#hyprfics

Only you and Chan are home tonight, Seungmin and Jisung off God-knows-where for whatever reason. Chan was supposed to go out with them, but he had a project to finish for his job, the same project that had him losing sleep for the last few weeks. You may never understand what exactly goes into producing music, but from the way he stayed hunched over his computer 24/7, you knew it was complicated.

You're not at all surprised when you hear your door creak open slowly. You turn over, eyes catching Chan's as he stands in your doorway with his arms folded across his chest. He's wearing a haberdash of house clothes, including a baseball cap, but you can still see the dark tint on his eyes.

You feign innocence.

“Hey you,” you smile at him. “Taking a break?”

“Something like that. What're you doing?”

You shift your phone to the hand with your bracelet, holding it up and giving it a little shake. His gaze hardens even more. “Just on Instagram.”

His eyes are trained on your wrist, just like you wanted. He recognizes the bracelet. Of course he does– he and the boys bought it for you after one of your many, many conversations. You give a little smile. "It's cute, right? The green matches my t-shirt," you say sweetly. 

It does, but that's not the only reason you're wearing it.

You're wearing it because they know that green means go. Or yes. 

Or take.

"Did you need something, Chan?"

He doesn't respond, choosing instead to push up off of the doorframe and make his way over to you. You decide to roll onto your back to see him better, and by the time you're situated, he's standing over you, arms still crossed.

You gulp.

"Um, hi," you breathe out. Nervousness was not part of the plan. "I– Did you... need something?"

He drops one of his hands and grips your ankle, and where the skin connects you feel like you've been electrocuted. Your body comes alive immediately. You can only watch as he barely strains a single muscle as he pulls you down to the edge of the bed.

"Put your phone down," he instructs. He reaches the soft part of your thigh and pinches, lips curling into a smirk when you yelp.

"Channie, I—"

"I said," he repeats, a little harsher this time, "put your phone down."

You do as you're told, dropping it on the floor next to his feet. He keeps pulling until your entire lower half is hanging off the bed. With your legs spread like they are, you're certain he can feel the pulsing coming from between your legs.

He hums.

"You know why I'm here," he says lowly. It's not a question.

Despite the speed of your heart, you blink up at him dumbly, fighting against the wave of arousal that licks down your spine when he raises an eyebrow.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you manage.

Both of his eyebrows are up now, his expression seemingly surprised for a second before it fades. He nods lightly, almost as though contemplating what you've said, and then he releases you and takes a step back.

Your heart drops for a second. You think you've messed up somehow, or maybe your tone didn't come out right. You're about to backtrack, but then he's back, hooking his fingers into either side of your waistband, and with one simple tug he has your pajama pants completely off. 

If Chan is surprised that you're not wearing any underwear, he doesn't show it.

You gasp when the cool air hits your lower body, and you watch as he smirks. He returns his vice like grip on your ankle when you start to squirm under his gaze. 

"I see you still like to pretend that you have some ounce of control in this relationship," he deadpans. He tugs you back down the bed when you try to wiggle away. You're embarrassed that his strength doesn't seem to be affected by his sleep deprivation. "Come on, baby. You know better than that."

You fight back the giddy smile that threatens to take over your face at his voice. "I don't know what you're talking about," you lie. "Why're you bothering me? Don't you have work to do?"

"I can't focus," he says smoothly. "I couldn't stop thinking about you while I was working. About how much easier work might be if I could fuck you to clear my head."

"That's too bad," you shrug, hoping he can't see how you're clenching around nothing. "I was busy."

He hums absentmindedly, letting the hand on your ankle travel higher. He runs his fingers up your calf, then your knee, until finally he hooks the inside of his wrist behind it, forcing your legs to part. You gasp and try to snap them closed, but he only has to shift a bit so that his other hand is on your opposite leg, holding you open for him.

"Why do you always act like you're not dying for me to touch you, hm?" he asks, but it's rhetorical.  He knows you don't have an answer. You never do. Even so, when you stay quiet, he huffs out a humorless laugh.

"Okay. I'm going to give you two options, because I'm feeling generous." He holds up one finger. "Option one, you admit you're just being a brat, I'll fuck it out of you, and then we can both go back to what we were doing. Or–"

You whine as he abruptly leans down with your legs still in his hands, effectively folding you in half. "Or, option two, you keep it up, and I can tell the boys to come home. Then we'll make this a lot longer than it needs to be."

Chan is dangerously close to your face now. The brim of his hat is touching your forehead. You're almost sure he can feel your heartbeat through the fabric of both of your shirts.

"So what do you want, princess?" he asks, voice dripping with honey. 

You shiver. His gaze is so intense you forget how to breathe. At your silence, he yanks you further into him, pressing himself right up against your uncovered cunt. Even through his basketball shorts you feel the unmistakable heat of his erection.

"I said, what do you want?"

Fuck.

You can't take it anymore. You feel like you're burning with need. "I'm sorry, Channie," you whine out. You can see the fire in his eyes, the way he's so worked up already, and it makes you weak. "I'll be good."

He gives you a sweet smile, leaning forward to press a kiss against your mouth. You sigh into it, letting your body go lax so he can take control. 

Despite your attempts, brattiness never lasts long with Chan. With Seungmin and Jisung, you love the challenge, love making them crack and beg a little, but Chan is entirely unrelenting. You know better than to get him too riled up, especially if you actually want anything to happen.

The kiss is a stark contrast to what you know is to come, and you know that it's on purpose. He always likes to give you the chance to back out, a way to change your mind. Bracelet or no bracelet, your comfort is still always his first priority. It's what makes you comfortable enough to tease him.

But when he pulls away from the kiss and you chase after his mouth, he only smiles.

"There's my good girl," he says. He releases your knees and presses a kiss against your cheek, and then the tip of your nose.

"Chan," you whine. Your body feels cold where his hands just were.

He only tilts his head when he looks at you. "Hm?" Then his gaze turns sinister. "Did you... need something, princess?"

Oh. 

Shit.

"Wait,” You're scrambling up from your position. “Wait, please, Chan, don't–"

He hums. "You were so mean to me," he says, trailing a single finger down your cheek. "I don't think you deserve anything from me."

You attempt to sit up, eyes widening, but he's keeping you pinned down on your bed. "But I said I'm sorry," you whine. "Channie, please, I'll be good--"

He tilts his head again, pretending to think, letting his hand fall down your face to hold your chin between his thumb and forefinger.

"No," he decides, and he straightens up, taking a step back. "I think I'm gonna go back to work."

Before you can grab him, he's slipped away, nearly halfway to your door. "Sorry, babygirl. Maybe next time, yeah?"

The smirk on his face is proof he's anything but sorry. He gives you a fake little pout before winking and stepping out of your room, clicking the door closed behind him.

You're sat up on the bed, staring at the door with your jaw slacked. This is a new level of evil, you think. You hear his bedroom door open and shut, then the muffled sound of the track he's working on vibrates the walls.

It takes longer than you'd like for your wits to come back to you, but when they do, you're both utterly gobsmacked and thoroughly impressed.

He's teasing you.

There's a part of you that's tempted to just give in, to make your way across the hall and apologize. Chan is stubborn, but not unreachable. You know if you march into his room, you could get on your knees and make him relent in seconds.

But fine. He wants to play dirty?

You can play dirty, too.

-

It's less than an hour later when you hear the front door open and shut, the sound of Jisung and Seungmin's voices carrying up the stairs. You hear takeout bags and the jingling of their keys, and then–

“We're home!”

You make no effort to move, waiting to see if Chan will leave his room first. Besides, you're still working through some of the details of your plan.

If you stay in your room, Seungmin would come upstairs to check on you first. You know he'll fuck you good, but it takes time to warm him up. By the time you start getting anywhere, Jisung will get to Chan, who might do something stupid like tell him that you were being a brat, and then he'll come in and ruin the whole thing.

No, you need eager. You need impulsive.

You need Jisung.

You pad to the bedroom door, opening it and sticking your head out. Chan's door is still closed, the track he's working on still pumping through the speakers, so you take the opportunity to get the ball rolling.

You make your way down the hall and to the top of the stairs, where you can see Jisung standing in the entryway of the kitchen. The two have already shed their jackets and shoes, and Seungmin is now busy unloading the food they brought back into the fridge. His back is turned to you.

Bingo.

"Hey," you say softly. Jisung's head whips up, eyes brightening as he spots you. He says something you can't hear to Seungmin before he's jogging up the stairs towards you. He scoops you into a squeezing hug.

"Hi my baby," he says happily, pressing a kiss against your forehead. "How was your day?"

You giggle in the hug. "It was alright. Kind of boring. How was yours?"

"We had fun," he says. He sets you down and leans against the wall next to you, reaching and catching your hand in his. You deliberately give him the hand with the bracelet, but he doesn't see it. "I missed you though."

"I missed you, too."

Jisung grins. He opens his mouth to speak again, but then he furrows his eyebrows when he looks at you, like he's just noticing something.

"Is that my shirt?"

“Is it?” You look down, feigning surprise. "Oh, yeah I guess it is."

He hums, tilting his head. His eyes trail to your hand, and he finally seems to notice the bracelet on your wrist. "That's weird. I could've sworn I saw it in my drawer this morning."

You shrug. "Maybe you're just losing your mind."

He grins, bringing your hand up to his mouth and pressing a kiss against your open palm. "Yeah, maybe. Or are you trying to tell me something?"

You bat your eyelashes up at him. "Am I?"

His smile turns sly. "You are, aren't you?"

Jisung doesn't wait for a response, clasping his hand around yours and pulling you down the hallway back into your room. He kicks the door shut behind him and spins to face you, a wicked grin on his face.

You squeal when he picks you up, wrapping your legs around his waist and laughing against his mouth. His kisses are hot and eager– there's no break for breath as he moves across the room with you. You don't even pause when he lays you down on your bed, hand sliding “his” t-shirt up your body.

You shiver when he brushes against your thigh. His hands are cold from outside, and the contrast against your warm skin feels like electricity. He smiles in the kiss and squeezes the skin tight.

Your own hands find their way around his neck, pulling him even closer into you. Through the thin fabric of the shirt you're wearing, you can feel the hardness of his body all pressed against yours. He shifts against you and the friction makes your nipples harden right under him.

His hands leave your thighs. They wind their way up your torso, feeling you up all along the way until he finds the stiff peaks that called his attention. He runs his thumbs over them, drinking up every sound you make. One of your hands cards into his hair and you tug.

He groans at that, finally pulling away from the kiss with a grunt and instead trailing his kisses down the column of your throat. His teeth graze your pulse point and you buck up into him in surprise.

You feel him laugh against you.

"You're so cute," he says into your neck. He mouths over the skin before biting down, hot wet tongue immediately after. A bruise, then.

"Sungie," you gasp out. Your back arches off the mattress as his hands wander all over you. You've always loved how naturally his mouth works its way around your body– he knows just where to kiss, what spots to brush his nose over. Like he's learned the entire road map to your pleasure.

Maybe he has.

He mouths down your body, pausing and sucking on your breasts before leaving wet, soft kisses down the expanse of your tummy. When he gets to your core, he shifts his kiss-trail over to your inner thigh.

"Do you know how hot you are?" He murmurs. "Like all the time. Holy fuck. This is my shirt, princess. My shirt. Don't you know that drives me crazy?"

You do. It's precisely why you grabbed it.

His tongue meets your skin in an agonizing, slow stripe along your inner thigh. The higher he gets, the more your legs tremble around him, until finally his lips close around your clit.

The feeling is overwhelming. Your head lolls back against the bed and you let out a breathy moan. He hums against you, fingers digging into the skin of your thighs as he holds your legs up. Your hands are shaking, but one winds its way back into his soft hair, and you tug.

He moans at that, a sound that sends vibration up through your whole core. He takes a hand away and brings it down, letting his thumb just press lightly against your entrance. Even in the slightest sense of pressure, you arch further into him, wanting more, more, more.

He sucks on your clit even harder, his tongue joining, and when you look down and see his blissed out expression between your legs, you think your heart might jump right out of your chest.

In all the times the boys have taken you apart, they've never made you come this quickly. You're not sure if it's because of the moment with Chan earlier, or because you've been thinking about having one of them fuck you all day. All it takes is two large fingers, pushing and stretching inside of you while his mouth moves so perfectly around your throbbing clit for you to snap. You come with a sob, your thighs pressing against his head.

If there's one thing Jisung certainly loves, though, it's eating you out. He could spend hours between your legs, kissing and sucking and licking until you're boneless and spent. So there is no sign of slowing in his rhythm, even when you wriggle from overstimulation.

"Sung," you moan. He responds by pinching your thigh, sucking hard on your clit so your yelp turns into a moan.

Distantly, you register the sound of footsteps that pause right outside of your door. You hear knocking, but not on your door, and you realize Seungmin has finally come upstairs, likely to grab everybody for some quality time after a day apart.

You almost laugh at how well this is working out for you.

Jisung slides his fingers back into you, and your attention is split between straining to hear what's going on in the hallway and the blinding pleasure you're feeling. He curls his fingers up and you find yourself gushing on his hand, your own fingers tangled in his hair so tight he can barely move.

"God, you're so fucking wet," he murmurs against you. He almost sounds giddy. "Did you miss me, baby?"

You can't even form a response, only able to whine as he fucks into you with his fingers, tongue flicking over your clit just fast enough to make you tremble. Your orgasm is coming on strong, and you feel like you're floating above your body, every touch electric, every movement monumental.

And then–

"Ah, so that's where they are."

Your eyes snap to your now-open door. Your other two boyfriends are there, and you make direct eye contact with Chan just as your second orgasm reaches its peak. You arch up off the bed, gasping into the air as your body trembles, and Jisung keeps his mouth on you, sucking hard and making your vision go white.

After a minute, he finally slows his pace, pulling away and finger-fucking you slowly and deep. He would never stop completely, especially not now that everyone's in the same room. His voyeurism is likely cranked up to 10, and you know he'll be pouty and whiney for the rest of the week unless he gets to watch one of the other boys split you open on their cock.

From the way he's looking at you, you feel like it'll be Chan doing the splitting.

Seungmin, ever the sane one, pretends to roll his eyes. "So this is why neither of you were answering my texts about movie night? This couldn't wait?"

"Well, she was wearing my shirt and nothing under it," Jisung says, grinning up at him. He gives your clit one last suck before kissing it and propping himself up, fingers still buried to the hilt inside of you. Your brain feels foggy as you stare at the three of them. You can still feel yourself gushing on his fingers.

Seungmin notices, eyes glued to your cunt as he walks over. You see his faux annoyance dissolving. "Fuck, she's really wet, isn't she."

Jisung grins. He presses a kiss against your inner thigh. "Yeah, I think she missed us."

Chan scoffs. He finally makes his way into the room fully, and you can see where his cock is straining against the fabric of his shorts. "No. She missed getting fucked." 

He stands at the end of the bed, eyes fixed on Jisung's hand as he continues to move inside of you. "Did you tell Jisung what happened earlier, baby?"

Jisung huffs out a little laugh, half lidded eyes going back to your face. "Hmm. No. She didn't."

A chill runs down the length of your spine. Fuck. It sounds like Chan got to them first.

"Chan said you were being a real big brat earlier," Seungmin hums. He pulls his eyes away from your center and finally looks at you. "Is that true, angel? Were you being bad for Chan?"

You shake your head, eyes going doe-ish as he gets closer to you. You realize you need to change your plan and do it quickly. It takes less than half a second for a new idea to come: Seungmin is the softest of the three of them, at least in sexual situations. If you can get him on your side you might have a chance.

That thought flies out of the window when his hand makes its way around your throat, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure. 

"Don't lie to me, sweetheart." His voice is deceptively soft. "Don't you think Chan already spoke to us?"

You fight back a gasp at the sheer betrayal, but decide to double down anyway. "Wasn't being bad," you manage. You stick out your bottom lip in a pout. "I didn't do anything!"

Seungmin squeezes again, harder, and you really do gasp this time. "Then why did we both get a text from Chan earlier saying you were being mean to him? Hmm?"

"He said he came to blow off some steam and someone," Jisung presses his fingers directly against that squishy part inside of you, "Was being all bratty. Telling him to leave her alone."

It's at this moment that you realize all your planning was futile. You've fallen right into their trap.

You try the Seungmin strategy again, panting as you look up at him. "Minnie, please," you whine. You can't think with Jisung hitting your spot like that. "I wasn't– I–"

He tilts his head. "Oh come on baby. I think you're just lying to us now."

Your chest heaves. Jisung has chosen now to dive back into your cunt, tongue swiping up your slit and circling around your clit. Your brain is too scrambled to think of any other ways out of this situation, so you resort to what you always do: 

Pleading.

"'m sorry, Minnie," you rasp. "Didn't mean to– Didn't mean to be bratty."

Seungmin softens only slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" You're gasping around your words. "I promise. I just wanted to make him mad, wasn't trying to be mean."

In all of your begging and the relentless fervor of Jisung's tongue, you barely notice Chan making his way to the other side of your bed. Seungmin's grip loosens around your throat, his fingers tracing the outline of your jaw as he takes in your words.

"Hm. What do you think, Chan?"

You turn to look at him. He's shed his shirt somewhere along the way, and the hard musculature of his stomach is glistening with sweat. He climbs onto the bed and situates himself so that he's behind you with your head in his lap. You're expecting his hand to replace Seungmin's around your throat, but instead he reaches over you, gripping the hem of your shirt and sliding it up over your chest until your breasts are on full display. Seungmin immediately sinks down to his knees and takes your nipple into his mouth.

You're a gasping, whining mess, eyes rolling back until all you can see is white. You feel Jisung sling his arm around you to keep your body still.

Above you, Chan lets the shirt go and switches his focus to your hands, pulling them up and holding your wrists together in one hand to keep them above your head.

"I think," he murmurs, using his free hand to caress your face, "That if she wants to cum so bad, we should let her."

Your heart drops. To the untrained ear, it sounds like you've won, but you know better. You know Chan, and you know he has something up his sleeve. But when you look up at him, he's looking down at you with a sickly sweet smile.

"If she's sorry," he continues, "She'll behave. Right, babygirl?"

You can't speak. The dual sensations are sending you to the moon. The hand caressing your face grips your jaw tight, keeping your gaze locked on him.

"I asked you a question, princess."

As soon as you open your mouth to answer, your orgasm crashes into you without warning. It's the third one in a row, and you feel much like a washcloth that's been wrung out. Your movements are jerky, uncoordinated, and even as you continue trying to respond to Chan, your voice is not coming out.

"Jisung." He says simply.

The boy in question pulls away from your cunt with a satisfying pop. He's absolutely pussy drunk, eyes half lidded and tongue rolling over his lips to savor the flavor of you. If it were just the two of you, he'd keep going, but amongst the hierarchy of dominance, Chan has been, and will always be, at the top.

"I think she's ready now, yeah?" Chan rubs his thumb against your skin. "Fuck her good for me."

When orchestrating your own plan, you looked at Jisung’s eagerness as something to work in your favor. You hoped he would get you riled up enough for you to scream his name a couple times and really make Chan mad. But now, as he shimmies out of his sweats and boxers, taking his thick length in his hand, you feel nervousness tickle your gut.

Seungmin has pulled away from your nipple, reaching down to hold one of your thighs up. He's murmuring sweet nothings to you as he holds you open for Jisung. The latter is poised at your entrance, stroking himself and watching you with hungry eyes. 

You tip your head back to look at Chan again, and he only smiles down at you.

"Channie," you whimper out. You can barely speak, you're so overwhelmed. "Please–"

"Shh," he coos. "I know, baby. But this is what you wanted, yeah?" His hand moves from your jaw to your mouth, pressing a finger against your lips. You suck it in without thought, letting your tongue swirl around him with your cheeks hollowed out like you would on his cock. "I just want to see you take Sungie's dick. Be good, baby."

You almost choke when Jisung thrusts into you. You're already so wet and so sensitive, and his cock is stretching you so wide, pushing deep inside until you're sure you can feel him in your stomach. He gives you no time to adjust, that eagerness coming full force as he fucks right into you.

"God, she's still so tight," he breathes. One hand finds purchase in the dip of your waist, the other moves to the thigh not being held by Seungmin, folding you up and spreading you open to give him more leverage as he fucks into you hard.

Seungmin hums, trailing kisses along your leg and the side of your neck. "Feel good, angel? You like having Jisung's cock inside you?"

You can't even respond, mind blank as Jisung plows you deep. Your back is arched off of Chan's lap, head pushed back as his finger keeps your mouth propped open. You're a dumb, drooling mess around him, and despite the soft smile on his lips, you know it's wrecking him. 

To prove your point, he digs his nails in one of your palms, a stark contrast to the way Seungmin's hand is gently rubbing up and down your body, playing with your nipples and caressing your sides and stomach.

It's all too much, the sensations are overwhelming, and you're so wound up from earlier that you already feel the orgasm building. You mewl pathetically, eyes watering as you look around for someone to have pity on you.

It's Chan who catches your pleading gaze, but he only raises an eyebrow.

"You're gonna cum again? Already?" he says. It's not condescending or snarky, rather genuine disbelief and curiosity. His finger leaves your mouth and you let out a dry sob as trails of spit drip down your chin.

Jisung doesn't hear this– or can't, rather. He's fucking into you like he'll die if he stops, breathy moans leaving his mouth as he does. He's babbling nonsense, things like how tight you are and how well you take him in. You know he's close too, because his hips have gone erratic in their rhythm. Yet somehow, he gets faster.

The knot in your stomach feels heavy as lead. This orgasm might genuinely take you out. 

"Please," you rasp. "Please, please, I can't–"

Chan shakes his head, smiling. "Oh, but baby, I thought you wanted to cum?" 

"I do," you whine. "Want to so bad but 's too much. Too much, Channie, please–"

"No. Shut up and cum, princess," the grit in his voice is back. "Cum on Jisung's cock. Be good for us."

That's all it takes for you to snap. You let out a broken cry as another orgasm rocks through your body. It's even more intense than the others, pulling all of your muscles taut so you sit up before slumping back into Chan's arms. You barely register the way your hands flex uselessly above your head, writhing in Chan's grip. You can only vaguely feel Seungmin kissing your cheek, whispering little encouragements in your ear, telling you how good you are and how pretty you look when you cum.

And then Jisung is grunting, snapping his hips against yours one last time before spilling into you. Your walls spasm around him as he cums, milking him dry and causing you both to whine into the air.

In typical Jisung fashion, he's still rutting up into you after you're both well past overstimulation. The pressure in your cunt throbs throughout your body, tears springing into your eyes. You're very close to abandoning the little bit of pride you have and begging him to stop.

It turns out you don't need to, because as if on cue, Jisung finally pulls out and Seungmin lets go of your legs, standing up. You nearly sob at the loss of his gentle contact, so you don't even notice he's taking off his clothes until he's standing where Jisung was, hands gripping the soft skin of your thighs to hold you open. 

"Aw, baby," he says softly. He runs a hand up your leg. "You did so well."

You pout, a sob bubbling in your throat when you realize their plan now. They're gonna drag as many orgasms out of you as they can, overstimulation be damned. The thought makes your clit throb, and that alone makes you whine. It's all too much.

Despite knowing you're already so wet and lax and malleable, Seungmin reaches down to rub at your clit in an attempt to open you up. 

"Min," you cry, squirming at his touch. Your cunt feels tender, and even though the first set of tears are long dried up on your cheeks, fresh ones start to come. "Minnie–"

"Shhh. It's okay, angel."

His words are gentle and reassuring, but when his eyes catch yours, all you see is darkness.

Seungmin's gentle dominance has a limit. He doesn't get all stern and mean like Chan, or desperate like Jisung, but there's only so long he can last before that other, darker part of him surfaces, the one that gets off on hurting you, on seeing you in pain and feeling good from it. You can tell by the look in his eyes that this is the part of him you'll be dealing with.

When he finally sinks his cock inside you, it's slow, and the moan that he lets out vibrates through his length and right into you. Your neck seems to give up, dropping you right back down in Chan's lap less than gracefully. It gives him better access to you, and he leans immediately to attach his mouth to yours. He alternates between soft kisses and hard bites that will surely bruise in the morning.

Seungmin is only a bit longer than Jisung, but he's so damn girthy. Every tiny thrust he rocks into you sends shivers down your spine. Your skin feels like it's on fire and you're not even kissing Chan back, basically panting into his open mouth.

"Prop her up, Chan," Seungmin grits out. "Wanna watch her while she cries."

He gives you one final peck, and then the hand that's still holding your wrists lets go. It takes a second, then both hands are under you, lifting you up off the mattress until you're sat up on his lap with his chest against your back. He crosses your wrists against your chest and holds them in one hand, and then the other snakes up and finds your throat. His hand is way bigger than Seungmin's, and he's not as gentle when he squeezes and forces you to look back at him.

He doesn't look mad, or even turned on. He's smiling at you, like you're a particularly good puppy. "Good girl. Gonna give us a big one, yeah?”

You barely have a moment to understand what he's implying before you feel a hand on your clit. Both of Seungmin's hands are occupied, so you're not sure why it surprises you to see that it's Jisung's deft fingers on you. He's standing behind Seungmin, one hand on him and the other on you.

It feels like your eyes are bulging out of your head. The touch is gentle, but it still feels like you're being hit with lightning bolts. You're too spent to even buck up at the contact.

"Oh my God," you choke. "Oh, oh, I–"

“That's it,” Chan purrs when you cum again. He kisses whatever skin is closest to his mouth, his fingers gripping your jaw. Your head feels light, the only thing keeping you grounded to the bed are their hands on you. You feel like you're going to faint, and Seungmin's eyes are only egging you on.

Your body trembles so violently, Seungmin is forced to pause in his motions to hold your knees and keep your legs from buckling in. Your vision is blurry, but you can see Jisung has a steady grip on Seungmin's hair, effectively holding him in place.

"Good girl," he breathes, those big brown eyes trained on your face. "You take him so well."

His words send shivers down your spine. Jisung is always more coherent and in control after an orgasm. You know if Seungmin was today's focus, Jisung would likely be spitting all kinds of nasty, filthy words in his ear, but his gaze is fixed on you. All it takes to get you going is a good stare.

He taps at your clit with his free hand. You jump, moaning loudly at the contact, your back arching off Chan's chest and into Seungmin's body.

"She's good. Keep going," Jisung murmurs, pulling his eyes away from yours to look at Seungmin. He pulls a little at the hair on the nape of his neck, causing Seungmin's cock to jump inside you.

They work in tandem. Jisung's hand keeps circling your clit in the same soft rhythm, and you're not sure how but it's making you even wetter and more loose. You're a mess of moans, not knowing whose name to scream when they all have their hands on you. It's dizzying in the best way. 

Seungmin has started rolling his hips into you with more vigor, the soft sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. The dark shroud over his eyes is back as he stares down at you. "Feels good doesn't it," he grunts. "Look at your little cunt fluttering open for me like a good slut."

You feel another sob bubble out of you, this one accompanied by tears, but it dies in your throat when Chan's grip on you gets even tighter. All you can do is pout and whine.

"Aw, look at the little crybaby." Seungmin starts to fuck into you in earnest, his own moans getting higher in pitch. You can tell by the way Jisung's grip in his hair tightens that he's close. "C'mon angel. You're being so good, you can take it."

"Minnie," you rasp, barely able to speak. "Please–"

"I said take it." He’s looking down, watching where your cunt is sucking him in with each thrust. He thrusts into you particularly hard, and your entire body lurches forward, causing you to gasp. "And if you can't, you know what to say. You know your word."

You do. Somehow, under all the begging and pleading, you're actually insanely giddy with want. It's all part of the little game you play, so you just pout pathetically at Seungmin as his hips snap harder into yours.

"She's not gonna say it," Chan sing-songs. He uses the hand on your throat to tilt your head to the side, giving him perfect access to more of you. He nips at your skin. "She likes being treated like this. Like a little toy."

It's all too much. Every inch of you is on fire, the room feels like it's a thousand degrees. Chan's mouth on your neck, Seungmin's cock deep in your cunt, and Jisung's fingers–

It's like something snaps.

A knot you didn't even realize was in your stomach explodes and your vision goes white. It's an orgasm unlike anything you've experienced before. Your brain completely melts, your hearing dulls, and you can feel the drool running down your chin. You feel like you're floating and drowning all at the same time. 

"Oh shit," you hear Seungmin groan. Your cunt is spasming around him. His thrusts become harder, sloppy. "God, fuck–"

He cums hard inside of you, hips jerking as he chases the aftershocks. You've gone completely limp, barely able to move at all as Chan continues to bite at your neck.

The hand on Seungmin's shoulder drops. "That's so hot," Jisung mutters, almost to himself. He's lost some of his in-control voice. "Wow, baby, you should be bratty more often.”

If you could see straight, you'd probably laugh at that.

Seungmin pulls out slowly, and when the head of his cock leaves you, you let out a tiny mewl. You're overstimulated to the point that you're numb. Seungmin smiles softly as he rubs the inside of your thigh.

"Oh, sweetheart, I know. It's a lot. But you're being so good for us.  I think it's Chan's turn though, hm? Wanna make him feel good?"

"Give her a minute," Jisung chides. You hear a sharp intake of breath and you know he's likely yanked on Seungmin's hair again. "She's about to pass out."

You can feel your limbs slowly returning to you, the fog clearing in your head. When Chan moves the hand from your throat, you breathe deeply, taking in gulps of air as moves his hand down to rub against your tummy. Jisung and Seungmin are bickering somewhere around you, and you let yourself relax in Chan's hold.

"Do you want to finish now, princess?" His lips are warm against your ear. "We can be done. You don't have to take me.”

It's a very tempting offer, especially with the way you can hardly remember what day it is. You could easily take it and call this all done. The four of you have almost certainly been at this for more than an hour now, and they've wrung six orgasms out of you. They're sweet enough to offer to call it a night.

But then you think about Chan, and how, despite being the reason this all started, he's barely done anything. Hasn't tasted you, hasn't shoved his cock down your throat– He's usually not one for letting go until you've milked him dry at least twice, and you can't stand the idea of him having that buzz under his skin all night. 

So you shake your head.

"No?" Chan laughs, almost like he's surprised. "Really? You still want to finish with me? Are you sure, princess?”

He's giving you the same offer he gave you earlier. An out. Making your comfort the first priority. The thought alone is what gives you the strength to nod against him.

"'m sure, Channie."

"Oh, fuck, okay." His grip around you goes a little slack as he moves, pulling you away from his lap and  laying you back into your bed. He leans over you and presses a gentle kiss against your mouth. It feels like he's thanking you, almost.

When he pulls away, his eyes are sparkling. You want to look into them for hours.

He barks something at Jisung and Seungmin, and the bickering stops immediately. You hear shuffling around you before Seungmin takes Chan's empty space and Jisung appears at your side. They're pressing soft kisses to your face and praising you as Chan works his shorts and boxers down. When his cock springs free, he lets out a hiss of relief.

The sight of him alone makes anxiety rear its ugly head. You start to wonder if maybe you should've taken the opportunity to tap out, or if maybe you should use your safeword, but then Jisung is grabbing your hand and pressing kisses against it, squeezing you and keeping you tethered to the present.

"You can do it, pretty girl," he murmurs in your ear, breath fanning over your cheek. "You did so good for us, just a little longer."

Chan catches your eyes, and he smiles again, reassuring. His hand runs down your body and grabs one of your legs, lifting it and hooking your calf over his shoulder. "Gonna go easy, baby. I know it's a lot."

Your stomach is filled with butterflies, and your hands are shaking a little bit when he ruts himself up against you. You're so open from the others that when his head catches on your entrance, it nearly slips inside.  

Your back arches as you moan, and then his cock brushes against your entrance with purpose and it feels like you're going to split right open. He rocks into you again, pushing in the barest inch and pulling right back out. You whine and shift your hips in an attempt to escape.

"Come on, be a good girl now, princess." His voice has gotten lower, lust taking over. "Relax.”

His eyes flit up from where you're connected to look at you, and in one move he pushes right inside of you.

It doesn't hurt– you're way too wet and open for that. It does feel like your stomach is being forced open, however. Like his cock is pressing against all of your internal organs. You arch up off of Seungmin's lap and he pulls you back to him quickly.

Chan groans, bottoming out inside you. His eyes are closed as he lets himself bask in the sensation, hips rocking shallowly. You're thankful that he doesn't move immediately, but even the barest amount of movement feels like too much, like you'll come apart at any second.

You barely feel it when Jisung slips your hand into his. It takes you a minute to realize it's because your brain has been reduced to nothing. Your body has melted into the bed, your muscles are lax, and there's an emptiness in your brain filled with nothing but static and Chan's name. You don't think about anything at all, can't form a single coherent thought. You don't feel the kisses on your throat or the way Seungmin's hands have taken residence on your stomach. The only thing you feel is the overwhelming pressure in your cunt as Chan slowly pulls out, leaving just the tip, before pushing all the way back in.

He builds a rhythm quickly. Seungmin is holding you tight to his body, as though he's scared you might float away, and you appreciate it because it gives you another sensation to focus on. Your head is lolled against his shoulder, eyes rolled back into your head so far all you see is white.

The sound of Chan fucking into you is absolutely obscene, a mixture of your juices and the remnants of the cum still leaking from your hole. He fucks you slow, but hard, snapping his hips into yours so hard it almost feels like you might get a bruise on your thigh.

Jisung is watching with hungry eyes from your side. He's not touching you at all anymore, too engrossed in the scene unfolding to do much else other than stare with his jaw slacked. Seungmin takes over for him.

"That's it," he breathes. "That's it angel, look at you." He moves the hand on your stomach and lets his thumb rub circles on your clit. You feel like you're going to pass out. You don't get time to beg him to stop before you feel that same hand move to your mouth, and two fingers push past your lips.

"Here, sweetheart," he breathes, eyes fixed on your lips as you suck his fingers. "That's you on my fingers, baby. Isn't it good?"

You moan around his hand, head spinning both at the taste of yourself and the intrusion of Seungmin's fingers in your mouth. He's not fucking them into you with any kind of rhythm, just shoving them in there until you're dribbling around his hand. He hums happily when he pushes in more and makes you gag, kissing away the tears the spill over.

Chan grunts, head falling back. "Min, again, please, she just– fuck, she–"

Seungmin doesn't need to be told twice. He repeats the motion again, making sure his fingers go far enough so you're choking around him. This time, when you splutter and gag, you can feel it when you clench down on Chan and his cock pulses in response.

"Oh my God," he moans, thrusting into you again. "Oh my god, baby, you're so good. You're doing so fucking good–"

Between the movement of his hips and the feeling of Seungmin's fingers down your throat, you're not quite sure you're still on this plane of existence. Everything is spinning around you, your cunt is throbbing, you can hear Jisung moaning somewhere, but you don't know from what.

You can feel Seungmin's lips pressed against your forehead as his fingers fuck your mouth, your eyes rolling back into your head again. You're so lightheaded, so far gone, you can barely remember your name. 

It's when Chan starts to thrust faster that you come back to your body with a jolt, mind filling with white hot heat. The pleasure has long since lost it's edge, and you're a moaning, writhing, teary mess again. The coil in your stomach starts to build for the seventh time, and you're pretty sure your brain has gone empty. The only thing you're able to focus on is Chan. Chan, Chan, Chan.

"Almost done, angel." You register a kiss pressed to the corner of your mouth, and then another on your forehead. You think the voice belongs to Seungmin. Maybe, if the way he eases his hand out of your mouth is any indication.

Nothing is making sense anymore. It all feels like you're having an out-of-body experience.

Chan's hips falter, and his hand slides up to your throat again, but he doesn't squeeze. Just rests it there as his orgasm approaches, hips snapping against you at an erratic rhythm.

"Sweetheart." His eyes flutter open with strained effort, but they remain locked on yours. "Can you give us one more, princess? Hm? Can I get you to cum on me too, please?"

There's a desperation in his voice that makes your body feel hot. You want to tell him yes, that you're close, so so close, but all that comes out is a weak noise that you're not even certain you made. 

Seungmin seems to get it though, because he slips his fingers down between your legs, finding your clit again. He rolls it between his fingers with one hand while his other reaches up and settles on your jaw. You feel Jisung's tongue flick over your nipple and your world draws to a pinpoint.

Chan curses above you, fucking into you at an almost punishing pace. "Yes, baby, let go for us. That's it. We got you."

It feels like someone's stuck a vacuum in your brain with the incoherent way you're thinking. The sound of his voice saying your name in that desperate tone is all it takes, and suddenly you're floating out of your body, ears ringing as the pressure inside you bursts. Your eyes roll back and the clinging remnants of an orgasm wash through your body. It feels more like an aftershock. You're only vaguely aware of the way Chan moans, loud and throaty, when he finally spills into you.

It takes a couple minutes before the two of you come back down to earth. You can't move, and even though you know Seungmin is holding you tight, it feels like you might drift right off the mattress and float up into the clouds.

Chan pulls out slowly, and you shudder when you feel a trickle of his cum leaking from your hole. It's not long before your eyes droop shut from pure exhaustion. You think you might pass out right on the spot.

The room gets kicked into gear pretty quickly after that. From what you can tell in the hazy state you're in, someone grabs a wet cloth to wipe you down with while someone else finds you a new t-shirt (and panties this time). They dress you like you're a doll, maneuvering your limbs and telling you you're good, you're so good, they love you so much.

Then you're scooped up into a pair of arms while the distant sounds of sheets being pulled off the bed floats up to you. They take you out of the room.

"You did so good for us, baby." The owner of the arms whispers against your ear. From the cadence in their tone you're pretty sure it's Jisung. "You were such a good girl for us, sweetheart. We're so proud of you."

You think you nod against him, but you can't be sure. You hear him kick a door open, and then he sets you down on a bed and you register Seungmin and Chan coming in.

"Okay," Jisung murmurs, going through his aftercare list out loud. "Fresh bed, fresh clothes, we got her some water."

You feel the bed dip behind you. "We got it, but she's gotta drink it, though," Chan chimes. There's fondness in his voice as he scoots closer to you. "Come here, baby."

You let yourself go limp, and a content smile plasters on your face as your boys fuss over you and make sure you're comfortable. They're so gentle, despite what just transpired, and they all take turns pressing kisses against your head, your cheeks, your nose.

When you've all settled into the bed, you feel three pairs of arms around you, holding you close, and you feel insanely lucky for all of it. You snuggle deeper into someone's chest, humming absentmindedly in that dreamy, fucked-out headspace.

"Thank you," you mumble, pressing a kiss to whoever you're snuggled against. You think it's Jisung from the way they nuzzle into your cheek.

"Of course, princess," Chan replies, his voice vibrating against your back. You feel his lips press against your temple, and you smile again. "You're our good girl, even when you're a brat. We'll always take care of you.”

You don't bother replying, simply allowing yourself to sink back into that fuzzy state. You're about to slip out of consciousness when you feel Jisung's nose against your cheek.

"You really do need to be bratty more often, though."

Felix is usually a very loving and perceptive person. These are the qualities that make him an incredible tech officer and handler. But maybe that honor is reserved for after he's been properly caffeinated. You count to three before opening your eyes, watching his newly bleached head of blonde hair squeeze past you to look under the sink for the disinfectant. A sigh passes your lips.

“Felix.”

“I'm serious.” His voice is obscured by the thick wood of the cabinet doors. “Have you seen Seongwha clean this place? A fly would be a personal disrespect to him. We have to wipe down the counters before he comes in.”

“Felix.”

The urgency in your voice cuts through the early morning stupidity that seems to have afflicted your best friend’s brain. He pulls back, just a bit, disinfectant and wipes in hand. You look down at him with a stare that could level a city. 

“There was no fly.”

“Oh.”

He seems almost disappointed to put down the disinfectant. You watch as the resignation on his face slowly gives way to confusion. He opens his mouth, likely to ask again why you’d dump perfectly good coffee out, but then his eyes trail up, up to the sink, up to the dish drainer, and he sees the sole mug in there. The imperfect, stout, navy blue mug with cream stars and a chip on the handle in the shape of a J.

Understanding crosses his face. His eyes widen just a fraction, his grip loosening around the can of expensive disinfectant.

“Oh. Agent Han made the coffee.”

It’s not so much a question, moreso a confirmation of what he's seeing. Everyone knows that mug, and the owner of the mug, and as trauma-bonded as the agents at ICTF are, you all are not in the habit of sharing mugs. Seeing that mug above a pot of freshly made coffee can only mean one thing.

You let your professional mask slip back into place and nod once, sharp and final, turning back to the coffee maker. The machine whirrs to life as you press the brew button with more force than necessary. Felix rises from his crouch by the cabinet, setting the disinfectant back under the sink with careful, measured movements. He knows better than to barrel into things. It's one of the reasons you love him.

"He's… early," he says after a moment, voice pitched low. He's moved to stand beside you, shoulder brushing yours in silent support. “Usually it's just us and Bang here now.”

The methodic drip of the coffee into the pot is the sole focus of your attention. “I don't see how that concerns me.”

“Right,” he murmurs. He drums his fingers on the counter, looking around the room. “But…that's… I mean, you know him. That's not like Han.”

Unfortunately, Felix is correct in the fact that you know Jisung better than anyone else in the agency.  He would rather drink a jean jacket through a paper straw than get to work before 9am. Judging from the barely-there pink glow that’s begun to dust the streets, you know that it is certainly not 9am.

The clock on the wall ticks away before the minute hand firmly lodges into its place, delivering 7 distinct chimes.

Jisung Han is at work, and has been at work, since 7am. 

Felix is staring at the mug again.

You can see it in your peripheral vision, the way his eyes keep drifting back to it, like he's trying to solve a particularly complicated equation. The coffee maker sputters its final drops into the pot with an almost deeply relieved sigh, and you gather the materials to pour yourself a cup with mechanical precision. You try not to look too closely at your mug when you pull it out of the cabinet: a round, stout, dreamy cream colored thing dotted with navy stars. 

Felix makes a noise akin to a frightened kitten.

I really should switch to the one they handed out at orientation, you think, pouring coffee into your mug and loading the whole thing with far too much sugar and creamer.

"Maybe he couldn't sleep," Felix offers. Finding answers has always been his thing. “Or maybe Bang is sending him on a mission that requires early briefing.”

“Does it even matter?” You punctuate your question with a sip of your coffee. It’s disgustingly sweet. You swallow it anyway, needing to put space between yourself and this situation, at least metaphorically. “Hopefully his mug is the only bit of him I’m forced to see today. I’m going to sit.”

Felix looks like he wants to say more, like he wants to comb through every reasonable and unreasonable scenario about why on earth Jisung Han would be here, at work, before the sun has even come up. But the haze of early morning stupidity has left his brain, and he’s paying more attention now, really noticing the tension in your shoulders, the stifled way you walk to your favorite table, and he just lets out a long, deep exhale. You’ve told him before that you’ll talk about what happened when you’re ready, and he has to trust that, so he just nods, following you with his own cup of appropriately made coffee.

The situation is upsetting, but you’re not upset with Felix. Four months ago, before things went wrong, you’d be curious just like him– maybe even more so. The sight of that stupid blue mug would’ve sent a jolt of excitement down your spine and you would’ve taken it, filled it with coffee made in the exact way that you know Jisung likes it, and headed out into the maze of corridors in the building to find him. You would’ve been excited to see him, actually, so excited to spend extra time with him before the work day got busy.

But that was before the excited butterflies turned to wasps. Before the quiet implosion of your universe. Before you ripped him out of your life and used duct tape to close that Jisung-shaped hole. Before…

Before Stockholm.

It’s better this way, you remind yourself, shaking your head to dislodge the thoughts. You slip your agency assigned tablet out of your crossbody bag and begin looking through briefings and emails. Routine is safe. There is no more Jisung here. Just Agent Han.

Thankfully, the rest of the early morning passes easily. You and Felix have developed a system over the years where your early mornings in the break room become a space for coffee and contemplation. If you talk, it's minimal, more content to exist in each other's space.

Slowly but surely, the building starts showing its first signs of life. A few agents from other divisions trickle in and out, varying in their levels of consciousness and enthusiasm. Your division, the Crimes Against Persons Unit, is the smallest, and has a penchant for not getting things rolling until closer to 8am.

Felix looks up when the breakroom door opens at 7:47am, the neutrality on his face easing into a grin. “Damn, Hwang, you look terrible.”

You glance up. Hyunjin could never look terrible, not by any normal human standards. He has the type of face that’s been sculpted from renaissance paintings and a slender, lengthy body to match. As if his face wasn’t devastating enough, he’s all charm and a knee-buckling smile with a jet black buzzcut that was office gossip for weeks. He does look exhausted though, and you watch with amusement as he flips Felix off without speaking, making a direct B-Line to the coffee machine. 

“How was Anchorage?”

“Cold,” Hyunjin murmurs. “And we stayed at a Holiday Inn. Which meant four days straight of Changbin singing that stupid Pitbull song on repeat.”

You quirk an eyebrow up. “Hotel Room?”

On cue, Agent Changbin Seo walks into the breakroom with a particular pep in his step you wouldn’t expect to see from someone who spent four sleepless days doing surveillance in subzero Alaskan temperatures. And, true to Hyunjin’s word–

“We at the hotel, motel, Holiday Inn–”

Hyunjin thunks his head against the upper cabinets with so much force that they rattle. “Make it stop, please.”

Changbin is all smiles, his wispy black hair falling over itself and into his eyes as he slides into an empty seat at your table. His muscular form fills out his button up and slacks, but anyone who has spent any time with him knows he’s truly the biggest softie ever. His shoulder nudges yours in greeting and you return his smile, easy and genuine.

“Did you guys miss us?” He steals a grape out of Felix’s breakfast container. “Four whole days without the two most handsome agents must’ve been difficult. I’m surprised the building is still standing.”

The blonde quirks his lips into a half smirk. “I wasn’t aware Hyunjin and Minho were the ones away?”

Hyunjin snorts, pulling his mug from the same cabinet that he just tried to put his head through. That is where everyone’s mugs go at the end of the day, an efficient system orchestrated by people who spend more time at work than they do at home. You catch when his eyes land on the only other mug that’s not in its proper place. A mug that usually doesn’t make an appearance until well after 9am. His eyebrows furrow, slender fingers picking up the cup and turning it around to inspect it.

“Hey, isn’t this–”

“Good morning team!”

Relief crashes through you when he’s interrupted. Your small group looks towards the door where Jeongin, in the final stretch of his Cadet program, is struggling to fit through the doors with the boxes of bagels and donuts in his hands. He manages eventually, looking as excited about life as one would expect from someone who hasn’t been on the field yet.

“Yang!” Changbin rises and claps him on the shoulder, nearly shoving the poor, unsuspecting boy across the room. “Donuts? On a Wednesday? You’re a Godsend.”

The mug goes back into the dish drainer, forgotten, and the itch of anxiety at the top of your spine begins to dissipate. It’s fine. Everything is fine. You can exist like this, quiet and watching under the comfortable chaos of people who trust each other with their lives. There’s a bubble that you’ve created here, and for right now it is impenetrable. You let yourself breathe, because you can.

The members of your division continue to talk around you, asking Hyunjin and Changbin about their Anchorage operation.Changbin is happy to talk about the fishing he got to do before extraction, embellishing greatly on the sizes of the fish he caught. Agents from other divisions drift in and out, the breakroom feeling full and alive in a way that isn’t too overbearing. 

You’re finishing the last dribble of your coffee when he arrives.

You feel his presence rather than see him, as you always do. Every microscopic hair on your body rises, perked to attention like metal seeking its magnet.  Your spine goes rigid, and you're distantly aware that your grip on your mug has tightened enough that your knuckles are white. It feels like ice has been poured down your spine.

Jeongin smiles around his cruller. “Hey, Agent Han! I was wondering where you were.”

You stare into your mug. You can’t lift your eyes.

“Missed me, Yang?” His voice carries its usual musical lilt across the space. “Morning, team.”

You feel a nudge against your foot under the table. It’s Felix. A comfort, maybe, or a warning to hold yourself together so you don’t leap out of your chair and bludgeon a fellow agent with a mug.

You let your eyes trail up.

Jisung– Agent Han looks… like himself. His hair is a bit longer than you remember, curling in on itself around his ears and framing his face. His big, expressive brown eyes are crinkled under the weight of his smile, the playful smile that draws everyone in to him. He’s wearing the agency’s dark gray quarter-zip pullover over a pair of black pants. He looks perfectly normal.

You’re not sure why that angers you.

You feel the scowl settling over your face, the way your mouth pulls down and your eyebrows crease. He keeps up a steady stream of chatter as he moves through the room, effortlessly social and happy and not at all suffering like you are. Were. 

He’s leaning over Changbin’s shoulder, looking at his pictures from Alaska. He’s close enough to you that you can smell his cologne. Your gaze drops to your mug again. It would be so easy to hit him with it, you think.

“Hey, uh, good morning.”

The chatter at your table has stopped.

It takes a moment, but you look over at Jisung and realize he’s speaking to you. His smile is cautious, wide eyes hopeful as he looks at you.

You stare back, unblinking.

Hyunjin takes a large bite of his everything bagel, attempting to fill his mouth to escape the awkwardness. In the process, he drops a sesame seed that Changbin picks up and begins inspecting with the kind of intensity usually reserved for bombs.

You continue to stare, the scowl on your face unmoving.

Jisung’s smile falters for a fraction of a second. Anyone else would miss it, but you see it. You see the way his shoulders tense slightly, the way his hand comes up to rub the back of his neck in that nervous habit he's had for as long as you've known him. You hate that you notice.

He tugs at the collar of his sweater, whistling and looking away. “Haha. Wow, tough crowd. Is this thing on?”

You hear choking you can only assume comes from Hyunjin. Jeongin leans over without looking and gives him one good whack on the back.

Jisung rocks back and forth on his feet, his lips pursing in thought. “Soooo, um. Yeah. I came to, uh. Deliver a message. From the big guy upstairs. Not Jesus! Um. Mr. Bang. He wants to see you. Like, um. Now.”

That’s interesting. Mr. Bang doesn’t typically summon people to his office without prior warning, especially not first thing in the morning. Not unless something important is happening. You start cataloguing every possible reason—a new lead on a previous case, a meeting with another division head, disciplinary action for the imagined physical assault of a fellow agent—

“Okay,” is all you say.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You gather your things, rinse your mug out in the breakroom sink, and wave to your colleagues before heading for the door. They all wave back in various dazed states, except Felix, who gives you an encouraging smile and a wiggle of his phone. Not spy code, but you know what he means.

Good luck. Text me later.

The heavy oak door of the breakroom swings shut behind you, and you let your feet take you across the linoleum floors.

You are barely ten steps away when you stop abruptly. You don’t turn around. You don’t need to.

“I know where Mr. Bang’s office is.”

Jisung’s surprised squeak comes from somewhere over your shoulder. “Huh? Oh! Of course, I know that.”

“Then why are you following me?” “Ha! Following– I’m, you know, just.” He clears his throat. “I’m headed that way too. Small building problems, right?”

'Small building.' Mr. Bang’s office is on the 9th floor.

You start walking again, faster this time, determined to get to the elevators with enough of a gap between the two of you so that you don’t have to suffer in an enclosed space with him. The mug was one thing. The stilted conversation was another. But you cannot, and will not, willingly subject yourself to an elevator ride with Jisung Han.

You’re not sure how big of a distance you’ve put between the two of you now, but even so, it’s not enough. It will never be enough. You can feel those humongous brown eyes boring into you from anywhere in the building. You can sense the desperation rolling off of them in waves, in the same begging plea that he used to cornered you three months ago.

Please, he had said, those big eyes watery and sad. He had pulled you into a corner of the hallway away from the usual bustling crowd. There was barely an inch of space between you, but it wasn't the close quarters that was suffocating, it was the weight of his gaze. His hands shook in the space between you. Please tell me what I did. I can fix it, I know I can, I just–

You shook your head, putting a hand on his arm and shoving, hard, attempting to put space between you. Despite his training and his muscle, he stumbled back easily, hurt crumbling the last of his resolve like an old stone wall. You opened your mouth to say something, anything really– to tell him that what was done was done, that he couldn’t take back anything that he said, but the words lodged in your throat like bile. 

You have no idea what your face must have looked like then, but whatever it was made Jisung wither. You remember watching his broad shoulders curl in, his head hanging down in defeat as you backed away from him.

Just… Leave me alone, Agent Han.

You shake your head in the present, jamming your finger on the elevator’s call button.   Agent Han. That's what you call him now.  It has to be. He hasn't been Jisung to you for a long, long time.

Thankfully, you don't have to wait long to board the elevators, and you sigh in relief. An older agent from another division steps out and you breeze past him, pressing your destination and watching your lone reflection as the silver doors close quietly.

The ride to the administrative floor is quick and efficient. You division head, Mr Chan Bang, has an office in the block that sits just around the corner from the elevator bay. A simple door with his name printed on it atop the agency's insignia. You’re there before you know it, staring at the CAPU Division Head carved into a placard at the side. You smooth your hands down your blouse, take a deep breath, and knock.

“Come in.”

You turn the handle and step inside.

There is nothing particularly intimidating about the office or its primary inhabitant. The space is a wide, open floor plan with tall, narrow windows that look out to the river below. Mr. Bang has decorated it with the sparse mementos of his life, photographs on the walls and a few succulents on his wide wooden desk. He is not very frightening either; your age gap is not significant, and he carries himself with a warmth you don't see in other department heads. That warmth presents itself today in a dimpled smile, the exposed skin of his forearms gesturing towards the leather seats in front of his desk. 

"Good morning," he greets, the familiar twinge of his home country's accent in the undercurrent of his voice. He never uses titles, but he also never uses first names. A delicate balance of authority and friendliness. "Please, sit."

You take the seat closest to you, taking in the spread of papers and files on his desk. It's his usual brand of organized chaos. However, today he's got a stress ball shaped like a hamburger on his desk next to an industrial sized bottle of ibuprofen. He's also still holding his pen, tapping a nervous rhythm against the top of his desk.

"Good morning," you say. "Is everything alright, sir?"

Mr. Bang's eyebrows furrow. He's biting his bottom lip, clearly mulling over how to phrase whatever it is he's thinking. He opens his mouth to start, then closes it again. He stands from his chair and comes around to the front of the table, leaning against it, effectively dismantling any borders between the two of you. He folds his arms once. Twice.

"Sir?"

"Tell me about Operation Luna."

You blink. You weren't expecting that.

Operation Luna is somewhat legendary within the ICTF, specifically your division—a bit of a white whale that's been haunting the organization since before you even graduated from the academy. It's a massive international child trading ring that's been operating for, at the very least, a decade, moving victims across borders with terrifying efficiency. People in power use the children as leverages for those that owe them something. On such a grand scale, they should be relatively easy to catch, but they're ghosts. Every time the agency gets close, the ring adapts, changes tactics, disappears into the wind.

Dozens of agents have worked Operation Luna over the years. None have made significant progress.

"I know that it's ongoing," you say carefully. "A multinational trafficking operation, primarily focused on children. It's known for its sophisticated logistics and communication networks. There have been dozens of failed interception attempts over the past ten or so years."

He nods. "Anything else?"

You think back to the briefings you've read, the case files you've skimmed for training when you couldn't sleep. "The ring operates in cells. No single member knows the full network, which makes it nearly impossible to dismantle from the inside. They use legitimate child centered businesses as fronts for trades— daycares, doctor's offices, adoption services--"

"Adoption services," Mr. Bang interrupts, and something in his tone makes your pulse quicken. He nods, reaching for the stress ball and rolling it around in his hands. "What do you know about their adoption fronts?"

"Not much," you admit. "But that’s not a personal deficit, the intelligence is limited. We know they've been using private adoption agencies in suburban and rural areas, places with less oversight. They target couples looking to adopt, with a preference for those who seem frustrated by traditional timelines. The couples are innocent, genuinely looking to adopt children, but the kids they adopt, they aren’t..."

You don't need to finish. The unspoken words linger over both of your heads.

They aren’t orphans. They're victims.

Mr. Bang seems satisfied with your knowledge, nodding again and walking back to the space behind his desk. He doesn’t sit yet, but pulls out a file that looks like an agency heirloom. The corners of the folder are bent and miscolored, evidence of being passed around from division to division. He walks back towards you, stopping to lean on the empty chair next to you as he thumbs through the file. 

“Six weeks ago, the Cyber Crimes team arrested one of Luna’s mid-level operators for an unrelated charge. In exchange for a reduced sentence, he blabbed. Most of what he said were things we already knew, but he gave us something new: a concrete location.”

He plucks a photograph from the folder and turns it towards you. You see a Victorian house converted into an office building, complete with pale pink siding and white trim. A hanging plaque above the door reads ‘New Beginnings Family Services’.

“This is their adoption front, stationed in New Edinborough, a small town outside of Otsego County, New York. The population is 2500, a real picturesque American dream.” You watch his eyes harden as he stares at the picture, the same way they always do when he gets serious about work. “Can you believe they’ve been operating out of here for five years.”

Five years. The implications of the timeline make your breath stutter in your chest.

You reach forward and take the picture to inspect it closer. The building looks... harmless. Surprisingly normal, even. But you have training, and you know better than to be fooled by appearances.

You run your thumb across the image, understanding dawning on you. "So we need eyes on the inside. Someone to get close, right? What do you need me to do?"

You watch in real time as your boss short circuits. The hesitation from earlier drops back into the space like a brick of lead. Mr. Bang looks at you, studies you with the same intensity you've seen him study case files and crossword puzzles, really searching your features. Whatever he's looking for, he must find, because he nods one more time. He takes a deep breath, pushes himself up off of the wall, and goes to open his office door.

"Han."

The floor disappears from under your feet.

Maybe there’s another Han, your brain tries to reason. There are at least six Kims in Internal Affairs alone.

But then you see him, all wide eyes and fluffy hair, shuffling into the room dropping into the chair next to you. He smiles, small and unsure. You continue to stare, not sure if your ears are ringing from the shock or the rage.

“Oh, hey. Funny running into you here,” he says, a little breathless. 

You whip around to face Mr. Bang. “Sir, I–”

But he's already looking directly at you. "Did you know that you have the highest individual success rate of any field agent in this agency's history? Seventy-three operations, seventy-three successful outcomes."

Next to you, Jisung mumbles something that sounds like “Ooh, impressive.” You dig your nails into the leather on the chair.

“Han has run sixty-four ops, with sixty four successful outcomes. The numbers don’t lie, and as much as I am one for encouraging my agents, it's a simple fact when I say this: you two are the best. Not only individually, but your partnership saw a perfect record. We have never had a perfect partnership record in ICTF history.”

You open your mouth to argue, but you know he’s right. You’ve seen Changbin and Hyunjin come back from unsuccessful missions before, you’ve heard Felix give a good expletive-ridden recount of tech mission collaborations gone wrong. 

It takes a certain level of chemistry and understanding to work together flawlessly, one that only the two of you see to have.

Had. You had that chemistry.

You watch as Mr. Bang makes his way back to his desk, finally sitting down. He produces two manilla envelopes from a drawer by his feet, a lot newer looking than the one holding the Operation Luna file. He slides them across the desk towards you.

“Kim worked very hard on these,” he murmurs. “Please read them carefully.”

Anxiety twists in your gut again. Seungmin. CAPU’s documentation specialist. Backstories have already been made. You’re going on this mission whether you want to or not.

Jisung has already started to look through his folder by the time you get the courage to crack yours open. You barely read the first word before he makes a strangled, pained noise.

“Woah,” he chokes. “Uh, dude-- I mean, Sir, Mr. Bang, Sir, how long are we–”

“Married?!”

The screech comes from your toes, boiling with white hot rage until it spills out of your mouth.

Because, yes, you’ve just bypassed a forged document with a sticky note labeled “Marriage Certificate.” It has your and Jisung’s names delicately sprawled across it in a looping calligraphy font.

You might throw up.

Next to you, Jisung has gone a shade of pink you’ve never seen before. The color starts at the tips of his ears and travels all the way down to his throat. He fumbles with the folder in his hand and a small package drops at his feet. You squint at it.

Wedding bands.

"Mr. Bang," you start, voice weak, but he holds up a hand.

"Before you say anything, I want you to listen. I know—" he pauses, choosing his words carefully, "—that there's… tension, between you two right now. I don't know the details, and frankly, I don't want to know the details because it sounds like paperwork I don’t have time to file. But what I do know is that we are closer than ever to an actual breakthrough in busting Operation Luna, and if anyone can do it, it’s you two. So please.”

Your boss wrings the foam hamburger between his hands. “Please. If not for me, then for the kids.”

For the kids.

You hate that you have to force that thought to the forefront of your mind. With anyone else it would be no problem, but you know deep inside your stomach that Mr. Bang is right; Felix needs to be here at HQ for tech operations, Hyunjin is terrified of children, Changbin is awful at long term covers, Minho is currently in the middle of Guatemala and Jeongin hasn't his training yet. There is no one else you can do this with.

Regardless, you hate that you have to look down at the documents and see a wedding certificate with your and Jisung's names printed together, almost like some sick mockery of the life you used to dream about. But that was a long time ago, before you realized that dreaming and living were two entirely different things.

Jisung clears his throat, breaking you out of your reverie. "How long?"

"We're not sure, but we're looking at a minimum of 6 months. "

He flinches. "When do we leave?"

"We need you stationed in 8 days."

It's a faster timeline than usual, but given the nature of the assignment, you're not entirely surprised.

A tense silence settles over the office. Mr. Bang reaches over to the bottle of ibuprofen and shakes two out, downing them with a gulp of his watery iced coffee that's dripped all over his desk by now. He puts his head in his hands afterward, the hallmark of a man with too many things to balance on his shoulders.

Jisung reaches down and picks up the ziploc baggie with the wedding bands. He turns it over in his hand, examining the insides before he slides one out. The diamond is real, which shouldn’t surprise you the way it does, and the metal itself is a real gold band. He holds it in front of him and twists his wrist from side to side, watching the sunlight bounce off of it and cast tiny rainbows on the walls. He chews his lip nervously.

He turns to you. "So. Terrible timing, but will you marry me?" Mr. Bang makes a wounded noise at his desk.

You snatch the ring from him, eyes murderous, and slide it onto your finger yourself.

This has to be a dream.

You hear his voice crackle through the speakers one more time, his words unclear with the distance you created. Hyunjin shouldn't be calling you, and you certainly shouldn't have answered. It would be wise to hang up, to block his number like you thought about doing so many times. Instead, when you hear more crackling as he continues speaking, you hold your breath as you put the phone back to your ear.

This is mistake number two.

“-- you there, love?”

You swallow thickly, willing your mind to wake up faster so you can fully comprehend what is happening. You feel like you're floating. Or drowning.

"I didn't expect you to pick up."

Your heart hammers in your chest.

"Are you okay?" You ask after a few beats of silence. It's the only thing you can think to ask.

You hear a deep hum of contentment. “Yeah. Better now.”

The air in the room suddenly feels too cold. You should hang up. You need to hang up. But your fingers refuse to uncurl from the death grip you have on your phone. “Why… why are you calling me?”

You hear the distant sounds of the city on his end of the line, padded by his breathing. It sounds labored. Manual, like he's reminding himself every so often to inhale and exhale, too busy chasing a fading feeling. You could recognize that specific pattern of his breath anywhere. You close your eyes, letting out a deep sigh.

"Are you drunk?"

"No," he murmurs. "Maybe. I don't know."

That translates to a yes.

You pinch the bridge of your nose with your fingers. This is why you don't answer his calls. This is why you should've blocked him months ago. You feel the tension of the moment fizzle into nothing but annoyance. "It's four in the morning. Why did you call me?"

Hyunjin lets out a soft whine, his breath picking up.

"I miss you."

His words land like a punch to your chest, knocking the wind out of you. A simple string of words in that pitiful, whining tone of his, and you already feel like putty in his hands.

You hate this. You hate him.

You want to scream at him. Tell him that this is bullshit. He's bullshit. That you've been trying so hard to stay away from him. But your heart is pounding so hard that you can feel it in your throat.

"No you don't,” you decide to be civil. “You're just drunk."

"But I know what I'm saying."

The civility only lasts so long. “Oh, fuck off," you breathe. There is no real power behind it, but it's better than nothing. "Don't say stuff like that."

He starts to speak, but a nearby train cuts him off. You think about taking the opportunity to hang up, but as much as you don't want to hear what he says next, you're powerless to stop yourself from listening.

"I missed your voice so much, pretty girl." The laziness of his tongue makes the words sound like something entirely new. "I missed hearing you say my name. Can you do that for me, baby? Can you say my name? Please?"

His words are slurred and heavy. You shouldn't be entertaining this. He won't remember this conversation in the morning, too busy with his extravagant artist lifestyle and the swarms of other girls that want his attention. You'll be a distant memory floating around his hippocampus with nothing to tether to, like an itch he will never find.

"Why?"

He lets out a shaky breath, the undercurrent of a whine coating his tone. "Please, baby." The desperation in his voice fills your chest and makes it squeeze tight. "Say it for me?"

You are weak to his voice, but the distant, angrier part of you refuses to let it affect you. He doesn't get to just call you in the middle of the night and ask you to talk to him. Not when he's had months to do that and hasn't bothered.

"No."

You hear him swallow thickly, a slight shift in his breathing as he lets out a short, humorless laugh. You wait for him to speak again, but you're met with nothing but silence. It stretches long enough that you wonder if he hung up, but then—

"I miss you so much, angel."

Six words.

It's only six words, but they hurt worse than anything else he could've said to you. You don't know if it's because you think he doesn't mean them, or because you hope that he does.

Regardless, emotion swells so quickly in your chest, you feel like you're going to be sick. You can't do this. You can't keep letting him do this to you.

"I have to go," you say finally, voice trembling.

"Don't hang up." He sounds panicked. "Please don't hang up. I need to hear your voice."

Your face feels hot, the back of your nose beginning to burn. You will not let him hear you cry. "No, Hy–” You stop yourself. “I can't do this with you anymore."

"Please, baby. Please. I need you. I can't stop thinking about you. I miss you."

That damned phrase again. Your breath stutters in your chest, words coming out softer than you intend. "You don't mean that."

"I do, pretty girl. I promise."

You shake your head as if he could see you. You wish he could see you through the phone— to see what exactly he's done to you, how he destroyed you. You know he doesn't mean any of this, that they're just the chosen lies from tonight's bottle of vodka.

There's shuffling on the line for a second. Then—

"Can I see you. Please?"

You close your eyes, the tears you tried so hard to fight spilling over and sliding down your face until they make fat plopping noises on your sheets. No. He can't see you. You can't do this with him anymore. You need to hang up. This has to stop.

"Okay."

And this is your final, biggest mistake.

—

You're not sure why, but you don't believe he'll actually show up.

You've played this game with him before, right after the two of you broke up. You remember the anxious anticipation whirling in your stomach while you waited for him one night, and how the first rays of the sunrise curdled it in your stomach. You suppose his way with words was what made him a good artist anyway—there is no surprise there.

So when you hear two raps at your front door, there is some surprise there.

You wipe the tears from your face quickly, running a hand through your hair and praying it isn't as wild as it feels. You glance in the mirror by your front door, giving yourself a once-over to make sure you're presentable enough, but you shake your head and stop yourself. It's not like he hasn't seen you at your worst before.

When you open the door, Hyunjin is standing in front of you, illuminated only by the soft glow of the street lamps on your block. He looks exhausted.

"Hi, angel."

You blink slowly, suddenly regretting every decision that brought you to this moment.

"You're here."

He smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes. "You look tired. Did I wake you up?"

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at his question, stepping aside to let him in. "Yes. It's four in the morning. Obviously you did."

He has the decency to at least look sheepish as he stumbles past you, looking around your apartment with a faraway expression on his face. You can smell the alcohol on him. It makes you incredibly dizzy.

He toes his shoes off and you watch him quietly, something stirring in your chest. He remembers. You didn't have to remind him about the no-shoe rule.

The realization sends a course of emotion through you that you cannot parse, so instead, you choose to focus on shutting and locking the door behind you.

It's been a full six months since Hyunjin has been in your apartment. It may not be that long in the grand scheme of things, but the two of you used to spend almost every waking moment together, especially when you were dating. You had grown accustomed to having him around so much, his absence left an aching hole in your life, your home, your bed.

When you gain the courage to turn around, you see that he's standing at the threshold of your living room. Hyunjin looks like he belongs here, yet somehow he also doesn't. This isn't the same Hyunjin from your final weeks together—the one that you screamed at until you couldn't breathe. This isn't the same Hyunjin that, in the middle of your last fight, pressed himself against the front door, caging you in your own apartment while you cried and begged him to let you leave.

That Hyunjin was different. He had meticulously styled hair and sunglasses that cost more than your rent. He was swimming in his quick rise to success, riding the wave and content to let you drown under him.

You look at present-Hyunjin, who's now peeling off the hood of his oversized sweater. There are no sunglasses.  no neatly styled hair. They are replaced by a blonde buzzcut, and watery, red eyes that cannot stay focused.

It would be easy to see him as a stranger, an intrusion, but you can't. It just feels like he's come home.

You're staring for so long, you don't realize until he looks over at you from his awkward stance by the couch.

"Are you gonna come over here?"

You take a few steps toward him, but not too close. You are a flame and he is a gas leak. You will both explode on contact.

You choose, instead, to play offense. "What are you doing here?"

He looks around your living room, fingers twitching like they're begging for something to hold. He won't meet your gaze. After a bit, he lets out a deep exhale.

"I don't know."

"Why did you call me?"

"I don't know."

"Do you know anything?”

He glances at you, his already watery eyes looking dejected and tearful, and your heart stutters in your chest. You wish you could hold steady to your hate for him. Sometimes it slips through your fingers like sand, leaving you scrambling to catch the pieces. Other times it's solid as glass. You wish it was always like that. You want to shove it in his face and let him suffocate under the weight of it.

But that look. The tears, the pain. You recognize it. It's a mirror of the same look you gave him when he broke up with you: heartbreak, rejection, confusion. 

You can't do this. You're going to cry. Or pass out. He shouldn't have come.

You open your mouth to say just that when he turns fully toward you, closing the gap a bit more. He's always towered over you– he's six feet tall and you're barely 5’1 on a good day– yet you find the intrusion surprising for a moment. You trail your sight all the way up to gaze into those red, unfocused eyes.

"You never say my name anymore," he says, the slur in his speech making a subtle appearance. He's wobbly on his feet. "Never on the phone, and not once since I've been here. Why?"

The question takes you by surprise. "What?"

"My name," he presses. He takes a step toward you, his presence pushing you one step back. "Why don't you say it anymore?"

You take another step back as he advances. You're not scared of him, you never could be, but the closer he gets the faster your heart beats. He's staring at you with an intensity you've never seen before, not even when you were together.

"I don't know," you echo. The lie is bitter in your mouth.

"Yes you do." He looks at you with those unfocused eyes, hurt flashing across his features. He takes another step. "You do know. You used to say it all the time, like my name was..." He trails off, his fingers twitching at his sides again, like he's trying to grasp something invisible. "Like it was yours."

You take a final step back, your spine hitting the wall. Hyunjin doesn't stop until he's a single step away from you, his chest so close to yours that you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

"Don't,” you warn.

"Say it," he pleads. His hands are shaking, and you're beginning to recognize that it's not the effects of the alcohol, but a raw desperation. He's literally shaking with need. "Please. Just once."

You exhale slowly through your nose, willing your anger to come to the forefront. You feel the start of it in your bones, boiling hot and ready to lash out.“Why would I say it now? You only listened when it was convenient for you.”

His brow furrows, confusion warring with the lingering haze of alcohol. "What are you talking about?"

The words feel hot like bile in your stomach, the heat of your anger boiling everything in you. He's too close. You're getting too angry. You should stop now, kick him out and block his number. 

But Hyunjin closes the gap, his shaking hand reaching to cup your face. He barely connects with your skin before you feel the explosion.

"Don't touch me," you bark, jerking away from his hand. The hurt that flashes across his face only fuels your anger more. "You don't get to do this. You don't get to-- to come here, drunk and desperate, pretending like you care about what my voice means to you–"

"I do care," he insists, his voice cracking. "I've always—"

"No, you don't," The words tear from your throat, sharp and raw. You put both hands on his chest and shove him away from you with all of your strength. He stumbles back, but he's still not far enough.

"You stopped caring the minute that painting made you famous. The minute everyone wanted to know about the hot new painter with synesthesia and raw talent.”

It’s the first time you've said the words out loud. They taste like acid on your lips, and you hate that, but not more than how much you hate the way your eyes burn with tears.

You let the weight of your words settle between the two of you like a boulder in the ocean. You watch as Hyunjin grimaces, and internal war showing on his face before he lets out a deep breath, dragging his hands down his face and turning to take several steps away from you.

You don't want to feel bad for him. He deserves this. He deserves every ounce of pain you're feeling. 

You remember that conversation you had over a year ago, tangled in his messy sheets with your head on his bare chest. Your relationship was still new, still tender. The honeymoon phase seemed neverending.

As you laid there, his heartbeat was, at first, a steady pulse against your ear, but the longer you two basked in the afterglow, the faster it got.

You remember sitting up after a minute, hands cupping his face in concern. "What is it, Hyun?"

"I... I have something to tell you," he murmured.

He told you about his synesthesia, how it was his inspiration for pursuing art, but also an insecurity he struggled to coexist with. You listened to him, comforted him, encouraged him, loved him. Told him how amazing he was and how every little quirk of his just made him better.

A few months later, he was kissing you awake and saying he had a surprise for you. When you walked into his living room, you saw the most gorgeous painting you'd ever seen-- a canvas segmented into 4 sections, each section similar in their subject but distinct in composition.

"It's, uh. It's you," he explained, ears burning red at the tips. "Not a portrait of you, but this is how it looks when you say my name. When you're sleepy, when you're laughing, when you're upset with me, and when you... when we--"

He didn't need to finish his sentence. You knew.

It was you that encouraged him to submit it to a contest a couple weeks after that. It was you who picked out his outfit for his first gallery showing. It was you who said his name over and over the night after while he showed you just how he got the inspiration for that last panel.

And yet.

"You cast me aside."

You wipe at the tears that have traitorously slipped from your eyes. "I was behind you through all of that, and then you let the sounds of the attention you got become louder than me. I didn't mean anything to you anymore."

Silence stretches between you like a chasm. Hyunjin's shoulders rise and fall with each labored breath, his back still turned to you. The air in the apartment feels suffocating, thick with everything that's been said and has yet to be said. 

You don't even know why you're doing this, why you're bothering to explain anything to him when he's drunk. It'll be gone from his mind in the morning, and then what will have been the point?

You close your eyes and let your head thud against the wall. “Look. You should–”

"I never meant to make you feel invisible," he says.

You take a steadying breath. 

He carries on, his voice rough in the silence. "It was intoxicating. The praise, the intrigue, the attention-- I was seeing so many colors and shapes I'd never seen before. I'd never had so many people find it– find me interesting. Or worth something.

Your voice is small. “You had me.”

He turns back to you. There are tears streaked on his face, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes makes your heart twist in your chest. “I know. But I got lost in it– in the attention. I was drowning in so many colors that meant nothing because they weren't yours. But I didn't realize that until you weren't around anymore."

You want to stay angry. You want to hold onto the hurt that's kept you safe these past months. But seeing him like this— almost as broken as you'd been feeling —cracks something open inside of you.

"Do you know what the worst part is?” At his silence, you continue. “I was, and still am, so proud of you.” Your voice is quieter now, more tired than angry. "Even when it hurt, even when it felt like you used me. I was proud."

Hyunjin opens his mouth to say something, but the words die on his lips. You watch him swallow, hard, the deliberate bob of his Adam's apple catching your gaze. In everything he does, he looks like art. It's maddening.

He clears his throat, finally finding his voice. "Can I... can I show you something?"

You narrow your eyes at him, confused. "What?"

He fidgets in his spot for a second before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. After a moment of scrolling, he turns the screen toward you. It's a photo of a canvas—clearly a work in progress, layers of color bleeding into each other in abstract patterns.

"I've been trying to paint again," he says softly. "Ever since we broke up. But nothing's been working. The colors are wrong. Dead."

He flicks to the next picture. It's a similarly unfinished painting. "It gets easier to ignore how wrong they look after a few shots. Sometimes they move around like before. But it never lasts, because it's not you.”

The confession hangs in the air between the two of you. Unlike the heaviness of your earlier words, Hyunjin's float above you two like a balloon, hoisting the last of your irritation away with it. You see the truth of his words in the muddy browns and grays that dominate the canvas, so different from the vibrant explosions of his earlier work. It feels, painfully, like he's lost a piece of his soul.

You can't look at it anymore. You glance up at him instead.

He looks more nervous now than he did when you opened the door. It reminds you of your first ever date, and how he tried to hide his nerves with a devastating smile and charm. The memory chips at a hardened part of your heart.

You've missed him.

You've been so, so tired of missing him.

"Why did you come here,” you breathe. The question is softer this time. More genuine.

He puts his phone back in his pocket, gaze locked on you. Beneath the haze of whatever buzz he still has, you see a glimpse of your Hyunjin, the one who made you laugh so he could paint the bright yellow rays of sunshine that exploded in his vision. The one who left you sketches of your sleeping form if he had to leave before you woke up. 

The one who thought the smallest pieces of you were his magnum opus.

Perhaps that's why, when he takes a step closer, you don't move away this time.

"Because I'm selfish," he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. "Because I miss you. Because I need to see it again– to feel it. Even if it's the last time."

He takes another step, the height of him caging you against the wall. His eyes search yours, desperate and hungry. "Please, angel. I am begging you. Say my name. Let me see it again."

The request vibrates through you, from the tips of your ears down to your toes. It's maddening how easily he can awaken something you've tried so hard to bury.

You know this is dangerous territory—that giving in now could shatter you all over again.

But his proximity is intoxicating, the familiar scent of him filling your senses. Your body remembers what your mind wants to forget—the way he used to worship you, the way your voice could bring him to his knees in more ways than one.

"This doesn't fix anything," you whisper, even as you feel yourself weakening.

"I know," he breathes, close enough now that you can feel the heat radiating from his body, can smell the lingering alcohol on him. "But God, I miss you. I miss the way you light up my world."

Your back presses against the wall as he crowds into your space, not touching, but close enough that the air between you crackles with tension. He puts his hands on either side of your head, caging you in so that all you can look at is him. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with need and something deeper, more desperate.

"Say it, pretty girl."

You let his voice be the final push over the edge.

"Hyunjin," you breathe, and you watch as his entire body shudders in response.

His eyes flutter shut, plush lips parting slightly as a soft moan slips out. He's trembling now, hands twitching on the wall near your head as though still fighting the urge to touch you. "Again."

"Hyunjin," you repeat. Your voice is stronger now. Your heart is racing, stomach twisting with nerves and desire. It's been so long since you've said his name like this, and the effect it has on him is beyond intoxicating.

He whimpers, leaning in closer until his forehead rests against yours. "Fuck, I missed that," he murmurs. His breath is hot against your skin. You feel the brush of his low cut hair against your forehead. "I've never seen it like this before. Please, baby. Again. I need more."

The desperation in his voice makes you weak, and you find yourself sliding your hands up, up, up, until your fingers curl into his fuzz, tugging gently at the wisps of hair at the base of his skull. The reaction is immediate—Hyunjin grunts, low and guttural, his hips bucking forward against yours.

"Again," he pants. "Please. Please."

You drag your nails along his scalp, pulling another groan from deep within. You brush your noses together.

"My Hyunjin," you whisper, right against his lips.

He surges forward, crushing his mouth to yours in a hot, bruising kiss. You cling to him, fingers digging into his shoulders as he licks into your mouth. It's wet, messy, and desperate-- a clash of teeth and tongue that leaves you both breathless. You can't remember the last time anyone has kissed you this hard, this passionately—like he's trying to crawl inside you and never come back out.

He tastes like vodka and cheap beer, but underneath that is something that is so innately Hyunjin that you feel yourself melting, giving in to his touch and his mouth and his greedy hands. He shifts, slotting a thigh between your legs and flexing up into you. It pulls a moan from your throat that he swallows hungrily.

"Can I touch you?" He breathes his words right into your mouth.

You don’t hesitate. "Yes. Hyun, please."

His hands drop from the wall to the curve of your waist, sliding down until he has a bruising grip on your hips. His movements aren't as clumsy as you expect, but there's a hesitancy and nervousness that makes everything more enticing.

He uses his grip on your hips to grind you against his thigh. His movements are slow, deliberate. Your bodies are pressed flush together, his mouth still on yours, kissing you like you're the only thing keeping him on this plane of existence.

He bites down on your bottom lip and you whine his name right into his mouth. He hisses out a strangled sound before he breaks away, trailing hot kisses down your jaw, the column of your throat, and sucking a bruise into the soft, sensitive skin behind your ear. You're a mess of moans and whines and incoherent, half-finished sentences.

"God, you sound so fucking good," he murmurs into your neck. "Missed that too. Missed how pretty you sound for me.” He nips at your earlobe. “C'mon. Sing for me, angel."

He presses his thigh up into you more, the friction sending a jolt of electricity up your spine. You feel the length of him, hard heavy and hot, through his sweatpants. You dig your nails into his shoulders, a shuddering breath escaping you. 

"Oh. Fuck, Hyunjin."

His hips buck involuntarily, a grunt slipping from him. He kisses his way back to your mouth. "That's it, my love. That's it." 

"Hyunie." You're panting into his mouth now, words coming out in broken gasps. It's overwhelming, all the sensations– his hands, his mouth, his thigh. You try to hold back your next words, but the building pressure in your stomach disintegrates the barriers in your brain. They come pouring out before you can stop yourself. 

"I missed you so much.”

The confession seems to do something to him. He curses and ruts up against your leg, chasing the contact, the friction. You're both breathing heavily, the space between you nonexistent, moving with a practiced ease that's only born from being familiar with each other. He knows your body like he knows art, like it's a medium for him to mold and shape into whatever he wants.

"Wanna paint you," he huffs out when you moan again. He drags his teeth along the length of your throat. "Want you to see the colors you make for me."

“Tell me.” You drag your nails along the nape of his neck. “What does it look like?”

He moves his thigh up, the sharp movement making you gasp and drop your head onto his shoulder.

"That," he pants, "That one is white. Soft on the edges like feathers. It feels like cotton in my ears."

He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his hips rutting against you with urgency. You can't help the moan that slips past your lips, and you swear his grip tightens, his breath hitching.

"Fuck," he breathes. "And that-- that one is hot. It's like rich red. Like the sun. It tastes sweet. Tastes like you.”

You whine into his neck, the combination of his words and the movement of his thigh making the heat coil tightly in your core. You're so close, right at the edge of your orgasm. You know you should stop-- that this is a dangerous line you're crossing-- but your body aches for him in a way it never will for anyone else.

"Come on. Cum for me, angel.” His voice is ragged, raw. "I wanna see it. Let me see it, please." 

And, well, you have never been able to deny him anything.

You tip over the edge, pleasure shooting through your body like a spark. Your orgasm hits you so hard that your vision goes white around the edges, a broken cry of his name spilling from your lips.

Hyunjin groans and ruts against you harder, faster. "Fuck, yes, that's it. Just like that, baby." 

He kisses you again, swallowing up every noise you make while he lets you grind your way through the aftershocks. His hands roam their way around your body, his nimble fingers slipping under your shirt to trace patterns on your skin.

You come down slowly, breathing hard into his mouth. When he's sure you've ridden out the last of your orgasm, he pulls back, eyes glassy and still a bit unfocused. His gaze is locked on yours as he slides his hands down your body, slipping a hand into the waistband of your shorts and moving to cup your ass in both hands.

Some of your wits return to you. You find the hairs at the nape of his neck again, dragging your nails against him gently. "Hyun," you breathe. "Hyun, you're drunk. We should stop."

"No," he whines. There's no aggression in his movements, just pure want. He tugs at your ass again, pressing his hips into yours. "Please, baby. I need to feel you."

He leans forward again, kissing down your jaw to your neck. The brush of his buzzcut against your face makes you shiver, but you don't pull away. Instead, you press a kiss to his temple, then another, and another, until you're kissing the shell of his ear.

"You'll change your mind in the morning," you murmur. The thought doesn't sting like you thought it would. It just seems like a fact. “Let's stop now.”

It takes some effort, but you manage to gently untangle yourself from him. You put a hand on his chest, not exactly pushing him but enough to signal a need for distance between you. He relents easily, stepping back and giving you space to breathe.

You take the opportunity to stare at him for a moment, taking in the sight of him: frazzled hair, blown-out pupils, kiss-swollen lips, and an erection straining painfully against his sweatpants. It's a sight that has your body singing for him all over again.

He looks lost. Desperate. Like you're the only thing keeping him together. Yesterday, you would balk at the thought of that, but now it makes your heart soften in your chest. You try to remember a time when you weren't weak for this man and come up short.

You sigh and reach out, resting your hand on his arm, thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin. "Come on, Hyunie," you murmur. "You obviously can't go home. Let's get you to bed."

He follows you down the hallway to your bedroom like a lost puppy, fingers loosely tangled with yours. When you flick on the bedside lamp, the soft glow illuminates the space that used to be so familiar to him. He stands there, awkward, until you turn down the comforter and sit on the edge of the bed, patting the spot next to you.

"Do you want me to sleep here?" he asks, his voice small.

You nod. "I'll take the couch."

His hand tightens around yours immediately. "No." His voice is small, fragile. "Stay. Please."

You close your eyes, summoning strength from somewhere deep inside you. "Hyunjin, I don't think—"

"I won't touch you," he rushes to say, desperation creeping back into his tone. "I promise. I just... I can't be alone right now. Please don't make me be alone."

The plea strikes something painful in your chest. You've spent months trying to convince yourself that Hyunjin was fine without you—thriving, even. That he'd moved on to bigger, better things. But the man standing before you now, with bloodshot eyes and trembling hands, is far from fine. 

"Okay," you relent, because you're weak and tired and overwhelmed from the events of tonight. 

When he slides under the blanket, there's a safe distance between you. Not as vast as it's been the past six months, but a tangible space nonetheless. You lie there on your side, staring at him, wondering if this is what it feels like to drown. He stares back at you, and you watch the redness of his eyes dissipate, his body relaxing under the weight of your gaze. You can't even find it in you to be angry, but you try. You really do.

He looks at you with those glassy eyes and a soft smile. "You're so beautiful," he whispers.

You feel the anger slip through your fingers.

"You're drunk," you whisper back.

"I know."

You're not sure who moves first, but you find yourself closing the distance between you, your head tucked under his chin and your arm slung over his torso. He's warm and solid beneath you, and you find yourself melting into his embrace.

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close, and you can hear the steady beat of his heart in his chest. You close your eyes, focusing on the rhythm, letting it lull you to sleep.

"Goodnight, pretty girl," he murmurs.

You're asleep before you can respond.

—

Sunlight filters through your curtains, painting warm stripes across your face. You stir, your consciousness returning to you in fragmented pieces. The first thing you register is the coolness of the sheets next to you. The second is the ache in your chest.

You open your eyes, staring at the empty space where Hyunjin had been.

Had.

He's gone.

The pillow still bears the impression of his head, the ghost of his presence lingering in the sheets in the form of his expensive cologne. You reach out, rubbing a bit of the sheet between your fingers, finding it cold to the touch.

Of course he left. What were you expecting?

You're not sure how long you lie there, staring at the ceiling, but it's long enough for the tears to come. They slip down the sides of your face and into your hair, leaving wet stains on the pillow as everything from last night comes back to you: the desperation of his voice on the phone, the feeling of his body pressed against yours, his breath hot on your neck as he begged and pleaded for you to bathe his world in color again. It all felt real, so urgent in the midnight hour.

But morning has a wicked way of washing everything clean, the sober light revealing every mistake in detail.

You wish you could be angry. You wish you could feel anything other than the pain that's splitting your chest in two. You wish you could hate him.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes in an attempt to stall the tears before they get worse. This is exactly why you should've blocked him, why you shouldn't have let him in or slept beside him like nothing changed between the two of you.

"Stupid," You murmur. "I'm so fucking stupid."

A familiar weight settles in your gut, the same one your carried for weeks when he first left-- a noxious mix of anger, embarrassment, and grief. You thought you'd finally shed it, but here it is again, through no fault but your own.

You drop your hands from your face and glance at the clock, which tells you it's a bit past 11am. He's back at his fancy apartment by now, already forgetting the things he whispered in your skin. You let out a humorless snort, imagining that he's painting, finally able to put colors together properly after using you for inspiration.

You're about to drag your pity party to the kitchen when you hear it-- the faint squeak of your bathroom sink turning on.

Your eyes snap in that direction instantly. For a moment, you don’t hear anything else. Then–

Splashing. Someone is washing their face.

He stayed.

You freeze, heart suddenly pounding against your chest. You can hear the water continuing to slosh around for a second, then it shuts off.

More silence, just for a second, then the unmistakable padding of feet on tile.

The en suite door swings open. Hyunjin materializes in the door frame wearing the same clothes from last night. His hair catches the morning light like a halo and his face is freshly washed. His eyes are no longer glassy, even though they're rimmed with the telltale shadows of a hangover. When he sees you sitting up in bed, he pauses, hovering in the doorway as though he's unsure if he's still allowed in.

The two of you hold eye contact for a moment. It feels like forever, but you know it can't be more than a second or two. It doesn't matter how long, really. It's still too long. Long enough to make the ache inside you bloom until your entire chest is suffocating under its weight. Long enough to realize how much you still want him and need to keep him in this space that was once yours and his. Long enough to want to reach out across time and space and mold his edges into something that belongs solely to you—that only you can recognize. Something different and yet exactly the same.

"Hi," he says.

The breath is knocked out of you all at once. 

"You're still here," you breathe. You feel a new wave of tears behind your eyes. You think it might be from relief.

Something flashes across his face quickly-- hurt, maybe, or understanding. "Yeah." His voice is soft. "I told you I wouldn't leave again."

Did he say that? You don't remember. You can't exactly think over the pounding of your heart in your ears. 

The words hang in the air anyway, a fragile bridge stretching across the space between you. It feels precarious, like one wrong move will send all of it crashing down. You scan his face for any hint of deception, for a flicker of the old Hyunjin that prioritized his rising fame over you. But all you find is a raw sincerity that mirrors the ache in your own chest.

He takes a hesitant step into the room, then another, like he's waiting for you to change your mind and kick him out. You don't. You just sit there, heart thrumming against your ribs, watching as he drifts closer until he's standing at edge of the bed. There's barely any space separating you two, yet everything still feels so far away.

"Last night," he starts. He clears his throat, fighting against the tremble in his voice and hands. "It was a mess. I was a mess, I know."

You wait, unable to tear your gaze away from him.

"But even in the middle of all of that... I need you to know I meant it. Every word, angel. I still do."

Something swells inside of you, the pain making way for something soft and tender. It's overwhelming, but the good kind. The kind that makes you feel light and free.

"Do you?" Your voice is so quiet, you're not sure if he hears you. But he does, because his gaze softens, eyes never leaving yours.

Hyunjin lowers himself to the ground, situating himself on his knees so the two of you are eye level. He reaches a hand out, his long, slender fingers making their way across the space, gently cupping the curve of your jaw. You close your eyes, holding your breath while you bask in the way his skin makes contact with yours. The air around you feels like it might come alive. As you lean into the warmth of his palm, the ache in your chest begins to fade bit by bit.

"Yeah. I do," he whispers. His voice is thick.

There are a million things you want to say, yet the only thing you can force out is: "Why?"

He brushes his thumb along the rise of your cheekbone, the gesture tender and familiar. It's almost like he never left, like no time has passed between the two of you. He opens his mouth to answer, then closes it, like the words are getting stuck in his throat.

"Can I show you?"

The question sends a shiver down your spine. You swallow and nod.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, the hunger evident in his gaze. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours and breathing you in. His breath tickles your nose, the scent of your toothpaste mixing with the smell of his sweater.

"Are you sure?" he whispers.

You answer him by closing the gap.

Unlike the kiss from last night, this one is slow, measured. You pour everything you've wanted to say since he left into it, and he returns it tenfold. He kisses you with a passion that threatens to consume, his grip on your face tightening ever so slightly, tongue sweeping out to lick at your bottom lip. You part for him immediately, the taste of him igniting the dormant fire inside you.

Hyunjin kisses you like a starving man. You give him everything he needs, letting him map your mouth with his tongue, moaning into the heat of his kiss. You feel it everywhere, the heat coiling low in your belly and spreading throughout your limbs. It feels like a revelation, and the way his grip tightens tells you that he feels it too.

"Say it, please baby," he breathes. The desperation from last night is creeping back in. His hand leaves your cheek, trailing down the length of your neck to your collarbone. He curls his hand into the neck of your shirt and tugs it down to expose your skin, dipping down to wash his tongue across your collarbones. You're already shaking before he even nips at your skin.

"Hyunjin," you moan. The sound makes him grunt against you, low and needy.

His mouth is on yours again, bruising, like he wants to drown in the taste of you. You sink your fingers into his hair, pulling gently and feeling his body shudder in response. He adjusts his positions on his knees, tugging you closer to him so your hips are flush against his chest. The heat of his feverish skin burns you through the thin fabric of your night clothes.

"Again, angel," he pleads, mouthing his way over your shirt, down to your breasts, hands trailing up your bare thighs and gripping hard. You let out a little whimper, head falling back as you thread your fingers in the wisps of his hair, holding on for dear life. He doesn't stop. The mixture of his mouth and his hands has your mind hazy and unfocused.

"Hyunjin. Hyun, please." You feel him shudder at that, his mouth kissing lower, lower, lower. When he reaches the hem of your shit, he grips it in his teeth and pulls it up, tongue darting out to run a stripe across your belly button. You pant and squirm, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his skin through his sweatshirt.

He nips at your stomach and you cry out his name, the sound breaking through the space like a firecracker. Hyunjin's hips buck up against the bed as his mouth finds your hip bone, sinking his teeth into the tender skin. Your back arches, legs clamping around his torso. His grip is bruising and you really hope he leaves a mark, that there are traces of him on you long after you're finished. You want him to burn himself into your skin so you never forget this again.

He's pressing sloppy kisses over the skin he's just bitten, murmuring a mixture of words you can't decipher. The sound is muffled against your skin, but you don't miss the way he says "angel" over and over again, the way his lips form your name against your body like it's a prayer, and he is the sole saint who has come to worship at your altar.

He shifts his mouth back to the waistband of your shorts, his big, blown out eyes fluttering open to stare at you in question. The look you give him is all he needs to peel off the fabric, slowly, teasingly, tossing them away and letting his fingers trail the newly exposed skin. His touch is hot on your legs, trailing up and down until you're panting for him.

"So perfect for me, pretty girl," he praises, his lips ghosting over your hips. Your brain feels like mush, like his praise is the only thing that exists anymore. You watch his long, perfect fingers slide up the expanse of your thigh until he reaches your heat, pushing your lips apart to reveal your aching cunt to him. His touch is so featherlight that it has your hips bucking up, trying to get more.

"Be still, love." He presses a kiss to your clit. "Be still for me. Let me worship you, yeah? Can you do that?"

You whine, desperately  trying to remain still, to let him explore every inch of your body with his perfect hands, to let him touch and tease you like he needs to.

"That's it, baby," he breathes. His fingers run along the wetness of your cunt. "Look at you. So fucking wet for me, my angel."

He slips his middle finger in with ease, sliding all the way to his knuckle. You barely have a second to adjust to the feeling before he dives down, plump lips wrapping around your clit and sucking hard. It sends a jolt of pleasure up your spine so sharp, you can't help the half scream that falls from your lips, your hand shooting out to grab onto his head. He moans in response, letting you grind yourself up into his face. He laps at you like a man possessed, fingers curling deep inside you to press against that one spot he's found countless times before.

The room fills with the wet sounds of your cunt against his eager tongue. His hair is soft under your hand, a contrast to how hard he's fucking his fingers into you. They move with urgency and precision. Each thrust has you panting his name, and in response his moans vibrate through your cunt.

He moves his free hand to grab the one that's gripping his hair and squeezes, fingers curling between yours in a silent show of gratitude for letting him touch you, letting him drown himself in you.

The combination of his touch and the sounds he's making has your stomach coiling, tight like a spring, and your release comes quick and sharp. Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, and you call out his name, louder than anything he's ever heard from you before, so loud your voice bounces off the walls. He works you through it, licking up all the wetness that's pouring from you, groaning and growling like a starving man. He slips in a third finger to fuck you through the last of your high and the stretch is so good, so perfect.

His grip on your hand is the only thing that keeps you grounded as the last of the pleasure courses through you, leaving you shaking and trembling against his face. Hyunjin keeps his eyes on you the entire time, watching you like a predator watches prey, pupils blown so wide only a sliver of dark brown peeks out at you. He only pulls away once you stop shuddering, dragging his fingers out of you with a loud, wet noise, slipping them straight into his mouth.

The sight of his plush, pink lips wrapped around those perfect fingers makes you whine and squirm with want, even though you've just been thoroughly fucked out. Hyunjin crawls his way back up your body and kisses you deeply. His lips are wet with you, and he fucks his tongue into your mouth so you can taste yourself. You find yourself gripping at the soft hairs on the back of his neck again in an attempt to press him closer. He pulls away slightly to trail sloppy, open mouthed kisses down your jaw, teeth dragging across the hot skin.

"You drive me crazy, pretty girl," he pants. He sucks a bruise into the junction where your throat meets your shoulder. "Every noise you make, it sizzles in my eyes like fire. I see you everywhere."

You drag your nails down his neck and he groans into you. You can feel the impossibly hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his sweatpants. He ruts against your body lazily, his movements sluggish. The post orgasm haze still hangs over your body like a heavy fog, slowing everything down to a sluggish, sensual pace. It's hypnotic and delicious, the feeling of his hardness dragging along your thigh while he peppers kisses along your skin. You know this dance, your bodies know the steps so well it feels like your back at the very beginning again, like no time has passed at all between the two of you.

"Let me have you, please." His voice is tight. His desperation is bleeding into everything, tinging the air between you like an intoxicating drug. It makes your head spin and your skin tingle. He shifts his position so his hips are rutting into yours now, slow, deliberate, and grinding right down into you. You're so wet for him still that there's no resistance in his movements. With your eyes fluttering from the sensation, you drag your fingers across the expanse of his broad shoulders and then down to the dip in his spine, trailing your fingertips up under his sweatshirt to drag across his hot skin. It pulls a shaky whine out of him.

"God, please angel." His cock throbs against you. "I'll make it good for you, so fucking good. Just please let me have you, please."

You tug at his sweater until he relents, breaking away to yank it up over his head, tossing it somewhere in the room. You take the opportunity to look at his chest, which is flushed with color and heaving with want. His lips are parted as he tries to catch his breath, lust-blown eyes staring down at you like you hold all of the secrets to his universe. He's still getting harder in his pants, the fabric stretching taut over his cock, the shape of his length visible beneath it. The sight alone makes you dizzy, and the wetness that has been slowly building inside you reaches a crescendo, your cunt pulsing at the sight before you.

Your hand drifts down between your legs. Your fingers slide easily over the wetness that's gathered there from the pleasure Hyunjin has been so dutifully dishing out to you, and you don't even think about what you're doing. Hyunjin watches, eyes glassy as you dip two fingers in the wet mess he's made of your cunt. You slide them back up to your clit and moan, hips twitching into your own touch. His lips part a fraction, a breathy gasp spilling from him. He looks so painfully hungry that the thought of denying him crosses your mind for the briefest of moments. The thought disappears the second he opens his mouth.

"Baby, please, I need it." He shifts on his knees, squirming and aching for you. You almost don't recognize his voice— it's so raspy and tight with need, words stumbling out of him with no hesitation, no thought. It makes your skin hot all over again. You circle your fingers around your clit as you watch him watch you, his chest heaving in tandem with the movements of your fingers. 

Then he makes the prettiest little whine you've ever heard in your entire life.

The sound alone is enough to make you remove your hand and offer your wet fingers to him, his mouth falling open obediently to welcome them in. He swirls his tongue around your fingertips, lapping up any of the wetness he's left on you. He groans and shudders, eyes fluttering shut as he sucks and licks and hums around your fingers. Your brain feels like static and your thighs squeeze together to try and ease the ache inside you.

"Fuck, Hyunjin," you moan out, watching him suck your fingers clean. You try desperately to focus on keeping your hips still, the friction from your bodies moving together making you want to chase your pleasure again.

He moans around your fingers before pulling back, catching the hand you had been using to play with your clit and pulling it up to place a gentle kiss on your palm. He keeps eye contact the entire time, looking at you from under those thick lashes and his hooded eyes. His lips part just enough for the tip of his tongue to lick at your skin, his fingers still wrapped tightly around your wrist. It makes your stomach drop. He has you under a spell and he doesn't even need to try.

He nips at your fingertips once more before speaking again, his voice low. "You make it so impossible to see anything other than you," he says, breathless. "Everywhere I turn, everything I see, there you are."

He shifts again, his body moving downwards and slotting itself between your thighs. He uses his free hand to wrestle himself out of his sweatpants and boxers, leaving them to hang low on his hips, cock finally free from their confines and bobbing heavily in the cool air. A shudder runs through him and you can tell it's both from the chill and the feeling of relief that comes from the sudden freedom. Your eyes linger on the head, leaking so prettily for you that it has your cunt squeezing around nothing again.

The hand holding your wrist pushes gently until it has you pinned above your head on the bed, the grip loose enough to not hurt you but strong enough to hold you in place. He reaches down to finally wrap his free hand around himself, stroking the length of his cock as he lets his eyes wander all over your body. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and you're transfixed by the way he lets it run along the swell of his mouth. He's such a pretty, pretty picture like this.

You think he might say something again, but the only sound that fills the space is his soft pants and moans. His strokes on himself once, the slick, wet noises making your brain go fuzzy all over again. Then he stops, leaning forward so he's hovering above you, the tip of his nose mere centimeters from yours. His lips brush against your mouth and his fingers twitch around your wrist, like he wants to let go but can't bear to.

You tilt your chin up to catch his lips, a soft whine bubbling in your throat. Want simmers under your skin so badly that you're a shaking, trembling mess under him. He coos at you in the kiss, and you feel him shift over you, lining himself up with your entrance. He rubs the head of his cock against your slit, gathering the wetness that has dripped out of your pulsing cunt and onto the sheets, using it as lubrication for the tip of his cock to catch on your entrance. Your hips twitch upwards involuntarily, making him break the kiss with a gasp, and you both look down to watch as pushes the head of his cock into you.

"Shit," he whines. It comes out like a hiss, his eyes slipping closed. The feeling of your body welcoming him home has a shudder running up his spine. He releases your hand and uses his elbows to hold himself up over you, fingers burying themselves in the sheets surrounding your head. The tips of his ears are dusted pink, and his mouth is slack as he lets himself be enveloped by the heat of your body. He rests his head in the crook of your neck.

He feels impossibly large inside of you. It has been so long since you've had him this close, it's almost like you forgot how good he can fill you. He shifts and pushes himself a bit further in and you can't help the whimper that tumbles from your mouth. The stretch is so deliciously good that your hips twitch again, body instinctively trying to grind itself onto his length to get him right where you need him. He curses above you again and his grip in the sheets tighten as he nips at your throat.

"Angel," he chokes out. His breath feels boiling hot against your skin. "Please don't move. Not yet, baby. You feel too fucking good."

His voice is strained, tight in his chest like he's barely holding himself back from pounding into you like his body so obviously wants to. The feeling of being stretched by him has you quivering, cunt pulsing around the intrusion. It feels like it takes him forever, but he finally manages to fully slide into you, letting his hips press against yours so you can take the time to adjust to the fullness. His name is a mantra on your lips, the only coherent word your brain is able to conjure right now. He kisses your neck to calm you down, nuzzles his nose against you, licks at the tender skin that has a pulse beating rapidly underneath it.

"So tight, angel," he grunts. His teeth dig into the skin of your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin. "So fucking tight for me."

Your nails are digging into his back now, scratching angry red lines down his shoulder blades as you struggle to breathe beneath him. It feels so good, the way his weight pushes into you and lets you feel every twitch and pulse of his body, lets you feel him shake and quiver. He slides back a bit before pushing into you again, his entire body shaking with the effort it's taking for him to maintain this languid pace. His forehead is pressed against your skin still and his breath comes out hot and shaky as he fucks himself into you again and again, slow and shallow.

The drag of his cock has your toes curling. Your hands slide from his back to his shoulder, down to his biceps, fingers digging into the skin to leave crescents that you can't bring yourself to feel bad about. The heat is pooling in your stomach again, making the feeling in your toes and fingertips start to fizzle away. All that's left is you and Hyunjin. The artist and his muse.

"Hyunie," you breathe. "Hyun."

"I know baby," he grunts. You can feel the drag of his lips on you, leaving kisses against your feverishly hot skin. "I know. I'm here, I'm here."

He picks up the pace then, hips snapping against you to get his cock as deep as it'll go. Your brain has become static, aware of nothing more than the sound of skin slapping against skin, of the wet noises coming from where Hyunjin has returned to his home inside you. You arch your body into his hold and he slips his hand into the curve of your back, pressing you close so that every thrust brings him as close to your heart as he can get.

When he pounds into you particularly hard and you flutter around him, he grunts, sitting up and on his heels to gain leverage to piston into you deep. 

"So fucking perfect," he groans. He reaches down to thumb at your clit, circling it and grinding it down in time with his thrusts. You whine his name and buck against his hand as his thrusts get harder and faster in response. It has the coil in your belly winding tighter, so tight your body feels rigid against the bed. "Gonna show me that rainbow, right baby? Be good and come for me, yeah?"

You're already nodding frantically, words completely failing you. The sound of your skin meeting is loud, and your own moans are a chorus that's getting lost in his groans, in his pretty little whimpers of your name. It's all too much— you can barely catch your breath.

His hand that isn't playing with your clit finds one of yours and brings it to your stomach, pushing your palm into the skin below your belly button. When you feel it—the subtle bump from the tip of his cock, pressing against his fingers and into the flat of your stomach—you moan and dig your nails into the back of his hand.

"Fuck," he grits. "You like that angel? You like feeling full of me?"

A distant pulsing of your clit is the only warning you get before your orgasm hits you hard. You scream Hyunjin's name, nails digging into his skin for something to tether to. Your orgasm washes over you like an electric current, shooting up your spine and down to your toes. It whites your vision out, each pulse of Hyunjin's thrust translating into faded bursts of colors behind your eyes. The force of it makes your cunt squeeze down hard, so hard that you feel him stutter in his rhythm above you. You feel him drop forward to grip onto the pillow behind your head and bury his face into your chest, fingers digging in tight, hips bucking up into you. His eyes are squeezed shut and he's biting hard down on the fabric of your shirt, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. You don't need to look to know he's coming inside of you, filling you up and painting you white.

It feels like the two of you ride through the aftershocks for years before he comes back down enough to gently slip his cock out of you, hissing from the sensitivity. You barely even feel him roll off of you, the world still tilted on it's axis significantly. Your vision takes a second to focus as your chest heaves. It takes even longer to realize that Hyunjin is staring at you from where he's lying on his side, head propped up on his elbow and an expression on his face you haven't seen in months. The thought that he could still look at you with a mixture of reverence and wonder after all this time is overwhelming.

But exhaustion is the prevailing emotion, and you only manage a small, sleepy smile before you pass out, lulled to sleep by the soft kiss he presses to your shoulder.

—

When you wake up a few hours later, you’re not panicked to find that you’re by yourself. The sheets are still warm, the shower is running, and there is still a dull, pleasant ache between your legs. You stretch, muscles nicely liquid and pliant, before patting around for your phone on your nightstand.

You do not find your phone. You find, instead, a piece of paper.

It takes a moment of sleepy shuffling, but once you get the lamp on, you see that it’s a pencil sketch of your sleeping form. There’s a cloud of colors surrounding you, beautifully rich blues and pinks that overlap to create equally vibrant purples. The colors feather out around the paper, swirling into soft, delicate hearts.

There is a single word on the bottom of the drawing:

You let out a small huff of air. You would love to be annoyed, mad even, but at the end of the day, this is Chan, your best friend since elementary school. The guy who held you through heartbreaks and stressful semesters. The guy who memorized your ridiculously complicated Dunkin order. The guy who dropped everything to stay with you at the hospital a few months ago when things got really bad.

The guy you're secretly in love with.

Okay, maybe that was a minor and insignificant detail in the grand scheme of things. Either way, you can't be mad at Chan. 

You: don't worry channie. i'll be okay. I hope your stuff goes well ok? 

Channie: love u, good luck with your appointment, it's gonna be ok

Right. Your appointment.

You'd been having some increasingly bothersome and worrying symptoms for the better part of 2 years now. It started with a noticeable dull ache in your knees that wouldn't go away, reaching a peak now where there's not a single day you wake up pain free. The doctors were just as stumped as you were, and as sort of a last ditch effort, they sent you to a geneticist in the expensive part of the city. Thank goodness for adequate health insurance.

You were a bit nervous, which is why you asked Chan to come with you, but it wasn't that big of a deal. You've been to specialists before. 

Still, disappointment rises in your chest as you finish pulling your hair away from your face and securing it with a scrunchie before grabbing your essentials and heading out the door. You're more disappointed about the fact that he's not coming instead of what he's not coming to. You're getting a little weary and tired of the excuses and him bailing on plans. 

But then you think about the way his voice sounds when he calls you babygirl, and everything seems right again.

The trip to the geneticist office is long, and by the time you arrive, you feel the exhaustion in every joint. For such a high caliber place, it's decorated just as sterile and modern as you were expecting, with white walls and white furniture. When you go to check in, the receptionist hands you a tablet with various forms pulled up and points you to the waiting room.

You settle into one of the white waiting room chairs, balancing the iPad on your lap as you begin working through the forms. The questions start simple enough - name, date of birth, insurance information. Then they get more involved, diving into your medical history.

Have you experienced any of the following symptoms in the last six months?

The list that follows is daunting - joint pain (obviously), muscle weakness (sometimes), unexplained fatigue (who doesn't have that?), difficulty concentrating (depends on the day). You find yourself checking more boxes than you'd like.

Your mind drifts to Chan again. You wonder what was so important that he had to cancel. Usually, he at least gives you a concrete excuse, even if it's something silly like having to wash his hair or visit his parents. Today's vague "something came up" feels different. Worrying.

Before you can stop yourself, you pull out your phone.

You: this intake paperwork feels like the ending of a medication commercial

You: i’m surprised they haven't asked me if i or a loved one has been diagnosed with mesothelioma

The message stays on delivered for a while, longer than you expect. You give up on staring at your phone and turn your attention back to the paperwork.

After a ridiculous amount of questions and an even more ridiculous amount of signatures, you finish the preliminary stuff, heading back to the receptionist desk to hand her the iPad. She gives you a polite nod and smile and lets you know the nurse will be out in a second, so you can wait in the small chair by the double doors.

You're lost in thought, mindlessly scrolling through your phone when you hear the gentle sound of your name called. The sound makes you look up, tucking your phone away and grabbing your bag. A nurse stands by the double doors, clipboard in hand, wearing deep purple scrubs and a smile that somehow makes the sterile environment feel a little more human.

You push yourself up from the chair, joints starting their songs of protest after sitting still for so long. The nurse offers pleasantries that you respond to with your usual politeness. As you're walking towards the open door, you hear a beep and the whirr of an electronic lock unlocking. The closed side of the door swings open and–

There's Chan.

You both freeze mid-step, eyes wide and locked on each other like this is the first time you're seeing each other in years. It feels like it, but you did just see him last weekend at a mutual friend's birthday party. It was a fun night, but he was acting strange and dodgy then, too.

something came up.

You squint at him, not sure whether confusion or anger is winning the war in you right now. He opens his mouth once, twice– words are failing. The most he can do is let out a shaky, “Babygirl…”

You take that moment to really look at him. His hair is in its natural curly state, but significantly more messy than usual, wisps falling over and around themselves. His eyes are red and bagged heavily, and his shoulders seem like they're scrunching in on themselves. He hasn't looked like this since that night in the hospital with you.

Something is definitely wrong. 

The nurse clears her throat, and you remember you're being waited on. You motion wordlessly towards the nurse and he gives you a shaky nod.  

“I'll, um. I'll text you,” he mumbles weakly, holding the door open for you as you walk past. When you do, you can't help but look up at him, like way, way up. More than you usually do. You almost pause again– are your bone problems making you shrink, or is he somehow taller? Why does he look like that?

It's you who nods shakily this time, forcing yourself to tear your eyes away so you don't bump into a wall. It takes concentrated effort not to look back at him while you walk down the hallway, but somehow you manage.

The nurse brings you to an exam room and tells you to sit tight while she gets the vitals cart. You obey, still dazed and confused and maybe even a little hurt if you allow yourself to really feel it. Your phone buzzes less than a minute later, and you don't even have to guess who it is.

Channie: i'm so sorry.

Channie: i can explain. i promise.

Channie: i just.. i need some time before i can

Channie: im such a fucking idiot. i'm so sorry babygirl. please. 

There are a million and one responses in your head, each with varying levels of confusion or annoyance. But, among the haze, the image of his exhaustion floats back to you, and you find yourself folding.

As usual.

You: breathe, Chan. it's ok. 

You: whatever it is, we'll figure it out, yeah?

You: i do wish you told me but. it's okay. I can wait for an explanation.

Channie: you're so amazing. i don't deserve you. 

Channie: i'll call you when you get out ok? i love u

The nurse comes back with the vitals cart and begins prepping materials before you can respond properly, so you send back a heart and slip your phone into your pocket. When the blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm, you wonder if the nurse will notice how fast your heart is beating – though you're not sure if it's from anxiety or the way Chan's voice cracked when he called you babygirl.

Maybe both.

To his credit, Chan truly does make it up to you, in the form of an extended weekend away at his parents’ cabin upstate. The invitation, or request rather, comes a couple days after the geneticist incident while you're in bed feeling anxious over your test results.

Channie: picking u up thursday night, we're going to my parents’ cabin till monday

Channie: had plans?

If anyone else were to text you like that, you'd balk at their audacity. But because it's Chan, there's a growing heat in your face when you simply reply:

You: no plans. promise you won't bail?

He sends you a picture of his already packed duffel bag and backpack sitting by his door, then another picture of him and his laptop that's clearly pulled up to Google Maps. His eyebrow is raised, sinfully plump lips pulled into a smirk as he points at the screen.

Channie: give me some creditt

Channie: im already packed and the route is already planned

You giggle, feeling the perpetual knot of nerves in your chest loosen. A weekend away with Chan sounds like the perfect thing. It'll be a way to get your mind off the maybes and anxieties from your appointment, and a way to spend time with your best friend. 

A win-win.

You spend the next few days packing and gathering supplies for a weekend at the cabin, which isn't as simple a task as it sounds. Chan is adamant that you worry about nothing except getting your stuff together, so he won't tell you what he has planned or what to pack. After losing many back and forth arguments, you toss a little bit of everything in your small suitcase, leaving your backpack for entertainment and snack purposes.

Thursday creeps up slowly, then all at once. Unfortunately, you wake up to deep pain in almost all of your joints– even your fingers seem to be screaming with every movement. Getting ready takes longer than you want, but you push through, and it isn't long before you're sitting on your living room couch, waiting for Chan to let you know to come out. It was a wonder what large amounts of Ibuprofen could do.

You hear the familiar puttering of his engine before his text even comes through, the soft ding of your phone cutting through your apartment.

Channie: i'm here babygirl

Channie: coming up to help w ur bags 

A warm flutter runs through your chest at his thoughtfulness. You're not sure you'll ever really get used to it. 

You push yourself up from the couch, breath hitching when the movement causes a dull ache to radiate down the length of your legs. You pause, gripping the arm of the couch and squeezing your eyes shut for a moment.

It's fine, you reason with yourself. It's not that bad. You're fine.

You're thankful that you had the foresight to pack a suitcase instead of a duffle, at least this way you'll have something to bear your weight on while you walk.

Your jacket is slipped over one shoulder when you hear the buzz from your doorbell. Chan's smiling face greets you when you open the door, looking both insanely handsome and–

“Am I shrinking, or are you growing?”

He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his massive chest, which is somewhat concealed by the oversized sweater he's wearing. You want to scold him for such a light outer layer in the bitter late autumn, but your words get stuck in your throat as you find yourself tilting your head up further than usual to look at him.

And then you give yourself the pleasure of really looking at him.

His hair is its usual wispy, beautiful mess. He cards his fingers through it as he looks at you, smiling as though about to say something, when suddenly his smile drops, his eyebrows furrowed as he stands up straight.

“You're in pain.”

It’s not a question.  He's providing the information to you as fact. You blink in surprise.

“Yes, I am, but how did you–”

"I can–” He cuts himself off, looking uncertain for a moment before shaking his head. "I just know you, babygirl. You're not putting much weight on your left leg, anyway."

Hm. He caught you there.

“How bad is it?”

You finish shrugging on your jacket. “Um, maybe six out of ten. But I took medicine, I should be– Are you sweating?”

It's a stupid question, because he is, and you don't need a verbal response to confirm it. Sweat is beating at his temples and dampening his hair. Something flickers across his face, but then his expression is back to normal again. 

You watch him flip through a million different responses in his mind, but before he settles on one, he spots your bags next to the door and goes to grab them, slinging your backpack over his shoulder with profound ease. He's moving so fast and he's so jittery that you barely get a second to process everything.

“Chan,” you finally say when he whizzes past you again to put your remote back in the organizer. He pauses, back stiffening like he's a little kid again about to be scolded. He turns to you slowly. “Are you okay?”

You watch him take a deep, shuddering breath, his entire body seeming to expand and contract. The unnatural stiffness in his body seems like he's forcing himself to stay still, and you see his finger drumming patterns on his thigh.

You repeat his name, softer this time. “What's wrong?”

He shakes his head a bit too fast. “No, nothing, I–” He runs his fingers through his hair, pausing to grip the roots to ground himself to this moment. It works for a second. “I'm… okay. I can explain everything later babygirl, I just… I really just want to focus on spending time with you.”

There's a raw edge to his voice that makes your chest tighten. You study his face, taking in the exhaustion, the sheen from sweat, the way his eyes won't meet yours. Every instinct screams that something is wrong, but…

“Okay,” you relent with a sigh. It should be embarrassing how easily you fold for him. It should maybe even be studied. “But you promise that you'll explain?”

He deflates, eyes brightening with relief. “I promise. Chris-Cross my heart.” He punctuates his sentence by putting his hand over his chest.

You can't help the smile that takes over your face at that– the reference to the silly rhyme you'd made up when you were kids based on his English name. A bit of the anxiety in your chest loosens. “Now let's go before the traffic gets unbearable.”

You grab your keys and headphones, giving your apartment one last glance over before following Chan out of the door. By the time you finish locking up, he's already halfway to the elevator, his abnormally long legs quickening his pace. As you try to catch up with him, you can't help but notice his stature– how his shoulders seem broad under his sweater, how he just seems… more.

The elevator ride to the parking garage under your apartment building is quiet, but not uncomfortably. Chan is humming something under his breath, his increasingly restless fingers tapping out the rhythm on his leg. Despite all of it, you feel relaxed. No matter what's going on, this is still your Chan, your person. 

He tosses your bags into his trunk with an ease that perks your entire body to attention. When you go to pull open the passenger door, he beats you to it, adding a dramatic flourish as he holds it open for you.

Your heart almost jumps out of your chest.

In the passenger's seat is a small pink box with a label from your favorite bakery, alongside a nice variety of drinks in the cupholder. He's got a pair of fluffy slippers on the mat by your feet, too, and you can see on the dashboard he's turned the seat warmers on.

“Chan,” you breathe. Your heart is doing strange things in your chest, and you're either feeling extremely touched or about to pass out. “You didn't have to–”

“I wanted to.” You turn to look at him, and he's looking away, scratching the hair at the base of his neck. “Felt like an ass, you know, being so distant and weird. Needed to make it up to you.”

It's entirely unfair that he can just… say those things to you. He's your best friend, so of course he's affectionate– that's just how he's been since you met in third grade. What started with bringing extra GoGurts and tying your shoes when you broke your wrist has just now turned into spoiling you with cabin vacations and things you mention offhandedly that you like. 

No biggie.

He nudges you in the car playfully, making some lighthearted joke about him getting too soft on you. You can barely hear him over the thrumming of your heartbeat in your ears, choosing instead to follow his movements in the rear view mirror. You watch as he pauses by the trunk, carding a hand through his hair and taking a big breath, before eventually making his way over to the driver's seat. He tosses his phone to you, effectively putting you on music duty, and then you're on the road in a matter of minutes.

Time with Chan is always easy. You talk about any and everything for the first hour of the drive, including his job, your lack thereof, and your appointment, and he listens to every detail carefully. 

“So, they think it's a collagen issue?”

You nod, wiggling your feet in your new slippers as you shift your position. “They aren't entirely sure, but they're looking at collagen based connective tissue disorders, like Ehlers Danlos and Lupus. They think that could explain the other issues too.”

He looks contemplative as he peers around you to the mirror by your door, trying to merge into the next lane. “Are you scared?”

You shrug, body moving with the car. “Its.. complicated. On the one hand, it would be scary to receive a life changing diagnosis. On the other hand–”

“You're just happy to have answers.”

You nod again, taking a sip of the caramel latte he bought for you and wincing as you shift again. Long drives are always hard, but paired with the changes in the pressure as the two of you drive further into the mountains, your joints feel like they might disintegrate.

“Scale of one to ten?”

You blink. Chan hadn't taken his eyes off the road, so how could he have seen you shifting? You open your mouth, prepared to lie, but he glances at you with a single eyebrow raised. You sigh.

“Maybe a six,” you breathe.

“So the Ibuprofen didn't help?”

“It did, it's just wearing off.”

You put the latte back in the cup holder, using your hands to bear your weight as you try to find a comfy position to sit in. 

“What do you need, babygirl?”

You fight the shiver his voice sends down your spine. “Nothing. Well– I don't know. Maybe a nap? Is that okay?”

“‘Course it is. Here.”

With sinfully dexterous fingers, he reaches across your lap to recline your seat for you. You let him, body going still as his strong forearm helps ease you back with the chair. When you're comfortable, he reaches behind him to the floor of the backseat, fishing around until he produces–

“Is that your couch blanket?”

His answering grin is soft. “The one you've been threatening to steal? Yeah. Maybe.”

He drapes it over you skillfully, with you having to do very minimal adjusting. The familiar, homey smell of his apartment– warmth and something else very distinctly Chan – floods your senses and wraps you in the warmest hug. It feels like coming home.

You adjust yourself again, sleep wanting to come now that you're cozy, but the dull ache in your legs doesn't want to let go. Without warning, Chan's free hand slips under the blanket and finds the knee of the leg that hurts with amazing accuracy. His hand feels blazing hot through the fabric of your sweats as he rubs his thumb in soothing circles. 

“This okay, yeah?” he asks, his low voice a soothing sound to your ears. Words are caught in your throat, so you can only nod, but you don't miss how the pain starts to dissolve by his touch. You also try very hard not to think about how big his hand is on your knee.

“Get some rest, babygirl. I got you.”

The combination of his gentle touch, the music, and the smell of his blanket is making your eyelids heavy. As you finally drift off, a contented smile pulls at your mouth because no matter what, this is where you're meant to be. 

This is home.

Chan wakes you up about half an hour before you're expected to arrive. However, paired with delays, the pitch blackness of the mountains, and the general unrestrainedness of Murphy's Law, you were only now getting to the cabin at just past 1am. 

The cabin is beautiful, as always. It's nestled amidst a thick grove of evergreen trees, and its tall, warm wood exterior seems inviting even at the ungodly hour you two arrive. As he swings the car onto the gravel driveway, the headlights illuminate it, like it’s a secret just for the two of you.

“Cabin sweet cabin,” he murmurs as he kills the engine. He picks his phone up from the cup holder and gives it a few flicks, then suddenly the porch lights come on. You give a little stretch in your seat, your joints feeling pleasantly loose and mostly pain free– the nap worked wonders. 

The two of you pile out of the car, the fresh mountain air filling your nostrils. It smells like pine needles and freshwater, with an undercurrent of something wild and electric, like the air before a storm.

“Is it supposed to rain?”

Chan barely hears you, his antsyness now back full force. He's got both of your backpacks and his duffle bag slung over his shoulders, and he goes to grab your suitcase, but you appear by his side and pull it away from him. He blinks down at you, seeming surprised to see you there.

You tilt your head to the side. He still looks sweaty, and from where you're standing, it still seems like he's radiating an insane amount of heat. His breaths are labored, and you find yourself reaching over to rub your thumb over his hand. However, once your hands connect, he jumps and pulls away like you've shocked him.

At your hurt face, he tries to backtrack. “Static,” he supplies weakly. You say nothing, and the tips of his ears turn bright red. “Come on, let's get you out of the cold.”

You try not to jump to conclusions. At the end of the day, if something is really bothering him, if something is really wrong, Chan will tell you. He has always been the brooding type, but there is but so long he can keep things from you.

Still, no matter how much you try to take things at his pace, you keep seeing his face at the clinic: the deep bags under his eyes, the messy hair. The last time you looked into those eyes and saw that same pain, you were in a hospital bed hooked up to more monitors than you could count.

Chan had been brooding then too, refusing to leave your side, asking the doctors all the right questions, keeping your parents up to date when they had to go back home. You remember one night in particular, when you were chalk full of pain meds and falling asleep under the whirr of an oxygen mask, he'd stood at your bedside and rubbed his thumb over your forehead to soothe you. You couldn't speak, too exhausted and in pain to move in any capacity, but you didn't need to. He spoke to you the entire time about everything and nothing, switching his  murmuring to quiet comforts when you started to cry. Just before sleep took you under, you met his eyes– his exhausted, red rimmed eyes– and he gave you the softest, most tender look.

“We'll get through it, babygirl,” he had murmured. “You're gonna be okay. You'll come home.”

You did come home, of course, but that's when things became different. Chan was distant, constantly canceling plans, avoiding you.

You shake the memory from your head as you watch him fiddle with his keys in the lock. This weekend was meant to be about the two of you having fun. You could worry about everything else later.

Chan flicks on the overhead light in the living room area and the room floods with warmth. Everything looks just as familiar and homey as you recall.

Before you can take a good breath, he's got your bags and suitcase and is bounding up the stairs with them like they weigh nothing. You choose to busy yourself with getting comfortable, peeling off your coat and hanging it on the nearby hook.

You're tugging your hair back into a ponytail when he comes back down, and when you look up and spot him the scrunchie flies across the room.

He's taken off his hoodie, leaving him in a fitted white tee that does nothing to hide just how different his body looks. It's no secret that Chan works out, but he fills out this shirt like it was painted on him. You quickly pull your spare scrunchie from the other wrist to tie up your hair, trying not to dwell.

"Do you want me to put these in the kitchen?" you call out, holding up the bag of road trip leftovers.

"Yeah, just–" his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. "Just throw them on the counter. I'll organize everything later."

You pad into the kitchen, bare feet silent on the wooden floors. Everything is exactly as you remember it – the mismatched mugs in the cabinet, the worn wooden spoons in the ceramic holder, the string lights Chan installed last summer that give everything a soft glow. If you close your eyes, you could almost pretend nothing has changed.

Almost.

You find, unsurprisingly, that the cabinets and fridge are stocked full. Chan's parents likely came out to pack up some groceries when he told them you'd be coming. You find yourself leaning against an open cabinet, staring into space, your mind a million miles away.

"You okay, babygirl?”

You jump slightly – you hadn't heard him come up behind you. He's standing in the doorway of the kitchen, running his hands through his hair again, that restless energy still evident in every movement.

"Yeah, just..." you gesture vaguely around you. "Memories, you know?"

His expression softens, and for a moment he looks exactly like your Chan again. "Yeah, I know."

The moment stretches between you, comfortable and familiar, until your stomach decides to break it with an embarrassingly loud growl. Chan's laugh is startled but genuine.

"I don't remember that.” He jokes. “Hungry?"

You feel your cheeks heat. "Yeah, I think so.”

He starts rolling his sleeves up. “I could probably make some eggs and toast, if–.”

“It's one in the morning,” you scold him gently. “Nobody is cooking.”

He gives you a pout, which is comical considering his current stature, but you still feel a tug in your chest. “But–”

You shake your head, turning away from him so you don't relent. “No buts. We have tons of snacks. Help me find something.”

At your request, the two of you rummage through the drawers and cupboards. Everything either requires too much effort or won't agree with your stomach at this ridiculous hour. You're ready to call it quits and sleep for dinner when a lightbulb goes off in your head.

“Oh, can I have one of your protein bars? You always buy the good kind.”

His smile is soft, dimples catching the light in a way that makes his entire face seem like a dream. “Of course. They're in my backpack, next to the couch.”

You slide your way to his bag with an excited pep in your step. Chan, being who he is, always buys the amazingly expensive protein bars that manage not to taste like chalky disappointment. They're surprisingly filling, and you know they'll settle your stomach without causing a stomach ache.

You find his bag quickly in the low light of the room, squatting down to rifle through it. With your hand in the front pocket, you dig around until your fingers find something that feels like the protein bar box. In your hungry haze, you yank it out without thinking.

It is not the protein bar box.

Instead, it's a thick packet of paper. You go to put it back when the letter head of the genetic clinic you visited catches your eye, along with the words “After-Visit Summary”.

Maybe if your heart wasn't thrumming in your ears, you would've heard his panicked footsteps coming after you. But the only thing in your ears is the erratic beating of your heart, one that only gets worse when you turn the packet over and read the small words on the margin:

You were seen today for: Hormonal Changes. The following issues were addressed: Genetic Lycanthrope Syndrome (Werewolf Gene).

You hear your name through the roaring in your ears. It's a soft, tentative sound that cracks around the edges. You turn, slowly, to see Chan almost right behind you, his face drained of all color and his eyes blown wide.

“Chan,” you breathe. You turn a bit more towards him, the packet still gripped in your hand. “What–”

"I can explain," he says quickly, desperately. His hands are shaking. "I was going to tell you, I swear, I just– I needed time to–”

He trails off, looking around the room as though looking for someone to help him.

Genetic Lycanthrope Syndrome.

You came across this condition when you were researching the clinic, as they mentioned that they were the only place in the area that had the facilities to test for it. It was, as the paper put it, the werewolf gene. People with the condition experienced heightened senses of smell, increased strength, sensory sensitivities– they were werewolves, just without the whole full moon transformation thing.

To say the condition was rare was an understatement. Both parents had to be carriers for the trait, and even then it only occurred in 25% of those births.

And Chan happened to be one of them.

Everything clicks into place now. The sudden growth spurt, the feverishly hot skin, how he knows when you're in pain without you saying a word.

“This is why you were at the clinic,” you say softly. It's not a question.

He nods jerkily, still looking like he might bolt at any second. You stand up to take a step toward him and he actually backs away.

“Don't,” he breathes. “I'm… I don't want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me?” You almost laugh. “Chan, you're not going to hurt me. How could you think that?”

“No, you don't understand,” he cards his hands through his hair, pausing to tug on the roots. “I can't… I don't know how to control myself yet. I'm different now, I'm–”

“Still Chan.”

The sound he makes is painful. “You can't say that,” he breathes. His hands drop to his sides again. “You don't know what it's like.”

“So tell me," you urge. You move as though you're about to take another step towards him, and your heart drops at how his entire body flinches. “Chan. Chris. Christopher. Look at me please.”

The use of his full name does something to him, and you watch as he settles, eyes drifting over to you slowly. His gaze is intense, and in the dim light of the living room, you feel akin to a deer staring down a wolf, no pun intended. 

It does not frighten you the way it should.

“Talk to me, please,” you beg. “You're my best friend. I'm here for you, always.”

“I can smell when you're in pain,” he grits out. It's not what you're expecting to hear. He clenches a hand into a fist, then lets it go. “You usually smell sweet, like caramel and linen. But then your scent gets an undercurrent of something harsh, like burnt sugar and metal, and I… I feel like–”

He lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes as he cuts himself off. “I can't control my strength. I've broken so much shit around the apartment. Don't wanna touch you. Don't wanna break you.”

“You won't hurt me.” You take the opportunity to get closer, but he must smell the closing distance because his eyes fly open. You're in front of him before he can move. “Do you know why?”

Chan's breaths are ragged and labored. “Why?”

“Because you're still my Chan. Still the guy who's been taking care of me since elementary school. Still the person I trust most in the world."

His breath hitches. "How can you say that? How can you just... accept this?"

You can't help the small laugh that escapes. "Chan, I'm literally at the same genetic clinic getting tested for a collagen disorder. Did you think I wouldn't understand what it's like to have your body change in ways you can't control?"

That seems to catch him off guard. He turns away, a frown tugging at his lips. "That's... that's different.”

“Is it though?” You pretend to be thoughtful. “Last I checked, it's like both of our bodies are changing in ways we don't understand. Like we both have to navigate a new normal.”

"That's exactly why I–" he cuts himself off, running both hands through his hair. "I can't risk hurting you. Not when you're already..."

"Already what?" You challenge, taking one final step. You're close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to look at him properly. "Already broken?”

His face twists up like you've punched him in the stomach. “No! God, no. When you're already going through so much.”

“A lot of what I'm going through is a waiting game, Chan– waiting for test results, waiting for appointments at specialists. You don't have to keep things from me because of that.”

You poke him in his side, trying to lighten the mood. “Besides, this? Finding out you're a werewolf–”

“The correct term is Lycanthropy Syndrome–”

“-- This is the kind of stuff that keeps me grounded. Having other things to think about. Having you around.”

You watch the tension slowly bleed from his shoulders, almost as though he's deflating. There's obviously more he isn't telling you– you can see it in the way his eyes still can't seem to meet yours– but you don't push it. He's already said so much.

“So,” you start. You rock back and forth on your feet. “Can I make werewolf puns now?”

He rolls his eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Are you pawsitive?”

He groans at that, a smile pulling at his lips despite himself. “You're the worst. I'm gonna leave you here and go home.”

But he's laughing anyway, his usual giggle that makes everything seem like it'll be alright. You beam at him. and your body lights aflame when he smiles back down at you softly. The two of you hold eye contact for a second, and you watch something untraceable flash in his eyes. Before you can even process it, he's looking away again and clearing his throat.

Another silence falls between you, but this one is different. Chan is fidgeting again, his fingers drumming against his thigh in that restless way you've noticed all evening. He's looking everywhere but at you, and you can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"What is it?" you ask softly.

He opens his mouth once. Twice. Three times– words seem to be failing him again. You raise an eyebrow and he sighs, a sheepish smile on his big stupidly handsome face.

"Can we..." he starts, then stops. Starts again. "Would it be okay if we... like we used to..."

You wait patiently as he struggles with the words. His ears are turning red again.

"Can we share my bed?" he finally gets out in a rush. "Like– like when we were kids? Just for tonight. I just... I haven't been sleeping well since everything started and I… um…”

Your brain short circuits as the request processes.

Share… a bed. With Chan. Taller, wider, more muscular Chan. Chan whose body heat seeps through every layer of clothing. Chan whose one hand can cover your knee easily. 

From the way your body reacts, your knee jerk reaction is to say no. He's already going through enough, and Lord knows what types of degenerate scent you'd be giving off if you spent an entire night with him.

But when you open your mouth to decline, you notice how he's standing, with his shoulders curved inward, trying to make himself smaller. His big brown eyes are pleading, almost desperate, and you think about how scared he was earlier, how convinced he was that you'd reject him once you knew the truth.

Fuck it.

“Of course, Channie.”

The smile on his face is nervous, like he expects you to change your mind any second. “Yeah?”

You nod, ignoring the way your brain tries to supply you with images of everything you want to have happen. "Yeah. Just... let me get changed first?"

He nods quickly, that restless energy back but different now – excited rather than anxious. "Yeah! Yes. Your stuff is in your room, yeah? I'll be in mine when you're ready."

He's bounding up the stairs before you can say anything. You take the moment alone to take a deep breath. You can do this. It's just Chan. Just your best friend.

When you reach your room, you duck into the attached bathroom to change quickly, opting for the full top and bottom PJ set rather than the oversized hoodie you were originally going to wear. You stare at your reflection, willing yourself to calm down and look normal.

Sharing a bed with Chan is not a new concept. When you'd first gotten close in grade school, the two of you tended to hop from house to house, sleeping wherever without a care in the world. The habit continued as you grew up– in college during study sessions, during movie marathons on school breaks, that one time a few months ago when you'd gotten terribly drunk at your friend Jeongin's birthday party. It had never been anything more than two friends seeking each other's comfort.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror again, face flushed and breathing ragged. You force yourself to calm down– if Chan could smell when you were in pain, he could probably smell the indecency coming off of you in waves. 

Everything is fine.

When you reach the doorway of the master bedroom, Chan is already in bed scrolling on his phone. You watch his nostrils flare for a second, eyes fluttering shut as he puts his phone on the night stand.

The king sized bed looks both too big and too small.

When he opens his eyes, he looks surprised to see you. and you watch red start to tint his neck. “Um. Hey,” he breathes.

You hover in the doorway, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of space between you. "Hey."

Chan shifts, pulling back the covers on what has always been 'your' side of the bed “Um. Do you want... I mean, we usually..." He trails off, looking everywhere but directly at you.

You take the initiative and move towards the bed, sliding down under the covers until they reach just under your chin. Chan shuffles next to you, scooting this way and that, flipping like a hot dog on a stick. You both settle on your back eventually, staring up at the ceiling.

“This is weird,” he says after a few minutes of strained silence.

“Not weird,” you supply. “Just… different.”

“Different…,” he murmurs. “Different because I'm different?”

You almost laugh. “Chan, what? No–”

He's sliding out from under the covers before you can finish. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have– this was dumb to ask.” You ignore the way your heart drops. “I'll go sleep in the other room. Or on the couch. Or–”

You grab at his wrist before he can go anywhere. He doesn't jerk away this time, but his entire body goes rigid. You rub your thumb along the pulse point on his wrist.

“You don't have to leave,” you say slowly. “It’s not weird because you're different. It's weird because we're both over thinking it.”

He lets out a little breath. “We are, aren't we?”

"Yeah." You squeeze his wrist once before letting go. He settles back down into the bed, still looking a bit uncomfortable, but not ready to run anymore. 

You smile at him before holding open the cocoon you made in the blanket. "Come here, you big baby."

"I resent that," he grumbles, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.

It takes some maneuvering to find a comfortable position. Chan is hesitant at first, careful not to crowd you, but eventually you manage to guide him until his head is tucked under your chin, his arm draped carefully over your middle. His body curls around yours despite the size difference, like he's trying to make himself smaller again. When he finally settles, it feels like every part of him is contoured to fit you perfectly.

You ignore the heat in your stomach.

The silence that settles around you is comfortable now, broken only by your breathing beginning to sync up. His body weight is grounding, and the heat he's radiating feels like the world's best heating pad. 

You're just beginning to doze off when Chan makes a low, displeased grunt in the back of his throat. You can feel his eyebrows scrunch together where he's pressed against your collarbone.

“Your hip,” he murmurs.

“Hm?”

He shifts in your hold, maneuvering you until his other hand can slide under your body to wrap around you. “Your hip hurts. Or it's about to start.”

Sleepiness has made you a pliant, barely conscious little thing. You're about to ask how he can tell when his big, warm hand presses against your hip, heat radiating through the fabric until it settles deep into your bones. You can't help but let out a little whimper from the immediate relief it gives you.

Chan makes another sound in his throat, grip increasing on you almost infinitesimally. 

“This good, babygirl?”

“Mmf.”

The warmth and relaxation is muddling your brain. “S'good, Channie.”

He makes a more pleased sound and nuzzles closer. Sleep takes you quickly after that, and all you can think about as you finally succumb is how lucky you are to have him here with you. You'd love to say as much, but you're too tired to open your mouth, so you give him the tiniest of squeezes, hoping he understands.

From the way his arm tightens around you, you think he does.

Things seem less charged in the morning.

You wake up to sunlight glittering through the curtains and the other side of the bed empty. The sheets are still warm, but given what you've come to learn about Chan and his temperature, he could've left the bed anywhere from three seconds to four hours ago.

You stretch a little bit as you try to wake up fully, heading to the other bedroom to freshen up for the day. It seems like an okay day pain-wise. You're at a steady three out of ten everywhere except your hands, but you brush it off. With the way you sleep, your hands take longer to catch up to the lower pain levels in the rest of your body. It's just a matter of time. 

Still, you run them under warm water in the bathroom, hoping to loosen them up.

When you finally emerge, you follow the mouthwatering scent of cooking down the stairs and into the kitchen. After a nonexistent dinner, you're starved, and you could really go for some food right now.

You pause in the archway of the kitchen.

Food is… an understatement.

Chan stands at the stove, spatula in hand and preparing to flip what looks like an omelette. All around him on the counters are various other breakfast foods: scrambled eggs, bacon, pancakes, hashbrowns, fruit–

“When did you have time to make a sourdough starter?”

He startles slightly, turning to face you with a sheepish smile. “Ah… good morning, babygirl. I may have.. gone a bit overboard.”

“A bit?” You slide into a seat at the edge of the kitchen island in the one spot where there's no food. “If you were planning to invite the woodland creatures you could've given me a heads up, I'd be decent.”

The responding huff makes you smile. “I cannot communicate with animals. Weirdo.” Chan grins. He folds the omelette in half and flips it over. “I just… I got hungry.”

You sneak a piece of bacon off of a nearby plate and snort. “‘Hungry’ seems like a gross understatement. Is this a side effect?”

Chan's ears turn pink as he plates the omelette. "Yeah, actually. My metabolism is... different now. Food tastes different too– more intense." He starts moving dishes to the kitchen island, careful not to overcrowd your space. "Everything is more intense, really."

"Like what?"

He hums thoughtfully as he settles into the chair next to you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. "Smells are the biggest thing. Like, I can smell everything. The coffee brewing, the bacon grease in the air, the rain that's coming later–"

"It's going to rain?"

"Yeah, probably this afternoon." He passes you a fork and a plate you never noticed him constructing. "I can smell it in the air. What’s the word? Petrichor, but... before the rain actually falls? If that makes sense.”

You hum around a fork full of eggs, cracking the fingers on your free hand. “That sounds like it can get miserable. Is everything just… enhanced all the time?”

He takes a bite out of a chunk of toast, making a so-so motion with his hand. “It's enhanced all the time, but the way it is right now, the intensity, that’s only sometimes. Only during–”

He cuts himself off, swallowing his bite of toast with more power than necessary. 

“During the full moon?” You supply.

He nods quickly. “Yeah.”

There's a lull in the conversation that you try not to read into. It doesn't take much effort anyway, because you notice that eating is taking more effort than it was a few minutes ago. Your grip on the fork is weird, and you can't seem to close your fingers all the way around it.

That's fine, you think to yourself. You switch hands. Everything is fine.

You try not to let the revelation sour your mood. Chan mentioned it was going to rain, and while your doctors didn't know why you were in pain, they knew what kinds of things made it worse, and the air pressure changes from rain was one of them. This was just something you had to learn to deal with now.

Resentment for your condition rises in your chest with the little bit you've eaten, and you take a sip of apple juice to swallow it down. It's not fair. People your age were doing things like mountain climbing, running marathons, just living. And here you were, struggling to feed yourself and hold a fork.

It's fine.

A hand on your shoulder pierces through the dense clouds shrouding your mind, and you feel yourself startle a little. Chan is facing you, leaning his impossibly tall torso down to look you right in your eyes. His gaze is intense, gold flecks in his eyes swimming around as he stares.

“What hurts,” he breathes. The sound of his voice is light as a feather, floating through the air before coming to rest gently on your lips. 

“My hands.”

“Scale of one to ten?”

You think about saying your number, but upon remembering how nice and easy conversation was this morning, you decide to lie. “Four.”

The look in Chan’s eyes grows more intense, and you swallow around nothing. He levels you with a very unimpressed look, eyebrows creasing and his plushy, pink lips frowning. He only says two words, but they send a ripple through your body anyway:

“Try again.”

Fuck. You're giving yourself whiplash. Jumping from frustration to stark arousal was an Olympics level move your brain wasn't prepared for. There's a different kind of haze clouding your mind now.

“It's a seven,” you breathe. 

He's up on his feet before you can fully compose yourself, long legs taking him up the stairs and bringing him back down in a matter of seconds. When he sits down again, he's holding your decorative medication pouch and a mini water bottle from your backpack.

You gulp at the way the veins in his arm bulge.

“Which bottle is it?”

You come back to yourself, licking your incredibly dry lips before you respond. It takes a blink or two before you can orient yourself in the present. “Um, red bottle. The tall one.”

He places the bottle and water in front of you in a gentle way that contrasts the energy in the room. You fumble with the child proofing for a second before he plucks the bottle from you, undoing the lid with one hand.

Wow. Fuck.

"Thanks," you mumble, accepting the pills he tips into your palm. His hand moves from your shoulder to the back of your neck as you swallow them, and you try not to shiver at the contact.

“Do you need a nap while the pills work?”

You pout, finally coming back to your good senses. “We're supposed to have a movie marathon today.”

“I didn't realize the TV had a flight to catch?”

You glare at him, albeit thankful for the teasing sarcasm to loosen the tension. “You're not funny.”

Chan's lips pull into a smirk and he gives a little shrug. “I think I am.”

You roll your eyes at him as he stands, coming over to you and easing you out of your seat. He gives a little ‘tsk’ at your faux attitude, but his hands are back on your shoulders, guiding you towards the couch. When you finally do lay down, he's already throwing his signature couch blanket over you, tucking it around you securely.

“Comfy?”

You are, but you've also realized he's tricked you into a nap, so you do the adult thing and mock him before sticking your tongue out at him.

“Wow,” he murmurs. He slides down the couch and onto the floor. “I haven't seen that routine since 4th grade.”

You watch as he adjusts his legs a few times, his head resting against the armrest right by your fingers. It’s unspoken, but you know that he'll stay until he's sure you're asleep. 

"You don't have to sit on the floor," you murmur. "There's plenty of room up here."

He shakes his head. "Nah. I'm good here.”

You watch his side profile for a minute, basking in all of his Chan-ness. He settles in a bit more and lets his eyes flutter closed. When he does, he leans his head back a little more, and you watch the delicate bob of his Adam's apple as he swallows. 

“Chan?” Your mouth is moving before you know it. 

“Hm?”

“Were you scared? When you… got the diagnosis?”

His eyes open at that, and he turns his head so he can look at you. The intensity from earlier is gone, replaced by that familiar warmth that only he has.

There's a beat of silence where all Chan does is stare, almost as if seeing you for the first time. It passes, though, and then he goes back to his previous position, eyes closed again as he speaks. “No,” he says finally. “I wasn't scared. The only thing I thought about was you.”

“Me?”

He nods against the couch. “They kept talking about what it meant and all of that, and all I could think about was how on earth I was going to tell you.”

You reach a hand over and start rubbing at his scalp in the familiar way you've always done. “And yet,” you tease gently. “I had to accidentally find the papers.”

He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, leaning into your hand. “That wasn't the plan,” he murmurs. “Was supposed to tell you properly.”

You stay quiet, continuing to play with his hair. The quiet domesticity is comforting, and you find your eyes fluttering closed too. 

You move your fingers through his hair in nonsensical patterns and shapes, occasionally letting your nails graze his scalp. His breathing evens out eventually--he's not sleeping, no, just content and peaceful. You're a different story, though, and medication induced drowsiness starts flowing its way through your body.

Your movements grow slower and uncoordinated, hand drifting lower, and lower, until eventually your fingers trail to the nape of his neck. When you drag your nails across the sensitive skin there, Chan makes a sound that shoots straight through you and straight to your core– something between a pleased hum and a growl that vibrates through his entire body.

Both of you freeze. Your heart starts doing gymnastics in your chest while the sound echoes in your ears, making your body grow hot. Beneath you, Chan is rigid, like every muscle has been pulled taut.

The room is entirely still for a second. Then, he clears his throat a little, shifting himself so you have better access. “Sorry,” he murmurs. “Keep going. Feels nice.”

You force your fingers to move again, continuing their exploration and tracing the curls on Chan's head. 

You repeat your mantra in your mind:

Everything is fine.

The moment passes like a summer storm– intense and fleeting– and soon Chan is relaxed again, practically melting under your touch. You're actively fighting sleep now but you're realizing it's a losing battle. Your movements become slower, less deliberate, until your hand is simply resting in his hair.

"Sleep, babygirl," he murmurs, voice thick and honeyed. "I got you.”

So you do.

When you wake up a bit later, you find yourself, sadly, alone.

In place of Chan's thick curls is the cold rectangular slab that is your cell phone. You squint at it sleepily, not remembering bringing it down with you for breakfast or having it on the couch. You flick through the unlock process, and when your phone opens, it's on the notes app.

Hi babygirl. If you're reading this, I went to the store. We don't have any vegetables. I'll try to be quick. - Channie

You wipe sleep from your eyes as you sit up, trying to orient yourself in your surroundings. You hear the steady whooshing of the rain outside and carefully flex all of your joints. You're content to find that you're at a steady three out of ten everywhere.

You settle back into the couch cushions, pulling the blanket around you tighter. It's not scary to be by yourself, especially not in the cabin,  but Chan's presence is definitely missed. You decide to fill the silence with television, something low stakes and stupid that you can listen to while you scroll on your phone.

However, the microscopic roku remote has decided to go missing, and after digging through the couch cushions twice, you sit back with a huff. You suppose your phone will do for now.

You open YouTube with the intent to watch one of your favorite Let's Play videos, but as you scroll through your homepage, something catches your eye. The title makes you pause:

Q&A: Genetic Lycanthropy Syndrome (aka The Werewolf Gene)

The algorithm strikes again, you suppose.

The video was posted a little over a month ago and has a substantial amount of views and comments. The creator themselves has well over 100k subscribers. It looks perfectly legit. Before you can overcomplicate it and talk yourself out of it, you press play.

“Hi everyone!” The guy on the video has a soft, smiling face, accented by round, thin-rimmed glasses. “Welcome or welcome back to my channel. If you're new here, I'm Seungmin, and I have GLS, which stands for Genetic Lycanthropy Syndrome. Or, to put it simply, I have the werewolf gene.”

You are immediately invested.

“I set up a question box on Instagram a couple days ago, and you guys really went to town.” Seungmin chuckles. “So I'll answer a few of those in this video.”

The first few questions are simple enough– what made him suspect he had it, the diagnostic process, how his family reacted. He answers every question thoughtfully and thoroughly in a way that makes you learn more than you thought you needed to.

You're writing down the fact that people with GLS tend to need more red meat than dark meat in their diet when he starts reading out the next question. 

“@jutdae asks, ‘how does the enhanced sense thing not drive you crazy?’” Seungmin lets out a little laugh. “So, the sense thing is kind of tricky for non-GLS people to understand. On a regular day, it might be enhanced, but maybe only 50% better than most people. The real issue is when rut or heat cycles start.”

You drop your phone, cursing when it slips right into the couch cushions.

“During a rut–” Seungmin's muffled voice continues as you fish around for your phone. “-- it's probably around 150% better. And our body temperature will skyrocket, like a constant fever type. The extra sensory input can cause a lot of restless energy too, so we're always feeling like we want to crawl out of our skin. Thankfully ruts, or heats for AFAB people, only happen once every three months, for about a week.”

You finally find your phone, heart pounding as you fumble to hold it still. The boy on your screen adjusts his glasses before continuing, entirely unaware how he's just flipped your life on its head.

“Well, that's for people who've presented for a while. When you first present with symptoms, you can get your rut every month. And that's… an entirely different type of intense. I surely don't miss that.”

Your brain might be oozing out of your ears.

You don't need to Google what a rut cycle is. You already know. It's the one aspect of GLS everyone is familiar with.

You scan through the events of the last 36 hours with unfathomable speed. It's all there. Every single symptom mentioned in this video. 

Extremely heightened senses. Restless energy. Fever-hot skin. 

Chan.

Chan hasn't been able to sit still. Chan's skin is hot to the touch. Chan keeps telling you when your pain is about to start because he can smell it. Chan brought you to an isolated cabin in the mountains.

Chan is in rut. Chan's diagnosis was only finalized less than a week ago. Ergo, this is his first rut.

The sound of a car door slamming makes you jump so hard that your phone flies away from the couch and skitters onto the floor.

Shit.

You scramble to grab it, swiping out of the video before Seungmin finishes answering what you're certain are other life changing questions. You can't hear anything he's saying, laser focused on the sound of Chan's impending footsteps and the sound of rustling grocery bags.

“Babygirl,” Chan's voice vibrates from the entryway. “I'm back. You awake?”

“Yeah,” you call, forcing yourself to sound steady. You clear your throat. “Yes, I'm up.”

You hear him put the bags down and toe off his sneakers, socked feet padding into the room where you are, undoubtedly, staring like a ghost came through the door and robbed you of your possessions. You fight to fix your expression into something normal, but all of that goes out the window when he steps into the threshold.

He's soaked. The rain has soaked through his shirt, making it cling to his chest and highlight every cut of his muscle. His curls are wild, some of them plastered to his forehead while others seem to be competing for the best pose. There's water dripping down his neck an–

You find a spot on the wall to look at instead. 

“Sorry I took so long.” He brushes his hair off of his face. “The store closest was closed, had to run way into town.”

“It's fine,” you squeak. He looks at you, eyebrows furred. “I was fine, just watched some YouTube. I wasn't up for long.”

He tilts his head, studying you with his nearly impossibly dark eyes. His lips push up, almost like he's pouting, but you watch as confusion takes over his gaze. He squints, and you burrow yourself further into the couch. If his smell is heightened, then he probably–

“You okay?”

You nod too enthusiastically. “Yes, of course. Why?”

He opens his mouth to say something, moves his body as though he'll take a step towards you, but he stops. You hold eye contact for a second, feeling small and exposed among his gaze. But then he nods almost imperceptibly, turning to grab his wet sweater from the entrance. 

“I'm gonna get changed and make us some lunch. Sandwiches?”

You nod.

“Good. Find us something to watch, yeah?”

As soon as he's gone up the stairs, you collapse back onto the couch, pressing your hands against your burning cheeks.

Okay. Okay.

You're probably– definitely – making this weird. Maybe you've read too many werewolf romance novels. Chan is going through something a lot more tangible than turning into a wolf and scampering off into the moonlight, and here you are, being a degenerate as usual. He brought you here because you're his best friend. Because he needs support.

The rut thing… is just a coincidence. Or maybe not even a big deal, or something he wants you to worry about. Yes. That's it. 

Distantly, you hear the shower turn on, and everything from your neck to the crown of your head lights aflame.

The remote chooses that moment to reappear, launching itself from the couch blanket and onto the floor. You snatch it up quickly, flicking on the TV and navigating to Netflix. You need something light. Something stupid. Something to fizzle out the charged energy in the atmosphere.

He'll handle himself… however that may be. You repeat this to yourself as you scroll through the comedy section, eyes blurring at the words in front of you. It's none of your business, anyway. You have one job right now, and that's finding something to watch.

You settle on a cooking show when you hear him coming down the stairs again. You focus on the TV, your mantra echoing around your skull as though you have no brain.

Everything is fine. You're fine. He's fine. 

“Worst Cooks in America?”

You nearly jump out of your skin. He's standing behind the couch, now wearing dry clothes– a zip up sweatshirt and loose sweats. You notice, entirely by accident, that there's no shirt under the sweater. Just plain, exposed skin.

Great. 

You hum out a noncommittal answer, just as he turns and heads to the kitchen, mentioning as he goes that he's using roast beef.  You listen to the sound of the fridge opening and the hum of the toaster as he plugs it in, no doubt solely to put your bread to toast, the same way you've eaten a sandwich since you were eight years old.

You can do this. You can act normal. You're an adult, and you have been for a few years. Things don’t have to be weird just because you now know that your best friend is a delicate, walking bundle of hormones. Chan clearly trusts you enough to have you here, and you're not going to mess that up by being a disaster about it.

You hear him humming in the kitchen, puttering about through the cabinets, the clink of plates on the counter. It's so normal, so Chan, that it almost makes you forget about everything else.

You shake your head, hoping to physically dislodge the memories of the noise he made when you were scratching his neck– the deep, rumbling groan that ran through your sleep-riddled body until stopping to wake you up where you're most sensitive. It was just a noise, you make noises all the time.

When he appears in the doorway with the two plates, all smiles and soft around the edges, you take a deep breath before returning the smile. 

You can do this. You can sit down next to Chan and watch the show and be normal. Everything is fine.

Probably.

… Maybe.

Everything is not fine.

The realization comes later in the night when the darkness from the storm bleeds into the darkness of late evening. It's nearing 10pm, and you and Chan are still seated on the couch together, now on opposing sides, still watching the same cooking show.

Or pretending to.

Chan seemed to be getting worse as the evening progressed. When he first came in from outside, he seemed calmer, less tense, but now he was sitting rigid, wound up like a toy no one would release. He was sweating an almost ridiculous amount, and the zip from his hoodie was pulled down to the middle of his stomach, exposing all the skin underneath.

His breaths were coming in short pants now. He had a steady grip on the fabric of his sweats, and you were almost certain that he'd tear a hole in them with the way he was grabbing them.

You weren't sure what to do.

You had tried nudging him with your foot gently a while ago, but when your skin made contact, he made another low sound in his throat that shot right up your leg and into your core. You pulled your foot away quickly, apologizing, making sure to press your knees together so the scent of arousal wouldn't reach him. 

And that was before he had started panting like… well, a dog. Now you weren't sure you'd be able to reach him through the fog of his own mind even if you screamed right in his face.

You're about to try saying something, anything as the episode that was playing ends, but he shoots up off the couch before you can think of words to say. He's pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes, visibly shaking with the effort of breathing normally.

“Chan,” you start.

He holds up a hand. “I'm– I'm okay,” he breathes. 

He's not. 

“The rain, I think,” he grits out. “Too loud. Too much. You're okay, though?”

Of course Chan would find the time to check on you while going through his own crisis. You sit up a little on the couch, staring at him even though he has his eyes covered. The words are coming out of your mouth before you can even think about what you're saying: “Do I smell okay?”

He grunts. You suddenly understand why cavepeople had so many kids. 

“Smell fine,” he breathes. He slides his hands down his face, fixing his gaze away from you. “You do, I mean. You smell good.”

It dawns on you then that maybe the newly awakened wolf-like part of his consciousness is reacting to your smell because you're a girl, and he's in a rut. Maybe you should leave the room, give him some space?

You're trying to find a way to ask if that's what he needs without giving away what you know, but he fiddles with the zipper of his hoodie again, wanting to tug it down some more. He stops, takes a deep breath, and then drops his hand.

“I think I need a second,” he says. His hands are twitching at his side. “Need my room. Need the quiet, yeah?”

You nod. That's fine. It's for the best anyway, right?  “That's okay. You can come back when you're ready.”

He nods, still not looking at you. There's a moment where he seems to hesitate, but whatever internal war he's having ends quickly, and he basically runs up the stairs. Just before you hear his door close, you hear the sound of his hoodie zipping down all the way.

Heat floods your face as you turn back to the show.

After a while of still failing to really pay attention, you pull your phone out from under the blanket. Despite the pure, unfiltered desire thrumming through your veins, you still want to help Chan. It's bothering you how bothered he is, how helpless he seems. There has to be something you can do for him.

You type, How to help a werewolf in a rut into your search bar, and after realizing very quickly that that's actually the title of an erotica series, you change your search to something more medical sounding.

It takes trial and error, but GLS and Rut Cycles Help seems to give you the best results.

You find a forum on a website dedicated to rare genetic disorders. It’s the one link that seems to have real information, ironically nestled between a fanfiction website and Twitter. 

You stop on a thread that catches your attention:

Non-GLS Roommate Here: Any way I can help with heats?

Not in that way, they write. But my roommate just presented with this disorder and she's absolutely miserable, and I feel so bad. I'm not trying to fuck her, but is there anything I can do to help?? Meds? Chocolate?? Leaving her alone??

There are only a handful of responses, mostly people lol-ing about how non-lycanthropes always think a heat cycle is like a period. One answer sticks out to you:

if it's her first heat, she's probably running a pretty high temp. make her some cold drinks to bring the temperature down and the hormones may follow. that used to work for me. ideally, try to convince her to take a cold shower, but her instincts might be telling her not to. it's a delicate game lol. don't press the shower thing if you don't want her to bite. like, literally. AFAB lycanthropes have a thing for biting idk

It makes sense now why Chan looked better when he came in from the rain. It was, essentially, the cold shower that he needed. You wonder briefly if you could convince him to go back out, but you decide against it. It's dark now, and you don't need him getting hurt.

So, instead, you peel yourself away from the couch and head into the kitchen. There's tons of juice cartons already in the fridge, but you bypass them, instead grabbing the bag of lemons and the carton of blueberries. 

The first time you made lemonade for Chan, the two of you were in fifth grade. You wanted to save money for the new and extremely expensive ride-on jeep that you saw in the store, and the only thing you could think to do was sell lemonade. You forced Chan (who had no interest in the car but wanted to help anyway) to sit down and taste batch after batch of your lemonade.

After he threatened to tell your parents you were trying to poison him, you made one last batch of the lemonade, and on a whim, dumped some blueberry syrup into it. He grumbled as he took the cup, but he couldn't hide his satisfied smile.

“That's the one,” he grinned. 

You never did save the money for the car, but you kept the lemonade recipe anyway. There was nothing your blueberry lemonade couldn't fix.

And you were prepared to add rut fevers to that list.

You dump a ton of ice in Chan's reusable water bottle before pouring the lemonade over it, putting the top on and swirling it around. You take a sip first, nodding in contentment when it nearly freezes the back of your throat.

With your phone in your back pocket and the lemonade in hand, you make your way up the stairs, pausing in front of Chan's bedroom door. A feeling of nervousness washes over you, but you beat it down with a stick. You're just delivering some lemonade. You'll be fine.

“Channie,” your voice is tentative as you knock. “You okay? I brought you a surprise.”

You listen carefully. You can't hear anything on the other side of the door. You don't wanna bang or yell, knowing his ears are probably sensitive already. You knock gently again, really straining your ears to hear.

He must be asleep, you think. You'll just leave the cup on the nightstand for him to find when he wakes up. You turn the doorknob and push open the door and–

Subsequently drop the cup on the floor.

Chan is not asleep.

Chan is very much awake.

He can't see you, no, because his eyes are closed and his head is tipped back against the headboard of his bed. His face and ears are red, and his lips are extra plump. You wonder why until he bites down on his bottom lip, hard.

You let your eyes trail down. He's touching himself.

Oh.

One of his hands is wrapped around his cock, pumping furiously like it's just not enough. The other hand is white knuckling the pillow you slept on last night, bringing it up to his face so he can no doubt inhale whatever leftover scent is on it. 

He has no idea that you're in the room. The pillow is already carrying your scent, so there's no intrusion to his senses. You should look away. You should go, you should…

You can't look away.

His hips are thrusting upwards to meet his hand now, his entire body writhing on the bed like he's trying to find the perfect spot. With his sweater open, you can see the contraction of his ab muscles as he moves, all the hard contours of his body chasing his pleasure. You watch as he twists his wrist, thumb sliding across the slit of his cock and smearing precum down the shaft. 

You hear him make a sound, almost like he's grunting, and then he's mumbling something under his breath. It's low, too low for you to really hear it, but when he speaks again, you definitely understand.

"Babygirl," he groans. He squeezes his cock at the base before stroking it again. "F-fuck, babygirl."

It's then that you squeak, slamming a hand over your mouth almost immediately. His eyes fly open and he shoots up, face panicked, but he doesn't stop moving his hand.

"I'm-- I'm sorry," you manage. "I came to-- I just-- Oh my God."

Chan's eyes are wild as he looks at you. His chest is heaving and his curls are sticking up all over the place. He looks pained and conflicted, likely warring within himself about whether he should stop or not. From the way his ears turn a deep shade of red, you can tell he thinks that he should.

He doesn't, though. He's still jacking himself off, faster and faster, even as he gives you a devastatingly desperate look.

"Fuck," he grunts. "I'm sorry. I can't-- you just smell so fucking good and I–” He pants, looking at you with eyes that can barely stay open. “I can't stop. Babygirl, make me stop."

Your brain is malfunctioning, but the part of it that can still process information has taken notice of what he's saying. You were right earlier. It's your smell. Your smell is driving him crazy because you're a fertile, childbearing aged female. It's not poorly contained last or a bad decision on his part.

It's biology. It's what that primal part of his brain needs.

Your body goes hot as you think of your next words.

"You..." you swallow around nothing. You're wearing socks, but the cold from the floor seems to seep into your feet. "You don't– um. Do you… need help?”

His pupils blow.

"I don't… I don't want to hurt you," he whines, chest heaving as his fist pumps faster. "You shouldn't."

"But I want to help," you breathe. You take a step closer to the bed, legs shaking from the sheer intensity of how fast your arousal hits. "What if I want to help?"

He stops then, staring at you with the same intensity he had last night. You feel stripped, exposed, but you don't feel unsafe.

You take another step closer.

"Chan," you whisper. You're at the foot of the bed now. "What if I want to?"

He makes a desperate noise in the back of his throat.

"I won't… touch you if you don't want me to." You take another step to the side of the bed, feeling somewhat bold under his gaze. "But I'll... I'll let you touch me, if you need. Whatever you want. Just... just tell me what to do."

You're only a couple steps away now. Chan is practically shaking with the effort it takes not to move, to wait for your permission. It's then that you realize he's waiting for you to make the first move, and all of the power shifts to you.

You're standing right next to him now, the two of you locked in an intensely heated gaze. He reaches for you silently with the hand not fisted around his cock, moving slowly like you'll dissolve if he's too eager. When you nod, his hand slides down the length of your arm, fingers interlacing.

Then–

"Please," he whispers. His voice cracks on the lone syllable. "Please, babygirl. I need you.”

He brings the hand he's holding over to his already throbbing cock, dragging your fingertips over the sensitive skin on his tip. His head rolls back again and his hips buck up. You try not to shiver.

"I just... I just need this," he breathes. "Please. I won't touch you, I'll be good."

Maybe it's the desperation in his voice. Maybe it's the way his eyes look so innocent, absolutely contrasting what he's begging you to do. Whatever it is, you let your tongue dart out to wet your lips, throat feeling incredibly dry as you stare down at him.

You wrap your fingers around his cock tentatively, not missing the way his body seems to come alive at your touch, and start moving up and down. He's already so hard, his entire shaft coated in his precum so you can slide up and down with ease. The sounds he's making are going straight to your core, and you can feel the way your underwear is sticking to you.

"Tight," he grunts. "Tighter, please."

You tighten your grip, speeding up a little bit. You feel him thrusting upwards to meet your hand, his hand squeezing yours like he needs the support to ground himself. You let your thumb brush over his tip, using his precum as lube to give him even more friction.

He cries out, back arching. "Yes," he chokes out. "Fuck, babygirl, do that again.”

You do, swiping your thumb across the slit and spreading more precum over him. It makes everything slicker and wetter, and the way you're able to move faster now has him moaning nonsensical little things.

His hips are bucking up harder now, and you watch as his abs tense and release, the hand not holding yours going up to tug on his hair. Your body feels like a loaded stick of dynamite, and you're so careful to keep your hips still, knowing how badly you want friction.

"M’close," he breathes. "Fuck, babygirl. You feel so good."

You pump faster, giving him the extra tightness and friction that he needs. You watch as the hand in his hair drops to his stomach, nails digging into his abs.

You wonder how long he was in here like this, pained and desperate. You try not to think about him moaning your name in the empty room, fucking up into his fist as he thinks about you, chasing your scent on his pillow.

Just because of the rut, your brain supplies. Because it would be absurd to think otherwise.

You glance up at his face. His eyes are screwed shut, lips parted as he pants and grunts and makes other sounds in the air. The look on his face is enough to make you clench around nothing. You've only been hot and bothered for the last 5 minutes and you already feel desperate to cum, so you can't imagine what he's going through.

You let your other hand reach up to cup his face.

"Chan," you murmur. "Look at me.”

He opens his eyes slowly, pupils completely blown as he meets your gaze. You see sweat sliding down the side of his face, and you wonder if it's from his fever or his pleasure.

"You're okay, babyboy," you whisper. His cock jumps in your hand at that. "You can cum, you know. You don't have to hold back."

"Wanna--wanna be good," he grunts. You feel him start to thrust faster. "Don't wanna hurt you."

"You're doing so good, Channie. You're not hurting me."

The two of you stare at each other for a moment before you drop your hand from his cheek and slide it down the column of his throat, letting your nails scratch across his skin. His reaction is immediate, body spasming as he groans.

"Shit," he cries. "Yes, right– right there, Oh my God."

"Yeah?" You scrape your nails across the base of his throat again, making sure to be a bit rougher this time.

He nods quickly, the grip on your hand tightening. You take your other hand off of him, drinking up the sound of his whine before you slide it underneath his hoodie, feeling his chest up. You scrape your nails over his pecs, making him jolt a little.

"C'mon, Channie," you coo. "You're okay. I want you to cum for me."

He lets out a strangled sound, hips bucking up into your fist even faster now. His head falls back again and you see the muscles in his neck strain.

"Please," he chokes out. "I need-- I need--"

You slide your hand from his chest back up to his neck, finding the spot from earlier that made him make that deliciously memorable noise. When you drag your nails across it, his hips stutter in their rhythm, and that's the only warning you have before his entire body is convulsing with pleasure.

"Oh, fuck," he grunts. "Babygirl, fuck–”

His cock pulses in your hand as he cums, releasing all over himself and your fingers. You stroke him through it, gently moving your hand up and down until he's spent.

Then, there's silence.

You're not sure what you expect. Maybe for him to turn over and go to sleep, or for him to act bashful and apologetic, letting you know it won't happen again.

You certainly aren't expecting for him to grip your hips and lift you up onto the bed. Or for him to gently push you down on your back. Or for the desperation in his face to be replaced with something harder, something more in control and dominating as he says, “Please let me eat your pussy, babygirl.”

You almost choke.

You feel like you should protest. Tell him he doesn't have to, that this is already more than you thought you would ever get. But then he's sliding his hands up under your shirt, and the only thing your mouth can form is a moan.

He's never seen you naked, always a respectable gentleman, but there's no hesitation or uncertainty in the way his hands move around your body. He's not tentative and gentle like you expected; he's touching and pinching and running his nails along your skin like he's done this before, like he knows all your spots. He reaches your chest, where you have no bra, and rubs his thumb across your already hardened nipple. Your back arches and your legs fall open for him with a groan, letting him slot himself in the now empty spot.

He pulls his hand away, moving up to your face and cupping your jaw so you can look at him. He's looking down at you with dark eyes.

"Please?”

He's asking, you know, but there's nothing gentle in the way he's looking at you. You nod as best as you can, and he brings his hand down from your jaw to your chin, fingers sliding over your lips. You feel him nudge his thumb against your bottom lip, and you take the hint.

You open your mouth for him, letting him slide his thumb inside and rub it across your tongue. He's looking down at you intensely as you swirl your tongue around his finger, and when you suck on it a little, he lets out a grunt.

"Fuck," he breathes. He pulls his thumb away, watching as a string of saliva connects it to your lips. "You're gonna let me make you feel good, yeah?”

You nod again, but he gives a little humorless chuckle, head tilting at you.

"Use your words babygirl."

"Yes." Your voice is quiet. "Yes, I want you to.”

He stares at you for another moment. You watch his eyes dart across your face, your body, before settling on your lips again. He leans down then, hovering just above you as he licks his own lips.

"Gonna kiss you now," he murmurs. "That okay?"

You fear you look stupid, the way you're just staring up at him, jaw slacked and eyes going in and out of focus. You nod anyway, trying to act normal.

Or as normal as you can, under the circumstances.

He doesn't waste any more time after that. He leans down the rest of the way, pressing his lips against yours. It's slow at first, a sweet little thing that makes you feel warm and safe. You sigh into it, eyes fluttering closed.

But then he licks a stripe across your bottom lip, and you let out a pathetic little whimper, lips falling open just enough for him to slot his tongue in your mouth. He kisses you like he needs it to breathe. It's desperate, burning, hot and filthy. He's licking into your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lips. You try to press your thighs together again, but his strong, muscular slab of body is between them, forcing them open.

His hands slide down your sides and settle on your hips. Your shorts do nothing as a barrier, and you feel every modicum of heat in his hands. He slips those warm hands into the waistband of both your shorts and panties, sliding them down your body antagonizingly slowly.

He sits back on his knees then, pulling them both all the way off before tossing them to the side. Then he leans forward again, pressing wet kisses to the skin right below your belly button.

"Chan," you breathe.

"S'okay baby," he mumbles against your skin. You feel a new wave of wetness flow through you. How could your usual nickname be even hotter with half of it missing?

Then he's moving his mouth down, down, down, and you feel him pressing his nose to your slit.

"Oh god," you whine.

"I know," he murmurs. You feel his tongue press against your clit, and your entire body spasms. He chuckles, wrapping his arms around your legs and squeezing your thighs to hold them open. "I know babygirl.”

He licks you again, making you groan out loud. You can't help but bring one hand up to his curls, weaving your fingers through them and tugging on them like you've always wanted to. He responds by moaning, the vibrations shooting straight to your core.

You feel his tongue dip lower, spreading your wetness around. He dips it into your entrance, tongue fucking you at such a languid pace you feel like you'll fall apart. You hear him groan against your cunt again, and his hands tighten on your thighs.

"So wet, baby," he murmurs. "Taste so good.”

He presses his tongue to your clit again, and you pull on his hair harder. He grunts, and you feel him rutting up against the bed, his cock hard again, chasing some form of relief. 

"Please baby," he mumbles against you. "Want you to cum for me. Please."

You know yourself, know what gets you going and what really makes you cum, so you want to tell him that it's going to take more than this, that you're not there yet, but you don't get a chance to before he's sliding a finger inside of you, curling it up and finding your spot with such accuracy your vision goes white.

You feel him suck on your clit then, swirling his tongue around it as he slides another finger inside of you. You tug on his hair again, not even realizing that you're grinding up against his face.

You feel yourself getting closer, chasing the release you've been desperate for since he pulled you onto the bed. His fingers curl inside of you again, pressing that spot and making you scream out his name.

"Yeah?" Chan groans against you, voice hoarse and desperate. "Like that? S'okay baby, let go."

"Chan," you choke. You're so, so close. "Chris. Chris.”

He moans at that, speeding up his fingers and moving his tongue even faster.  He's rocking himself up against the mattress with more urgency now, panting and moaning with his mouth pressed to your cunt.

"C'mon babygirl," he mumbles. "Need you to cum. C'mon, please. Need it."

He presses his fingers into that spot again, and you're gone. You arch up off of the bed as you cum, his name ripping itself from your throat as he fucks you through it. You feel your cunt pulsing around his fingers as you ride out your orgasm. He keeps licking, his moans sending vibrations straight up your spine until you're over sensitive, tugging on his hair for him to back away. He does, but not before pressing wet kisses to the inside of your thigh.

He sits up then, his hair sticking up all over the place from where you've been pulling on it. He's sweaty and breathing hard, his lips swollen and red from where you were kissing him. You feel his eyes roam over your body, and you know that if you look down, you'll see how your skin is flushed from your ears down to your chest.

He's still sporting a semi, but his focus isn't on that anymore. He gathers you up in his hands, pulling you with him to the top of the bed and settling you with him on the pillows. He presses a kiss to your forehead, pulling you to rest your head on his chest.

"Sleep," he says into your hair. You notice how his body temperature has dropped-- he doesn't feel like an inferno anymore.

You're too tired to do anything but whine gently at the way he's holding you, too relaxed and spent to say anything. You feel sleep pulling at your eyes as he fixes your shirt over you carefully.

"Ah, shit," he murmurs. "Gotta clean you up. Then I'll come right back, yeah?”

You nod, trying to fight off sleep just a little longer. He presses a kiss to your hair before sliding out of the bed, going to the bathroom and coming back with a warm washcloth. You feel him wipe you down gently, and you mumble out something that might've been a thank you.

He takes the washcloth back to the bathroom, coming back to join you in bed. He pulls you back on top of him, settling the blankets over the two of you.

You're asleep before he can even kiss your forehead again.

When you wake up in the morning, you do your usual pause to see what does and doesn't hurt. You're mostly pain free, you realize sleepily, except for a dull ache in your hips and knees and a pleasant soreness in your–

Oh shit.

Everything slams back into you at once. The lemonade, Chan, him begging for you in more ways than one. It feels like you've been doused in cold water and tossed off of a bridge.

You go to sit up, but when you make an attempt to move, you feel an impossibly heavy weight around your midsection. Said weight snores a bit, and you realize that it's Chan's arm draped across you.

He's sleeping soundly next to you, hair still ruffled and unruly from where you were pulling it, lips still slightly swollen and red. The blankets are pulled up to his chin, hiding his body from view.

Your face burns as you try to really remember everything that happened last night, either to orient yourself through the brain fog or torture yourself. You're not entirely sure. Chan was... he was in rut, you knew that much. And you offered to help. Then he ate you out and gave you what was probably the most intense orgasm of your life, and then you fell asleep.

Typical stuff. Of course.

The memories are still there, but the reality of the situation has you panicking. His eyes are still closed, so you don't have to deal with the embarrassment of him catching you staring, but you're frozen anyway.

You're immediately hit with the overwhelming realization that you just made a mistake. There's no way you can possibly continue to keep your feelings for Chan a secret after this, no way that you can pretend you don't know what his amazingly deft fingers feel like inside of you. How would you ever be able to look him in the face again?

A vibrating sound pulls you from your spiral. For a second, you wonder if it's coming from Chan, but you recognize that, no matter what genetic issue he has, a person cannot vibrate. 

The sound is actually coming from just off the side of the bed, where your shorts and panties lay discarded. You reach over and pluck your phone from the back pocket, turning it over to see an unfamiliar number flashing across the screen.

You're about to send it to voicemail when your heart sinks like lead along with recognition in your chest. It's the genetic clinic.

You're untangling yourself from Chan's arms in record speed, shirking your shorts on and stepping into the hallway. He doesn't stir, thankfully, but you still close the door gently behind you anyway.

"Hello?" You breathe.

The nurse on the other side of the line greets you enthusiastically, and after confirming you are the intended recipient of the phone call, she asks you to hold while she transfers you to the doctor. You wait anxiously for a minute or two, pacing your way to the kitchen island and picking at the skin around your fingers while you listen to the generic hold music.

"Good morning," the doctor says as she comes on the line. She, too, sounds far too chipper. "I apologize for the wait, I was in the middle of rounds when your nurse flagged me down."

"That's okay," you say. Pleasantries feel superficial right now.

"Right, so. We did get some of your preliminary genetic results back," she says. You can hear pages being turned on the other side of the line. "I wanted to let you know that, unfortunately--"

The floor falls from under your feet.

"-- You did test positive for Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. Classical type."

You can't really hear anything else she's saying. Something about coming back in, maybe. About starting physical therapy. Taking care of yourself. You feel sick, like you might pass out. Or throw up. 

You manage to push through the rest of the conversation, your voice sounding far away even to your own ears. She lets you know that she's sending follow-up information to your email, says that it's important to have support at such a time like this, and you make a very non committal grunt of acknowledgement before ending the phone call. Your phone chatters on the island, the sound echoing in the empty space.

You can't even form a concept of a thought before your chest feels tight, like there's a rubber band stretching across your ribs and pulling taut. You skin suddenly feels like there are a million and one tiny sets of feet thrumming underneath it. It's too hot. Your shirt is choking you. It's all suddenly too much at once: last night with Chan, the diagnosis, the way you're feeling an ache building in your back.

You need to move. You need to get out.

You're up the stairs before you can really process it, standing in front of your suitcase and rifling through it with speed. You find a pair of sweats and what you’re almost certain is Chan's old hoodie, but you toss them on quickly anyway.

The air is crisp when it hits your face a few moments later. It's exactly what you need. The path around the cabin is familiar– you've walked it countless times during family trips and weekend getaways. You know exactly where to step to avoid the mud, which trees mark the loop back to the house.

You walk until your legs burn, until the tears on your face dry in the cold air. Your mind races with everything and nothing at once.

Classical EDS. Your PCP was right about it being a connective tissue disorder. EDS explains the tummy aches, the racing heart, the migraines, and most obviously, the joint pain. There's no cure. Just management. Just a lifetime of being careful, of physical therapy, of putting in insane amounts of effort to make sure your joints don't fucking disintegrate.

You find this to be the most manageable of all the issues at the moment. 

But Chan…

God, Chan. What were you thinking? He was in rut, vulnerable and needing comfort, and you just... what? Offered yourself up like some kind of heathen? Let him touch you in ways you've only dreamed about, knowing full well it would change everything?

This feels like the biggest issue to you, you realize when you pause on a tree stump. Because if you lose Chan, from something you initiated, you will lose everything else. He is the center of your universe, and everything revolves around him. You can't lose him, especially not over your own stupidity.

You think about going back. Talking to him. Maybe trying to convince him that you're fine, that he doesn't have to worry about you. That you don't like him like that, and you were just being a good friend and helping.

But then you remember his face when he came, eyes rolling into the back of his head as he moaned out your name. The way his fingers felt inside of you. How good he smelled.

You'll never be able to forget any of it now, you realize. And it will tear you apart if you lose him because of it.

You realize you've been walking much longer than intended when you catch a glimpse of the position of the sun. The morning chill has given way to a warmer temperature, though your face still feels numb from the wind. Your joints are definitely making themselves known now.

You suppose you may as well head back, even if you don't have any idea what you’re going to do when you have to face Chan. You can't stay out and freeze.

As you round the final bend that leads back to the cabin, you see him.

Chan is standing on the front porch, shirtless despite the cold, his hands visibly shaking at his sides. He's looking in the opposite direction, but you see when your scent hits him, because he whips around and his eyes lock onto you immediately. There's a look on his face that makes your chest ache– he looks terrified, like he's been coming apart at the seams.

You both freeze in your spots, an echo of that moment at the clinic. The silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid. You notice then that his eyes are red, not the same red tint you now recognize from his rut, no. This is the red tint from that day he had to drive you to the hospital.

He's been crying.

“Where–” his voice is labored. “Babygirl. Where have you been?”

"I just..." you gesture vaguely at the path behind you. "I needed some air."

He takes a step forward, then seems to think better of it, stopping himself in his tracks. "You weren't... you were gone when I woke up. Your phone was on the counter, I couldn't... I didn't know where…”

He makes a pained noise in his chest, and then you see his entire face crumble. He pulls one of his arms up to his face, covering his eyes as you hear him start to cry.

Your heart breaks in two.

You rush to him as quickly as your protesting legs will allow, taking the stairs two at a time until you're in front of him. You reach up to gently pull his arm down, but he jerks away, a wounded noise escaping from his mouth.

"No," he cries. "You shouldn't–  don't touch me. I'm sorry.”

“Chris,” you breathe, hoping to cut through his emotional fog. “Chris, please, look at me.”

“Tell me what I did.”

You scrunch your eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“What did I do wrong?” His voice cracks around the words. “Last night, I couldn't… control myself. And you were so good to me and then– you were gone.”

"Chan, no." You reach for him again, and this time he lets you pull his arm down. His face is streaked with tears, those big brown eyes red and swollen. "You didn't do anything wrong."

He shakes his head violently, words tumbling out around hiccups. "Then why did you leave? Why didn't you wake me up? I woke up and you were gone and I couldn't– your scent was gone and I couldn't–"

A sob cuts him off. You grab his hand and tug him towards the door. "Let's go inside. Please? It's freezing out here.”

He lets you tug him inside, at least just until you can close the door. You try to bring him over to the couch, but he's stubborn, keeping his feet planted where they are. He won't look at you, keeping his gaze downcast no matter how much you tug on his arm. You let go after a tense moment, sighing and wrapping your arms around yourself.

“Chan. The clinic called,” you say softly. “Thats why I left. My results came back.”

His head snaps up at that, understanding settling over his face. “You… did you test positive for–”

“Classical Ehlers Danlos,” you supply.

He looks like he'll cry all over again, reaching his hand out to you before pulling it back to his side. He squeezes his hands in and out of fists a few times before he shakes his head, tilting his head back until he's staring up at the ceiling.

“I'm so sorry,” he breathes. “Last night… I shouldn't have–”

“Stop, please,” you cut him off, voice hoarse in the quiet. You've run out of energy. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“No, I did everything wrong. I thought I could handle it, thought it wouldn't be too much. Everyone told me it was a bad idea but I didn't want to listen, thought I could control myself.”

You feel bile rising in your throat. “What?”

He shakes his head again. “I shouldn't have said yes.”

He murmurs it, but the cabin is dead silent, so there's no way you don't hear it. There's no way you can misinterpret what he means either. Last night. He shouldn't have said yes when you asked if he needed help.

You take a step back, and you watch his face crumble a bit more. “Right.” Your voice sounds hollow. “It's fine. It was a mistake anyway."

"A mistake?" Now he looks confused through his tears. "No, that's not–"

"It's okay, Chan." You force a smile that feels like it might crack your face in half. You need to end this conversation now so you can go cry in your bed. "We can just forget it happened. You were in rut, I was... available. It's fine."

"Available." He deadpans. His gaze loses some of the previous softness. "Is that what you think? That I just... used you because you were there?”

You find yourself backing away towards the stairs, already mentally checked out. “Isn't it? You said it yourself last night, it was just my scent.”

His face flashes through so many emotions, you're not sure how you would begin parsing through them. He settles on something that looks like a mix of thinly veiled disgust and anger. He fixes his posture until he's back up to his full height now, brown eyes ablaze.

You decide to turn away from him fully at that moment. Whatever this is, this half argument you're having, it can wait until you've taken a good nap. You prepare to climb the stairs, keeping one hand on the railing and one foot on a stair.

That's about as far as you make it before you feel the unmistakable heat of Chan behind you. You stifle back the gasp that threatens to spill when he presses himself right up against your back, head dipped down so he's right by your ear.

“Ask me why,” he breathes. 

You shiver at the feeling of his breath on your ear, and your entire body lights up in record time. You've forgotten how to speak, maybe.

So, you eloquently stutter out a simple, "What?"

He slides a hand around you, reaching from the base of your back all the way to your stomach, pulling you closer to him. “Babygirl. I said, ask me why.”

You swallow thickly. His voice is still hoarse and low from the crying, and it sends a shiver up your spine that rocks your body so hard, you think you would fall if not for the strong arm around you.

"Why," you breathe. The word has no conviction in it. You're getting dizzy.

He leans even closer to you, lips brushing the shell of your outer ear. "Because," he murmurs. "Yes, your scent smells so fucking good. So sweet and warm. But I don't want you because you smell good, baby. I want you because you smell like you're mine.”

You whimper involuntarily at that, and you feel him inhale sharply. His other hand reaches up to hold your chin, tilting your head up towards him. You're looking at each other now, his eyes blown wide and his pupils blown so black, there's barely any brown left.

"Do you understand me, babygirl?" He's breathing hard against you. "Even under the harsh scent of your pain, or the saccharine scent of when you're happy, something in you always smells like you belong to me. Do you know why?"

Your knees feel weak. Not from pain, but because of whatever is happening right now. You let out a pathetic mewl in Chan's hold and watch his nostrils flare. 

"Because you are mine. My mate. You hear me, baby? Mine.”

Then he's tilting your head to the side and kissing down the column of your throat, nipping just hard enough to send electricity through your body. You whine, unable to stop the way your body arches into his touch. 

He makes a low, rumbling sound in his chest, pulling away just long enough to look you in your eyes again. "Wasn't using you," he huffs, saying the word use like it leaves a nasty flavor in his mouth. "I needed you, needed your scent around me to make it better. I couldn't control myself, baby."

He spins you around so that you're facing him now, hands still wrapped around your waist. You think he's about to kiss you, but you see a wave of clarity and seriousness push everything else to the side.

“They asked me at the clinic,” he starts, shuffling with you in his arms until you're back in the living room with him. “If something happened to a family member, or if I had a girlfriend who was hurt.”

You're hanging on to every word, unable to look away from his eyes.

“I told them no to both, but I told them about the hospital, about how you called me crying cause you were in so much pain, and you just kept passing out on me. I told them about how scared I was that if I left the hospital, I would come back and you wouldn't be there. You'd be gone. It was ripping me apart.”

You reach up to touch his face without thinking, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. He leans into the touch like he can't help himself.

“I presented because I wanted to protect you down to my very DNA. I was going so crazy about you that my body needed a way to protect me– protect you.”

“Chan,” you breathe.

“They said my inner wolf, that primal part of me, recognized it as my mate being in pain, and I was powerless to stop it. It's you, babygirl. It's always been you.”

The hopeless romantic in your heart is giddy. 

You think about how you'd tried to touch him during the drive up, how he'd pulled his hands away like he was in pain. You supposed maybe he was. Going through his first rut, stuck in an enclosed space with his mate, unable to do anything about it.

You can't imagine the amount of restraint it probably took him to remain normal. The sheer thought of it alone has you blinking back up at him, looking right in his eyes.

With the eye contact, you feel his body swell microscopically, like he's flaxing every muscle so he can look bigger, more threatening, but he is neither of those things to you.

To you he is just Chan.

You're rising up on your toes before you even know what's happening, hand sliding up Chan's neck to pull him down towards you and catching his lips in a hot, burning kiss. 

The hand around your waist tighten's its grip, slotting you even further against his body.

It feels like home. It feels like safety.

You feel his growing bulge press against you, and you hum into the kiss. 

It feels like perfection.

"M'Sorry," he slurs against your mouth. He makes no effort to pull away. "Still in rut. Sensitive."

You say nothing, sliding your free hand down his chest, over his stomach until you reach what you're looking for. You rest your hand over it softly, not grabbing or pressing, but he responds like you do, grunting and rutting up against your hand as he starts panting.

"Babygirl," he groans. "Baby, please."

You start moving your hand in earnest now, cupping his bulge through his sweats as he grinds up against you. His eyes flutter closed and he pulls away from the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours.

"God, I wanna fuck you so bad," he grunts. "Wanna be inside. Wanna cum inside you so deep you'll never forget who you belong to. Make myself your alpha."

It's insane how your body reacts to that. You feel your clit jump in your underwear. The Alpha/Omega thing wasn't real-- or at least wasn't based on any science with the condition, but the way Chan speaks, the way his grunts sound so close to your ear, you believe it could be.

"You're gonna let me, right?" He whines. "Please? I'll make you feel so good. Been so good for me already baby. Just wanna make you cum on my cock."

Your moan gets caught in your throat when he slides a hand down your body to grip the swell of your ass. Between that and feeling him, rock solid against you, your entire body comes back to life with desperate, almost delirious need.

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, Channie, please. Want you. Please."

His chest vibrates with a growl and he wastes no time pushing you back until you're laying against the couch. He kneels over you, large hand reaching down and palming himself through his sweats.

He notices what you're wearing at that moment. He reaches his free hand down, gripping the material of your– his – hoodie. It's entirely too big for you, even when you're standing, but laying back like this, the material absolutely dwarfs you. 

He must like the sight of it, because you watch him grip himself tight.

"Fuck, babygirl. You don't know what you do to me. Wearing my clothes? Are you even wearing anything under that?"

Feeling bold, you reach down and pull the hem of the sweater up, just enough so that he can see the expanse of skin right under it. When he looks back at your face, you give him an innocent expression, eyes wide and blinking.

He doesn't even bother taking anything off, just pulls his cock out of his sweats and starts stroking himself again. You feel your mouth go dry just from the sight of it– hard and flushed red, precum dripping from the tip. You grip the material of his sweater tighter.

“Gonna be good, baby?" he breathes. "Wanna get off like this."

You nod, unable to form a coherent sentence. He looks fucking delicious above you, cock in hand as he strokes himself faster now, moaning at the way you look underneath him.

"Gonna make myself cum on your stomach," he grunts. "Mark you. Then I'll fuck you until you're screaming, so everyone knows who you belong to.”

You feel your cunt throbbing in your underwear. You cant help the way you whine out his name, the way you squeeze your thighs together to try to get some relief. He looks like he's going to explode just from hearing you say his name like that.

He leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch by your head, effectively caging you in. You can feel how his muscles flex under your hands as you touch him, sliding your palms up and down his chest. You find your eyes locked onto his hand, watching the way he moves up and down.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he breathes. "Fucked my fist so many times wishing it was you.”

You wrap your arms around him, one hand going up to that special spot at the base of his neck. As you graze your nails against it, he turns his face, pressing his nose into the pulse point on your wrist, inhaling you and your smell.

He starts moaning louder, breath fanning across your arm as he gets closer and closer to the edge. You're so turned on from it, you feel like you might actually cum without a hand to your body.

"Babygirl," he grunts. "Baby, fuck. I'm close."

You pull him down to you, pressing his face right into your neck. You can feel how his eyelids flutter as his eyes roll back, the arm by your head straining with how tightly he's gripping the couch.

"Gonna let your alpha cum on your stomach, baby? Mark you?”

You nod quickly. You feel him lean in even more, brushing his lips against the soft part of your throat where he no doubt can feel your erratic pulse. You right into his ear, and then he's groaning out your name and nipping at your throat hard, all teeth and tongue and need as he spills all over you.

He makes sure to press his body flush against you while he rides out his orgasm, so that his cum splatters all over your stomach. He grinds up against you with his hips, making sure his cock slides along the fabric of his sweater. You watch him get lost in it, eyes screwed shut as he mouths at your throat, panting and moaning through his high.

Then he stills, just a bit. He pulls away from your neck, his pupils still completely blown as he looks down at you.

You're not sure what he sees when he does. You know sweat is starting to stick to your skin, plastering little bits of your hair to your face. Despite not being touched yet, you feel absolutely cock drunk if only on the sight of Chan alone.

You can't tell if that's what he sees, but whatever it is, it makes his still-hard cock jump against where it rests on your stomach. He's pushing himself up to sit on his knees before you even remember your own name.

He slides down the couch until his face is level with your hips. He pulls the waistband of your sweats down just enough for your cunt to be exposed, and then he's leaning forward, dragging his tongue along your slit.

"Fuck," you cry, body jolting. "Chan."

He doesn't respond verbally, just hums and pulls back enough to stare at your dripping cunt. You find your hips bucking up when he lets his mouth water just enough to drool right on you.

He dives back down to your cunt and pushes his tongue inside of you. You feel him moan against you as he licks you, slow and deliberate. You can hear how wet you are, and you feel yourself throb around his tongue when you hear it.

"I kept noticing your scent change," he says against your clit. He gives it a few kitten licks before diving down and flattening his tongue on you, licking and slurping you from end to end. "Sometimes, I would look at you, or touch you, and you smelled like citrus. Couldn't figure out why."

He takes those absurdly plump lips and suctions them around your clit, one strong arm coming to hold you down when you arch up off the bed.  "Thats just your scent when you're aroused," he continues, nudging his nose against your clit. "Smells so fucking good."

You're certain you might be delirious at this point. The way Chan eats you out feels so much better than anything else you've ever felt, and his tongue has you hurdling to the crest of your orgasm faster than you can believe.

"Oh. Ohh," you whimper. "Channie, m'so close."

"That's my good girl," he murmurs. His lips are still right against your clit. "You're so perfect baby. Let me make you feel good. Want you to cum for me."

He slides his tongue back inside of you, and you feel a hand come up to play with your clit. You're so dangling off the edge, so ready to jump with the right push. You just need a little more, but then you feel a finger slide inside of you and crook up.

You're gone. You cum with a shout of Chan's name, arching up off of the couch as your body shakes from the intensity of it all. He licks you through it, pulling away only when you start to whine and wiggle around from the sensitivity.

He sits back on his knees again, watching you pant on the couch as you try to collect yourself. You look over at him when you catch your breath, and you see him licking his fingers clean.

He leans over you again, and you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down. You don't bother asking first, just slot his lips to yours in a desperate kiss. It's absolutely wet and filthy, the flavor of yourself bursting over your tongue when he swipes into your mouth. You suck on his tongue, hard, and he groans into your mouth, hands sliding up under the sweater to touch your bare skin.

"Gonna fuck you good now," he grunts against your lips. You whine and press your body into his. "Okay, baby? Do you think you're ready for me?"

"Yes, Chris," you sigh. He pulls away from the kiss gently to stare at you. Despite the haze of his rut, you can see a hesitancy in his eyes, like there's something he wants but he's not saying. It takes all of two seconds for you to connect the dots.

"Please, Alpha?" you whine.

That seems to be the magic word, because he's lifting you up into his arms and standing up from the couch immediately. In a split second, you're pressed up against the wall next to the TV. You're very thankful for the layer between your bare skin and the freezing cold wall.

He wraps your legs around his waist, and suddenly you can feel the heat of his erection right on you. He presses his cock between your folds, holding you tight while he ruts up into you. 

You're so wet that the head catches against your entrance every so often, making both of you moan into each others mouths.

"Thank you, baby," he murmurs, uncharacteristically soft at a moment like this. "'m so grateful. So--" He lets out a pant, eyes rolling back as he lets his head drop back too. "Fuck."

You know Chan well enough to know what he's trying to say. He's thanking you for accepting him, for coming back to him, for letting him be vulnerable.

How could you not? He was so distressed by your wellbeing that a distant part of his DNA woke up to protect you. He ignored his doctor's orders to take you on this trip because he knew you needed it. He was content to suffer through his first rut in silence if it meant just taking care of you.

How could you not love all that he is?

You learn forward and nip him right as his pulse point, and his whole body jerks. You know werewolf lore, know that a bite there means a forever. You don't have the same genetic syndrome, but God do you want to be in his arms forever. You don't even feel like you need to question it.

His eyes, heavily lidded, find their way to your face. "You know what that bite means, right baby?" His voice is hoarse, and even when he clears his throat at your responding nod, it doesn't get better. "You wanna mark me there, babygirl? Make me yours?”

You nod, sliding your mouth up his throat until your lips are pressed right against his ear. You slide your tongue over his lobe and tug on it. "Please alpha. Wanna show everyone who you belong to."

He snakes a hand up your back until he finds your hair, fingers tangling in the roots as he grips, pulling your head back. "I mark you first," he grits out. "Let alpha take care of you."

You can't help the way you go pliant, letting your head fall to one side just enough to expose your neck to him. You watch his eyes and make your expression as wanting as possible.

He groans at that, finally pulling you away from the wall just enough so that he can line himself up. He pushes his tip right into you, and you press your forehead against his, the mixed sounds of your breathing being the only thing filling the atmosphere.

"I love you," he sighs. Your heart squeezes in your chest. "Gonna take such good care of you always, yeah?"

"I love you more, Chan," is your breathy reply.

"I'll give you everything," he sighs. "Everything you want. I just need you to come on my cock first, yeah? The alpha's got you. I got you."

Then he's pushing in slowly, and you both sigh as he bottoms out. You cling to him, pressing your face into his neck as he fucks you slowly into the wall.

He keeps it slow, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your forehead and hair, telling you how good you feel, how perfect you are for him, how you were made just for him. You're already feeling the pressure building up in your stomach again, barely paying attention to what he's saying. 

"Gonna breed this tight little pussy," he murmurs at some point. You do hear that, and you clench hard around him, making him groan.

"Oh fuck," he gasps. "You want my seed, huh? Want me to fuck my seed in you, angel?"

Your walls around him again, swallowing him up. You know you can't get pregnant-- birth control and all of that-- but the idea of him filling you up has your body begging for more. You dig your nails into the skin of his back and you feel him throb inside of you. He makes a sound between a grunt and a moan, slamming his hips into yours, cock sliding into you deeper than before.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Fuck, m'so close already. Think you can you cum with me angel? Hm?"

You nod, clinging to his shoulders as you bounce up and down on his cock. It feels so good, too good, and you're already so close yourself.

"Chris," you whine. "I'm– fuck, I'm close."

"I know, babygirl," He sounds so wrecked. "I'm right behind you. You can cum for me baby. Cum for your alpha. Want you to cum on me, please."

He presses a kiss to your neck, right over your pulse point, and that's all it takes to send you tumbling over the edge. You cry out his name, letting him fuck you through it while your cunt pulsates around him. You feel him twitch in you, a deep guttural moan leaving his lips as he slams into you one last time, spilling all his cum inside of you.

He bites you then.

Its not painful, not really, because he doesn't break skin. His teeth aren't sharp enough for that. The bite is more performative than anything, but it sends a shockwave through your body.

 It's a strange feeling, almost like your blood is simmering under your skin, but you're so lost in the bliss of your orgasm that you don't even care. It feels right, anyhow. Like the final missing piece to a puzzle you've been spending a lifetime constructing.

He stays there for a second, sucking a bruise into your neck. His hands are shaking, but he's holding you tight enough that you don't even worry about falling.

Then, he licks the spot on your neck where he bit, soothing whatever pain he might've caused. He pulls away from you just enough to press a kiss to your lips, still holding you up with his cock in you.

"I love you," he whispers. "My mate. Mine."

You reach a hand up to touch his neck, and he tilts his head to the side, giving away to the instincts thrumming under his skin. You take your fingers and trace them along the column of his throat, stopping just under his Adam's apple. 

You don't say anything at first, just lean forward and press your lips against the same spot. Your bite is more restrained, more gentle. He hisses out a strangled sound, and you would assume it was pain if you didn't feel his cock pulse in you.

When you pull away, you look at him, a small smile on both of your incredibly fucked out faces. You lean forward and press a little kiss to his lips.

"I love you too," is your quiet reply. "My mate."

As promised, he's so gentle with you afterwards, cleaning you up and giving you your medication when he scents your hips are about to ache. The entire ordeal is so familiar, so cozy, you wonder how you could've ever let yourself believe that Chan didn't love you too.

Hours later, when you're cuddled together on the couch, dozing off in his lap, you hear him whispering something against your hair. Your mind is so muddled with sleep you can barely make out the words he's saying.

You string together something about mates, something about how he'll protect you, how you're his everything, how he loves you so much.

It doesn't really matter though. You know already, because he's yours, and you're his.

And before anyone could stop him, Minho pushed past Chan and all but ran down the stairs. 

You stared after him, your body almost frozen in shock. You certainly weren’t the only one either; behind you, Hyunjin had his hand slapped over his mouth, and you were almost sure Chan hadn’t blinked in the last 30 seconds.

After a beat of heavy silence, the three of you turned to look at each other, and despite your overwhelming ignorance, you spoke first.

“I… I don’t understand.”

Chan sighed as you spoke, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. “He always does this,” he muttered. He cleared his throat and spoke up. “I’m so sorry to leave, but I’m gonna have to go after him. Stay here with Hyunjin, and I’ll send Jisung up when I leave.”

He paused on the top step, stopping to look at you with an apologetic yet firm look. “We’ll explain everything when we can. But you have to stay here.”

And with that, he was gone.

You turned your attention back to Hyunjin, whose wide eyes were fixed on the staircase. He glanced at you for a second, an untraceable emotion shading his face, before fixing his eyes on the floor.

Your stomach twisted, almost feeling ashamed of yourself. What have I done? you thought. And what the fuck do I do now?

“Did…” your voice was tentative in the silence. “Did I just ruin Minho’s life?”

“No,” Hyunjin whispered. “I’m just… I never thought– we never thought we would… his soul tie?”

For some reason, guilt clouded your mind. Not for Minho, though you weren’t feeling particularly negative toward him anymore, but for Hyunjin and Chan. They both looked genuinely stressed at the revelation, which made you think that the deeper, underlying meaning behind this was not good. The only question in your mind now was whether or not you wanted to be a part of the deeper meaning.

Whatever it was, you could tell the workers at the piercing parlor were into some kind of trouble. If their magic story was true, it was something that was completely over your head. You’d lived a normal life up until now, and you were certain that you wanted to continue having a normal life. Magic bloodline be damned, you were not about to get caught up in a battle that wasn’t yours.

At that moment, you decided to ignore Chan’s warning, and go home.

However, you weren’t entirely sure how to do that at this moment. Chan had asked, or nearly begged, that you stay put so he could explain things when he came back. However, he had left you there. With Hyunjin of all people. Now, you’d only known the redhead for a week, and only saw him in person one and a half times, but you had the feeling that he would not– could not– stop you if you decided to run. At least, not with violence. 

You eyed Hyunjin’s frame, taking note that he was more gifted in height than thickness– if you ran, he would catch up quickly because of his long legs, but if needed, you could take him.

You watched him sit up and rub his hands along his jeans anxiously.

You nodded to yourself. Yeah. You could definitely take him.

You began calculating the amount of footsteps from where you were to the staircase. If you walked quickly, it would take about 5 individual steps from where you were standing to the first stair. There were at least 10 stairs in the staircase, then maybe 10 more steps out the front door.  With a quick estimate, you realized two of your steps were probably equivalent to one of his. If you could get to the stairs without being noticed, you would have enough of a head start that you’d be just out of reach for him, and could probably make it home. 

The more you thought about it, the more you realized that this could actually work. However, as you took your first scoot, Hyunjin let out a soft sigh.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Please. Don’t try to go anywhere. I can’t let you leave.”

A cold chill ran through your body. What was with the telepathy? How did they always seem to know something before it was said aloud?

You turned around with your arms crossed over your chest defiantly. “Why not?” 

You hoped your glare would shrivel Hyunjin into a pliant little wrinkle that you could convince to let you free, but upon meeting his eyes you realized that he was entirely unaffected. Besides the still-present air of surprise and confusion, he looked at you like nothing happened– the same way he looked when he met you. 

For some reason, this made you angrier. You’d just been attacked, sort of kidnapped, learned that you weren’t technically a regular human, and found out you’re soul bound to the angry blonde in the parlor. Yet he seemed to talk to you like it was just a normal Tuesday. You stared daggers into his eyes, hoping you could melt his brain into soup with your glare.

He patted the space next to him on the couch, breaking you from your trance. “I’ll explain, just, please come sit down.”

You thought it over for a moment. While Hyunjin seemed nice enough, fundamentally you were still being held hostage by a group of men. As curious as you were about the situation, you were angrier, and you didn’t want to give the impression that you were comfortable being mindless and obedient. For all you know, this could be some elaborate scheme.

So, instead of walking toward the couch, you turned around and made your way to the staircase and started walking down the stairs.

Hyunjin called after you, his tone sounding almost like a warning. You flipped him off and continued your descent, laughing to yourself about how easy this was.

Your laugh proved premature when you heard Hyunjin sigh again, and then within a second, his fingers closed around your wrist. 

            You gasped and tried to jerk your hand away, but his grip was strong, almost inhumanely so. You spun around and tugged your arm away from him again, using your other hand to attempt to pry his fingers off of you. Even though you knew you were using all of your strength, his grip would not budge. After a moment of pulling, you glared up at him and noticed something looked… different… in his eyes. They were dark, almost like his pupils had dilated so much that they swallowed every millimeter of the soft brown in his eyes. His gaze was unwavering, and though you wanted to say something rude, you noticed you felt… off.

Your entire body felt like it was slowing down. Every thought seemed to go one mile an hour through your head, and you could feel every muscle you used to blink. It felt like you were being dragged through molasses or wet cement.You were terrified, and you looked up at Hyunjin with what you hoped were pleading eyes.

He parted his lips and said your name sternly. Still stuck like a deer in headlights, all you could do was stare at him and hang on to his words.

“You cannot leave.” His voice was serious and deep. “I understand that you’re skeptical and frightened, but I can’t help with that until you sit down and let me explain.” 

You felt so pliant and relaxed that it made you dizzy. Swaying a bit, you gripped the arm holding you to keep yourself from falling over.

“It’s okay,” Hyunjin mumbled. “I’m not going to let you fall. But squeeze my arm if you understand what I just said.”

Upon your gentle squeeze, the redhead nodded and guided you back to the safety of the couch, still holding onto your wrist. He gently eased you into the cushions, watching to make sure you wouldn’t fall over. As his hand slid away from your wrist, rational thought came back to you, and the dizzy feeling began to clear like ember dwindling from a campfire. You felt a bit breathless and pressed your hand to your chest in an attempt to calm your breathing.

Hyunjin looked sheepish as he stood near you.  “I’m sorry,” He sighed, sitting down in his spot next to you. “I didn’t want to use my powers like that, but I was scared you would leave.”

You stared at him blankly as he spoke. The brown was back in his eyes, shining like fresh coins in the summer sun. “Why shouldn’t I leave,” you said between breaths. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on and I’m starting to feel like a hostage.”

Hyunjin sighed, glancing up at the ceiling as tho he was pleading for the strength to deal with you. “Can I explain now?”

“Please do.”

“The reason you can’t leave,” he started. He opened his mouth to say more, but you could see the words get stuck in his throat. His annoyed aura was quickly replaced with one of anxiety. He began to chew on his nails, staring at the floor as though the answer would rise from the floorboards. Finally, he let out a huff of air and shifted in his seat. “You can’t leave, because if you do, you’re going to die.”

Lead dropped into your stomach as you stared at him. He couldn’t have just said that. Your mind was playing tricks on you. “I’m sorry…What?”

He shifted again and brought his hand back up to his mouth. You noticed his fingernails were down to the stubs, and he was now just gnawing on his skin nervously.

“You didn’t mishear me. If you leave, you’re going to die.”

Your eyes were blank as you nodded. “Okay. That’s what I thought you said. Are you going to elaborate or am I just going to have to trust you blindly.”

“No,” he mumbled. “I’ll explain. Just– give me a second.”

Watching him, you realized that this was really hard for him to talk about. He was nearly shaking at this point, his breath coming out ragged and labored. After a moment, he let out a deep breath and turned to you.

“When you’re soul tied to someone, it’s more than just an emotional connection. It’s a connection in every conceivable way: physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. Your lives will be intertwined forever, and you don’t have a choice about it. The bond is eternal.”

Your anger had now subsided, and you hung onto Hyunjin’s every word like it was the gospel.

“The thing is, you won’t know you’re soul tied to someone until you meet them.” He was staring ahead now, his eyes dull and almost lifeless. “And sometimes, you don’t figure out who it is until it’s too late.”

You shook your head. “I don’t understand, Hyunjin.”

He focused his eyes back on you, and you could see they were beginning to get red. His face was flushed, and he chewed on his bottom lip before continuing. “You can’t fall in love with anyone else. The magic of the bond won’t allow it. Even if you begin to think you are falling for someone else, you’ll get sick. So many people have lost their lives because they met their soul tie after they were already married or in a relationship. Not many people are fond on the idea of giving up their families for a total stranger.”

You nodded slowly. “So… I can’t leave because I’ll go live my life and possibly fall in love with someone and die?”

Hyunjin shook his head, and his expression was grim. “The magic of the bond thrives on physical connection, like being in close proximity. Once you know who your soul tie is, that’s when the power of the bond is activate, and the need to be physically close begins. When you’re with your soul tie, your powers get stronger, you get healthier– all the things like that. But if you’re not around your soul tie…”

He took a deep breath before continuing. “If you’re not around your soul tie, both of you will die. If something happens to you, your soul tie will feel it. And if you die, they die too.”

“So… by coming here and getting my piercing…”

He nodded. “You’ve sentenced yourself and Minho to death.”

Before you could even begin to process what you just learned, you heard a quiet voice coming from the staircase. Whoever it was seemed to be singing to themself under their breath. You stared at their shadow as they inched closer and closer to the top, your stomach twisting and turning with anxiety.

Jisung peered over the banister and caught sight of you and Hyunjin. “Oh!” His smile was bright. “It’s you again!”

You couldn’t find the strength to match his excitement. You waved weakly at him and went back to staring at the ground intently.

Noticing the somber atmosphere in the room, Jisung cautiously made his way over to one of the lounge chairs and paused. “I’m sorry… is this a bad time? It’s just that.. Chan told me to come up here when I was done with my last customer, so I thought….”

“You’re fine, Ji,” Hyunjin mumbled. He motioned for him to sit down. “There’s something you need to know anyway.”

You could see the anxiety begin to settle on Jisung’s face as he gently lowered himself into the chair. “What’s going on?”

Hyunjin took a deep breath before gesturing towards you and introducing you. “You remember her, right?”

Jisung nodded slowly. 

“Well. She’s Minho’s soul tie.”

Eyes wide and mouth agape, he glanced between you and Hyunjin as though he believed it was an elaborate prank, and one of you would crack. Taking in your already anxious and disheveled figure, he closed his mouth and proceeded to blink repeatedly.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. “Oh my G… I–what?”

“It seems like I’m a Sirid,” you offered weakly.

Jisung glanced at Hyunjin, who offered him a very weak shrug in return. The grey haired boy attempted to regain his composure quickly.

“Oh wow. That’s… that’s, um…. So, which clan are you?”

“That we don’t know yet,” Hyunjin cut in He seemed grateful for the change of topic. “She never knew she was a Sirid, so she never used her powers.”

“Wait, so, how did you end up here? In the human realm?” Jisung tilted his head in confusion. “Making a portal takes–” He cut himself off, biting his tongue. “Well, it takes a lot of energy.”

You shrugged, completely clueless. “I’ve just… always been here I guess.”

Hyunjin paused for a second. “What year were you born?”

“I’m 21 so… 2002.”

Jisung scratched his chin. “Oh, well that’s way before everything happened with Ardor,” he mumbled.

You peered at him, confused. “What’s Ardor?”

Jisung’s eyes widened and his face flushed. “Ah– no one–i mean, nothing! It’s not important. I shouldn’t have mentioned it at all.”

You turned to Hyunjin for answers, but his eyes seemed glazed over with some unreadable emotion. It was almost like he was having a flashback of some kind. Once again, you could tell that whatever backstory came from this was not good.

Eventually, the red head sighed, and looked at you. “It’s okay,” he mumbled. “I’ll tell you. Iphorus is… not like here. There’s a ruler appointed every 15 years, called the Templar. It’s like… a monarchy, but worse. Everyone is expected to obey and praise the Templar and anyone who steps out of line is considered unworthy, and can be banished or… killed.”

“Ardor was the Templar four years ago,” Jisung added. “He wasn’t bad, not at first, but then his wife met her soul tie and chose to be with them, not him. Things were.. Not great after that.”

“Things went to shit,” Hyunjin corrected. “He went absolutely crazy. He hired the best minds in the entire realm to come up with a magic stronger than the magic of the soul tie. He burned all of the text on soul ties and made a law that anyone who meets their soul tie while already in a relationship had to stay in that relationship and wither away slowly. If not, they’d be caught and publicly punished.”

“And by punished, I assume you mean…?”

“Yeah,” Jisung confirmed. “More death and stuff.”

“Then the war started,” Hyunjin breathed. “It was.. Nasty to say the least. The population dwindled by 20%.”

You rubbed your hands over your arms, trying to beat the chill that just surrounded you. “That sounds horrible,” you mumbled. “How did you guys end up escaping?”

The two boys shared a look over your head before Hyunjin continued. “It was a hard decision,” he said gently. “But, ultimately, we knew didn’t want to be in that society anymore. So Minho rounded us up and.. We left through a portal. It’s been, what, 3 years now?”

Jisung nodded. “We can’t go back. Even if we wanted to.”

Your voice came out softer than you expected. “Why not? Can’t you just open another portal?”

Jisung paused, taking a breath before he continued. “No, we can’t. There’s no way to make a portal here– not unless you bring the materials from Iphorus. Even then it’s iffy because our magic is weaker here.”

“So.. you’re stuck here, essentially.”

“Yeah,” Hyunjin nodded. “But it’s not bad. It’s probably for the greater good of everyone that we stay here.”

You let out a shaky breath. “But.. what about your families? Don’t you miss them? Do they–”

Hyunjin gripped your hand quickly and shook his head, panic on his face. He had a finger over his lips, and told you with his eyes to stop speaking. You nodded at him, albeit very confused, before he looked away. You followed his gaze to see that he was staring at Jisung, who had that glazed over, flashback look in his eyes– the same one Hyunjin had earlier.

Jisung was trembling. He started digging his nails into his pants, scratching so frantically you thought he’s rip right through the fabric. You could hear him whispering under his breath, but his voice was so soft that you had no idea what he was saying. 

“Ji,” Hyunjin whispered. He reached over you and touched Jisung’s shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

Jisung put one of his hands over Hyunjins, repeating the comforting words under his breath. Though you were in the middle of things, literally, you felt so far away and helpless.All you could do was watch, and hope that Jisung would be alright.

After a second, you watched him squeeze Hyunjin’s hand and nod. “I’m okay,” he whispered. He looked up at you, the tips of his ears burning a bright red. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t… hearing about family is… not great.”

“I’m sorry–”

“No, you don’t have to apologize. You couldn’t have known.” 

He rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “I have a… complicated family history. So hearing about it can make me a bit uncomfortable. But I’m okay now. I promise.” 

You nodded and let silence wash over the three of you as you stared at your lap. Iphorus sounded like an awful place, and though you were now technically a hostage of some kind, it sounded much better than being sent somewhere like that. It was a wonder how the boys seemed to get out mostly unscathed.

A million thoughts raced through your head at once. It was so overwhelming, all of it. You could feel the beginnings of an anxiety attach cresting it’s head over your conscious.

Hyunjin’s hand found it’s way to you, rubbing slow, calming circles on your arm. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“Yeah,” Jisung added sheepishly. “We’re here now, we’re safe from all of that.”

Your voice began to quiver as you tried to speak. “So… going back to the whole Ardor thing, is that… is all of that why Minho made the earring? So that people could find their soul ties and avoid death?”

“Something like that,” Hyunjin mumbled. “I don’t really know– it’s not my story to tell.”

“His invention did a lot of good during Ardor’s reign.” Jisung piped up. “But… I don't really know his intention for making it. Unless it was–”

“Either way.” Hyunjin cut him off, shooting him a look that you couldn’t decipher. His hand was still rubbing circles on your arm, and that cloudy, pliant feeling as beginning to return to your head. As long as you weren’t panicking, you didn’t really care.

“Either way, that’s our history now. We’re trying to stay focused on what our future is gonna look like.”

“I guess it’ll be the nine of us from now on,” Jisung said. “I wonder who’s gonna be your roommate while we clean up the guest room.”

“Wait, nine? There’s more of you?”

Jisung blinked. “Oh, I guess you didn’t meet everyone else yet. Well, you know me, Hyunjin, Chan, and Minho of course.” He held up fingers with each name. “That leaves Changbin, Seungmin, Felix, and Jeongin.”

Noticing your anxious gaze, he continued. “But they’re good guys! I promise, it’ll be okay.”

As you opened your mouth to reply, a banging sound came from downstairs. The three of you shot up out of your comfortable slouches, eyes glued to the staircase. You could hear feet pounding up the stairs and the pants of breath from two people. Your anxiety settled for a moment when you saw it was Minho and Chan, but when you noticed their intense demeanor, it quickly returned.

Chan raced over to the three of you, hustling you out of your seats with urgency. “Get up,” he ordered. “Now. We need to leave.”

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t have time to explain,” he breathed. “Just– please. We need to get out of here right now.”

You allowed yourself to get pulled off of the couch and nearly shoved into the corner of the room farthest from the staircase. Minho and Chan moved around the room in a way that nearly seemed choreographed, despite the air of seriousness looming over them. Chan shoved everyone’s belongings into a duffel bag which he tossed to Jisung. Minho, on the other hand, slipped on a black sweatshirt and beanie before standing by the top of the stairs.

Chan stepped in front of the three of you, pressing his hand against the wall until it seemed to disappear right before your eyes. A large black door replaced what was there before, and Hyunjin opened it to reveal a long, dark staircase.

“Get downstairs to the car,” Chan spoke. “Felix and Seungmin are already in there. Changbin is driving, do not leave without him. Understood?”

The two boys behind you nodded. As Hyunjin began making his way down the stairs,  Jisung slung the duffel bag over his shoulder and reached his hand out to you. “I know you still don’t trust us that much, but please, you have to keep holding my hand.”

As you stepped forward to grab Jisung’s hand, a feeling of dread washed over you. It felt like you would throw up any second. You could feel your mind begin to get rid of all rational thought and go right into panic mode.

No no no, your consciousness chanted. We can’t leave. Stop. Stop!

“Wait,” you cried. Your sudden outburst had both Chan and Jisung surprised, but you couldn’t calm your voice down even if you tried. “W-What about Chan and Minho? Are we just leaving  them here?”

“It’s for the best, they’re gonna be okay, but I need to get you out of here now.”

Jisung reached for you, but you stepped back, trembling like a wounded animal. For some reason you were terrified. Your entire body felt cold and your mouth felt like cotton.

You shook your head at him, and felt the words coming out of your mouth before you could process them. “No! I’m not… I’m not going anywhere!”

From the bottom of the staircase, Hyunjin called your name with urgency. “Please,” he shouted. “Come on, we need to go!”

“We’ll catch up, Jin,” Jisung called. He turned his attention back to you, his big doe eyes pleading with you. “I know you’re scared, but it’s an emergency and we need to go. I need to get you out of here, you’re not safe.”

You felt crazy. The dwindling embers of your rational brain begged you to go with Jisung, to run into the arms of safety and protection. But a louder, roaring fire spoke over it, and against all of your instincts you were desperate to stay.

Breaking you from your thoughts, Jisung grabbed your hand tightly, no longer waiting for you to make the first move, and he began to drag you towards the stairs. You dug your heels into the ground to stop him, but he just began to pull harder. He was adamant about leaving, and you were adamant about staying. You writhed in his grasp with such desperation and vigor, you felt as though your body would explode.

You couldn’t leave. It felt like your body would tear in half if you left the two of them there. It felt like you were being sucked into a whirlpool, water splashing around you and knocking the wind out of your chest. You couldn’t stand it. Though you knew Jisung was strong, you felt an unnatural strength take over you as you ripped your hand out of his and stumbled back into the room.

“No, we can’t… we can’t leave them here.” Your words came out breathless, as though you were having a panic attack. “I won’t go.”

A hand grasped your shoulder, and you whipped around to see Minho standing right behind you. He gripped your shoulder tightly– not tight enough that it would hurt, but firm enough that it would ground you. Your breath continued to rake its way out of your chest as you stared at him, eyes darting frantically around his face.

“Calm down,” he whispered. “It’s okay. Breathe with me.”

You let you eyes close, and without effort, your breathing began to match his rhythm. It was almost scary how easy it was to follow him. With every deep, dramatic breath he took, your body was able to copy him without a single thought.

The breathing was beginning to help clear the thick smog that covered your brain, and though you knew you weren’t thinking completely rationally, you felt clear enough to slow down and listen to what he was saying.

You let your eyes open, and found that he was staring at you intently. The expression on his face was unlike anything you’d ever seen before. You were used to his scowl and glare, but now he was looking at you with a type of gentleness you didn’t recognize. Goosebumps raced across your flesh as you waited for him to speak.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “Look. I’m going to be okay. Okay? You can go. They’re taking you somewhere safe, and I’ll come join you when I’m all done here.”

“But–”

He shook his head. “It’s okay.”

Emotions overwhelmed you the more you stared into his eyes. It seemed like everything around you had faded into nothingness, and you and Minho were alone in an entirely white room. Your senses were filled with nothing but him– his cinnamon scent, the softness of his hands, the sound of his heartbeat. You were entirely engulfed in him, even your brain seemed to be chanting his name over and over like a mantra, but something in you wasn’t satisfied. You needed skin to skin contact. 

You lifted your hand and put it on his, and you felt your entire body come to life, almost like you’d been shocked with enough voltage to power a small town. Minho closed his eyes and grunted softly under his breath, and you knew he felt the sensation too.

He opened his eyes after a moment, forcing them into focus before he continued to stare at you. His thumb rubbed over the back of your hand, and you felt yourself begin to tremble. 

“You can go,” he whispered. “It’s gonna be okay.”

You found yourself whispering back to him. “Okay”

Jisung took the opportunity to slip his hand into yours again, and gently drag you away from Minho and into the staircase. The two of you held eye contact the entire time. It was unwavering, intense eye contact that made the line of sight feel sacred. You couldn’t pull your eyes away until Chan closed to staircase door.

Though you were no longer in that weird trance, your mind was still fuzzy and your senses were still full of nothing but Minho, so much so that you were barely aware of anything happening around you. You knew that Jisung was running, and obviously you had to be running too if you were still holding his hand, but it felt like you were floating above the ground, completely untouchable.

After a moment, you found yourself in the alley behind the parlor. The air was thick with the stench of garbage and rotten food, and the ground beneath your feet was sticky. You look up to see that there was a large SUV parked with the back door open. You let Jisung guide you toward it, before he stuck his head in and said God-knows-what to God-knows-who. Upon getting a response, he turned around and offered you his hand once again. The fog of your mind was beginning to clear, and you stepped towards him and took his hand, climbing into the third row of seats in the car.

You were met with many unfamiliar faces. There were two people in the row ahead of you, one in the driver’s seat, and another sitting next to you. You saw Hyunjin’s red hair cresting over the passenger’s seat, and your anxiety began to dissipate. At least there were two people you knew. After a quick count you realized that the unfamiliar faces were all four people you hadn’t met yet.

You turned back to Jisung, who was sliding into the row next to you. Once he was situated and the seat was back in place, you felt the car vibrate as the engine started, then it peeled off into the street at what felt like a dangerous speed. You’d almost forgotten the dire situation you were in after… whatever that was, happened with Minho. Thinking about him being back in the parlor without you, your anxiety began to come back, and you began picking at the fabric of your jeans.

“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry,” Jisung whispered. He gently reached over and laid your hand flat on your leg. “Are you anxious about the unfamiliar people? I told you they’re all nice guys.”

Deciding to keep your thoughts on Minho to yourself, you nodded. “Yeah, but I don’t know them,” You whispered back. “And so much is happening right now. Do they even know who I am? Do they know about… you know?”

A sweet sounding giggle came from next to you. You glanced over your shoulder to see the most angelic looking man you’d ever seen in your life. His hair was bleached white and fluffed around his face, perfectly accentuating his symmetrical face. Freckles were dotted all across his rosy red cheeks, from over the bridge of his nose to around his eyes– which were nearly closed as his smile took up his  entire face.

“I know who you are,” he giggled. “You’re Minho’s soul tie. I’m Felix! Nice to meet you.”

You stared at him nearly in awe of his features. He looked like the picture of innocence and joy– almost out of place in the somber space within the car.

“You don’t have to be shy,” he continued. “I’m nice, so is Changbin and Innie.”

He leaned close and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Seungmin’s kind of annoying, but it’ll grow on you, I promise.”

“I heard that.”

“Stop bickering back there,” the driver, who, if you remembered correctly, was named Changbin. He adjusted his rear view mirror and peered at everyone. Your eyes met, and he lifted his eyebrow curiously, almost like there was a question brewing in his brain. He dismissed it quickly by shaking his head.

Despite his extreme speed, he maneuvered through traffic so smoothly you questioned if the other cars were even real. He spoke up again, “You all buckle up, I’m speeding.”

From the corner of your eyes, you could see Felix sit up in his seat and put on his seat belt. When he noticed you staring, he gave you another smile before reaching up and buckling your seat belt too.

“Oh– uh… thank you?”

“You’re welcome,” he grinned. 

He peered at you curiously through his long lashes. He seemed to be searching your face, or trying to read your expression. You held eye contact and, for a moment, his cheerful expression dropped and was replaced with something untraceable. But just as quickly as it fell, it was back. You thought your mind must have been playing tricks on you.

“You don’t have to be scared,” Felix said as he leaned back. “Everything is going to be fine. We’ll treat you like family.”

As much as you wanted to believe him, you couldn’t even process what he said. Your brain was almost too full of thoughts, and it felt like it was going to explode. You were terrified, and rightfully so. Not because Changbin was speeding, though you were watching the speedometer intently, but because you were fleeing some unknown threat. Something that was bad enough that you need to leave immediately, and yet, Chan and Minho were staying back, preparing to face the threat head on.

What terrified you most, though, was the fact the the very fabric of your being felt like it was being torn apart the farther you were from the parlor, and as you stared at the setting sun, you gripped your knees and shuddered.

With a sigh you pushed open the door, the overhead bell jingling to alert those inside to your arrival, wherever they may be. The front desk was still empty, save for a hefty amount of papers scattered around haphazardly. There was no little bell to ding for service, and you couldn't see any rooms anywhere to call for someone to assist you. Just a dark wall lined with pictures, posters, and various quotes.

You weren’t sure what you were expecting when you decided to go to a body works shop, but something about the atmosphere of the store felt off. Not in a scary way, but almost the complete opposite. It felt comforting and homely, despite its emptiness.

You took it upon yourself to find a seat to wait for assistance. There were three chairs off to the far left of the room, one of which was positioned under a large bulletin board with photos stuck to it. Looking around once more to make sure you didn’t overlook a person in the dim light, you walked over to sit.

As you sat at the edge of the couch, you peered up at the bulletin board to pass the time. There were various pictures of models showcasing tattoos that the parlor had done. They were all extremely intricate, it was obvious they were made with precision and all the attention one could sacrifice. You enjoyed looking at the art, and though you weren’t ready for a tattoo just yet, you could still admire the craftsmanship.

Off to the corner of the board, a rather small picture of an earring caught your eye. It was industrial style, spanning from the inner corner of the model's ear to the outer, curving and wrapping around like it was made for their ear. Upon tilting your head, you noticed it was shaped like a key. The head crested above the ear in the shape of a heart (sort of), and the blade weaved in and over the shell of the ear shell perfectly.

It was a beautiful piercing, to say the least.

Something about the earring looked familiar, like images of a dream from childhood that began to blur around the edges. You searched deep within yourself to find a piece of memory to hold on to, to see if you could figure out what it meant, but you came up short. You were so focused on the photo that you didn’t hear footsteps making their way into the lobby and taking their place at the desk behind you.

"Hey! I’m so sorry for the wait, how can I help you?"

You whipped around to see a heavily tatted, and equally heavily pierced man now perched on the edge of the front desk. His uneven brown hair was parted on the side, framing his face perfectly like drips of brown candle wax down his face. He smiled at you, a warm and inviting smile enveloped by thick, plump lips. Silver balls adorned his dimples as he waited for you to speak.

"Uh, hi," you stuttered out. You tried to shake the dreamy feeling away from your head. "I, um. I came for a piercing."

The man in front of you raised a single eyebrow, his expression a mix of confusion and surprise. At this expression, you felt panic rise in your chest.

“You guys… you do piercings right?”

He blinked before nodding quickly. “Yes! Sorry, yes we do. We usually get more requests for tattoos so I was a bit surprised.”

He shuffled around some papers on his desk as he continued to speak. “The guy who does lobe piercings isn’t in today. I know it seems like something anyone can do, but I swear Felix must possess a talent none of us can achieve. I can schedule you for tomorrow maybe, if that works?”

“I actually wanted an industrial piercing.”

"Industrial, huh..." The man muttered. “But you don’t even have lobe piercings…”

He stared at you as you stood in front of him, a bit perturbed to say the least. With a final shrug, he nodded. "Okay, that works. We have a guy who can do that. If you step over here we can pick out the bar that’ll get put in afterwards.” He rummaged around on the desk, his eyebrows knitting together. “If I can even find the stupid book.”

Your mouth moved faster than your brain, and before you knew it you heard your voice in the empty space around you. "Can I have the key?"

The brunette paused his actions, confusion shrouding his features. "The...key?" He asked. At least you assumed it was a question, it sounded more like a statement of disbelief.

At his confusion, you pointed behind yourself at the small picture in the corner of the board. The man at the front desk squinted to see the picture you were referring to. Once his eyes settled, he pursed his lips, and an untraceable emotion flitted past his dark brown eyes. He blinked harder than normal before speaking.

"That's, um, that’s not—"

His eyes flickered back to yours, and you could tell he was thinking about how to turn you down gently. However, at your disappointed face, he quickly cleared his throat, whatever he was planning on saying dying in his throat.

"I mean, that’s not a problem at all. Yup, we can do that for you. Definitely.”

He cracked the fingers on his hands as he continued to stare at the photo. After realizing the silence turned awkward, he quickly shook his head and tried to gather his thoughts. Once he recovered, he ran his fingers through his hair and smiled. “I'm Chan, by the way. I probably should've introduced myself first."

"Nice to meet you," you said back. His eyes sparkled as he held your gaze for a moment, before dropping it to sift through papers on the counter in front of him once again.

"This is gonna seem like a dumb question but, you’re at least 18 right?"

You nodded, the image of your outfit skittering across your memory like a rat. You internally cringed, sneaking a hand up to yank the headband off of your head. You stuffed it into your pocket with a mental note to throw it away later.

Chan grinned happily as he found the form he was looking for. His lip ring gleamed in the bright lights of the parlor waiting room, and he clapped his hands together. "Perfect. I'll take you to the back room, I think Minho would love to work on this for you."

He motioned for you to follow him through thick black curtains that led into another, larger room. You blinked in surprise as you stepped through the threshold. How did you not notice the black space in the wall was a curtain? It seemed like someone had started a paint job and abandoned it, not a three dimensional object. You looked back at it quizzically, watching the curtain flap back into place and remain motionless.

The two of you passed a few rooms with open doors where a couple people were scattered about. One room in particular held a red haired man working gingerly on the abs of another, the whir of a tattoo gun covering any and all conversation they could be having. The red head looked up and caught your eye for a brief second before going back to his work.

"We're here."

Here was the biggest door in the area, and notably the only closed one. Chan raised a gloved finger to his lips before knocking gingerly on the metal of the door.

Surprising to both of you, the door remained shut with no sign of life on the other side. Something in the air electrified, and you felt all the hair on your body stand at attention. The air felt thick, almost like the air before a thunderstorm. Anxiety boiled in your gut as you stared wearily at Chan. The cheerful smile on his face faltered as he stared at the unmoving door, but he cleared his throat and tried again.

"Lino," he called, the nickname a small attempt of lessening the intensity of the air. "I have someone here who needs a piercing done."

After another anxiety filled beat of silence, the door creaked open to reveal thin, catlike eyes. The eyes shifted from Chan to you and back again, and for a second you thought you wouldn't be getting your piercing done. But, thankfully, the owner of the eyes opened the door and allowed you both to step through.

Once you were both in the room, you found yourself standing between Chan and who you assumed was Minho. The latter had a scowl that could pierce glass, though it wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. The tension that enveloped you outside the door was no weaker here. You felt like you were choking on the air around you, and it nearly caused tears to pool in your eyes.

You noticed Chan’s gaze lingering on you for a moment, before he nudged Minho with his foot. The taller of the two glanced up, and they had a wordless conversation before you felt the air around you relax.

Odd.

"This is Minho," Chan spoke up after a moment. His happy tone seemed extremely inappropriate for both the general ambiance of the shop and the thick tension that once coated the room. You felt extremely out of place here, not only because of your clean and un-pierced skin, but there was a hint of something in the air that you couldn’t place, almost like Minho did not want you there.

The man in question had platinum blond hair that was a stark contrast to his dark, shifting eyes. His small lips were etched in a permanent pout that seemed to curve deeper with every passing second. He licked his lips, and you could see the black ball of a snake eye dart in and out his mouth.

“That’s my name,” he said lowly in response to Chan. “What do you want?”

"Oh I don’t want anything,” He chuckled. He turned his attention towards you and continued talking. “Minho here is the maker of the earring you were interested in. He’ll be doing your piercing."

At this, Minho quirked an eyebrow up. His slow drawl sharpened to a sarcastic blade. "Come again?"

Chan shrugged simply. "She picked your key, Lino."

You noticed Minho had piercings of his own: an industrial, a double lip ring, a septum, the tongue piercing, and of course, simple lobe piercings. But, his industrial piercing was a simple bar. If Minho made the key, wouldn't he want to wear it?

The taller man scoffed, his pout turning into a full blown scowl. He threw the cloth in his hands down on the chair in front of him and shook his head. "The nose ring? Nope, that’s Jeongin’s department. He should be finishing up with his client soon.”

Chan said nothing, just stared.

A dozen emotions flickered through Minho’s eyes before he settled on disgust and anger. “Wait. Chan, you can’t possibly be talking about—” He cut himself off, raising his eyebrows as a completion of his sentence.

Chan nodded.

Minho scoffed. “I’m not making that earring, Chan. No way.”

Your heart plummeted from its cavity as you looked to Chan for answers. The brunette met your eyes, and he rolled his own playfully, signaling for you to pay no mind to the other man's attitude. Minho caught this, of course, and his frown deepened.

“Chan I told you a million times, I was never making that earring again. I didn’t even know the stupid picture was up on that board.”

“Oh, come on Minho.”

“That piercing is nothing but trouble and so are the people who want it.”

You blinked, confused and a little offended.

“I don’t think she’s one of those people.”

Minho whipped around, his dark eyes boring into yours. You widened your own eyes, face flushing as you quickly averted your gaze.

"Come on, Lino. You’re the only one who can make that piercing happen, and she really wants it.”

“Well, I don’t really hav—”

Your words died in your throat as Chan put a single finger to his lips to silence you. The dynamic of the room shifted, and all of the power and command attached itself to Chan. Minho seemed to notice the shift as well and he shrunk into himself.

He sighed, his pout twisting until his lips were pursed in thought. "But Chan…."

"Um.” You found your voice again. “Should I have picked another design? It's okay, really."

"No," Chan said, his voice more firm than before. "Minho will do it for you."

Minho opened his mouth to argue, but closed it forcefully under the other man’s red hot glare. He looked like he wanted to say something, or a lot of things, to his counterpart. But something about his glare kept Minho quiet.

Chan’s final input seemed to knock the final brick of Minho's tower over, and the blond haired man let a sigh rip through his chest. "Fine. I’ll do it."

The cheerful attitude returned to Chan as he clapped, the abrupt change in the atmosphere almost giving you whiplash. You felt mildly dizzy as the brunette stepped quickly towards the door, the face splitting smile back where it belonged.

"Thanks, Min! I'll go fill out the paperwork, you can get started.”

He turned to you with a soft smile, lowering his voice so only you could hear. "Don't let this grump get you down. He's really sweet under his mean ol' face."

You weren’t sure how much of that you believed, but you nodded anyway. Chan shot you a wink, and with one final glance at Minho, he stepped out of the room.

You were too anxious to turn around, but you could feel the blonde’s eyes digging holes into the back of your skull. You swallowed thickly and prayed to every higher power that the appointment would go quickly.

Minho let out an exhausted sounding sigh and started moving around the room. When you gained the courage to turn around, he motioned vaguely for you to take a seat in the large chair in the middle of the room and turned his back to you, pulling out a thick strip of metal and a pair of pliers from a drawer and beginning to work on the design.

He paused for a second, barely glancing over his shoulder. “I have to make the earring from scratch, since the one in the picture is the only one that currently exists. Just sit, I’ll be done soon.”

After that, nothing.

The silence was deafening. Every breath in the room echoed and radiated off the walls and bounced right back on your ears. The man was no help, working silently with his back hunched over his work protectively. There was no room to peek, no room to ask questions. After opening and closing every app on your phone for 10 minutes, you fiddled with the flaps of your jacket as a means to occupy yourself. You willed yourself to stay quiet, but your curiosity was sparking with each passing second.

His words from earlier worked their way back into your brain.

“That earring is nothing but trouble and so are the people who want it.”

What did that mean?

Part of you worried that you were in over your head. You hadn’t done a very good job of researching when you were looking for a place to pierce your ear, besides a customary search on google maps to make sure the shop actually existed. You started to worry that maybe the shop was a front for some kind of deadly mafia, or illegal trafficking ring.

You shook that thought out of your head. You were being ridiculous. That type of stuff was reserved for TV dramas and the fanfiction you read at night.

An agonizing 5 minutes later, Minho put his pliers down for good. He wiped his hands with hand sanitizer before spinning around in his chair to look at you. The scowl was no longer present on his face— in fact, his features as a whole softened. He looked at you and tilted his head quizzically, like he was studying a painting.

“You ever got a piercing before?”

At your head shake, he let out a dry laugh. “Why am I not surprised.”

The drawer next to his workspace opened to reveal an array of needles and various other piercing equipment. A cold chill ran down your spine at the looks of the needle sizes. Minho, noticing your apprehension, rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’m not a jackass, so I’m going to pierce your ear with a needle, not the gun, and then feed the earring through. Okay?”

You didn’t really know if she could say no to that. He was a professional after all. You nodded anyway, watching as he prepped his station.

He rolled his chair over to where you sat, dragging along a small metal tray table with him. The earring sat in all its glory on a cotton swab doused with rubbing alcohol. On the tray, it didn’t look much like a key— it didn’t look much like anything really. Sort of like an abstract painting. you wondered if maybe it was an optical illusion.

Minho followed your confused gaze to the earring and kissed his teeth. “It's not going to look like… a key yet,” he muttered. “It has to be in your ear first.”

His features may have relaxed, but his tone was harsh. A part of you wanted to shut up and let him do what he needed, but Chan’s voice rang in the back of your mind.

‘Don’t let him intimidate you.’

You’re an adult, for goodness sake, and Minho couldn’t be that much older than you. You counted to 10 in your head to give yourself the courage to say something.

“Does no one else think it looks like a key?” you piped curiously. “Chan didn’t know what I was talking about until he saw the picture, and you seem like that wasn’t what you wanted it to be.”

Minho raised an eyebrow. “It's whatever you want it to be. Some people think it's a heartbeat, some people think it’s just a squiggle. You think it's a key, and that’s fine.”

He wiped a needle down with an alcohol pad. “Well. I hope you have a high pain tolerance. Industrials hurt.”

“Um…”

Minho rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”

He scooted his chair closer and discarded the soaked cotton ball. He pulled a marker from behind his ear and marked two dots where the earring would go through.

“Alright, take a deep breath in for me,” He muttered, his face dangerously close to yours. You followed his directions, and on his command you let the breath out. Immediately you felt the sharp sting from the needle, and you gripped the arm of the chair with force.

“Fuck,” You hissed, arching off the chair in pain.

“That wasn’t so bad,” He muttered. “Besides, that was only the outter corner. I still have to pierce the inside.”

“Of course you do,” you muttered.

The traces of a smile pulled up on the corners of Minho’s mouth, but just as quickly as they appeared, they disappeared. He wiped down the next needle and adjusted his chair so he could reach his target.

“Alright, same process. Deep breath in.”

You sucked in a breath.

“And--”

The door to Minho’s workspace slammed open, and an unfamiliar face stood in the doorway. The sound caught both of you by surprise, and the needle went through your ear before you could prepare. You hissed out in pain and slapped Minho’s hand away. Minho himself seemed terrified, but soon his eyes settled and he recognized the face at the door.

“Fucking-- what Hyunjin?”

The man at the door, Hyunjin apparently, had the same crown of red hair you saw on your way to Minho’s studio. Just like the two men you met previously, he was adorned from head to toe in tattoos. Under the bang of his hair was a shiny silver eyebrow piercing. His plump and full lips were slightly agape, staring at you two with quick, shifty eyes.

“Sorry, Min,” he said sheepishly. “I didn’t know you had a client. Chan told me someone was getting the… what is it?”

“A key,” The blond muttered.

“Right. A key…”

Your eyes shifted between the two men, who seemed to be communicating wordlessly like Chan and Minho did before.

What is with these guys?

“Am I missing something here?”

Hyunjin broke from his staring match with Minho and smiled at you in the chair. “Oh! Sorry, I’m Hyunjin,” he grinned. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before. Or in any of the local shops. Are you new in town?”

“Oh no, this is just my first piercing.”

Hyunjin’s eyes were soft and kind, and you felt yourself drawn to them inexplicably. He radiated comforting energy, and for the first time since you stepped into the shop, you could feel your body relax.

“First piercing, huh?” His smile turned teasing. “And you didn’t go for a lobe piercing?”

Behind you, Minho broke away from the distraction of the conversation and remembered his task at hand. He let out an annoyed hum and went back to work, grabbing the earring from the tray and preparing to feed it through the holes he just made.

“I wanted something a little more rebellious than a lobe piercing.”

Hyunjin’s smile turned into a full smirk “Of course,” he teased. “An industrial piercing, the most rebellious of all. Next on your bucket list must be jaywalking, huh?”

You returned his teasing smile. “Oh, for sure. And after that I’m going straight to littering.”

Laughing gently, the redhead found an empty portion of the counter and lifted himself up, scooting closer to your spot in the leather chair. “So, what made you pick Minho’s earring?”

You thought back to the dreamy feeling you got in your head upon seeing the picture. It seemed to call out to you silently, but you didn’t know how to say that without sounding like a lunatic. Instead, you shrugged lightly, jostling Minho’s hands as he worked on your ear.

“Keep still,” he hissed.

Hyunjin chuckled. “I wish I knew how to do ear piercings. You wouldn’t have to suffer with the grump here.”

“Can everyone stop calling me grumpy?” Minho slammed a hand down on his tray. “I am not grumpy because I’m 24 years old and not a toddler. Excuse me if I’m in a bad mood once in a while.”

Hyunjin’s sparkling eyes held an air of amusement. “S’okay Min,” he smiled. “You’re grumpy. It’s okay to be grumpy.”

Flipping Hyunjin off, Minho huffed and pushed away from you, reaching for the cloth on the metal tray. “Done,” he grumbled.

The redhead hopped off the counter and made his way over to your side, peering curiously at your ear. His brown eyes widened in surprise, a smile curling on the corners of his lips.

“Well done, Minho,” he grinned. “It looks even better than the picture.”

The man in question was too busy putting together a care kit to acknowledge the compliment. Absentmindedly, he thrust a hand mirror in the direction of the pair of you, mumbling something about checking it out. Hyunjin grabbed the mirror and handed it to you, smiling cutely as he cupped his chin in his hands. “Take a look.”

You lifted the mirror to your ear, turning your head to examine the new addition to your appearance. It really did look like a key now that it was in your ear. As you moved your head around to examine it, you noticed that its shadow held a peculiar shape to it as well.

You lifted the mirror higher to let the light hit the perfect spot. The shadow of the earring sort of looked like letters. You squinted carefully and shifted the light around to put the letters together to form a word.

M. I. N. H. O.

Minho.

           Now, the two men were sat in chairs across from you and Hyunjin, Minho scowling at you, and Chan staring at you with an unreadable look. You could sense his feelings of disappointment in the air, and it made you shrink in your seat.  Hyunjin bit his nail anxiously and his eyes bounced between his friends.

            “She’s innocent,” he spoke up. Chan held a finger up to silence him, and continued to stare at you questioningly.

            It’d been dead silent for the better part of 5 minutes now, and you were starting to get anxious. For many reasons, like being in a room with three men you only met last week, but mostly because Hyunjin had touched the bruise on your back and healed it, and you needed to know what was going on before you decided to freak out. If you hit your head on the sidewalk and this was some vivid comatose dream, cool, it was a great one. But if you were actually awake, that was another story.

             Chan’s facade broke, and he let out a small laugh. “You’re not in a coma,” he said. “You’re awake.”

             Oh, he could read minds now? You were definitely in a coma.

             Unconvinced, you blinked at him, and slowly his stoic expression morphed into something closer to his normal face. Minho, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to smother you with the pillow next to your leg. You shifted next to Hyunjin for support.

            “Alright, get to talking,” Minho barked. “Explain what the fuck you were doing in my shop and what you were trying to accomplish. And don’t try lying, we already know everything.”

            “Min—”

            “Don’t interrupt me Hyunjin. This doesn’t concern you.”

            Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “It kinda does.”

            “I’m sorry, what exactly is going on?”

            All the eyes in the room turned their attention to you. Minho looked indignant at your question, as though he couldn’t believe you’d have the nerve to speak. Chan, on the other hand, let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. 

            “Well, before anyone says anything else, are you okay? You got choked out for a while back there.”

             Your fingers brushed against the bruise on your neck as you blinked at them. It seemed like a distant memory at this point, albeit a terrifying one, but as you ran your fingers along the surface of your skin, you let your focus come back to the present.  “I… I actually feel fine.”

             Hyunjin smiled, and Chan continued. “Good. That confirms our theory, then.”

              “Your theory… about what exactly?”

              Chan stood up from his seat and folded his arms over his chest. After a beat of silence, he began pacing around the small room, humming a tune to himself. He paused in front of a small window off to the side and stared out of it.

You furrowed your eyebrows and turned to Hyunjin, who rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Dramatics,’ he mouthed. Still unsure, you nodded and looked back at Chan.

Finally, he spoke. “Why didn’t you tell us you’re a Sirid?”

                You blinked, having no clue what word just came out of Chan’s mouth. Was this some new kind of insult? Probably not. You’d expect that behavior from Minho, not Chan. You’d never heard this word before, and there was no context in his sentence to help you out.

At your silence, Chan tilted his head. “You seem confused… why?”

“I have no idea what that word means,” you confessed. “I’m genuinely concerned that you might have insulted me.” 

           “She’s obviously lying,” Minho spoke up. His arms were still crossed over his chest as he looked you up and down. “There’s no other explanation.”

You chose to ignore Minho, staring at Chan as he restarted his pacing. “Are you going to let me know what a Sirid is, or am I going to continue to believe I’ve just been insulted?”

Chan paused in his pacing again and turned around to face you. “I should’ve known when you came in, but your energy didn’t set off any alarm bells. My only question is, why didn’t you tell us yourself? Certainly you felt our energies.”

“Chan,” you deadpanned. “I’m telling you right now, I have no clue what you’re talking about. I came for an industrial piercing, and that’s it.”

Hyunjin pressed his hand into the curve of your back tightly, and the rising anger in you began to settle down. You closed your eyes before continuing.

“I’m honestly very confused and a little frightened, so if you please, I’d love an explanation.”

When you opened your eyes, Chan was staring at you with a different look. The disappointment was gone, replaced with something akin to sympathy. Even Minho, who still looked like murder was a considerable option, had his eyebrows raised and was giving you his undivided attention.

Chan let out a breath and slid back into the seat next to Minho. “Alright,” he breathed. “We can do that.”

He leaned back and blew air through his mouth. “So. We, as in all of the workers here at the shop, are Sirids. I guess the human equivalent is like… witches and wizards. We’re not from here, we’re from a different realm, a place called Iphorus.”

You allowed Chan to continue, skepticism flowing through your veins like an essential vitamin. ‘They’re crazy,’ you thought. ‘Cute, and great tattoo artists, but crazy.’

“You remember Hyunjin grabbing you and bringing you back here, right?”

You nodded. “Then he touched my back, and the pain went away.”

“Well,” Hyunjin cut in. “I started healing you way before that. Being held in the air by your throat for close to 5 minutes is not exactly a recommended daily activity.”

You turned to the redhead with confusion. “What are you saying?”

“You were going to die, idiot.”

Minho rolled his eyes. “You were being choked out by a man 15 times stronger than you are. If Hyunjin hadn’t sensed the danger, you would be dead.”

Your memory flicked back to seeing Hyunjin at the bottom of the hill earlier that day. You remembered that when you felt the impending sense of doom and froze, he also seemed disturbed, as though whatever you were feeling, he was feeling.

Your heart thundered in your chest as panic gripped your brain. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

“Sirids are divided into different groups, called clans.” Chan’s voice softened as he explained. “Your clan determines what your powers are. Hyunjin is from the Ellituary clan. He’s a healer, a protector– do you notice how calm you feel with him?”

Yes, actually. You did. You remembered the overwhelming sense of peace that washed over you when he walked into Minho’s studio. You thought it was relief from having a third person around so you wouldn’t have to deal with Minho alone.

You felt your head shaking before you even realized it. “No,” you said. “You guys are messing with me. You’re lying to me because you want to keep me here.”

Hyunjin reached over to touch you again, but you pulled yourself away as though he was poisonous. You could see the hurt in his eyes before they pooled with tears.

Chan called your name gently, reaching over to calm you down himself, but you shot up from your seat and backed away from all of them.

“Magic isn’t real,” you said, more to yourself than to them. “You’re liars, and I’m going to walk down these stairs and go home, and I never want to see any of you again.”

“That wouldn’t be wise.”

You whipped around to look at Minho, who wasn’t even looking in your direction as he spoke. “We know you’re a Sirid because Sirid magic doesn’t work on humans, and humans can’t detect each other through their energy.”

His eyes lazily looked up at yours. “Hyunjin was able to heal you, and that asshole was able to sense you to know to attack you. If there was one, we have to assume there are others, and if you leave this shop with that earring in your ear, they can and will come after you.”

He scoffed. “And we will not be able to save you next time.”

You reached a shaking hand to your ear, gently touching the new addition to your appearance. “What does the earring have to do with any of this?”

Hyunjin sighed. “Do you remember what I told you? That the earring has a cultural significance that no one knows about but us?”

Of course. Hyunjin’s stuttering and hesitation all made sense now– well, if you chose to believe them. As much as you wanted to think they were just being weirdos, too many things were starting to add up.

“What’s its significance then?” You remembered how the man called Minho by name after seeing the earring. “Is this like, your symbol or something? Did I accidentally initiate myself into a gang?”

“No no,” Chan held his hands up quickly. “It’s nothing like that. It’s just…” He trailed off, biting his lip as he tried to find the proper words to use.

Hyunjin jumped in. “Minho invented the earring years ago. It’s called the Soul Vine.  On humans, it doesn’t do anything, but on Sirids, the shadow of the squiggly part reveals the name of your soul tie.”

“Soul tie?”

“Like a soulmate,” Chan explained. “The person that your soul is tied to.”

So that's why Minho didn’t want to make the earring. If you’d known it would cause so much trouble, you would’ve been fine picking something else out. Granted, there was no way he could’ve explained it to you that wouldn’t make you think he was entirely insane. Actually, you’re still not sure if you believe in his sanity 100%.

As you began to process everything in the silence, Minho shot out of his seat like he’d been sitting on hot coals. His eyes were wide, and he looked both angry and terrified.

Chan gave him a look. “Min? You okay?”

Rather than answering Chan, Minho turned around in your direction and made his way over to you quickly. Without warning, he pulled your hair away from your ear and stared at the earring intently.

You gave Chan a pleading look, and he stood up and started making his way towards you two.

“Minho,” he sighed. “You have to ask before you touch people. I thought we’ve been over–”

“Fuck.”

Minho pulled away from you and pressed his palms over both of his eyes. “Of fucking course– of fucking course.”

Hyunjin blinked from his spot on the couch. “What.. what’s going on?”

Chan turned his attention back to you, squinting at your ear. After a moment, his eyes widened and he staggered backwards like someone punched him.

You were about to ask what happened, but a memory from the day you got your piercing rushed full force into your mind. You could see yourself sitting in the chair and holding the mirror, decoding the letters that appeared from the shadow.

Your stomach sunk into the floor as you returned Chan’s widened eyes.

“Oh my God,” you stuttered. “If I’m a Sirid–”

“Then the earring shows your soul tie.”

Slowly, your eyes shifted to Minho, who’s palms were still over his face. He parted his hands slowly, and in the silence of the room, you could hear his wavering voice repeating two words like a mantra.

A hand, you assumed it to be Hyunjin’s, pressed something cold against your ear. Slowly, the pain started to dissipate little by little, until you found your eyes open again, blurred by the remnants of tears.

Hyunjin’s plump lips were slack in surprise and confusion. He glanced over at Minho, whose face was tight and slightly annoyed. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he held the paper bag with the care instructions in one of his hands.

“You’d think letting your piercer know you’re allergic to silver would be common sense, huh.” His annoyed tone was punctuated by a raise of his eyebrow.

“You’d think the piercer would realize I wouldn’t know, since I don’t have any piercings.”

You stared at him with a deadpan look on your face. Next to you, Hyunjin bit his tongue to stop from laughing. It didn’t prove to be very helpful, however, and his shoulders still shook slightly.

After composing himself, Hyunjin cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah so, if it continues to hurt like that you can come back and we’ll swap the earring out for you.”

He snatched the care bag from Minho and presented it to you. “Maybe it was just a delayed reaction to the pain though. Make sure you follow all the instructions here carefully, okay? We don’t want it to get infected.”

“Another thing,” Minho piped up. “Hopefully the picture is off the board now— and if it isn’t, take it down when you get out there Hyunjin— but if anyone asks where you got that earring, don’t send them here.”

Both you and Hyunjin stared at him like he lost his mind. “Uh…”

“We’re trying to run a business here, dude,” Hyunjin sighed. He turned his attention back to you. “You can tell them where you got pierced. But, yeah, maybe don’t tell them Minho made the earring specifically. He’s touchy about it.”

You remembered how gorgeous it looked in your ear, and you felt yourself smiling slightly. Gatekeeping, in this instance, had to be okay, right? The artist himself didn’t want anyone else to wear his artwork, so it was almost necessary. You reached an absent minded hand up to your ear, and traced your finger over the heart.

“Thank you, Minho,” you whispered.

The blonde blinked in surprise, almost as if he wasn’t used to the phrase. For a second, you thought his grouchy exterior would wash away.

“Whatever. I hope you like it.”

Nevermind.

“Come on, I’ll walk you to the front,” Hyunjin said softly. With a gentle hand on your back to guide you, he began walking out of Minho’s studio, casting an unreadable glance back at Minho, who was staring at you.

Once the two of you were out of earshot, you turned to Hyunjin. “Is he normally like that? Or did I offend him by getting this earring?”

“Hm? Oh, Minho! No, he’s just like that. You didn’t do anything wrong.” He paused for a second. “Well, I mean, he’s just like that when it comes to the earring. It’s a…. cultural thing?”

You felt yourself freeze. “A cultural thing..?”

Did you just unknowingly commit a micro-aggression? Anxiety brewed in your gut as you stared at Hyunjin with large, pleading eyes.

“Oh— no! Don’t worry! The earring isn’t the cultural thing— or, well it kind of is, but not in like a… I mean, like…”

Your anxiety didn’t quell with Hyunjin stuttering over his words. Common sense told you that the earring had a complicated history, and there wasn’t much Hyunjin could tell you that would make sense without the background context. You paused his anxious bumbling by putting a hand on his arm, causing him to look over at you.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I just want to know if I’m… disrespecting a culture by wearing this. You don’t have to tell me a whole story if you don’t want to.”

The redhead let out a small breath. “Right. Okay. The history of the earring is a little complicated, but it’s a culture no one knows about. Except us here, in the studio.”

“Like an ancient civilization?”

He pressed his lips together. “Yeah. Something like that.”

A part of you didn’t believe him in the slightest, but you nodded anyway. “That’s kind of cool,” you offered. With his meek smile, you gave him a strong one. “So you guys are history buffs. Wouldn’t expect that with the tattoos and piercings.”

Hyunjin chuckled, continuing your walk to the front lobby. “You’d be surprised,” he giggled. “But, I’m glad you chose the earring. You seem like a nice person, and that makes me happy.”

You felt a smile creep onto your face at the praise. Before you could reply, Hyunjin parted the mysterious black curtain from earlier and ushered you out into the front lobby. Chan was seated next to the front desk, along with a new face you didn’t recognize. The silver hair, black gloves, and tattoos indicated that he also worked there, though, and so did Hyunjin’s warm smile.

Chan glanced up from his conversation and smiled at you. “All done?”

“Yeah,” you smiled back. You turned your head to show him, and he gave a wolf whistle in response.

“I’m so glad Minho actually did it,” he grinned. “It’s absolutely gorgeous. And everything else was okay?”

“We had a small mishap with a mirror,” you cringed. “I was looking at his little watermark and my ear started burning. He and Hyunjin think I might be allergic to silver.”

“Watermark?”

The new voice surprised you. The three of you turned to the third person, who’s almond eyes were round and sparkling. Noticing everyone staring at him, he shrunk into himself and gave a bashful smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“Jisung raises a good point,” Chan mumbled to himself. “What watermark do you mean?”

Your eyebrow raised slightly. “The squiggles in the earring.” You made a squiggly motion with your finger. “When light hits them it spells out Minho’s name.”

A strange silence blanketed the front lobby. Chan furrowed his eyebrows, and his tongue peeked out of his mouth to mess with his lip ring. “Huh,” he mumbled. “We didn’t know about that part.”

The newcomer, Jisung, blinked quietly. “It makes sense.” His voice was quiet. “If you think about it.”

After another awkward beat, Chan clapped his hands together once. “Well, either way, don’t worry about the mirror. We run through them like laundry here. Especially Jisung.”

“Hey!”

Chan pulled out a few pieces of official looking paperwork. “Can I get your ID to confirm your age?”

You fumbled around in your pocket and handed him the small card. He gave it a quick glance and handed it back to you with a smile.

There was something about Chan and his smile that made you feel… safe. His eyes always seemed to be sparkling, and his expressions were always kind, even when he was arguing with Minho. You felt a smile appear on your face in response.

“Oh! Happy Birthday,” Chan grinned. “I’ll slide a little discount on there for you then. Everything comes out to be $45.”

You wrinkled your face. “That seems kind of low… Minho made the whole earring by hand.”

“But he was also a horrible piercer because he was grumpy,” Hyunjin piped up. “Birthday discount and a ‘We’re sorry for our friend’ discount.”

With a playful roll of your eyes, you relented, and dug around your pocket to hand Chan the necessary money for your piercing, along with a bit extra. Grumpy or not, Minho did an amazing job with the piercing and the earring itself. He deserved something special.

And, besides, you did shatter his mirror.

Chan printed your receipt and slid it across the counter to you, along with a business card. It had a sloppily scribbled smiley face across the front, and you peered up at him with questioning eyes.

“Just in case you do decide to get lobe piercings,” he explained. “So you can call and I’ll let you know when our guy is in.”

“Or if you ever just want to hang out,” Jisung added. “I like your energy.”

You gave the bright eyed boy a smile as you slipped everything into your pocket. “I’ll consider it,” you teased. He smiled gently before picking up your care package and handing it to you.

Just as you reached out to grab it, the piercing in your ear felt like it’d been lit aflame. You dropped all your belongings as you reached to grab your ear with both hands, your knees almost buckling as the pain radiated through your head. Along with the pain this time came that suffocating feeling from earlier, when you first stepped into Minho’s studio.

Everything sounded like you were 10 feet underwater. You could barely keep your eyes open through the pain, your vision now littered with shadows and vague colors. You could see Hyunjin’s head of red hair leaping over the counter to get to you quickly.

From somewhere nearby, you could hear Chan calling your name with growing concern. You tried to steady your breathing in order to respond, but your efforts were futile. That was, until Hyunjin pressed another cold paper towel on your ear. Your gut instinct was to push his hand away, but he held you with a bit of force, rendering you motionless and almost limp in his arms. Bit by bit, the pain started to disappear again.

You wanted to keep your eyes closed, but a nagging feeling crept up your neck— a feeling that someone was watching you. You cracked one eye open, completely disoriented with your surroundings. You were on the floor, that much you knew, but you couldn’t tell what part of the lobby you’d landed on.

The nagging feeling returned, and you glanced slightly to your left to see Minho peering at you from behind the black curtain that led to the individual studios. His glare was menacing, but somewhat curious. Once he noticed your gaze on him, he disappeared quickly, leaving you alone with the three panicked men.

Speaking of—

“Oh my God, are you okay?”

You shifted your gaze to find Chan and Jisung kneeling in front of you. Chan was gripping his phone tightly in his hand as though ready to dial emergency services.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. “My ear again. I’m okay now though, but I guess I really am allergic to silver.”

“That was worse than last time,” Hyunjin whined from behind you. Only then did you notice that you were seated between his legs like a small child. His grip on you was secure, so you knew there was no wiggling away.

Chan’s face had concern slapped right on it. He pressed his lips together and continued to stare at you as though he thought by breathing, he’d agitate the piercing and cause you to be in pain again. After a moment, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“I’m gonna have to get Minho to remake it in gold,” he muttered.

“I’m so sorry,” you said quickly. “It doesn’t have to be this earring, I don’t want to cause trouble.”

“No,” Chan said simply. “That's what you wanted, so that’s what you’re getting. Would you mind coming back in a week?”

You shrugged. You didn’t see why not, it wasn’t like you had things to do.

“Although, if the pain gets unbearable, you should come back sooner.” Hyunjin’s hand was gentle on your ear. “We have topical pain ointment that should help.”

After a beat of silence, Jisung offered you his hand and pulled you up to your feet. The rest of the boys followed, and soon you were all standing around the desk like you were before. Jisung handed you the care package, his fingers barely gracing yours for fear of seeing you double over in pain again.

“We have your number from the paperwork,” Chan said. “I’ll text you when the earring is ready. Or, like Hyunjin said, you can shoot us a text if you need to come because of the pain.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled.

The red-hot pain had dulled down into a mild ache, the kind you would expect from having a hollow needle take out a chunk of your skin. You rubbed at it absentmindedly, only to have your hand swatted at by Hyunjin.

“You’ll rub the ointment off,” he scolded.

You nodded sheepishly, slipping the care package bag into the reusable tote Chan was sliding over to you.

“Right, thank you guys.” Your mouth felt too heavy to speak, but you powered through. “You guys are great, I’ll see you in a week for the new earring.”

“Or sooner,” Chan interrupted. His gaze stayed pointed at you, as though he was looking through to your inner being. You gripped the tote for security as he continued. “Seriously, don’t feel like an inconvenience if you have to come in.”

“I’ll come in,” you assured him. He gave you another squint, but nodded eventually.

After three minutes worth of hugs from Hyunjin (and almost hugs from a sheepish Jisung), you felt the door of Tatt and Body Works click closed behind you. The uphill trek now looked manageable, and despite the pain in your ear, you felt level-headed and capable for the first time in a long time.

It wasn’t until a few days later that the problems started.

The piercing went from attacking you once a day to multiple times within the hour. Each episode lasted longer and longer, and after a while it would take up to an hour to recover.

Despite your promise to Chan, at first you held off on texting the parlor about it. In your mind, it was just an allergic reaction, and they were already working on something to help you. It seemed like overkill to get both the ointment and the replacement earring.

Then again, from the short interaction with Minho, you knew he hadn’t agreed to remake the earring so quickly. His stubborn streak was more like a stubborn stripe, and he probably only recently got started on it and was going to take his time completing it for reasons you couldn’t comprehend.

You tried using an image search engine to look up the general shape of the earring, just to see if you could figure out its meaning. The search results gave you nothing every time, no matter how many buzzwords you added. Hyunjin was correct, it truly was a part of a culture that no one knew about. You would feel more curious about it, if the damn thing wasn’t trying to send you to an early grave.

After a few days, you realized you couldn’t take it anymore and needed the ointment Hyunjin promised you. Whether Minho finished the earring or not was his business, but you refused to suffer any longer knowing there was a cure waiting for you a few blocks away.

So, with a courtesy text to the guys, you tossed your phone and wallet into a crossbody bag and made your way to the shop.

The air was cool on your face, giving the day a comfortable and delightful feeling. It was mid afternoon so the sun hung high in the sky, casting the shadows of buildings all along the street during your walk.

Once you reached the top of the hill, you peered down and noticed someone standing in front of the shop. You couldn’t make out their face from where you were standing, but their silhouette looked a lot like Hyunjin. They leaned against the brick wall, tapping away on their phone. You assumed— if it was Hyunjin— that he was on his break. After a few seconds, someone else walked out of the shop, said a few words to him, and disappeared around the corner.

The closer you got to the end of the hill, the more sure you were about it being Hyunjin. You were about to bite the bullet and call out his name when an eerie feeling washed over you.

You stopped dead in your tracks. It felt like fire and ice had chased each other up your spine before wrapping around your neck and leaving you in a chokehold. Anxiety brewed in your gut, and everything in you screamed for you to either turn around and go home, or make a mad dash for the parlor. But the sudden fear had your feet rooted to the ground, and you begged that Hyunjin would look up and see you.

As you focused your eyes back on him, you noticed that he had stopped tapping away on his phone. He was looking around with his phone gripped tightly in his hand. You knew at that moment that whatever you were sensing, he certainly was sensing too. You tried to push his name out of your mouth, but he quickly ran into the building and disappeared from your view.

That’s weird, you thought. Truly, weird was an understatement, but unless you tried to downplay your anxiety you’d be standing here for the rest of the day. You tried to shake the strange feeling off of your skin and so you could start walking again, but as soon as your foot lifted from the ground, you felt a hand tap you on the shoulder.

You whipped around quickly, coming face to face with a complete stranger. Your eyes were wide and wild, and you knew you looked as freaked out as you felt. They looked equally startled, however.

“Woah! Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you!”

The stranger pulled their hand away from you quickly, stepping back to put some more space between the two of you. You pressed your hand over your chest to still your heart and nodded at the stranger, still too surprised to say words. He reached out his hand again, and this time you noticed your wallet sitting on his palm.

“You dropped this,” he offered. “I was trying to get your attention but I don’t think you heard me.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry, thank you so much!”

You took the wallet from him and nudged your bag in front of you, but as you did confusion began to shroud your features. Your bag was still closed, and your phone was still in there, so how did your wallet manage to fall out? You poked around to check for holes, almost forgetting you were in the company of another person.

“That earring is really cool.” You looked up to see the man still standing by you, his eyes fixed on the metal in your ear. Your hand reached up protectively.

“Oh, um, thanks,” you mumbled. You remembered Minho’s warning (or threat, rather) not to tell anyone where you got the earring. You decided to remain paused on the sidewalk instead of continuing your walk to the parlor, just so the man wouldn’t make any connections. You glanced back at him with a polite smile and noticed that he was still staring, but his face was morphing from intrigue to something else.

Something sinister.

Your gut started screaming for you to get to the parlor as quickly as possible.

“Oh shoot,” you casted a glance at your wrist, cringing when you noticed there was no watch on it. You pressed on anyway. “I— I’m actually late for an appointment,” you said. You took two small steps backwards, prepping your legs for a sprint. “Thanks for the compliment, and for my wallet. Bye now.”

As you turned on your heels, you felt an arm grip you and spin you back around. Your breath caught in your chest as you faced your attacker, who was now staring at you with all the contempt in the world.

“Nah, little lady. I don’t think so.” His voice came out in a low growl, a tone so low that you swore you could feel it vibrating down to your toes.

“Let go of me!” You thrashed in his grip, trying to free yourself. His fingers held tighter— tight enough to bruise. You could feel tears beginning to make their way to your eyes.

With his free hand, he gripped your chin between his fingers and turned your head roughly to the side. “Tell me, who pierced your ear?”

When you failed to answer, his grip on your jaw increased and he raised his arm higher, effectively lifting you off of the ground. Now strung up in the air, you tried kicking and scratching at him, but he held you at arms length like a dirty sock.

“Stop resisting,” he barked. “Just take me to Minho, and everything will be fine.”

Your eyes went wide at the mention of Minho’s name, and a smirk appeared on the man’s face.

“Gotcha.”

You looked around frantically, hoping for someone to come bounding around the corner and save you. The struggle for breath was really starting to take hold of you, and you could feel what you assumed to be the beginning of consciousness loss. You gave one final weak kick before you gave up, fighting to keep your eyes open and your awareness in the present.

Just before the endless black sea took over your vision, you felt the grip on your jaw release, and you fell to the floor with an ungraceful thump. Your ears were ringing, but through the noise you could hear muffled sounds of violence, and you sent a wish to every power that ever existed that the new people were here to save you.

A hand pressed to your forehead, and you opened your eyes weakly to see the vague silhouette of a man looking back at you. You could barely hear him, but by reading his lips you could tell he was calling your name. His hold on your forehead got stronger, and the ringing in your ears cleared up just a bit, enough to tune into the conversation.

“—answering me, Chan! I don’t think— no, she’s up! She’s up!”

You felt the air whizz around you as Hyunjin picked you up bridal style and took off running. His grip on you was tight, and he kept speaking to you under his breath, trying to keep you alert.

“Hyunjin?”

“No,” he scolded. “Don’t speak, please. Not until I heal you, okay? I don’t want you to strain. Please.”

You felt the shift in air as he stepped into the parlor, not just from the AC system, but the homely, calming energy you noticed before engulfed you like a warm blanket. You felt the bounce in his steps as he took you up a flight of stairs, and after a second you found yourself laying on a couch, with his hand still on your forehead.

With your eyes better adjusted, you looked up at him. His normally bright eyes were dull and red, almost like he’d been crying for a long time. When he noticed you staring, he offered a small smile.

“Gave us a little scare there, huh?”

“What happened?”

He pressed his lips together and looked away, eyes searching the walls for his answer. At first, you thought he was looking at another person, so you tried to shift your position to see what he was seeing. However, the fall from earlier reared it ugly head, and you could feel a bruise forming on the spot where your body hit the ground. You let out a sharp hiss of pain.

Hyunjin looked back at you, concern in his eyes. “What hurts?”

“My back.” You shifted again. “I think it’s gonna bruise, from when I fell.”

Gently, Hyunjin eased you onto your side. “I’m gonna touch it,” he whispered. “But it won’t hurt for long. I’m gonna heal it.”

“What are you t—”

Hyunjin’s fingers graced the aching spot on your back, and though you prepared for pain it never came. Instead, a peaceful feeling blossomed all over your body starting from that one spot. You wiggled a bit to find that the pain was entirely gone.

Eyes wide, you turned back to Hyunjin, who was giving you another shy smile.

“What the fuck?”

“Surprise,” he laughed weakly.

Before you could ask him any more questions, pounding footsteps echoed near your head. Hyunjin sighed heavily as you turned your head around, coming face to face with a very angry blonde haired man.

Minho’s anger was palpable. He pointed a single finger at your face, his jaw clenching and unclenching as he did.