#idolverse

ACT I: Before The Heat

Day 1

➤ Chapter 0: PRELUDE – First Light - Yeji Morning tenderness. Five years of history in stolen touch.

➤ Chapter 0.5: INTERLUDE – Shower Thoughts - Yeji The body speaks what the mind refuses.

➤ Chapter 1: Morning Devotion - Yeji The shower. The boundary. The beginning of the end.

ACT II: The Siren And The Dragon

➤ Chapter 1.5: INTERLUDE - Me Know Me Love Me - Yuna A hot girl morning gone wrong.

➤ Chapter 2-6: The Siren - Yuna A towel drops. Two bodies fall. A morning unravels.

➤ Chapter 7: Reckless Abandon - Ryujin, Karina A rave. A reckoning. Beauty as curse.

➤ Chapter 8-9: The Trap - Yuna, Ryujin Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to pull out

➤ Chapter 9.5: INTERLUDE - Skin and Shadows - Yeji Six months ago, the yacht party. When they realized everyone could see. Fear dressed as fury.

➤ Chapter 10: The Dragon's Claim - Yuna, Ryujin Desire as contest. Intimacy as collateral damage.

➤ Chapter 11: Double Trouble - Yuna, Ryujin Three bodies, one betrayal. The camera never blinks.

ACT III: Heart In Heat

➤ Chapter 11.5: INTERLUDE - A Love-All Courtship - Chaeryeong Tennis whites in the summer heat. When match play becomes foreplay, and every serve ups the ante.

➤ Chapter 12: The Eye of the Storm - ITZY ensemble Lunch with lies. Smiles stretched over guilt.

➤ Chapter 13: Golden Hourglass - Yeji Beach at sunset. Trust whispered. Truth hidden. The last perfect moment.

ACT IV: A Star Is Reborn

➤ Chapter 14: Divine Intervention - Yeji, Karina A goddess opens her door. R&B and silk and something like salvation.

➤ Chapter 15: Supernova - Yeji, Karina The goddess melts. The star explodes. The warmth that remains.

➤ Chapter 16: Armageddon - Yeji, Karina Destruction before rebirth. A world unmade. Bodies as apocalypse.

➤ Chapter 17: Mine - Yeji, Karina A word whispered like oath. What acceptance looks like when you finally stop running.

ACT V: The Breaking Tide

Day 2

➤ Chapter 17.5: INTERLUDE - The Eye in the Sky - Lia She filmed it all. The replay was even better.

➤ Chapter 18: Drowning in Air - Yeji Her tears rolled backward. Her screams silent. What becomes when you betray the person you love most.

➤ Chapter 19: Flickering Flames - ITZY Ensemble A chilly morning. A warm afternoon. A fiery night.

➤ Chapter 19.5: INTERLUDE - A Blaze of Glory - ITZY, TWICE, STRAY KIDS, JYP Nation ensemble (+ aespa cameo) Three years ago, when they danced together. A stage ablaze, a ghost of glory. The night the gang burned the brightest.

➤ Chapter 20: Moonlight and Memory - Yeji Moonlight on water, skin on skin. A space reclaimed, a memory rewritten.

➤ Chapter 21: Nobody Like You - Ryujin, Yuna Softened in memory; emptied in sorrow; redeemed in water.

➤ Chapter 22: Unseen, Untouchable, Unmade - Yeji, Lia A sin unseen. A bond untouchable. A love unmade.

ACT VI: Ashes And Embers

Day 3

➤ Chapter 23: Ditto - ITZY/aespa ensemble (+ Yunjin) (New!) Chaos in laughter, comfort in closeness. A perfect night warmed by love without names.

➤ Chapter 23.5: INTERLUDE - Merry-Go-Round - Giselle, Winter, Ningning (+ Karina cameo) The world keeps turning, the music keeps playing, the night keeps burning, and joy keeps winning.

➤ Chapter 24: Last Light - ITZY/aespa ensemble (+ Yunjin) (New!) First light woke with hidden truth; last light set their burdens free.

➤ Chapter 25: Across The Stars - Yeji (New!) A star rewritten, two hearts fated, three days painting a thousand nights across one unbroken sky.

➤ EPILOGUE: The Way I Am - Yuna, Karina, Yeji (New!) For all three: want to be me, me, me.

Extras

➤ BTS: Yuna

➤ BTS: Yeji

➤ BTS: Ryujin

Charles squinted up at the billboard of a girl with bright eyes and a smile so dazzling it almost hurt. “Wait—she looks kind of…”

“Familiar,” Pierre finished, pulling out his phone to snap a photo.

“Yeah,” Carlos agreed slowly. “Like… Yuki?”

Yuki, red-faced, tugged his cap lower. “Shut up.”

The arena was massive. Tens of thousands of fans streamed in, waving lightsticks and chanting already, even though the show hadn’t started.

Lando, eyes wide, bought three glowsticks from a merch stand before anyone could stop him. “They’re color-coded!” he explained, twirling them. “This is… scientific research.”

“Scientific research?” George repeated flatly.

“Yeah,” Lando nodded. “Into how not to be lame.”

Max muttered, “You’re failing already.”

Meanwhile, Lewis was quietly impressed. The stage set-up, the scale, the energy—it all screamed superstar. “Whoever this idol is,” he murmured, “she’s bigger than most Western acts. This is no small deal.”

And then the lights dimmed.

🌟 The Performance Begins

The roar of the crowd was deafening.

Spotlights swept across the arena, music swelled, and then—

✨ You. ✨

The nation’s angel. The idol who had Japan (and half the internet) wrapped around her finger. Your smile lit up the stage as you appeared in a glittering costume, microphone in hand, waving to the sea of fans who screamed your name like a prayer.

The grid? Absolutely losing their minds.

“WAIT—WAIT A SECOND—” Logan yelped, grabbing Charles’s arm so hard he almost dislocated it. “DO YOU SEE THAT??”

Charles’s jaw dropped. “No. No, no, no. That’s— That’s Yuki’s face. Onstage. But—sparkly.”

Pierre practically fell over. “Oh my god, it’s his sister. HE’S BEEN HIDING THIS FROM US.”

Lando, shrieking, “BROOO YOUR SISTER IS LIKE—THE JAPANESE TAYLOR SWIFT??”

Max, deadly serious: “No. Bigger than Taylor Swift. Look at this crowd. Look at this production. She’s—global.”

Meanwhile, Yuki sat smug in his seat, arms crossed. “Told you she’s the best. Shut up and watch.”

🎤 “Idol”

And then you launched into that song. The one that broke streaming records. The one with the impossible fanchants that every single person in the arena knew by heart.

The audience exploded in unison, chanting perfectly timed words between your lines, glowsticks pulsing in waves of color.

The F1 grid? They tried. God, they tried.

George was clapping—two beats late. Lando screamed random Japanese words he’d learned from anime, startling the people around him. Carlos just stood there, looking overwhelmed, muttering, “How is she smiling, singing, AND dancing at the same time? She’s—she’s not human.” Charles looked like he might actually cry. Lewis nodded along, deeply impressed, murmuring, “That’s stage presence. She owns the crowd.” Max, for once, looked awed. “She’s… already at the top. This is it.”

And through it all, Yuki muttered under his breath, “Idiots. Of course she’s good. She’s my sister.”

🎇 Backstage Mayhem

After the concert, the drivers swarmed Yuki.

“You’re introducing us. NOW.” Pierre demanded, grabbing his arm.

“I don’t think security will let you in,” Yuki tried, but it was too late—Charles was already attempting broken Japanese on a poor security guard, Logan was brandishing his glowstick like a VIP pass, and Lewis had simply strolled past with the quiet confidence of a man who had seen it all before.

When you finally walked into the backstage lounge, still in costume, face glowing from the performance, you lit up at the sight of your brother.

“Onii-chan!” you called, hurrying over to hug him.

The grid? DEAD.

Pierre whispered, “She called him Onii-chan. I can die now.” Lando tripped over his own feet trying to bow and yell, “ARIGATOU IDOL-SAN!!” Carlos awkwardly presented you with flowers he may or may not have stolen from the green room. Lewis, calm as ever, asked for a signed poster—“Roscoe’s a fan now.”

And Yuki, dragging you behind him protectively, muttered, “Don’t talk to them too much. They’ll corrupt you.”

📱 Internet Meltdown

Within hours, Twitter/X blew up.

“Why is the ENTIRE F1 GRID at Y/N Tsunoda’s concert holding glowsticks??”

“Charles was CRYING during Idol.”

“Max staring at Y/N like she just invented racing.”

“Yuki hiding the fact that his sister is literally Japan’s biggest superstar?? KING.”

Clips went viral:

Lewis vibing like a proud dad.

George failing the fanchants spectacularly.

Lando’s glowstick dance that somehow started a new meme.

Yuki side-eyeing the whole grid like a tired chaperone.

Trending tags:

#TsunodaSiblings #YNTsunoda #IdolBrotherYuki #F1xIdol

🏁 The Aftermath

By the end of the night, the F1 grid had sworn themselves into your fanclub.

“We’re coming to every Japan concert from now on,” Charles declared firmly. “Front row,” Lando added. George muttered, “I’ll practice the chants next time.” Lewis just smiled knowingly. “She’s already a legend.”

And Yuki? Absolutely traumatized.

“I hate all of you,” he groaned.

But when you giggled and said, “Don’t worry, Onii-chan. I think your friends are cute,” Yuki turned an alarming shade of red— —just as the grid screamed in unison again.

✨End.

Just the ocean breathing beyond the balcony, sunlight filtering through the curtains, and Yeji tucked against my side like she had decided sometime in the night that I was furniture, property, and emotional support all at once. Her hand rested on my chest. Right over the place where her name had been.

The temporary tattoo had faded overnight, the ink softened into faint traces beneath my shirt. Not gone, but no longer bold enough to start a meeting by itself. A shame, probably for the best, though.

Yeji shifted first. Her fingers flexed lightly against my chest, then her eyes opened slowly. For half a second, she looked soft. Sleepy. Then she noticed me looking at her.

“You’re staring.” “I’m admiring.” “That’s staring with better manners.” “I’m learning.” “From who?” “Mina.”

Yeji groaned and buried her face against my shoulder “Too early for rich people language.” I kissed the top of her head “Good morning, babe.” She stayed hidden there for a moment longer, then lifted her face just enough to kiss me. It was warm, a morning-warm. No urgency behind it. No hunger trying to turn the day into something else. Just a kiss that said we were still here after yesterday. Still close. Still choosing this.

When she pulled away, I chased her mouth once. She placed two fingers against my lips “No.” “I did not say anything.” “You were about to.” “I was about to say good morning again.” “With intent.” “That is not illegal.” “It will be if we miss breakfast again.” I sighed "Cruel.” “Responsible.” “Same thing sometimes.”

That earned me a look. Then, because the universe enjoyed confusing me, she smiled and kissed me once more. Shorter this time. Decisive like punctuation. Then she sat up and reached for the shirt she had stolen from me the night before. I watched her put it on. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

“Ben.” “What?” “You have five seconds to stop looking at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you think that breakfast is negotiable.” I looked away “Breakfast is important.” “Good boy.” I closed my eyes “You cannot say that and expect me to behave.” “I can,” she said, sliding out of bed “I just don’t expect you to succeed all the time.”

She disappeared into the bathroom before I could answer.

By the time she came out, her hair was tied back loosely, her face washed clean, and leader mode had begun rebuilding itself around the edges. Not fully. Not the hard version. But enough to remind me that Yeji resting still somehow involved checking on other people. She adjusted her sleeves and glanced toward the door “I’m going to the kitchen.”

“To make breakfast?” “To make sure breakfast duty has not become a diplomatic incident.” “Chaeryeong and Momo?” “Chaeryeong and Momo.” I nodded “Valid.” “If the meal-duty rotation still exists from the old house rules, they are absolutely treating it like a sacred mission. If it does not, then Chaeryeong has invented one and Momo has joined for food reasons.”

“Also valid.”

Yeji came back to the bed and leaned down. I smiled “Another goodbye kiss?”

“One.” “You said that last time.” “One,” she repeated, then kissed me.

It was supposed to be quick. It was not. For a moment, she lingered, her hand resting against my jaw, her thumb brushing once along my cheek. When she pulled away, her eyes had softened again. Then she ruined me by whispering “Behave while I’m gone.”

I looked at her "You are making that difficult.” Her smile turned dangerous “Then practice.” She straightened and walked to the door. Before leaving, she paused. “Oh. And Ben?” “Yes?” “Do a wellness check on the others before breakfast.” I blinked “You are assigning me morning rounds?” “Yes.” “On vacation?” “Yes.” “You know this is exactly how work starts again.” “No, this is how I make sure my members are actually okay before they pretend too loudly.”

That was annoyingly fair. She counted on her fingers “Yuna first. She’ll act fine before anyone asks. Lia second. She’ll make herself small if no one checks. Ryujin last.”

“Why Ryujin last?” “Because Ryujin will notice everything you bring with you.” I stared at her “That sounds ominous.” “It is accurate.” She opened the door “And Ben?” “Yes?” “No cigarettes.” “I know.” “No buying anything.” “I know.” “No emotional acquisitions.” “That is not a legal term.” “It is in spirit.”

Then she left. The room went quiet behind her. I looked at the door. Then down at the faint remains of the tattoo. Then back at the door.

“Wife behavior.” From the hallway, Yeji called “I heard that.” I smiled “Good.”

I found Yuna on the small terrace outside ITZY’s wing. She was barefoot, sitting cross-legged on a cushioned chair with her vacation notebook open on her lap and a pen tucked behind one ear. Her hair was messy in a way that looked accidental but probably was not. Her knee bounced with enough energy to make the chair cushion tremble. She looked up before I said anything “I’m fine.”

I stopped “Good morning.” “I’m fine.” “I did not ask.” “You were going to.” “That is not the same thing.” “It is emotionally the same.”

I pulled out the chair across from her and sat “Yeji sent me.” Yuna’s eyes narrowed “What did she say?” “That you would act fine before anyone asked.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Then she looked away

“Rude.” “Accurate?” “Also rude.”

The notebook in her lap was already full of plans. Beach walk. Breakfast. Optional swim. Spa inspection. Wellness bonding. Emergency fun. The phrase “Hostile Wellness: Day Two” had been written, crossed out, rewritten smaller, then surrounded by question marks. I pointed at it “No.”

“You don’t know what it is.” “I know the words.” “It’s a working title.” “It sounds like a lawsuit.”

I stared at her. She smiled. Too brightly. There it was. Yeji had been right.

“How did you sleep?” I asked. Yuna’s smile held for one second too long “Good.” “Yuna.” She sighed and shut the notebook halfway “Okay. Weird.” “Weird how?” “New place. Big room. Everyone here. No schedules. No staff knocking. No people watching.”

She looked out toward the sea "It’s quiet, but not quiet-quiet. Like my brain keeps checking if we’re allowed to relax.” “That makes sense.” “I hate when the boring answer is right.” “You have two weeks to get used to it.” “That still sounds fake.” “It is not.”

She looked at me then. Not playful. Not fully.

"Are you okay?” I raised an eyebrow “I am the one conducting a wellness check. I can multitask.” “Dangerous.” I smiled “I’m okay.”

Yuna studied me for a second. Then her eyes dropped briefly to my collar.

“To be clear, did the ‘Yeji + Ben’ tattoo survive?” “No.” “Can I see?” “No.” “Was worth asking.” “It was not.”

She grinned. This time, it reached her eyes more honestly.

“I’m fine, Manager-nim.” “You sure?” “No,” she said, then shrugged. “But I’m fine enough for breakfast.”

That was probably the most honest answer I was going to get. I stood.

“Breakfast soon.” “Tell Lia I want my pen back.” “You have a pen.” “That is not the point.” “Did she confiscate it?” “For censorship.” “For safety?”

Yuna looked offended.

“For cowardice.” “Then no.”

I left before she could throw the notebook at me. Lia was not in her room. For one brief second, concern flickered through me. Then I found her in the small reading lounge near the garden path, sitting by the window with a cup of tea, a book open in her lap, and Yuna’s stolen pen resting beside her like evidence of a crime she had absolutely committed. She looked up when I entered.

“You found me.” “Yeji assigned wellness rounds.” “Of course she did.” “Yuna wants her pen back.” “No.” “That was fast.” “She will survive.”

I stepped farther into the lounge. Morning light made the space feel gentle. Less like the confession-heavy night before. More like something starting over. Lia closed her book but kept one finger between the pages.

“I’m okay.” “You knew I was going to ask.” “Everyone knows you now.” “That is unfortunate.”

Her smile was small. Then it faded into something quieter.

“I am okay,” she said again. “A little embarrassed.” “About last night?” She nodded “But not regretful.” Her fingers moved along the edge of the book “I thought I would be more scared today.” “And?” “I’m not.”

Something in my chest loosened. I gave her a smile “Breakfast soon.” before I turned to leave. Then Lia stood. The movement was sudden enough that I knew she had been deciding to do it since before I walked in.

“Lia?”

She crossed the room toward me. No tea as a cover story. No darkness of the night. No beach. Just morning light and her courage, quiet enough that someone else might have missed it. She moved past me at first. For one confusing second, I thought she was leaving. Then her arms slipped around me from behind. I went completely still. Her cheek pressed gently between my shoulder blades. Her hold was careful. Almost shy. But not accidental.

“Is this okay?” she asked. My voice came out softer than I expected “Yes.” Her arms tightened just a little “I wanted to do that last night.” “You can do it now.” “I know.”

There it was again. Knowing. Still learning how to believe. I covered one of her hands with mine, not pulling, not trapping, just letting her feel that I had accepted the contact. For a while, we stayed that way. Then she let go. I turned around slowly. Lia stood close now, cheeks faintly pink, eyes lifted to mine with a steadiness that looked practiced and fragile at the same time.

“Can I try again?” I did not make her explain “Yes.

This time, Lia did not hesitate as long. She kissed me. The first touch was soft. Testing. This time, Lia did not hesitate as long. She kissed me. The first touch was soft. Testing. She tried it again. This time, firmer. Her hands found the front of my shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as if she needed something to hold onto while the rest of her caught up with the decision. I kissed her back carefully, giving her space, but she stepped closer instead of stopping at the edge.

That was new. Her body met mine. Not completely. Not desperately. But enough that both of us felt the difference. Her breath shook against my mouth. I let my hands settle at her waist. Only there. Only with enough pressure for her to know I wanted to touch her and enough restraint for her to know she could move away. She did not move away.

The kiss deepened. Her mouth opened beneath mine, still careful but no longer afraid of every second. Her fingers slid higher along my chest, and for one rare moment, Lia stopped thinking faster than she felt. My hands moved slowly along her waist. Then her side. Then it stopped. She noticed. So did I. The air shifted. Her fingers tightened against my shirt. Her body pressed closer for half a second. A small, helpless sound caught in her mouth.

Then she froze. There. That invisible line. Not fear. Not refusal. Limit. I stopped immediately. Lia opened her eyes. Her breathing was uneven. Mine was not much better. She looked down, then back up, cheeks flushed.

“That’s…” “Enough?” She nodded “For now.” “For now,” I repeated.

Her eyes flicked across my face, searching for disappointment and finding none. Still, she whispered, “Sorry.”

“Don't be, it's alright.” The word came out firm. Too firm, maybe, because she blinked. I softened my voice “No apologies for stopping.” Her mouth pressed together. Then she nodded once “Okay.”

I stepped back half a pace, giving her the space before she had to ask for it. That seemed to help. Then her eyes dropped. Lower. Her blush deepened. I followed her gaze and realized too late what she was looking at. That the morning, the kiss, and her hands had created a very obvious problem. Lia’s eyes snapped back to mine.

“Oh.” I closed my eyes “Oh.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to apologize again. Then she remembered. Instead, after a mortifying second, she said very carefully “I should go to breakfast.”

“Yes.” “You should maybe wait.” “That would be wise.”

She nodded with absolute seriousness. Then ruined it by smiling. Small. Embarrassed. A little proud.

“Ben?” “Yes?”

Her eyes dropped once more, then returned to mine “You can’t really be blamed.” I stared. The smile grew by one degree. “I mean,” she said, voice still soft but braver now, “I have been told that I’m attractive.” a small laugh escaped her grin.

For a second, I forgot how words worked. Then I laughed once. Low. Surprised. Completely undone “You are indeed very attractive.” Her face went red immediately, as if she had not expected me to agree so directly “I was trying to be confident.”

“You succeeded.” “Now I’m embarrassed.” “Also attractive.” She covered her face with one hand “This is why I stopped.” “I thought you stopped because you reached your limit.” “That too.”

I smiled. She lowered her hand just enough to glare at me. Gently.

“Wait before you come to breakfast.” “Yes, ma’am.” Her blush somehow got worse “Do not say that.” “Noted.”

She left the lounge quickly, but not like she was running. That mattered. I stayed behind for a full minute, staring at the empty doorway. Then sighed “Yeji is absolutely going to know.”

Ryujin noticed it first. Of course she did. By the time I reached the hallway outside her room, the situation had mostly settled. Mostly. Ryujin opened the door before I even knocked.

Oversized shirt. Messy hair. Sleepy eyes. Expression offended with the concept of morning. Then her gaze dropped. Paused. Rose again. A smile spread across her face. Slow. Cruel. Delighted.

“Someone's happy to see me.” “No.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You were about to.” “You look compromised and bothered.” “I am doing wellness checks.” “Looks like you’re the one that needs to be checked first.”

I stared at her. Ryujin leaned against the doorframe like she had just been handed entertainment before breakfast.

“Relax. I’m not judging.” “You are absolutely judging.” “I am appreciating the view.”

That made me pause. Ryujin’s smile shifted. Still teasing. But not careless.

"Want some help with that?" “No.” “Are you sure?" "We are not missing breakfast unless you want to be part of a tribunal."

I looked past her into the room.

“Anyways, how’s everything? Are you okay?” Ryujin gave me a look “Really?” “Yeji asked me to check.” “Ah.” She nodded. “Wife-mandated wellness inspection.” “She is not—” Ryujin smiled wider “You sure you want to finish that sentence?”

I did not. She opened the door wider but did not invite me in “I’m fine. Slept like a criminal. Woke up like one.”

“And what’s concerning me is that you’re also acting like one.” “Consistency is key, Benjie.” “Any emotional distress?” “Yes.”

Ryujin looked at my face and laughed “I am distressed that breakfast is not here and that you are standing in my doorway looking like self-control finally became a group project.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose “Ryujin.” “What? It is.” “I came to check if you’re fine.” “And I told you I am.”

Her eyes dropped again. Then her smile sharpened.

“But you are clearly not.” “Ryujin.”

She stepped closer, close enough. Her voice lowered. Not seductive exactly. Worse. Amused. Her hand drifted dangerously low, fingers catching at the waistband of my sweatpants before I caught her wrist. She was licking her lips— the look of her eyes hungry, and it didn’t seem to be for breakfast.

“Are you absolutely sure you don’t need help?” “For the sake of my life, yes. I don’t need help.” “That was fast.” “Because the answer is obvious.” “To you?” “To everyone with common sense.” She looked around the empty hallway “Good thing none of those people are here.”

I gave her a warning look.

“Nothing is happening this early in the morning.” Ryujin tilted her head “Too early?” “Yes.” “For what?” “Chaos.”

That made her grin. Fully now. Bright. Unhinged. There she was.

“Early for chaos,” she repeated. “Exactly.” “You’re adorable.” “I am serious.” “That makes it worse.”

She leaned back against the doorframe, folding her arms.

“I was only offering relief.” “You were offering a disaster before breakfast.” “Same thing sometimes.” “Do not use your wife’s logic against me.” “It works because she’s right.”

I looked at her. She looked back, still smiling. But underneath the teasing, I caught something else. A small, watchful awareness. Like she was taking notes. Like the morning had shown her something she could use later. That should have worried me. It did. Just not enough.

“Breakfast,” I said. Ryujin stepped back into her room “Fine.” “Thank you.” “But for the record?” “No.”

She smiled. I closed my eyes "Goodbye, Ryujin.” She laughed and shut the door. I stood in the hallway for another second. Yuna was fine loudly. Lia was fine bravely. Ryujin was fine… dangerously so. Yeji had been right about all three.

Which was comforting and terrifying. I adjusted my shirt, took one deep breath, and headed toward breakfast. It was way too early for chaos. Unfortunately, this retreat had respected time.

Breakfast should have been normal.

In theory.

Breakfast at a private beach resort should have been calm. Ocean view. Fresh fruit. Warm bread. Coffee strong enough to forgive bad decisions. Chaeryeong and Momo standing near the kitchen like they had negotiated a peace treaty with the staff and won.

And for a few minutes, it was.

Yeji was already there when I arrived, talking quietly with Chaeryeong about the meal-duty rotation while Momo looked spiritually fulfilled by the amount of food available. Yuna had her notebook beside her but not open, which meant someone had threatened her successfully. Lia sat near the end of the table with tea in both hands and a blush she was pretending did not exist. Ryujin wore sunglasses indoors for no reason except Ryujin.

Yeji looked up when I sat beside her. Her eyes narrowed almost immediately. I froze like a deer in headlights “What?”

She leaned closer “Lia?” I stared at her “How?”

“You look guilty and proud.” “That is a terrible combination.” “It is your face.”

Across the table, Lia suddenly became very interested in her tea. Yeji’s expression softened before I could answer. Not teasing. Not sharp. Just gentle. Under the table, her foot brushed mine once. Tell me about it later, the touch said. I nodded.

Then breakfast resumed. For approximately twelve seconds. The dining pavilion doors opened, and John walked in. Late. Very late.

His hair was slightly damp. His collar was buttoned wrong. His eyes had the thousand-yard stare of a man who had survived the cold war, logistics, and something far more personal than either.

Behind him came Jihyo. And that was where the problem started. Because unlike John, Jihyo looked relaxed. Not leader-relaxed. Actually relaxed.

Her shoulders were lower. Her face was softer. Her hair was tied back loosely, and there was a calmness around her that did not look scheduled, delegated, or approved by management.

The table went silent. John stopped walking “No…”

Nayeon slowly smiled “Oh?” John pointed at her “No.” “I didn’t say anything.” “You breathed with intent.” Sana clasped her hands together, eyes sparkling “Jihyo.” Jihyo sat down with perfect composure “Good morning.” Dahyun lifted her imaginary microphone “Breaking news: Park Jihyo enters vacation mode. Sources suspect manager involvement.” “No sources,” John said immediately. Jeongyeon looked at his collar “Button.”

John looked down. Closed his eyes and fixed it. Momo blinked at Jihyo “You look rested.” Jihyo smiled into her coffee “I slept well.”

The TWICE side detonated.

Nayeon slapped the table once “I knew it.” Sana turned toward John with theatrical betrayal “So you did take notes.” John stared straight ahead “I am not discussing this.” Dahyun nodded solemnly “Noise-cancelling headphones should have been included in the retreat budget.” Mina looked up from her plate “They were.”

Everyone turned to her. John stared “What?” Mina took a calm sip of tea “In the amenity kits.” The silence lasted one second. Then the table exploded again.

Ryujin slowly removed her sunglasses “Wait. The resort gave everyone noise-cancelling headphones?” Mina nodded “Privacy package.” Yuna’s eyes widened “This place is insane.”

“No,” John said, pointing vaguely at me and Mina. “They are insane. The resort is just enabling them.” Yeji leaned toward Jihyo, smiling softly “You okay?” Jihyo looked at her. Something unspoken passed between them. Leader to leader. Woman to woman. Then Jihyo nodded “Yes.”

That quieted Yeji more than the jokes did. Her smile warmed “Good.”

Nayeon leaned toward John again “So was this arrival treatment or morning treatment?” John stood halfway “I will throw myself into the ocean.” Sana smiled “Jihyo would rescue you.” Jihyo took another sip of coffee “Depends how far he swims.”

The entire table screamed. John slowly sat back down.

“I miss work.” “No, you don’t,” I said. He looked at me “You are the reason this is happening.” “What did I do? I was just eating fruit.” “You set a standard yesterday.”

Yeji choked on her water. Ryujin grinned “The honeymoon standard.” “I hate that phrase,” John said. Dahyun lifted the imaginary microphone again “Breaking news: honeymoon standard spreads across senior-junior wellness retreat.” Jihyo finally pointed at her “No reporting before breakfast.” Dahyun lowered her hand “After breakfast then?”

Momo, who had been eating peacefully through the entire interrogation, raised her hand slightly. “Can we continue breakfast?”

Chaeryeong immediately nodded “Yes, please.” “Thank you,” Momo said, and returned to her plate.

The table slowly settled after that. Mostly. Nayeon still looked far too pleased. Sana kept smiling at Jihyo like she had discovered a national treasure. Dahyun looked like she was mentally drafting headlines. John looked like he regretted every decision that had brought him to this resort. Jihyo, however, only leaned back in her chair, coffee in hand, face loose with the first real vacation calm I had seen on her since we arrived.

And somehow, that made all the teasing worth it. Because for once, Park Jihyo was not holding the room together. She was sitting inside it. Letting it be loud. Letting it be stupid. Letting herself be part of the laughter instead of the person responsible for controlling it.

Yeji noticed too. Her hand found mine under the table. A quiet squeeze. Not for me this time. For Jihyo. For the fact that maybe the retreat was already doing what it was supposed to do. Then Ryujin leaned toward Yuna and whispered, “So, noise-cancelling headphones.” Yuna whispered back, “Hostile Wellness equipment package.” Lia closed her eyes “No.”

I looked down at my plate. It was too early for chaos. But breakfast had already voted otherwise.

After breakfast, the day finally scattered. The way people drifted apart when no one was telling them where to stand.

Jihyo and Yeji disappeared toward the garden path with coffee, walking side by side like leaders pretending not to have a meeting while absolutely having one. John followed at a safe distance for about ten steps, then seemed to realize neither of them had asked him to and turned back toward the shaded lounge with the look of a man choosing survival.

Momo and Chaeryeong went back to the kitchen. That was no longer breakfast duty.That was diplomacy.

Yuna spread herself across one of the outdoor couches with her notebook, sunglasses, and the confidence of someone who had renamed “rest” into a task she could complete. Lia sat beside her with a book and the stolen pen, apparently committed to preventing crimes against vacation.

TWICE scattered with surprising efficiency. Sana found the beach first. Nayeon found a reason to bother John second. Dahyun found three angles of the resort she claimed were “not for posting, only for memory,” which Jihyo somehow sensed from fifty meters away and shut down without turning around. Mina found shade, tea, and silence.

I found the beach.

For once, no one stopped me. The private stretch below the ITZY wing was empty except for the low sound of waves and the occasional movement of resort staff far enough away to feel unreal. I sat beneath one of the shaded loungers, my polo shirt open over a plain undershirt, feet in the sand, trying very hard to do what the resort had apparently cost an arena concert to provide.

Nothing. I was doing nothing. The ocean helped. So did the sunlight. So did the fact that no one had said “anti-takeover clause” in almost an hour. I was almost relaxed when a shadow fell across me.

“You look terrible at this.”

I opened one eye. Ryujin stood in front of me in a black bikini, wet hair pushed back from her face, sunlight running along her shoulders like the beach had made the poor decision to encourage her.

I closed my eye again “No.” She laughed “I didn’t ask anything.” “You arrived like a question.” “I arrived like a gift.” “That is debatable.”

She kicked lightly at the sand near my foot.

“Move.” “I am relaxing.” “You look like you’re doing paperwork in your head.” “I am not.” “You just frowned at the ocean.” “The ocean knows what it did.”

Ryujin dropped onto the edge of the lounger beside me without asking. Her skin was warm from the sun, still damp from the water, and far too close for someone pretending this was casual.

For a few seconds, she said nothing. That was how I knew this was not only teasing. I opened my eyes and looked at her.

She was watching the water, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, mouth curved in that almost-smirk she used when she wanted me to underestimate how much she was paying attention.

“You checked on everyone this morning,” she said. “Yeji assigned me.” “Wife-mandated wellness rounds.” “She is not—”

Ryujin turned her head slowly. I stopped. She smiled.

“Learning.” I sighed and looked back at the water “Yes. I checked on everyone.” “Yuna was loud?” “Predictably.” “Lia was brave?”

That made me glance at her. Ryujin’s expression did not change much, but her eyes sharpened. I nodded.

“Yes.” “Good.”

There was no joke in it. That was rare enough that I let the silence sit. Then, because she was Ryujin, she ruined it.

“And I was right.” “About what?” “You were compromised.” I closed my eyes “Ryujin.” “What? I showed restraint.” “You offered to help before breakfast.” “That was a mercy.” “That is not what mercy means.” “It is if I’m the one defining it.”

She leaned closer, voice dropping enough that the ocean almost stole it.

“So?” “So what?” “Still too early for chaos?”

I looked at her. The sun, the bikini, the wet hair, the smirk, the fact that she knew exactly what she was doing and still had the nerve to look amused about it.

“Yes.”

Her smile widened “Liar.” I sat up slightly. “Ryujin.” She stood before I could finish, then held out a hand “Come with me.”

“No.” “You don’t even know where.” “That has never helped your case.”

She placed one hand over her chest, offended in the least believable way possible.

“I found somewhere around the beach that looks pretty cool.” I stared at her “That is the least convincing innocent sentence I have ever heard.” Ryujin’s mouth dropped open “I am wounded.” “You are plotting.” “Both can be true.” “Thank you for admitting it.” “I admitted nothing legally useful.” She bent down closer, her hand still extended between us “Come on. It’s actually nice.”

I looked at her hand Then at the beach. Then at the main path where everyone else had scattered into their own little pockets of vacation. Yeji was somewhere farther down the garden walkway with Jihyo and Sana. Yuna and Lia were still arguing over whether “restorative floating” counted as an activity or just lying in water with branding. John was under an umbrella looking like he was trying to negotiate peace with his coffee.

No one was paying attention to us. Or at least, no one seemed to be. Which, around Ryujin, usually meant I was already in trouble.

“Ryujin.” “What?” “If this turns into a crime scene before lunch—” “It won’t.” “That was too fast.” “It will be a recreational incident at worst.” I closed my eyes “Worse answer.”

She wiggled her fingers impatiently “Manager-nim. You are terrible at vacation.” “I am relaxing.” “You frowned at the ocean.” “The ocean knows what it did.”

That made her laugh, bright and unrestrained. For a second, she looked less like she was plotting and more like she was actually enjoying the fact that the world had finally given her enough space to be loud without consequence.

Then the smirk returned.

“Come check it out,” she said. “If it’s boring, I’ll let you go back to emotionally auditing the waves.” “You’ll let me?” “I’m generous.” “You are dangerous.” “Also true.”

I should have stayed on the lounger. I knew that. Ryujin probably knew that I knew that. Which was exactly why her smile looked so victorious when I finally took her hand and stood.

“Do not look that pleased.” “I won.” “You got me to stand.” “First stage of winning.”

She started walking before I could argue. I let her lead me along the edge of the beach, away from the loungers and the visible path. She moved like she belonged to the shoreline, barefoot and confident, sand clinging to her calves, her hand warm around mine.

We passed the last row of shaded umbrellas. Then the rocks.

Then a curve where the beach bent behind a cluster of palms and black volcanic stone, cutting the main resort from view. The sound changed there. The laughter disappeared. The pavilion vanished. Even the staff routes were hidden behind the ridge. Only water, sand, shade, and the steady crash of waves against the rocks.

Ryujin stopped and turned around “See?” I looked around carefully. No cameras visible. No direct line from the villas. No staff path. No one close enough to stumble in by accident unless they were deliberately looking. Unfortunately, it was actually pretty cool.

I hated that.

“Okay,” I said slowly. “This is actually pretty cool.” Ryujin smiled “Told you.” “Also very hidden.” “Is it?” “Ryujin.” “What? I can appreciate geography.” “You dragged me to a suspiciously secluded beach corner and called it geography.” “It has rocks. That’s geography.” “It has privacy.”

She tilted her head “Is privacy not a geographical feature?” I stared at her. She stared back, completely shameless. Then she looked away first, but only because she was smiling too hard to keep the lie alive “I asked security earlier,” she said. That made me pause.

“You asked?” “Not like that.” “Define not like that.” “I asked if there were any places we were allowed to go without staff accidentally walking through. They said this side of the beach was cleared for us and not part of the normal service route.”

I studied her. She rolled her eyes “I’m reckless, not stupid.” I kept looking “Fine. Reckless and occasionally stupid. But not with this.” The honesty took some of the edge out of my suspicion. Not all of it. Enough.

Ryujin noticed, of course.

She stepped closer, still casual, but the air had started changing around us. The beach was quiet here. Too quiet. The ocean covered the world behind us, and the rocks held the rest of the resort at a distance.

“You checked on everyone this morning,” she said. “Yeji assigned me.” “Wife-mandated wellness rounds.” “She is not—”

Ryujin turned her head slowly. I stopped. She smiled “You’re learning.”

I sighed “Yes. I checked on everyone.” “Yuna was loud?” “Predictably.” “Lia was brave?”

That made me glance at her. Ryujin’s expression did not change much, but her eyes sharpened. I nodded “Yes.”

“Good.”

There was no joke in it. That was rare enough that I let the silence sit. Then, because she was Ryujin, she ruined it “And I was right.”

“About what?” “You were compromised.” I closed my eyes “Ryujin.” “What? I showed restraint.” “You offered to help before breakfast.” “You didn’t and I didn’t press the matter. Restraint.” “That is not what mercy restraint is about.” “It is if I’m the one defining it.”

She leaned closer, voice dropping enough that the ocean almost stole it. “So?” “So what?” “Still too early for chaos?”

I looked at her. The sun, the bikini, the wet hair, the smirk, the hidden beach corner she had pretended was only interesting because of “geography.”

“Yes.” Her smile widened again “Liar.” I stood my ground this time “Ryujin.”

She stepped fully into my space. Not sudden. Just close enough that the joke stopped being only a joke.

“I’m not Yuna,” she said. “I know.” “I’m not Lia.” “I know that too.” “I’m not asking you to be careful because I might break.”

Her fingers hooked lightly into the open edge of my shirt.

“I’m asking you to stop acting like I need to be protected from wanting you.”

That landed harder than I expected. Because beneath the grin, beneath the unhinged delivery, there it was. Ryujin’s version of honesty. No softness. Not a trembling confession. Just a dare with the truth hidden inside it. I looked down at her hand.

Then back at her “And if I say we go back?” She shrugged “Then we go back.” No hesitation. No wounded pride. No punishment. That mattered.

“And if I say not here?” “Then not here.” “And if I say stop?” Her smile turned sharp again “Then I make fun of you later for needing the reminder, but I stop.” I breathed out through my nose “You are terrible.” “Safe, though.”

I hated that she was right. She stepped closer again, her body nearly against mine now “Actual answer,” she said, voice lower. “Do you want to stay here with me?” The question held there between us. Not hidden behind a joke this time. The ocean hit the rocks hard enough to cover the silence. I looked toward the path once more. Then back at her “Yes.”

Ryujin’s smile returned slowly. Bright. Dangerous. Satisfied.

“Good.” “But we are not being stupid.” “Define stupid.” “Anything that gets us caught.” “Manageable.” “Anything that hurts you.”

Her face shifted. Less joke. More heat “Harder to manage.”

“Ryujin.” She lifted both hands in surrender, but the grin stayed “Fine. Not stupid.” “And if I say stop, you stop.” She blinked, then laughed once “Someone’s bossy.” “Yes.” Her eyes dropped to my mouth “Finally, I missed this bossy side of you.”

That was the last warning I got before she kissed me. It was very Ryujin. No hesitation. No soft test of the water.

She kissed like she had already decided I would follow and wanted to punish me for taking too long. Her hands caught the front of my shirt, pulling me down to her. The ocean wind pushed around us. The rocks hid the world. Her mouth curved against mine like she was smiling into the trouble she had created.

I caught her waist.

She made a pleased sound, low and smug, and stepped backward into the shade, drawing me with her. The main beach was gone now. The resort was gone. The morning’s restraint, the breakfast jokes, the wellness checks, Lia’s bravery— all of it still existed somewhere behind us.

But here, in this hidden strip of sand where the waves were loud enough to swallow names, Ryujin had carved out a different kind of privacy. Not soft. Not careful. Hers.

She pulled back just enough to breathe against my mouth “Still early for chaos?” I looked at her. The smile. The salt on her skin. The challenge in her eyes. The fact that she had asked properly beneath every terrible joke. I tightened my hand at her waist “No.” Ryujin grinned “Good answer.” and then she pulled me back into the shade.

The shade of the palms felt like a sanctuary, but the air between us was thick enough to choke on. The ocean hammered against the volcanic rocks, a rhythmic, violent sound that drowned out the rest of the world. I could still feel the phantom weight of Lia’s kiss on my lips and the warmth of Yeji’s presence from the morning, but Ryujin had a way of erasing everything else. She didn't just enter a room; she colonized it. And right now, she had colonized this hidden strip of sand.

She didn't wait for me to find my footing. Ryujin lunged, her mouth slamming into mine with a desperation that bordered on aggression. It wasn't a request. It was a demand. Her tongue forced its way past my lips, tasting of salt and a hunger that had been simmering for far too long. She sounded like she was starving, a low, needy hum vibrating in her throat as she pulled me closer, her fingers digging into my shoulders.

I groaned, my hands finding her waist, the skin there hot and damp. I tried to maintain some semblance of the manager's restraint, the invisible wall I built to keep the chaos at bay, but Ryujin was a demolition crew. She bit my lower lip, hard enough to sting, and the sharp spark of pain snapped the last thread of my composure.

I shifted my weight, grabbing her hips and swinging her around. In one fluid motion, I slammed her back against the smooth, sun-warmed surface of a volcanic rock. The impact wasn't enough to hurt, but it was enough to make her gasp, her head snapping back against the stone. I pinned her there, my body crushing hers, my chest heaving against her breasts.

Ryujin’s eyes flared, the pupils blown wide, swallowing the iris. She didn't look scared. She looked electrified. A smirk played on her lips, though her breath was coming in ragged, shallow hitches.

"There he is," she whispered, her voice a gravelly friction. "I wondered when you'd stop pretending to be the responsible adult."

"You're the one who dragged me into a hole in the beach, Ryujin."

"And you followed," she countered, her hands sliding down to my waist, her nails scratching through the fabric of my sweatpants. "You followed because you're just as bothered as I am."

She didn't give me time to argue. She leaned up, her mouth leaving mine to attack my neck. She didn't just kiss; she sucked, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my jaw. I felt her tongue loll across my pulse point, licking the salt and sweat from my skin with a predatory hunger.

While she worked on my neck, her hand drifted down. She didn't hesitate. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of my pants, sliding beneath the fabric with a boldness that made my breath hitch. She gripped my cock, her palm warm and firm, squeezing me through my underwear before sliding the fabric down.

When she finally freed me, the cool ocean breeze hit my skin for a split second before her hand closed around me. I let out a strangled sound, my forehead dropping to rest against hers. She was gripping me tight, her thumb rubbing over the head of my cock, smearing the pre-cum that had already gathered there.

"God," she breathed, her voice vibrating against my skin. "I missed this. I missed how you feel. I've been thinking about this dick since the second I woke up and saw you looking all stressed at breakfast."

I tried to speak, but the words died in my throat as she reached up and yanked the strings of her bikini top. The fabric fell away, exposing her breasts to the filtered sunlight. They were perfect, topped with dark, stiff nipples that peaked in the humid air. She didn't just show them to me; she pressed them against my chest, rubbing the soft curves of her breasts against my skin, her nipples grazing my torso.

The sensation was an overload. The scent of her—sunscreen, salt, and the musk of her own arousal—filled my lungs. I felt my cock throb in her hand, leaping against her palm.

"Ryujin, we're in the middle of the beach," I managed to choke out, though my hands were already moving, kneading the flesh of her ass.

She pulled back just enough to look me in the eye, her expression shifting from hunger to something more pointed. Something deeper.

"You remember Waterbomb?" she asked. I stiffened. "Ryujin."

"No, don't 'Ryujin' me," she snapped, though the smirk returned, sharper now. "You remember that outfit check? You remember the way you looked at me? The way you touched me? You started something back then, Ben. You lit a fire and then you just... walked away. You left me walking around for the rest of the day like I was supposed to be normal. Like I wasn't vibrating out of my skin."

She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear, her voice dropping to a lethal whisper.

"I have been very patient. But I'm done being patient."

To prove it, she shifted one hand away from my cock, sliding it down between her own legs. I watched, mesmerized, as her fingers disappeared beneath the thin fabric of her bikini bottoms. I heard it then—a wet, sliding sound. A shlick.

Ryujin let out a long, shaky moan, her eyes fluttering shut. She began to finger herself, her hand moving in a fast, rhythmic motion. The sound of it—the squelching of her own juices—mixed with the roar of the waves.

"I've been wet thinking about you all morning," she whimpered, her hips beginning to grind against my thigh. "Every time you looked at me, every time you talked about 'wellness'... I could feel myself leaking. I'm so fucking wet for you, Ben."

The sight of her, pinned against the rock, touching herself with such raw intensity, shattered whatever was left of my restraint. I wanted to devour her. I wanted to leave marks that would remind her exactly who was in control.

Ryujin saw the change in my eyes. She smiled, a triumphant, wicked thing, and then she moved. She stepped away from the rock, turning her back to me. She bent over, bracing her hands against the volcanic stone, her ass pushed back and arched toward me. With a slow, deliberate motion, she slid the fabric of her bikini bottoms to the side, exposing her pussy completely.

It was glistening, the pink folds swollen and dripping. She didn't stop fingering herself; she reached back, sliding two fingers deep into her own heat while looking back at me over her shoulder.

"Look at me," she commanded, her voice trembling. "Look at how much I want you. Do you see how wet I am? Do you see what you do to me?"

She moaned loudly, a guttural sound of pleasure that echoed off the rocks. I couldn't take it anymore. I stepped forward, my cock brushing against the back of her thighs, and leaned in. I buried my face in her, my tongue finding her clit in one swift motion. Ryujin screamed, her back arching, her fingers clutching the rock so hard her knuckles turned white. I licked her greedily, my tongue swirling around her nub, tasting the brine of the ocean and the honey-sweet musk of her arousal. She tasted like heat and desperation.

I used my teeth, gently nipping at the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, before moving back to her center. I drank her in, my tongue diving deep into her, mimicking the motion of my cock. The sounds were obscene—the wet, slapping noise of my mouth against her pussy, the squelch of her juices as I worked her into a frenzy.

I pulled back for a second, my breath hot against her skin. I reached down and ripped the bikini bottoms off her entirely, tossing them onto the sand.

"I honestly missed how delicious you taste," I growled.

Ryujin turned around, her face flushed, her eyes glazed. She didn't say a word; she just pulled me towards her. I didn't give her the satisfaction of an immediate entry. Instead, I gripped her hips and smacked my cock against her pussy, the head of my dick slapping against her wet lips.

I rubbed the entrance of her hole, teasing her, sliding the head of my cock back and forth across her clit without going in. I slapped her ass, the sound loud and sharp in the quiet cove.

"Please," she whimpered, her legs shaking. "Ben, please. Just fucking put it in. I can't... I can't take it."

"What was that?" I whispered, rubbing her again, feeling her pussy pulse against me.

"Please! Fuck me! I need it!"

I didn't make her beg a third time. I gripped her thighs and lunged forward, burying my cock inside her in one powerful thrust.

Ryujin's scream was muffled against my shoulder as she clung to me, her legs wrapping around my waist to lock me in. The fit was tight—agonizingly tight. It felt like she was trying to squeeze the life out of me, her internal muscles clamping down on my shaft with every instinct she had.

"Oh god," she sobbed, her head falling back. "Yes. Right there. Finally."

I started to move, the pace urgent and rough. There was no bed, no pillows, just the hard rock behind her and the heat of the sun above us. Every thrust sent a shockwave through both of us, the sound of our bodies colliding—the wet, fleshy thud of my pelvis hitting her ass—filling the air.

"You missed this, huh?" I teased, my voice thick with lust. I pulled back almost all the way, then slammed back in, hitting her cervix. "You were such a good girl, waiting all morning. Such a patient little liar."

"Yes! I was being such a good girl," she gasped, her nails digging into my back. "And good girls... deserve a good fucking. I've waited... too long... fuck!"

I leaned over her, my mouth finding her neck again. I licked the salt from her skin, my teeth nibbling on the lobe of her ear. While I fucked her with a steady, punishing rhythm, my hands went to work. I reached down, my thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in sync with my thrusts, while my other hand gripped her breast, twisting the nipple between my fingers.

The sensory overload hit her hard. Ryujin’s breathing turned into a series of high-pitched whimpers. She was losing the battle with her own composure, her body shaking under the onslaught of pleasure.

I decided to change the angle. Without pulling out, I flipped her over, swinging her around so she was facing me, her back against the rock again. I held her up with one hand, my arm locked behind her shoulder, while the other hand went back to her breast. I leaned in, my mouth capturing one nipple, sucking it hard, while my fingers tormented the other.

The combination of the deep, rhythmic fucking and the focused attention on her chest was too much. Ryujin’s eyes rolled back in her head. Her internal muscles began to spasm, gripping me in waves of intense contractions.

"Ben! Ben, I'm—!"

She let out a long, shattered moan, her body arching as she came. She clung to me, her voice breaking as she sobbed into my neck.

"I love it... I love it when you fuck me like this... oh god, Ben!"

I didn't stop. I kept moving, driving into her through the aftershocks of her orgasm, the friction feeling even more intense now that she was hypersensitive. I felt the pressure building in my own gut, a tidal wave of need that I could no longer manage.

I shifted my grip, lifting her up and carrying her toward a standing position, her legs still locked around my waist. I pinned her against a thick palm trunk, the rough bark scratching against her skin. I gave three more deep, guttural thrusts, feeling my own climax hit.

I groaned, my body stiffening as I came deep inside her. I felt the hot pulses of my cum filling her insides, the sensation of it sending a final jolt of pleasure through my spine.

Ryujin was still sensitive, her body twitching with every pulse of my orgasm. She kept moaning, her voice a fragile thread of sound.

"It feels so good... your cum... I can feel it... oh, god..."

I leaned in, my hand coming up to cup her jaw, bringing her face close to mine. I looked her in the eyes, my voice a warning. "Don't be that loud," I whispered, a smirk returning to my face. "Unless you're trying to bring in an audience."

Ryujin’s response was to wrap her tongue around my lip, her eyes challenging me. I kissed her, hard and deep, muffling her moans in my mouth. Even as I began to soften, I didn't stop moving. I kept a slow, grinding pace, the friction of our wet skin creating a squelching sound that seemed to fuel her again.

She used her tongue, sucking on mine, her hands pulling me deeper into her.

"More," she whispered against my lips. "I want more."

I pulled back, breathing hard, looking at her. The hunger hadn't disappeared; it had just changed shape. I looked down at the sand, then at my discarded clothes. A sudden idea took hold.

I slowly slid out of her, the sound of the separation a wet, sliding pop. Ryujin let out a whine of protest, her legs sliding down the trunk.

"Where are you going?"

I didn't answer. I walked over to my shirt and sweatpants, spreading them out on the sand to create a makeshift mat. I lay back on them, folding my arms behind my head and looking up at her. I was still half-hard, the desire still humming in my veins.

I watched her expression change from confusion to suspicion.

"You want more? Then work for it," I said, my voice cool. Ryujin stared at me, her mouth falling open. "Excuse me?"

"You dragged me here. You had your way with me all morning. You called it 'mercy' before breakfast." I smiled, a slow, challenging look. "If you want more, come take it."

The silence stretched between us, filled only by the sound of the ocean. Ryujin’s gaze dropped to my lap, then back to my eyes. A competitive grin spread across her face. It was the look she got before a dance battle, before a challenge she knew she could win.

Slowly, dangerously, she smiled. "You're learning." "From the worst," I replied. "The best from the worst." she corrected.

She didn't hesitate. She stepped forward and straddled me, her knees digging into the sand on either side of my hips. She didn't just sit; she lowered herself slowly, her wet pussy gliding over the head of my cock, teasing the entrance.

She began to ride me, her movements slow and deliberate. She was in control now, her hips circling as she sank deeper and deeper into me. I watched her, my hands resting on the sand, refusing to help her.

"Is this... working for it?" she gasped, her head tossing back, her hair flying. "You're doing great, you feel so tight and good." I said, though my voice was strained.

I couldn't stay passive for long. As she picked up the pace, her breasts bouncing with every movement, I reached up. I grabbed her waist, pulling her down for a searing kiss, my tongue fighting hers. My other hand slid up, finding her clit and rubbing it firmly.

"You're so hot, Ryujin," I groaned, feeling the curves of her body as she pressed against me "Absolutely fucking reckless."

She let out a loud moan, her pacing becoming frantic. She was chasing another peak, her internal muscles gripping me with a desperate intensity.

I decided to disrupt her. Just as she was reaching the edge, I suddenly thrust my hips forward with all my strength, a powerful, unexpected surge that drove me deep into her.

The suddenness of it caught her off guard. The shock of the pleasure was too much. Ryujin let out a strangled scream, her body locking up as she crashed into another orgasm. She collapsed onto my chest, her breath coming in ragged sobs, her heart hammering against my ribs.

I didn't let her recover. I gripped her hips and began to thrust upward, meeting her downward pressure. I felt the tension building again, the heat returning. With one last, powerful shove, I buried myself inside her and came for the second time, the intensity of it making my vision blur.

Ryujin arched her back, her fingers digging into my arms "Oh fuck! I-I love how hard... you cum inside me... oh, god, Ben!"

We stayed like that for a long time, the only sound the crashing waves and our synchronized breathing. I felt the weight of her on me, the salt on our skin, the absolute silence of the resort behind us.

I sighed, leaning my head back against the sand. "Damn, Ryujin. I think that's—"

Before I could finish, I felt her shift. She didn't get off. Instead, she pushed me back down into the sand, her eyes finding mine. I thought she was done. That was my mistake.

Her smile returned. Slow. Dangerous. Offended "Don't look so proud." "You said you wanted more," I reminded her, a laugh escaping my throat.

"I did." She shifted closer, her body still unsteady from her orgasms, but her expression was one of pure stubbornness. "And now I'm not done."

"Ryujin, we've been at this for an hour." "No." Her hand pressed against my chest, pushing me flat before I could even think of sitting up. "First round was you. Second round was still you being smug about making me want it."

Her grin sharpened, the predatory glint back in her eyes "This one is mine." Ryujin’s palm stayed flat against my chest, her fingers splayed, pinning me to the makeshift mat of my own clothes. Her breathing was still jagged, a rhythmic hitch that vibrated through her skin and into mine. She looked down at me, her hair a tangled, salt-crusted halo around her flushed face. The sun beat down on us, turning the air into a shimmering haze of heat and brine.

“You think you’ve won,” she whispered, her voice a low, dangerous rasp. I let out a breathy laugh, my muscles feeling like melted wax. “I’m pretty sure the scoreboard says otherwise, Ryujin.”

“Scoreboards can be reset.”

She shifted, her wet pussy sliding against my thigh with a slow, deliberate friction. The sound was a soft, wet shlick that echoed in the small space between us. She didn't move to straddle me immediately. Instead, she crawled upward, her breasts swaying with the movement, the dark nipples still stiff and glistening with a mixture of sweat and my own saliva. She stopped when her face was inches from mine, her eyes scanning my features with a predatory intensity.

“You liked it when I begged,” she murmured, her lips barely brushing mine. “You liked the way I sounded when your cock was the only thing that mattered to me. The way I had to ask you for it.”

“You did sound pretty needy,” I teased, though my voice lacked its usual edge.

Ryujin’s smirk didn't reach her eyes; it stayed focused, competitive. She slid her hand down from my chest, her nails grazing my ribs before her fingers hooked into the waistband of my sweatpants, pulling the fabric further away to leave me completely exposed to the humid air. My cock, though softening, stirred under her gaze, leaping back to life as she wrapped her fingers around the base.

“Now,” she breathed, “it’s my turn to see how long you can last when I’m the one holding the leash.”

She didn't slide down. Instead, she began to stroke me, her grip tight and rhythmic, but she kept her hips arched away, denying me the contact I craved. She used her thumb to circle the head of my cock, smearing the remaining pre-cum across the sensitive ridge. I groaned, my hips instinctively bucking upward, trying to find her heat.

She pushed me back down hard “Stay” she commanded.

I stared up at her, the sunlight filtering through the palm fronds and casting striped shadows across her skin. The scent of her was overwhelming now—a heady cocktail of sunscreen, ocean salt, and the musk of her own arousal.

“Ryujin, don't play with me,” I grunted, my hands reaching up to grip her waist. “I’m not playing, Ben. I’m winning.”

She leaned down, her tongue darting out to lick a stripe from my navel up to my chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. She moved with a slow, agonizing deliberation, her mouth finding my nipple and sucking it into the warmth of her mouth. The sensation sent a jolt straight to my groin, and I let out a strangled sound, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips.

She felt the reaction and pulled away, a triumphant glint in her eyes. She shifted her weight, slowly lowering herself, but she didn't take me all at once. She hovered just above the entrance of her pussy, the wet, swollen folds of her lips brushing against the head of my cock. She began to grind, a slow, circular motion that teased the entrance, sliding over the glans but never pushing inside.

The sound was obscene—a squelching, rhythmic friction of wet skin on wet skin.

“Please,” I whispered, the word slipping out before I could stop it.

Ryujin stopped moving. She leaned back, bracing her arms behind her, her chest thrust forward, her breasts bouncing slightly. She looked at me with a look of pure, unadulterated satisfaction.

“What was that?” she asked, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “You know what it was. Just... get on it.” “I don’t know. I can’t quite hear you over the waves.”

She began to grind again, faster this time, the friction building a searing heat. I could feel the moisture from her pussy lubricating the movement, the shlicking sound growing louder, more frantic. I was vibrating, my entire body wound tight like a spring. I tried to shift, to tilt my pelvis and force the entry, but she slapped my thigh, the sound sharp and echoing.

“I said stay.”

She finally gave in, but not in the way I wanted. She sank down in a sudden, jarring motion, burying my cock deep inside her in one smooth glide. I gasped, my head snapping back against the sand, the tight squeeze of her internal muscles clamping down on me like a vice.

“Oh, god,” I groaned, my eyes fluttering shut. “Don't close your eyes,” she commanded, her voice shaking. “Look at me. Look at who’s doing this to you.”

I opened my eyes to find her staring down at me, her face a mask of intense concentration and desire. She began to ride me, but she didn't go for the rough, punishing pace of the previous rounds. She moved with a slow, grinding rhythm, her hips rotating in a way that rubbed the walls of her pussy against every inch of my shaft. She was searching for the exact angle that would drive me insane, and she found it.

Every time she sank deep, her cervix brushed against the head of my cock, and she would let out a long, shuddering moan that vibrated through both of us.

“You’re so tight,” I managed to choke out, my hands sliding from her waist to her ass, squeezing the firm cheeks.

“I’m tight because your cock is amazing,” she gasped, her pace picking up “Ever since breakfast… I’ve been imagining you under me... losing that manager's composure... becoming just another mess that was fucking me and for me to fuck.”

She began to bounce, her breasts jiggling violently with the movement. The sound of our bodies colliding—the wet, fleshy thud of her pelvis hitting mine—mixed with the roar of the ocean. I felt the pressure building in my gut, a tidal wave of need that was rapidly becoming uncontrollable.

I tried to reach up and touch her clit, wanting to speed things along, but she caught my wrists and pinned them to the sand beside my head.

“No hands,” she panted, her eyes wide and glazed. “You just take it. You just feel how much I want you.”

The denial was the final straw. I was raw, hypersensitive, and the way she was squeezing me—those internal muscles pulsing in rhythmic waves—was pushing me toward the edge. I started to fight her grip, my muscles straining against her, but she used her weight to keep me pinned, her expression one of fierce, stubborn determination.

“You’re... you’re going to... make me...” I stammered, my breath coming in short, shallow hitches.

“Make you what, Ben? Tell me. Say it.”

“Make me beg!” I shouted, the frustration and pleasure colliding in a burst of emotion.

Ryujin let out a triumphant scream, her body arching as she suddenly increased the speed. She wasn't just riding me now; she was hammering herself down onto me, her movements frantic and desperate. The squelching sounds were constant, the air being pushed out of her orifice with every deep thrust, creating a wet, popping noise that fueled the fire.

She was chasing her own peak, her breathing turning into a series of high-pitched, guttural whimpers. I could feel her internal walls beginning to spasm, the contractions gripping my cock with an intensity that felt like it might snap me in two.

“I’m... I’m almost...!” she cried out, her head tossing back, her hair whipping around her face.

She slammed down one last time, her entire body locking up in a violent, shattering orgasm. She collapsed onto my chest, her heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, her voice breaking as she sobbed into my neck.

The force of her climax triggered mine. I didn't have any restraint left to give. I bucked upward, my body stiffening as I came deep inside her, the hot pulses of my seed filling her, the sensation sending a blinding jolt of pleasure through my spine. I groaned, a long, low sound of surrender, my eyes rolling back as the world dissolved into a blur of salt and heat.

We lay there for a long time, tangled together on the sand, our skin glued by sweat and fluids. The only sound was the rhythmic crash of the waves against the volcanic rocks and the synchronized, heavy thumping of our hearts.

I felt the weight of her on me, the slow slide of my cock as it began to soften inside her. The tension that had been simmering between us for hours had finally broken, leaving behind a hollow, peaceful exhaustion.

I shifted slightly, my hand coming up to stroke her hair, brushing the salt-clumped strands away from her forehead.

“I think,” I whispered, my voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel, “that the scoreboard is officially tied.”

Ryujin lifted her head, a small, tired smile playing on her lips. She looked wrecked—flushed, damp, and completely satisfied. She leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to my lips, the taste of salt and sex still heavy between us.

“Tied?” she murmured, her eyes twinkling with that same competitive spark. “I don't think so. That was one point over the times you fucked me I couldn’t stand— and I plan on getting even.”

She shifted, slowly sliding off me with a wet, sliding pop that made me hiss. She stood up, her body still trembling slightly, and looked down at me with a look of absolute victory.

“Now,” she said, reaching for her discarded bikini top. “Help me find my shoes. I think I’m actually hungry now.”

I stayed on the sand for a moment longer, staring up at the canopy of palms and the brilliant blue of the midday sky. My body felt heavy, my mind quiet for the first time in days. I looked at her—strong, stubborn, and utterly unapologetic—and I knew that no matter who won the round, I was the one who had truly lost. And as I reached up to pull her back down for one more kiss, I realized I didn't mind at all.

For a while, neither of us moved.

The ocean kept hitting the rocks like it had been paid to keep secrets. The palms shifted above us. The sand was warm beneath my clothes. Ryujin stayed half-sprawled against me, breathing hard, her hair damp with salt and sweat, her face tucked somewhere near my shoulder like she had decided collapsing there was easier than pretending she had balance left.

I stared at the canopy of palm leaves overhead and tried to remember how human beings were supposed to function after making several consecutive terrible decisions.

Ryujin shifted first. Not far. Just enough to lift her head and look at me. Her face was flushed. Her mouth was swollen. Her eyes were heavy in a way that looked satisfied enough to be suspicious.

“That,” she said, voice rough, “was not breakfast.”

I laughed once, breathless and weak.

“No.” “Good.” “That is your review?” She nodded “Five stars. Terrible service. Would definitely return.” I closed my eyes “You are impossible.” “Consistent.” “You keep using that word like it makes things better.” “It does.”

She pushed herself up slowly, then immediately paused with one hand braced against my chest. I noticed. So did she. “Don’t say anything,” she warned.

“I was not going to.” “You were going to ask if I’m okay.” “I am still going to.”

She stared at me. I stared back. The waves filled the silence. Finally, Ryujin sighed “I’m okay.”

“Actual answer.” Her mouth twitched “Sore. Hungry. Proud of myself.” “That sounds about right.” “And okay,” she added, softer.

That mattered more than the rest. I nodded “Good.”

She looked away quickly, as if the sincerity had offended her, then started reaching for her bikini pieces and discarded clothes.

“Help me find my slippers.” “You lost your slippers?” “I was busy getting railed.” “That is not an answer.” “It is the only one you’re getting.”

I sat up slowly, my body protesting in several languages. Ryujin stood and fixed her bikini top, then paused when the strap twisted the wrong way “Fix that,” I said.

She looked down. Then, without arguing, adjusted it. That was the first warning sign “Your hair,” I said. She pulled her fingers through it “Sand on your thigh.” She brushed it off “Walk normally when we get back.”

“I always walk normally.” “You absolutely do not.” “I will try.”

I stopped. Ryujin looked at me “What?”

“You’re being obedient.” Her eyes narrowed “Don’t make it weird.” “You are making it weird.” “I’m being nice.” “That is the weird part.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no bite behind it. Just satisfaction. Loose, smug, and strangely peaceful. Chaotically obedient. Which somehow felt more dangerous than her usual chaos. We found her slippers near the rocks. One was half-buried in sand, the other somehow behind a palm root. I did not ask.

I should have let her walk first. I should have kept my hands to myself. I should have remembered that we still had to return to a resort full of women who noticed everything. Instead, when Ryujin bent to fix the strap of her sandal, something in me still carrying the last remnants of the beach caught fire again.

I reached for her wrist. She turned “What—” I pulled her back into me and kissed her. Hard. Brief. Meaner than it needed to be.

Ryujin made a small sound into my mouth, surprised for half a second before smiling like she had been waiting for exactly that. My hand slid down to her ass, gripped firmly, and the small slap that followed made her bite my lower lip in retaliation.

I pulled back just enough to breathe “Walk normally.” Ryujin stared at me. Then slowly, beautifully, dangerously, she smiled “Yes, manager-nim.”

That was worse. Much worse.

I let her go before I made her decide for seconds. Ryujin adjusted her sunglasses, though we were still in the shade, and stepped back onto the hidden path with the satisfied arrogance of someone who had won a war and decided not to mention the casualties.

We did not return together. That was her suggestion. For once, it was responsible. Which was terrifying. She went first, walking back toward the main beach with more composure than she had any right to possess. I waited behind the rocks for several minutes, fixing my clothes, brushing sand from places sand had no right being, and trying to look less like I had fought the ocean and lost.

When I finally returned to the main beach, the world had continued without me. Yuna was still on a lounger with her notebook, now wearing a sunhat so dramatic it looked like it needed its own manager. Lia was beside her, reading quietly, though one of her hands rested on top of Yuna’s notebook like a threat. Chaeryeong and Momo were carrying something from the kitchen with the seriousness of emergency responders.

John was asleep under an umbrella with noise-cancelling headphones on. Dahyun was staring at him like she wanted to document the scene. Jihyo was actually laughing at something Sana said. And Yeji— she was standing farther down the beach with Mina, both of them looking toward the water.

She turned before I reached the path. Of course she did. Her eyes found me. Then narrowed slightly. Just noticing. I gave her a small nod. She held my gaze for one second longer. Then turned back to Mina.

“Later” her eyes said. I swallowed.

Lunch happened beneath the shaded dining pavilion. It should have been normal. By now, I had stopped trusting that word. But compared to breakfast, lunch was almost peaceful. Almost.

Chaeryeong and Momo had apparently coordinated with the resort kitchen, which meant lunch arrived in generous portions and with enough side dishes to make Momo look spiritually fulfilled. Chaeryeong accepted everyone’s compliments with a shy smile and looked relieved every time someone took another serving.

Yuna was trying to pitch “optional beach recovery circles.” Lia vetoed the word “circles.”

Ryujin sat across from me wearing sunglasses, eating calmly, and obeying every normal social expectation with such suspicious ease that I began to sweat more than the heat required. Yeji noticed that too. Her knee brushed mine under the table. Not affectionate this time. Investigative.

I looked at her. She did not look back. She only took a calm sip of water. Terrifying.

Nayeon leaned toward Ryujin “You’re quiet.” Ryujin shrugged “I’m relaxed.”

Everyone at the table looked at her.

Ryujin lowered her chopsticks “What?” Yuna stared “You being relaxed sounds like a threat.” “It is not.” Lia glanced at her “That made it worse.”

Ryujin smiled peacefully. That made it much worse. John stirred under his headphones at the far end of the table, lifted one side, and looked around.

“Did someone say worse?” “No,” Jihyo said.

He nodded and put the headphones back on. Mina looked at Ryujin with quiet assessment.

“You seem rested.” Ryujin smiled “Vacation agrees with me.”

My water went down the wrong way. Yeji’s hand found my thigh under the table. It was a warning placed with surgical accuracy. I stopped coughing. Ryujin’s smile widened by one degree. Yuna noticed that. Then noticed me. Then noticed Yeji’s hand under the table. Her eyes widened.

Lia saw Yuna noticing and immediately whispered, “No.” Yuna closed her mouth. Barely.

Lunch continued with the forced normalcy of people who knew too much and were politely waiting for the next collapse. Afterward, the group split again.

Momo and Chaeryeong went back toward the kitchen to discuss dinner prep because apparently meal duty had become a religion. Yuna dragged Lia toward the lounge to “refine the emotional safety of fun.” Lia looked like she was considering throwing both the notebook and Yuna into the ocean.

Ryujin disappeared toward the showers without a word. Still obedient. Still suspicious. TWICE scattered toward the pool, the spa, and shade. John remained asleep under his headphones. Jihyo let him. That was love, probably.

Yeji touched my wrist as I stood “Walk with me.” It was not a request. I followed her down the garden path. The resort grew quieter the farther we moved from the dining pavilion. The path curved behind the villas, past flowering shrubs and low stone walls warmed by sun. Eventually, Yeji led me toward a small private sitting area overlooking the water from above. It was shaded by palms and hidden enough that no one from the beach could see us.

Private. But not closed in. A place for conversation, not hiding. Yeji sat first. I sat beside her, leaving a little space. She noticed.

“You keep doing that.” “What?” “Leaving room like I might need distance from you.”

I looked down.

“I don’t want to crowd you.” “I know.” Her voice softened “But sometimes that makes me feel like you’re already apologizing before I know what happened.”

That landed. I leaned back against the bench and exhaled.

“Ryujin.” Yeji nodded once “I figured.” “How?” “You came back looking like the beach tried to kill you. Ryujin came back looking like she made peace with God and won the argument.”

Despite myself, I laughed. Yeji’s mouth twitched. Then she looked toward the water “What happened?” I hesitated. Not because I wanted to hide.

Because after everything, after Lia last night, after Lia this morning, after Ryujin, after everything that seemed to be changing faster than anyone could fully process, I finally understood the difference between honesty and dumping the weight of every detail onto her lap.

“Enough that I should tell you,” I said carefully. “Not so much that I think you need the whole report.”

Yeji turned toward me. That answer surprised her. In a good way, maybe. I hoped.

“She pulled me away after breakfast,” I said. “To a hidden spot near the rocks. It was private. She checked that first.”

Yeji listened.

“She wanted me. Very clearly. I checked. More than once.” “I know you did.” “I still need to say it.”

She nodded. So I continued “It happened. It was intense. She was okay after. More than okay. Suspiciously obedient, actually.”

Yeji looked down, and a small smile escaped before she could stop it “That explains lunch.”

“It was terrifying.” “She looked like a well-fed cat.” “She acted like one too.”

Yeji shook her head, but the smile faded slowly after. Not because she was angry. Because the real part had arrived. I waited. This time, I did not fill the silence before she could. Yeji looked out at the water.

“I appreciate that you tell me.” “I know.” “No.” She looked at me “I need you to hear it properly. I do appreciate it. I appreciate that you come back. I appreciate that you don’t make me find out through jokes or looks or someone else noticing first.”

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m hiding anything.” “I know.”

Her hand moved to mine.

“But I also don’t want to become your confession booth.”

That made me still. Yeji’s grip tightened before I could pull away emotionally.

“I don’t mean that badly.” “I know.” “Do you?”

I looked at her. She was not angry. That almost made it harder. She was careful. Honest. Trying to say something difficult without making it sharp.

“I’m listening,” I said.

Yeji nodded slowly.

“I want honesty. Not a report. Tell me what matters. Tell me if someone crossed a line. Tell me if you crossed one. Tell me if someone needs me. Tell me if you’re not okay. But I don’t need every detail just to prove you’re being honest.”

I swallowed. The ocean moved below us. She continued “And I need you to trust that I can handle the truth without you punishing both of us with too much of it.”

That one got through. Hard.

“I wasn’t trying to punish you.” “I know. That’s why I’m saying it gently.”

I looked at our hands.

“I just don’t want silence to start making stories.” “That’s my line.” “I remembered.”

Her thumb brushed over my knuckles “Good.” Then she sighed “I’m not angry about Ryujin.”

“You’re sure?” “Yes.”

She looked at me, and this time there was something human beneath the calm “But today is a lot.” I nodded immediately “It is.”

“Lia last night. Lia this morning. Ryujin before lunch.” She let out a quiet breath. “I choose this. I choose you. I choose them too, in the ways I can. But choosing this does not mean nothing touches me.”

My chest tightened. There it was. Not jealousy. Not rejection. Not regret. Just Yeji, honest enough to admit that being strong did not make her untouchable. I turned more fully toward her.

“I’m sorry.” “I don’t want you to apologize for them wanting you.” “That’s not what I’m apologizing for.”

Her eyes lifted to mine. “I’m sorry for forgetting that you can be okay and still feel the weight of it.” That softened her. Her shoulders dropped. Just a little.

“I need that,” she whispered. “I know.” “No, Ben. I need you to know it. I don’t want to be the person who quietly absorbs everything because I love you enough to understand. I can understand and still need you to see me.”

That broke something in me cleanly. Not painfully. Precisely. I reached for her carefully. She let me. Then I pulled her into my arms.

Yeji made a small sound against my chest as I wrapped myself around her, holding her tight enough that she laughed in surprise.

“Ben—” “I see you.”

She went still. “I do,” I said, voice low against her hair. “I see you. I see how much you carry. I see how hard you try to make room for everyone. I see how often you choose kindness when nobody would blame you for being selfish.”

Her hand gripped the back of my shirt. I kissed the side of her head. Then her temple. Then her cheek. A flurry of kisses before I could stop myself. Yeji tried to lean away, laughing softly now.

“Ben.” “No.” “No?” “No. You said something devastating and now you have to deal with consequences.” “What consequences?” “This.”

I kissed her again. Her forehead. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. Her nose. She laughed properly this time, her arms coming around my shoulders.

“Benjie.” “What did I do in my past life?” She blinked “What?”

I pulled back just enough to look at her.

“What did I do in my past life to deserve someone like you?”

Her face changed. The laughter faded into something softer.

“Oh.” “I mean it.” “Don’t.” “I do.”

She tried to look away. I followed, kissing her cheek again “You are impossible in the best way. You are patient when I don’t deserve it. Honest when it would be easier to hide. Strong without being cruel. Soft without being weak.”

Her eyes shone “Ben.” “I love you so much it makes me stupid.”

That got a wet laugh out of her.

“You were already stupid.” “Then worse.” “Much worse.” “I love you,” I said again. “I love you as my girlfriend, my home, my almost-wife when you let me get away with it, and the only person alive who can make me feel like I am being scolded and saved at the same time.”

She covered her face with one hand “You cannot just say things like that.”

“I can. I am doing it right now.” “You are overwhelming.” “Good.”

She lowered her hand just enough to glare at me. It failed. Completely. She smiled instead. Soft. Finally softened. There she was. Not the leader. Not a mediator. Not the person making room for everyone. Just Yeji.

I kissed her again, slow this time. She melted into it. For a moment, the conversation stopped being words and became the space between them. Her hand slid to my jaw. Mine settled at her waist. The garden path stayed quiet around us, the ocean below carrying everything we did not need to say yet.

Then Yeji pulled back slightly. Her eyes dropped. Paused. Then rose back to mine with a look that was somehow amused, fond, and deeply unfair.

“Ben.” “What?”

She looked down again. I followed her gaze. Then closed my eyes “Outstanding.” Yeji’s mouth twitched “It’s not like Ryujin to leave gas in the tank.”

I stared at her. For one full second, I could not believe she had said it. Then I laughed so hard I had to lower my head against her shoulder. Yeji laughed too, quieter, embarrassed by her own joke but clearly proud of it.

“I cannot believe you said that.” “I am on vacation.” “That explains everything?” “It explains enough.”

I lifted my head and looked at her.

“For the record, that is not Ryujin’s fault.” “Oh?” “No.” “Then whose fault is it?” I touched her cheek “My beautiful girlfriend-wife.” Her face went pink immediately “Do not combine the titles.”

“Physically beautiful,” I continued, ignoring her. “Emotionally devastating. Morally inconvenient. Very kissable.”

“Ben.” “Impossible to look at without consequences.” “You are making it worse.” “You asked.” “I did not ask for poetry from your pants.”

I choked. Yeji covered her mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway.

“You are dangerous today.” “I learned from everyone around me.” “That is a terrible defense.” “It is the only one I have.”

She looked at me for a long moment. Then her expression softened again.

“You still need to calm down.” “I am aware.” “But…”

I waited. She glanced toward the villas. Then back at me “We can go to our room.” My brain stopped. Yeji immediately pointed at me “For kissing.”

“Of course.” “And cuddling.” “Obviously.” “No sex.” “I heard you.” “Did you?” “Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes. I held up both hands “Kissing. Cuddling. DEFINITELY NOTHING ELSE.” Her mouth curved “You’re learning.”

“From the best girlfriend-wife in the world.” “Worst,” she corrected. “Best,” I corrected her.

She looked pleased despite herself. We walked back slowly, side by side along the garden path, hands brushing until Yeji gave up pretending and laced her fingers through mine. When we reached the room, she closed the door behind us and leaned against it. For a second, neither of us moved. Then she opened her arms.

I went to her immediately. She laughed softly as I lifted her just enough to carry her toward the bed.

“Ben.” “Kissing and cuddling.” “You are carrying me like that is legally binding.” “It is emotionally binding.” “That means nothing.” “It means everything.”

I set her down gently, then climbed in beside her before she could change her mind. The bed dipped beneath us. The curtains moved softly in the ocean breeze. Afternoon light filled the room in warm pieces. Yeji reached for me first. That was all it took.

The kiss was slow at the beginning. Then slower. The kind of kiss that did not try to become anything else because it already had enough room to matter. Her fingers slid into my hair. Mine stayed at her waist, then her back, then still. She noticed the restraint and kissed me harder for it.

“Good,” she whispered against my mouth. “Good?” “You listened.” “I can do that.” “Sometimes.”

I smiled against her lips. She pulled me closer.

We kissed until the outside world thinned into ocean sound and breath and the warm press of her body against mine. Not hungry like last night. Not frantic. Not proving anything. The kind of closeness that made my chest ache more than my body.

Eventually, Yeji tucked herself against me, her head under my chin, one leg over mine like she had decided again that I was furniture, property, and emotional support. I wrapped an arm around her. She sighed.

“You’re still ridiculous.” “I know.” “And honest.” “I’m trying.” “And mine.”

The word was quiet. Almost too quiet. But I heard it. My arm tightened around her “Yes.” She smiled against my chest “Good.”

I kissed her hair. For once, I did not make the wife joke. Not because I did not want to. Because this was better. Yeji stayed there, warm and steady in my arms, and the room settled around us. Just her and me. Just the kind of quiet that did not ask us to explain it. And for that afternoon, that was enough.

For a while, the afternoon stayed exactly where it was. Quiet and ours. Yeji was curled against me with her cheek on my chest, her breathing slow enough that I thought she might have fallen asleep. One of her hands rested over my ribs. Mine stayed around her waist, not holding too tightly, but close enough that the thought of letting go felt personally offensive.

Outside, the ocean kept moving. Inside, nothing asked for us. No one knocking on the door to ask if “Hostile Wellness” had been approved as a legally safe phrase. Just the kind of silence that made my chest feel too full. Eventually, she shifted. I knew what that meant before she said anything.

“No.” Yeji froze. Then slowly lifted her head “I didn’t say anything.” “You were about to leave.” Her mouth curved “Dinner.” “No.” “Ben.” “No dinner.” “We have to meet everyone.” “They’ll survive.”

I tightened my arm around her waist and pulled her back down against me. Yeji made a small sound of surprise, then laughed into my shirt.

“Benjie.” “No.” “You cannot keep me here for the entire vacation.” “I can and will try.” “You will fail.” “I can fail while trying.”

She pushed herself up just enough to look at me, but I did not loosen my hold. If anything, I pulled her closer. Her expression softened. Not teasing anymore. Not immediately.

Whatever childishness had been in the way I grabbed her faded under the weight of what sat behind it. I did not want sex. I did not even want another kiss first. I just wanted her there. I wanted the room to keep being quiet.

I wanted the afternoon to last longer than afternoons were allowed to last. Yeji’s face changed. “Oh,” she said softly. I looked away. She touched my cheek.

“Ben.” “I know we have to go.” “Do you?” “No.”

Her thumb brushed once under my eye “You’re being emotionally selfish.”

“Yes.” “At least you know.” “I’m making peace with it.”

She laughed softly, but her eyes stayed gentle. Then she leaned down and kissed me. I kept her against me while she kissed the corner of my mouth, then my cheek, then the line of my jaw. Each kiss softened something I had not realized I was bracing.

“I’m not disappearing,” she whispered. “I know.” “You don’t look like you know.” “I know in theory.”

She kissed me again.

“And in practice?” “In practice, I want to become furniture.” “You already are furniture.” “Your furniture.” Her eyes narrowed “That was cute and concerning.” “Accurate, then.”

She smiled despite herself. Then kissed me properly. The kind of kiss that did not ask for anything except permission to stay close for a few seconds longer. When she pulled back, I followed. She pressed her fingers lightly to my lips.

“No.” “That was cruel last time too.” “And it worked.” “I disagree.”

She kissed my forehead. Then my nose. Then my mouth again. A flurry of small, soft attacks that slowly turned my refusal into something less defensive and more embarrassingly weak.

“There,” she whispered. “Better?” “No.” She smiled “Liar.” “More.” “You are impossible.” “Consistent.” She groaned “Do not steal Ryujin’s word.” “I am vulnerable.” “You are weaponizing it.” “Is it working?”

She stared at me. Then kissed me again. So yes. Eventually, through repeated affection and emotional blackmail disguised as tenderness, Yeji managed to get us out of bed. It took longer than it should have. Not because anything happened. Nothing happened. That was the problem.

Nothing happened, and somehow I felt more wrecked than if it had. By the time we reached the dining pavilion, dinner had already started forming around the table.

Chaeryeong was helping the staff arrange side dishes while Momo stood beside her with the devotion of a loyal knight. Jihyo was actually sitting before everyone else had arrived, which felt like progress. John was awake, unfortunately for him. Mina had a glass of something pale and expensive-looking. Sana was smiling at nothing. Nayeon was smiling at everyone, which was worse. Dahyun looked ready to report on anything that moved.

Yuna and Ryujin sat together near the middle of the table. That alone should have warned me. Yeji walked in beside me. Not late enough to be suspicious. Not early enough to be safe. Her hand brushed mine once before she let go, and I felt so stupidly happy from it that I almost missed the way everyone looked at us. Almost…

Ryujin leaned back in her chair “Wow.” Yeji stopped “What?” Yuna tilted her head, studying us with theatrical seriousness “You look…” Lia, already seated with tea, lifted one finger “Be careful.” Yuna nodded “…emotionally moisturized.”

The table paused. Then Nayeon snorted. Sana covered her mouth. Dahyun’s invisible microphone rose halfway before Jihyo gave her a look. Yeji’s face went pink. I smiled. Badly. Too openly. Too peacefully. That made everything worse. Ryujin slowly removed her sunglasses even though we were indoors.

“Oh, he’s gone-gone.” “I’m right here,” I said. “No, your body is here,” she pointed at my face “That is bliss.” Yuna leaned forward “Ben, are you okay?” “Yes.”

The answer came too fast. Too sincere. Too happy. Everyone noticed. John squinted at me “I hate this.” I looked at him “What?”

“You look peaceful. That usually means someone else is about to suffer.” Mina nodded calmly “That has historical support.”

Yeji sat down beside me, still pink but visibly softer than she had been at lunch. Not embarrassed-soft. Fulfilled-soft. Like something inside her had been seen, held, and properly put back into place.

Lia noticed first. Her expression gentled. Then she looked away before anyone could call attention to it. Ryujin noticed too. But instead of teasing Yeji directly, she turned to Yuna.

“Now.” Yuna blinked “Now?” “Ask him.”

Yeji’s head turned. I, in my blissful stupidity, looked at them with complete trust. This was my mistake. Yuna clasped her hands together on the table “Ben.”

“Yes?”

She smiled sweetly. Too sweetly.

“Hypothetically.” “No,” Yeji said immediately. Yuna froze “I haven’t said it yet.” “You said hypothetically.” Ryujin leaned in “We need funding for a project.” John sat up “No.” I reached into my pocket and Yeji’s eyes widened “Ben.” “What kind of project?” I asked.

Ryujin’s face lit up. Yuna looked like she had witnessed a miracle. John stood halfway out of his chair “No. Absolutely not.” I pulled out my checkbook. The table went silent. Even Momo stopped chewing. Yeji grabbed my wrist “Benjie.” I looked at her “What?” Her eyes dropped to the checkbook. Then back to my face.

“No.” “But they asked nicely.” “They did not ask anything.” “It sounded important.” “It sounded like a crime wearing lipstick.” Ryujin placed a hand over her heart “I am wounded.” Yuna nodded solemnly “And underfunded.”

Yeji took the checkbook from my hand. I let her. Mostly because she was touching me. That was how gone I was.

John pointed at me “See? This is what I mean. Peaceful Ben is worse than crisis Ben.”

Dahyun lifted her imaginary microphone “Breaking news: emotionally fulfilled man becomes immediate financial hazard.”

Jihyo covered her mouth, but I saw the smile. Mina looked at Yeji “Good intervention.” Yeji tucked the checkbook firmly into her own lap “Thank you.”

I looked at her “Babe, are you confiscating my money?” “Yes.” “That feels like wife behavior.”

Her face went red instantly. The table erupted. Nayeon slapped the table “There it is.” Sana clasped her hands “He said it so happily.” Ryujin pointed at me “He’s not even fighting today.” Yuna nodded in awe “He’s domesticated.”

“I am not domesticated,” I said. Yeji looked at me. I looked back. Then I added, “I am supervised.” John dropped back into his chair “That’s infinitely worse.” Yeji pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. Failing.

Yuna leaned toward Ryujin and whispered loudly “Do you think if we ask again after dessert—” “No,” Yeji said. Yuna sat back “Worth testing.” “It was not.” Ryujin looked at my face again and narrowed her eyes “Wait.” “No,” Yeji said immediately. Ryujin ignored her “You two were quiet all afternoon.”

The table shifted. Yeji’s blush deepened. I blinked. John suddenly stood straighter, as if called to testify “They were,” he said.

Everyone turned to him. He looked surprised by his own involvement, then committed weakly “I can confirm. Their room was quiet.” The silence lasted one second. Then Nayeon smiled “Manager-nim.”

John pointed at her “No.” Sana tilted her head “That is your defense?” “It is factual.”

Dahyun lifted the imaginary microphone “Breaking news: weak defense claims nothing happened because suspiciously quiet room remained quiet.” John looked offended “It is not weak. It is evidence.”

Mina took a sip from her glass “Absence of noise is not proof of absence.” John slowly turned toward her “Why would you say that?” Mina blinked “It is accurate.” “That is exactly why you should not say it.” Jihyo leaned back, smiling now “John, stop helping.” “I was defending them.” “You were doing something.”

Ryujin grinned at me “So nothing happened?” I looked at Yeji. Yeji looked at me. For once, the truth was easy. “No,” I said. That quieted the table just enough. I smiled, softer this time. “Nothing happened.” Yeji’s hand found mine under the table. This time, she did not hide it quickly. The whole table saw. Or at least most of them did. Nobody teased immediately. That was how I knew they understood, somehow, that it had not been nothing. Not really.

Yeji looked down at our hands, then back up, cheeks warm but eyes steady “We rested,” she said. The word landed differently than it should have. Rested. Not as a euphemism. As an actual thing.

The entire retreat had been built around that word, wrapped in money and security and chaos and too many emotionally unstable people in one private resort. And for the first time since we arrived, I think some of them believed we had actually done it.

Ryujin’s expression softened by a fraction. Yuna stopped smiling like she was preparing a follow-up crime. Lia looked at Yeji with something warm and quiet. Jihyo nodded once, almost to herself. John let out a breath. Then Nayeon ruined the moment, because of course she did “So no honeymoon?” Yeji covered her face. Sana smiled “Emotional honeymoon.”

Momo looked around “Can we classify dinner as dinner?” Chaeryeong nodded immediately “Yes, please.” That saved us.

Dinner finally began properly.

Food passed around the table. Yuna’s “project” remained unfunded, mostly because Yeji kept the checkbook hostage. Ryujin behaved too well, which continued to be unsettling. Lia occasionally looked at me, then away, each time a little less afraid of being seen. Jihyo laughed more easily than she had at breakfast. John complained less than usual, which meant either the vacation was working or he had given up.

Yeji stayed beside me. Her knee against mine. Her hand in mine whenever the table got loud enough to hide it. And me? I was still in bliss. Not the dangerous financial kind anymore. Probably.

The kind that made the food taste better, the noise feel softer, and the whole impossible shape of our lives seem, for one dinner at least, survivable. Yuna leaned toward Ryujin again “Blank check attempt failed.” Ryujin nodded “Timing issue.” Yeji looked up “I heard that.”

Yuna smiled “Love you, unnie.” “No.” Ryujin pointed at me “Ask him again when she’s asleep.”

Yeji turned to me. I straightened “I will not fund crimes while you are asleep.”

“Good.” A pause. Then I added, “Without written approval.” Yeji closed her eyes. The table exploded again. John put his head in his hands. Mina quietly said, “Written approval would improve accountability.”

“Mina,” Jihyo warned. “What?”

I smiled into my glass. Yeji kicked my ankle under the table. Not hard. Just enough to remind me she was there. As if I could forget.

Dinner continued. And for once, I did not feel like I was waiting for the next disaster. Even if, statistically speaking, it was probably already making notes in Yuna’s notebook. After dinner, the resort did something strange. It stayed peaceful.

No one threw anything. No one tried to rename the retreat. No one asked for a blank check again, mostly because Yeji still had my checkbook hostage and had started treating it like contraband.

For once, the table broke apart without incident. Chaeryeong and Momo drifted toward the kitchen again because apparently dinner had only strengthened their alliance. Yuna and Ryujin disappeared into an argument about whether “project funding” could be reclassified as “emotional innovation.” Lia followed them with the tired focus of someone who knew prevention was easier than cleanup.

TWICE scattered more slowly this time. Jihyo stayed loose, smiling more than she probably realized. Mina looked relaxed in the only way Mina ever did, which meant she was quiet, composed, and possibly restructuring the resort’s operating model in her head.

John vanished before anyone could ask him for anything. That alone should have been suspicious. Yeji noticed me noticing. “You want to walk?” she asked. I looked at her “Alone?” Her mouth curved “You look like you might survive it.”

“That sounds like progress.” “It is.”

She reached up and adjusted the collar of my shirt, fingers lingering there for one soft second “Don’t buy anything.”

“I won’t.” “Don’t smoke.”

I paused. Her eyes narrowed.

“I won’t.” “That pause was ugly.” “It was a thinking pause.” “It was a cigarette pause.” “I am wounded.” “You are predictable.”

She leaned up and kissed me before I could defend myself. Enough to send me away happy and make the warning worse. “If I smell smoke on you,” she said, “You’re going to sleeping outside.”

“That is worse than anger.” “I know.”

Cruel woman. Beautiful woman. Girlfriend-wife.

I did not say that part out loud because I valued survival. I left her with one more kiss and wandered away from the pavilion, hands in my pockets, the ocean pulling the noise of the evening farther and farther behind me. For the first time since we arrived, I was not walking to fix something. Not to check on someone. Not to apologize. Not to manage a crisis. Just walking.

It felt suspicious.

The path curved along the outer edge of the resort, where the garden lights thinned and the service road disappeared behind palms. The air smelled like salt, flowers, and expensive privacy. Then I smelled smoke.

I stopped. A small orange glow pulsed near the low stone wall overlooking the beach.

John stood there alone, one elbow resting on the wall, cigarette between his fingers, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly messy from the day. He looked like a man who had escaped a war room only to discover the war had followed him into his lungs. He saw me and immediately lifted the cigarette.

“Holy shit, I haven’t seen you do that since college.” “No.” I raised an eyebrow “No what?” “No lecture.” “I haven’t said anything.” “You have a face.” “I always have a face.” “Tonight you have a peaceful face. That makes it worse.”

I walked closer. John exhaled smoke toward the water “You have no right to scold me after the emotional fulfillment parade you’ve been having lately.” I stopped beside him “That is a disgusting phrase.”

“It is accurate.” “Still disgusting.”

He took another drag. I leaned against the wall beside him and looked out at the dark shoreline. For a while, neither of us spoke. Then I held out my hand. John looked at it. Then at me “Seriously?”

“One.” “Yeji is going to kill you.” “Probably.”

He stared a second longer, then handed me the pack. I took one cigarette, placed it between my lips, and leaned in as he lifted his lighter. The flame caught. I inhaled. Held it. Then exhaled slowly toward the ocean. The smoke left my mouth in a pale stream, curling away into the night air. I hated how good it felt. I hated more that John looked like he knew.

“Rough night?” I asked. John gave me a look “You are asking me that?” “What’s got your boxers in a twist?” He blinked “Your idiom got worse halfway through.” “Emotional damage.” “Clearly.”

I took another drag, then lowered the cigarette.

“You vanished after dinner.” “I escaped.” “From?” He laughed once. Flat. Tired “Pick one.”

That made me quiet. John looked out at the beach. The cigarette burned between his fingers

“You know, people think the hard part is the secrecy.” “It isn’t?” “It is. But it’s not the only hard part.”

He tapped ash over the wall.

“It’s the recovery time. Or lack of it. Everyone needs something. Not always badly. Not always at the same time. But often enough. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. Sometimes all three before breakfast.”

I said nothing. He continued.

“And I love them. I do. That’s the problem. If I didn’t, it would be easier to be selfish.”

His mouth twitched without humor.

“But when you have nine girlfriends, even a good day can feel like a scheduling error made by God.”

I looked at him.

“That is going on your tombstone.” “It might.”

He dragged a hand over his face “I’m tired, man.” Not dramatic. Not self-pitying. Just true. I understood that tone better than I wanted to. Then something clicked. Not all at once.

A few details aligning.

Mina quiet at breakfast. John late. Mina checking route timing while watching him more than usual. John’s particular kind of exhaustion. His shoulders, his eyes, the way he had been trying to keep normal jokes alive with half a battery.

I looked at him“Mina?” John turned sharply “What?”

I took a drag and exhaled slowly “Mina’s getting every valuable second she can from you, isn’t she?”

John stared. For one second, he looked genuinely offended. Then genuinely alarmed. Then just tired again.

“How the hell did you get that?” “Psychological profiling is horribly accurate.” “That is not psychology. That is witchcraft.” “It can be both.”

He pointed the cigarette at me

“You are getting too good at this.” “I live with ITZY.” “Fair.”

He looked away, jaw tightening slightly.

“It’s not bad.” “I didn’t say it was.” “She doesn’t demand. That’s the thing. Mina doesn’t demand the way other people do. She just…” he searched for the word “Stays.”

I nodded “And because she rarely asks, when she does, it feels impossible to refuse.”

John’s silence answered for him. The ocean moved below us.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “That.”

I smoked quietly beside him. For once, the cigarette did not feel like rebellion. It felt like cover. Not just for the smell. For the fact that both of us were standing there admitting exhaustion in the only stupid way men like us seemed capable of. I pulled out my phone with my free hand. John looked over.

“What are you doing?” “Giving you something.” “If it is a bill, I will drown you.” “It is a number.” “For?” “A colleague.”

John immediately looked suspicious.

“What kind of colleague?” “Hypnotherapy. Sleep-conditioning work. Stress recovery. Nothing mystical.” “Ben.” “He helped me.”

That shut him up. I sent the contact. His phone buzzed. John glanced down at it, then back at me.

“You used hypnotherapy?” “Yes.” “For what?” “Microsleep conditioning. Nap recovery. Stress downshift. Basically teaching my body to take short rest windows seriously.”

John stared “You had a fucking cheat code?” “It is not a cheat code.” “It sounds like a cheat code.” “It helps short rest feel more restorative. It is not a substitute for actual sleep long term.” “Still sounds like a cheat code.” “You still need real sleep.” “You could’ve given me this sooner, you gatekeeping prick.”

I smiled faintly.

“I’ll tell him you’re calling. I’ll front the bill.” John narrowed his eyes “Of course you will.” “Problem?” “Yes. But I’m too tired to have principles.” “Good.”

He saved the number anyway. Then, without asking, he took the pack from my hand and pulled another cigarette out. I looked at him “Really?”

“You just gave me rich-people sleep hypnosis. Let me cope.” “Fair.”

He lit the second one and exhaled with the relief of a man postponing collapse by force. Then his eyes moved to my cigarette

“You know what happens if Yeji smells that on you?” “Yes.” “You share a bed and a room here.” “I am aware.” “She even kissed you before you left.” “I remember.” “She specifically said no smoking, didn’t she?” I looked at him. “How do you know that?” “Because she’s Yeji and you’re you.”

Again. Horribly accurate. I took one last drag, then crushed the cigarette out in the sand tray near the wall “I’m going to tell her the truth.”

John snorted “Romantic suicide.” “No. Just truth.” “She’ll be mad.” “Disappointed.”

He winced.

“That’s worse than sleeping outside.” “I survived being cut off financially, I will probably survive this.” I looked toward the path back to the villas “But I also have protocols.” John slowly turned his head “Protocols?” “Yes.” “For hiding the smell of cigarettes from your girlfriend-wife.” “Do not call her that.” “You do.” “That is different.” “It always is with you.”

I ignored him and counted on my fingers “Wash hands twice. Mouthwash. Shower. Change clothes. Leave this shirt outside the room in the laundry bag. Hydrate. Brush teeth. No cologne bomb because that makes it obvious.”

John stared “You have a full anti-Yeji-smell protocol.” “I had a life before this.” “A life of crime?” “A life of cigarettes and consequences.”

He shook his head “You are unbelievable.”

“I am also covering for you.” John paused “What?” “If anyone smells smoke on you, it was me. I smoked. You stood nearby. The smell stuck.”

 “Self-sacrificing douche… but… thank you.” His expression changed, not dramatically. Just enough “She’ll be more disappointed in you.”

“Probably.” “You’re in an emotionally good place. Why would you waste that?” I looked at him “Because you needed one.”

John looked away. The second cigarette burned quietly between his fingers. For a while, he did not answer. Then he muttered, “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” “I hate that you do things like that.” “That I believe.”

He took another drag, then exhaled “I don’t need you to take the fall for me.”

“I know.” “Then don’t.” “I’ll tell her I smoked because I did. If anyone else asks why you smell like it, I’ll tell them you were near me.” “That is technically true.” “The best kind of true.” John laughed despite himself “You are a menace.” “Rested menace.” “Worse.”

The night settled around us again. Two men standing at the edge of a resort paid for by people who had more money than common sense, trying to survive love in numbers that would break a calendar. John crushed out his cigarette.

“Thanks for the number.” “Use it.” “I will.” “And sleep.”

He gave me a look “You sound like them.” “Good.” “That was not a compliment.” “I know.”

We started back toward the villas. Halfway down the path, John sniffed his sleeve and grimaced “I smell like an ashtray.”

“Yes.” “You smell worse.” “I committed more.” “Yeji is going to destroy you.” “I know.” “Any last words?”

I thought about it. Then smiled faintly “Worth it.” John shook his head “Stupid.” But when we reached the fork in the path and separated, he looked less hollow than he had at the wall. Still tired. Still doomed. But less alone. That was enough for now.

I took the long way back to my room. Not because I was avoiding Yeji. Not exactly. Because protocol mattered. And because I needed a few more minutes to figure out how to tell the woman I loved that I had broken the easiest promise of the night for the hardest reason to regret.

I almost made it back to the room. Almost. The hallway outside the ITZY wing was quiet, lit softly by the warm resort lamps along the walls. The whole place had settled into night mode now, the kind of hush that made every footstep sound more suspicious than it deserved to be.

I had already washed my hands twice in the outdoor washroom. I had already used mouthwash from the emergency kit I hid. I had already taken the long path back so the air could do some of the work.

The shirt was the problem. The shirt had betrayed me. Cigarette smoke clung to fabric like guilt. I was halfway past the reading lounge when a door opened. Lia stepped out. We both stopped. For one second, neither of us said anything.

Then her eyes narrowed. Not dramatically. Not like Yeji. Worse. Quietly “You smoked.”

I closed my eyes “Outstanding.” “Ben.” “I know.” “You know?” “Yes.” “And you still smell like that?” “I was handling it.” “You were walking toward Yeji’s room smelling like evidence.” “That is a harsh but fair summary.”

Lia glanced down the hallway, then back at me. Her face shifted from judgment to calculation in a way that made me slightly afraid “Come here.”

I blinked “What?” She grabbed my wrist with enough firmness that I understood I was not being invited. I was being managed “Lia.”

“Quiet.” She pulled me into her room and shut the door behind us.

The room smelled like tea, clean linen, and whatever soft perfume Lia used that never announced itself until you were already close enough to notice. A book sat open on the small table. A cardigan was folded neatly over the chair. Yuna’s stolen pen was still there too.

Lia pointed toward the bathroom “Shower.” I stared at her “You are kidnapping me for hygiene.”

“I am saving your life.” “That might be dramatic.” “Yeji will smell cigarettes on you, and I don’t plan on losing our best manger out of girlfriend-wife rage.” “Not dramatic.”

“Shower,” she repeated. “Rinse your hair. Wash your hands again. Use soap properly. I’ll find you something to wear until the smell clears.”

I looked at her. She looked back, completely serious.

“You have done this before.” “I live with Yuna.” “That does not explain anything.” “It explains enough.”

Fair. I stepped toward the bathroom, then paused “Lia.” “What?” “Thank you.”

Her expression softened for half a second. Then she immediately looked away “You’re my manager. I don’t want you sleeping outside and freezing to death.” “We are at a beach resort.” “You would find a way.” “That is also fair.”

She pointed again “Shower.” I surrendered. The shower helped. The warm water washed the smoke out of my hair and off my skin, and for a few minutes, the world narrowed down to steam, tile, and the absurdity of being hidden in Lia’s room because I had tried to cover for John and had somehow made myself the primary suspect.

By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel and deeply aware of how bad my choices looked from the outside, Lia had left a clean oversized shirt and a pair of loose lounge pants folded neatly on the counter.

I stared at them. Then called through the door “Why do you have men’s lounge pants?” There was a pause “They’re resort spares.”

“Convenient.” “Do not make this strange.” “I am not the one hiding a man in my bathroom.” “Ben.” “Changing.”

I dressed quickly. When I stepped back into the room, Lia was standing near the balcony with her arms folded, trying very hard to look composed. She failed by approximately one blush.

The shirt was too loose on me, the pants slightly long, and my hair was still damp. Lia looked me over once, then immediately looked away.

“Better,” she said. “Still smell like smoke?”

She stepped closer. Then stopped. Then stepped closer again, more deliberately this time. The air changed. Only a little, then Lia leaned in— not touching me, just close enough to check. Her eyes flicked to my collar. Then my throat. Then back up.

“No,” she said quietly. “You smell like soap.” “Good.” “And bad decisions.” “That one is harder to wash off.”

Her mouth curved despite herself. I looked toward the door “I should probably go before this somehow becomes worse.”

“It will become worse if Yeji sees you leaving my room in resort clothes.”

I stopped. Lia also stopped. We looked at each other “Oh,” I said.

“Yes.” “That is a problem.” “It is.” “You are very good at creating solutions that become new problems.” “I learned from everyone here.”

I laughed softly. She smiled. Not big. But real. Then I sobered “Seriously. Thank you.” Lia looked down “It’s fine.”

“No. It isn’t just fine. You helped me.” “You would have done the same.” “Probably worse.” “Definitely worse.”

I smiled “If there’s anything I can do to repay you…”

Lia lifted her eyes. At first, she looked like she was going to dismiss it. She almost did. I saw the instinct arrive: wave it off, make herself smaller, let the moment pass before it asked anything from her. Then she stopped.

Something changed in her face. Not confidence exactly. A decision “You know,” she said softly, “now that you mention it…” My pulse shifted “Lia.” She stepped closer. Not quickly. Lia moved like someone walking toward the edge of a pool, still afraid of the cold, but tired of standing dry “I do have an idea.”

I kept still “What idea?”

Her hands found mine. She looked down at them for a moment, studying my fingers like she was reminding herself they had already touched her waist that morning and the world had not ended. Then she looked up “Kiss me again.”

The simplicity of it hit harder than it should have “Are you sure?” She gave me a look “Do not turn this into a wellness check.” “I am physically incapable of promising that.” Her mouth twitched “I’m sure.”

So I kissed her. Soft at first. Because Lia still deserved soft. But she did not stay there this time.

Her hands tightened around mine, and after the first careful press of my mouth against hers, she came closer on her own. The kiss deepened faster than it had that morning. Not out of recklessness. Out of memory.

She knew where the line had been. She was walking toward it again. Her fingers slid up to my shoulders. Mine stayed at her waist, familiar now, safe enough that she did not tense when they settled there. Lia made a small sound into the kiss.

Then pulled back just enough to breathe “Don’t hold back like you’re afraid of me.” “I’m not afraid of you.” “You’re afraid of hurting me.” “Yes.” Her eyes softened “I know.”

Then she took my right hand. Slowly. Deliberately. She moved it from her waist to her side, just beneath her ribs, over the fabric of her chest. I froze.

Lia noticed. Her cheeks were flushed, but she did not let go “I’m putting it there,” she whispered “I know.”

“Then don’t look like you’re doing something wrong.” That landed exactly where she meant it to. I breathed out slowly “Okay.”

Her fingers stayed over mine, holding my hand in place like she needed to feel both the touch and the control of it. Then she kissed me again. This time, I let my hand follow the shape she allowed. Not far. Not greedy. Just enough to acknowledge that she had invited me closer.

Her breath shook against my mouth. But she did not pull away. Instead, she guided my other hand to her hip. A private place. Still clothed. Still careful. But more intimate than before.

A clear step.

Her body pressed closer to mine, and for a few seconds, Lia forgot to be embarrassed by wanting. I kissed her slower then. Deeper. Letting her feel that I understood what she was giving me. Her hands moved to my chest, then up to my neck, and the kiss turned warmer, less hesitant, more openly hungry. Not wild. Not yet. But real enough that both of us felt the room narrow around it.

Then her fingers tightened. Not stopping me. Stopping herself. I felt it immediately. I stilled. Lia opened her eyes. Her breathing was uneven. Her face was red “That’s…”

“Enough?” She nodded. Then, before I could move away, she held my wrist “Not away.” I stayed exactly where I was. Her forehead lowered against my shoulder “That’s enough,” she whispered “But not away.”

My chest tightened “Okay.” My hand remained where she had placed it, still beneath hers, still allowed because she had chosen it. She breathed carefully, one inhale at a time, until the tremor in her shoulders faded.

Then she laughed once. Tiny. Embarrassed “I’m getting faster.”

“At what?” “At reaching the limit.” I smiled against her hair “That’s not a bad thing.” “It feels like it should be.” “It isn’t.”

She lifted her head. I looked at her “You’re learning where the line is,” I said. “That means you’re listening to yourself.”

Her eyes searched mine “And if the line keeps moving?” “Then we move with it.”

She swallowed “Slowly?” “As slowly as you want. Her face softened. Then she leaned in and kissed me again. Grateful in a way that made me feel unworthy of it.

When she pulled back, she finally released my hand and stepped away, smoothing her top with both hands like she could also smooth out the evidence of courage. I let her. Then she looked me over again “You should wait here a little longer.”

“For the smoke?” “For the hallway.” “Right.” “And maybe text Yeji.”

I winced. Lia smiled faintly “Tell her the truth.”

“I was going to.” “I know.”

She walked toward the table, picked up her tea, then added without looking at me “Maybe do not mention the part where I kidnapped you into a shower unless she asks.”

“That feels like a detail she will notice.” “She notices everything.” “She does.”

Lia sighed “Then mention it carefully.” I smiled “Yes, ma’am.” Her blush returned instantly “Do not say that in my room.”

“Noted.” She glared at me. It was gentle. Almost fond. Then she pointed toward the chair “Sit. Let the smoke disappear.”

I sat. Because Lia had asked. Because Yeji would know anyway. Because the night had somehow become even more complicated than cigarettes. And because Lia, who had once been afraid of wanting too much, had just taken my hand and placed it exactly where she wanted it.

Not farther. Not fully. But enough. Enough to tell me her desire was no longer just catching up. It was learning how to ask. I stayed in Lia’s room longer than planned. Not long enough for anything else to happen. Long enough for the hallway to quiet down. Long enough for the smell of smoke to fade from my skin and clothes. Long enough for Lia to sit across from me with her tea, pretending to read while very obviously not reading at all.

Every few minutes, her eyes would lift over the edge of the book. Then drop again. Finally, I said, “You are staring.”

“I am observing.” “That is staring with a library.” Her mouth twitched “You look nervous.” “I am about to tell Yeji I smoked, hid in your room, used your shower, and then kissed you.”

Lia lowered the book “When you say it like that, it sounds worse.” “It is worse.” “It is not worse. It is just… very full.” “That is somehow worse than worse.”

She closed the book fully and set it on the table “Ben.” I looked at her. Her expression had gone quiet again. The brave kind.

“Tell her properly.” “I will.” “Not like you’re guilty for me.”

That made me pause. Lia held my gaze “I don’t want to become something you confess like a mistake.”

“You’re not.” “I know.”

Her fingers tightened around her cup “But I need you to know it too.” The words settled heavier than I expected. I nodded slowly. “You’re not a mistake, Lia.” Her face softened. Then, because she was Lia, she looked away before it became too much “Good.”

A knock came at the door. Both of us froze. Not loud. Not impatient. Just two soft taps. Lia looked at me. I looked at the door. Then Yeji’s voice came from the other side “Lia?”

Lia closed her eyes “I knew it.” I stood. Lia got there first. She opened the door carefully.

Yeji stood in the hallway, dressed casually, hair loose over one shoulder, face calm in a way that told me she had already solved three-fourths of the situation before arriving.

Her eyes moved from Lia. To me. To the resort clothes. To my damp hair. Then back to Lia. There was a silence. Not sharp. Just full. Lia straightened “Unnie.”

Yeji’s gaze softened by one degree “Are you okay?” That was the first thing she asked. Of course it was. Lia’s shoulders dropped “Yes.”

Yeji looked at me next “And you?” I exhaled “Complicated answer.” “That sounds like you.”

Lia stepped back from the door, giving us space without fully disappearing “I made him shower,” she said.

Yeji blinked. Then looked at me “You smoked.”

“Yes.” Her expression did not change. That was worse than if it had. I stepped closer, careful not to crowd the doorway “John was outside. He needed one. I joined him.” Yeji’s eyes narrowed faintly “You joined him?”

“Yes.” “After I told you not to?” “Yes.”

The hallway went quiet. Lia suddenly looked like she regretted being in the doorway at all. I continued before silence could make the wrong story “I’m not going to pretend it was only for John. I wanted one too. But I also knew if anyone smelled smoke on him, I could take the blame because I actually smoked. So I did.”

Yeji looked down. Then back at me “You covered for him.”

“I tried.” “And then Lia covered for you.”

I glanced at Lia. She looked away “Yes.” Yeji’s mouth pressed together. Not angry. Not amused. Thinking “Did you kiss her?”

Lia went very still. I answered immediately “Yes.” Yeji’s eyes stayed on mine “Did she want that?” “Yes.” Lia’s voice came softly from beside us “I did.”

Yeji looked at her. Lia swallowed “I pulled him in because he smelled like cigarettes and I didn’t want you to make him sleep outside.”

“I would not have made him sleep outside, probably at the floor— but not outside.”

The tension broke by half an inch. Then Lia continued, quieter “And after he thanked me, I asked him to kiss me. I took another step. Then I stopped.” Yeji’s face softened fully this time “Are you okay?” she asked again. Lia nodded “Yes.”

“Really?” “Yes.”

A pause. Then Lia added, “I didn’t run this time.” That landed between all three of us. Yeji’s eyes warmed “No,” she said gently. “You didn’t.” Lia looked down, cheeks pink now “I’m going to… make tea.”

“You already have tea,” I said. Lia gave me a look “I am going to make more tea.”

“Good plan.” She glanced at Yeji one more time “Unnie.” Yeji stepped forward and touched Lia’s wrist lightly “Thank you for taking care of him.” Lia blinked. Then nodded once, too quickly “You’re welcome.”

Then she retreated into the room and closed the door with all the dignity of someone fleeing emotional consequences at walking speed. Yeji and I stood alone in the hallway. For a few seconds, neither of us moved. Then she turned and started walking “Come on.”

I followed. Not because she demanded it. Because I belonged beside her.

The hallway opened into the garden path, where the night air was cooler and the ocean could be heard beyond the villas. Yeji walked slowly, arms folded loosely, gaze ahead. I matched her pace “I’m sorry,” I said. She did not answer immediately. That was fair.

We walked past the low lights, past the palms, past the quiet edges of other people’s rooms. Finally, Yeji said, “For smoking?”

“Yes.” “For hiding in Lia’s room?” “Yes.” “For kissing Lia?”

I stopped myself from answering too fast. Yeji noticed. Of course she did. I looked at her “I’m not sorry she wanted me,” I said carefully. “And I’m not sorry I kissed her back.” Yeji turned her face toward me. I continued “But I am sorry the day became this much. I’m sorry I made you carry another thing after you already told me you felt full.”

Her expression changed. Softened and hurt at the same time “I did say that.”

“I know.” “And then you smoked.” “Yes.” She exhaled slowly and looked toward the water “Benjie.” The nickname came out tired. Not hostile. That almost made it worse “I’m not angry at Lia.”

“I know.” “I’m not angry at John either.” “I know.” “I’m annoyed at you.” “That is fair.”

She glanced at me “You are very agreeable when you know you deserve it.” “I am learning.” “From who?” “You.” “That is unfairly effective.”

I smiled faintly. She tried not to. Failed a little. Then her expression settled again “I don’t want to be the person you avoid disappointing so much that you start making complicated choices around me.” That hit. Hard. I stopped walking. Yeji stopped too, a step ahead of me. I looked at her back. Then she turned

“I didn’t want you to smell smoke and think John had broken down alone.” “I know.” “But?” “But you also wanted one.” “Yes.” “And instead of owning that first, you made it noble.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Because she was right. Painfully right. Yeji stepped closer “You can be kind and still be avoiding yourself.” I let out a quiet breath “I hate how accurate you are.”

“I know.” “I did want one.” “I know.” “And I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d be disappointed.” “I am disappointed.”

The words were gentle. Still brutal. I nodded.

“I know.” “But I’m glad you told me.”

I looked at her. She held my gaze “That part matters too.” The knot in my chest loosened by a fraction. Yeji reached for my hand. I gave it to her immediately. She looked down at our fingers. Then said, “About Lia.” I swallowed.

“She is moving faster physically than she expected,” I said. “I thought so.” “You did?” “She looked different at lunch. Then again tonight.”

Yeji’s thumb moved once over my knuckles “Was she scared?” “Not of me. Of herself, maybe.” Yeji nodded slowly “That sounds like Lia.” “She told me not to treat her like a mistake.” Yeji’s face softened “She said that?” “Yes.”

I looked at her “You’re not upset?”

“I’m many things.” That made me quiet. She looked up at me “I’m glad she asked for what she wanted. I’m glad she stopped when she needed to. I’m glad you stopped with her.” A pause. “I am also tired.”

“I know.”

“And I need tonight to stop becoming new information.” That made me laugh once, despite myself. Soft. Guilty. Yeji’s mouth curved “Was that funny?”

“No. It was painfully fair.” “Good.”

She squeezed my hand “So here is the rule for the rest of tonight.”

“Yes?” “No more cigarettes.” “Done.” “No more hiding in rooms.” “Done.” “No more surprise emotional developments.” “I cannot fully control that.” “Try.” “Yes.” “No buying apology gifts.”

I paused. Her eyes narrowed “Ben.”

“I was not going to.” “You absolutely were.” “I was considering a non-material apology.” “That sounds like you were about to buy land.” “I was not.”

She tugged me forward, and we started walking again. The path curved toward our villa. The room lights glowed softly ahead. For a few moments, we walked in silence. Not perfect silence. But honest. That was something.

Then Yeji said quietly, “I don’t want you to stop telling me things.” “I won’t.” “I just need you to remember that I’m not made of endless space.”

I looked at her. She kept walking, eyes forward “I can make room because I love you. Because I love them. Because I want this to work. But I need room too.”

I stopped walking again. This time, she turned before I could say anything. I pulled her into my arms. Careful at first. The kind of hug that said the words had landed and I did not know where to put them except around her. Yeji made a small surprised sound, then softened into me.

“I know,” I whispered against her hair. “I know. I’m sorry.” Her hands slid around my back “I’m here,” I said. “I’m seeing you. I swear I am.”

“I know.” “I’ll do better.” “You’re already doing better.” “Not enough.” “That’s not how better works.”

I held her tighter “Thank you.” “For what?” “For still choosing me even when I make the shape of this harder than it has to be.”

She sighed against my chest “You are very difficult.”

“I know.” “And very loved.”

That one almost broke me. I kissed the top of her head. Then her forehead. Then her cheek. Then the other cheek. She laughed, trying to lean away.

“Ben.” “No.” “Benjie.” “No. You said something devastating again.” “You keep calling everything devastating.” “You keep being devastating.”

She finally looked up at me, and I kissed her properly. Not hungry. Not trying to lead anywhere. Just grateful. Apologetic. Deep enough that she understood I was not only saying sorry. I was coming home.

When we pulled apart, she studied my face “You still smell a little like soap.”

“Lia was thorough.” Yeji’s eyebrow lifted. I winced “With the shower instruction. Not—”

“I know what you meant.” “Good.” “But you still smell like smoke under it.”

I sighed “I know.” “You’re showering again.” “Yes.” “Brushing your teeth again.” “Yes.” “And sleeping on the far side until I decide you are forgiven.”

I stared at her “The far side of the same bed?”

“For now.” “I accept.” “You have no leverage.” “I know.”

She started walking again, still holding my hand. Then, after a few steps, she added:

“And Ben?” “Yes?” “Thank you for telling me the parts that mattered.”

I looked at her. Her face was soft now “Always,” I said. She nodded. We reached the villa door. Yeji opened it, then paused before stepping inside.

For a second, she looked back down the path we had walked. Then at me “Tomorrow,” she said, “we try for less chaos.” I smiled faintly “You said that last night.”

“And look what happened.” “Fair.”

She stepped inside and pulled me with her. The door closed behind us. The room was quiet but ours. Yeji let go of my hand and pointed toward the bathroom “Shower.”

“Yes, ma’am. Her eyes narrowed “Do not use that voice after leaving Lia’s room.” I froze. Then slowly nodded “Understood.”

She covered her face “I cannot believe this is my life.” I smiled. She pointed harder “Bathroom.” I went. Because I loved her. Because I deserved it. Because sometimes romance was a second shower and consequences. When I came back out, cleaner and significantly less smoky, Yeji was already in bed. She had stolen my shirt again.

That felt like forgiveness. Partial forgiveness. The best kind available. I climbed in carefully on the far side. She looked at the distance between us. Then sighed.

“You look pathetic.” “I am respecting the ruling.” “You are being dramatic.” “I am legally exiled.” “You are six inches away.” “A devastating distance.”

She stared at me. Then, with a tired little huff, reached across the space and grabbed the front of my shirt “Come here.” I obeyed immediately. She pulled me into her, and I settled carefully against her warmth. Her arm went around my waist. Mine found her back.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The ocean moved outside. The room breathed around us. The day, finally, stopped adding things. Yeji’s fingers traced lightly against my side. “Tomorrow,” she murmured “Less chaos.”

“I’ll try.” “That is all I’m asking.”

I kissed her hair “Good night, Yeji.” She shifted closer “Good night, Benjie.”

A pause. Then, sleepily “No cigarettes tomorrow.”

“No cigarettes tomorrow.” “And no emotional acquisitions.” “I make no promises about people having feelings.”

Her hand lightly pinched my side “Try.” I smiled into her hair “I’ll try.” She relaxed. And I held her like someone who finally understood that being loved by Yeji was not permission to forget her weight. It was the reason to carry mine better.

COPYRIGHT.

This story is an original work of fiction written by the author.

The use of Mark Lee as a character is purely for creative and fictional purposes. His name, likeness, and public persona are used only as a face claim and do not represent or reflect his real-life personality, actions, or experiences. All characters, events, and narrative elements within this story are fictional and are not intended to depict real-life situations.

Please do not copy, repost, translate, or distribute this work without permission.

Morning doesn’t arrive all at once. It seeps in. Through the thin space between the curtains , stretching slowly across the floor through the quiet stillness of a house that's testing whether the house is ready to wake up or not.

It isn't.

The air is cool, faintly carrying the scent of polished wood and something older—something familiar that lingers in walls that have held years of living. Quiet in a way that doesn’t feel peaceful, suspended. Like something has been left unfinished. Mark stands in the middle of it barefoot, unmoving, his weight shifting slightly from one foot to the other without him realizing it. The wooden floor is cool beneath him, grounding in a way that almost feels unfamiliar. Like he walked into a memory that isn’t his anymore. This house—his house, his family’s house in Toronto—should feel like something solid. Instead, it feels like something he’s stepped back into too late. The silence presses in, not loud or suffocating—just… present. It fills every corner, stretches between the furniture, settles into his chest in a way that feels heavier than noise ever did. His phone vibrates in his hand. He doesn’t look at it.

He already knows.

Another call. Another message. Another voice waiting for him to pick up and explain what he meant with the message he sent hours ago into a new day to his managers and colleagues that have become part of his family over the years. Questions waiting to be asked. Answers expected. He exhales slowly, thumb hovering over the screen before the vibration stops on its own. The quiet comes back. And with it— you.

Not as a thought, not even as a memory crashing in, but like something that has already settled into the space before he even noticed it was there, as something that lingers. In the way the morning light touches the floor—soft, warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t belong to this house. In the way the quiet feels…incomplete. In the way his chest tightens, slow and unfamiliar, like something is missing and he doesn’t know how to reach for it without saying your name out loud. He exhales. Long. Controlled.

It doesn’t help.

The doorbell rings. It’s sudden and cuts through everything. Sharp. Immediate.

Real.

He blinks, like he’s being pulled out of something too deep, his body reacting before his mind fully catches up. The second ring comes quicker this time—impatient, urgent, like whoever is on the other side needs him to open it fast. His fingers tighten slightly around his phone before he sets it down without thinking. Then he moves. Each step feels heavier than it should. The hallway feels even longer than it normally is. His hand pauses on the door handle, just for a second, just long enough for something in his chest to hesitate— then he opens it and everything shifts. You're there. Not standing still.

Not calm.

You’re moving before he even processes it—stepping forward, eyes wide, scanning him like you’re searching for something wrong.

“Mark—”

Your voice breaks slightly, and before he can respond, before he can even register the way your face looks, your luggage. The one that's barely upright behind you, shoulder bag long thrown on the floor—eyes wide, breath uneven, something frantic sitting just beneath your skin. Your hands are already on him. On his face first, warm, quick. Careful and almost trembling. Your fingers brush along his jaw, up to his temples, pushing his hair back like you’re trying to see all of him at once. Your brows pull together, your eyes darting over his features like you expect to find something—an injury, exhaustion, something visible, like the version of him standing in front of you doesn’t feel like enough proof that he’s okay. “Are you okay?” you ask again, softer now, but no less urgent. It doesn’t sound like a question you expect an answer to. It sounds like something you’re trying to confirm with your own hands. You don’t wait for an answer. Your thumbs brush along his cheekbones, your gaze flickering over every part of his face like you’re searching for something broken, something he hasn’t told you.

He freezes.

Not because he’s uncomfortable, because no one touches him like this anymore, not without expectation. Not without purpose. Your hands slide down—his shoulders, gripping lightly, then to his arms, then briefly against his chest like you’re grounding yourself in the fact that he’s here. That he’s real. That he’s not… broken. That he’s here, that he didn’t disappear along with the screenshot he sent you regarding the decision you knew he had been hesitant to make about his career after ten years of the same routine. Your breathing is uneven. He notices that.

He notices everything.

The way your lips part slightly like you want to say more but don’t know where to start, the way your fingers tighten just a little when he doesn’t respond. Mark doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, because for a moment, he forgets how to. All he can focus on is the way you’re touching him like he matters outside of everything else.

Not as an artist, not as someone people expect things from. Just— him.

Your hands slow, your movements pause, and then you look up at him properly, really look at him. Your expression softens, but the worry doesn’t leave. “Mr. Idol…” you say again, more softly this time, your voice dropping into something fragile he's never heard from you before. “Talk to me.” Something in his chest tightens because he wants to. He really does. He should. A hundred things are sitting in his chest, pressing against his ribs, waiting for space.

But the words don’t come.

Not here, not yet. The moment stretches and all he can focus on is you. The warmth of your hands, the way you’re looking at him like he’s something you might lose if you don’t hold on tight enough and it does something to him, something quiet, something deep. Something that makes everything else—the noise, the expectations, the endless movement—feel far away.

His throat tightens.

No words come out because if he starts— he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stop and in that silence, everything tilts…

It’s never quiet where he comes from. It never looks like this where he comes from. Not even when it’s quiet.

“Mark, just a few more minutes—”

The interviewer leans forward slightly, her smile practiced but warm enough to feel real if he doesn’t think too hard about it. The lights are too bright. They always are. Too bright. They sit above him, angled just enough to catch every expression, every shift, every blink—no shadows, no softness, just exposure. He sits across from her, posture straight, hands loosely clasped together, expression already settled into something easy, familiar.

Controlled.

“How would you describe what the first fruit album means to you, personally?” He hears the question, registers it but there’s a slight delay before he answers. Not long enough for anyone else to notice, just long enough for something inside him to hesitate.

He smiles, because of course he does.

“It means a lot,” he says, voice smooth, steady. “I think… it’s a piece of who I am and where I am right now. Or where I was while making it.” The interviewer nods, satisfied, but not done, “And where is that?”

There it is.

The follow-up, the part where the answer is supposed to go deeper. His gaze flickers slightly, just for a second.

Because the truth?

The truth isn’t something he can package neatly into a sentence,the truth is unfinished. Messy and still forming. So he does what he always does. He adjusts.

“It’s… a process,” he says instead, softer now. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

It sounds honest.

It is honest.

Just not complete. The camera keeps rolling. She smiles across from him, tablet resting against her knee, eyes bright with the kind of curiosity that never really turns off. “What was the most personal track for you on the album?” The camera lens is fixed, unrelenting, watching for something real it can capture and package. Mark leans back slightly, fingers loosely intertwined, his smile already in place before he speaks.

“That’s a hard one,” he says, letting out a small breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I think… all of them had something personal in them.”

It’s a safe answer. A good one.

The kind that gives enough without giving too much but the interviewer leans in slightly. “Is there one that felt… closer to you than the others?”

There’s a pause.

Not long but just enough for something real to almost slip through. His gaze flickers, just for a second, unfocused—like he’s somewhere else entirely. There is one. There always is, but explaining it would mean—feeling it again, right now, with the lights on him and the camera watching—He can't afford that.

So he smiles again, soft and polished.

“I think it changes,” he says instead. “Depending on where I am.” She nods, satisfied. But it doesn't stop there. In the industry he is in.

It never does.

—

Backstage, it’s louder. Not with questions—but with movement. Staff walking quickly, voices overlapping, schedules being called out, things being adjusted at the last minute. Mark sits on a couch, shoulders slightly hunched, scrolling through something on his phone without really seeing it. Someone drops down beside him. Close enough that their shoulder bumps him with a little force.

“Hyung.”

He looks up and finds Jisung—familiar, grounding—drops down beside him, nudging his shoulder lightly. Grounding in a way that nothing else has been all day.

“You good?”

The question is casual but the look isn’t. Mark lets out a small breath, leaning back. “Yeah,” he says.

It’s automatic.

He doesn’t look convinced. “You’ve been… quiet,” he adds, softer now. Mark lets out a quiet breath through his nose, tilting his head back slightly. “Have I?"

“Yeah.”

A pause.

Then, “You okay?”

The question lands differently here. Not like the ones from interviews, not like the ones that expect a certain kind of answer. This one—waits. Mark stares ahead for a moment. At nothing in particular but at everything all at once.

“I’m just tired,” he says finally.

It’s not a lie but it’s not everything either. Jisung studies him for a second longer, like he knows better than to believe him but also knows him well enough to know he really won't be getting the truth out of him regardless, still, he can't help being concerned. They both stay silent looking ahead at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Then, Jisung nudges his shoulder again, lighter this time.

“If you need a break, you should take one.”

Mark huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. Just like that.”

It’s said simply, like it’s easy. Like it doesn’t come with consequences. Mark doesn’t respond right away but the younger one doesn't stop from there, “You should say something cause you do deserve it anyway.” Jisung says, voice low enough that it doesn’t get lost in the noise around them. Mark glances at him. There’s no pressure in the statement.

Just—understanding.

And somehow, that makes it harder because he has thought about it. More than once. The idea sits at the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.

A question.

Not fully formed. He exhales slowly, nodding once. “Yeah,” he says. “Maybe.”And in the back of his mind— something shifts. Something small. Persistent.

What if I did?

—

A few days later, the meeting room feels colder than the rest of the building.Or maybe it’s just the way the air sits—still, heavy with things unsaid. The tension. Mark sits across from two managers. One leans forward slightly, hands clasped, expression open. Listening. The other sits back, arms crossed, eyes sharp and calculating, already tense, already anticipating resistance. “I just need some time,” Mark says, his voice steady but quieter than usual. “That’s all I’m asking.”

There’s something underneath it, something strained.

“How much time?” the second manager asks immediately. There’s no softness in his tone, no room to breathe. Mark exhales slowly, “A few weeks,” Mark replies. The first manager nods slowly, like he’s already considering it but the second one exhales sharply and shakes his head almost instantly, “We’re in the middle of promotions,” he says. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know this isn’t exactly—” “I said I know,” Mark cuts in, sharper this time.

The room stills.

Mark’s jaw tightens slightly. His fingers press lightly into his palms. “I’m not trying to mess anything up,” he continues, more controlled now. “I just… I need a break.” There’s a pause, a shift in the room.

Small but noticeable. The first manager leans in slightly. “You’ve been pushing a lot,” he says gently. “We’ve seen it.” Mark doesn’t respond. He lets out a breath that almost turns into a laugh, but doesn’t.

Pushing.

That’s one way to put it. Pushing doesn’t even begin to cover it.

The second manager leans forward now, tone sharper. “Can you hold off? Just until this cycle finishes?” There it is again. The question lingers, that expectation. That timing that never quite lines up with how he feels. Mark looks between them, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer because that question, that small, persistent one…is still there. Still building. Still unfinished. Still heavy in his chest. Mark’s fingers press into his palms slightly. And that question, that quiet, persistent one in the back of his mind— shifts. Just a little.

He finally exhales.

“…No.”

Not louder, not angrier. Just honest and this time, he doesn’t take it back.

The airport doesn’t rush him. It should. People move around him in currents—rolling suitcases, hurried footsteps, voices overlapping in fragments—but none of it presses into him the way it used to. It feels distant. Like he’s watching everything through glass. It’s not the same kind of loud. No one is looking at him, no one is waiting. No one cares and the absence of that — feels strange but also free. Mark walks without direction at first, just letting his steps carry him somewhere that doesn’t feel like an expectation. A black backpack hangs off one shoulder, the strap worn slightly where his fingers have been gripping it too tightly. In his other hand, he drags a medium-sized suitcase behind him—the wheels clicking softly against the tiled floor, steady, rhythmic.

There’s another one.

Larger and heavier. Left momentarily beside one of the seating areas he passed earlier, because what was inside was heavier physically, mentally, and most of all emotionally. A compact MIDI keyboard. A pair of headphones. A small interface, wires tangled together in a way that suggests he packed quickly rather than carefully. Like he told himself, this was just a break, but still couldn’t leave that part of himself behind.

You’re not really running, he thinks distantly. You just… changed locations.

The thought sits uncomfortably because it’s true and maybe that’s why nothing feels fully quiet yet. He hadn’t meant to stop.His shoulders are looser than they’ve been in weeks, but there’s something else underneath it, something unsettled. Like he left something behind or like he hasn’t exactly found it yet and that’s when he sees you.

He sees you even before he realizes he’s looking. You’re slightly off to the side of the main flow of people, near one of the quieter pillars. Your setup is small but intentional. A camera angled down. A container is wide open in front of you. Your hands moving with focus—adjusting, plating, fixing something just out of place. He slows without realizing it and watches. There’s something about the way you exist in that space that feels… untouched. Like the noise bends around you instead of pulling you in. You’re sitting just off to the side of the main flow of people, near a pillar where the traffic thins out. Your setup is small, contained—camera angled carefully, container open in front of you.

Your hands move with precision. Adjusting and plating. Fixing something small that no one else would notice. He slows. The suitcase behind him rolls once more before stopping. His fingers loosen slightly around the handle. He continues watching. You’re talking—softly, to the camera. Explaining something. He doesn’t quite catch the words, but the tone reaches him. Calm and steady. Unbothered. It feels simple and something in his chest tightens because nothing about his life has felt like that in weeks.

Months, maybe longer.

He doesn’t fully hear the words; he just watches the way you move. The way everything around you feels slower. He doesn’t realize how long he’s been standing there until you look up. Your eyes meet his, and something pauses.

A small one but it stretches.

Your eyes narrow just a little, not unfriendly—just… trying to place him. Trying to understand why there's a stranger standing there watching you like he forgot where he was going. You tilt your head slightly.

He blinks—

Then, without thinking, he tilts his own the opposite way. There’s a beat. Your gaze sharpens. Curious now. You blink back at him.

Then tilt your head the other way.

He mirrors you again.

And for a second, it’s ridiculous. Everything else fades. No noise, no movement. Almost like neither of you wants to be the first to break whatever this strange, wordless moment is. Just this strange, silent exchange between two people who don’t know each other. Then you straighten.

“…Can I help you?” you ask.

Your tone is polite, but your eyes are sharper now. Observing. Mark exhales quietly, like he’s just remembered how to exist in his own body. “Yeah,” he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he expected. “I—uh…” He trails off, hesitating because suddenly, now that he’s here, whatever pulled him over feels harder to explain.

What are you doing? You don’t even know her.

Just walk away. Say something normal. Ask for directions?!?!?

LITERALLY ANYTHING ELSE!!!

His jaw tightens slightly. He could still leave. He should, but then you cross your arms loosely, weight shifting to one leg, and there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impatient, not dismissive, just… waiting—that makes him stay. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle, and before he can stop himself—

“Can I stay with you Angel?” he asks.

The silence that follows is immediate. The words land heavier now because they don’t just come from nowhere. They come from a man standing in front of you with his life packed behind him. Heavy. Your expression doesn’t just change—it stills.

“…Excuse you?”

There’s disbelief there. Clear, unfiltered. Your eyes flick again—this time more deliberately. To his sunken backpack. Then to the suitcase. Then finally, back to his face again.

“You’re serious?”

Suddenly, Mark becomes very aware of how this looks. A stranger, with luggage, asking to stay with you, a stranger no less.

You actually sound insane!!!

He almost backtracks, almost laughs it off, because he seriously takes time to listen to himself talk since meeting you and hears himself the way you must be hearing him.

Dude, you actually are insane!!!

Immediately then, he wants to take it back, but something in his chest—tight, stubborn—doesn’t let him. You stare at him for another second. Then your brows pull together slightly. “…You know there are hotels, right?” Your tone isn’t harsh; it’s logical. Grounded because now this isn’t just weird, it's concerning, and in his mind, he does know. He knows exactly how many, knows the best ones, knows he could walk into any of them and disappear into a room that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.

He knows all that.

But the thought of it, the silence, the emptiness, the same four walls, the same distance makes something in his chest feel hollow. His gaze drops briefly to his suitcase, to the life he packed into it, clothes, work, and half-decisions waiting to be made on the only oath he's ever truly known for almost a decade. “I know,” he says quietly.

I don’t want to be alone.

The thought comes so clearly it almost startles him. He swallows, doesn’t say all of it. Your brows knit together. “Then why—”

“I just don’t want to be alone.”

It comes out softer than everything else he’s said so far. Less guarded and for a moment— he hates that he said it because it’s too honest. Too real for a conversation that shouldn’t even be happening. You blink because the words come out before he can even reshape them. It wasn’t the answer you expected. There’s a shift, and it makes you loosen your arms slightly from where they were crossed in front of you. Still cautious, still unsure, but a lot more open than before. Your expression shifts, not soft but not dismissive either. A flicker of something that tries to understand instead of just rejecting. Your eyes linger on him a second longer this time. Still, you tilt your head slightly. “…That doesn’t make this any less weird, you know.” Fair.

Completely fair.

Mark lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah,” he admits. “I figured.” Silence stretches, and you study him again. This time slower...more intentional. Your gaze moves—his face, his posture, the way he’s standing like he’s unsure whether to stay or leave. Then down again to the luggage. Packed.

Real.

He didn’t just say he needed somewhere to go. He came with it. Ready or trying to be. Then, “What if I’m a serial killer?” you ask out of nowhere. Your tone is different this time. Less sharp, more testing. He doesn’t hesitate to answer, “Then I guess that’s how I was meant to die.” You stare at him for longer again, trying to decide if he’s serious. If he’s joking, if he’s just reckless. “…You’re serious,” you say slowly in realisation, trying to grasp at the idea that this was in fact a conversation happening with a stranger you were trying to push away.

“I am.”

Your lips part slightly. Then press together again, and then you shake your head, exhaling. “You’re either really smart… or just really, really stupid.” A faint smile pulls at his mouth, “Yeah,” he says. “I get that a lot.” There’s another pause. Quieter this time, less tense. But heavier in a different way because now, the decision isn’t his anymore.

It’s yours.

And you feel it. The weight of it is sitting right in front of you. A stranger. A very strange stranger. Who could very easily just walk away. Who probably should walk away. Your mind runs faster than your expression shows.

He has luggage. He didn’t just say it—he meant it. This is not normal.

You don’t do this but he looks like he really really needs this!!!

You don’t bring strangers home??!?!

And yet, you look back at him. The way he hasn’t moved closer, you glance at him again...really look at him this time. The way he’s standing—not imposing, not pushy, just… waiting. On the way, there’s something tired in his eyes that doesn’t quite match the rest of him, the way he didn’t argue when you questioned him. Didn’t try to convince you. Just answered, and somehow that makes it worse because it makes him feel… real.

You’re insane.

The thought hits you clearly.

There are hotels. There are literally hundreds of options. Why are you even considering this?

“…Five days,” you say suddenly. Your own voice surprises you. His eyes lift slightly. “Five days,” you repeat, firmer now, like saying it twice makes it more reasonable. “That’s it.” There’s a beat, then his shoulders drop—just slightly. Relief or clarity, he doesn't know yet.

“Okay,” he says quietly. His grip on the suitcase loosens slightly, and as you turn to start packing up your things, he reaches for his suitcase again. Then pauses and looks back briefly towards where he left the second one. “…I should probably get my other bag,” he mutters. You blink. “You have another one?”

“…Yeah.”

There’s a beat, then you let out a short breath, shaking your head as you start walking. “Of course you do.” You can’t help the thought that lingers, quiet but persistent in the back of your mind, and under your breath, you whisper quietly as you watch him go.

You’ve actually lost your mind or you just might be the craziest person alive. This is how you die with him.

And just like that, you don’t just take him with you. You take everything he brought with him, too. The half-packed life, the unfinished thoughts and the version of him that hasn’t decided anything yet but is already changing.

_

The taxi smells faintly of fabric cleaner and something citrus. It’s not unpleasant.

Just… lived-in.

Mark sits in the back seat beside you, his knee angled slightly away to give you space that neither of you explicitly asked for. The window beside him is cracked open just enough to let in a steady stream of cool air, carrying with it the distant hum of the city slowly fading behind you. Your smaller suitcase rests between your legs. His are in the trunk. All of them. He had watched the driver load them in—first the large one, then the medium, then your carry-on, placed more carefully on top like it mattered differently. It had felt strange, seeing everything he brought with him disappear into a space he couldn’t see anymore.

Like letting go but not fully. Now, the road stretches ahead. The city gives way slowly, buildings thinning, noise softening, until it becomes something quieter. Trees begin to line the streets, their shadows flickering across the car windows in slow, shifting patterns as the sun dips lower. Mark watches it all. Not because he’s trying to, but because there’s finally space to. You sit beside him, one elbow resting lightly against the door, your gaze forward, relaxed but not careless. There’s a familiarity in the way you exist in this silence that he doesn’t interrupt. He wants to ask something. He doesn’t. Not yet. The driver hums softly under his breath, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel in rhythm with a song playing too low to fully make out. It feels normal, and that alone makes something in Mark’s chest tighten because normal hasn’t felt like this in a long time.

By the time the taxi turns into the estate, the light has softened into something warmer. Gold spills across the road, catching on rooftops, on windows, on the edges of passing fences. The air looks different here—quieter, slower, like everything has agreed to move at its own pace. Mark leans slightly, looking out. Children run across a small open field in the distance, laughter visible in the way they move, even if it doesn’t fully reach the car. A bicycle lies abandoned near a curb. Someone waters plants near a gate, glancing up briefly as the taxi passes. It feels lived in.

Real.

You don’t say anything when the taxi slows in front of your house. You just reach for the door handle, but Mark moves first. “Wait,” he says, already pushing his door open. The driver glances back slightly, surprised.

“I’ve got it.”

You pause. Not arguing. Just watching. Mark steps out, the air cooler now against his skin as he closes the door behind him. He walks around to the driver’s side, pulling out his wallet without hesitation. The driver turns slightly in his seat. “How much was it?” The man tells him. Mark nods once, already counting. He doesn’t rush it, doesn’t throw the money forward carelessly. He hands it over properly—two hands, respectful, like it’s something that matters.

“Thank you,” he adds, voice calm, sincere, with a respectful bow. Not automatic, not performative. The driver blinks slightly—then smiles. “Welcome,” he says warmly. “Have a good evening.” Mark nods again. “You too.” There’s a small pause before the driver adds, glancing toward you briefly—

“You and your girlfriend have a beautiful home.”

Mark follows the look instinctively towards you, standing just outside the car, your suitcase beside you, watching this whole exchange with an expression you haven’t quite sorted out yet. He thinks it's ridiculous considering you only learnt each other's names when you demanded to stay with his passport and documents for 'my safety reasons' until the five days came to pass while waiting on the said taxi to arrive

He doesn’t respond to that, though, just gives a small, polite nod. The trunk opens with a soft click. Mark moves to it immediately, lifting it up before the driver can step out to help. He pulls his larger suitcase out first, setting it down carefully, then the medium one, then finally your smaller carry-on—placing it closer to you than to himself without thinking. “Thanks,” you say quietly. He glances at you, “Yeah.”

Simple and easy. Like none of that needed acknowledgment but as the taxi pulls away, you don’t move immediately. You look at him instead. Really look this time. He’s strange, that part hasn’t changed. Not even a little but, your gaze flicks briefly to the road where the taxi disappears. Then back to him.

At least he seems...decent??

The thought settles quietly. Not loud, not decisive, but enough to soften something that had been sitting rigid in your chest since the airport. You pick up your suitcase. “Come on,” you say. And this time, it sounds more certain. The walk to your door is short, but Mark feels it every step. The weight of his luggage in one hand, the quiet shift in the air, the way the house sits ahead of him like something he hasn’t earned but is being let into anyway.

You’re really doing this.

You don’t reach for keys. You don’t hesitate. You push the door open like you belong there, and he follows, carrying everything he brought with him into something he doesn’t understand yet. Inside, the air wraps around him differently. Warmer. Softer. And before he can take it in, an older woman steps into view, her face lighting up instantly when she sees you. “Oh, you’re back.” Your posture shifts and softens.

You step toward her as her hands come up to your face, cupping your cheeks gently. “Let me see you, baby,” she murmurs, turning your face slightly. “You’ve gotten thinner.” “I haven’t,” you say, but there’s a small laugh in your voice. “You have,” she insists, her thumb brushing affectionately on your cheek. “Working too much again?” Mark stands just behind you. Still holding his suitcase. Still, watching. Listening to the way your voice softens, the way you don’t pull away. “The trip was fine,” you say. “Work was good.” “Mm,” she hums, unconvinced but smiling anyway. Her hands linger, then drop, and her gaze shifts to him. It’s quick but not shallow. Her eyes take him in—the luggage, the way he’s standing, the space between you—and something unreadable flickers across her expression. Then she looks back at you.

A look passes.

Quiet.

Knowing, you straighten slightly. “This is Mark.” He nods. “Hello.” She studies him for just a second longer, then smiles. Warm but with that same trace of something else beneath it. “Take care of her,” she says lightly. Mark blinks, “…I’ll try.” You make a quiet sound, almost embarrassed. She chuckles softly, already moving toward the door. “Rest,” she adds. “Both of you.”

And then she’s gone.

The house settles around him. Silence returns, and this time it’s not empty. It’s full. Mark steps in properly now, and that’s when it hits him, not all at once, in pieces. Light spills in through wide windows, stretching across the floors in soft, golden lines. The walls are tall—higher than he expected—and filled with framed photos that draw his eyes without permission. He doesn’t mean to stare, but he does because everywhere he looks, there’s you. With people. Laughing, leaning into someone’s shoulder. Standing between what he assumes are your parents—your father’s arm around you, your mother’s smile softer but just as warm. Another frame—two older guys, one with his arm slung around your neck, the other mid-laugh like the picture was taken in the middle of a joke.

Your brothers, maybe?

There’s another—an older woman. The same one who just left. You’re holding her face the same way she held yours. Mark’s chest tightens slightly, he doesn’t realize it. Not until his gaze shifts again to another frame.

You.

Standing next to a guy. Close. Too close.

He stills.

Boyfriend?

The thought comes quick. Uninvited. His grip tightens slightly on the suitcase handle.

Of course she could have a boyfriend. Why wouldn’t she?

Something uncomfortable settles in his chest. He doesn’t like it. Doesn’t understand why it’s there, but it is and before he can stop himself, his mind starts filling in gaps that don’t exist.

What if you’re not single? What if this is weird for a completely different reason?

His jaw tightens slightly.

Then— “You can leave your bags there for now.” Your voice cuts through his thoughts. He blinks, looking back at you. You’ve already stepped further in, your suitcase set aside casually as you move toward the kitchen. Like this is second nature. Like this space is an extension of you. He leaves his suitcase by the entrance, the handle still extended, like it’s waiting for instructions he hasn’t decided on yet. The house feels… still, but not empty. There’s a softness to the quiet here, something that doesn’t press on him, doesn’t demand anything.

It just… exists, and for a moment, he does too. You disappear into the kitchen without ceremony, like the transition from outside to inside didn’t require adjustment. Like you’ve done this a hundred times—come home, set things down, keep moving. Mark stays where he is, looking. Not in a way that feels invasive, more like he’s trying to understand something he hasn’t had access to in a long time. The light stretches further now, deeper into the house, brushing over the edges of furniture, catching on the glass of framed photos. The air smells faintly of something clean, something lived-in—like citrus and wood and something softer underneath that he can’t quite name. It feels like a place that holds people, not just a place people pass through. He swallows slightly,

Don’t get comfortable.

The thought comes quickly. Automatic, but it doesn’t stick because something about this space, about you moving through it so easily, makes that thought feel…unnecessary. “You can sit,” you call from the kitchen, not looking at him, your voice carrying just enough to reach him without forcing itself into the room. He exhales quietly.

“Yeah,” he answers, even though you didn’t ask a question.

He doesn’t sit.

Not yet. Instead, he finally lets go of the suitcase handle, the soft click of it retracting louder than it should be in the quiet. His fingers flex slightly after, like they’re remembering the absence of weight, and then, he moves. Slowly.

Carefully.

Like he’s aware that he’s stepping into something that isn’t his. The first room pulls him in without trying. It used to be a bedroom, he can tell from the layout, but now, it’s something else entirely. Books line the walls—not perfectly arranged, not color-coded or curated for display, but stacked, layered, used. Cookbooks with worn edges. Novels with folded pages. Papers tucked between them like bookmarks that were never meant to be permanent. There’s a desk near the window, cluttered but organized in a way that makes sense only to you—equipment, cables, a microphone, papers with scribbled ideas. And it looks like you left it mid-thought. It feels alive, like something is always being created here. A microphone angled slightly to the side. A laptop, half-closed, is sitting next to your desktop computer. Sticky notes scattered—some with full sentences, some with single words that don’t make sense on their own.

He steps closer.

Doesn’t touch anything, but he leans just enough to read one of the notes.

Shoot before sunset — plating!!

There’s a small underline under the last word.

Urgent.

He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. It’s… endearing, without trying to be.

You’re busy.

The thought comes easily,

You have a life.

It shouldn’t matter but for some reason, it does.

“Water?”

Your voice cuts in from behind him. He turns, you’re standing in the doorway now, holding out a glass without stepping fully into the room. Your posture is relaxed, but your eyes, your eyes are still watching him. Not suspicious in the same way as before but not careless either.

Aware.

He takes the glass. “Thanks.” Your fingers brush his for half a second. Nothing intentional, nothing lingering, but it’s enough. Both of you feel it. You step back first. “Kitchen’s this way,” you say, like he didn’t just watch you walk in and out of it twice already. He nods anyway and follows. The kitchen feels warmer as it opens up; it feels more lived in than the rest of the house somehow. Wide and bright. An island sits at the center, stools tucked neatly beneath it. The breakfast nook by the window catches the light perfectly, soft and inviting in a way that makes it feel like mornings linger there longer. The dining space sits just beyond. Prepared, intentional, and everything, everything feels warm. Lived in. You move easily, filling another glass. Opening a cabinet and closing it again. Mark leans slightly against the edge of the island, the glass still in his hand. He watches you, not in a way that feels heavy. Just curious, and you feel it. You don’t look at him immediately but you’re aware of his presence, of the way the air has shifted slightly with another person in it. It’s strange. You don’t bring people home, not like this, and certainly not strangers.

What are you doing?

The thought comes again. Louder this time, but then, you glance at him and he’s just standing there. Holding a glass of water like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Looking at you like, like he’s trying to understand you, and somehow, that makes it worse because now you’re curious too. “…So,” you start, leaning back slightly against the counter, arms crossing loosely. He looks up.

“Yeah?”

There’s a pause.

Not awkward. Just measured. “You always do this?” you ask. “Ask random people to let you stay with them?” A corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “First time.” You narrow your eyes a little, “Convenient.”

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah.”

There’s something about the way he doesn’t defend himself that throws you off. You expected pushback, an explanation. Instead, he just… agrees. You tilt your head slightly, studying him again. “…You’re really not going to explain yourself, are you?” He looks at you for a second, then he looks away. His grip tightens just slightly around the glass.

You could, you could tell her everything.

The thought surfaces. Tempting, dangerous, but he doesn’t, not fully. “I just needed to leave for a bit,” he says instead. It’s not a lie… but it’s not complete either, and you catch that. Of course you do. Your gaze sharpens just slightly, “From what?” The question lands softer than expected, not accusatory. Just curious. Mark exhales slowly and looks down at the water in his glass like it might give him an answer for everything, but that sounds dramatic. So he shrugs slightly,“…Work.” You hum, not convinced but not pushing either, because you can tell that’s as far as he’s willing to go. For now, and strangely, you respect that.

A soft thud interrupts the moment. Then another. He looks down, and something small brushes against his ankle. He startles slightly, stepping back just enough to look down properly, only he finds himself staring at a cat. Fluffy. Almost ridiculously so. Cream-colored with darker markings, its tail flicking lazily as it looks up at him like he’s the one intruding.“…Oh,” Mark murmurs. The cat blinks slowly.

Unimpressed.

Then walks past him like he doesn’t exist. He lets out a small breath, something softer easing into his expression. “What’s his name?” he asks. You glance over your shoulder, “Biscuit.”

“…Biscuit?”

You shrug lightly, already reaching for a glass. “He answers to it.” Mark huffs a quiet laugh. Of course he does.

His gaze follows the cat to a structure by the wall he hadn’t noticed before. “…He does that,” you say, like it explains everything. “He wasn’t there a second ago.”

“He was. You just didn’t notice.”

Mark looks down at the cat again, watching as it circles his leg once before moving on like it’s already bored. A tall, carefully built tree, not just functional but aesthetic. Wood and soft fabric blending into the space like it belongs there, levels stacked in a way that feels intentional. Biscuit hops onto one of the platforms with practiced ease, curling up like he’s claimed the highest ground. Mark watches for a second longer than necessary.

“…That’s a strong name.”

You blink, then let out a small laugh. It slips out before you can stop it. “Strong?" He shrugs, deadpan, “He looks like he runs things.” You shake your head slightly, the smile lingering despite yourself, “He does.” “He’s judging you, by the way.” Mark glances down again. Biscuit is, in fact, staring at him again, unimpressed.

“…I can tell.”

And for a moment, the tension breaks. Just slightly. It settles again after, not heavy. Just present. Mark sets the glass down slowly on the counter, his fingers lingering against the surface for a second longer than necessary. His gaze drifts back to you. You’re closer now, in the way the space feels. Less guarded, still cautious but open in a way you weren’t before, and he notices it.

She said yes.

The thought comes back.Clearer now.

She let you in.

And something about that, about you pulls at him. Not sharply, not overwhelmingly. Just enough to make him aware of it.

The thought settles quietly.

But it stays, and on your end, you feel it too. Not the same thought, but something like it, because he’s still a stranger. Still unpredictable and still someone you shouldn’t have brought into your home, and yet—he doesn’t feel like a threat. He feels like a question. One you didn't know you even had to begin with.

“…You hungry?” you ask suddenly. The question shifts everything. Lightens it, grounds it. Mark blinks slightly, then nods. “Yeah.”

Then, quieter—

“…I can try cooking.”

You stare at him. Long. Unimpressed, “…Try?” He hesitates, “…I mean—” You sigh, already turning toward the fridge. “Sit down.” There’s a hint of a smile in your voice, and he catches it. He moves toward the breakfast nook, sliding into the bench by the large window slowly, like he’s still adjusting to being allowed to do anything with your space. To just be here and as you start moving around the kitchen, pulling things out and setting them down, he watches. Not obviously, no, constantly but enough, because something about this— about you in your space, feels like something he didn’t know he was looking for, and somewhere, quietly, without either of you saying it out loud, the question begins to form.

For him,

What happens if I don’t want to leave?

For you,

What happens if I end up wanting him to stay longer?

And neither of you answers it, not yet. Then he looks back at you, and something in his chest shifts again. Quiet and uncertain, but real because this place— your place doesn't feel temporary. It doesn’t feel like a stop; it feels like something rooted, something steady, slow, and quiet. Something that might, without him realizing it yet, change everything, and standing in the middle of it, he realizes something he hasn’t let himself think about yet. He didn’t just leave. He came somewhere, and maybe he doesn’t know it yet, but this might be the first place in a long time that feels like it could hold him without asking for anything in return.

The rain starts sometime in the night and it settles into the morning like it had every intention of staying—soft against the windows, steady against the roof, filling the house with that muted, cocooned quiet that makes time feel like it’s moving differently.

It's not what wakes you, not at first.

What wakes you is not the rain. It’s the sound. Irritating and repetitive, then a shift in your body. The sharp, aggressive beeping that slices through the quiet like it has something personal against you. For a second, your mind doesn’t catch up. It’s just noise and movement—You don’t even realize you’re awake until your eyes snap open, your heart racing, your body already pushing upright, the sheets slipping off your legs as instinct takes over.

The smoke alarm.

You’re out of bed almost immediately, your feet barely registering the cold of the floor as you move, faster than you mean to, down the hallway, past the stairs, the sound gets louder. Insistent. Almost accusatory. You reach the kitchen and stop because it’s not what you expected. There’s no fire. No panic. No urgency.Just… smoke. Not thick. Not dangerous. But enough, enough to make the alarm scream like the house is falling apart. Light, stubborn curls of it rising from the pan on the stove and Mark, he’s standing there, wooden spatula in hand, staring at the pan like it personally betrayed him.

Very still and very focused.

Like if he stares at it long enough, it might fix itself out of sheer intimidation. You stop, and you don’t say anything. You just take him in because the sight is so absurd that it takes a second to process. His hair is messy in a way that feels unintentional, like he woke up and immediately got into this. He’s wearing one of the oversized long-sleeved shirts you lent him yesterday, sleeves slightly rolled, with the wooden spatula in his hand like it’s the only thing grounding him to the situation. Like he’s accepted his fate. There’s a slight panic in his posture, but he’s trying—very visibly—to stay calm. The pan in front of him is smoking like it’s about to file a complaint, “don’t move,” you say instinctively, already moving past him. You reach up to switch off the alarm, grab a towel, and wave it lightly near the sensor until the beeping finally stops. Silence crashes back in. Only the rain remains. You exhale. Slowly.

Then you turn.

He’s still standing there with tense shoulders as he turns toward you, eyes widening just slightly, looking… guilty. “…Hi Angel,” he says. You stare at him. At the pan, then back at him. “…What happened?”

There’s a pause. A very real, very visible pause where he debates how honest to be, where he considers lying but decides against it when he blinks back at your sharp features. You can see it. The way his lips part slightly, close again. The way his gaze flickers to the pan like it might answer for him. “I was trying to make eggs.”

You blink. Once. Twice. Your eyes move to the pan again in disbelief, “…Those are eggs?” “They were,” he says, very seriously. You press your lips together, and you try—you really try—not to laugh because he's already panicking, “I just wanted you to wake up to breakfast.” You reach over, turning off the stove completely, sliding the pan aside. “…You declared war on breakfast.” A breath escapes him—half a laugh, half defeat. “I thought—” he continues, gesturing vaguely, “—how hard can it be? It’s eggs. People make eggs all the time.” “And yet,” you say slowly, stepping closer, peering into the pan, “you’ve managed to reinvent them.”

He lets out an incredulous laugh this time, louder and brighter like pieces of him are opening up without him even realising it. “They stuck,” he says, “And then I tried to unstick them. And then they… got worse. I didn’t think it would go like this,” he admits, softer now, like the panic has already burned itself out. You step closer. The smell hits you properly now—burnt, but not unsalvageable. You lean slightly, peering into the pan. The eggs are… unrecognizable. They’ve gone past scrambled and into something else entirely.

Something… experimental.

“…Did you use oil?” There’s another pause. Smaller this time, “…I thought about it. Like, how much oil should I actually use?” That’s it. That’s the moment. The laugh breaks out of you before you can stop it—sharp and sudden at first, catching you off guard as much as it catches him. It spills out before you can stop it, warm and unrestrained in a way that feels unfamiliar in your own chest. Then softer, fuller, spilling out in a way you don't recognise because it’s been a while since something this small felt this funny, since you've laughed this hard.

He watches you, and something in his expression softens. Not embarrassed, not defensive. Just watching you like this is the outcome he didn’t know he was hoping for. You shake your head, still laughing under your breath as you reach for a clean pan. “Okay,” you say, voice lighter now, easier. “Step aside. Before you burn the house down on your first morning.”

He moves immediately, hands raised in surrender, but he doesn’t leave. He lingers, stays there. Of course he lingers. You can feel it.

You start over. With enough oil this time, you crack the eggs properly a second time, the soft sound grounding, familiar. The smell changes—warm, clean, something that actually resembles food. Behind you, you can feel his presence. Not overwhelming, just… there. “…I was trying to say thank you,” he says after a moment, quieter now. Your hands pause for just a second before continuing. “You did,” you say, glancing over your shoulder briefly, “This is very memorable.”

He huffs out a small laugh, and when you glance at him fully this time, he’s smiling. Not the polite kind, not the careful kind he always has ready for the cameras. Something softer. Something… real.

Silence settles over you both again but this time, it’s not awkward. Not quite. It sits differently. Like despite you both still figuring out where to stand in each other’s space you are okay with what quietly settles instead. You end up eating at the breakfast nook. The earlier rain is painting soft patterns against the glass now as the world outside blurs into greys and greens, inside, everything feels warmer than it should for two people who barely know each other. Biscuit appears like he’s been summoned by the promise that was breakfast, jumping up onto the table with quiet authority, tail flicking once as he eyes both of you like he’s judging your entire existence, unimpressed with the earlier chaos but willing to forgive for food.

Mark notices immediately, his gaze sharpens with curiosity. “…Does he always look like that?” You follow his gaze, “That’s his face.” “…He looks like he has opinions.” “He does. They’re just not for you.” Mark exhales a small laugh under his breath, leaning slightly forward, resting his elbows on the table as he studies the cat like he’s trying to understand the rules.

Biscuit blinks at him once. Slow and deliberate. Then looks away, and it makes Mark nod to himself, “…I’ve been dismissed.” You hum, taking a bite of the burnt and your eggs, the warmth settling into you as you chew. “So,” you say, glancing at him, “you cook often?” He gives you a look at the obvious sarcasm in your tone, “God, no Angel. My members never let me. I should really consider retiring.” You hum, “Good call.”

Then you blink up at him, confused, “members?” Mark swallows hard. His throat dries up despite having the option of juice and coffee in front of him. He hadn't thought of his guys up until now, hadn't really checked his phone either, “ colleagues.” You nod again, understanding. For a while, neither of you says anything, not because there’s nothing to say but because… there’s no urgency, the rain fills the gaps and the quiet stretches between you. It doesn’t feel like something you need to fix. He glances at you once, then again, like he’s deciding something, “…You laugh like that often?”

You pause mid-bite, “…Like what?” “Like that, Angel,” he says simply. “Earlier.” You don’t answer immediately because the honest answer is—No. Not really, but you become too stiff to reply when he calls you like that. You shrug instead, softer, “Depends.”

“On what?”

You glance at him, “…On who I’m with.” There’s a beat, something passes between you then. Small but real. He looks down at his plate, then back up, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t. Instead, “…I almost set your house on fire.” You snort, “And yet here you are. Still allowed in the kitchen.” “Temporarily banned,” he corrects. You smile and somewhere in between the quiet, the rain, and the ridiculousness of burnt eggs—something settles.

Not fully. Not loudly but enough, enough to say— this could be something.

Time moves differently after that morning. Not fast or slow .Just… present. Days pass, and Mark stays, not like a guest anymore. Like something between a stranger and something worse—someone becoming familiar. Some mornings, he leaves early and returns with a small bag of items he bought from exploring the city, and other nights, he'll bring you flowers, thrifted recipe books, and worn-out vintage notebooks he thought you might like. Other days, he sits near the living room window, experimenting quietly with sound, fingers hesitant over keys like he’s afraid the music might reject him, but most of the time, he just watches you work. Not interrupting. Just existing in the same space as you focus while he flips aimlessly through your endless collection of books. Biscuit also slowly decides Mark belongs here more than anyone has officially said.

Five days arrive without announcement.

The house feels different that day. Not louder, not quieter. Just… aware. Too aware. Like something is about to shift, and everything in it knows before either of you says it out loud. You don’t notice it at first. You’re moving through your space the way you always do—barefoot, absentminded, a cup of something forgotten cooling on the counter. Your mind is half on work, half on nothing, drifting between tasks without urgency.

It’s the sound that stops you. Soft and measured. Zippers. You frown slightly and follow it down the hallway past the open coffee space you have upstairs, where light spills in gently through the windows, catching dust in the air like suspended time next to the hallway that spills into your room, guest room, the open balcony, and the door that opens up to the Terrance on your rooftop.

You find him packing. The guest room is half-folded silence. Your chest tightens before your mind catches up.

No, no, he wouldn’t—

You don’t knock, you don’t think, you don't even breathe, you just push the door open, and there he is. Kneeling on the floor. His suitcase was open in front of him, and everything inside you… stills. For a moment, you don’t say anything. You just stand there, framed by the doorway, watching as he folds one of his shirts—neatly, carefully, like he’s done it a hundred times before. The clothes are arranged carefully in a suitcase that looks too empty for someone who has not been here long enough to fully unpack. Another sits beside it— notebooks, things he treats more carefully than clothing. It all seems like a routine to him. Like leaving is something he knows how to do but staying isn’t.

Your voice comes out before you can stop it, “…What are you doing?” Mark freezes. Not dramatically, not suddenly. Just enough. His hands still on the fabric and his shoulders go slightly rigid. Then he looks up and for a second—just a second—he looks… confused.

Like you’re the one who’s out of place here.

“I’m packing,” he says, slowly. Carefully, like he’s choosing each word. You swallow hard because of course he is.

Of course.

“Why?” you ask anyway, and it comes out sharper than you meant it to. Mark blinks. Actually, blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “You said five days, Angel.” The words land heavier than they should, heavier than you expected.

Five days.

You feel something in your chest pull tight because you remember saying it. At the airport. When he was still a stranger. When this was supposed to be temporary. Controlled. Safe.

Five days.

But that was before, before the burnt eggs, before the not-so-quiet nights, the grocery runs, before the badly cut-up fruit, before him draping your favorite throw blanket over you as he settles onto the couch next to you to watch trashy reality shows as Biscuits finds the perfect spot to settle in on his chest. Before he put the trash outside without you having to ask, before he started leaving his shoes by the door like he belonged there.

Your grip tightens around the mug. “…So you’re just leaving?” you ask. Mark frowns slightly, “I mean… yeah?” But it doesn’t sound certain. Not really. You let out a small, breathless laugh. It doesn’t sound like you, “Wow.” He straightens a little, confusion deepening. “What?”

“You couldn’t wait, huh?”

Now he’s really looking at you, brows pulled together, shoulders tense, “Wait for what?” You don’t answer immediately because suddenly everything feels… too close to the surface. Too raw. “For the five days to be over,” you say instead, quieter now. “Or did you just hate being here that much?”

The second it leaves your mouth, you feel it. That shift, that crack. Mark’s expression changes, not to anger but something else...“What?” You laugh again—but this time it breaks halfway through. “I mean, it makes sense,” you continue, words coming faster now, messier. “ You basically forced me into this, and now you want to leave me hanging. You were just waiting it out, right? Counting down the days until you could leave without being rude—”

“That’s not—”

“But you don’t have to pretend anymore,” you cut in, your voice tight. “Five days are up. You can go.” Silence crashes between you again. Heavy. Immediate. Mark stands up slowly. Too slow. “No Angel, that’s not what this is,” he says, and his voice is lower now. Grounded and serious.

You shake your head, already stepping back, “It’s fine, Mark. Really. You don’t have to explain—” He moves before you can finish. It’s instinct. Unplanned. His hand wraps around your wrist—not tight, not rough—but firm enough to stop you. To anchor you.

You freeze.

And then,before you can pull away, he steps closer. Too close, “Stop.”

The word is quiet but it holds. You look up at him really look this time and what you see makes your chest tighten in a completely different way. He’s not annoyed, he’s not distant. He’s not relieved to be leaving. He’s… frustrated. Not at you, at the situation, at himself.

His hands still slightly.

“I didn’t want to overstay,” he says quietly. “Or make you uncomfortable.” Something about that sentence makes your chest tighten. You pull away slightly to cross your arms, but your voice is softer now, “so you were just… planning to disappear?”

That word makes him flinch slightly.

“No.”

A beat passes. Then more honestly, “I just didn’t know how long I was allowed to exist here.”

Silence. Heavy, but not hostile.You take a step closer, “I didn’t mean it like a countdown.” That makes him look at you properly and suddenly, whatever distance he had built starts collapsing in his face. “I wasn’t counting down the days,” he says, softer now. “I was trying to figure out how to ask you for my passport back.”

You blink.

“…What?”

You stare at him again. There’s a beat. Then another. “You took my documents,” he adds, almost awkwardly now. “Remember? As a condition?”

Everything pauses. The airport. Your voice, your rules. Five days. Passport. You stare at him. Then—despite everything—a small, disbelieving sound escapes you, “you were packing… because you didn’t know how to ask for your passport back?”

Mark exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.” “It is stupid,” you say, but your voice is softer now. Lighter.

He huffs a quiet laugh, “Yeah, well. I didn’t want to overstep.” Something in your chest shifts again.

“You could’ve just asked,” you say.

“I know,” he replies. “But you gave me a timeline. I thought… pushing past that would be.” You look at him. The idea of him leaving because he thought he had to— because he was trying to respect you—It does something to you.

Something you don’t have a name for yet. “So you were just going to leave?” you ask the only question you seem to be asking quietly. Mark hesitates Just for a second, “I didn’t think you’d want me to stay.”

That—

That lands somewhere deep and before you can stop yourself, you step closer,

“Do you want to leave?”