision, the way he did everything. “Sometimes it feels like I’m the only one trying.”

Guilt pricked, quick and hot. Defensiveness sprinted in right after. “Josh, I’m just tired. Can we not do this right now?”

He breathed in through his nose. “That’s the thing, though. ‘Right now’ is the only time I have with you today.”

Your jaw tightened. “Why are you making this a big deal?”

“Because it is a big deal.” His tone stayed even, but the hurt bled through. “I don’t need grand gestures. I just… I need to feel like I matter when we’re in the same room.”

Your chest squeezed. “That’s not fair. Just because I don’t show it the way you do, doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

He looked down at his hands, thumbs rubbing over his knuckles. “Maybe I just need more than what you’re giving.”

The sentence landed like a dropped plate, no crash, just the shock of it. You stared at him, words blurring at the edges. The room went still, even the humming lamp sounded distant.

You pushed your chair back. “Maybe I should go before we say something worse.”

He flinched, so small you almost missed it, but he didn’t stop you. You waited a half second longer than you meant to, hoping he’d reach for you, say anything that would make staying easier. He didn’t. So you left. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Two days stretched wide and thin.

You woke to the hollow shape of him not being around. The mug he liked sat upside down to dry, a little circle of water underneath it because he always forgot to shake it out. You scrolled past his name in your phone more times than you’d admit, thumb hovering over the call button, typing and deleting a dozen versions of “Can we talk?” and “I’m sorry.”

At work, you caught yourself telling a joke to the air because you’d thought of how he’d laugh at it. A song on the radio made your stomach swoop and then drop. That night you ate toast over the sink and stared at the dark screen of your TV like it owed you an answer. Joshua’s absence was loud in your small apartment, loud in a way the fight hadn’t been.

On the second evening, snow began its careful fall, the kind that coats the city in muffled white and makes everything look gentler than it feels. You were wrapped in a blanket you didn’t need, staring at the door like you could will it to knock.

When it finally did, the sound startled you so much you almost thought you were sleeping.

You opened the door and there he was, coat buttoned to his throat, scarf crooked, nose pink from the cold, snow melted into his hair in damp curls. He held a paper bag like a shield and a peace offering.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hi,” you echoed, breath fogging the doorway.

He glanced at the hallway, then back to you. “I didn’t know how else to say this, so I thought I should just… say it. The only way I know how.”

You stepped aside. “Come in.”

He took off his shoes carefully, of course he did, and set the bag on your counter. “I brought that lentil soup you like. And those sesame crackers you pretend aren’t your favorite.” A tiny smile flickered and died. He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been rehearsing this in my head, and it all sounded better there.”

“Try me anyway,” you said, a little hoarse. You sat on the edge of the couch, he stayed standing for a beat, then sat across from you, knees almost touching.

“I’m sorry,” he started, words measured like he was balancing them in his palms. “I never wanted to make you feel like you weren’t enough. That isn’t true. You are. I just… missed you. Even when you were right there.” He swallowed. “It scared me to feel alone next to you.”

The honesty made your eyes sting. You closed the space between you, sliding beside him. Your hand found his cheek, cold from the walk, your thumb brushing the edge of his jaw. “I’m sorry too. I was there, but not really. I do that when I’m overwhelmed, go quiet and small inside my head. It’s not about you, but I know it feels like it is.”

He leaned into your hand, lashes lowering. “I don’t want to keep score of who looks up first or who reaches out. I just want to know that if I say ‘I need you right now,’ you’ll hear me.”

“I will,” you said, meaning it. “And if I need twenty minutes to land before I can be present, I’ll say that out loud instead of disappearing into my phone.”

He exhaled, a small sound of relief. “Okay. That helps. I think I test people without meaning to. I waited for you to notice I was upset instead of telling you.”

“And I waited for you to tell me, because I was afraid of making it worse,” you admitted. “Which is ridiculous, because look at us. We already missed each other for two days we didn’t have to lose.”

A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “I hate those days.”

“Me too.” You nudged his knee with yours. 

His eyes warmed. He pressed his forehead to yours, breath mixing with yours, and then his lips found you, soft, careful, the kind of kiss that felt like an answer. It tasted like snow and lentil and the quiet promise to try again.

When he pulled back, he stayed close, his voice dropping to a whisper that brushed your mouth. “I’ll never doubt us again.”

You searched his face. “We’ll have moments,” you said gently. “But let’s promise to ask instead of assume.”

“Then I’ll never stop asking,” he murmured, smiling into the words.

You tucked yourself against his shoulder, the shape you knew by heart. “Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

He kissed your hairline. “Me neither.” 4️⃣ Jun: Jun wasn’t the type to push. He was patient, careful with his words, in arguments he often let silence do the talking, even when it meant swallowing what he really felt. Maybe that’s why it hit harder when he finally said something.

It started with another last-minute change. He’d been waiting outside your office, hands tucked into his coat pockets, watching for you through the glass. The lobby light caught in his hair. Then your message lit up his phone, ‘Can’t tonight. Too tired’. He glanced up at the same moment you stepped out, the screen’s glow fading against the tired apology you didn’t quite have energy to deliver in person.

By the time you made it home, he was already there, seated on your couch like he’d been trying to become small enough not to be a problem.

“You should’ve told me earlier,” he said, not looking up at first.

You set your bag down and toed off your shoes. “I did text you.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His gaze lifted, steady and too honest. “You’ve canceled three times this week. Do you even want to see me?”

The softness of it made the words land heavier. You flinched. “Of course I do. That’s… come on, Jun. Don’t make it sound like I don’t care.”

“I’m not trying to make it sound like anything.” He exhaled through his nose, a small, shaky breath, as if he’d practiced not letting it show. “It just feels like I’m the only one rearranging things. I wait. I keep waiting. And then you choose work, or your friends, or sleep. I know those are important…I really do. But where do I fit?”

You rubbed your temples. The day had left its fingerprints all over you, and here he was asking for the one thing you had none of, more of you. “That’s not fair. I’m busy. You know what this week’s been like.”

“And I’m not part of that life, right?” he said, too quickly, as if the words had been clawing at the back of his throat. As soon as they came out, regret flickered in his eyes. “I didn’t mean…”

You put up a hand. “No, I get it. You’re upset. I just…” Your voice thinned. “I don’t have anything left tonight. I’m trying to keep it together.”

“Me too,” he said quietly.

There was a long, bare pause, the kind that makes you aware of your own breathing. You reached for your coat like it might steady you. “Maybe we should talk when we’re not this… raw.”

He moved as if to step toward you, then stopped. “Okay,” he said. No anger. No plea. Just the soft retreat of a person who was tired of asking.

You left before your throat could betray you. He didn’t follow. The door closed without the usual lingering goodbye. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The silence was what hurt most, its shape, its persistence. Jun, who normally texted good morning without fail, who sent a photo of the sky when it looked like a watercolor because he knew you liked it, said nothing for two days. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard more than once. You typed, ‘I’m sorry’. Deleted it. ‘I miss you’. Deleted it. ‘Can we talk?’ Deleted it. Pride and fear traded places so often you felt motion-sick.

On the second night, as snow stitched itself across the city, the doorbell rang.

When you opened the door, Jun stood on the threshold with snow caught in his hair and on his shoulders, a takeout bag looped around his fingers. He looked exactly like someone who had practiced what to say and forgotten it the moment he saw you.

“Hi,” he said, cautious, as if the word itself might spook you. “I… brought dinner. You always forget to eat properly when you’re stressed.”

Your chest ached with something helpless and fond. “Jun.”

“I didn’t want to text something that sounded wrong,” he rushed on, stepping inside when you moved back. He placed the bag on the tabel, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure whether to tuck them in his pockets or hold onto something. “And I didn’t want to show up and make it worse. I just…can we talk?”

You nodded, then because your hands needed something to do, you opened the containers. The small, familiar things, steam lifting from rice, the clean, citrusy snap of pickled vegetables, bridged the space between you more than anything either of you had said so far.

He watched you, the way he always did, noticing the tiny things. “You’re still biting the inside of your cheek,” he murmured.

“And you’re still terrible at pretending you’re fine,” you said, softer than you meant to.

He huffed out a laugh, nervous and grateful. “I am. I’m really bad at it.”

You leaned on the counter, palms flat against the cool surface. “I’m sorry I keep canceling. Not because you’re mad…because you’re right. I thought being busy explained everything. It doesn’t, not when you’re waiting outside buildings for me to remember you exist.”

He winced. “I don’t want you to feel guilty.”

“I don’t,” you said, honest and a little raw. “I feel… sad. Because I love that you show up for me, and I hate that you don’t know I want to show up for you too.”

He swallowed, the knot in his throat visible. “I never wanted to make you choose between me and your life.”

“You’re not asking me to choose,” you said. “You’re asking me to choose you too. And I didn’t. Not enough.”

Jun’s shoulders dropped, some guarded part of him softening. “I said something I shouldn’t have, about not being part of your life. I was tired. It felt true in the moment. It isn’t. I know it isn’t.”

“It felt true to me, too,” you admitted, and his eyes flickered up, startled. “Not because it is, but because I made it feel that way. I’ve been overwhelmed and I used that as an excuse. You deserve better than my leftovers.”

He let out a shaky breath, relief, grief, both. “I don’t need grand gestures. I just need to know I’m not the only one saving time for us.”

You nodded, wiping your palms on your thighs. “Okay. Then let’s be boring about it for a while. Put us on the calendar like we’re important, because we are.”

He smiled, small and genuine. “Boring sounds perfect.”

“Tuesday nights,” you said, thinking out loud. “No cancellations unless someone is actually on fire.”

“Or contagious,” he offered.

“Or contagious,” you agreed. “And if work explodes, I call. I don’t text a ghostly ‘can’t tonight’ five minutes before.”

“I’ll meet you halfway,” he said. “If you need quiet and soup instead of plans, say so. I can do quiet and soup. I am, in fact, a world-class bringer of soup.”

You nudged the takeout bag with a knuckle. “Evidence accepted.”

His eyes went bright in the way they did when he was overwhelmed and trying not to show it. His fingers brushed yours, hesitant. “Can I…?”

You nodded, and he laced your hands together. Warmth bloomed from the simple contact, quiet and certain. He leaned his forehead to yours, breath fanning your cheek, and everything slowed, your thoughts, the mess of the week, the stupid pride. Just the two of you and the hum of the heater and snow softening the traffic outside.

“I missed you,” he said.

“I missed you more,” you said, because it felt good to say it first for once. “I’ll do better. Not perfect. But better.”

“Same,” he whispered. “I’ll say the hard thing before it turns mean in my mouth. I’ll knock on the door before I decide I’m not wanted.”

You huffed a laugh that caught on a tear. “Look at us making rules like actual adults.”

He smiled into the kiss, which was unhurried and warm, the kind that said we have time and we’re choosing it. When you parted, snowmelt glittered on his shoulders, you brushed it away.

“Thank you for dinner,” you said, the words carrying more than they usually did.

“Thank you for letting me in,” he replied, thumb stroking the back of your hand like he was relearning it. “Also, I may have gotten your favorite dessert. I panicked and bought two.”

“You panicked and bought cake?” you teased. “Truly a crisis.”

He pretended to be offended. “If you don’t want any…”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, tugging him toward the couch. “We have a Tuesday to plan.”

“Boring,” he echoed, and his grin was soft and sure.

You ate together, knees touching, the living room smelling like sesame and citrus and new snow. It wasn’t a grand fix. It was better, a choice made out loud, a calendar blocked, a kiss unhurried, a promise given shape. And when his phone buzzed with some distant, forgettable notification, he flipped it facedown without looking.

This time, you noticed, and reached for his hand first. 5️⃣ Hoshi: With Soonyoung, everything ran hot, his laughter, his ideas, his dancing, even your arguments. He didn’t just walk into rooms, he blew in like weather. Most days you loved it. Most days, you were the calm after his storm.

But that night, you were already sitting on the edge of the couch, coat still on, keys in your palm like you couldn’t decide whether to stay or go. He burst through the door twenty-three minutes late, breathless and shining with sweat, the strap of his bag sliding off his shoulder.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” he said, kicking off his shoes with a clatter and trying on a grin that usually worked. “Traffic, practice ran long, then I…”

“You promised today you’d be on time.” Your arms crossed before you could stop them. Your voice sounded steadier than you felt.

“I know. I know, I lost track.” He draped his hoodie over a chair, raking a hand through damp hair. “Don’t be mad.”

“You always ‘lose track.’” You stared at the clock, then back at him. “Do you even take me seriously, or do you think I’m just going to forget every time you do this?”

The grin slipped. He blinked, like the room suddenly came into focus. “Of course, I take you seriously. Why would you even say that?”

“Because you keep putting everything else before me.” The words came out sharper than you intended, and once they were loose, there was no calling them back. “Maybe I’m just not a priority.”

A flicker went through his eyes, hurt, quick as a match. He dropped his bag to the floor. “You think I don’t care?” His voice rose, rare for him. “I’m working my ass off every day, early mornings, late nights…and it’s still not enough for you? You think I’m late because it’s fun?”

“No,” you shot back, “I think you’re late because you keep breaking promises.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. The silence stretched. The hum of the fridge suddenly felt loud.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” he said, softer now, but bristling. “Sometimes practice runs over, sometimes the choreo isn’t landing, sometimes I’m just…behind. I’m trying to carry everything.”

“And I’m not asking you to stop carrying it,” you said, throat tight. “I’m just asking to not be the thing you drop.”

He scrubbed his hand over his face. “I said I was sorry.”

“You’ve said it a lot.” You swallowed. “I want different.”

He stared at the floor like the right answer was written there. When he looked up again, something in him had gone still. “Fine,” he said, a hard edge flattening his words. “If that’s how you see me, then maybe I shouldn’t make promises at all.”

The sting was immediate and precise. You felt it under your ribs. “Maybe you shouldn’t,” you said, even though you wanted to say anything else. You wanted to ask him to try again. You wanted to not feel foolish for waiting.

He took a step toward you. “Wait…”

But the hot pressure behind your eyes warned you. You turned before your voice could crack, catching your coat sleeve on the doorknob. His uneven breathing followed you down the hall. You didn’t look back.

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The quiet that came after wasn’t peaceful; it was a drip you couldn’t stop hearing.

By noon the next day, the spot on your phone where his name usually lit up stayed blank. You scrolled through inside jokes and voice notes, typing and deleting messages you couldn’t bear to send.

By the second day, you caught yourself glancing at the studio’s account, at a grainy story of him laughing with the guys, and felt both relieved and petty for feeling relieved.

On the third night, you were halfway through convincing yourself to stop waiting up, when someone knocked. Three urgent knocks. Then two more. Then, “Please,” muffled, like he’d leaned his forehead against the door.

You opened it, and he almost stumbled inside. His cheeks were pink from the cold, breath fogging the air behind him. He looked like he’d run the whole way.

“I can’t do this,” he said, the words tumbling out before the door had even closed. “I can’t not talk to you.”

Your heart did something you didn’t authorize. “Soonyoung…”

“I mess up.” He planted his hands on his knees, catching breath, then straightened and met your eyes. The panic in his face wasn’t dramatic, it was honest. “I lose track of time. I get swallowed by practice. I say I’ll be somewhere and then I’m two blocks away and there’s a last-minute change and…” He stopped, swallowing hard. “But it’s never because I don’t care. It’s never because you’re not a priority.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” Your voice came out small. “Why am I the one who has to understand while you…forget?”

He flinched. “Because I tell myself you understand, and then I use that as permission to push you to the edge of my day.” He shook his head like he hated the truth even as he said it. “I don’t want to be that guy to you. I don’t want to be someone you can’t count on.”

You leaned against the wall, arms loose at your sides now. “I don’t need perfect. I just need…chosen. Even when it’s inconvenient.”

He took a step closer. “You are chosen. Every day. Even when I’m an idiot about showing it.” His voice cracked. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” you said, and the certainty surprised you. “But I need you to meet me in the middle. Not with another ‘sorry.’ With a plan.”

“A plan,” he repeated, like the word had weight he could carry. He nodded quickly, eyes bright with relief and nerves. “Okay. I can do that. I will do that. Tell me what you need and I’ll…no, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.”

He held up his fingers, counting. “One: I’m setting alarms that don’t just say ‘leave’, they say ‘you’re meeting her, get out now.’ Two: if practice runs late, I'll call you the minute I know. Not a text. A call. Even if it’s five minutes. Three: I block time for you on my calendar like I do for rehearsals, non-negotiable. Four: I keep an extra bag here so I don’t have to run home first and be late because I’m changing clothes. Five: if I’m more than ten minutes off, I owe you ramen and a foot massage. Not negotiable.” A weak smile. “Okay, the last one is maybe more for me.”

Despite yourself, you snorted. “Ramen and a foot massage?”

“I’m trying to make this memorable,” he said, hands lifted in surrender. “I want to show you I heard you. I don’t want ‘sorry’ to be the whole story.”

You searched his face. Exhaustion had carved faint shadows under his eyes, there was still a smear of practice chalk along his jaw. He looked like himself, stripped of the performance, open, a little messy, completely there.

“I need you to be where you say you’ll be,” you said, clearer now. “If you can’t be, tell me before I’m already waiting. And…” your throat tightened, but you pushed through “...I need to stop feeling like an afterthought you’ll get to once everything else is done.”

“You’re not an afterthought,” he said immediately. He stepped close enough that you could feel the shake still running through him. “You’re the thought. The one that gets me through the last half hour of practice and…” he exhaled, a ragged, self-conscious laugh “...and the one I write stupid little notes about in my head so I don’t forget to tell you later.”

You looked down at his hands, still fisted at his sides like he was afraid to touch you without permission. So you closed the distance yourself, catching his jacket and tugging him forward.

“Then don’t,” you said, tears spilling before you could stop them. “Don’t forget. Don’t make me guess.”

He kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for days. It wasn’t practiced, it was urgent and clumsy, his palm finding your waist like a lifeline. The kiss tasted like cold air and apology and relief. When you finally broke apart, foreheads pressed together, the world felt steady again in that small circle of warmth.

“Just try,” you whispered, your fingers fitting into the spaces between his. “Be there when you say you will. Call if you can’t. That’s all I need.”

He nodded so fast his hair fell into his eyes. He pushed it back, smiling, shaky and real. “I will. I promise.” He paused, winced, then amended, “No…scratch that. I’ll prove it. Starting now.”

“How?”

“I’m early for our next date,” he said, pulling his phone out and tapping like a man on a mission. You watched the screen light his face. “Friday, seven. Calendar block. Two alarms. I’m leaving practice at six-thirty with or without them. And…” He held up the phone, the calendar square a neat little box labelled with your name and a ridiculous heart. “I’m asking you to share your calendar with me too, so I can see you there and not just in my head.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth was already curving. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours,” he shot back, quick and certain, shoulders finally dropping. He tucked his phone away and leaned in, voice softening. “And this time, I’ll keep it.” 6️⃣ Wonwoo: With Wonwoo, arguments didn’t start with shouting. They started with quiet, thin, careful quiet that made you feel like you were whispering into a room with no walls.

It was late. The TV hummed in the background, the remains of dinner going cold on the table. You’d been talking, really talking, about work,  the meeting where your idea got passed around until someone else took credit, the way your boss interrupted you mid-sentence, how small you felt walking out of that room.

You reached for your tea and realized he hadn’t said anything in… a while. His thumbs scrolled absently across his phone, his eyes on the screen, his mouth pulling into that neutral line he wore when he was anywhere but here.

“Are you even hearing me right now?” you asked, voice soft but frayed around the edges.

His head snapped up. “Of course I am.”

“Then what did I just say?”

Wonwoo blinked. The pause stretched, thin and tight. He opened his mouth, closed it. “You were…upset. About work.”

“That’s not an answer.” Your heartbeat climbed. “I needed you to be here with me. Not in your phone.”

He set it face down, as if that could rewind anything. “I was listening. I just…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say yet.”

“Then say that,” you said, fingers knotted in your sweater hem. “Say ‘I don’t know what to say yet.’ Say ‘I need a second.’ Say anything. Because when you go quiet, it feels like I’m talking to a wall.”

His jaw ticked. “Maybe I don’t always know what you need immediately. Did you ever think of that?”

You exhaled, stung but steady. “I don’t need immediate. I need present.”

The air turned brittle. He leaned back, eyes sliding away, the silence widening between you like a crack in glass.

“Wonwoo,” you tried again, gentler this time, “I’m telling you something that matters to me.”

“I heard you,” he said, voice low. “I just… when it gets heavy, my brain feels like static. If I talk too quickly, I say the wrong thing. So I wait. I try to think. And then it’s already too late.”

“It’s too late when I’m already crying in the bathroom at work and you’re here scrolling,” you shot back, heat rising in your chest. “I don’t want perfect words. I want you not to disappear.”

He flinched at that. Then, like a switch flipped, his expression cooled. “Maybe I’m not good at this,” he muttered. “Maybe I’m not cut out for… for you.”

The words landed like a drop through ice. You stared at him, feeling something in your chest fold in on itself. “Okay,” you said, voice small in the big, quiet room. “Maybe you’re right.”

You stood, grabbed your bag from the chair. He didn’t move at first. Then he did, reaching out as if to catch a sleeve he couldn’t quite reach.

“Wait…” he started.

But you had already opened the door. “I can’t keep begging you to show up,” you said, and left.

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Two days of silence. Two days where the apartment felt like a museum and your phone a paperweight. You didn’t call. He didn’t call. Pride and hurt sat side by side in your chest, both loud, both insisting they were protecting you.

Snow came and made the world a little quieter. You were in socks and an old hoodie when the knock sounded, three hesitant knocks, spaced like he was testing the beat of a song he wasn’t sure he remembered.

You almost didn’t answer. You did.

Wonwoo stood there, hair damp with melting flakes, shoulders hunched against the cold. His hands were shoved into his coat pockets the way they were whenever he was bracing for something.

“Hi,” he said, breath clouding in the air between you.

“Hi.”

“I’m sorry.” The words were rough, as if unused. “For the phone. For the silence. For saying…” He swallowed. “For saying I wasn’t cut out for you. That was a terrible thing to put on you.”

You held the door but not wide. “Then why did you say it?”

He met your eyes, and for once, didn’t look away. “Because I was scared. And when I’m scared, I hide. I thought if I kept quiet long enough, I’d think of the right thing to say. Instead I made you feel alone. I hate that I did that.”

The anger in you shifted, softer at the edges. “I don’t need you to fix everything I say. I need you to stand in it with me.”

“I know.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for two days straight. “I grew up learning that quiet meant safety. Don’t speak unless you’re sure. But that’s not fair to you. You don’t need a perfect sentence, you need me. I’m sorry it took me this long to understand that.”

You stepped aside. “Come in. You’re freezing.”

He toed off his shoes like he always did, careful and neat, then hovered near the doorway, unsure where to put his hands, his eyes, himself. You set water to boil out of habit.

He watched you move. “I’ve been rehearsing this for two nights,” he admitted quietly. “It still sounds clumsy in my head.”

“Good,” you said, surprising yourself with a small smile. “Clumsy means you’re not hiding.”

The kettle clicked. You poured two mugs you weren’t sure either of you would drink.

“About what you said that night,” you started, the old bruise throbbing. “That you’re not cut out for me.”

His eyes glassed, sudden and unhidden. “I didn’t mean it,” he said fiercely, the quiet falling away. “I said it because I felt like I was failing you and I wanted out of the feeling. Not out of us.”

Your throat tightened. “It hurt.”

“I know,” he said, voice breaking on the second word. “I’m so sorry.”

You set the mugs down and closed the distance. Up close, the cold was still on his skin. He hesitated, then brushed his knuckles against your hand like he was asking a question.

“Can I…?” he asked.

“Yes.”

His kiss started careful, an apology folded into a promise. You felt the tension leave his shoulders by degrees, felt the way he stayed, present, steady. When you parted, he rested his forehead against yours like he always did when words lingered on his tongue.

“I missed you,” he murmured, breath warm. “More than I can say without messing it up.”

You smiled, watery and real. “Then don’t say it,” you whispered. “Just show me.”

He nodded, a small, relieved sound escaping him. “Okay. I’ll show you. Starting now.”

“Starting now,” you echoed.

He took your hand and, instead of letting go, sat with you on the couch. No TV. No phone. Just the slow, ordinary warmth of two people learning a new language together.

After a minute, he spoke, halting, honest. “Tell me the part about your boss again. The part that made you feel small. I’m listening. And if I mess up, I’ll try again.”

You leaned back, felt your shoulders drop for the first time in days. “Okay,” you said, and this time your voice didn’t tremble. “So, in the meeting…”

And he stayed. 7️⃣ Woozi: With Jihoon, it was never yelling, it was precision. Words that clipped instead of crashed.

You swung by his studio close to midnight, the hallways quiet, the blue glow under his door giving him away. You eased it open and held up a bag. “I brought food. Your favorite.”

He didn’t look away from the monitors. A track looped in the background, a half-built chorus circling the room like a restless thought. “Just leave it there.”

You set it on the couch, hands lingering on the paper handles. “Did you eat yet?”

“No,” he said, fingers moving, “but I’m not hungry.”

“Jihoon, you haven’t eaten all day.”

His jaw tensed. “Can you not start? I’m busy.”

The words were flat, but they landed like a door shut in your face. You swallowed. “I’m not starting anything. I’m worried.”

“Well, don’t.” He finally glanced up, eyes rimmed red, shoulders tight. “I don’t need you babysitting me.”

It came fast. It always did with him, one wrong word, and the air went thin.

You blinked, breath catching. “Babysitting? That’s what you think this is?”

He rubbed his temple like the conversation was another file to drag to the trash. “I didn’t mean…look, I have a deadline. I can’t do this right now.”

“Do what?” Your voice wavered despite you. “Care about you? Show up for you?”

Silence pressed between you, full of the humming equipment and the too-loud loop on repeat. He looked away first. “I need to work.”

You nodded. It was the smallest motion, but it felt like a cliff giving way. “Fine. If that’s how you see me, I’ll stop.”

You grabbed your coat. He didn’t chase you. The door clicked behind you, and in the hallway you realized you’d been holding your breath. You let it go, and something inside you went with it.

You cried in the elevator where no one could hear you over the tired machinery.

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Four days. No late-night texts, no voice notes about a new bridge he hated or loved, no small, stupid memes he usually sent when he didn’t know how to say ‘I miss you’. You typed a dozen messages and deleted all of them. Pride and hurt made a tight braid in your chest.

On the fifth night, the intercom buzzed. You padded to the door in socks, heart kicking despite yourself.

When you opened it, Jihoon stood there with a takeout bag crinkling in his hand. The same order you’d brought. Fresh this time. He looked smaller without the studio around him.

“Hi,” he said, somewhere between sheepish and exhausted. “I, uh… didn’t eat it that night.” He lifted the bag an inch. “I got it again. Thought maybe we could share it now.”

Your eyes fell on him and the way he was bouncing from one leg to the other. “Jihoon.”

“Can I come in?” His voice was careful. So were his eyes.

You stepped back. “Yeah.”

He slipped off his shoes and stood in your kitchen like he it was the first time he has stepped in your apartment. You took the bag and set it on the counter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before you could open a single container. “For that night. For… everything about that night.”

You stared at the takeout for a beat, then at him. “You hurt me.”

“I know.” He nodded like he’d been practicing that admission. “I was in my head. I am in my head a lot, and when I’m there it feels like everything else is noise, even the things that aren’t. Especially the things that matter. That’s not an excuse.” He squeezed the back of his neck. “It’s just what it is.”

“You said I was babysitting you.”

“I know.” He winced. “That was me being defensive because I didn’t want to admit I needed… anything. Anyone.”

You opened the containers, steam rose, filling the space with warmth you hadn’t felt in days. You handed him chopsticks. He took them but didn’t move.

“I wasn’t trying to manage you,” you said quietly. “I was trying to love you. And when you pushed me away like that, it made me feel like I didn’t belong in your life. Like I was intruding.”

His shoulders sank. “You do belong. You do.” He paused, searching. “It scares me how much.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “If you need space when you’re working, tell me you need space. Don’t make me feel stupid for showing up.”

“I won’t.” He swallowed. “I’m still learning how to say the thing before I say the wrong thing.”

You both moved to the floor, your backs to the couch, containers between you. You ate in small bites, the kind that buy time. The quiet felt less brittle.

He spoke first, chopsticks paused midair. “When I’m deep in a track, it’s like I’m underwater. I forget the surface exists. You walk in and you’re… air.” He looked down, then back up. “And sometimes that hurts, because breathing means I feel everything again. Including the fear I’m going to fail, or disappoint you. So I say something stupid to make the feeling go away.”

You set your food down. “I don’t want you to disappear to make it easier. I want to be part of the work and the mess and the stupid. I can handle the fear if you hand it to me, not at me.”

He exhaled, a shaky laugh at the end of it. “You’re better with words than me.”

“You’re good with them,” you said softly. “You just use them on music first.”

He smiled, brief and true. It flickered into something more fragile. “I missed you. I kept almost texting and then I’d hear that loop and think, ‘fix the chorus first, fix yourself first.’ But I don’t fix myself alone very well.”

You nudged his knee with yours. “That’s allowed.”

He set his food aside completely now, turning to face you. “I don’t deserve how much you care. That night, you were right to leave.”

“You don’t get to decide what you deserve,” you said. “I do. And I want to be here. But I need you to meet me halfway.”

He nodded, eyes bright. “Okay.” 

His fingers threaded with yours like he’d been holding tension there for days, like the act of touching you released it.

“I’ll try to say it before it’s sharp,” he murmured. “I’ll try to say, ‘I’m scared,’ or ‘I need twenty minutes,’ instead of aiming for the place that will make you leave.”

“Good,” you whispered. “And I’ll try not to turn concern into control. I’ll ask what you need before I assume.”

He huffed a small, grateful sound. “What I need right now is you not leaving.”

“I’m not.”

You kissed him first, soft, testing, and he met you there, careful and sure. The gratitude in it was new, so was the way he relaxed as if something important had finally clicked into place. His hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like an apology and a promise.

When you parted, he stayed close. “Can we… put on a movie and let the food get cold and then reheat it and pretend that was the plan?” His smile tilted. “And tomorrow, will you come to the studio? I’ll set an alarm to eat. I’ll show you the bridge I’m stuck on. You can tell me it’s terrible or perfect, I’ll accept either.”

You laughed, the sound loosening the last knot. “Deal. But I’m bringing a timer. And snacks.”

“Fine.” He squeezed your hand. “And if I say something sharp…”

“You’ll try again,” you finished for him.

He nodded. “I’ll try again.”

He leaned back against the couch and tugged you with him until your head found his shoulder. The movie you put on five minutes later barely made it past the opening credits, the food did get cold, the apartment felt warm anyway.

Near the end of the second act, his voice slipped out, quiet enough that you almost missed it. “Let me stay,” he said, the word careful and certain at once. “Just… let me stay with you.”

You turned your face toward him. “I will.”

And you did. 8️⃣ DK: Fighting with Seokmin always felt like arguing with the sun. He was warmth and laughter, the kind of person who could turn a grocery run into a bit, who would sing apologies in falsetto when he spilled coffee on your sleeve. But that night, even the brightest parts of him cast a shadow.

It had been a day that chewed you up, missed deadlines, a call with your mom that went sideways, the train breaking down between stations. You were venting, pacing the living room, hands drawing frantic circles in the air, when he tried to do what he always did.

“It sounds like the universe put you on hold,” he said, eyebrow raised. “Press 9 to speak to a manager?”

You stopped dead. “God, Seokmin, can you take anything seriously?”

The room fell quiet. The only sound was the soft hum of the fridge and the rain tapping against the window. His smile flattened like a balloon losing air.

“I was just trying to make you feel better,” he said.

“Well, it doesn’t,” you shot back. “It makes me feel like you don’t care.”

His face fell fully at that, the joke dying before it finished forming. “You really think that?”

You folded your arms across your chest to keep your voice from shaking. “Sometimes it feels like you’d rather make a joke than actually listen.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the way he did when he was buying time. “I…” He swallowed. “I laugh when I don’t know what else to do.”

“That’s convenient,” you said, and winced as the words landed. “It’s like you get to skip the hard parts.”

His jaw worked, a tiny, stubborn movement. When he spoke again, his voice had no bounce, no music. “Maybe I laugh because if I stop, everything feels too big. Because I don’t know how to fix it for you and it scares me. Because if I say the wrong thing…” He took a breath that trembled. “...if I say the wrong thing, I’m afraid you’ll realize I’m not enough and you’ll leave.”

That took the wind out of you. “Seok…”

He was already reaching for his jacket. “Maybe I should give you some space.”

Your anger cracked into panic. “You don’t have to…”

“I don’t want to make it worse,” he said, unable to meet your eyes. “I never want to make it worse.”

The door closed gently, almost apologetically. And just like that, the room cooled by ten degrees.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Two days stretched like gum, thin, sticky, impossible not to keep pulling. You woke to silence instead of his off-key morning hum. You stared at your phone like it might teach you a spell. You typed and erased a dozen messages.

‘hey

no, that’s stupid’

‘can we talk?

too soon?’

‘i’m sorry for what i said

send, no, wait’

You wore his oversized hoodie around the apartment, telling yourself it was because it was chilly, not because it still smelled faintly like his citrus body wash. At night, you replayed the fight and noticed all the spaces where fear sat between the words.

On the second evening, the rain finally broke. You slipped your shoes on and walked to the park where you both gravitated whenever life felt too loud. The path glistened, lamplight puddling in the wet. The old bench under the big tree stood like an appointment you were late for.

He was there. Head bowed, elbows on his knees, hands twisting his ring in anxious loops. When your shoes scuffed the gravel, he looked up.

“Seokmin…” you said softly.

His eyes were wide and glassy, like he hadn’t slept much. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I almost didn’t,” you admitted, sitting a careful distance away. “I thought if I stayed home, I could pretend we weren’t… this.”

He nodded like that made perfect sense. The quiet between you felt heavy but not hostile. Just… fragile.

“I shouldn’t have said you don’t care,” you said, the words warm with breath you’d been holding for forty-eight hours. “You care more than anyone I know. I said it to hurt you because I was hurt.”

He blinked hard and gave a weak chuckle that wasn’t a joke. “I kept replaying it and thinking, ‘this is where I fix it,’ but my brain only knows the one tool.” He tapped his chest. “Clown-in-residence.”

You turned to face him fully. “I don’t want you to stop being you. I love your dumb universe manager joke. I love that you sing to the rice cooker. I just… sometimes I need you to be here with me in the ugliest parts, without reaching for the light switch.”

He nodded quickly, eagerly even, then caught himself and slowed. “Okay. Okay.” He laced his fingers together like he was trying to hold himself in place. “I can listen. I want to. I…sometimes I panic. It’s like, if I don’t make you laugh, I’m failing at loving you.”

“You don’t have to perform to be loved,” you said. “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to not have the answer.”

He breathed out, a shaky, honest sound. “When I was younger, joking always worked. If someone was mad or sad, I could flip the scene, you know? I didn’t learn what to do when the scene didn’t need flipping.” He looked at you, vulnerable in a way that made your chest ache. “I’m trying. I want to be what you need.”

“Then… ask me what I need.” You smiled, a small one. “We can make it stupidly simple, like a menu. ‘Do you want me to listen, help, or lighten?’ And I’ll pick.”

His mouth tilted. “A feelings menu?”

“With pictures if you behave,” you said, and he laughed for real this time, soft, relieved.

He scooted closer, the space between you shrinking to a breath. “Can we practice?” he asked, earnest.

“Right now?”

He nodded. “Okay. What do you need… right now?”

You looked down at your hands, damp from the bench, and then back up. “Listen.”

He settled, shoulders lowering. “I’m listening.”

“I was overwhelmed,” you said. “And I wanted to not feel alone in it. When you joked, it felt like you stepped out of the room while I was still in the mess.”

He winced, not theatrically, but like truth stung. “I stepped out because I was scared I’d break something if I stayed.” He took a breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving. I thought space would keep me from messing up, but it just… made the mess colder.”

You shifted closer, your knees touching his. “I’m sorry I went for your softest part. I know how hard you try. I see it. Even when I’m mad, I see it.”

He blinked, and tears gathered. He laughed once, an embarrassed, watery sound. “You’re going to make me cry in public.”

“It’s the park,” you said. “It’s practically designed for crying.”

He huffed out a breath that could have been a laugh or a sob. “I’ll do better,” he said, the words careful and deliberate. “Not as a promise I can’t keep, but as a practice. I’ll ask what you need. I’ll sit with you in the dark. And… if I’m scared, I’ll say that, too.”

You took his hand, fingers threading through his like they had always meant to. “And I’ll tell you when I want the joke. Not every room needs light, but some rooms do. We’ll figure out which is which together.”

His lips trembled, then steadied. “Okay.” He squeezed your hand. He stopped, searching. “Can I be honest without trying to fix anything?”

You nodded. “Please.”

“I missed you so much,” he said simply. “It felt like two days of holding my breath.”

You let the truth meet his. “Me too.”

He leaned in, slow enough to let you choose, and when you did, the kiss was soft and warm and a little salty. It felt like standing in the first patch of sun after a storm, not because the weather changed, but because you had.

When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours. “You’re my everything,” he whispered, like it wasn’t a line but a quiet fact he’d been carrying for months.

The words didn’t set off alarms this time. They didn’t feel like fireworks, either. They settled into you like a weight that fit, heavy in a good way, anchoring. “I believe you,” you said, and meant it all the way through.

He exhaled, a laugh tangled in relief. “So… what do you need now?”

You pretended to think, eyes flicking up to his. “Walk with me,” you said. “Tell me about the song you’ve been humming under your breath for a week. And maybe… buy me a hot chocolate on the way home.”

He stood, tugging you up by your joined hands. “I can do all of that.” He paused. “And if the universe gives us trouble again, I’ll ask for the feelings menu first.”

You bumped his shoulder. “With pictures.”

“With pictures,” he agreed, grinning as you fell into step together.

9️⃣ Mingyu: Fights with Mingyu didn’t creep in, they hit like summer storms, hot, sudden, and louder than either of you meant them to be. Passion first, sense later. You loved him for the same heart that made the arguments messy. Some nights, though, it felt like you were learning him in the dark and guessing the edges by touch.

It started over something small, which is to say, it started the way most big fights do.

He came in late again, shoes thudding off by the door, keys tossed into the bowl with a clatter. The clock stung, 1:27 a.m. You were curled up on the couch in a hoodie, a cold mug on the table, the TV paused on a frame that had been still for an hour.

“You’re up,” he said, a little surprised, a little guilty.

“You said you’d be back by eleven.”

He winced. “We grabbed food after the game. I didn’t check the time.”

You swallowed, tried to keep your voice even. “Do you ever think about how I feel, waiting for you all the time?”

He blinked like you’d tossed water in his face. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I just lose track of time.”

“That’s the problem, Mingyu. You lose track of me.”

His jaw worked. “So now I’m not allowed to see my friends? You want me glued to you every second?”

“That’s not what I said.” Your breath came sharp. “I’m saying communicate. Tell me if it’s going late. Tell me I’m not an afterthought.”

“God, it’s one night,” he shot back. “Why does it always have to be a fight?”

“Because I keep asking and nothing changes.”

He shifted, defensive heat rising. “So I’m the bad guy for having a life?”

“No,” you said, cheeks burning, “you’re my boyfriend who forgets he has one.”

Something flickered in his eyes, hurt, pride, fear. The mix that always made him reckless.

“Right,” he said, laugh bone-dry. “If I’m such a terrible boyfriend, remind me, why are you even with me?”

The words sucked the air from the room. Your heart stuttered, his face said he already wanted them back, but they were loud and ugly between you.

“Good question,” you whispered.

He stood there, chest heaving, and for a beat neither of you knew how to climb down. You got up slowly, found your coat, found the doorknob before you found your composure.

“Don’t,” he said, reaching out and stopping short of your wrist. “I didn’t mean…”

“You said it,” you managed. “And I heard you.”

You walked out. The hallway was too bright. Your phone buzzed twice. You didn’t look.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The first night without him was bone-quiet. The second was worse. You made dinner, didn’t finish it, washed the pan like a ritual. Your phone lit up with his name and then with nothing, typing… stopped… typing… stopped. You stared until the screen dimmed.

He sent one message, ‘ I’m sorry. I’m a mess. Please call me.’

You didn’t. Not yet. You needed the part of you that loved him to sit down for a second so the part that loved you could speak.

On the second night, the knocking started like rain and turned into thunder. You opened the door because you knew it was him, because the building had never echoed like that before.

Mingyu looked wrecked, hair flattened on one side like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times, hoodie half-zipped, eyes red and swollen. He held his breath when he saw you, like the sight of you might flee.

“You can hate me if you want,” he blurted, voice already cracking, “but don’t leave me.”

Your throat tightened. “Mingyu, what …”

“I said the worst thing I could say.” He swallowed, words tumbling over each other. “I knew it the moment it left my mouth and I tried to swallow it back and it was just…” He shook his head, desperate. “I’m an idiot. I panic, and I go for the sharpest words because I’m scared, and then they cut you, and then I hate myself.”

He stepped forward like you might push him away. You didn’t. His hands found your arms, gentle even in panic.

“You’re not a burden,” he said, eyes wet. “You’re the best part of my day. Every day. I hate that I made you doubt that.”

Tears stung hot and helpless. “I don’t want perfection, Mingyu. I just want you. But you can’t throw out ‘why are you with me’ like it’s nothing. That lives somewhere when it’s said. It doesn’t vanish.”

“I know.” He nodded, too fast, like he could outrun the shame. “I know. I’ve been rehearsing what to say for two nights and none of it is good enough. I’ll…” He paused, breath shaking. “I’ll do better. I will. Just… don’t walk away from me.”

You held his gaze. “Doing better can’t just be a promise at my door.”

“I know,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me how to not mess this up.”

You didn’t want to be his teacher. You wanted a partner. So you took a breath and spoke like one.

“Text me if you’re going to be late. Not at one a.m, at eleven, when you realize it. Not an essay, just a heads-up. I won’t sit staring at the door if I know you aren’t behind it.”

He nodded, fierce. “Done. I can do that. I should’ve already been doing that.”

“And if I bring something up,” you continued, “don’t go straight to defense like it’s an attack. Ask me what I need.”

He let out a breath with a shaky laugh. “What do you need now?”

“I need to hear that ‘why are you with me’ is never coming out of your mouth again.”

“It’s not,” he said, immediate. “I hate that I made you carry that. I’ll never say it again. If I feel that panic, I’ll take a walk. I’ll call Seungcheol and yell into his voicemail. I’ll do push-ups in the street. I don’t care. I won’t throw you away to make a point.”

A laugh snuck out of you, thin and wet. “Please don’t do push-ups in the street.”

“If that’s what it takes,” he said, a weak smile breaking through, “I’ll do burpees.”

You rolled your eyes, the knot in your chest loosening by a finger-width. “And I’ll… tell you when I’m spiraling instead of letting it pile up until I snap. I’ll take a walk too. I won’t disappear without saying where I’m going.”

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.” He looked at your face like memorizing it. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you said, before he finished. “Come in.”

He stepped over the threshold like it might vanish if he moved too fast. The apartment felt different with him in it again, like sound remembered how to be sound. He hovered, unsure, then cupped your face with both hands, thumbs shaking against your cheeks.

The kiss wasn’t neat. It never was with him. It was clumsy and urgent and honest, the kind that said, ‘Please know what I mean even if I can’t say it right’. He kissed you like an apology and a promise and a thank you all at once.

“I missed you so much it hurt.”

“I missed you,” you whispered, voice rough. “Don’t give me reasons to leave.”

“I won’t,” he said, and it wasn’t a dramatic vow. It was steady, like something you could set a cup on.

He cleared his throat. “Can I say one more thing without sounding dramatic?”

“You, dramatic?” You tilted your head. “Never.”

He grinned, embarrassed. “I’m still learning how to be good at this. At us. I didn’t… grow up seeing people fight well. I’m trying. I want you to see me trying.”

“I do,” you said. “Just don’t make me squint.”

He nodded, earnest as a promise. “Deal.”

There was a pause that felt like the first breath after a sprint.

“Also,” you added, softer, “go see your friends. I don’t want to be your whole world. I just want to know I’m in it.”

“You are,” he said, immediate again. “Front row. Center seat. VIP wristband.”

“Progress,” you said. “Look at us.”

He kissed your forehead. “Look at us.”

You tugged him toward the kitchen. “There’s leftover curry. It’s cold, but so are you, so it matches.”

He pressed a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Deserved.”

You put the container in the microwave and leaned on the counter, watching him watch you like he was afraid to blink. The hum of the machine filled the quiet. He stepped closer, slid his hand into yours, laced your fingers together like a habit he wanted to keep.

When the timer beeped, he didn’t let go. You didn’t ask him to.

“Stay,” you said, as easy as breathing.

“Always,” he answered, and for once it wasn’t too much. It was exactly enough. 1️⃣0️⃣ Minghao: Minghao’s patience could stretch for miles, but when it frayed, it didn’t explode, it went quiet first.

It started small. You asked him what he wanted for dinner, and he shrugged without looking up from his book. You laughed at a video and held your phone up, and he smiled but didn’t lean in. The distance didn’t make a sound, but you felt it, like draft slipping under a door.

“Can we talk?” you asked, standing between him and the lamp.

He slid a ribbon into his book and set it on the coffee table. “We’re talking.”

“Not like this,” you said. “You barely text. You barely call. Sometimes I don’t even know if you want to be with me.”

His jaw worked once, a muscle ticking near his ear. “Just because I don’t message you every hour doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

“I’m not asking for every hour,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. “I just want to feel like I matter to you when we’re not in the same room.”

He leaned back, eyes cautious. “If you can’t tell by now, maybe you don’t understand me at all.”

You blinked. The bluntness stole the air from your lungs. “So what, you’re saying this is my fault?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what it sounds like.”

He rubbed his temple as if the conversation were a headache he’d been waiting for. “You’re exhausting me right now.”

The words landed clean and cold. “Okay,” you said, breath shaking. “Then maybe I should leave before I ‘exhaust’ you more.”

His gaze flicked to your coat by the door and back to you. He didn’t move. He didn’t stop you.

You laughed without humor. “Right. Message received.”

You shrugged into your coat, fingers clumsy at the zipper, and walked out. The hallway felt colder than it should. 〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

One week passed in a silence that wasn’t clean. You scrolled to his name, screen lighting your face at 2 a.m., then put the phone facedown like that could quiet your heartbeat. Pride held one hand, missing him held the other. They tugged you in opposite directions until your chest ached from the effort of just standing still.

You noticed the small things more in his absence: the way the radiator clicked before it warmed, the plant leaning toward the window because you forgot to turn it, the extra mug that stayed clean. You caught yourself setting aside a funny story from work, rehearsing how you’d tell it to him, and then remembered there was no call scheduled, no usual check-in. The space where he lived in your day went strangely echoey.

On the 7th evening, you took the long way home because walking felt easier than going back to the quiet. Snow had started, the flakes came down soft and disinterested. You wrapped your scarf tighter and climbed the stairs, keys ready, mind blank the way it gets when you’re tired of replaying the same scene.

He was leaning against your apartment door, a dark figure cut out against the pale hallway light. Snow dusted his hair and shoulders. His hands were tucked into his coat, like he’d been standing there long enough to forget he had fingers.

You stopped two steps away. “Minghao.”

He straightened, eyes searching your face with something that looked like relief and apology tangled together. “Hi.”

The word was so simple it made your throat tighten. “Hi.”

He exhaled, a cloud in the cold air. “I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice low but steady. “Any of it.”

You swallowed. The key bit into your palm. “Then why say it?”

He looked down at his shoes, then back up. Vulnerability edged his features the way winter edges a window. “Because I got scared,” he said. “I get scared. I feel like I bring some many downsides to the table that it feels scary when I am in the wrong…”

You stared at him, at the snow melting into the collar of his coat. “You haven’t made it worse by loving me,” you said. “You make it worse by shutting me out.”

“I know,” he said, shame softening his voice. “I know. I thought you understood the quiet parts of me. I thought you did, and when you said you didn’t feel like you mattered, I panicked. It felt like failing a test I didn’t know how to study for, and then I…” He broke off, swallowed. “I picked the worst words. I picked distance.”

“‘You’re exhausting me’,” you repeated, the phrase still lodged like a splinter.

He winced. “I hate that I said that. You don’t exhaust me. The fear does. The feeling like I’m always a step behind what you deserve.”

The honesty tilted something loose inside you. You took a breath that felt like it reached the bottom of your lungs. “I don’t need you to be perfect,” you said, softer. “I just need to know you’re with me even when I can’t see you. A message in the morning. A call when you have time. Tell me when you need space so I know it’s not me. Let me in.”

He nodded, quick and earnest. “Okay. Tell me how to show up the way you feel it. I wake up, I think of you, and then I think it’s too early to text. I finish rehearsal, I think of you, and then I tell myself you’re probably busy. I’ll stop telling myself your ‘probablys’ for you.”

A laugh caught in your chest, wet around the edges. “I don’t mind early. I mind not at all.”

“Right.” He stepped closer, careful as if approaching a skittish animal. “Also… when I shut down, I’m not leaving. It’s just how I learned to be when things got loud at home, go quiet, wait it out. It’s not about you. But I want to unlearn it for us.”

You nodded. “And I’ll try not to hear silence as goodbye. But you have to meet me halfway.”

“I will.” His eyes held yours. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop you. I wanted to. I told myself you needed space, and maybe I used that as an excuse because I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could’ve just said ‘Don’t go.’”

“Don’t go,” he said now, immediate, like a correction.

The words landed warm. You stepped forward so the hallway light pooled around both of you. “I won’t,” you said. “But next time, if we’re fighting, say you’re overwhelmed instead of pushing me away. And if I’m spiraling, I’ll tell you I’m scared instead of accusing you. Deal?”

He blew out a breath that fogged between you. “Thank you,” he said. “For still being here.”

You slid your fingers into his, and he closed his hand around yours, gentle, firm, like choosing. The chill of his skin was real and immediate, underneath it, a steadier heat.

“Come inside,” you murmured.

He nodded. Inside, in the doorway light, he paused. “One more thing,” he said. “Even when I push… stay. Or say you’re staying. I need to hear it.”

“I’m staying,” you said. “But you have to meet me halfway.”

“I know.” He touched your cheek, hesitant at first, then sure when you leaned into it. The kiss he gave you was slow, deliberate, a careful spelling-out of an apology he didn’t trust his language to hold. He pulled back just enough to breathe the same air as you.

“I’ll do better,” he murmured. “For us.”

“We’ll do better,” you corrected, and he smiled, small and relieved, the kind that folds at the edges of his eyes.

Later, when your coats were drying by the radiator and the snow stitched the city quieter, he reached for his phone and, without letting go of your hand, set an alarm. “For mornings,” he said. “To say good morning.”

“And for nights,” you said, your mouth curving. “To say good night.”

He nodded. “And for the in-betweens,” he added. “To say I’m still here.”

You squeezed his fingers. “I can work with that.” 1️⃣1️⃣ Seungkwan: Fights with Seungkwan were BIG. You both told the truth like it was a sport, no hedging, no filters. It was your strength because nothing went unsaid. It was your weakness because sometimes the truth landed like a punch.

It started stupidly, the way most big fights do. He was reenacting a story from practice, throwing his whole body into the details, voice climbing, hands flying. You grinned and nudged, “Okay, Broadway. Save some for opening night.”

He laughed, at first. “I know, I know. I’m extra.”

“Extra, dramatic, theatrical,” you added, piling it on. “All synonyms. Want me to get you a spotlight?”

His smile thinned. “Ha-ha.”

You tried to keep it playful. “I’ll stand in the back with cue cards. ‘Cry here. Gasp here.’”

Something in his eyes shuttered. “Why do you always make fun of me?” he blurted, voice sharper than the edge of the counter. “Do you know how it feels to never be taken seriously?”

You blinked. “What? Babe, I didn’t mean it like that. I was just teasing…”

“You always ‘just tease,’” he shot back, pacing now, running a palm over his face. “Everyone does. And maybe I’m tired of being the clown to you.”

The word lodged hard. “The clown?”

“That’s how it feels.” He exhaled, frustrated, but the momentum of anger kept him moving. “If the shoe fits.”

You went still. “So that’s all you think I see when I look at you? A joke?”

Silence dragged. He stared at the floor. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “Sometimes it feels that way.”

Your throat burned. “That’s not fair.”

“And ‘Broadway’? ‘Spotlight’?” he mimicked, a flat little laugh. “Real fair.”

“Seungkwan, I tease because you’re big. Because you fill the room. I love that about you.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like love when you say it like a punchline.”

Something inside you gave up on the fight already. “Fine,” you said, voice going thin. “If that’s what you think, maybe I should go before I make another joke you hate.”

He stared, stubbornness flashing like a shield. “Do what you want.”

You grabbed your bag and left. The door clicked behind you, and the apartment swallowed the echo.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The quiet after was loud in its own way. No lunchtime voice notes. No links to songs he insisted would “change your life for exactly three minutes and twenty-two seconds.” No selfies from the practice room mirror. You kept reaching for your phone and setting it back down, the habit of him still alive in your hands.

On the third night, just as you were convincing yourself you should apologize first, your phone buzzed.

‘I’m outside.’

You stood there, staring at the message, then you opened the door.

He was on your front step in a hoodie and sweats, eyes puffy, hair doing its own dramatic monologue. In his hands, a bouquet so chaotic it was almost beautiful, daisies, tulips, baby’s breath, something that looked suspiciously like a supermarket fern, all tied together with a ribbon that didn’t match anything.

“I panicked,” he blurted, thrusting it toward you. “I walked in and grabbed…whatever looked like you.”

You pressed your lips together. A laugh snuck out anyway. “Seungkwan.”

“I know.” He dropped his gaze, then lifted it again, earnest and shiny. “I’m your idiot. Can I talk?”

You stepped back to let him in. “Talk.”

He set the bouquet on the counter like it might shatter. “I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “For the shoe comment. For making you feel… disposable. I didn’t mean it. I was mad and messy and I said the thing I knew would hurt because I was hurting.”

Your chest tightened. “Don’t do that to me.”

“I won’t.” He tugged at his sleeve, nerves fidgeting through his fingers. “I know I’m a lot. On stage, with the guys, I’m always…on. Jokes, laughs, high energy. People expect it, sometimes I expect it from myself. But with you, I wanted to be off and still be…enough. And when you teased, it felt like…” He swallowed. “Like I was still ‘on’ even here.”

You leaned against the counter, the edge solid at your hip. “I forget,” you said quietly. “I forget you’re sensitive about that. I forget you carry the room so often that you get tired of carrying anything else.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “You just called me sensitive.”

“I called you human.”

He huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “That’s better.”

You reached for him, fingers skimming his wrist. “I’m sorry. I tease because I adore you. But I don’t want my ‘adoring’ to sound like I’m poking holes in you. I’ll be more careful. I’ll…check the room before I make a joke. And if I miss, you tell me. Don’t throw the shoe at my head.”

He cracked, finally smiling for real. “No shoes. Only…notes.”

“Notes?”

“Like, ‘hey, babe, I’m fragile right now, please handle with two hands.’” He mimed a label with his fingers. “I’ll say that. Out loud. I won’t pretend I’m fine and then explode.”

“Deal.” You squeezed his wrist, then slid your hand to his. “And I won’t make you feel like a caricature. Even if you do look like a chaos florist.”

He glanced at the bouquet and groaned. “Don’t roast my taste at a vulnerable time.”

“Is it a roast if it’s accurate?”

“See? This is exactly…” He stopped, eyes warm. “Okay, that one was kind of funny.”

You stepped closer, until you could see the faint tremor in his lashes. “I didn’t like three days without you.”

“I hated it.” His voice dropped. “I kept drafting texts and deleting them because I didn’t want to be dramatic.” A beat. “Which is hilarious, because…me.”

“You can be dramatic,” you murmured. “Just don’t be mean.”

He nodded, serious. “I’m sorry I was. I want to be someone you lean on. Not someone you laugh at from a distance.”

“I don’t want distance,” you said. “I want you. Loud and quiet. On and off. All of it.”

His eyes glossed. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

“You already did,” you said, soft. “Hours ago. Your eyes told on you the second I opened the door.”

He laughed, wet and warm. “Come here.”

The kiss was clumsy in the way apologies are, eager, careful, a little desperate. He kept one hand on your cheek like you might evaporate if he let go. When you finally broke for air, your foreheads pressed, breaths tangled.

“You really are dramatic,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

He pouted. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

“I do.” You bumped his nose with yours. “Even when you buy fern.”

“It spoke to me,” he said solemnly. “It said, ‘I am quirky but dependable, like Seungkwan.’”

“It said, ‘please put me back and ask the florist for help,’” you countered, grinning.

He looked at you, all the way at you, no stage lights between. “Do you see me now?”

“I always did,” you said. “But I’ll show it better.”

“Okay.” He threaded your fingers together, exhaling a breath that left his shoulders looser. “Can we…start over? I’ll order takeout, you pick the movie, and if I start doing live commentary, you tap my knee twice.”

“And if I make a joke that bites, you lift the fern in warning.”

He laughed. “The Fern of Boundaries.”

“Perfect.” You squeezed his hand. “Start over.”

As he pulled out his phone to place the order, he glanced up with a shy, sideways smile. “For the record, I don’t mind ‘Broadway.’”

“No?”

“Not if it comes with front-row seats from you.” He leaned in, voice playful again, but gentled. “Just…don’t forget to clap when the curtain falls.”

You kissed his cheek. “I’ll be the one standing first.” 1️⃣2️⃣ Vernon: That night started small, dishwasher humming, rain sliding down the window, your words trying to find a place to land.

“It keeps happening,” you said, palms open on the counter. “I tell you something that bothers me, and you just…disappear while you’re still standing there.”

Vernon leaned back against the sink like he was bracing for a wave. The light over him was soft, turning his hoodie almost silver. He didn’t look at you. He didn’t look anywhere. You watched his shoulders go still in that way you’d come to know, the quiet retreat.

“Say something, Hansol.”

He blinked, mouth pressing flat.

“Hansol.”

Silence pooled between you, heavy and shapeless.

Your chest tightened. “Anything. Do you even care that I’m upset?”

The question cracked the stillness. He lifted his eyes, expression blank, voice carefully even. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

The words hit cold and clean. You swallowed. “I want you to say how you feel. Not the correct answer, not what sounds safe. Something real.”

His jaw ticked. “Maybe I don’t know how. Maybe I’m not what you need.”

Air left the room. “If you believe that,” you said, throat raw, “then maybe you’re right.”

You grabbed your jacket before the tears could form, the door heavier than it should’ve been. It thudded shut behind you, and the echo followed you down the stairs.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

Two nights stretched and snapped and stretched again. You made the bed tight, worked late, scrolled, tried not to look at your phone. You told yourself anger was simpler than hurt. It was a lie you almost managed to believe.

On the third night, your key stuck for a second in the downstairs door. You nudged it free and looked up.

He was there on your stoop, knees drawn up, hoodie you knew by smell, studio air and detergent, rolled at the wrists. Headphones sat around his neck like they always do. 

He stood as you approached, then second-guessed it and sat back down, then stood again, awkwardly human in a way that cracked something tender in you.

“I didn’t know if you’d be home,” he said, voice rough from disuse. “I didn’t know if I should text, or call, or just…” He gestured to the step. “...be here.”

You held the rail, steadying yourself. “You could’ve started with ‘I’m sorry.’ That would’ve helped.”

He nodded, fast. “I’m sorry.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry I shut down. I’m sorry I made you feel alone in a room I was in. I’m…” He pushed a hand through his hair. “I suck at talking when it matters. The words just jam.”

A laugh scraped out of you, small and pained. “I don’t need you to think five steps ahead all of the time. I need…you. Even if it’s messy.”

“I know.” He slid the headphones off and turned them in his hands. “I tried to make a voice memo so I wouldn’t freeze. I recorded like…six versions. They were all bad.” He took a breath. “But I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out how to say this, I am so sorry Y/n.”

Something loosened in your chest. You stared at him, at the honesty sitting uncomfortably in his posture, and felt your anger shift its shape.

“Then say it when it matters,” you said softly. “Not after you’ve gone quiet and left me guessing.”

“I know,” he repeated, like the words hurt his mouth. He stepped closer, slow enough for you to step back if you needed. You didn’t. “I shut down because I’m scared I’ll say it wrong and break something. So I say nothing and break something anyway.”

“So try something different.” Your fingers tightened on the railing. “Tell me when you need a minute, but don’t disappear. Say, ‘I need ten minutes, but I’m not leaving this with you alone.’ Say, ‘I’m here.’” Your voice wobbled and steadied. “When you go quiet without telling me what’s happening, my brain turns it into, ‘I don’t matter.’”

His face changed at that, like the word “matter” hit him behind the ribs. “You matter,” he said immediately, and then again, firmer. “You matter. I’m…” He shook his head, frustrated with himself. “I don’t want you guessing. I want to be clear.”

“Then be clear,” you said. “Right now. Tell me what last time was.”

He exhaled, a long, careful breath. “Last time was me panicking. You were telling me something, and I felt like I was failing in real time. I started cataloguing ways to fix it instead of listening, and when I couldn’t fix it in my head, I shut down.” He met your eyes, scared and unsure. “I heard you. I just didn’t know how to show you I did.”

It was the most he’d said in one stretch in a while.

You nodded. “Thank you. Next time, tell me ‘I’m hearing you. I don’t have the words yet, but I’m here.’ Even that is something.”

He nodded back. “Okay. I can do that.” He hesitated. “I can also…ask questions? Like, ‘Do you want comfort or solutions?’ I read that somewhere.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. “That would be great. Usually, comfort first. Then we can fix things.”

His shoulders eased a fraction. “Comfort first,” he echoed, almost relieved to have a script. “Okay.”

For a moment you both stood there, held in the fragile warmth of a plan that felt small and monumental at the same time.

“I missed you,” he said suddenly, quiet and honest. “The pillow didn’t smell like you anymore and it made me mad at the pillow, which is stupid.” He looked briefly embarrassed. “I kept thinking of your face when you left. I don’t want to put that look there again.”

Your throat tightened. “I hated leaving.” You gestured at the steps. “I hated coming home and not seeing you. I kept checking the time because every hour without you felt longer than it was.”

He took one more step, close enough that you could see the pale half-moons his nails had left in his palm. “Can I hug you?” he asked, and the question did something kind to your heart.

You nodded. He folded around you, careful at first, then closer, like a held breath finally released. The hoodie was cool against your cheek, his hands were not.

“I will try,” he murmured against your hair. “I’ll mess it up sometimes, but I’ll tell you when I’m overwhelmed instead of disappearing. I’ll say I’m here. I’ll say it out loud.”

“Thank you,” you whispered. “I’ll try, too. I’ll tell you when I’m spiralling instead of assuming you can read it.”

He leaned back enough to see you, still holding on. “Deal.” A beat. “Also… I’m sorry, again.”

“I know.” You brushed your thumb over the edge of his mouth, where tension always collected. It softened under your touch. “I hear you.”

He dipped his head, paused, giving you room to refuse, and when you didn’t, he kissed you. Not a movie kiss, not a grand gesture, a real one, breath and heartbeat and the tremble of learning. You felt the apology in it, and the promise. You kissed him back like forgiveness didn’t have to be loud to be true.

1️⃣3️⃣ Chan: Fights with Chan usually started in the same place, the quiet, hot center of his need to prove himself. Most nights it simmered beneath the surface. That night, it boiled.

You found him in the practice room long after everyone had gone, the speakers humming with a looped beat, the mirror fogged at the corners. He was already on his third run, shirt clinging, breath coming short, jaw locked. You watched one more eight count, then you reached for the remote and thumbed the volume down.

“Chan,” you said, softer than the bass in the walls. “It’s past midnight.”

He bent at the waist, palms on his knees, refusing to look at you. “I know.”

“You don’t have to keep doing this to yourself.” You crossed the room, careful, like you were approaching a skittish animal. “You have already done enough.”

He blinked at your reflection instead of your face. “Easy for you to say.”

You tried to keep your voice level. “It’s not easy. It’s me saying I’m worried.”

He straightened and met your eyes with that stubborn fire you knew too well. “You don’t get it. I need to catch up with this tonight. If I slow down, I fall behind. If I fall behind, I…” he bit the rest off, frustrated with himself for saying so much.

“You won’t,” you said, gentle but certain. “You won’t fall behind because you sleep. You won’t disappear because you rest.”

He grabbed his water bottle without drinking. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“It’s not a lecture,” you said. “It’s me, loving you. It’s me seeing you swaying on your feet and asking you to take a break like everyone else is doing.”

His pride flinched like you’d used the wrong word. “Stop worrying about me, then.”

You blinked, stung. “Stop…worrying?”

His tone sharpened as he doubled down. “I don’t need you hovering and telling me when to breathe. I’ve heard it from coaches, from the other guys, from everyone. I can handle it.”

You felt the floor tilt, the music still pulsing like a heart you weren’t sure was yours or his. “Hovering.” You tasted the word, bitter. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

A flicker of regret flashed across his face, quick as a camera flash, there and gone under the same pride that always made him stay for one more run, one more set. “Maybe.”

Something in you cooled. Not anger so much as a door swinging shut on its own weight. “Okay,” you said, almost to yourself. “If that’s how it feels, then… maybe you should figure things out without me.”

You put the remote down like it was fragile, like the wrong pressure might shatter the room. You turned, walked toward the exit. He didn’t stop you, maybe the worst part. The door gave a clean, decisive slam that echoed down the hallway and back at him.

Behind it, he finally slumped, the beat still looping, an empty victory.

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A few days stretched long and thin. You slept badly, going through the motions with that fight replaying on a relentless loop, your voice too soft, his too sharp, the tiny pause where he could have reached for you and didn’t.

You didn’t block him. You didn’t call. You left the space where an apology might land.

On the following night, you came up the stairs to your building, grocery bag bumping your hip. The hallway light flickered once and steadied. He stood there by your door, hood up, hands shoved in his pockets, scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the floor like a kid waiting to be called inside. His eyes were rimmed red, either from rehearsals or from the way regret eats sleep.

He straightened when he saw you. “Y/N,” he started, and his voice cracked on your name.

You set the bag down, keys held tight so they wouldn’t rattle. “Hey.”

“I was wrong,” he said quickly, as if he’d rehearsed the words until they would finally come out in the right order. “I didn’t mean, any of that. You weren’t hovering. You were… you were trying to help. And I…” He made a helpless shape with his hands. “I panicked.”

“About what?” Your voice was tired but not unkind.

He swallowed. “I’m scared.” The admission sat between you like a small, shivering thing. “I’m scared I’ll never be enough. That if I don’t push, I’ll be forgotten. That I’m always half a step behind, and the only way to shrink the distance is to grind until there’s nothing left. When you said I didn’t have to keep going, my brain turned it into ‘stop trying.’ I know that’s not what you meant. I know.” His eyes shone. “I took it out on you because you’re the safest person I have.”

The words poked every bruise you’d been nursing. You breathed in through your nose, out through your mouth. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel small, Chan. I was watching the person I love run himself into a wall and… I reached out. That’s all.”

He nodded like the movement itself hurt. “You never make me small.” He took a step forward, then another, hesitant, like you might vanish. “You make me feel like I can breathe. Like there’s a world beyond the next eight count.” His hand found yours, trembled, and stayed. “I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you.”

For a second, the hallway didn’t feel so narrow. The hum of the building, the distant elevator, mundane sounds that grounded you. You squeezed his fingers. “Then let me worry sometimes. Not because I think you’re weak. Because I care. That’s what people do when they’re on the same team.”

He nodded again, faster this time. “Okay. Team.” He wet his lips. “Tell me how to be better at… this. At us.”

“Don’t bite when I touch the sore spot,” you said, managing the smallest smile. “Tell me what the fear is without turning it into a weapon. And if you want me to back off, say ‘I need a minute,’ not ‘stop worrying.’ That one felt like a shove.”

He flinched at the memory. “I’m sorry.” He tugged your hand to his chest, like he was trying to anchor both of you. “I’ll say ‘I need a minute.’ I’ll say ‘I’m scared.’ I’ll say the actual thing instead of… the sharp thing.”

“Good,” you said. “And I’ll ask how you want help instead of deciding for you. You tell me if you want me to listen, or to get your bag, or to drag you home. You get a vote.”

He huffed a damp, self-deprecating laugh. “Drag me home sounds nice. Especially before midnight.”

You tipped your head, teasing just enough to let the air back in. “Oh? Is that an admission?”

“It’s a plea,” he said. “And a promise.” 

The space between you finally closed. He leaned in, and you met him halfway. The kiss was young and messy and a little desperate, the kind that tasted like apology and salt and late nights spent learning the hard way. He kissed you like he was trying to pour every untidy feeling into your mouth and hope it rearranged into something like honesty.

When you broke apart, his breath ghosted your lips. “I’m going to learn,” he whispered, like a vow meant for your ears only. “I’m going to be better at the parts that don’t happen in the mirror. Just… don’t leave me behind while I figure it out.”

You brushed your thumb over his cheekbone, swollen with the beginnings of a smile. “I couldn’t, even if I tried.”

He exhaled, a shaky sound that let some invisible rope unspool. “Can we…” He gestured to your door, sheepish now that the storm had cleared. “Can we go inside? Not to fix everything tonight. Just… to be.”

By 8 a.m., you’re surviving purely on five hours of sleep, caffeine deprivation, and spite. Mostly spite.

The ER thankfully isn’t exploding yet, but the overnight shift already left behind enough disaster to ruin your mood.

You stand at the nurses’ station with a chart in hand mid-rant while Nurse Yang calmly drinks tea beside you like she’s witnessed this exact breakdown a thousand times before.

“I’m serious,” you complain “If ortho ignores one more consult page I’m sawing bones myself.”

“Mhm”

“And why,” you continue, flipping through scans aggressively, “did somebody discharge Bed 4 without repeat labs? Why are people like this?”

“Mhm”

“I’m surrounded by incompetence”

Nurse Yang takes another peaceful sip. “You say that every morning”

“Because every morning people continue disappointing me”

Right as you finish speaking, the ER doors slide open. You don’t even look up fully.

“Oh great here we go” you mutter

Instead of chaos, an iced coffee lands gently on the counter beside your chart.

You blink. Look down. Your order. Exactly your order. Your head lifts immediately.

And there he is. Choi Seungcheol stands on the other side of the nurses’ station dressed casually for once. Just broad shoulders and unfairly handsome morning face somehow completely unaffected by the concept of exhaustion.

You stare at him then the coffee then back at him again

“…What?”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly “You sounded angry over text”

“I am angry.”

“I know.”

Then he casually places another paper bag onto the counter. Curious, you peek inside. Bread. Croissants. Garlic bread. Even melon bread. 

Your head snaps up again.

Seungcheol shrugs once “You didn’t mention which one you liked. So I got a few” 

The nurses around you immediately start making noises.

“Oh my god.

“That’s so sweet.”

“Doctor, marry him.”

“And,” Seungcheol adds calmly, nodding toward another tray behind him, “I got coffee for the staff too”

Head Nurse Yang suddenly smiles at him warmly “Handsome and generous,” she says approvingly 

“Are you perhaps married?”

“Nurse Yang!” You gasp dramatically before Seungcheol can answer 

She ignores you completely “I have nieces.”

“Please stop trying to recruit my man ” you complain immediately. Seungcheol’s eyebrows lift.

Your man.

You point accusingly at Nurse Yang “I called dibs.”

The entire nurses’ station erupts into laughter instantly. Even Seungcheol laughs under his breath. Those stupid dimples appear again. That finally gets a full laugh out of him. Warm and deep enough that several nurses nearby suddenly look interested. 

You immediately grab your coffee before anyone else can flirt with him

“Mine,” you mutter possessively

Seungcheol watches you shove the straw in and take your first sip like your life depends on it. The exhaustion on your face eases almost instantly.

Then you dig into the pastry bag with equal excitement.

“How did you even know my order?” you ask suspiciously between sips

“You complain specifically about bad coffee”

“That doesn’t answer the question”

“You’re predictable.”

You narrow your eyes at him while chewing then point your pastry at him threateningly.

“Careful. I know how to remove organs”

“Yes ma’am.”

Your soul leaves your body briefly. Nurse Yang catches it immediately too because the woman starts smiling into her coffee like she just witnessed something deeply entertaining. You refuse to acknowledge any of it. Instead you focus on the bread aggressively.

Seungcheol leans casually against the counter watching you eat for another moment before nodding toward the hallway.

“Just dropping those off”

Your eyes lift again immediately “You’re leaving already?”

“Office work, reports don't submitt themselves unfortunately,” he says “Then gym. Training.”

You hum quietly, suddenly very aware you don’t actually want him to leave yet. Unfortunately the universe remains committed to ruining your life because a resident suddenly appears beside you looking panicked.

“Doctor, Trauma 2 needs review.”

“There it is.” Back into doctor mode instantly.

“What time are you off?” he asks before you can run away

You glance back while grabbing your chart

“Honestly? No idea.”

He nods once like he expected that answe “Call me. I’ll pick you up”

The nurses around you collectively lose their minds silently behind you. You can literally feel the staring. 

You point at them without looking “If any of you giggle, I’m assigning catheter duty.”

Immediate silence. Then you look back at Seungcheol. And despite the exhaustion, the chaos, the incoming trauma consult… You smile.

“Okay,” you say quietly

By the time you finally step out of the hospital, it’s 4:07 a.m.

The city is quiet in that eerie almost-morning way.

Cold air brushes against your skin as the automatic hospital doors slide shut behind you.

And God you’re exhausted. Your neck cracks painfully when you tilt your head side to side. Your entire body aches from fourteen straight hours of chaos, three emergency surgeries, and one resident who nearly contaminated a sterile field bad enough for you to see your ancestors.

You groan softly while fishing your phone from your coat pocket.

“Cab,” you mumble to yourself. “Need cab. Need unconsciousness.”

Then suddenly your brain catches up.

Cheol.

Your eyes widen “Oh shit.”

You unlock your phone quickly and nearly wince. A few texts. All from him.

The first one around nine.

Cheol: still buried alive in the ER?

Cheol: doctor?

And finally around midnight:

Cheol: You alive?

Your chest squeezes unpleasantly, immediately start typing a reply. Then pause because it’s literally four in the morning.

Any sane person is asleep.

You’re debating whether apologizing via text at dawn counts as emotional terrorism then you hear footsteps echo softly behind you. Seriously considering bolting back inside because you’re the biggest scaredy cat. 

You turn, reado to throw your phone if needed then freeze.

Seungcheol walks toward you from the darker side of the parking area with his hands tucked inside the pockets of a dark hoodie.

No terrifying military aura tonight. Just messy hair from pulling his hood down, tired eyes, and soft grey sweats beneath the parking lot lights.

Less intimidating captain.

More…

Oh no.

More like someone you’d desperately want to cuddle into while sleeping for twelve straight hours.

Mentally, you slap yourself.

Get it together.

“What are you doing here?!” you blurt immediately “It’s four in the morning!”

Seungcheol chuckles quietly, already closing the distance between you both.

“You didn’t reply” Like that explains everything.

He stops right in front of you. Close enough that you can smell faint traces of detergent and coffee on him.

Your sleepy brain finally processes the situation fully.

Slowly, you glance past him. There. His car still parked near the curb.

Your eyes widen then slowly lift back toward him.

“…Wait.”

Seungcheol says nothing.

“…Did you—”

Silence.

“Oh my god.”

“Cheol.”

“You were busy”

“You waited here since nine?!”

He shrugs Like sitting in a hospital parking lot for seven hours is a perfectly normal activity.

Your jaw drops open “Cheol!”

“Oh my god, you could’ve gone home! Rested! Slept like a normal person!”

“I did sleep”

“In the car?!”

“A little”

You look genuinely distressed now. Meanwhile Seungcheol just watches you fuss over him with something warm settling deep in his chest.

Because no one reacts like this over him. Not usually. Most people are intimidated by him first. Careful around him second.

But you, you look personally offended he waited for you.

Your eyes scan him quickly now, checking for signs of exhaustion automatically.

“You look tired,” you mumble

“So do you”

“That’s not the point”

“It kind of is.”

You groan softly and cover your face with one hand “This is insane behavior.”

“You work twenty-hour shifts voluntarily”

“That’s different”

“How?”

“I save lives.”

“So do I.”

You open your mouth. Close it again.

Damn him.

Seungcheol watches the tiny battle happening in your expression and finally laughs properly.

God. That laugh at four in the morning should be illegal.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

“And yet,” he says calmly, “you’re smiling.”

Your eyes narrow slightly.

“Did you at least eat?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Again that stupid yes ma’am. Your knees genuinely feel weak from exhaustion and him.

A dangerous combination.

You sigh dramatically before stepping closer and grabbing the sleeve of his hoodie lightly.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?” he asks quietly.

“You waited seven hours in a parking lot,” you say firmly. “I’m buying you breakfast.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“There’s a twenty-four-hour soup place two streets over.”

“You need sleep.”

“And you need psychological evaluation.” That earns another laugh.

You start pulling him toward the parking lot slowly, still half awake yourself.

Then suddenly stop mid-step. Your grip on his sleeve tightens slightly.

Seungcheol looks down immediately “You okay?”

You stare up at him with sleepy disbelief “…You really stayed.”

The teasing leaves his expression instantly.

Now it’s just him.

“Of course I did,” he says softly.

And that almost hurts worse than any flirtation because nobody says things like that casually. Nobody waits seven hours unless they mean it.

Your chest feels unbearably warm suddenly.

So instead of saying anything embarrassing, you grumble “You’re lucky you’re handsome.”

Seungcheol’s dimples appear immediately “Mm,” he murmurs while opening the passenger door for you

You barely make it five minutes toward the soup place before your body gives up entirely. One second you’re mumbling something about dumplings. the next…silence.

Seungcheol glances over at the red light and nearly laughs.

You’re asleep again.

Completely out cold in his passenger seat with his extra jacket wrapped around you like a blanket. Somewhere between leaving the hospital and getting into the car, he draped it over your shoulders because you shivered once and looked too tired to notice.

Now your cheek is pressed against the seatbelt, arms folded loosely around yourself.

Soft little breaths. Occasional tiny snore. Honestly the cutest thing he’s ever seen.

Hopeless. Absolutely hopeless.

So instead of waking you, he quietly pulls into the soup place himself, orders takeout. Gets extra side dishes because you strike him as someone who forgets meals constantly. Then returns to the car where you haven’t moved an inch.

The drive to your apartment is quieter this time. The roads are becoming familiar now. That realization settles strangely in his chest too.

Places connected to you slowly becoming familiar territory in his life.

When he finally parks outside your apartment, dawn is just beginning to bleed faint blue into the sky.

You’re still asleep.

Seungcheol sits there for a second just watching you then eventually reaches over carefully. You make a tiny annoyed sound.

Cute.

Dangerously cute.

He unbuckles your seatbelt gently before brushing one hand lightly against your arm.

“Pretty girl.”

Your brows furrow immediately “Mmph.”

“Wake up”

You blindly swat at his hand without opening your eyes “Go ‘way.”

His hand lifts carefully to cradle your cheek instead. Large palm warm against sleepy skin. So impossibly gentle compared to everything he is outside moments like this.

Your eyes finally crack open slowly heavy with sleep.

“…Why are you still handsome at dawn?”

“You’re half asleep.”

“And yet correct” You glare weakly at him while he takes your bag from the backseat then the takeout.

And finally offers you his hand. You stare at it sleepily for one long second before placing yours into it automatically.

Small against his.

He helps you out carefully, keeping his hand around yours while guiding you toward the apartment building. You walk like someone approximately three seconds from collapsing. At one point you drift directly into his side while walking.

The elevator ride is quiet except for your sleepy breathing and the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

By the time he reaches your apartment door with you, you’re practically leaning fully against him.

“Keys,” he reminds softly

“Oh” You blink at your bag like it personally betrayed you. Seungcheol ends up finding them himself with a quiet amused sigh.

When your door finally unlocks, you turn toward him slowly instead of going inside immediately.

“You’re unfair,” you mumble suddenly

Seungcheol’s eyebrows lift slightly “How so?”

You stare up at him for a second too long then admit quietly

“You’re making it really hard not to like you.”

The words hit him straight in the chest. No teasing.

Just you.

You continue before he can answer “And I’ll miss you again…” 

“...when I don’t even know if you feel the same.”

Something in his expression changes instantly. Seungcheol sets the takeout down beside the door quietly before lifting his free hand to your chin.

Tilting your face up carefully until your sleepy eyes meet his fully.

“You know,” he says softly, thumb brushing lightly along your jaw, “I used to not care what happened to me out there.”

Your brows furrow slightly “Cheol…”

“But ever since you…” He pauses briefly like the admission itself surprises him.

Then a small smile pulls at his mouth “All I can think about is you nagging me if I come back with another scratch.”

You laugh sleepily “I would.”

“I know.” His thumb brushes your cheek once more

“And I missed you,” he says quieter now. “Probably more than you missed me.”

Immediately you shake your head stubbornly

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know where I disappear to.”

“I still win.”

Seungcheol chuckles softly “Tough competition then.”

You narrow your eyes sleepily at him “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You sway slightly from exhaustion. His hand immediately settles against your waist to steady you. Instinctive. Protective.

Your gaze drops briefly to where he’s holding you before looking back up again.

“…You’re very soft for a scary military man.”

“Only around you.”

Your heart does one dangerous thing against your ribs.

You point weakly at him “That was smooth.”

“I meant it.”

You groan softly and hide your face briefly against his chest. Seungcheol stills completely. Then slowly…

his arm wraps around you properly.

“You smell nice,” you mumble into his hoodie

“You said that half asleep”

“Still true”

He laughs quietly above your head. The sound vibrates warmly through his chest. You stay there another few seconds longer than necessary.

Neither moving. Neither wanting to.

Eventually Seungcheol brushes his fingers lightly through the loose strands of your hair

“You need sleep, doctor.”

“Mhm.”

“You standing here unconscious doesn’t count.”

“I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous activity at this hour.”

You huff a sleepy laugh then tilt your head up just enough to look at him again.

“…You’ll text me next time before disappearing?”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I will”

The problem with only sleeping four hours after emotionally life-altering hallway conversations is that reality resumes anyway.

Which means by morning you’re late. Again.

You rush around your apartment half awake and mildly homicidal toward time itself.

By the time you finally stumble into the elevator, you’re running entirely on chaos.

“Okay,” you mumble to yourself while fixing your coat hurriedly. “Need coffee. Need functioning nervous system. Need people to stop bleeding for one day—”

The lobby doors slide open. You step out quickly then stop dead in your tracks.

Captain Choi Seungcheol leans casually against his car outside the building like he’s been there a while.

Entirely too attractive for seven in the morning.

Your brain takes a second to catch up. Slowly, you walk toward him.

“Admit it,” you say suspiciously. “You didn’t go home”

Seungcheol chuckles quietly, already moving to open the passenger door for you before you even reach the car

“I did”

“You’re lying”

“I showered”

“That’s not what I asked”

His mouth twitches slightly.Then he says something that completely ruins your ability to function normally

“Just savoring the time I can do this.”

You stop right in front of him “…Do what?”

His gaze holds yours steadily “Take care of you.”

Your heart betrays you instantly. Complete menace.

“Get in the car, doctor”

“You’re dangerously charming for this early in the morning.”

“You’re cute when flustered”

“I’m never speaking again”

“Liar.”

You slide into the passenger seat muttering under your breath about military manipulation tactics. Then immediately pause.

There on the dashboard.

Two iced coffees.

One black. One your exact order again. Beside it a breakfast sandwich and a protein bar like he somehow predicted you forgot to eat.

Which you did.

You stare at the coffee slowly yhen back at him then back at the coffee. “…Are you trying to condition me like a stray cat?”

Seungcheol closes the driver’s door and settles beside you calmly

“If it works”

“I knew it”

“You respond very positively to caffeine and attention.”

“You studied me?”

“I observe patterns”

“You sound like a serial killer”

“You still got in my car”

You grab your coffee immediately anyway. The first sip genuinely makes your eyes close. Perfect.

You point accusingly at him while drinking “This is intimacy.”

“Coffee?”

“Knowing my order”

“You’re easy”

You stare at him in betrayal “Excuse me?”

“You complain specifically.” He starts driving smoothly out of the parking area. “Extra espresso. Minimal sugar. Too much ice. Every single time.”

Your jaw drops “You memorized my complaining?”

“You make it memorable” Seungcheol glances sideways briefly

“What?”

“That’s actually insane.”

“What is?”

“You pay attention like someone preparing for an exam.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly “You’re important.”

Your ears feel warm instantly “You can’t just say things like that before 8 a.m.”

“Why not?”

“My emotional defenses aren’t awake yet.”

He laughs quietly and god you love that sound already.

The car falls quiet for a moment after that.

Comfortable quiet.

“Hey Cheol?”

“Mm?”

You look over at him “…You waiting seven hours yesterday was insane.”

“No argument there”

“But…” He glances at you briefly. You look down at your coffee cup while mumbling softer:

“…Thank you.”

He reaches over without hesitation and squeezes your knee once gently.

“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Your pulse jumps embarrassingly fast. You recover by narrowing your eyes at him again.

“Careful.”

“With?”

“This level of treatment is making me emotionally attached.”

Seungcheol smiles slowly like he already knows.

“Too late, doctor.”

=

A few more days passed, then a week turned into two until it’s been a month. Until it became a routine. He’ll drive you to your shifts, wait until who knows what hours. Like clockwork he’ll be there waiting for you. 

Like today.

By your standards, 11 p.m. is practically an early release from prison.

You leave the hospital tired but not soul-crushingly exhausted for once, coat hanging loosely over your shoulders while scrolling through post-op updates on your phone.

And instinctively, before you even fully step out you look for him yhich is dangerous in itself now.

And there he is leaning against the hood of his car beneath the streetlights. Eyes immediately finding you the second you appear.

Usually when he looks at you, there’s warmth there.

Tonight something feels different.

Your steps slow slightly as you approach him. There’s familiarity in that expression and it takes you one awful second to place it.

It’s the same look doctors wear before speaking to families.

The careful one. The preparing-for-impact look.

Your stomach tightens instantly. You stop in front of him and narrow your eyes slightly.

“What’s up with you?” you ask quietly. “You look like you’re about to deliver bad news.”

Seungcheol smiles automatically but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

And somehow that’s worse.

Without answering immediately, he reaches over and takes your bag from your shoulder first like he always does.

Your chest starts sinking before he even says it.

“I’ll be gone.” The words land softly but they hit like a bruise.

You stare at him and immediately understand.

Deployment.

Again.

Your throat suddenly feels tighter than it should. You glance away briefly toward the empty street before looking back up at him.

“How long?”

Seungcheol opens his mouth but nothing comes out. He doesn’t know.

Or…  he can’t tell you.

The silence stretches painfully between you both. Finally you just nod once and walk around to the passenger side quietly.

Seungcheol watches you carefully.

The worst part? He thinks he understands exactly what this means. This is always the part where people pull away.

The reality of him.

He should’ve known better than to let this become something real. Still, he opens your door gently anyway. You slide inside silently.

The drive home feels entirely different tonight.

His chest feels heavier with every passing red light.

He gets it, you’re a trauma surgeon with your own impossible life already. You deserve consistency. Presence. Someone who won’t vanish for weeks into classified silence.

Not someone like him.

And yet selfishly, he already knows he doesn’t want to lose this.

Lose you.

By the time he parks outside your apartment building, the silence has become almost unbearable.

Seungcheol kills the engine slowly. Still neither of you moves immediately.

Then finally he gets out first and walks around to your side automatically. When he opens your door, you step out quietly.

He hands you your bag. You take it.

Still silent.

And for one awful second, Seungcheol thinks maybe this is it.

Maybe this is where things shift. Where reality finally settles between you both hard enough to break whatever this has become.

Seungcheol watches you carefully, already preparing himself to hear ‘Maybe this won’t work.’

Instead you step closer and suddenly your arms loop around his waist.

Seungcheol freezes completely. Like his body stops processing for half a second.

Your cheek presses lightly against his chest.

The relief that hits him nearly knocks the air from his lungs. Slowly, carefully, his arms come around you instinctively. One around your waist, the other settling protectively against your back holding you close.

You exhale softly against him.

“I hate this part,” you mumble quietly

His eyes close briefly “Yeah, me too.”

“You leave,” you whisper, “and I don’t know when you’re coming back”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens because there’s no good answer to that, no promise he can safely make so instead he just lowers his head slightly until his cheek brushes your hair.

“I know.”

After a moment you tilt your head back slowly to look at him and the second Seungcheol sees your face something shifts.

His gaze drops.

Just briefly.

To your mouth.

Then immediately back to your eyes.

Your breath catches softly and suddenly the air between you changes.

Seungcheol’s hand against your back spreads wider unconsciously pulling you just a little closer like he can’t help it anymore.

“You’re staring,” you murmur softly

“You’re very distracting.”

The city feels far away suddenly. Muted. Like the entire world narrowed down to this quiet stretch of pavement and the man holding you.

The way he’s looking at you like he wants to memorize every detail before leaving again.

“You’ll come back, right?” 

Seungcheol stills.

You continue before he can answer. “You have to.” Your fingers tighten against him a little. “Or I’ll be really, really annoyed.”

The seriousness in your sleepy voice mixed with that tiny pout finally breaks through the heaviness sitting in his chest.

God. You undo him so easily.

His hand lifts slowly to your face then, large palm cradling your cheek with impossible gentleness. Like you’re something precious, something he already knows he’d protect with everything he has.

He never makes promises like that. Not the I’ll come back promise because reality doesn’t work that way in his world.

Deployments go wrong. People don’t always return.

He learned a long time ago never to offer guarantees he might not survive to keep.

But then you look at him like this and suddenly Captain Choi Seungcheol—who built his entire life around caution and control—finds himself wanting to promise you everything.

Your eyes flick briefly to his mouth then back up again.

“Cheol…” the way you whisper his name this time sounds almost fragile.

His chest tightens painfully.

“I’ll come back,” he hears himself say quietly.

And he means it.

God help him, he means it.

Your breath catches amd for a second neither of you moves. His eyes close briefly. When he opens them again, his gaze drops slowly to your lips.

“Can I kiss you?”

You answer by pulling him down gently and that absolutely destroys what little self-control he had left.

The kiss starts soft. Careful. Like he’s still giving you room to change your mind. Then you melt into him with a quiet sigh and suddenly it becomes something else entirely.

Something deeper.

Months of tension finally snapping.

Seungcheol’s hand tightens slightly at your waist while the other stays cradling your face like he can’t bear to let you go too far.

You taste faintly like iced coffee. He’s pretty sure he’ll never survive that fact again.

Your fingers slide upward against his chest slowly until they curl near his neck.

Closer. Everything pulls closer.

The kiss deepens just enough to steal your breath. Warm and unhurried and devastatingly gentle for someone who looks like him.

And somehow that gentleness ruins you most because Captain Choi Seungcheol kisses exactly like he does everything else with you—

Carefully.

Deliberately.

Like you matter.

When he finally pulls back slightly, neither of you gets very far.

His eyes stay half-lowered toward your mouth like he’s debating kissing you again immediately.

You blink up at him slowly, visibly dazed “…Wow.”

That makes him laugh softly against your lips “You okay, doctor?”

“No actually.” You stare at him accusingly “I think you altered my brain chemistry”

“Only now?”

“You’ve been emotionally manipulating me with coffee for weeks.”

Seungcheol grins properly then. Dimples appearing.

Your knees genuinely weaken a little.

“You can’t leave now.”

“I have to.”

“I know. Still hate it though.”

His hand slides gently into your hair near the base of your neck.

“I know.”

You lean into him unconsciously and for a terrifying second, Seungcheol thinks he could get addicted to this frighteningly fast.

To you waiting for him.

Holding him.

Kissing him goodbye like there’s someone expecting him to return now.

Your eyes search his one more time before you mumble softly:

“…Come back to me in one piece, Captain.”

Something inside him shifts permanently at those words.

He kisses your forehead this time.

Lingering.

Then quietly answers:

“Yes ma’am.”

=

Before you, four months would’ve passed like nothing to Captain Choi Seungcheol.

Deployment was deployment. Time blurred overseas anyway. Days became operations. Operations became reports. Sleep became optional.

Coming home eventually was simply part of the cycle.

But now every single exhausting day ends with thoughts of you.

The first month away, he catches himself checking the time difference automatically.

The second month, Minho nearly loses his mind because Captain Choi who historically ignored his phone like it personally offended him—is suddenly staring at messages during breaks.

By the third month, Minho officially brands him hopeless. 

There are nights overseas where everything feels too loud. Too dangerous. And for the first time in his life, Seungcheol finds himself genuinely wanting to survive beyond duty alone.

Because now there’s someone waiting for him.

Someone who’d be really, really annoyed if he didn’t come back.

So he does.

One Hundred Twenty One days later.

At exactly 10:14 p.m., your phone lights up while you’re sitting cross-legged on your couch wearing one of his hoodies and arguing with takeout noodles.

One message.

Cheol: Outside.

You stare at the screen then immediately bolt upright so fast you nearly throw the noodles across the room.

“No way.”

Your heart starts pounding violently before you even reach the door.

You don’t bother with shoes properly.

By the time you’re sprinting through the apartment lobby, your breathing is already uneven, the doors slide open.

And there he is.

Captain Choi Seungcheol stands beneath the apartment lights in dark civilian clothes, duffel bag hanging from one shoulder.

And suddenly nothing else exists.

“Cheol—” You run.

His entire face changes the second he sees you then you crash into him hard enough that he has to brace automatically. 

Seungcheol catches you effortlessly around the waist as momentum carries you straight into his chest.

Your feet literally leave the ground.

And God the feeling of you in his arms again after three months nearly wrecks him on impact. You hold onto him so tightly it almost hurts, like letting go isn’t an option anymore.

“Oh my god,” you breathe shakily against his neck “You’re back.”

He laughs softly, arms locking around you just as tightly.

“I’m back.”

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, pretty girl.”

“You’re actually here.” Your voice cracks slightly on the last word and suddenly Seungcheol’s chest aches.

Because he missed this too much. Missed you too much.

He buries his face briefly against your hair and just holds you there while you keep repeating variations of:

“You’re back.”

“You came back.”

“Oh my god.”

Like your brain still hasn’t fully accepted it yet.

Eventually you pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands immediately cup his face like you need proof he’s real.

Tired eyes. Slight stubble. Familiar scar near his jaw. Still handsome enough to genuinely irritate you.

Your eyes go suspicious instantly “When did you get back?”

“Earlier today.”

You blink “Earlier today?!”

Seungcheol winces slightly.

“I landed around noon.”

“And you’re only here now?!”

He laughs quietly at your offended expression.

“Mandatory checkups. Debriefings. Reports.”

Immediately your expression changes. Doctor mode activates. You pull back further from his arms abruptly and start inspecting him.

Seungcheol blinks “…What are you doing?”

“Checking.”

“For?”

“Scratches.”

His laugh breaks out immediately “You’re unbelievable.”

“You lost scratch privileges after calling a bullet wound minor.”

Your hands move over his arms, shoulders, neck. Checking. You even narrow your eyes while examining a faint bruise near his wrist.

“What’s this?”

“Training.”

“Mhm.”

“It is.”

“Suspicious.”

“You’re interrogating me in the parking lot.”

“You made me wait 4 months. You get no rights.”

“I’m okay.”

Your eyes lift to his finally and soften instantly.

He really came back okay. Relief crashes into you all over again so hard your eyes sting unexpectedly. Seungcheol notices immediately.

Then immediately hide your face against his chest again when he smiles.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you missed me.”

His arms tighten around you slowly and when he answers this time, his voice comes quieter.

“I did miss you.”

Your heartbeat stumbles hard.

Then softly, almost disbelievingly, you whisper 

“You really came back to me.”

And thhat one sentence almost undoes him completely.

Seungcheol smiles the second you say it. Then his arms pull you back against him fully, holding you close like he’s still reassuring himself you’re real and standing here.

“I promised, didn’t I?” he murmurs against your hair

Then unfortunately he ruins the moment on purpose “Besides,” he adds casually, “Nurse Yang said she’d introduce me to her nieces if I come back soon—”

“YAH!” You smack his chest instantly. Hard enough to make him laugh.

“I waited three months,” you complain dramatically, glaring up at him. “Three months! I had to literally shoo away anyone who even attempted flirting with me—”

His eyebrows lift immediately “Oh?”

“And,” you continue pointing accusingly at him now, “I cried at least three times because I missed you—”

“At least?”

“Minimum.”

His entire expression softens so fast it nearly derails you.

Now he’s looking at you like you’ve said something precious, every exhausted flight and every miserable deployment day was worth getting back to this exact moment.

To you.

Seungcheol realizes it fully now. somehow you walked into his carefully controlled life and made yourself essential frighteningly fast.

Four months away only proved it harder.

He’s in love with you.

Completely.

Hopelessly.

The realization settles deep and certain in his chest buthe doesn’t say it yet.

Not now. Not yet. Instead, his mouth curves slowly.

“Someone flirted with you?”

You scowl immediately “Yes!”

“What happened?”

“I said absolutely not.”

His grin grows “Oh really?”

“Yes,” you say with full seriousness. “I told them I have a scary boyfriend who can snap them in half.”

Seungcheol laughs softly

“Professionally,” you add proudly

“Important distinction.”

“Very.”

His hands settle lower against your waist while he looks at you carefully now.

he says casually. “So I’m the boyfriend, I take it?”

Your entire face warms instantly “You waited until now to focus on that?”

“I’m enjoying it”

You narrow your eyes suspiciously “You’re smug.”

“You called me your boyfriend.”

“Well technically—” “Say it again.”

You blink “…What?”

“That.” His dimples appear again “Boyfriend.”

Your stomach flips embarrassingly fast “You’re annoying.”

“Mm.”

“And emotionally manipulative”

“You still missed me”

And suddenly the months hits you all over again, months of wondering if he was okay, of checking your phone constantly.

Then suddenly his forehead presses gently against yours again. Familiar now. Your fingers curl lightly into the front of his shirt.

“You better not disappear that long again”

“I’ll try.”

“Not good enough.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You exhale a sleepy laugh.

Then his gaze drops slowly to your mouth and this time neither of you pretends not to notice. Seungcheol’s hand slides from your waist upward until it settles along your jaw carefully.

“You know,” he says quietly, “I thought about this a lot overseas.”

Your pulse jumps “…This?”

“Kissing you again.”

Your brain genuinely short-circuits a little “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I just did.”

“You fight dirty”

“I learned from a trauma surgeon.”

And then he kisses you again. you laugh softly against his mouth right before he kisses you again.

And God.

It’s worse this time. Or better. Definitely more dangerous because now there’s no hesitation left. Just relief and missing each other and months of pent-up affection crashing together all at once.

His hands pull you closer instinctively while yours slide up around his neck.

The kiss deepens slowly, warm and lingering enough to steal your breath.

Seungcheol kisses like he’s savoring.

Your fingers slip into his hair lightly and he exhales softly against your lips at the touch. That sound alone nearly destroys you.

When he pulls back briefly, you barely let him get an inch away before kissing him again yourself.

Which surprises him enough to make him laugh quietly into the kiss.

“There she is,” he murmurs

“Shut up.”

“Missed me bad, huh?” You kiss him again instead of answering. And that was the best answer.

=

The first thing you register is warmth.

The second, the alarm. A loud obnoxious blaring noise cuts through the room and immediately you groan in protest, blindly burrowing deeper beneath the blankets.

“No,” you mumble into the pillow “Absolutely not.”

Instead of cold empty sheets though, an arm tightens around your waist instantly.

Your half-asleep brain catches up slowly as you instinctively turn and bury your face against Seungcheol’s neck instead. He smells like soap, sleep, and faint traces of your shampoo now.

Your favorite combination apparently.

The alarm keeps going somewhere obnoxiously nearby. You ignore it with professional skill.

“M’not going,” you grumble sleepily against his skin

A low sleepy laugh vibrates beneath your cheek.

Then suddenly realization hits. Your eyes crack open slightly.

Wait.

It’s your day off.

You smile instantly against him.

Before you can even tell him though, Seungcheol’s already reaching one hand toward the nightstand blindly without letting go of you. Still half asleep himself.

Hair messy. Voice rough with sleep.

God.

Morning Seungcheol might genuinely become your weakness.

Not that nighttime Seungcheol isn’t already one.

Especially after last night. Technically yes, nothing happened.

Not fully anyway.

But also the memory of his mouth against yours in the kitchen at 2 a.m. His hands on your waist pulling you against him slowly. The way he kissed down your neck once just to hear the tiny sound you made.

Dangerous.

You hide your face further into his neck immediately before your brain fully replays the rest.

Seungcheol finally grabs the phone and squints at the screen with one eye open.

Then sighs “It’s Minho.”

You snort softly.

He answers quietly, voice still rough and low from sleep “What.”

From the speaker, Minho immediately sounds offended “Wow. Good morning to you too.”

Seungcheol closes his eyes again briefly while keeping you tucked against him.

“What do you want?”

“I’ve been calling you for ten minutes.”

“I was asleep.”

A dramatic gasp echoes through the phone “Oh my god. You stayed over.”

You start laughing silently against Seungcheol’s neck while he rubs tiredly at his forehead 

“You called me for this?”

“I called because you disappeared after saying you’d be home eventually.”

“Mhm.”

“So you’re with her right now.”

Silence which unfortunately confirms everything. Minho immediately starts screaming loud enough that you hear muffled yelling through the phone.

“Keep your voice down.”

“NO. CAPTAIN CHOI SEUNGCHEOL SLEEPS OVER NOW?”

You bite your lip hard to stop laughing. Seungcheol glances down at you and immediately catches your shoulders shaking.

His eyes soften instantly. Meanwhile Minho continues spiraling.

“You used to sleep on military cots voluntarily! And now look at you!”

“Are you done?”

“No, I’m emotionally invested now—”

You shift slightly against Seungcheol trying to steal more warmth. The movement makes your oversized sleep shirt slide slightly off your shoulder.

Seungcheol’s eyes flick downward instinctively.

Then stay there one second too long.

Your sleepy smile grows immediately.

Caught.

He exhales quietly through his nose.

“Bye” Then hangs up before Minho can protest further.

And now there’s just you tangled around him like you belong there and honestly? You already kind of do.

You mumble something incoherent against his neck again. Seungcheol chuckles softly.

“What was that?”

“Warm”

“That helpful, huh?”

“Mhm”

His hand slides slowly up and down your back beneath your shirt absentmindedly.

You tilt your head up slightly finally to look at him.

God.

Sleepy Seungcheol is unfair, wearing that soft expression that only seems to exist around you and suddenly your chest hurts a little from how much you missed this without ever even having it before.

His gaze lingers on your face quietly. Then drops to your mouth.

Then back up again.

“You’re staring,” you mumble

“You’re very distracting in the morning.”

You grin sleepily “You say that at night too.”

“Consistent”

Your hand slides lazily across his chest. Comfortingly solid beneath your fingertips.

And right here he realizes he wants this more than he’s ever wanted anything.

The years spent convincing himself that attachment complicated things… none of it stands a chance against this feeling, against you half asleep in his arms wearing his shirt and mumbling threats about leaving the bed.

His thumb brushes slowly along your waist beneath the blanket.

And with startling certainty, Captain Choi Seungcheol realizes he wants his nights like this. His mornings too.

With you.

Always with you.

He can’t even pretend otherwise anymore, not when you fit against him this naturally.

Not when every part of him already quietly decided—

You’re his.

And somehow, terrifyingly enough—

He’s entirely yours too.

You mumble against his chest, voice still thick with sleep “Can we just stay in bed?”

Seungcheol chuckles immediately, fingers lazily tracing along your back beneath the blanket.

“Tempting,” he says softly. “But give it twenty minutes and you’ll start complaining about caffeine and food”

You sigh happily once he pulls you closer then mumble dramatically

“But tomorrow I have to go back to work.”

“Mhm.”

“And wake up early.”

“Mhm.”

Actual full doctor pouting like an offended child. Seungcheol laughs softly again, unable to help himself.

“You’re cute”

“I’m suffering”

“You’re on top of a heated mattress with no shift today”

“I suffered emotionally”

“That’s not a medical condition”

“It should be”

He shakes his head fondly before suddenly moving. In one smooth motion, he shifts until you’re beneath him instead, sinking deeper into the mattress while he braces himself above you.

Your breath catches immediately.

Because wow.

Morning Seungcheol hovering over you with sleepy eyes and messy hair should genuinely come with warning labels.

He smiles down at you slowly. Entirely too handsome.

“I can just be here again.”

Your eyes flicker over his face.

“Drop you off at work,” he continues quietly. “Pick you up after.”

You shake your head immediately “No?”

You point at him accusingly from beneath him.

“I missed you too much. So, I’ll just file for leave and stay here.”

Seungcheol laughs properly this time.

“You’re a doctor.”

“And?”

“You save lives.”

“Mhm.”

“You can’t abandon the hospital because your boyfriend came home.”

You narrow your eyes “Watch me.”

Seungcheol lowers himself slightly closer until your noses brush “You’re trouble.”

“You love it”

His gaze lingers on your mouth. “Yeah,” he admits quietly. “I really do.”

Your heart stumbles hard enough that he definitely feels it beneath him.Then before you can recover he kisses you.

You sigh softly against his mouth almost immediately, hands sliding up into his hair lazily. Seungcheol melts a little at the feeling.

The kiss deepens naturally after that. Still soft with sleep and morning light and relief but there’s something hungrier underneath it now too. Months apart lingering in every touch.

His hand slides along your waist beneath the oversized shirt you stole from him sometime during the night. Your skin warm beneath his palm.

You shiver slightly at the touch.

Seungcheol immediately smiles against your lips “Sensitive.”

“Shut up.”

He kisses you again before you can glare properly.

Then again.

And again.

Because he can. Because he wants to.

Because after one hundred twenty one days overseas wondering when he’d hold you again, he suddenly feels deeply unwilling to stop touching you now that he finally can.

At one point you’re laughing quietly because he keeps kissing you every time you try speaking

“Cheol—” Kiss. “Seriously—” Another kiss. “I’m trying to—”

He kisses you again just to hear your laugh.

“There,” he murmurs smugly against your mouth “Better.”

“You’re impossible in the morning”

“You’re clingy in the morning”

“I missed my boyfriend.” The words come out absentmindedly.

His expression softens instantly.

You notice immediately “…What?”

His thumb brushes your cheek gently “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth

“Just like hearing you say that”

And somewhere between sleepy laughter, tangled blankets, and too many kisses to count you both silently realize neither of you is getting out of bed anytime soon.

=

Just like that, Captain Choi Seungcheol becomes stitched quietly into the fabric of your life like he was always meant to settle into all your exhausted corners.

Mornings become his hand warm at your lower back while guiding you sleepily toward his car before shifts.

Nights become tired dinners eaten on your couch with your legs thrown over his lap while he half listens to your hospital rants.

On the rare days both your schedules somehow align, entire afternoons disappear inside your apartment doing absolutely nothing important.

And somehow those become your favorite days. The ordinary ones.

The ones where he’s sprawled across your couch in grey sweats reviewing reports while you nap against his shoulder.

It’s domestic in a way that sneaks up on both of you.

For the nights he stays over, he wakes up with you before dawn without complaint. Even when you know he slept barely four hours himself.

Some days are busier. Harder. Those are the days you’ll get random texts from him between meetings or training.

And slowly, without either of you noticing exactly when it happened, the world starts becoming divided into:

Before him. And after him.

Still there are moments when the fear creeps in quietly. When he’s asleep beside you after days without rest. Or when his head rests against your lap while you comb your fingers through his hair absentmindedly.

Those moments hit hardest because sleeping Seungcheol looks younger somehow. Less captain. Less soldier. More just… him.

A man carrying too much responsibility on broad tired shoulders.

You’ll study the faint lines of exhaustion near his eyes and think about all the places he disappears to without being able to tell you.

Think about the kind of calls that pull him away suddenly. The dangers you’re never fully allowed to know.

And your chest aches every single time.

Not because you resent him. Never that.

If there’s anyone who understands duty swallowing whole pieces of your life, it’s you.

You know what it means to choose work over sleep, over meals.

Over yourself.

You know what it means standing inches from death while trying to drag someone back from it.

You understand that terrible instinctive thing inside both of you.The one that says: People need me. So I go.

That’s why you never ask him to choose.

Neither of you needs explanations for those things. You just understand.

Maybe that’s why this works.

But still the battlefield he walks into is different from yours.

Yours is fluorescent lights and operating tables and controlled chaos. His is uncertainty. Weapons. Missions that return him home months later with new bruises he tries hiding from you.

And even though he promised he’d come back, you know the truth. He can never be fully certain.

So instead, you start savoring things. Every sleepy morning. Every coffee run. Every forehead kiss before shifts. Every night he instinctively reaches for you in his sleep.

You memorize the sound of his laugh when he’s genuinely relaxed.

The way he says “pretty girl” quieter when he’s tired.

The feeling of safety every time his arms close around you.

Because loving someone whose life is uncertain teaches you quickly… Ordinary moments are never ordinary.

They become everything.

You love him.

Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just certain.

You love Captain Choi Seungcheol enough that the uncertainty no longer outweighs the wanting. Enough that even knowing the risks, you’d still choose him every single time.Enough that when he falls asleep beside you after another impossible week, you look at him and think: I could do this for a very, very long time.

=

Being awake for thirty-six hours straight does strange things to your brain.

Mainly you stop filtering thoughts ehich is why you’ve spent the last fifteen minutes rambling sleepily in Seungcheol’s passenger seat about one resident who tried stitching a wound “like he was crocheting.”

“He held the forceps like chopsticks,” you mumble dramatically, head leaned against the window “Cheol, I almost resigned.”

Beside you, Seungcheol laughs quietly while driving “You say that every shift.”

“This time I meant it.”

“Mhm.”

“And then,” you continue, pointing weakly, “someone coded because apparently the universe hates me personally.”

“You saved them.”

“I know.” You sigh deeply

His hand reaches over briefly, squeezing your thigh once gently

“Proud of you.”

Your exhausted heart immediately melts.

You yawn hugely afterward and close your eyes briefly. The roads are quieter now.

Less familiar. No turn toward your apartment.

Your eyes slowly open again “…Wait.”

Seungcheol hums innocently. You sit up slightly and look outside. The buildings are taller here. Very much not your neighborhood.

You narrow your eyes at him immediately “Captain Choi Seungcheol.”

“That’s me.”

“Where are we going?”

“My place”

Your eyebrows lift “You have a place?”

That finally gets a laugh out of him “Yes, pretty girl. I do occasionally live somewhere.”

“Why do I feel like you just revealed a second secret family?”

“You’re dramatic when sleepy.”

“I’m observant.”

“Mhm.”

The car finally pulls smoothly into a sleek underground parking entrance.

Your jaw drops a little “Oh.”

Seungcheol glances over briefly, amused already “You okay?”

“No because what is this?”

“You’ve been awake too long.”

“No,” you point at the parking structure accusingly, “this is suspiciously rich.”

“It’s an apartment building.”

Then things somehow get worse because the moment you both step into the lobby, security immediately nods respectfully at him.

Even the hallway carpeting feels wealthy.

You blink slowly while following him toward his door “…You live here.”

“Observant again.”

“Shut up.”

Seungcheol unlocks the apartment casually before stepping aside to let you in first.

Then you walk inside and actually stop.

“Oh my god.”

The apartment is stunning. Just quietly expensive. Clean lines. Dark neutral colors.

The entire place feels exactly like him somehow. Not a single plant.

You turn slowly in a circle then immediately whirl toward him in betrayal

“All this time,” you say incredulously, “you had this luxury apartment and we stayed at mine?!”

Seungcheol chuckles while setting your bag down near the couch “It’s not luxury.”

You stare at him then gesture wildly around the apartment.

“This is literally rich people air.”

“It’s just an apartment”

“You have windows taller than my future”

You continue wandering slowly while shaking your head “I knew military paid well but—”

Your eyes catch on something near the shelving unit. Several plaques. Medals. Pins. Awards carefully arranged with quiet neatness.

Not displayed arrogantly. Just… present.

Your expression softens immediately.

Slowly, you step closer. Most of them mean nothing to you technically but you know enough to understand what they represent.

Service. Danger. Things survived. Things sacrificed.

Your fingers hover near it carefully “…These are yours?”

Seungcheol goes quieter behind you “Yeah.”

A home belonging to someone rarely allowed to stay long enough to live in it fully. You notice there aren’t many personal decorations.

No traces of permanence like the apartment was built for someone constantly prepared to leave again.

Your chest tightens unexpectedly “You’re barely here, aren’t you?”

Seungcheol leans lightly against the kitchen counter watching you “Not usually.”

Then his gaze softens slightly while looking at you standing there among pieces of his life.

You look around once more slowly and the apartment suddenly makes perfect sense.

Of course this is where Captain Choi Seungcheol lives. Everything about it screams him.

You walk back toward him slowly until you’re standing right in front of him.

“One question.”

“Mm?”

“How much does this couch cost?”

His dimples appear instantly “Go shower, doctor.”

“That means it’s expensive”

“You drooled on yourself in the car”

“That’s not related”

He reaches over and tugs you gently closer by your wrist anyway. Warm hand wrapping around yours easily.

“Stay tonight.” The way he says it feels different somehow.

Your tired heart melts immediately. You look up at him and smile softly.

“…Only if you cuddle me.”

“Dangerous thing to demand from a man who missed you all day.”

Your face warms instantly “You flirt too much.”

“You like it”

He’s right.

The shower helps a little.

You change into one of Seungcheol’s shirts left neatly on the counter for you and towel dry your hair while walking barefoot through the apartment.

The moment you step out though you stop.

Seungcheol sits at the dining table, a few papers spread neatly in front of him.

The city lights spill softly through the windows behind him, casting half his face into shadow.

And immediately something feels wrong.

You try lightening it anyway “This,” you say slowly while approaching, “looks like every divorce scene in all dramas ever written.”

Seungcheol chuckles softly but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes and that alone makes your stomach drop.

You slowly pull out the chair across from him and sit.

He looks tired suddenly.

Not physically.

Something deeper.

Then finally he speaks. “These are…” He glances down briefly at the papers “Forms to update my records at the base.”

Your chest tightens.

“Emergency contacts, authorizations. Next of kin.”

Your breath catches instantly.

Different careers.

Same meaning.

You know exactly what papers like these are for.

The room suddenly feels colder “Cheol—”

Only then does he finally look at you and the expression in his eyes almost wrecks you immediately.

“I need to go,” he says quietly “Soon.”

Your fingers tighten slowly together beneath the table.

“How soon?”

“…Day after tomorrow.”

The air leaves your lungs.

“This time…” Seungcheol starts then stops.

His jaw tightens slightly. He can’t finish it. Doesn’t need to. You already understand.

Higher risk. More covert. More dangerous.

Which means the possibility hanging unspoken between you both suddenly becomes too real to ignore.

Your hands begin shaking before you even realize it.

Slowly, you reach for the papers. Your eyes skim them but don’t really process the words.

You’ve been on the other side of conversations like this before. You’ve watched families shatter after one phone call. You’ve stood in quiet hospital rooms delivering impossible news while trying to hold yourself together professionally.

But this… this rattles you differently.

Because now it’s him. Your boyfriend. 

Your vision blurs suddenly.

Seungcheol watches your hands tremble around the papers and something painful twists across his face immediately.

“Hey,” he says softly but your chest hurts too much now.

“You said you’d come back,” you whisper shakily.

“I will.”

“But you can’t know that.”

Silence.

Seungcheol exhales slowly then leans back slightly in his chair like he’s making a decision.

Then quietly he reaches into his pocket. Your brows furrow faintly through the blur in your eyes.

“What are you—”

“Before you panic,” he says immediately, which is an absolutely terrible opening.

He reaches across the table gently for your hand. Warm fingers wrapping around your shaking ones and then he places something small into your palm.

Your breath catches sharply.

A ring.

Just beautiful. Simple. Solid.

Very him.

You look up immediately, stunned “Cheol…”

Before you can say anything else, he speaks first like he needs to get the words out before losing courage

“I’ll ask properly when I come back.”

Your heart cracks wide open. Seungcheol’s thumb brushes shakily against your knuckles.

“So you know,” he says quietly, voice rougher now, “that I fully intend to.”

The tears spill instantly after that.

One second you’re trying to stay composed, the next you’re crying so suddenly it almost surprises you.

Seungcheol moves immediately. Chair scraping sharply against the floor as he crosses to you without hesitation.

“Hey, hey—” He kneels in front of you fast, hands gently holding your face while you cry harder than you intended to.

Not graceful tears. Real terrified emotional ones… because you love him. Because you understand exactly what all this means. Because the idea of losing him feels unbearable now. And because somehow this terrifying man just handed you a promise disguised as a ring.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper brokenly

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” You laugh wetly through tears “Everything.”

His expression softens so painfully it nearly undoes you again.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs gently, brushing tears from your cheeks carefully “Don’t cry like this.”

“You can’t just—” You inhale shakily. “You can’t just hand me a ring before a dangerous mission.”

“I know.”

“That’s insane behavior.”

A tiny helpless smile appears on his mouth “You still haven’t said no.”

You stare at him through tears then let out a disbelieving laugh.

Your fingers close tightly around the ring and suddenly the fear shifts into something else too.

Certainty.

Because even terrified like this, even knowing exactly what loving him means…

You already know your answer.

His forehead lowers carefully against your knee while his hands stay wrapped around yours.

And for the first time since you walked into the dining room—

Captain Choi Seungcheol finally lets himself look scared too.

“I need to come back because I want a life with you after this.”

And that breaks whatever was left of your composure completely. You slide from the chair onto the floor with him immediately, arms wrapping tightly around his neck while he catches you against him.

You bury your face against him crying quietly while he presses kisses into your hair over and over.

“I love you,” you whisper shakily for the first time without planning to.

Seungcheol freezes then his arms tighten around you so hard it almost hurts.

Like hearing those words from you physically wrecked him.

His face presses briefly against your shoulder before he finally whispers back:

“…I love you too.”